III. It's
Hermione wasn’t surprised to discover, that Draco lived on the High Street. About three hundred meters away from the building where the banquet was held. So on his way out, Draco told the boy to park the car down the street, and leave the keys in the letterbox. The girl wondered how often he did that. And how often such banquets were held. How often other women walked along the same pavement to the same house. On the way, they passed a jeweler, next to a cigar shop, and Hermione began to suspect that Draco didn’t live here due to the proximity to the main building. And although the walk wasn’t long, and Malfoy offered her an shoulder to lean on, on their way back, the new high heels rubbed her right heel. She began to limp slightly right in front of the steps leading to the front door. Draco, as he did all the time that evening, offered help in a gentlemanly gesture. Not even for a second was he lacking in tact. But she rejected his help. As she climbed the steps, she leaned on the handrail.
"I'm really fine," she repeated, holding on to the doorframe, as he opened the door. She bent down to examine the wound.
"I insist," he said, grabbing her around the waist and throwing her over his shoulder.
" Draco Lucius Malfoy!" She shouted indignantly.
But she did nothing to fight him. He put a hand on her thighs. High enough to secure her safely, but low enough, so that the gesture wouldn’t be considered vulgar.
"You're getting better, but I still have to give primacy to my mother," he replied amused.
He turned around to close the door behind them. He maneuvered without difficulty, as if he didn’t feel the extra ballast. But Draco's movements have always remained agile and graceful. Born aristocrat.
"Put me down immediately!" She demanded.
It wasn't convincing though, since she started laughing in the middle of a sentence.
"Since we're supposed to get to know each other better tonight, I want you to know something about me. I don't like being given orders."
“Really?" she asked in mock surprise. "It's a shock to me."
When the man began to climb the steps, her hand held his back tighter. With every step, she felt hard muscles move under the material. Halfway up the stairs, he took off her heels. He reached out to give them to her.
"There you go, princess."
"Don't call me that."
She didn't know why she didn't want him to call her that. Dad had been calling her that, since he had become a royal dentist, and she loved it. Maybe it was the disgust, that remained after their first meeting. How he hit the nail on the head. Draco said he didn't like orders. But yet he replied:
"Sorry, baby."
Baby sounded... right. So she didn't argue anymore. He put her down on the parquet in the living room. His apartment was decorated quite cozy. Victorian style. The ceiling was high, and the windows almost reached to it. The walls were a muted sage shade. The cornice by the fireplace had to be original, or at least it was its convincing reconstruction. Knick-knacks were laid out on it. Above it, instead of a TV, hung a mirror. Next to it was a huge painting in a gilded frame. On the other side was a black piano. The patterned carpet reminded her of something grannyish. The wall opposite the fireplace was entirely covered by a bookcase. And the velvety, emerald, quilted couch in the middle just looked like it was made to sink into it. Next to it were matching armchairs. She had expected him to have a rather cool interior. But this evening, he had already proved that he could be much warmer, than it might seem at first look. On the other hand, almost everything in Oxford was as old as the surrounding castles. A modern apartment in a historic tenement house would look like a caricature. And Draco could not be denied a sense of taste.
First, she went to the bookcase. Her legs guided her there involuntarily. With her hand, she ran over the spines arranged in an even row, looking for familiar titles. She couldn't yet determine whether Draco was a perfectionist or a pedant. But he was probably both. His collection was eclectic. Some books on law. Several biographies and reportages. Most of them, however, was fiction. From crime to fantasy. The man sat down on a bench in front of the piano, and watched her from behind her back. She took her time. He let her. She was methodical. She soon discovered his system. First of all, genre. Then the authors, alphabetically. And then the size, the largest from the left to the lowest on the right. He opened the lid and began to play a slow, blissful melody. The whole thing looked like a frame from a movie. She turned around, when the first notes reached her. She walked over to him, her bare feet not making the slightest rustle against the floor. Without turning around or stopping to play, he moved slightly to the left, making room for her. She sat down next to him. Thigh to thigh. Shoulder to shoulder. Warm and tingle.
"Is this your move?" She asked.
"What move?"
"Inviting girls over and playing piano," she shrugged nonchalantly.
"There weren't that many girls..." he saw her skeptical gaze. "In this house," he smirked.
"You know being playboy doesn't pay off?"
"I know. But being honest does," he answered simply.
There was something about it that captivated her.
"Do you have something more comfortable, that I can change into?" She smiled encouragingly.
A good sign, he thought. He probably wouldn't have to persuade her to stay. Draco deliberately gave her his biggest t-shirt and his biggest pants. Easy access. When Hermione came out of the bathroom, as he predicted, she was wearing only a T-shirt.
"The pants were too big," she handed them back.
Draco wasn't stupid. He knew the cheerleader effect existed. Except he didn't know it worked on boys too. He wanted her to be his. And he wanted the whole world to know, that she was his.
"Can I offer you a drink?"
“Something weak. I’ve drunk enough today," she smiled gently, as if apologetic.
Room wasn’t spinning, and her mind was clear (mostly). Still, she wasn’t very good at telling, where the line was, so she preferred not to cross it.
"Sweet or bitter?" He asked, as he walked over to liquor cabinet.
"Bitter."
He hastily prepared two simple drinks, in rocks glasses
He came over to hand her one of them. He stood a little too close. He only realized, when she lifted her chin slightly, so she could meet his eyes. He didn't back away.
"Are we going to finish the drinks in bed?" She asked, though she hadn't drunk a drop yet.
"Gladly," he replied, even though his glass was already empty.
He was leading the way. The bedroom was at the end of the hallway. It was decorated in the same style as the living room. High ceilings were topped with carved slats. A large mirror in a silver frame stood in front of the bed. Panels adorned emerald walls. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. The furniture was luxurious and quilted. The cabinets were made of dark wood, in the French style. And in the middle of the Swedish floor laid a soft, silver carpet.
"You love green, don't you?" She walked over to the bed without waiting for an answer.
Draco watched eagerly and enviously, as the fabric of his T-shirt was rubbing against her thighs. Slender, firm, young thighs. He wanted to die between them. He took his eyes off them only when he heard the sound of a glass being put on the top. The girl got into bed and covered her legs with a duvet. She took off her pearl earrings and took the ribbon out of her hair. She put them on the bedside table next to her drink. There was something about this sight, that touched him. Something homely. Naturalness.
But there was also something wrong. That wasn’t the plan for the rest of the night. He put the glass on the dresser. He’s already got rid of the blazer, in the living room. Now a shirt and trousers have fallen on the panels.
"Are you going to sleep?" He asked, after all, entering the bed himself.
"I'm exhausted. Did this evening not tire you out?"
“Don’t get me wrong, I hate this things, and it drains me every single time, but I thought maybe we could talk some more," as he spoke, he got a little too close, just like in the living room. He left no doubt, that it was not the conversation he meant.
"And I thought it was the first date," she replied dryly, placing her hand on his bare (bloody hard) torso.
She was slowly beginning to regret her own decision. But still, she pushed him away firmly. And if she took her hand a heartbeat too late, no one could blame her. His three strikes went screw themself. But that evening he was supposed to prove that he was a gentleman, and that's what he would do. He could be patient. She doesn't want to sleep with him? She will regret it later, but it's her choice. From the pile on which he was lying, he began to pull out the largest pillows and arrange them between them.
"What are you doing?" She asked surprised.
"I just wanted to talk, but since you can't keep your hands to yourself, I have to defend my myself somehow."
“So what do you want to talk about?" Amusement and doubt tinged her voice.
"What do you think about me?" He replied right away.
"I think you are a decent man," she spoke to the ceiling.
Somehow it was easier this way. They weren’t uncomfortable around each other, but it was still a very new acquaintance. They were just beginning to get to know each other.
"You've already admitted it."
“That's what I think."
“That's all you have to say?"
“It's only been one evening. How much of the real you have I really met?" Silence replied. "Exactly. You should enjoy small victories."
He opened his mouth to ask another question, but she beat him to it.
"What do you think of me, then?"
“You're terrifyingly intelligent. You express yourself beautifully. And you have wonderful hair ribbons."
“Truly? I've always preferred hair clips."
From that moment on, the conversation turned to much looser topics. She learned that Draco was a lawyer, but more importantly his grandmother's favorite grandson. He didn’t add, that apart from his cousin Nymphadora, who was cursed in her mother's generation (misalliance, you see), none of his grandmothers had any more grandchildren. Hermione admitted that she wasn’t her grandmother's favorite granddaughter, but insisted that her grandmother loved each of her eight grandchildren equally. Above the pillow wall, she showed pictures (plural) of her beloved cat, Crookshanks, and Draco said it was the ugliest cat he had ever seen. To which Hermione declared, that she wouldn’t stay here for a minute longer. He threw himself across the bed, grabbing her around the waist, and dragging her back onto the mattress, making her bare foot just brush the floor, in a miserable attempt of escape. At the same time, he swore that Crookshanks was a very distinguished-looking cat.
Falling in love with him was so easy.
That night, Hermione came to the conclusion that she wanted all his money. All his power. And all the glory.