Chapter Text
Third Year
Hermione frowned, watching Hagrid walk away dejectedly. Her heart broke for her friend, feeling quite helpless. She also hoped the Committee would listen to their appeal, otherwise Buckbeak was doomed. It had been a terrible day, all in all.
“Look at him blubber!” someone drawled, followed by a few snickers.
Hermione turned to see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle loitering by the castle doors. Both Harry and Ron started walking again, so she joined.
“Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?” Malfoy continued. “And he’s supposed to be our teacher!”
She saw both Harry and Ron advance, but they were both always in trouble enough already. She veered out in front of them, making her way towards Malfoy. She had every intention of smacking him—or worse—when she got there, but then he had to open his big mouth, again.
“Oh, Potter’s going to sic his little Mudblood on me. I’m scared.”
And it hit her all at once. Violence would solve very little, even if it felt rather good in the moment. No, Malfoy needed a wake up call. He needed to grow up. “You should be, Malfoy,” she taunted as she strode right over to him, grabbed him by the front of his robes, and kissed him square on the mouth.
It was meant to disgust him, to challenge his notions about blood purity, and yes, to shut him up. But as Hermione watched through her very open eyes, his closed and he leaned into her a bit. She promptly let go and watched him stumble backwards, dazed. Was she imagining it or was there just a hint of a smile at the edge of his lips? Lips that had been much softer than she was expecting, if she were being honest.
He recovered quickly enough, making a show of wiping his mouth off and spitting on the ground. “Bloody disgusting. Let’s get out of here, boys.” Crabbe and Goyle followed him back towards the castle, but she didn’t miss the way Malfoy cast one last glance at her over his shoulder.
“That was brilliant, Hermione,” she heard Harry say behind her.
She had thought so, too, at first. But now, she wondered if slapping him was the better idea after all.
Fourth Year
Viktor Krum was a surprisingly adept dancer. Or maybe it shouldn’t have been so surprising, since Quidditch was such a physical sport—and he did fly with a fair bit of grace. Hermione couldn’t lie, it felt good to be the envy of half the room for a change. The girls looked at her like they wished they were in her place, and Ron kept shooting sour looks at her as well.
Tough luck, he should’ve asked me first.
Well, maybe not just Ron. She occasionally let her eyes drift over to Draco Malfoy and his date, Pansy Parkinson, who looked just as miserable as he did. She had caught him staring at her several times, with a sort of longing in his eyes. Not in the put out, wet rat way that Ron was staring, but in a way that made her spine tingle and remember how soft his lips were.
Malfoy had been her first kiss. She hadn’t been thinking about it at the time, too intent on revenge and getting the best of him. But when she broke it down—as she was sometimes wont to do late at night—it hadn’t been terrible. It would’ve been a perfectly suitable first kiss had it been real. But it was a joke.
Just a joke.
“May I cut in?” Hermione looked up from her musings to see Malfoy standing there, asking her date if he could cut in. The nerve.
“Of course,” Viktor said. “I did not realize you and Herm-own-ninny were friends.”
“We’re not,” she answered, glaring at Malfoy.
“I thought a gesture of inter-house unity might be nice for a change.” Malfoy shrugged.
“Go ahead. I vill get some punch.” Viktor bowed and left them alone.
Malfoy stepped up to her and held his hand out. She huffed, but took it anyway lest she look less than magnanimous in front of her peers. “You’re lucky Viktor is so accommodating.”
“It seems I am.” He smirked as he wrapped his arm around her waist and led her around the room. She tried to ignore how warm his touch was through her dress. “You look lovely tonight—I barely recognized you.”
She scoffed. “I suppose you think that’s a compliment.”
He shrugged, ignoring her comment. “Thought you’d be here with Weaslebee, not an international Quidditch star.”
“Think he’s out of my league, do you?”
Malfoy got a funny look in his eyes. “Actually I think you’re with someone on your level for a change. You must know the ginger menace is beneath you.”
Hermione got a weird fluttering feeling in her stomach, but chose to ignore it. “That’s the difference between you and me, Malfoy. I don’t see people as being on different levels. Everyone deserves to be treated with respect.”
He twirled her one last time and the song ended. He bowed just as Viktor was coming back into view but his eyes stayed on hers.
Later, after she argued with Ron and was fleeing the Great Hall, a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her into an alcove. “I would say, ‘I told you so,’ but it seems unnecessary now.”
She used her free hand to wipe a tear from her eye. “Let go of me, Malfoy!”
“First tell me why you kissed me last year.”
She wriggled and he released her hand so she shoved him—hard. “You’re asking about that now? It was revenge! I wanted you to be disgusted and maybe make you think about just why it is you hate me so much.”
“I don’t—hate you, that is. Not anymore. Maybe I never did.”
Hermione just looked at him confused. She was still so upset over Ron, but Malfoy was diverting her attention, and she found herself just a tiny bit relieved for that. “What are you playing at?”
“I want you to do it again.”
She laughed. “What, kiss you? You’re off your rocker.”
His eyes darkened. “Am I?” Then he grabbed her arms and held her still as he kissed her.
Hermione stiffened in shock, but her resolve quickly diminished and she melted into him. His lips were still soft and this time, with the warmth of his hands on her skin, she found she rather enjoyed the kiss. But it was over all too soon, and she pushed him again. “How dare you,” she spat.
She turned and left but heard him mutter, “You started this, Granger. Remember that.”
Fifth Year
It was hard to avoid a prefect, especially if one was also a prefect themselves. Hermione was finding this out the hard way as Malfoy kept showing up in her orbit. And lately, she began to wonder if this was on purpose. He had started out the semester bullying first years and taking points from Gryffindors whenever possible, but lately it seemed as if he had eased up.
Even though he’d become head of Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad and had deducted points from both Harry and Ron, he’d yet to do so to her. She found it quite concerning. Speaking of Ron, she needed to have a chat with him. He wasn’t taking his duties as prefect seriously, and she was worried he might get his privileges revoked if he didn’t start shaping up. She’d have to pull him aside after their meeting, but if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late.
“Going somewhere, Granger?” Malfoy appeared next to her suddenly, his smirk even more annoying than usual.
“You know I’m headed to the prefects’ meeting, same as you, I’d imagine.”
“In a skirt that short? I might have to deduct house points.”
She stopped sharply and pivoted to him. “This is regulation length, and you know it!” She pointed her finger at his chest. “I know you’re just trying to get a rise out of me, but I won’t let you—”
Her words were muffled as he pushed her into a nearby classroom and nearly attacked her lips with his. He shoved her up against the wall roughly, sliding his tongue inside her mouth when she gasped from the shock of it. Hermione’s brain was screaming at her to push him away and flag someone down, but her traitorous body had already given in, her fingers winding their way up into his silky hair, her legs parting as he shifted his knee between them.
“Been trying to get you alone all year,” he breathed as he came up for air.
“Why?” she croaked, her voice having nearly gone.
“I’m not sure. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He didn’t give her a chance to respond before he was kissing her again, his tongue almost violent inside her mouth. She didn’t hate it. Already Hermione could feel wetness between her legs and she hated the fact that Malfoy was the one making her body react this way. His thigh pushed against her center and she moaned.
She could feel his smirk against her mouth at that. He kept the pressure with his leg as her hips started to buck against him almost of their own volition. She could feel his hardness on her thigh and knew she needed to stop this before it went too far. Maybe he was used to shagging random girls in classrooms, but Hermione Granger was no hussy. And she couldn’t miss this meeting.
His deft fingers had pulled her shirt out from her skirt and were now inching up underneath. His touch was electric on her skin, but she pushed him off. “No.”
He held his hands up in surrender and nodded once, realizing it was over. “Wait two minutes before you follow me. I’ll make an excuse for you, so you don’t get in trouble.”
She nodded, tucking her shirt back in. He was nearly out the door when he stopped. “And Granger?” She looked up. “Steer clear of the seventh-floor corridor tomorrow.”
“Noted.”
He nodded again before leaving.
Sixth Year
Over the summer, Hermione struck up a brief romance with a Muggle boy in her neighborhood. It was short lived, though, as every time they snogged, she kept picturing Malfoy. It didn’t help that Draco was a much better kisser than the Muggle boy. She promptly broke it off and berated herself for her pesky lingering feelings for her supposed enemy. They hadn’t done anything else after the incident before the prefect’s meeting, but she swore he clutched her too tightly and breathed on her neck when the Inquisitorial Squad caught them and brought them to Umbridge. The memory still made her shiver.
Despite that whole mess, she thought Harry was being a bit paranoid. There was no way Malfoy was a Death Eater. Or maybe it was just her traitorous heart that hoped he wasn’t. How could he go and join Voldemort after what had transpired between them? She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the invading thoughts. A couple kisses didn’t mean anything. He probably still thought of her as a filthy Mudblood, in spite of his undeniable attraction to her.
She was roaming the second floor, not really patrolling, but mostly killing time when she heard it. It sounded like a faint cry. As she drifted closer to the girl’s bathroom got louder—typically she’d write it off as Moaning Myrtle feeling lonely and needing some attention, but it sounded definitively masculine. She slowly crept inside.
Draco Malfoy was crying over one of the sinks. Myrtle was hovering beside him, trying to help, but every time she’d reach out a hand to touch his shoulder, he’d shiver and she’d quickly recoil. “I just don’t know what to do,” he sobbed, hiccuping a little.
Hermione almost didn’t want to intrude. She knew he’d be furious once he saw her, but her heart broke a little inside at the sight of him like this. She stepped further into the room. “Could I help?” she asked softly.
He turned to look at her and let out a defeated sort of laugh. “Granger. How could you possibly help me?”
Feeling emboldened by his lack of animosity, she drew closer. “You never know unless you try,” she whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He grabbed her wrist and spun her around until she was pressed up against one of the sinks and he was pressed up against her. “You make a good point.” Up close she could see the red in his grey eyes, the dark circles underneath. He clearly hadn’t been sleeping. “But there’s really only one kind of help I want from you.”
Then he was kissing her, and she cursed herself for giving in so easily—in truth, she’d been hoping to incite this kind of reaction from him. She missed this. Hermione moaned as his tongue slipped inside her mouth, much slower and more tenderly than before. He was in no hurry. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he reached down to lift her onto the edge of the sink.
Myrtle let out a squeal and flew into the nearest toilet.
Malfoy left her lips and started kissing down her neck, his hand inching up under her skirt to play with her inner thigh. Merlin, he was good at this. When his thumb grazed the gusset of her knickers, she let out a gasp. This seemed to snap them both back to reality, and he pulled back, hands still steadying her on the lip of the sink, both of their chests heaving to catch breath.
“You should stay away from me, Granger. I’m not worth saving.” He turned and stormed out.
“I’ll be the judge of that!” she called to his back. Cautiously, she brought a hand down to her knickers—they were soaked through.