I don’t know how to stop. This one’s @sansashelby’s fault tho, she planted the idea and I just happen to have no impulse control whatsoever.
The halls were quiet and largely empty that evening as Hermione did rounds. Everyone was either celebrating or mourning after the day’s quidditch game. It had been pouring rain and windy, and the game had been miserable and barely exciting at all aside from a few minutes when the Seekers had gone after the snitch.
Hermione’s robes had been dripping by the time she returned to the castle. She’d changed, stayed in the Gryffindor common room long enough to be politely sympathetic, and then headed out for rounds.
Malfoy had failed to appear.
Hermione hadn’t been surprised. The moment she saw him zipping upwards, the snitch triumphantly gripped in his left hand, she’d assumed he’d probably skip rounds in favour of celebrating.
She’d waited for a minute outside the Prefect office and then proceeded on alone.
It was probably for the best. If Slytherin had lost the game and he’d shown up, he would have been in an unbearably foul mood.
Hermione intended to get the route over as quickly as possible.
She picked her way carefully through one of the damaged hallways past the old Arithmancy classroom. There were parts of the castle that were still being repaired, they were supposed to be off-limits, but that detail only seemed to attract studens
Hermione held her lit wand aloft, trying not to disturb any of the damaged walls as she checked all the abandoned classrooms and closets.
The hallways were eerily quiet. She hadn’t realised it when on rounds with a partner, usually there were two sets of footsteps and some idle conversation to while away the time or, when it was Malfoy that she was paired with, an oppressively heavy silence punctuated by stilted and awkward commentary.
Honestly. It was a relief to just do rounds alone and be spared having to deal with him.
She hadn’t been disappointed in the slightest that he hadn’t bothered to show up, or hurt that he didn’t have the basic sense of courtesy to at least send a message.
He was probably sitting around the Slytherin Common Room gloating like an absolute tosser.
If she caught him out after curfew having a celebratory snog or shag with some tarty Slytherin girl, Hermione was going to do considerably more than deduct points.
She slammed an empty broom closet door shut and continued on.
She didn’t know what had possessed her to give Malfoy her amulet. After all, she certainly didn’t care about what happened to him.
He’d just caught her off-guard because he’d been looming so much when he was getting ready to leave, and she hadn’t meant for it to sound like she didn’t care whether he died. Not that she did care. She didn't—aside from the professional inconvenience and general sense of sadness that she would experience if anyone died.
She’d feel badly if there was any Head Boy who died, it certainly wasn’t a sentiment she had exclusively in regard to Malfoy.
After all, they were supposed to be demonstrating inter-house relations and the spirit of cooperativeness, so really she’d only been being polite.
But maybe he thought she’d given it to him as a personal gift.
She froze in the middle of the hallway. Maybe he thought she was some soppy little idiot and that if he showed up after winning the match, that she’d jump him and do something tarty.
Her face suddenly felt uncomfortably warm.
Oh god, what if he was avoiding her now?
If he was, and she harassed him about his duties or reminded him about office hours, he’d assume it was because she was pining and trying to invent excuses to spend time with him.
Maybe he was in the Slytherin Common Room right now making jokes about her and handing her amulet around so everyone could have a turn making fun of it.
There was an uncomfortable twisting sensation in her chest, and she had to swallow several times before she continued on with her route, head determinedly held high.
He’d said he was going to show up for rounds, so he’d probably skipped them on purpose just to avoid her.
She gripped her wand even tighter.
She’d only been trying to be nice. He was the one who’d acted like it was hurtful that she hadn’t wanted to sit in the rain watching a Quidditch game. She’d wasted hours of her day going, and now he couldn’t even be bothered to do his job in return.
He really was the most monumental arse.
Malfoy’s enraged voice broke the silence like the crack of a whip. Hermione jumped with such violent surprise that she tripped and nearly knocked over a suit of armor.
She turned to look back, heart pounding, as Malfoy came storming down the hall towards her, his expression black.
He was still in his Quidditch uniform for some unfathomable reason. That detail made Hermione feel even more uncomfortable and for an irrational moment she almost turned tail and bolted.
She forced herself to stay and wait for him to catch up.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked once he was close, looking enraged. “I was waiting at the office for fifteen minutes and then when I went to Gryffindor Tower, they said you’d already left “
Hermione blinked several times as she stared at him.
“I thought—I thought you wouldn’t come.”
Malfoy froze and stared. Hermione glanced awkwardly away, her cheeks feeling warm.
“I assumed when you caught the snitch, that you would probably be too busy celebrating the match and wouldn’t come. So I thought I’d just do rounds myself rather than deal with the hassle of finding a different partner at the last minute.”
“I was one minute late.” His tone was scathing.
The tips of Hermione’s ears were burning and she studied her shoes carefully. “Sorry.”
“And—“ his voice was sharp and irritated, “if I’d intended to skip, I would have let you know and assigned a prefect to cover for me. I thought something had happened to you when you never showed up.”
Hermione swallowed and wished the floor would open beneath her.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed,” she said quickly. “Anyway—I’m almost done now. You can just go back, I don’t even need a partner. I’ll write the report for both of us.”
She turned on her heel and hurried away, eager to put as much space as she possibly could between them.
She halted, gave a resigned sigh and turned reluctantly to face him again, nearly colliding with his chest.
He was much closer than she’d expected.
She choked and fell back slightly.
“Could you—“ she tried to wave him off but instead he proceeded to move even nearer.
She looked up and found the irritated expression had eased and now his grey eyes were disconcertingly intent.
“I’m perfectly capable of finishing rounds on my own,” she said, lifting her chin and wishing he’d go away and stop looming over her all the time.
Instead of saying anything, his face drew even closer, so close that Hermione was cross-eyed trying to see him clearly, and then, before she could tell him to bugger off, one of his hands slid around her waist and his lips captured hers.
Her eyes immediately closed for reasons she could not justify even to herself, and rather than shove him away, she gripped his robes and pulled him close.
Her back collided with a wall, but she only vaguely registered it as her fingers tangled in his hair. His tongue slid past her lips and into her mouth and he groaned and crushed her against his chest.
Heat shot straight through Hermione’s body at the sound and she nearly whimpered. His hands were roaming everywhere, gripping her, squeezing her, twisting through her hair, and sliding his fingers down her throat, as though he were trying to touch every inch of her.
He kept kissing her, his mouth hot, hungry, and unrelenting until Hermione’s lungs were beginning to burn and she was gasping. Her legs started to give out, but Malfoy just pulled her even closer.
Finally, she had to push against him in order to make him draw his mouth away, and they both stood slumped against the wall, panting heavily.
One of his hands was still tangled in her hair, and his thigh was pressed between her legs in a way that was very inappropriate but also necessary, because if he moved, Hermione was certain she would probably slide down into a puddle on the floor.
She stood with both hands flat against his chest. She could feel the rapid pounding of his heartbeat under her fingers, and every time he inhaled his pectorals pressed against her palms and she could feel the outline of her runestone amulet under his shirt where it was hanging around his neck.
Her own lungs were nearly spasming as she greedily dragged in air and tried to think straight.
His warm breath kept brushing across her face and then, just when she was beginning to collect herself, he kissed her on the forehead and her brain short-circuited treacherously all over again.
His fingers tugged at her curls, and she could smell the rain and sweat and the biting scent of his cologne as he kept standing there, not moving back or away in the slightest. His nose kept nuzzling distractingly in her hair, and his other hand was resting on her shoulder almost as though he were just waiting for her to catch her breath so he could resume snogging her.
Hermione kept trying to think of something to say, but everything she could come up with sounded wrong. It really wasn’t an appropriate time to discuss school assignments or the migration patterns of Golden Snidgets. She probably shouldn’t bring up the detentions report that was due Tuesday, and “congratulations on catching the snitch,” seemed fairly off the mark as well.
“So…” was all she finally managed to say.
His fingers slid out of her curls and then he patted her head repeatedly. She realised after a moment that he was trying to smooth her hair down.
”Did you know, ” he said after a minute, his hands running down both sides of her head. He was still panting and his voice was somewhat rasping, ”traditionally, runestone amulets are very personal gifts.”
Hermione looked up sharply at him, her fingers twitching against his chest.
He had stopped smoothing her hair and was simply standing pressed against her, cradling her face in both hands and studying her face. His grey eyes were glittering slightly.
“The kind of gift a witch would only create for a fiancé or husband.” There was an almost-grin playing at the corners of Malfoy’s mouth. “Imbuing a runestone with protective magic and gifting it to another is sharing a piece of yourself and your magic. On account of that, gifting and wearing them is regarded as extremely—“ he paused for a moment, his eyes growing visibly dark, “—intimate.”
Hermione stared at him, speechless.
The books had mentioned that protective runestones weren’t common and shouldn’t be crafted without serious commitment, but Hermione had assumed they were referring to commitment to the craft, not commitment to the recipient.
She opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Malfoy was looking obscenely smug.
“I assumed you were most likely unaware, and not intending it as a proposal.”
Hermione felt as though her face might spontaneously combust.
She had never felt so embarrassed in her entire life.
Malfoy nodded but rather than step away or laugh, he shifted himself closer, moulding their bodies together. His head dipped down towards her face.
“Right. Well, now that you know,” his lips were almost touching hers, and she could feel the shape of every word as the air brushed against her mouth, “I hope you understand why I’ll be extremely pissed off if you ever give one to anyone else.”
