"Oh, Bobby, that's such a shame!"
"Irma, pull yourself together!"
"How am I supposed to cheer up? I didn't see a thing — I shouldn't have sat in the stands! That damned tent completely blocked the view..." Irma Pince sighed, slumped onto the table without a shred of dignity, and squinted at Bobby Pomfrey. "I should have volunteered at the makeshift medical tent, lent you a hand or something. At least then I'd have had some firsthand gossip to show for it."
They were in Madam Patif's Tea House, working through a pot of strong tea as usual, seasoned liberally with campus gossip.
"Cheer up, Irma... I've apologised to you for the hundred-and-first time! I was carrying an armful of towels and didn't have a hand free for the two-way mirror—" Mrs. Pomfrey poured her more tea in a conciliatory manner. "At least I'm telling you the whole story now."
"That is not enough!" Mrs. Pince wailed. "Setting aside the fact that I couldn't see for myself, your descriptive ability is dismal, your literary foundation is practically nonexistent, and I felt absolutely no youth, passion, or tension in your retelling—"
"I'm a Healer, not a novelist!" Madam Pomfrey said irritably. "I'm naturally reserved—"
"This is nothing to do with being reserved!" Mrs. Pince's gaunt face showed genuine outrage. "At the very least give me details! Miss Granger kissed Mr. Malfoy on the shore. That's all you gave me? One sentence? And that's it?"
Madam Pomfrey coughed nervously.
"You're just hoarding gossip for yourself! Hang that two-way mirror around your neck and never take it off again! Better yet, stick it to your forehead—" Mrs. Pince's expression became positively formidable.
---
At that moment, Draco — the very subject of these two dedicated gossips — was being criticised for much the same crime of brevity.
In the Slytherin common room, a cluster of boys led by Monta had formed a loose circle around him, with a group of girls whispering and sniggering behind them. "We want details!"
"I went into the Black Lake, dealt with a few Grindylows, found the mermaid settlement, and retrieved the hostage. That's all," Draco said flatly.
He had once enjoyed being the centre of attention. Now, the excessive interest of his Slytherin housemates struck him as tiresome.
A first-year — Malcolm Bardock — looked at him with wide, admiring eyes. "Come on, senior! Tell us more! Gryffindor's Weasley is already strutting around like he won the whole Tournament! He was telling everyone at breakfast that he fought fifty fully-armed merfolk bare-handed. Is any of that true?"
"Perhaps. I didn't witness how he came to be a hostage." Draco shrugged, deciding not to puncture Ron's dramatic retelling. Boys his age needed their moments.
He told the sceptical students around him, "As far as I was concerned, the whole thing was unpleasant and rather dull. There's nothing to tell."
With Merlin as his witness, Draco had no intention of sharing what had actually happened beneath the surface of the Black Lake.
Both jumping from the platform and threatening the mermaid chief with his wand had been acts of pure irrationality. And the kiss in the water was a memory that belonged solely to him and Hermione — he had no desire for it to become common knowledge.
"So — what exactly is your relationship with Granger?" the girls asked all at once, the group exchanging grins. "Honestly, Malfoy, you really shouldn't have rescued her. You should have left her at the bottom!"
"Yes — Durmstrang's champions would sooner have forfeited than gone in for her. She ought to reflect on that," came a sharper voice from somewhere in the crowd, making Draco's brow tighten.
"Right, Malfoy, you need to be more careful," Monta said, in the tone of someone delivering a reasonable warning. "Watch where you reach your hand, and be more selective about who you help. It wasn't a smart move — people will think she's your girlfriend."
After the Black Lake, it was no longer any great secret that Draco Malfoy had a particular interest in Hermione Granger of Gryffindor. After all, not everyone would hurl themselves off a platform to rescue an unrelated girl from another house — especially not a young man known for being cold and indifferent toward nearly everyone.
No one would ever seriously call them study partners or casual acquaintances again. Even Mrs. Norris seemed to have picked up on the ambiguity.
"As it happens, yes. She is." Draco said it calmly, under the assembled gazes of his housemates. "I'm glad you asked."
The Slytherins stared. No one had expected that offhand question to produce such a direct and devastating answer.
"Malfoy — are you out of your mind?" Monta's face cycled through several expressions before he finally landed on that one.
Draco opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Pansy Parkinson, who pushed her way through from the back of the crowd.
"Right, everyone — give us space!" She shoved a few girls aside and addressed the room without ceremony. "Go away, all of you! We need to talk."
Pansy had always believed that, while she couldn't claim to know everything about Draco's romantic life, she was at least ahead of the general public. She had learned yesterday that the two of them were officially together. It had taken her a full day to recover from the shock.
"Draco, we've grown up together — you know I'll stand by you whatever you do. But about Hermione Granger—" Pansy arranged her expression into something appropriately grave and attempted to reason with her clearly deranged childhood friend. "I know you have feelings for her, but you two will not get any support. Look at people's reactions. Can't you see what this means?"
"I see perfectly well. Their reactions are none of my concern," Draco said evenly.
"Wake up! Setting aside the years of hostility between Slytherin and Gryffindor — as long as you're still a Malfoy, you simply cannot be seen to be courting a Mud—" Pansy caught his expression and quickly adjusted her phrasing. "A girl of her... particular background."
"I think this is something I'm capable of deciding for myself," Draco said. The stubbornness in his tone didn't waver, though his voice stayed mild.
"Oh, it's not me who's going to have a headache! It's not me who'll be tearing my family apart or making enemies of my parents!" Pansy rolled her eyes. "Draco, I understand that at your age you want to be in a relationship, but you have options. There's a queue of respectable pure-blood girls in Slytherin waiting for you to show interest. Can you not look at any of them—"
"Pansy." Draco's gaze was steady. "If your father one day told you to give up Blaise — what would you do?"
"Maybe I'd listen, maybe I wouldn't. Who can predict where youthful infatuation leads?" Pansy said, clearly hoping to soften his resolve. "You're only acting on impulse, and that feeling might well burn itself out soon enough."
"Well said," Draco replied pleasantly. Then he spotted Blaise, who had quietly materialised behind Pansy, and raised his voice just enough to carry. "Pansy, that's an excellent principle. You're absolutely right — who can predict where youthful infatuation leads? It's all impulse, really. A momentary indulgence. That kind of passion never lasts long."
He smiled slowly. "You should explain that to Blaise, who's standing right behind you."
He had the satisfaction of watching Pansy's expression freeze completely. She turned — slowly — and found her boyfriend looking at her with a quietly dangerous smile.
"That all makes a great deal of sense. I'm in full agreement, actually." Blaise turned and walked away, jaw set.
"Draco Malfoy, you absolute traitor! I'm never getting involved in your affairs again!" Pansy snapped at him, clearly not daring to say anything worse, and spun on her heel to chase after her furious boyfriend. "Blaise — that's not what I meant, wait—"
---
Theodore Nott had been sitting not far off through all of this, watching quietly.
He was making a vague attempt to read his copy of Practical Potions Mastery, glancing occasionally in Draco's direction. Once the last of the Slytherins — some shocked, some contemptuous, some merely curious — had drifted away, he got up and settled himself in the seat across from Draco.
"I suspected there was something between you two a long time ago," Theodore said, studying him. "But I still didn't expect this. When did it happen?"
"Yesterday," Draco said evenly.
"You absolute idiot." Theodore's composure cracked. "She's a Mudblood. Has a troll eaten your brain?"
"Theodore — you know how I feel about that word. Don't call her that. Not now, not ever again—" Draco's expression darkened considerably. "Or we are no longer friends."
Theodore blinked. "You can't be serious."
"I am entirely serious," Draco said.
"This is completely absurd," Theodore said softly. "You were submerged in the Black Lake for over an hour and your mind still hasn't cleared."
"My mind is perfectly clear," Draco said. "I would ask that before you say anything further or question anything, you first consider this: I genuinely like her. I have liked her for a very, very long time."
"That sounds more like being blinded by infatuation." Theodore looked at Draco with a thoughtful, probing expression — the look that usually appeared only over a brewing cauldron. "Back at the Yule Ball, you were already half out of your senses over her. You even went after Krum."
"I won't deny that I find her beautiful. But she's more than beautiful — she's the most capable person I know," Draco said, with a slight shrug. "Theodore, since when have you been so shallow?"
"A girl who is both beautiful and brilliant is hardly a rare resource for someone in your position," Theodore said. "Why her, specifically?"
"She means a great deal to me." Draco had no intention of elaborating. "Tell me — why do you have such a strong aversion to her? Is it purely about her blood status?"
"Frankly, her background is none of my business. Your standards for choosing a partner are none of my business either. I didn't want to involve myself — but I don't want to watch a friend go badly wrong," Theodore said.
"If you genuinely consider me your friend, then stop asking questions and support me. Can you do that?" Draco said quietly.
"You can't expect me to offer public support. That conflicts with one of Nott's principles," the boy said flatly.
"And what does Theodore — my friend Theodore — think?" Draco pressed.
"As your friend, the most I can do is refrain from publicly opposing you." Theodore pursed his lips. "And not use that word."
"Typical Theodore Nott — always detached — and I'm far too easily satisfied." Draco leaned back lazily into the sofa, staring up at the great dome of carved crystal that formed the Slytherin common room ceiling, where green light shimmered and danced above the water.
Theodore shook his head, irritated by his nonchalance. Then he steadied himself and asked one sharper question: "I might moderate my own language for your sake. But what happens when your father insults her? Could you stand firm then?"
Draco went quiet.
Above him, the giant squid swam triumphantly across the glass dome, and the sight of the water stirred something in him — memories of the Black Lake, the frantic search, the ecstasy of finding what he'd thought was lost, the terror and thrill of those final moments.
He frowned. But a smile crept across his face anyway.
"Yes," he said. "I would."
"This is the first time I've ever seen you be this arrogant and this irrational simultaneously," Theodore said. "You're creating unnecessary trouble for yourself. Do you have any sense of the storms heading your way? Can you still smile about it? Is this what love does to a person?" A curious gleam appeared in his eyes.
"Theodore, this isn't blindness." Draco glanced again at the black water rippling above them, and felt something in his chest settle. "I'm not ignoring the coming storm. I simply find that I'm willing to face it."
"Is it worth it?"
"Without question." His grey eyes reflected the shimmer of the Black Lake.
---
Tentative conversations found their way to Draco with some regularity over the following week.
"Some people say you made the first move — I don't buy it. She must have been the one to approach you, surely?" Slytherin Keeper Miles Blatch said to him on the Quidditch pitch. "I've never seen you give any girl a kind look."
"You're welcome to believe me." Draco smiled at the astonished Miles. "It was entirely my doing."
"If Perrykin were still at Hogwarts, he'd be absolutely gobsmacked," said one of the Slytherin Chasers, with a smirk. "He always said privately that he reckoned you'd graduate alone. You were so cold to Cho Chang at that Ravenclaw match—"
"You were all quite pleased when we won, as I recall," Draco said with a tired look. "So let's not."
"So that Gryffindor girl must have pulled off some seriously powerful magic," said Cassius Warrington, with the air of someone trying to work out a complicated problem. "What's she done to you that none of our Slytherin girls could? Did she slip something into your drink?"
"Being with her is a rational decision I made in full possession of my faculties," Draco said, keeping his tone even as he looked around at his teammates' various expressions. "She is the best person I know, and I am very fond of her. Doubting her is doubting me. Insulting her is insulting me. And anyone who offends her will answer to me. I suggest you remember that."
The group exchanged glances, shrugged, and dispersed.
"Draco, what were they saying?" Crabbe jogged over, broomstick in hand.
Goyle followed, looking tense. "Were they taking the mickey again?"
"No. They were gossiping about my love life," Draco said. "Which, for the record, you two have handled far better than any of them. No mockery, no pointed looks. You should be proud."
Crabbe and Goyle both visibly relaxed.
"Actually — since we're here—" Draco looked at them both. "I didn't expect either of you to keep it up this long. Coming out on the pitch day after day, rain or shine, working on your technique without any official match to push you. Monta mentioned it to me — said you're putting in more effort than some of the regulars on the house team." He smiled at them. "Do you feel it? You're being seen. Respected."
The two brothers glanced at each other, and something bright moved across their faces.
"Thank you, Draco," Crabbe said. "Without you pushing us—"
"Don't thank me. Thank yourselves," Draco said, waving a hand. "I haven't even been supervising you properly — you've been doing it on your own. Besides, I've had other things occupying my time."
"Yeah, we know," Goyle said, letting out a low chuckle. "Granger. The one who punched you."
"Shut up," Draco said, his pale face going instantly red. He rushed past it: "Your Bludger control is solid now. It's technique you need to develop next. If you keep this up, I think you have a real chance of making the house team next year—"
"Listen, Draco," Crabbe said, suddenly serious. "We won't say anything to anyone. And — we support you." Goyle nodded beside him, with the simple, earnest conviction he rarely expressed.
Draco looked at them, genuinely taken aback.
In his previous life, for all their foolishness and pliability, Crabbe and Goyle had adhered rigidly to the doctrine of pure-blood supremacy. He had half-expected the same from them now, and had told himself not to hope for too much.
But something had changed this time. Something had shifted their thinking. They had become, without any prompting, the first Slytherins to offer him the word "support."
"Thank you," Draco said, quietly. "I mean it. Thank you."
---
Most Slytherins, however, were rather less easy-going.
They tried every means of prying information from him — always hovering, always asking about Hermione with some new angle — searching for hidden meaning in his every word and expression.
To which Draco could only repeat, to each new inquiry: "Yes, she's my girlfriend... I was the one who started it... Yes, I like her very much... No, she didn't do anything to me, and I am not out of my mind."
He knew he had to hold his position clearly and firmly — otherwise, she would face far worse than awkward questions.
Teenagers could be cruel without even realising it. They mocked for sport and without foresight, often unaware of where a careless joke ended and genuine harm began.
He had to make sure that harm never reached her.
"Any questions you have — bring them to me," he told the more persistent inquisitors, toying deliberately with his wand. "Don't bother her. And if I find out that any of you have been at her—"
He smiled slowly, in a way that did not reach his eyes.
"I'm not entirely sure what I'd do. But I suspect you wouldn't like it."
Under such pressure, the turbulence within Slytherin rarely spilled through to Hermione directly.
A significant number of Slytherins settled into cautious neutrality. Before they understood what this peculiar romance actually signified — or what it meant for them — they were unwilling to recklessly take a side or mindlessly make an enemy of Draco Malfoy.
Others, particularly those from old pure-blood families, took the news as a personal affront. They could neither agree with it nor reconcile themselves to it, and they tended to interpret everything in the worst possible light.
Even after Draco's stance had been made abundantly clear, a stubborn few persisted in the belief that he had been temporarily bewitched — or had somehow consumed a large quantity of Amortentia and was still operating under its effects.
No one dared actually isolate Draco. Slytherins were practised at categorising everything and everyone within their field of vision, and Draco Malfoy occupied an uncontested position at the top. By birth, he was the sole heir of the Malfoy family. By achievement, a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class. By ability — whether holding the top marks in end-of-year examinations, going undefeated in the Duelling Club, or simply commanding a room — this particular young Malfoy was the defining figure in his house.
He had, for whatever reason, even made a name for Slytherin in the Triwizard Tournament.
"By now only Ravenclaw hasn't entered a real representative in the Tournament," Blaise said at the Slytherin table one evening. "I'm half-tempted to put a bet on with the Weasley twins — see if Eagle House slips someone into the third task just to have a go."
"Why not ask me?" Draco said, with a meaningful look.
"Does it change anything, asking? You're still Draco Malfoy — my friend — the sole heir of the Malfoy family. That's enough for me." Blaise shrugged with his characteristic nonchalance. "I don't see why I should fret about it. I have enough confusion in my own love life."
He and Pansy had reconciled by this point, and were currently feeding each other rather demonstratively.
"It'll settle down once the novelty wears off," Daphne Greengrass said to a girl on her arm as they passed by. "That's how it always goes at the start."
"Are you talking about me and Blaise, or alluding to Draco?" Pansy glanced at her sidelong.
"Both," Daphne said lightly.
"Oh, Daphne, what's it to you?" Pansy said, in a sweetly poisonous tone, swallowing a grape Blaise offered her. "At least we have a romance to talk about."
Daphne's expression went briefly, pointedly blank. The two girls moved on.
"I thought you disapproved," Draco said mildly.
"I do disapprove — I still do — but that's between us," Pansy said, rolling her eyes. "Did you think I was going to stand here and mock my own friend to his face? Give me some credit."
Draco didn't even blink at the sarcasm. He had long since developed an immunity to it.
This was the Slytherin way — not the open, loud confrontation of Gryffindors, but quiet, strategic resistance. Cold water poured here, a sharp remark slipped in there, a subtle manoeuvre when no one was looking, while the surface remained calm and civilised. Among this particular group — Theodore's rare, direct honesty, Pansy's blunt outspokenness, and Blaise's easy indifference — Draco found something he was willing to call quiet support.
As for those outside Slytherin — he had little influence over them.
He couldn't silence the Hufflepuffs' unceasing chatter, nor deflect the Ravenclaws' probing looks whenever they passed Hermione in the corridor. The Gryffindors were entirely beyond his reach. A handful of older Gryffindor boys had clearly taken great personal offence at the whole situation — particularly when they saw Draco walking through the entrance hall with his arm around Hermione's shoulder.
"An absolute disgrace!" said McLaggen, with a very red face, in the corridor one afternoon. "I get furious every time I see how smug they look! What has become of Gryffindor's pride? Are there no boys in our house she might have looked at?"
"Cormac, even Harry Potter hasn't said a word about it. What right do you have to complain?" another Gryffindor said.
"That's precisely the problem! He ought to say something! He should talk some sense into his friends and stand up for Gryffindor's honour!" McLaggen said darkly, glaring at the retreating pair.
Harry Potter, when eventually confronted with McLaggen's concerns, delivered a firm and cheerful rebuttal: "Hermione isn't anyone's property, and she has every right to choose her own boyfriend."
He smiled pleasantly. "Nobody has the right to govern her choices. Not me, and certainly not you."
---
Beyond Harry's small diplomatic interventions, Hermione Granger — now widely circulating under the charming label "Krum's prize, nicked by Malfoy" — found herself the target of a fair amount of commentary during this period.
"Treasure, oh treasure—!" Outside the Herbology greenhouses, Zacharias Smith, who had never met an opportunity to be unpleasant that he didn't take, called out with an affected leer. "Look, here comes the prize everyone's fighting over! Why wait for Krum when you can get stolen by Malfoy instead!"
The implication — that she was an object to be won or taken, rather than a person with a mind of her own — was precisely what irritated her most about such remarks. It was dehumanising in the most banal possible way. And the whistling, and the jealous glares from certain girls who looked like they'd enjoy biting her—
If she had been facing all of this alone, she might have crumbled under it. But her new boyfriend had, it seemed, anticipated every storm.
He was always nearby.
When someone was deliberately needling her, he would pull her closer, give the offender a look of magnificent disdain, and say something like, "Yes, so what, Smith? Fancy trying another desperate dive at goal? I seem to recall Diggory wasn't impressed with your aim last year. Think you'll even make the team next season?"
Zacharias went quiet — he was still smarting from that Quidditch loss — and chose not to push any further.
As for the girls who stared with unconcealed envy or resentment, very few could hold their ground against the cold, contemptuous gaze of a Slytherin boy. They tended to flinch and look away within seconds.
"You've been rather... conspicuous lately, haven't you?" Hermione said to him quietly one afternoon, with a faint blush.
He had completely abandoned any pretence of being reserved, it seemed. During this stretch of time he was openly and aggressively visible, launching into verbal counterattacks without hesitation against anyone who dared say something unpleasant in her presence.
"I'm tired of pretending, and I don't see why I should hide. You're the girl I love, and no one gets to question that. I want everyone to know." Draco stroked her shoulder lightly and replaced his more formidable expression with a smile.
Hermione Granger — conscientious Gryffindor and person of reasonable sense — had to privately admit that she liked the roguish, unrepentant way he talked back to people on her behalf.
His protectiveness always kindled something warm and involuntary in her chest.
She was like a young bird sheltered under his wing, shielded from the worst of the weather.
"You know, with bullies like these — the moment you back down or show fear, they take that as an invitation," Draco said softly. "They haven't got anything new to say. The worst they can do is make sharp remarks and stare."
"Those alone are fairly effective," Hermione admitted, with a flicker of irritation.
"Hermione Granger, are you going to let them have the satisfaction? Are you going to let them feel smug about this?" He looked ahead and patted her shoulder gently. "We haven't done a single thing wrong. We like each other. What has that got to do with any of them?" He leaned close and said quietly, "Hold your head up. Find that inexhaustible Gryffindor nerve. I'll be with you — you're not alone in this — I'll always be right here."
Encouraged, she took his lead. She stood taller. She stopped flinching under pointed stares.
And finally, one afternoon, when a student sang out, "Oh~ the Gryffindor prize, stolen by Slytherin~", she beat Draco to it and said quite pleasantly: "Yes. So what?"
She liked him. What exactly was that to anyone else? She had rather a lot to be getting on with.
She was entirely preoccupied with experiencing his "wholly undisguised favouritism" in all its forms.
"You know, Hermione," Ginny whispered to her one afternoon, "some of your mannerisms are starting to look like Malfoy's. Just a touch arrogant."
"And can I take that as a compliment?" Hermione gave her a Malfoy-grade eyebrow raise. Ginny let out a long-suffering sigh. "Hermione. He has completely corrupted you."
Draco, hearing about this later, felt extraordinarily pleased with himself.
He liked that her style was beginning to carry traces of his.
He admired her capacity for openness in the face of gossip, and her straightforward, frank attitude.
He particularly liked the pride that had always been native to her personality — one of the foundational traits of the Malfoy family, as he thought of it — and he was glad to have given it room to emerge more fully.
Hermione Granger should never have lived a constrained and diminished life.
He did not want her to drift through her years at Hogwarts with her head bowed, ground down by unreasonable stares and cruel words until she became a quiet shadow of herself.
She should always face what came at her with her chin up, unafraid of anyone's opinion, refusing to retreat.
---
For her own part, Hermione was still adjusting to the new shape of things.
Draco had, she noticed, begun to comprehensively invade her world — cheerfully occupying nearly every spare moment outside of lessons.
Not that she objected. They frequently used "studying" as a cover for rather more enjoyable activities in their quiet corner of the library, in the pleasant, disorienting haze that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her head.
The homework still got done, eventually. It just wasn't the point.
"We don't do anything particularly dramatic, Harry," she explained to him one morning, only slightly pink. "It's much as it's always been — reading, talking, saying ridiculous things — and occasionally—" Her face coloured. She did not finish the sentence.
Harry smiled in a way that suggested he had drawn his own conclusions, and tactfully went to watch Ron dominate at Wizard Chess.
No one, frankly, was more comfortable with the current arrangement than Harry.
Hermione had stopped losing her temper with any regularity, and had abandoned the enforced study schedules she used to impose on him and Ron with such relentless enthusiasm. The third Triwizard task hadn't been announced yet, granting him a rare, easy stretch. Hogwarts had stopped questioning the legitimacy of his entry. And — most importantly — the Dark Lord had apparently vanished, which felt so improbably good that he barely dared think about it.
It would only be perfect, Harry sometimes thought, if Cho Chang would occasionally look in his direction rather than devoting her entire gaze to Cedric Diggory.
---
After March, when the sun finally found some warmth again, the new couple could often be found under the oak trees by the Black Lake on fine afternoons.
Draco Malfoy had, somehow, made his peace with the Black Lake.
He no longer feared the water. Hermione's kiss in the depths seemed to have undone something that had been wound tight in him for years.
Though he had taken to occasionally performing elaborate stagings of a relapse.
"You know you're perfectly fine," Hermione said, looking down at the boy whose head was resting in her lap, her book set aside on the grass.
"Please — I still get frightened, just thinking about it sometimes—" The boy played the role of helpless victim with tremendous commitment, the afternoon light through the oak leaves making his grey eyes look almost silver. He tilted his head away so she couldn't see the anticipation in them, and sighed with great theatrical weight. "I can barely breathe, Hermione — thinking about that day in the lake—"
"Does anyone else know how shameless you are?" Hermione ruffled his platinum blond hair with the particular combination of smugness and fondness she had developed for these occasions.
"No—" came the answer, in the most deliberately pathetic tone he could produce.
"You're completely impossible," Hermione said, laughter in her voice, fingers stilling in his hair.
She liked that he was only like this in front of her.
Every time he pulled it off, she always gave in.
She still couldn't quite work out how the boy everyone knew as cold and remote had turned out to be, in private, utterly and completely incorrigible.
Clingy was the word that came to mind. Enthusiastically, cheerfully, shamelessly clingy.
He was looking up at her now with patient, expectant eyes, waiting — and she could see, very clearly, the suppressed smile on his lips.
Her own mouth curved softly. She leaned toward him.
Draco always looked forward to this moment.
He closed his eyes. The sunlight in front of him dimmed as she drew close, and a few strands of her hair brushed against his neck. Something in his chest lifted.
A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he tilted his head back.
Her lips were warm and gentle — like the first flowers of early spring, or honey drawn slow from a honeycomb. And just beside his ear, a soft warmth, and the faint scent of something clean and sweet.
A suspicious flush rose on his face. He reached up and pulled a single blade of new grass from the ground. He brushed it lightly across his lips. And then, with careful stealth, he opened one eye to look at her.
She had her eyes closed. Her lashes trembled slightly. Her face was rosy and entirely absorbed in the moment, completely unaware of how closely she was being watched.
This, thought the pretentious, cunning, incorrigibly two-faced Slytherin, was the best part of every single day.