Written by- Lucifer's Garden
You can find them here! - http://www.fanfiction.net/u/446652/
One Shot
Reposted! One shot: A simple, innocent question leads to a whole lot more than Draco and Hermione bargained for.
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A Matter of Great Importance
A/N: All characters belong to JK Rowling.
000
Hermione Granger was pissed.
Not upset. Not angry. Pissed.
Since her temper was about as legendary as her grades, most people knew to avoid her when she came into sight with that particular look on her face, spitting and snarling under her breath. With flushed cheeks, sparks shooting from her eyes, and wild, agitated curls, she made quite a sight as she stomped down the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Barely even aware of the students warily giving her a wide berth, Hermione finally reached the entrance to the Head common room.
“Illuminati!” she barked, clenching her fists, as Lady Constance hastily swung open to admit the Head Girl.
“That . . . that imbecile!” Hermione seethed, blindly marching up the spiral stairs to the common room. “That complete cad!”
“Bad day, mudblood?” a malicious voice inquired from her left, momentarily snapping her out of the fantasy of strangling a certain redheaded moron.
Biting back the numerous uncharacteristic profanities threatening to escape her, Hermione turned around and fixed the Head Boy with a glare that could wither brimstone. “Malfoy, I could not be further from the desire to be in your company,” she ground out through gritted teeth, “so if you would be so kind as to sod off, I would be much obliged.”
The striking young man with pale blonde hair and frost-coloured eyes raised an eyebrow at her as he strode out from the door to his personal chamber. “My, my, Granger,” he remarked snidely. “You’re reverting to your primitive instincts more and more. I’m not sure whether to scratch your belly or give you an anti-rabid charm.”
“And I’m not sure whether to shave that stupid blonde helmet off your already thick head or leave it alone, letting you continue to think it actually suits you,” she retorted, lifting her chin up and whirling around to head towards her own room.
She could mentally picture him reach up to stroke his head defensively, an affronted frown on his already sour features. For the first time since breakfast, a small smirk grew on her lips as she heard only silence behind her before slamming the door.
Stripping off her school uniform and opting for loose sweatpants and a t-shirt that was a little bit too small for her, Hermione thanked the founders of Hogwarts once again for enforcing the Heads’ right to separate bedrooms. And now that she was alone, she had an entire Sunday afternoon to devote entirely to homework, studying, and inwardly seething about one stupid comment.
“Crikey, Hermione, do you ever consider getting a life outside of books?”
It wasn’t the first time somebody had made some kind of jibe about her obsessive thirst for knowledge. But when her supposed best friend Ronald Weasley decided to add his name to the list, even though he often joked about it more than anyone, it was sometimes a little more than she wanted to take.
Being Head Girl was not easy, on top of seventh year academics, attending every Quidditch game involving Gryffindor, and helping the Order keep her other close friend Harry Potter safe. Death Eater activity had almost tripled in the last few years now that Voldemort was getting stronger. Sometimes, the last thing Hermione needed was her best friend (she snorted) telling her how much of a nerd she was.
So she may have overreacted a little.
“HOW DARE YOU INSULT ME, YOU INSENSITIVE, UNGRATEFUL PRAT! YOU NEVER COMPLAIN WHEN I MARK YOUR HOMEWORK FOR YOU, OR WHEN I LET YOU COPY MY NOTES, DO YOU? LET’S SEE HOW YOU MANAGE WITHOUT MY HELP FOR A CHANGE!”
. . . Okay, so maybe she overreacted a lot. Still, he didn’t have to respond the way he did.
“Uh, Hermione, maybe you should go take a pill for that . . . er . . . lady problem of yours. I think it’s starting to act up.”
Tactless jerk. It wasn’t even that time of the month!
After all these years, Ron still amazed her with his sheer lack of intuition sometimes. Harry –dear, sweet, sensitive Harry- knew almost right away whenever she was stressed out or upset. Ron, who had the emotional range of a teaspoon (as she was fond of saying), had to be screamed at or beaten over the head with a book to get the message. Sure, it put a strain on their friendship, and it was probably the main reason why their tentative little relationship had eventually fizzled out, but great Merlin! He should know her by now!
It was nearly seven o’clock when a knock on her door interrupted her moody pacing around the room. She froze and stared at the entrance for a moment. There was only one person who could be in the Head common room at the moment, though why he would be calling on her at this hour was beyond her.
“Granger, quit gawking like the slack-jawed cow you are and open the bleeding door, would you?”
Bracing herself for further guaranteed unpleasantness, Hermione went to see what Ferret Boy’s problem was. Maybe he just wanted to remind her of the meeting they had to attend tomorrow before class, but even that excuse was farfetched. He would have been more likely to laugh all the way to the meeting himself, knowing that she would get in trouble for forgetting.
“What do you want?” she asked stiffly, not opening the door all the way. He was dressed casually in a black long robe that was quite popular among young male wizards, mostly purebloods who were less in touch with muggle fashion. The collar was unbuttoned a bit to reveal his long white neck. The material flowed loosely around his legs, but it hugged his upper body and arms.
Hermione refused to let her eyes drop down and see just how well the robe fit him. No doubt he would pick up on it right away and harass her mercilessly about it.
“Well?” she demanded, when he simply looked at her. “Did you want something?”
His eyes took her in from head to foot before her question suddenly seemed to sink in. He shook himself as if to rid offending thoughts. “I, uh . . . came to ask your opinion,” he stammered, tearing his gaze away from her body.
Even through her shock at hearing his bizarre request of her, she had the sense to blush as she remembered that she was still wearing her scandalously small t-shirt.
“All right,” she replied suspiciously, folding her arms across her chest.
Putting the Malfoy kick back into his demeanour, Draco straightened his posture and cleared his throat.
“How, in your sacred opinion, should I start wearing my hair?”
And for a very long time, Hermione was most certain that she had heard him incorrectly.
She stared at him.
When it became clear that she had indeed heard those exact words, and that he looked perfectly serious, Hermione was unsure how to respond.
“I . . . uh . . . what?”
He sighed impatiently. “You implicated earlier that my hairstyle does not suit me, so I’m here to find out what you had in mind.”
“You . . . you actually care what I think? You, Draco Malfoy, are asking for Mudblood Granger’s advice?” Hermione asked carefully.
“Are you going to continue wasting my time like this, or are you going to give me a response?” he asked sharply, starting to look distinctly uncomfortable. “And I don’t care what you think,” he added. “I’d just like your input. Is that such a horrendous crime?”
“But . . . but why ask me? Just wear it however you like, it’s none of my business,” Hermione protested. “Or at the very least, ask one of your friends.”
“Granger, it took me two hours to decide who to ask,” he informed her, glaring with distaste. “Pansy would tell me pretty much whatever I want to hear, so I can’t depend on her for honesty. Bullstrode is more masculine than I am and probably knows as much about hair maintenance as a Blast-Ended Skrewt. All the girls I could think of were too simpering, too clueless, or too frightened of me to tell me the truth. I can’t ask any of the guys because they already think I’m effeminate, and this would just be icing on the cake.”
A very slow, amused smile crept onto her lips, which he studiously ignored.
“So,” he concluded, “that only left you. You are not simpering, masculine, or afraid of me. Besides, I figure you are the next best thing to an actual female. And since I’m holding my breath on that last assumption, I trust you to be truthful, Granger. So what do you think?”
Probably the last thing Malfoy had been expecting was to have her burst into laughter, clutching her stomach and leaning against the doorframe for support. “Draco Malfoy,” she gasped, blinking back tears, “do you mean to tell me that you have spent half the evening pondering who to ask for styling tips?”
He scowled at her. “Well, at least I give a damn about my appearance,” he shot back petulantly, reminding her of the spoiled twelve year old she remembered from long ago. “The closest you’ve ever come to using a hairbrush was that time you grabbed one from Brown to smack the Weasel over the head. You should be flattered that I am taking such a risk in asking you anything at all about hair care.”
Smothering the last of her giggles behind her hand, the Head Girl shook her head at him and tried to regain her composure. Already she could feel the analytical critic in her taking over. She was Hermione Granger, after all.
“All right, I’ll see what I can do,” she grinned, leaving her doorway to pace around him. He remained perfectly still, his expression guarded. “Well . . . I’m no professional-”
He sneered. She pretended not to notice.
“-but I think the first thing we need to do is wash out all that ridiculous gel.”
Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her but she paid no mind, leading the way to the conjoined bathroom they shared. She stood by patiently as he bent over the sink, refusing to acknowledge the fact that her gaze roamed more than once towards his backside.
For the first time, now that Malfoy was actually being tolerable if not still a little bit pompous, Hermione actually started to understand why nearly every female in her grade had sighed with envy when she was announced Head Girl along with him.
Not that he wasn’t an arrogant, selfish, foul little git with absolutely no spine, and probably a Death Eater in training. He was still very much a Slytherin, down to his trademark sneer. He just happened to be a very good-looking one, and she struggled to reason with herself that it was not her fault for noticing.
“If you are done admiring my arse,” he said abruptly, righting himself and fixing her with a dry smirk that caught her completely off guard, “I’d like to know the next step.”
She had not realized how long his hair actually was until the dripping wet locks were plastered to his face and neck, sending small rivulets down his marble white throat to disappear beneath his collar. His bangs, pushed out of his mercurial eyes, nearly reached his jaw. His perfect beautiful jaw. And when did he get those flawless cheekbones?
“Right. Next step,” she murmured, transfixed all of a sudden. “Very long. Wet. Got it.”
He waved a hand in front of her face. “Granger? A coherent response would be nice.” He could not even try to make it more obvious that he was biting back a self-satisfied grin.
Snapping out of her reverie (where the hell did that come from?), Hermione forced her pulse to slow down with limited success and managed to stammer out,
“All right, well . . . actually . . . it looks rather good like . . . like that.”
He gave her a sceptical look and turned to inspect it in the mirror. “But . . . It’s so unkempt. It looks like I put no effort into it at all.”
That’s the point.
“Well, you asked my opinion,” she reminded him, watching his reflection. “And I say that it looks nice when it’s down and natural. Dry it and then see how it looks.”
Shrugging fluidly, he breezed out the bathroom towards his room, no doubt to use his wand for a quick dry spell.
As soon as he was out of sight, Hermione’s hand flew to her chest and she sagged against the counter. The combination of hormonal butterflies and twisting guilt in her stomach was almost making her nauseous.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered. “Get a grip, Hermione.”
It was already difficult to conceive how something as trivial as hair care led to the first actual civil encounter with the person who infuriated her more than anyone. She did not need to complicate things by envisioning those stray water droplets coursing down his neck over and over again, or that tight bottom hovering just barely out of sight beneath those robes.
Snap out of it, her brain scolded. You’re just dealing with some lingering emotions from your fight with Ron. That’s all this is . . . tension. Emotional and physical tension. A lot of physical tension.
Her cheeks felt warmer than usual, so she hastily splashes cold water on her face. She was patting her face on a soft red towel when Malfoy came back, his hair completely free of any restricting product. He looked rather displeased, even though Hermione felt that he must surely notice how wide her eyes had gone, how sharply she inhaled through her nostrils.
“Way to go, Granger,” he growled. “I look fluffy, thanks to your stupid advice.”
“Malfoy, dry and unhampered with grease is not exactly the definition of ‘fluffy’,” she retorted, wondering how on Earth he could think such a thing. She stared at his long, straight, devil-may-care locks almost resentfully, and reached up with a sigh to tug at one of her curls.
“It swings about whenever I so much as turn my head, and it keeps falling into my eyes,” he grumbled, his scowl deepening at her. Merlin, did he know nothing about women?
“If this whole thing bothers you, then by all means go back to spending hours in front of a mirror plastering every last strand against your skull,” she said, holding her hands up agreeably. “But before you do, just take a stroll around the grounds for a while and see the difference it makes.”
He pursed his lips and then checked his reflection one more time. “Fine,” he sighed, flicking a tress out of the way. “If you really think it looks good, then I guess I have no choice but to trust your judgement. Compromised as it may be.”
“Hold on a moment, let me see if I can’t arrange it a certain way,” she suggested, moving around in front of him. She hopped up onto the counter so that their heights were even, wanting to get a better look at him.
Of course, the minute their level eyes met, any and all articulate thought seemed to be sucked right out the back of her head. She had not stopped to realize that her new seat demanded that he stand right between her knees so that the inside of her thighs brushed against his hips.
He bore a mask of acute alarm, an expression she had not seen him wear in many long years since he mastered the art of shielding human emotions. Up until now, she had only ever known Mr Smug, Mr Heartless Bastard, Mr Ferret, Mr Whiny Brat, Mr Yellow-Bellied, Mr Cold, and Mr Sadistic.
Hermione Granger, meet Mr Confused and Unsure.
Swallowing invisibly, Hermione reached up and ran her fingers lightly through his hair, letting it fall a little bit away from his eyes. It was so much smoother to the touch than it looked. His eyes felt like shrapnel.
“There,” she said shakily, withdrawing her hands. “What do you think?”
He did not move.
When he stood rooted to the spot, achingly close with his gaze locked firmly on hers, a shuddering electrical force passed through them. A dawning awareness of each other that seemed more earthly and tangible than matters of blood and heritage ever could be. Suddenly they were both very conscious of the other’s gender.
For a moment, she had nearly forgotten who he was. Who she was. And there was no way she could justify such a lapse in judgement. She was about to look away, her face hot with humiliation and shame, when his hand suddenly came up to the side of her face.
To both their surprise, Hermione was the one who pulled him in for the kiss just as he opened his mouth to speak. Later, she would speculate that it was the single most irrational, foolish, illogical, completely uncalled for thing she had ever done in her life.
It just hit her, after all these years; Malfoy was the one who drew her attention whenever she walked into a room. Malfoy was the one who could make her blood boil and tears gather with one simple look or cutting remark. Malfoy was the one who could stump her, puzzle her, challenge her, rise up to her, and Malfoy was the one who did not seem to care how often she succeeded or failed. Malfoy was the one person whose opinion of her never seemed to change no matter how her flaws seemed to jump out at him. He hated her, true, but he accepted her regardless of all that had transpired between them. She could do whatever she wanted, be whatever she wanted, and she would be unchanging in his mind. Something about that was strangely comforting.
That, and the way he looked so deeply into her made her feel more feminine and wanted than any of Ron’s clumsy advances ever did.
Even as their mouths battled for dominance, she knew it was stupid, she knew it was wrong, and she knew it could never possibly lead to anything beyond this one impulsive surge of passion. They were such different people with such a bitter history, that even if they wanted something to happen, the chances were slim to none. She could sense in some subliminal way that his fierce hold on her was all the more possessive because he knew that he might never get to touch her this way again.
It was just a kiss. A frantic, hungry, fiery, immortalized kiss, but a kiss nonetheless and she refused to let desperate hope rise up and plant the seeds of foolish ideals that couldn’t possibly take root. The disappointment would have been crushing, she realized detachedly.
She nearly whimpered out loud when he finally drew back, his eyes hazy and his face flushed. Her fingers had messed up his hair, but he had never looked better to her. For a long time they were absolutely still, not moving from each other but not venturing to say anything. Hermione began to wish a giant hole could just swallow her up, and the shock of what had just transpired was just starting to hit her with full force when he suddenly spoke.
“I think,” he said in a warm voice that thrilled her down to a place she had never been very in touch with, “that you and I are both going to be in a lot of trouble.”
Before she could piece his words together, he was kissing her again.
END
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