6

Thursday 20 February 2003: PM

For the third time, Hermione glares at her mirrored reflection as she points her wand at her hair and determinedly chants the styling charm that Ginny once tried to teach her. Her glossy brown curls slowly lift off her neck and shoulders, winding together to the top of her head in a gentle coil. Holding her breath, Hermione tugs a soft elastic off her left wrist and quickly twists it around the created bun. She fulminates quietly as her fingers get stuck on the last loop but finally tugs them free and checks the result.

Her face falls. The graceful messy up-do she was hoping for looks more like Miss Trunchbull's scary bun in Matilda. Why oh why does her mad hair have such a mind of its own? Sighing in resignation, Hermione yanks out the hair tie and settles for a loose ponytail.

The silly collywobbles in her stomach tighten as she reminds herself that there is absolutely no need to primp or fuss about her appearance; Malfoy is coming over to try to retrieve her missing memories. Not for a date. Hermione sternly reminds herself that they are adults now: Draco is not going to call her a bushy-tailed squirrel. Or a beaver. Or any kind of rodent. He probably couldn't care less if she answered the door sporting a mohawk.

Grinning at that mental picture, Hermione turns away from the looking glass and kills some time by tidying her lounge room. Not because she wants to impress Malfoy (ha! – fat chance), but she possesses enough pride to not want to be thought a slob. Moving a few newspapers to the recycling bin and wiping down the coffee table is easily done; Hermione perches on the wide arm of her cushy overstuffed sofa and wonders whether she should bother donning a pair of shoes. Her thick black-and-grey striped woolly socks are fine, she decides.

Hermione rubs abstractedly at a tiny imperfection on the deep red velvet Chesterfield sofa, her mind returning to the issue that has been plaguing her ever since she bid goodnight to Draco yesterday evening. The libidinous effects of the deplorable potion haven't worn off: if anything, they've intensified. As soon as she'd clashed gazes with Draco as she'd walked toward his booth, undeniable lust had swum through her veins like warmed molasses. It had taken every scrap of her desperate dignity to maintain a façade of serene sangfroid and sit down on the bench (and not Malfoy's lap). A dire condition made worse by Draco calculatingly running his hot metallic eyes all over her body. Despite being aware he'd only leered to unsettle her - Hermione had felt that heat all the way to her curled toes. Just the memory of his steamy gaze unfurls a tendril of pure craving in her lower abdomen.

Is it possible that the potion has somehow… imprinted her on Draco? Revved up her sexuality to respond uniquely to Malfoy, since he was the first man to touch her (however impersonally) after she'd unknowingly imbibed the filthy philter at the pub? It's the most logical explanation Hermione can concoct to justify why she wants to climb Malfoy like a Douglas fir. Or – it isn't the potion at all. It's just Draco Malfoy, the undeniably sexy Slytherin prince. 'The Pureblood Pussy-hound', as she'd once heard Lavender Brown admiringly refer to him at Hogwarts. Vulgar, but perhaps not wholly inaccurate.

Hermione is at a loss to determine which scenario terrifies her more.

Three crisp raps resound at her front door; Hermione vaults off the sofa, smoothing her jittery hands over her bulky dusk pink cable-knit jumper, tweaking it down over her plain dark grey leggings. This is what she usually changes into when she returns from work, she rationalizes again; the only concession she's made towards Draco's call is that she chose a pair of pants without any holes in them.

Adopting a pleasantly neutral expression, Hermione opens the door to an unsmiling Draco. He is garbed in snug black jeans and a shawl-collared sapphire blue cardigan with a sea green Henley shirt beneath, a navy scarf loosely wrapped around his strong throat. His argent hair is slightly damp and combed off his face. The only anomaly in Draco's impeccably casual image is a minuscule fleck of white paint on his left ear lobe. Hermione fixates on the odd dot and greets Malfoy guardedly.

"Hello. Thank you for coming." Hermione cringes as soon as the stilted words leave her mouth. She's not hosting a dinner party, for Merlin's sake. Ten seconds in and she sounds like a right pillock.

"Granger," Draco frostily responds. His tone and mien are stony, polar, taciturn. But his eyes are blazing with barely banked ire as he fleetingly rakes them across her face. What the devil have I done to deserve that glower? Hermione thinks indignantly. Moody prat.

"Well, come in then," Hermione ungraciously bids. She spins testily on her socked heel and makes for the kitchen, uncaring of her ill-mannered action in leaving Draco to deal with the open door.

"Do you want something to drink, Malfoy? I have some dusty red wine in a cupboard somewhere… or there might still be a lager or cider in the bottom of the fridge –"

Her beverage offer is rudely rejected by Draco's harsh, "No. No alcohol." He sounds as though he is right behind her; an assumption that proves correct as Hermione turns back around. The broody blond man is less than a foot away, dominating her small kitchen. Hackles up, Hermione resolves to not budge an inch – she refuses to be intimidated in her own residence.

Draco ignores her defiant stance, crowding her smaller frame until his heavy cardigan is brushing her chunky knit pullover. Hormones going haywire, Hermione plays at Grandmother's Footsteps as Draco reaches around her, his superior reach easily enabling him to open the fridge door and snag a sealed bottle of water. He looks down at her with an unreadable expression for a few fraught moments; Hermione tenses, trying desperately not to bask in his alluring aroma.

"This will do," Draco gruffly pronounces, withdrawing a few steps before pivoting to saunter in the direction of her lounge. Of all the bloody nerve… Hermione crunches her jaws together forcefully enough to make her back teeth sing. Seething, she stalks after his lofty form.

By the time she reaches the sofa, Draco is standing before her quaint fireplace, arms crossed as he contemplates the small grouping of framed photographs atop the mantelpiece. His gaze is drawn to the one snapshot in the room that he is certain to mock, Hermione realizes glumly.

In the picture, Hermione is about six years old, clinging to her father's large gentle hand with a beaming grin plastered across her face. It's Hallowe'en night, and she's wearing a stereotypical Muggle witch's costume, complete with a child-sized broom, crooked hat, and a black toy cat stuffed under her free arm. All hair and teeth, Hermione winces. She treasures the photo because of the expression of adoring indulgence on her dad's face as he looks down at her animated little face. Worlds away from her current strained relationship with her parents, she ponders forlornly.

Hermione braces for Draco to say something scathing about the silly costume or playing at being a witch. Instead, he wordlessly walks to the couch and sinuously drapes his dynamic self onto her preferred corner, placing his folded scarf beside his purloined water bottle on the coffee table.

"Ready, Granger?" Draco is still prickly, but his inexplicable wrath has lessened, Hermione surmises. The antagonism arcing around him when he'd first entered has tapered off to regular Malfoy-esque snark. Just peachy. She shelves her irritation and confusion. Sooner begun, sooner done.

"Ready," Hermione confirms colourlessly, wedging herself in the opposite corner of the sofa. Draco is hogging up an awful lot of space, she notes resentfully. Impulsively Hermione twists to draw up her legs, folding them into a classic cross-legged pose as she faces Draco. He reacts swiftly, swivelling his left leg and torso so that their knees are almost touching. Too close! But she will lose face if she shifts again.

Draco launches into their task without preamble.

"As I told you last night, your consent and trust is imperative if we are to succeed in accessing your buried memories. I promise that I will not continue if I sense the process is causing you pain in any way," Malfoy vows.

"Yes, I understand," Hermione acknowledges.

"Say it. You need to say it," Draco insists. He hasn't moved a muscle, yet his presence looms larger somehow. His grey eyes are a tundra storm as they rove across her face.

"I trust you and give my consent to the Legilimency, Malfoy." Hermione mirrors Draco's formal tenor. The gravitas of the words leaves her unaccountably vulnerable and anxious. Despite their chequered history, antipodal upbringings, and a thousand other disparities – Hermione is forced to the yield to the truth of her statement. She closes her eyes momentarily to mask the depth of her sensitivity.

When she opens them again, Draco is beetling his fair brows at her. "We don't have to do this – if it's too much –"

"No! No, I'm prepared. I'm OK." Hermione assures him. She wiggles her back until it is flush against the Chesterfield and puffs out a deep exhale before bobbing her head. "Proceed, please."

Draco's voice is much gentler as he instructs, "Close your eyes, Granger. You are safe. You are in control. Focus on last Saturday night. Let the experience flow through you. You are safe…" he repeats in a low murmur.

Hermione shuts her eyes, allowing Draco's genteel accents to smooth away any last traces of disquiet. Draco's ingress into her spirit is exquisitely subtle, like comforting fingertips ruffling through the ends of her long hair. Vastly different to Bellatrix Lestrange's brute pummelling at Malfoy Manor. She senses his guiding touch as she relaxes deeper. Hermione concentrates on last Saturday evening…

… She's checking the draping of her burgundy dress. Her best date dress. Feeling quietly hopeful as she nears the entrance of the pub. This guy seems simpatico. Confident, not cocky. An avid reader. Attractive. Intelligent, cultured. Their preliminary exchange of messages had displayed Christopher's decent knowledge of literature and the arts. Ticking all the boxes… she metaphorically crosses her fingers that he won't disappoint in the flesh.

Here goes nothing… Walking through the door, she recognizes him instantly. Sitting at the bar, light brown eyes desultorily scanning the crowded hostelry. Tall, dark, ruggedly handsome. Dressed conservatively but smartly in a dark suit, no tie. He spies her almost immediately and waves her over, full lips breaking into a dazzling smile. She makes her way to the bar, enjoying the way his appreciative gaze lingers on her moving form. He helps her with her coat. A brief kiss on her cheek, a glanced touch on her hip as she settles onto the stool beside him.

Small talk. What would she like to drink? A glass of rosé, please. He leans a little closer as the barman prepares her wine. Christopher slides it in front of her, hint of a smile as she takes her first sip. Strawberries and oranges, zesty.

She places the wineglass back on the bar just as someone bumps roughly into her side. Turns her head. Brief impression of a whiffy, unpleasantly coarse big man…instinctual prickle of something off. Hearty boom of insincere apology. Sorry, luv! Had a few too many, y'know. Can't see his face as he lumbers away.

Another sip of wine. Wrongness. Bitterness, saltiness coating her tongue. Dizziness. Mustn't let him see that I know. She forces a smile. Excuse me, I need the bathroom. His eyes harden as she carefully picks her way through the throng of chattering clientele. Couldn't grab coat, too obvious. Vision blurring. Find an exit. There, ahead – the pub kitchen. Tottering through the narrow space, ignoring the bemused staff. Sobbing as she stumbles through the back door.

Running now. But where? Magic dampened, muzzy, nullified. Can't Apparate, can't send her Patronus. Panicking, gasping for breath. Hide. Hide. Think. There – a park. Shadows. An English oak tree. Climb. Hole up, wait, think. Climb.

Too high. Don't look down. A hollow. She curls up, shaking. Sounds from below. Shoes slapping violently against the road surface, angry exchange of muffled male voices. Ears straining, too scared to breathe until the noises fade.

Drifting in and out. Don't move. Think. Think. Where is she? Eyes flying open in the murky night. St John's Wood… Draco Malfoy. The letter. His address… stole it from work, memorized it. Draco Malfoy.

Agonizingly slow descent down the tree. Stockings torn. Fighting to stay awake. Finally, on solid ground. The address. Down this street? Yes. Laboriously creeping from one nebulous shadow to the next. Muscles turned to mud. Keening in relief as she opens the low gate, drags her sluggish body up the steps. Banging on the door. Oh, please be home. Please help me. Crumpling against the door frame. Malfoy, please…

Darkness.

Hermione quivers, keeping her eyes squeezed closed as Draco coaxes her back to the familiar reality of her lounge in her beloved little apartment. His cultured tones eddy tranquilly through the room; gradually, his words imbue with meaning as she revives from the Legilimens ordeal.

"Granger, you're safe. Come back, now. You did so well. Brave, clever, Gryffindor girl. Come back now, Granger."

"You shouldn't call me 'girl'," Hermione corrects softly as she peers through her eyelashes. "Say 'woman' – I'm almost twenty-four." She hears and feels Draco chuckle, because somehow, she's cozily mashed into his side, enveloped by her plush red throw rug and Draco's left arm to anchor it. Hermione actively battles the temptation to lay her head on his strong shoulder. He's become her flipping catnip.

"You're feeling better, then," Draco comments with dry levity, shifting to create a small gap between their bodies. He keeps his arm wrapped loosely around her nape and upper arm as her traitorous body delights in his proximity.

"I thought it best to stop the Legilimency there, for now," Draco tells her gravely. "You had to revisit a terrifying experience, and I refuse to push you any further tonight."

Hermione yawns widely, bringing up her hand to cover her mouth as an afterthought.

"You didn't push me too far, Malfoy. You protected me the whole time… I felt that clearly. Thank you."

And she had known that he was guarding her from psychological harm; when Hermione had relived the blinding panic of her helter-skelter escape from the pub, Draco had immediately woven an insulating safeguard around the memory. A skilled buffer that allowed her to see it without fully feeling it again. You're not alone, he'd whispered into her mind. Something profound and personal inside her vibrates melodiously at his benevolence.

Draco ignores her thanks and grabs the water bottle on the table, twisting the cap to break the seal before he hands it to Hermione.

"Drink this – you're more drained from this experience than you realize," he commands authoritatively.

Hermione rolls her eyes as she complies. Ever the autocrat. It doesn't truly bother her though; it's a pleasant change from being the renowned bossyboots in any given situation.

"Do you have any chocolate?" asks Draco, already raising his lissome body from the sofa and heading for her kitchen. Without preamble, he begins rifling through her small pantry as though he owns the place. Cheeky sod.

"There are some Kit Kats on the top shelf," Hermione calls. His rummaging halts.

"I don't know what that is," Draco admits. "Is it shaped like a cat?".

Stifling a giggle, Hermione enlightens him.

"That's just the brand name – they're rectangular wafers dipped in milk chocolate. Bring two bars please, you must try one. Red and white foil packaging."

Returning to the lounge, Draco sits back on the far corner of the sofa and hands Hermione a Kit Kat. He lets his own chocolate treat dangle from his deft fingers. Hermione demonstrates how to peel open the thin wrapper and delicately snap each column away from its mate. She munches contentedly at the first quadrant as Malfoy copies her actions. He gives a short hum of approval after his first bite, strong white teeth crunching into the delicious snack. He's unbuttoned his cardigan at some point, allowing Hermione to slyly appreciate the contours of his broad chest beneath his form-fitting green shirt.

The chocolate hit has indeed perked her up, Hermione concedes. Dementor attacks, Legilimency recovery trauma, period pain… chocolate really is a superpower.

Her whimsical musings are interrupted as Draco asserts flatly, "In the pub: they were two wizards. Working in tandem. 'Christopher Atkinson' to lure you there, then Lowlife Number Two to jostle you so Atkinson could pour the potion in your wine." Malfoy morphs from indolent to formidable without moving a single coiled muscle: his wrath is a palpable, smouldering aura.

The Kit Kat now roils uneasily in Hermione's stomach as she is reminded of the gravity of her predicament. She gulps down a steadying breath.

"I know. But who are they?" she cries. Frustration, fury and fatigue raggedly underline her plea. Draco won't meet her harrowed eyes; Hermione instantly smells a rat.

"Malfoy. Tell me. Please," she tacks on the last word begrudgingly.

"Lowlife Number Two – his voice was familiar. I can't place it yet… but I know that I know him. Maybe both men. I can't place them though," Draco growls in bitter vexation. "I think they used Polyjuice Potion so you wouldn't recognize them. But I will remember – and I'll tear those swine to pieces with my bare hands."

The hands in question are spasmodically clenching as Draco leaps from the Chesterfield, pacing frenetically in front of Hermione. Even his ferocious ire is a thing of beauty, Hermione thinks wonderingly. Draco Malfoy is a powerful wizard whose erudite persona masks a tremendous reservoir of dangerous talents; she is immensely grateful that he is currently working with her and not against her. Hermione unconsciously wets her lips with her tongue, her cinnamon eyes drinking in Draco's comely, fit body prowling restlessly in the small room.

Without warning, Draco whips to face her again. He kneels fluidly to sit on his haunches, a scant metre away. His unblinking gaze captures hers easily.

"There's something else I need to divulge," he speaks in a low, mesmerizing tone that sends a quake of premonition racing up Hermione's spine. "I saw something else. In your mind."

The suspenseful pause that follows just about ends her.

"For God's sake, Malfoy – spit it out!" Hermione cracks under the strain.

"You need to understand, I didn't go looking for it. Memory is a complex entity, layered and constructed out of experience, thoughts, feelings. Motivations and… desires." His voice lowers to a near-whisper on the last word; Hermione has an awful inkling of where this is headed. She shoves her hand out from beneath her throw rug in a fruitless attempt to stop him verbalizing the rest.

Too late.

"You are looking for a lover," Draco continues in a soft, sensual rumble. "You feel… unfulfilled. Curious. Adventurous."

Oh, kill me now and kill me quickly, Hermione silently beseeches an unknown deity. But she cannot look away from his intense pewter eyes, even as she internally writhes with agonized embarrassment.

"That's why you've been dating these Muggle men," Draco is relentless. "You want to explore your sexuality in a safe, private environment. The wizarding world is too small for any potential carnal exploits to go unnoticed on your part; your fame precludes it. They put the Golden Girl in a gilded cage, but she doesn't have the freedom to fly."

Draco's caressing intonation unexpectedly hardens. "But it's not safe, Granger. You must see that now."

His overbearing condescension finally breaks the sensuous stupor Hermione was helplessly wallowing in: she bounds to her feet in a furious burst of energy, the forgotten red throw rug pooling at her feet. Draco rises warily as the limited air between them starts to pulsate with her irradiant, livid magic.

"Don't you dare – don't you DARE lecture me on my choices, Malfoy," Hermione bites off each word with blazing precision, determined to not scream like a banshee and lose what precious control she has left.

"You have no right to go poking around in my head and then have the absolute chuffing gall to taunt me about my private life and blame me for being the victim of a couple of unscrupulous sexual predators!". The photographs and knickknacks on her mantelpiece and shelves are starting to jitter as tiny sparks shoot from Hermione's fingertips. And perhaps the last few words were said in a higher than normal volume – but she is not shouting.

"Stop this, Granger – you misunderstand, that wasn't my intention, not in the slightest –" Draco attempts a rebuttal.

"Well what was your intention, Malfoy? If you aimed to mortify and censure me – congratulations. You win." Hermione is hopping mad (literally), bouncing on her toes in a futile attempt to gain a height advantage as Draco towers over her, closer now.

The haughty blond's prized composure spectacularly splinters as he snarls, "You want to know my intention? Truly? Brace yourself, Granger. I'm offering to be your lover. Did you hear me? Skip all this dating tosh and take me as your bedmate." Draco's eyes are burning with uncensored emotion as he crosses his arms across his chest.

"Well?" and he imperiously taps his boot on the carpet.

Hermione experiences a brief flare of joy, followed swiftly by disbelief and enhanced furor. What, is this pity? Some twisted concept of making amends – throw the sad, desperate, horny witch a few shags to somehow assuage his blighted conscience?

"Fuck you, Malfoy!" OK, this is yelling.

"I'm not your personal pity project! My sex life is none of your business – and for the record, it's awesome!" Hermione spares a fleeting thought for her poor neighbours… hopefully they have their TVs turned up high.

Draco laughs caustically. "Come on, Granger – you don't seriously expect me to believe that the Weasel ever left you satisfied? He's as lazy as the day is long."

"Leave Ron out of this! Our sex life was perfectly adequate!" Hermione screeches. Her face is on fire and her hair is frizzing out like a science fair plasma globe from her shimmering spillover magic.

"Perfectly adequate?" Malfoy mocks, rounding out each vowel for extra scorn. "I'd hand my cock back to the Department of Dicks if my ex-lovers ever described me that way! You've been excusing Weasley's piss-poor performance in almost every aspect of his life since we were kids. And what's worse, you've been complicit in allowing his insecurity to dull your shine. He's belittled you to embiggen his own deficient ego for years, for fuck's sake."

Every word strikes Hermione like a slap. But Draco rolls on inexorably.

"And before you obsess over the stupid idea that I offered to be your lover as a weird charity project – I'm far too selfish for that. For whatever mental reason, we have chemistry. Magnetism. Fascination. Call it what you will, but it's right here –" he waves his graceful hands around the room, highlighting the inanimate dancing objects and swirls of tiny fireworks – "and it's powerful."

Leaning in once more, Draco delivers his final jab.

"Haven't you ever wondered what we'd be like, Granger? All those years of mutual antipathy… flipped? Shame you're too cowardly to find out."

"GET OUT." Hermione practically shoulder-charges Draco in her haste to dramatically fling open her front door. Draco infuriates her further as he shrugs dispassionately, deliberately taking his own sweet time re-buttoning his blue cardigan and smoothing his champagne locks back into place. He swaggers cavalierly through the door jamb. Only his luminous dark silver eyes betray his agitation.

The only warning Hermione receives is Draco's muttered, "Fuck it," before he cages her against the wall, and he falls on her like a leopard on a gazelle. His hands bracket her head, as his lush lips plunder her soft pink mouth, his tongue gently licking at the corners, before pressing firmer, his cool tongue twining hungrily with hers. He tastes like peppermint and sin, and it takes no more than a millisecond before Hermione is ravishing him back.

She is ablaze with lust for him, growling as she clamps her small hands on Draco's narrow hips, yanking him to lie flush against her front, wedging his right thigh between her legs and groaning shamelessly at the delicious friction against her sex. Draco responds in kind, biting tiny kisses from her mouth to her jaw, following the delicate line down her throat and sucking hard at a special spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Hermione moans in delirium, gripping Draco's silky hair in both hands as he laves her sensitive throat with his clever tongue.

Draco returns his attention to her mouth, kissing her deeply as she swipes her hands from the nape of his strong neck to his chest, scrabbling at those damned buttons. Hermione manages to slip a hand underneath Draco's cardigan and runs it feverishly across his tight pectorals, feeling him tremble at her light touch. He is hard as iron against her stomach, thrusting in infinitesimal jerks even as she bears down on his strong thigh. Draco savages her neck again, rumbling a low purr as he marks the delicate skin across her collarbones.

Hermione's head thunks back hard; but she doesn't feel a thing beyond the utter conflagration fanned by Draco's touch and taste and smell. The heavy layers of knitwear between their bodies can't disguise the heat radiating off them. Hermione's breasts are painfully nudging at her bra as her nipples beg for attention. It's only then that she realizes Draco's hands haven't moved from the wall since this feral embrace began.

As if he can hear her confused thought, Draco lifts his mouth from her skin and looks at her with an intense, unreadable expression on his stunning face… before he disengages completely from their twined clinch, straightening to adopt his familiar cocky posture. Gently but resolutely, Draco guides Hermione back inside her flat. He bestows one last hard kiss on her swollen lips and walks away, down the street. She watches him dumbly until he is out of sight. He doesn't turn around once.

Her mind is awhirl with sensation, revelation and emotional reaction; but below all that hot mess, one idiotic random thought keeps running through Hermione's brain: Draco used the words 'belittled' and 'embiggen'... in the same sentence.

Huh.