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There was a valley of fabric missing along the neckline. This was Hermione’s first thought when she unwrapped the tissue paper covering her new dress, peeling back the bright tongues of purple and pink wrapped around the fabric that had been charmed to be wrinkle-resistant. She slid her hand along the tulle bodice, fingers skating across the floral lace appliqué. The V was so deep it pointed to where her navel would presumably be if she were shameless enough to wear it.
“What in Merlin’s name did you order?”
Pansy shrugged. “You asked for my sartorial assistance, and I gave it.”
“I asked for something pragmatic. This is–”
“Haute couture–”
“I was going to say ridiculous–”
“Watch your mouth, Granger. That’s considered slander in Paris–”
“Pansy, I’m going to to Ministry function–”
“Yes, but at the Malfoy Manor. You absolutely cannot show up looking like a peasant. I forbid it.”
With a quick flick of her wand, Hermione levitated the gown away from them, letting it rest against the wall as both women scrutinized it.
“Do you see the floral appliqué? Hand stitched with lace.” Pansy sniffed. “Much better than that awful monstrosity you were eyeing in Madam Malkins.”
“That was a lovely gown, a beautiful color–”
“Entirely wrong for your complexion.”
“Pansy”–Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind her ear–“I can’t wear this.”
“Aside from your horrendous attitude, I don’t see a problem here.”
“Well, look at that neckline. I couldn’t possibly show up to a work function like that.”
Pansy laughed. “Do you really think you’ll be the most whorish out of everyone there? Don’t forget, the Patil twins will surely try to take their clothes off by midnight.”
“That’s horrible, Pans.”
“That’s eggnog, Granger.”
At this, Hermione smiled and then quickly tried to flatten her lips. “The Patils are lovely.”
“Oh, yes, and Neville is dashing and Weasley is a genius, while Weaslette is the most decorous out of us all. Now, are we done telling lies, or should I continue?”
Hermione levitated the dress to the bed, wand arcing down, before Pansy huffed and pulled her arm up, directing her to hang it in the closet.
“This dress is a work of art. We’ll do something about your hair”–
“What is that supposed to mean–”
“And you’ll show up to the Ministry gala looking like a vision, and I do not give that compliment easily.”
The Gala. Hermione had come to think about work events as proper nouns, all different occasions in which she had to abide by a social script so that potentially, perhaps, she would finally be promoted to the Head of the Department of Magical Regulations.
She deserved it, after all. It should be clear to everyone in the department that she was the logical successor of Martina Clockert. Except, in order to succeed, Hermione had to engage in the social cat-and-mouse game, the how are your children? and how was the recent trip to Venice?, all of which exhausted Hermione. It wasn’t that she couldn’t appreciate a nicely-organized gala; it was that the gala never came free. There was always a social currency she had to pay.
Tonight, it would be hair and makeup, a dress that she couldn’t afford and certainly wouldn’t feel comfortable in. Pansy transfigured her writing desk into a dressing table, with exposed light bulbs that leant a golden glow to her skin. Scattered on the countertop were dozens of tubes and compacts. Hermione reached for one, clicking open the smooth tortoise-shell lid to stare at the peach rogue inside. Pansy tilted Hermione’s face up, pulling down at her chin until her lips parted. Then, she reached over and uncapped something, the pop of which made Hermione attempt to turn her head. For this, she received a sharp flick on her jaw.
“Ouch!”
“Stop moving. If we’re going to get you ready in time for the gala, I need you to concentrate.”
For the next hour, Hermione sat still and experienced a variety of sensations flit across her face: the feathery kiss of a makeup brush, the cold drip of foundation, and the waxy slide of a lipstick. When she finally finished, Pansy leaned back, a lipliner balanced between her pointer finger and thumb, and stared at Hermione in a way that made her feel like an insect under a magnifying glass.
“Well–”
“Shh. I need to take a minute. There’s something missing, but I’m not sure what. In the meantime, try on the dress, won’t you?”
“Pans, I really don’t–”
Pansy shot her a look, bangs shivering from the sudden turn of her head. She crossed her arms, glared, and then slowly let her gaze drift from Hermione to the gown, a pointed look that made Hermione stand up and walk over to the closet.
The gown was a scarlet color, with gold detailing. Hermione smiled, noting the colors. She would never accuse Pansy of sentimentality, but she could be thoughtful in surprising ways. Hermione edged into the narrow space between the door and the armoire, attempting to shield herself, which earned her a Parkinson scoff.
“As if you have anything I don’t also have, Granger.”
Hermione made a sound of protest that was swallowed by the sound of her tripping, elbow digging into a wooden shelf.
“Please don’t say you’ve ripped the gown, Granger.”
“It’s fine.” There was a pause. “I may need help zipping it up though.”
There was a sigh now, and then the armoire door opened further and Pansy stepped behind her. The fabric around her chest pulled tight, and Hermione made another sigh of protest. Then there was the sound of the zipper ascending, and the clang of the closet door swinging shut. When Hermione looked up, she was staring at her reflection.
The V was startlingly low, exposing a swath of midriff that rarely saw the sun, save the occasional seaside trip. The dress was exceedingly extravagant, with a corset cinched her waist, pushed her breasts up and made her neck look long, the dip of her clavicles elegant.
The reflection showed two of them: Hermione’s almost open-mouthed wonder and Pansy’s scrutiny.
Pansy snapped her fingers together. “I got it,” she said. She reached into the armoire and pulled out a silk scarf, winding the material around Hermione’s neck before arcing her wand up and to the left. The pressure around Hermione’s neck shifted into something heavier and cool. She looked down and fingered the gold chain on her neck. Settled in the center of the necklace was an enormous ruby, edged with diamonds.
“Wow,” Hermione said.
“Well, it’s just an imitation of the Shateria line, but it’ll do.”
Pansy clasped her hands around Hermione’s shoulders and turned her. “And now, we finally have to tackle the hair.”
***
Going through the motions of a makeover reminded Hermione why she had so many issues with muggle movie makeover montages. There was always a whiff of misogyny in how the protagonists had to change toward idealized conceptions of female beauty, had to reinvent themselves so a male love interest could finally give them the time of day. Hermione had always found it insulting how momentous these movies made something as simple as putting on mascara and bronzer seem, as if the heavens had opened and shown down on the protagonist to reveal her already existing bone structure, as if a couple of cosmetics couple reshape a person’s skeleton.
She didn’t delight in her look tonight, but she did feel desirable in a way she hadn’t felt since her breakup. “A good outfit has the potential to change your entire day,” Pansy had told her more than once, and Hermione had always scoffed. After she bid farewell to Pansy, Hermione clasped the portkey in her hand and considered the other woman’s words. She would admit that tonight this dress did make her feel beautiful.
Not that beauty should ever be hung on a sartorial choice or center on patriarchal standards of femininity and–
She landed on her feet, the familiar pull of the portkey made stronger by the strings tugging her waist smaller, probably displacing some organs in the process. She inhaled, a breath stopped by the strictures around her waist, and then turned, taking in the property. The Manor was breathtaking. Hermione Granger was not too proud to admit that. It was the kind of dazzling display she had once, as a child, thought to be magic. The kind she associated with fairy tales and novels about the Russian nobility. Imitation snow had been charmed to fall from the sky and melt against your skin without a trace of cold. The fountain arched high into the night, mist drizzling from each individual strand of looping water. For a moment, she stood and stared, taking in the expanse of the Malfoy Manor. It had been years since she had been here. Ten years, in fact. The property was unrecognizable in its splendor. The verdant lawn seemed somehow greener than humanly possible, each individual strand of grass erect and glossy, like rain had drizzled over the lawn, though the bottom of Hermione’s gown stayed dry as she stepped across the lawn and towards the front doors.
Inside, a massive ice sculpture of a snake dominated the foyer. The serpent had been charmed, and it undulated, uncoiling itself to greet guests as they entered. The effect should have been chilling, except the hazy glow of the lanterns floating throughout the room made the sculpture somehow beautiful. Its forked tongue darted out as Hermione moved closer, and for a moment she thought about petting its curved neck, but she refrained.
Disembodied trays floated throughout the room, serving flutes of multicolored drinks. One stopped in front of her, and she surveyed the options, finally settling on a dark-pink cocktail that was engraved as “non-alcoholic.” She took a sip, tongue tingling from the sharp tang of citrus. She must have made a face, because in the next moment, another flute was hovering in front of her face, right at eyesight. “Merlin, they’ve charmed the glasses to respond to each guest’s reaction.” It was brilliant, actually. It was something only a Malfoy would think to do.
She heard Harry approaching before she felt his hand on her shoulder.
“You look beautiful, Mione.”
He embraced her, pressing a kiss to her temple. He was holding Ginny’s hand, her own palm pressed against the swell of her abdomen.
“Gin,” Hermione moved to hug the redhead. “How are you feeling? Has the morning sickness abated at all?”
Ginny pulled a face. “I miss alcohol,” she said. “I miss eating normally. I miss having sex without a pillow–”
“Alright, love. I think we better leave ‘Mione to it. Why don’t you and I go try out some more appetizers?”
The tips of Harry’s ears had turned pink, and he gave Hermione a nervous, apologetic smile before placing his hand on Ginny’s back and turning around. They disappeared into the crowd before Hermione could protest. There was nothing she wanted to be “left to.” It never failed to surprise her, how awkward it felt to arrive at a party alone. She exchanged her drink and drifted to the corner of the dance floor. There would be people she had to greet and schmooze with, Ministry personnel that she needed to flatter, or at least attempt to. But for right now, she sipped her virgin cocktail and surveyed the room.
Directly in her line of sight, she watched Michael Corner dance with Penelope Clearwater and tried not to laugh as he stepped over her toes and she continually made sharp, protesting exhalations. To her right, she watched Ginny and Harry sway, both of them sharing the secret, idiotic smile of people in love. The intimacy of the moment between her two best friends made the absence of her own date feel sharp and bitter. She hadn’t wanted to end things with Ron so close to the holidays–it was always the season for plus ones–but it also seemed cruel to prolong an expired relationship simply because its presence felt convenient for the moment.
The music swelled; heels clacked against the floor. A wave of dancers swayed in her vision, and through a parting in the sea of tulle, silk, and lace gowns, Hermione saw Malfoy. He was in a far corner, fingers curled around a flute of champagne. There was an expression of boredom plastered on his face, one she had seen in many meetings. He was scanning the crowd, as if he were looking for someone. It made her feel suddenly self conscious to be watching him, as if she were waiting for him to come speak to her, as if Hermione Granger needed someone to–
The gap closed, fabric swishing to fill the place where Malfoy’s body had been. Hermione touched her up-do, smoothing a wayward curl as she took another sip from her glass. The ice had melted, diluting the cocktail and–
“Let’s play a game, shall we?”
She looked up to find Malfoy standing in front of her, an amused smile playing across his features. Where had he come from? Malfoy had the uncanny ability to just appear. She had noticed it first last year, when he was transferred to her department. She’d be in the mail room, tackling her bursting inbox, and then she’d turn around and he’d be there. Or, she’d be making tea in the common room, which for once was blissfully empty, but as soon as she put the kettle down, his long, pale fingers would be wrapped around the kettle handle.
He was wearing dark green robes, hair gelled back, a silver handkerchief tucked into his jacket pocket. The blue of his eyes were somehow brighter under the ballroom lights. Hermione Granger didn’t believe that irises could twinkle, but staring at Malfoy, she could see why some people wanted to believe that corneas could do such a thing.
She hadn’t seen him lately. Or, rather, she had been avoiding him since their almost-kiss, which later that week became a full-on snog, an incidence that had provoked a colossal meltdown in her office. Sitting at her desk, hands braced against her forehead, she had floo’d Ginny and said, “I made a mistake” before hanging up and refusing to divulge any more details, despite her friend’s repeated overtures towards the subject.
Hermione Granger did not make mistakes. She had learning opportunities, instead. And from her encounter with Malfoy, she had learned he: was an amazing kisser, had forearms lined with thick veins, and was a biter, a soft nip at her lower lip that had prompted an almost-whimper from her throat.
And that had been what had broken the reverie, the trance she had obviously fallen under, because why else would she be standing in his office, snogging him? She had made an ungodly sound and then fled. Since then, she had carefully curated her day to avoid seeing him, delegating any tasks that might require his signature to her secretary, Alexander.
Except, now, here Draco was, standing in front of her, asking her a question. He seemed perfectly content to ignore what had happened, to move on in their professional relationship. She could do that. She could do that even better than he did.
“Malfoy, has any good come to any girl who’s agreed to that, with you?”
She smiled in a way that she hoped belied the rapid beat of her heart. He smirked, tilting the flute of champagne towards his lips. She watched him swallow, long and sensual, Adam's apple bobbing. Heat flared across her cheeks and she looked away.
“Well, care to find out, Granger?”
She was still facing away, seeking a moment to compose herself, swallow around the ball of jitters lodged in her throat, like a colony of ants crawling down her trachea and into her chest. When she turned back, he had somehow moved closer, and she watched the lights highlight the planes of his face, further accentuating the ring of blue around his pupils.
“I’d like to know the parameters of our game before I acquiesce.”
He chuckled, turning to face her fully. “So proper and precise, even on a night of fun.”
“I’d hardly call a work function fun.”
“You wound me, Granger. The galleons it took to decorate the Manor into this level of extravagance, and I can’t even elicit a pleasurable response from Hermione Granger?”
Something about his syntax, the way his voice dipped slightly on pleasurable made her skin prickle. Her palms felt hot, and she wiped them on her gown, fisting the smooth material as she contemplated her next response.
“Pleasure isn’t given,” she finally answered. “It’s earned.”
He lifted a brow, the champagne flute paused on its way to his mouth. He was staring at her in that unnerving way of his, as if he knew something she didn’t. “And I take it Weasley couldn’t earn yours?”
Oh. Oh. Heat exploded across her chest. His eyes drifted down to her neck, which she was sure was bright red. “I–I hardly see how that’s germane to this conversation.”
His laugh was silky, a quick caress that she could almost feel. “Oh, I think it’s very germane. In fact, I think life should never be lived without pleasure.”
“Spoken like a true hedonist, Malfoy.”
His laugh this time was robust, the edges curling with mirth. “Granger, I don’t think anyone has ever described me as a hedonist. Sadomasochistic, perhaps.”
She snorted then, a quirk burst of air that made Malfoy’s eyebrows rise even further, like two em dashes taking flight. Her mortification was beyond measure, at this point; she looked away, both hands wrapped around her glass.
“My apologies. I–”
“I’m glad to see you laugh, Granger. I wasn’t certain, but from my quick survey of the room, I had the sense you were the most bored guest here. As a host, I really have to rectify that.”
She took a few deep breaths, letting the air cool her insides. He waited for her to look at him again before he spoke. “I propose a wager.”
“Anything involving gambling seems dangerous with you, Malfoy.”
“You wound me. The rules are tilted in your favor, I would say. I’ll give you a handicap.”
“I don’t need a handi–”
“Granger”–he was smiling again, that half-smile, eye twinkling thing she didn’t believe actually existed outside of romance novels and made-for-television movies–”let me finish.”
He took another sip of his champagne–how many sips must a man take simply to get through a conversation?–and then he laid the glass down on a floating tray. “There’s a scavenger hunt I’ve curated in the garden–”
“A scavenger hunt? I–”
He gave her another look, the exasperated one he sometimes shot her during team strategy sessions, and though she felt slightly irritated, she let him continue.
“There’s something hidden in the maze. I had the elves do it. I’m not even sure where the prize is, but I propose we try to find it. Winner doesn’t have to attend the all-hands meeting next week. Loser must take notes and represent the department.”
“You already said you’d go to that meeting so I wouldn’t have to.”
He shrugged. Another tray levitated by and he popped a chocolate-dipped strawberry into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “I changed my mind.”
“Malfoy, we can’t just leave your own party to go on a scavenger hunt.”
“Your inflection is very interesting when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered. I’m shocked by your insouciance.”
“See, you’re doing it again. That trembling, breathy voice. It’s almost endearing, truly.”
“Malfoy”–she crossed her arms–”why would you even arrange for a scavenger hunt?”
“Well, since you asked nicely, I’ll let you into my plan. It’s quite simple, really. I wanted to get Cornelius sloshed and then watch him waddle around the maze. It was the reason I offered to host this year’s holiday party.”
Hermione felt her laugh bubble up before she could extinguish it. Like carbonation, it overflowed, bursting from her throat. The thought of Cornelius, eyes glazed and stumbling through the maze gave the entire conversation a further surreal quality.
“Well, why are we going alone then? Shouldn’t you try to get the whole party out there? If you’re so keen to see Cornelius embarrass himself.”
“Well, that’s the problem, Cornelius left early. Wasn’t feeling well.” Malfoy gave her a look, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “And that just leaves you and me, doesn’t it?”
***
In the garden, she began to feel a low-level panic. How humiliating would it be if she lost? The losing bet was innocuous, but still, the thought of losing to Malfoy made her stomach churn. It was about the principle of the matter: Hermione Granger did not accept bets she could not win. Except, the way Malfoy had looked at her, the challenging tilt of his head. She couldn’t not accept. She had a reputation to uphold. She was not a witch afraid of a challenge. And she certainly wasn’t afraid of Malfoy. She just...felt extra cautious around him.
There hadn’t been a discussion about rules, per se, between her and Malfoy. Rather, time was conceived to be of the essence. “When you find the treasure,” he had said. “You’ll know. I’m told it’s hard to miss.”
“And how will the winner find the loser afterwards? Should we make a central meeting point to reconvene to?”
Draco laughed. “Oh, I’ll find you, I’m sure.”
And then he winked–actually winked, as if this were some sort of movie–and disappeared into the crowd. It took Hermione a moment to recognize that the game started now, which meant she was already a few seconds behind. She dashed out after him, but he had already been swallowed up by the inky night.
Outside, the maze glowed: fireflies threaded into the foliage, creating an ethereal path that she followed. As she walked, the lightning bugs bumped into her hair, embedding themselves among the curls, creating a halo-like extension above her head. The hedges were neatly trimmed and roses bloomed in almost equidistant lengths alongside the walls of the maze. As Hermione walked closer, her heels kept lodging in the pebbles until finally when she took her shoes off. Her skin seemed to exhale with gratitude, toes red and squished from the tight corners of her high heels.
Every few steps, she turned a corner and came across a bench or some stone ornament, and then she’d begin the arduous task of checking for hidden items underneath, behind, beside whatever piece of furniture she’d stumbled upon.
At one point, on her knees, dress billowing beside her like melted rose, she thought about Pansy and how cross the other woman would be at her current sartorial negligence. If she knew what the prize were, she could have cycled through her spell repository, but what exactly would Malfoy deem to be a prize? What kitsch would he have brought to this event? She thought of the things that Malfoy considered precious, things she probably would find ridiculous in their extravagance: charmed ice sculptures, family heirlooms, dragon paraphernalia. At that last thought, she let out a snort and stood up, dusting herself off.
Placing one hand on the maze wall, she began walking again. There was a turn right and then a turn left, before she entered into a clearing of sorts. There was a fountain in the middle, rose petals floating on the surface of the water. It was bewitching, like a scene for a fairytale. Behind the fountain, there was a trellis and then a bench. Multicolored tulips bloomed around the entire scene; it felt like she had walked into a storybook sequence. She walked towards the fountain, dipping her hand into the cool substance. Then, since there was no one around and since her feet positively ached, she slid her feet into the water. Immediately, the cool water soothed her swollen skin.
“Looks like you’ve made yourself at home, Granger.”
She startled, whipping around to face the source of the voice. He stood less than a meter away, head tilted, shoulder pressed into the walls of the maze. She hated how good he looked then. She started to stand, which would have been ridiculous and dragged the train of her dress in, but he held up a hand and walked towards her.
“Please, allow me. I wouldn’t want you to topple into the fountain.”
She curled her fingers over the edge of the fountain. “Where did you come from” and then “Is this the prize then?”
Draco laughed. “Hardly, this is just a scenic rest stop in the maze.”
“Oh.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “I suppose that means you’ve found the prize then?”
There was a beat of silence. When she looked up, Malfoy was studying the surface of the water. WIthout looking at her, he slipped off his shoes, tugged up the bottom of his robes, and slid his feet into the water.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing what you’re doing.”
“But, why are you…” she trailed off. His feet were pale, ivory white. He had a farmer’s tan, which made her want to laugh. The intimacy of the moment felt almost grotesque; only a few spaces separated their feet. If she moved, her toes might brush his, and that would be mortifying in its own way: a foot caress.
Another silence settled between them. She was trying very hard not to look at him but also not to study his feet. She stared at her own instead, which felt equally strange. Finally, she settled on staring at the rose petals in the fountain, watching until they blurred in her vision, one speckled swath of red.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.
“I–” She hated the slight tremor in her voice, like she was nervous. She wasn’t nervous; she was horrified at this situation. Playing footsies with a colleague in a secret fountain that she stumbled upon during a demented game of hide-and-go-seek. “I’m not avoiding you,” she finally got out.
“Right, because I usually see Alexander this much in a week.”
She squirmed, tugging on the train of her dress, which was already grazing water and dear Merlin Pansy was going to murder her. “I’ve been busy this week. I have many other obligations that take up my time. I can’t stop my day just to socialize.”
“Oh? So you socialize with other colleagues the way you socialize with me?”
He was staring at her in a way that seemed playful, but there was something almost dark about his tone. Possessive she thought.
“I don’t socialize with anyone the way we are right now.” The words came out before she could stop them. He tilted his head, eyes searching hers. The water suddenly felt too cold on her feet, the night too balmy. She inhaled for two beats, just to see if she could think of something else to say, and then finally settled on retreat. “Well, Malfoy,” she said. “It looks like neither of us found the prize, so I’ll be going now. It’s late, and I have–”
She made to stand up, and he reached over, clasping his hand on her wrist. “There’s no prize,” he said. His touch burned her.
“What?” She felt dazed; his fingers–warm and soft–gently massaged ovals into her wrist.
“It was a lie. I just needed to speak with you.”
“What?”
She made to pull back, and he didn’t exactly pull her forward, but his grip was stronger than she anticipated, so for a second she wobbled, and then suddenly she was falling forward, grasping for stability, fingers digging into his tie.
It really did feel like a movie, a slowed down cinematic sequence as she fell into the fountain, dragging Draco Malfoy in behind her. One of them gasped, another screamed.
The water was a shock to her system, flooding into her dress, rushing down its front, causing her nipples to constrict. Her vision blurred, eyes burning as she blinked rapidly. She felt the pins in her hair come loose, curls deflating and cascading into her face, obscuring what little visual field she had left.
She opened her mouth; water rushed in. For a moment, she thought I will die of suffocation in a fountain and Harry and Ron will have to fish me out and then she was being hauled out by a pair of hands around her shoulder.
Those same hands slid up her jaw, pushing back the sodden mess of her curls until she could look and see Draco Malfoy standing in front of her, robes soaked, hair ungelled, tie dripping a long stream of water. “Are you alright?” he asked.
They were standing there, his hands on her face, eyes scanning her whole body, as if to search for injuries. She shivered. How were his eyes so blue? Then she looked down and saw how sheer the material of her dress became underwater. In the center of her chest, right where his eyes now seemed zeroed in on, were her nipples, both of them apparently waving hello to Malfoy.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” she said. She crossed her arms, which seemed to recapture his attention. “Malfoy, tonight was...lovely, but I really must get home. Thank you for your...hospitality.”
“Hermione–”
But she didn’t get to hear the end of his sentence. With a pop, she was gone.
***
The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing across the walls of her flat. The dress was hanging, pitifully across the back of an armchair. Half of it was still wet and dripping onto the wood floors, but the other half had dried, leaving the fabric a hard, lumpen mess.
Hermione was wrapped in an afghan, a mug of tea steaming against her face, her hair pulled into a wobbling bun. Crookshanks wound his way between her ankles, warming up the skin there, which still felt iced from the fountain.
Reaching down, she slid her fingers into Crookshank’s soft fur. “Tonight was one of the strangest nights of my life, Crooks.” What had happened to Draco Malfoy? What had possibly possessed him to lure her into a maze? Should she have stayed and listened to what he had to say? Was this all an elaborate scheme to usurp her for the upcoming promotion?
On that last thought, Hermione put down her mug. That made sense. Malfoy hadn’t ever shown interest in being promoted, but why else would he go to tonight’s trouble? The gala. The scavenger hunt. The touching. It was a coup by seduction.
There was a knock at the door. Ginny, possibly. Or, perhaps Pansy, driven here by the innate suspicion that Hermione had messed up her outfit. Hermione paused at the threshold of the door, fingers on the knob. She could not answer. She could crawl into bed and forget tonight ever happened.
She inhaled, opened the door. She saw rumpled green robes, a wrinkled tie, and a very exasperated Draco Malfoy.
She stared. He stared. Or, perhaps, he glowered. She gaped. Then, without preamble, he hurtled into the room. “Tonight did not go according to plan.”
“Malfoy, what the hell are you doing here?”
He slid his finger into his hair before he dropped his arms. For a second, he seemed like a statue, back rigid, hands clenched at his side. Then, he pointed at her before he started pacing along the length of the front entryway. “You are impossible.”
“I’m impossible? You lured me into your garden to further your political agenda.”
At her accusation, he stopped and spun to face her. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”
“You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t figured it out? You want the department head promotion. That’s what tonight’s been about.” She threw her hands up, putting down a finger for each action listed. “That’s why you offered to throw such a soiree. That’s why you created the elaborate scavenger hunt hoax. That’s why you lied and coaxed me outside–”
“Are you even listening to yourself right now? I have no bloody intentions of being department head. Anyone with half a brain can see you’re the only logical choice–”
“Then why did you try to sabotage me tonight–”
“I did not try to sabotage you–”
“You wanted to make a fool of me in front of Martina, didn’t you? Your plan was always to drag me into the fountain and then to have me walk through the Manor, disheveled and dripping, because Oh, look, of course a woman couldn’t lead the department. Look how incapable she is of even sorting her own affairs. Look at her–
“You dragged me into the fountain!”
“You made me flustered! You lied to me. We were alone in a fountain. I–”
“I was trying to kiss you, you insufferable witch. For Merlin’s sake, how are you this brilliant and also this dense?”
“I–” A beat. Two. Her heart galloped in her chest. Her ears burned. Had she heard right? Was he–? The surreality of the night seemed to hit her all at once. Had she really been in an extravagant gown, weaving through a maze, less than an hour ago? She had the distinct, terrible thought that perhaps she was feeling dizzy, and if she fainted then was she not just a swooning medieval archetype? And wouldn’t that be awful? And–
“Say something, Granger.” Draco took a step closer. “Put me out of my misery here.” His voice was low; his hands were stuffed in his pockets. There was something almost shy in the way he looked at her.
She inhaled, exhaled. She crossed her arms. “I’m not dense,” she said.
A flurry of emotions flew across his face: shock, distress, irritation, and then, something that looked like amusement. “I know you aren’t, Granger.”
“I just–am surprised, is all.”
“By my admission?”
“I–yes, I suppose.”
“By the thought that I want to kiss you? That I’ve been thinking about you all night?”
Her tongue was suctioned to the roof of her mouth. She stared at him, unmoving, and he walked towards her, so close she could smell the faint traces of fountain water on him. He only stopped when the tips of his brogues were pressed against her bare toes. “I’m going to kiss you now, Granger.” And then he waited, eyes searching hers. She was frozen in place, hands twisted into the fabric of her plaid pajama pants. Slowly, he reached up, placing his hand on the curve of her cheek. “Close your eyes now, Granger,” he whispered. And for once, she listened to him.
His lips were soft against hers; she thought of the imitation snow at the Manor, how it was the barest hint of cold before melting into your skin. And then, his hand slid down to her waist, palm pressing against the small of her back as he opened his mouth slightly, tongue sliding against the seam of her lips.
Kissing Draco Malfoy felt exactly like she knew it would, like she had learned it would be: soft, urgent, passionate, delightful. There was something ludicrous in the sweep of his tongue, how he sucked lightly on her lower lip before pulling back and kissing her neck.
He pressed a kiss against her pulse point, and she felt a pull in her lower stomach, a twinge of desire that made her legs part. He pressed against her, sliding one leg between hers so that their knees knocked together briefly. His hands moved towards her face again, framing her jaw as he kissed her, tongue slipping against hers for a moment–a tease–before retreating.
“I’ve been thinking about this all month,” he whispered. The action pulled his lips further away from hers, which made her unconsciously lean forward, searching for him. He chuckled, hand sliding down her jaw, thumb pressing into the chin before his hand fell from her face and slid into her hand.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
“Hmm?” She leaned forward again, hands clutching his tie.
He chuckled, pressing a quick peck against her lips before repeating his question. “I know a great Italian place, not far from the office. How does 8 sound?”
“I–” The fog in her mind seemed to clear then. She was standing in her pajamas, snogging Draco Malfoy, both of them still damp from the fountain. What had just happened?
She blinked. He blinked. The silence dragged on, and he dropped his hands from hers. She missed the loss of contact immediately. Questions bombarded her mind, a carousel of question marks that made her stiffen. Finally, she settled on, “Why did you tell me there was a scavenger hunt?”
He exhaled, shoulders hunching. “I wanted to speak with you. It seemed...like a romantic option.”
“A scavenger hunt?”
“You seemed to like group activities, from what I remember. You enjoyed group trivia last month, with our team.”
She hadn’t meant to laugh. She really hadn’t, but the thought of Draco Malfoy trying to come up with a reason to lure her outside and only being able to think of scavenger hunt made the laugh bubble up.
His expression fell, and he crossed his arms.
“No, no,” she said. She tried to cover her mouth, but the laughter burst through anyways. The pieces were all falling together. “I think that’s sweet.”
He grimaced. “It was supposed to be romantic. I had the clearing specifically tailored towards what I thought you might like. You mentioned something about a Lewis Carroll? I had the my assistant do research into his muggle novels. The fountain even changes colors with the right spell. There was supposed to be music.”
She could see now what he had been trying to do: the tulips, the fountain, the trellis. It did look like something from Alice in Wonderland.
She stepped closer, interlacing their fingers. “So...was there a prize after all?”
He squeezed her hand. “The prize was for me,” he said, and then he leaned in, the tips of his fingers brushing against her chin as he kissed her. “The prize was you.”
“What do I get then?”
His breath was hot against her mouth, and when she opened her eyes, he was smiling. “You have to get dinner with me tomorrow night, to find out.”
She pulled back, just slightly, like she needed to consider the proposition. She just wanted to see that look on his face again, the one that let her know Draco Malfoy was not immune to whatever was happening between them, that he was here with her, right now, feeling all these same confusing things, feeling disheveled and damp but excited.
“Okay,” she said. She kissed him, softly, once more. “But you owe me a real scavenger hunt next time.”
And then, in one fluid motion, he put his arms under her legs and lifted her up, cradling her body against his as he walked them towards the couch. “I can give you a lot more than that, Granger.”