Hermione knew the silence was by design.
Whether it was safety or punishment — or both — she couldn't say. But in the week since their row in the alcove, since Kreacher's words had left her skin crawling and Draco's had left her throat raw, not a single word had passed between them.
And somehow that felt louder than shouting.
She was beginning to think she'd rather they just screamed at each other and got it over with.
Seamus nudged her arm. "You're scribbling in the margin again."
Hermione looked down. She'd written Imperius three times instead of Impedimenta.
"Oh," she murmured, flipping the page.
It was ridiculous, this game of avoidance they'd both silently agreed to play.
They hadn't broken up — at least, she couldn't remember either of them saying the words.
But they weren't together.
They hadn't been alone.
No late nights in the kitchens.
No meetings in the Room of Requirement.
No library afternoons.
No stolen snogs in broom cupboards.
Impedimenta.
A Stalling Jinx.
A pause.
A forced delay.
How perfectly appropriate.
Flitwick announced the end of class, and she shoved her notes into her bag and walked out without a word.
---
"I just want to know who you're seeing," Blaise hissed at Pansy over dinner.
"I'm not seeing anybody," Pansy said — for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Statistically improbable," Hermione said, flicking a carrot with slightly more force than necessary. She knew Pansy was shagging Harry. She didn't particularly enjoy thinking about it, but speaking up would blow her own cover — and it was far more convincing that she didn't know.
They looked at her, and she knew that a week ago someone would have followed that with a teasing comment about Draco.
Not today.
Their friends weren't stupid. Even when they acted it.
Fortunately, Ginny slid into the seat across from her just then. "Ron won't stop glaring and muttering. Mind if I join?"
Hermione risked a glance toward the Gryffindor table. Ron was glaring — at her, or perhaps at Blaise, or possibly just at the general state of things. It was hard to tell with Ron these days.
"You, a Weasley at our table?" Blaise drawled. "Always welcome. At our table. Our common room."
"Your dormitory?" Ginny offered, eyelashes doing something entirely deliberate.
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
Blaise grinned. "We are hosting a small gathering, actually. Friday. The guest list has been vetted. Thomas didn't make the cut, unfortunately."
Ginny gave a theatrical sigh. "Tragic. See, we have a system."
"A system?" Hermione asked.
Ginny waved a hand. "He pretends not to notice I'm bored to tears, and I pretend not to flirt with people directly in front of him."
It was moments like these — easy and light, where she wasn't overthinking every word or every glance — that made Hermione ache. Draco should be here. He would have said something cutting and absurd by now, just to one-up Blaise. He would have stolen chips from her plate or knocked his knee against hers under the table, or — if he was feeling particularly bold — laced their fingers together beneath the bench where no one could see.
But he wasn't there.
Probably in the Room of Requirement, working on the cabinet.
The cabinet Hermione still didn't know the full truth of.
The same cabinet she'd been sneaking in to work on herself, in the windows she was certain Draco wouldn't be there and Harry would be elsewhere.
---
The cabinet let out a low, shuddering whine. Draco flinched and immediately twisted the silver hinge, whispering the counterspell under his breath.
He had sent an apple through, and while it disappeared, he was waiting for Borgin to confirm whether it had arrived intact.
He opened it.
Rot.
Blackened skin, collapsing in on itself.
He swore and flung it across the room.
The scent of scorched wood still lingered from where he'd lost control the night before during repairs.
Draco hadn't meant to lose himself — he just hadn't realised how quickly frustration could tip into fury when Potter was pacing outside the door waiting for him to slip up, and Hermione was nowhere to be seen.
He'd heard the shuffling footsteps in the corridor. The unmistakable cadence of Potter's pacing. Pansy's voice pitched just a little too loud, her way of warning him.
He was exhausted from holding the whole thing together on willpower alone.
Exhausted from looking over his shoulder.
Exhausted from not seeing her.
She was his girlfriend, for Merlin's sake.
He should be allowed to see her.
Girlfriend.
Was.
Is.
Maybe.
What were they now?
A truce?
A punishment?
Another test?
A game of who-can-ignore-the-other-longer while both pretended the silence was strategic rather than simply the result of having no idea what to say?
She was still helping — he knew that. He'd come in once to find a set of notes left in the far corner of the room, Hermione's handwriting, cramped and precise, correcting a Latin root he'd been using incorrectly.
And the cracked copper bell he'd found inside the cabinet — he hadn't sent it through to Borgin. Hermione must have.
He hated that that made him feel worse.
Because she didn't know. Or she did, and she was pretending.
He genuinely couldn't tell.
If she knew he was repairing the cabinet to allow Death Eaters into the castle to kill the Headmaster, she wouldn't still be helping.
But she wasn't an idiot.
Brightest witch of her age.
There was no rational way she didn't have some inkling — not after everything, not given how she'd never pushed for a direct answer, not given the way he always reacted when she got close.
---
Hermione moved through the room, studying the cabinet.
Draco had adjusted some of the runes — she could see them carved fresh into the wood.
She also noted the bell she'd sent through. Cracked.
She frowned, reading over the runic configuration.
Not wrong, exactly. Just not right.
She pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote:
The preservation charm you're using is out of date. See the revised incantation below.
She paused, then added:
Do try not to die. You're far too pretty to destroy yourself over a cabinet.
She set the scroll beside the apple remnants from the day before — one had gone to mush, the other looked as though it had been set on fire — and slipped back out.
---
That night, Draco was alone with the cabinet again, doing his level best not to kick it into splinters, when a book fell directly on his head. The room had apparently developed a sense of humour.
He scowled, turning to where it had landed near the table.
"This really isn't funny." He informed the room flatly.
The book lay open to a blank page. Nothing more than an empty journal.
He sighed and placed it on the table.
Then he noticed the parchment. He hadn't left it. None of the others had been in — unless Snape had come to remind him he was running out of time.
He picked it up and unrolled it.
Hermione.
He knew her handwriting immediately.
The preservation charm you're using is out of date. See the revised incantation below. Do try not to die. You're far too pretty to destroy yourself over a cabinet.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Too pretty to destroy yourself.
Two could play at that game.
He tried the incantation she'd left. It worked, to an extent. He placed another apple inside the cabinet and it vanished without the usual rattling.
Now he just had to wait and see if Borgin sent it back ruined.
He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, hovering for a moment as he considered what to write.
There were a thousand things he wanted to say.
Tell Potter I know he's out there.
Ask Pansy what she's saying to hold him off.
Why are you still here?
You're going to get yourself hurt.
They'll find out.
I miss you.
I hate that you're better at this than I am.
He shook his head.
Instead, he wrote:
Your charm worked. Mostly. I'm insulted you think I'd die over a cabinet. Dramatic of you, Granger.
He looked at the line for a moment, then dipped the quill again.
Feel free to send more compliments. Flattery makes the cabinet work better. Scientifically proven.
---
Hermione slipped in the next morning, confident Harry was occupied — courtesy of Pansy's diligent distraction techniques.
She spotted the parchment immediately. Rolled and tucked with absurd neatness beside the runic diagram she'd left him. She unrolled it and read it once, then again, slower.
Your charm worked. Mostly. I'm insulted you think I'd die over a cabinet. Dramatic of you, Granger. Feel free to send more compliments. Flattery makes the cabinet work better. Scientifically proven.
Typical.
She pulled out her own parchment, sat on the edge of the table, and smoothed it across her knee. She didn't bother pretending she wasn't smiling.
Scientifically, is it? Well, in that case — you are very pretty. Handsome, some might say. Dangerous cheekbones. Unfair hair. Deranged cabinet. Do try not to combust. Especially not in your trousers.
She couldn't stop the laugh that burst out of her.
"Right then, you temperamental thing," she muttered, turning to the cabinet. "Let's see what he's done."
She opened the door slowly. The air inside shifted, cold and humming faintly with trapped magic. An apple sat in the centre. Split clean down the middle — but the flesh was intact. Firm, white, not a trace of rot. A little dented and bruised, but whole.
Hermione blinked.
"Huh."
Progress. Real, actual progress.
Something that felt very much like pride bloomed in her chest — followed immediately by a flicker of fear.
Because if it was working —
What, exactly, were they building?
And why wouldn't he tell her?
---
When Draco returned to the room the following night, he sank to the floor and unfolded the paper.
Scientifically, is it? Well, in that case — you are very pretty. Handsome, some might say. Dangerous cheekbones. Unfair hair. Deranged cabinet. Do try not to combust. Especially not in your trousers.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then he laughed. Sharp and startled, like the sound had caught him entirely off guard.
It cracked out of his chest before he could stop it, bouncing off the walls of the Room of Requirement as if it didn't recognise him.
Unfair hair. Dangerous cheekbones.
She was ridiculous. She was brilliant.
He left his note on top of the cracked bell she'd sent through weeks ago — like an offering. Or a dare. Or both.
The cabinet seems to respond better when I'm calm — who'd have thought. Let's be honest, though. You're thinking about it now, aren't you?
"Dangerous cheekbones," he muttered to the empty room, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
Then he saw the apple. Split, bruised — but not rotten.
Progress.
He swallowed, turned it over in his hands.
Then grabbed the parchment again.
If you sent anything through, it hasn't come back yet.
He glanced at the cabinet, then back at the note. He should probably acknowledge her last comment. He owed her that much.
She was a ridiculous girl. A brilliant girl. His girl.
You want me combusting? How about you stop sneaking in when I'm not here? Merlin knows you'll be all I can think about now. You. Your hands on me. Probably correcting my mispronunciation of some ancient charm mid — well. You know. Just because you can't help yourself.
His grin sharpened at one corner — too knowing, too smug, too gone.
He waited longer than he cared to admit that night.
Just in case.
---
The note was right where she expected it to be.
She didn't even pretend otherwise this time. Her fingers were already reaching for it, pulse too fast, breath catching before she'd even unrolled it.
She read it once. Then again.
Then again.
You want me combusting? How about you stop sneaking in when I'm not here? Merlin knows you'll be all I can think about now. You. Your hands on me. Probably correcting my mispronunciation of some ancient charm mid — well. You know. Just because you can't help yourself.
She laughed.
Of course he'd written it like that — cool and shameless and devastatingly specific.
She could see it perfectly. Him, flushed and swearing. Her, smug and awful and entirely focused, right up until the moment he deliberately mispronounced something just to hear what sound she'd make when she corrected him.
She swallowed hard.
She hated him.
She adored him.
She sat down because her knees had actually buckled slightly. She took out parchment, ink, quill. No pretence. She didn't even think — just wrote:
Oh, I'd correct you. No question. Slowly, too — syllable by syllable, until you'd learned to beg for it in perfect Latin.
She stopped, blinked, then kept going:
And let's not pretend you wouldn't like it.
Her lips parted. Her cheeks were burning. Her quill kept moving.
He was such a bastard.
A brilliant, filthy, impossible bastard.
She stared at his words for a long time — his warmth, his nerve, his infuriating specificity — and something in her chest twisted. Ached.
She missed him.
Missed his voice, his eyes, the way he always knew how to irritate her and distract her and disarm her in the same breath. Missed knowing what they were. Where they stood.
---
Hermione was in Hogsmeade with Ron, Neville, Seamus, Dean, and a few others — the Apparition examination was not far off now, and Easter holidays were approaching.
Harry, who wouldn't turn seventeen in time for the test, had stayed behind at the castle. The others had come down for extra practice, and by Seamus's suggestion — following a particularly productive session — they'd decided to celebrate with a round at the Three Broomsticks.
Hermione sat between Ron and Neville, still flushed from the walk down, laughing at something Dean had said about Seamus nearly Apparating directly into a snowbank.
A half-empty Butterbeer was warm in her hands, and for once her mind wasn't spinning through her usual anxieties about castle politics or Draco bloody Malfoy.
She wasn't thinking about him at all, actually.
Not as she laughed with her friends, not as Ron reached over and stole a chip from her plate.
Twycross appeared as he always did — abrupt and unhurried, with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to commanding a room. He didn't so much walk in as materialise near the door, his long cloak dusted with snow, eyes scanning the pub with the detached precision of a man assessing its potential as an Apparition point.
He made his way over to them and nodded his thanks as Seamus passed him a fresh Butterbeer, his fingers curling around the bottle.
"Miss Granger," he said, his dry voice carrying its usual measured quality. "Your Pivoting was nearly flawless. Have you been practising outside of lessons?"
Hermione, still a little warm from the walk and the glow of Butterbeer, turned and smiled. "I can't say I have. Though I have been reading about it — it's fascinating, really. Unlike most magic we practise, Apparition doesn't come instinctively. It has to be trained into us."
"Reading alone won't get you through the examination. Apparition isn't about knowing the steps. It's about feeling them."
Ron snorted. "She's not exactly brilliant with feelings."
Hermione shot him a look. "Says the one who keeps fleeing his own girlfriend."
"At least I have one," Ron muttered into his Butterbeer. "Not like you're seeing anyone."
She felt it before she registered it. His eyes, lingering just a moment too long on the curl at her temple that had escaped her braid.
A flicker of something — amusement, or perhaps interest — at the corner of Twycross's mouth. "Most students hesitate," he continued. "Overthink. Get caught somewhere between intention and execution."
"You don't hesitate. You analyse. Almost as if you already know where you're meant to go."
Hermione tilted her head, brow raised. "That's very flattering, Mr Twycross."
"Flattery would be calling you brilliant."
She shifted in her seat, allowing herself a small laugh. "Well. I'll do my best not to Splinch myself in the next week, and we'll call it a success."
Dean snorted. "Success is not ending up trouserless in public."
Seamus elbowed him, nodding meaningfully at Hermione and Twycross, still absorbed in their conversation.
When she made a quip about the physiological implications of Splinching — which went entirely over Ron and Dean's heads — Twycross laughed. Not politely. Not with condescension. Genuinely.
"She's got plenty of time to master the theory," Seamus said, taking a bite of his burger.
Dean nodded. "She's not seeing anyone either, so nothing to distract her. Unless there's a secret Ravenclaw we don't know about."
Twycross's head tilted, and something in his expression sharpened. "Is that so?"
That stopped her. The room hadn't changed, yet suddenly she felt as though she were in it alone with him. Her brain caught up a beat too late.
He was still looking at her — but differently now. Less examiner, more man. More interested man.
She laughed softly, trying to steer the topic elsewhere. "It's not that extraordinary. I'm bossy. I correct everyone. I have strong opinions."
"You have standards," Twycross said, almost immediately.
The words were too warm. Too personal.
And all at once, she felt it.
The compliments. The way he leaned slightly forward when he spoke to her. The way his voice dipped — just enough — when he addressed her specifically.
He was flirting.
Nothing had crossed a clear line — nothing he'd said was overtly inappropriate — but it was pointed. Deliberate. His eyes were too steady on hers, his tone too complimentary in ways that had nothing to do with Apparition.
Her smile faltered.
The worst part?
She had laughed.
She had leaned in.
She had done it all without realising.
She hadn't noticed.
But her friends had.
Seamus and Dean, who'd been nudging each other.
She swallowed hard.
Her stomach turned — not with flattery now, but with discomfort. Guilt.
She turned her face away, toward the rest of the table, and brought her glass to her lips, trying to ignore the slight tremor in her hand.
Draco's face flashed through her mind like a well-aimed Stunning Spell.
Pale skin.
Sharp grin.
That ridiculous smirk when he was teasing her.
The warmth of his laugh echoing off the stone walls of the Room of Requirement.
The way he leaned close when he whispered things he wasn't supposed to say.
The way he looked at her like she was his entire world, even when he carried himself like he was the only person in it.
His note still folded between the pages of a textbook she wasn't using.
His mouth, smug and sweet at her ear.
What was she doing?
Had she flirted back?
The guilt hit her stomach like a Bludger — heavy and sudden.
She felt sick.
She stood up abruptly.
Ron blinked. "You alright?"
She nodded quickly, reaching for her cloak. "Yeah. Just — just restless. I think I'll head back."
"I'll walk you up. You shouldn't go alone." Twycross said, rising.
"No!" She said it too sharply, already moving away. "I — I'll see you back at the castle."
---
She was outside his dormitory, knocking in increasingly quick succession against the door, hoping someone would answer.
Her chest was heaving and her face was warm from running most of the way back.
For all she knew, he wasn't even in — he could be in the Room of Requirement. She raised her hand to knock again —
The door opened, and her wrist was caught mid-swing.
It wasn't Draco.
Blaise stared at her. "You almost hit me."
"Sorry," she said, too quickly, too breathlessly. "I thought — I was looking for Draco."
Blaise raised a brow, dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Clearly."
He didn't let go of her wrist immediately, gaze moving over her flushed face, the curls clinging to her cheek, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
"Everything alright, Granger?" he asked slowly, in the tone of someone who already knew the answer.
She nodded.
Then shook her head.
Then stepped back and tried to collect herself. "Is he in?"
"Bathroom." He stepped aside.
She walked straight in and went directly to the bathroom, opening the door without hesitation.
Steam curled in the air, faintly clouding the mirror. The scent of Draco's soap hit her first — sharp and clean, something woodsy and expensive.
"Theo, I swear to Merlin —" Draco was saying, clearly expecting a different intruder, before he stuck his head around the shower curtain.
He froze. Not startled — he never looked startled — but surprised, certainly.
She blinked before turning away, her face burning. "You're in the shower."
"Brilliant observation. Ten points to Gryffindor." Draco drawled, pulling his head back behind the curtain.
She could hear him shifting, but he made no particular effort to hurry.
She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting when she barged into his bathroom, but she was suddenly having considerable trouble thinking. There was steam, and Draco Malfoy, entirely unclothed, just feet away.
She could hear the steady run of the water against the tiles.
Draco, for his part, was listening closely, waiting for her to leave.
It wasn't so much that he minded she was there while he wasn't exactly dressed — it was that his left arm was exposed, and she wasn't leaving, and he couldn't step out of the shower without her seeing the Mark.
His wand was on the bedside table. He wouldn't be able to cast a Disillusionment Charm. Not before she spotted it.
"I'm mid-shower, Hermione," he said, reaching for the shampoo and beginning to lather it through his hair. That was a slight exaggeration — he'd been nearly finished — but it seemed he'd need to drag things out now.
Hermione kept her eyes forward. "I was in Hogsmeade with the others. Apparition practice."
"So was most of sixth year," Draco said. "Potions with Potter and nobody else was rather illuminating. He kept staring at me like I was brewing something catastrophic."
Hermione didn't comment. "We went to the Three Broomsticks after. Twycross was there. He sat with us. Talked to me."
Draco went still beneath the water. "Talked to you."
"He complimented me. Said I had natural instinct for Apparition."
Draco stared at the shower wall, water running down around him. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.
"And you came bursting into my bathroom to tell me Twycross thinks you're a gifted Apparator?" he asked.
Silence.
He closed his eyes, hand pressing flat against the wall.
"Are you getting out?" she asked.
"Not unless you'd like the full view." His voice was flat, but there was something threaded under it.
Hermione swallowed. Right. Naked.
"He flirted with me," she whispered, as if it were some great confession.
A pause from behind the curtain. She turned, her eyes searching it as though she could see through it if she tried hard enough.
Draco, still safely behind the curtain, had gone very still. What was he supposed to say to that? What could he say?
Five seconds.
Fifteen.
Thirty.
"And?" he finally asked.
Hermione's fingers curled into her jumper sleeves. "And I let him." It was barely audible over the hiss of water.
Draco let his forehead fall against the tiles, a sharp breath escaping him.
This was it. His way out.
Twycross — however inappropriately old for her — was safe. Was something Draco would never be.
But if it was the sensible option, why did it feel like this?
"I flirted back," she added.
Draco's hand closed into a fist against the tile. His jaw ached.
"Right," he said, after a moment. Voice carefully even. "Well. Congratulations. I'm certain Twycross is thrilled."
"I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't even realise it was happening."
He should have told her to go. Should have said something dismissive and meant it. Should have let her walk away, stay safe, stay far from all of this.
From him.
"Why are you telling me this, Hermione?" He asked, hating the way his own voice sounded.
Hermione paused. "I thought you'd want to know."
Something cracked in him at that. He reached for the tap and shut the water off. Sudden silence.
"That other men are pursuing my girlfriend?" He scoffed, pushing off the wall. "Yes, I'm painfully aware. I hear about it rather frequently. Far more often than I'd like."
He couldn't stay behind the curtain indefinitely.
The only problem was his arm.
His left arm.
The Mark he hadn't let her see.
Wouldn't.
Couldn't.
"Turn around," he said, voice rough.
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"I'm getting out. Turn around."
"It's nothing I haven't seen before," she said, though she wasn't entirely sure why she was arguing.
"Hermione."
"Fine. Nothing I haven't felt."
"Hermione, turn around!"
She startled at the sharpness in it — not anger, but something raw and urgent and afraid.
Her breath caught. Without another word, she turned.
Behind her came the swish of the curtain, the rustle of a towel, and — because she apparently had no self-control whatsoever — her eyes drifted to the fogged mirror on her right.
She could make out the tension in his shoulders as he reached for his robe and pulled it on.
He tugged the sleeves long past where the Mark would show. His wand was still out of reach. This would have to do.
"You can turn around."
She did — her eyes sweeping over him. "Am I still your girlfriend?"
"Unless you're about to tell me you kissed the man."
A flicker of guilt crossed her face, and his jaw locked.
Draco looked away, tongue pressed hard to the inside of his cheek. He nodded once — slow, tight, like it cost him something.
"Brilliant," he said. "Wonderful."
She shook her head. "No. No, Draco, I didn't." She stepped toward him. "I didn't kiss him. I flirted — I didn't mean to, truly, I think I actually did — but I didn't kiss him. I left. I came here because I thought you should know."
"Then why flirt back?" he asked. Not accusing — but heavy. As if he were asking something much deeper. As if he were asking, what is it about me that made you?
She hesitated. "Because we've only been talking through letters, and I… I got confused."
"I thought we were keeping up appearances. For Potter's elves." He hissed. "Pretending this had stopped being anything."
She looked down. Perhaps they needed to learn to actually talk to each other before things exploded in their faces.
Then he said, "If you want him, I'm not going to fight you on it."
She looked back up. "Why not?"
He crossed his arms, his left tucked closer to his body. "Because I know better than to argue with Hermione Granger's mind. Even when I don't like the outcome."
She took another step toward him. "I don't want him."
He didn't answer. His jaw stayed locked, eyes on the floor, as if looking at her would give something away. As if he couldn't trust himself not to splinter if he did.
She reached out, uncrossed his arms, and took his hands. "I wanted you there. I wanted you to say something crude and possessive. To let him know I was taken."
His head came up at that. "You are taken." Not a declaration. More a reminder.
Hermione didn't respond.
"He's far too old for you."
"He is."
"I'll hex him the first chance I get."
"I won't stop you."
He huffed — the faintest breath of amusement. "And if you flirt with him again?"
"I won't." She whispered. "Because I've never felt so guilty in my life."
He nodded, tilting his head slightly. "Next time, send an owl instead of barging into my shower."
"…What did you mean earlier, about hearing about it frequently?" She asked, circling back.
That other men are pursuing my girlfriend. Yes, I'm painfully aware. I hear about it rather frequently. Far more often than I'd like.
Draco gave her a long look. "I mean my girlfriend is fit." His hands freed themselves from hers and settled at her hips, drawing her an inch closer. "I mean she's brilliant and gorgeous and people notice."
Hermione opened her mouth, but he kept going.
"I mean I have to sit through locker room talk after practice and hear about all the things my teammates would love to do to her."
Hermione's breath hitched. Her hands slipped up his chest and over his shoulders. "You've never told me that."
Draco's eyes dropped briefly to her lips, then back up. "No. Because it makes me want to cause bodily harm."
She blinked. "Draco —"
"I don't want to be that bloke, Granger. The jealous, possessive arsehole who starts duels in corridors over what people say. But sometimes I hear it and I want to break someone's nose."
He wasn't shouting. His voice didn't rise. But there was heat behind every word — controlled, dangerous heat.
Her heart beat harder. "You never said."
"Because it doesn't matter."
She tilted her head. "Doesn't it?"
"They don't know how you taste. They don't know about the little sound you make when I —"
She leaned up and kissed him.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't soft. It was hot and desperate and entirely honest.
Draco pulled her in harder, hands gripping her waist like he was trying to get close enough to end the distance entirely. Her fingers slid up into his damp hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned into her mouth.
His back hit the bathroom wall with a quiet thud.
"It's not easy on my side, either," she murmured against his lips, her mouth moving to his jaw, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. "Listening to the girls talk about you."
Draco groaned as her teeth grazed his jaw.
From the other room, Blaise called: "Still here, by the way."
Hermione froze. Draco closed his eyes.
She buried her face in his neck.
"I hate him," she whispered.