Magnetic Attraction - Chapter Two

Chapter 2: A Tad Less Evil

They decided to skip dinner and just dine in their common room, neither being up to face the gossip mill that would start when they walked into the Great Hall touching. Plus, there was the whole “Slytherin table vs. Gryffindor” table issue.

“I’m not sitting at the Slytherin table for meals, Malfoy, get over it!” Hermione growled as they sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. In one hand she clutched a hamburger, while the other rested above his on the wooden surface.

“Well I’m so not dining with your bunch, and I’m not avoiding the hall completely, so you’ll just have to sit with us!” His fork slipped from his grip and clattered onto his plate. “Bugger, I can’t even eat!”

“Take off your shoe,” she ordered quietly, abandoning her hamburger to slide off her own trainers. He stared at her, an eyebrow quirked.

“Is this some weird muggle fetish or something?” She scoffed and kicked him in the shin.

“Just do it, socks too.” Rolling his eyes, he kicked off his boots and looked at her for further instruction. “Now don’t move.” Malfoy sighed dramatically, then yelped as she gently placed her bare foot over his, before pulling her hand away.

“You’ve got cold feet. These better be clean, by the way.” She stuck her tongue out at him and returned to eating. “I can’t believe I have to touch a mudblood,” he added, trying to provoke her. It didn’t work. The insult was over used and had lost most of its kick. Never one to give up, he changed his tactic and said, “So how is this going to work?” She blinked at him, licking ketchup off her fingers.

“How do you mean? Like, rules?”

“I guess you could call it that. We could be stuck like this for a while, and I would like to get out of this alive.” His face was blank, and for once she realized he was vulnerable. Malfoy was just as scared as she was. It was almost cute. Almost.

“Well, let’s start with the most pressing concern: bathroom issues. I suppose a simple scorgify charm should take the place of showering,” she grimaced, “but I don’t know what we can do about actually going to the bathroom.” Something about her business like tone struck him as amusing. He cracked a smirk. “I suppose we should go to the library after classes to do research, and until then we’ll just have to deal with it.” She slid her goblet away from her, as did Malfoy. “It’s a good thing tomorrow’s Friday.”

“Tomorrow’s Friday? I have quidditch practice!” He scowled at his plate. “I’m assuming you don’t like to fly, Granger?” She blushed.

“You’ll just have to have someone replace you. I’m sure anyone could do it, Harry doesn’t mind who he beats.” Malfoy tried to steal a fry from her plate, but she swatted his hand away.

“I’m not that easy to replace, Granger, I’m quidditch captain. And that leads me to another thing anyway; you’ll have to hold of on snogging Weasely until this is over. I would rather not come out of this mentally scarred.”

“Nothing’s going on between Ron and me.” Her eyes became glassy at the mention of the red head. Malfoy’s smirk grew, revealing perfect white teeth.

“Because he’s with that Brown slut. Interesting, I think I’ve found your weakness.” Oh I hate you, thought Hermione as she blinked back tears. She had feelings for Ron, it was true. How could she not? He was nice, strong, and protected her, or at least used to. She’s known him for years. But since he’s begun dating Lavender, she’d realized that she was just a sister to him, that he didn’t see her as beautiful, or fascinating, or amazing like she wanted him to. That was when she’d begun hiding in the library.

“What ever ferret,” she mumbled, wondering how she could escape into her room without him being pulled along with her.

“Aw, Granger’s been rejected! I bet you haven’t even had your first kiss, have you?” Stupid fucker!

“I didn’t think you had any interest in my love life, Malfoy. Not that you’ll have one until this is over.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“Well, I doubt Parkinson will be easy to seduce while I’m sleeping next to you. Then again, she is easy, or so I’ve heard.” He choked on his pasta, and she grinned triumphantly, handing him a napkin.

“Wait, rewind. Who say’s you’ll be sleeping next to me?”

“Well, this isn’t going to switch off every night at ten, and the magnetic pull will keep us from separating. So, we have to fall asleep next to each other.”

“Merlin, this is a horror story,” he stammered pathetically, running a hand through his silvery hair. “And would you stop starting every sentence with ‘well?’ It’s irritating.”

“Fine. Anyway, I call my bedroom first. And can we make a pact not to tell anyone about this? It’s humiliating.”

“Do you even have to ask, Granger?” He sighed as an odd look spread across her face. “What is it now?”

“Names. It’s annoying to have to call you Malfoy if we have such a frighteningly intimate relationship all of a sudden. It just doesn’t feel right.” He glared at her, but understood her logic.

“Only in private, and it stops with us. I’m never going to call Potter by his name.” She nodded and rubbed her eyes.

“I’m getting tired, I got up early. Give me your hand.” Draco held it out to her reluctantly and she took it, standing up.

“It’s only eight!” he exclaimed.

“Would you rather I fell asleep on the couch next to you, and be pressed up against you, with my body molded into yours as you struggled to move without disrupting the attraction? Would you prefer to have my face nuzzled into your neck while you-,“ He grimaced and cut her off before she could go further.

“Stop it before I vomit.” She smirked and said,

“Exactly. Now suck it up and follow me.” She didn’t wait for a reply and dragged him up out of his chair.

“I don’t take orders from mudbloods,” he hissed, pulling his hand out of her grasp. The magnetic pull knocked him off his feet and they toppled over, Hermione on her back with Draco’s head pressed against her stomach. She grabbed his hand and neatly slid out from under him as he rose to his knees.

“Get used to it, Draco.” So, having no other choice, he followed her into her red and gold bedroom, glaring murderously at the back of her fuzzy head. The room was exactly as he’d expected it to be, obsessively neat and organized. A row of picture frames displayed pictures of her family and the golden trio, some moving others not, but before he could get a good look she stalked into the bathroom. It was too girly and shocked him to his very core. Shampoo bottles marched like soldiers across the shelf of her bathtub, and a surprisingly ironic amount of cosmetics were stacked on her counter. She reached for a toothbrush and turned the sink tap, but Draco just pulled out his wand.

“Dents blanche,” he pronounced, and his teeth gave a small twinkle. Pleased, he slipped his wand back in his trouser pocket and watched, amused, as Hermione squeezed a white paste out of a tube onto the little plastic brush. She ran it under the water before scrubbing her teeth with it. “May I ask what on earth you’re doing?” She glared at his reflection in the mirror.

“Mm clinun mi teef,” she said through her closed lips.

“Why not do it the magical way?” he asked, picking up the tube to read its label.

“My parents are dentists, they’d kill me.”

“What they don’t know can’t hurt them,” he replied with a cheeky wink. She spat into the sink and gently stepped on his foot to fill a cup of water. “You know, I must warn you Gr- Hermione, I sleep in my boxers.” She ground her heel into his foot but he showed no signs of noticing.

“That can change.” She turned off the water and grabbed an elastic band from a small bowl beside a bottle of lotion. He tapped his other foot impatiently and snickered as her hair knotted itself into a bird’s nest.

“We’ll see Hermione. And you might want to try a Straightening charm on that hair, it will make it easier to manage.”

“I don’t do magic on my hair,” she pronounced as she managed to get a suitable bun to work. “It makes it greasy, which I assume you already know from experience.” She took his hand again and pulled him out of the bathroom and over to her dresser, before stepping on his foot again to open the drawer. Draco watched as she ruffled through her neatly folded clothes. Hermione tried to ignore his snickers at her multicolored pajama drawer.

“You underestimate me, Hermione. My hair is naturally perfect,” he told her smugly, before pulling an extra large yellow shirt displaying Spongebob Squarepants out from the stack. Unfolding it and holding it by the top corners, he asked, “What the hell is that?” She snatched it from his grasp and stuffed it back in the drawer.

“A muggle cartoon character,” she answered, finding a red flannel nightgown and snapping the drawer shut. Fumbling for her wand, she added, “That’s an old shirt.” He snorted and drummed his fingers on the top of the wooden dresser, glaring halfheartedly at the pictures of Harry and Ron. “Dress me,” she whispered, and her uniform switched with the nightgown. With a note of embarrassment she realized that the old dress was a little too small, meaning that it clung to her petite form. Draco looked her up and down with a frown. How can a mudblood look so good? He thought to himself. “Take a picture, Draco, it will last longer,” she told him, and he realized he’d been staring.

“Impatient, Hermione?” It took her a moment to understand what he meant. When he could tell it registered, a little grin spread across his face. It disappeared when she smacked him. “Bloody hell, what was that for?” he asked, cupping his stinging face.

“For being an impossible ferret. Now shut up and get ready for bed.” He rolled his eyes and motioned for her to turn around. Crossing her arms over her chest, she faced away from him, careful to never break contact with his foot. He took a nauseatingly long time unbuttoning his shirt, just to bother her. She fiddled uneasily with the hem of her skirt, as he unzipped his fly, making as much noise as possible. He grinned, stupid prude.

“Switch feet,” he told her, bending close so he spoke into her year. Shivering, she did as she was told, and he pulled off his pant legs. Maybe this would be fun after all… “All right, Hermione, I’m ready.” Reluctantly turning back around, she saw he was smirking as he leaned against her dresser, wearing only a pair of gray silk boxers, which complimented both his hair and eyes. She gasped, immediately regretting turning around. Why did he have to be so attractive? Honestly. “Like what you see?” he asked coyly, jolting her out of her thoughts.

“Fuck off, ferret,” she told him, grabbing his hand. He raised his eyebrows for what had to be the tenth time that night as she sat down on the foot of the bed. He gingerly perched on the red and gold quilt next to her, wondering why he had even gotten up that morning. He could have been flying right now if he had just hit the snooze button.

“I seem to have hit a nerve,” he observed, lying down on his back while trying to scoot up the bed without looking like an ass. He didn’t succeed, and accidentally let go of her hand. For once she was the one to move, and in an instant she was lying on top of him, pressed up against his bare chest, a hand on either side of his head. He smirked up at her, as she blushed, fumbling for his hand. He didn’t give it to her, and instead rolled her over so he was on top. She stammered. Seems mudblood Granger doesn’t have much experience, he thought with a wicked grin. He leant down and pressed his cheek against hers to whisper, “Stay on your side of the bed,” into her ear. Then he took her hand in his own, rolled off her, slid under the covers, and extinguished the candles in one fluid movement. Let’s just say Hermione was a little more than stunned as she pulled the covers over her.

“Draco?” she asked anxiously to his back, his blond hair looking remarkably perfect resting on the red and gold pillow.

“What?” he answered gruffly, feeling wide-awake. She faltered beside him, fingering his warm hand meekly. He shifted onto his side to look her in the eye. It struck him how amazingly beautiful she looked in the pale moonlight, her eyes sparkling and face half hidden in shadow. “What?” He repeated, his voice suddenly hoarse and quiet. She sighed and closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip.

“What are we going to do?” It was a weak question, but she couldn’t help but ask. Draco had to admit; he didn’t know what to say. He could so easily mock her in that moment, or black mail her, or threaten her, or even take advantage of her, but he just couldn’t. Not when she looked so breathtakingly beautiful. Not when her small fingers were curled so gently around his own. Not when they were so amazingly close. He just couldn’t find the strength. Not tonight.

“We do as Dumbledore says,” he whispered quietly. “We deal with this to the best of our ability.” She nodded feebly, eyes still shut. Tentatively, he raised his free hand and ran a finger over her jaw. She surprised him by leaning into his touch. Yes, Granger is lonely, he realized sadly, pulling his hand away. Potty and Weasel practically abandoned her. “Goodnight Hermione,” he whispered, closing his eyes and nestling into his pillow. Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, as she contemplated his caring gesture. She could still feel his hand pressed against her face. Why was that so suddenly comforting? He looked so frighteningly honest and human, lying next to her, with his hand still entwined with hers. He might still be a prick, but at the moment… he seemed a tad less evil.

He was in a rowboat in the middle of the lake. It was one of those days where there was no temperature; he could just sit in a sweater and jeans and not feel a thing. There was no noise, and he could just sit on the little wooden bench and let his thoughts wash over him. But he had no thoughts, not out here. There was nothing here, just the gentle, almost nonexistent rocking of the boat as he closed his eyes, running his hands through his hair. There was nothing here, nothing could reach him.

“Draco,” someone called quietly. A woman’s voice, loving and caring. Only his mother talked to him like that. “Draco.” Hermione sat before him, on the edge of the boat, her robes hanging into the lake water. She smiled at him innocently. She couldn’t be a day over eleven-years-old. “Hi Draco.” His name sounded so spell binding when she said it.

“Hi,” he answered softly. This was new; no one was ever here with him. But there she was, peering up at him with those warm brown eyes. “How did you get-,” but she placed a finger over his lips, shushing him lightly.

“Don’t talk. You don’t need to.” So he didn’t, and she pulled her hand away. They stared calmly at each other for a moment. “This is so calm.” He nodded, and she gazed out over the murky water. “I should come out here more often,” she added to herself. “No one can reach you. I miss feeling detached.” He wanted to ask her why, but she seemed to read his mind and said, “Not now, Draco. For now just… just enjoy the moment.”

He woke up suddenly to see Hermione’s face only inches from his own, eyelashes resting on her cheek. A small smile played around her lips, and her hair had escaped from its tie and lay around her face. He watched her inhale and exhale, her hand still clinging to his own. He enjoyed the moment of stolen calm. He didn’t get this sense of tranquility often. Why was it that he felt so at peace lying beside her? But now he felt detached from the world outside completely, and he relished in it. He was home.