Chapter 1: Corridor Cat and Mouse
The stone corridor was quiet, save for the soft scuff of Hermione’s shoes and the hiccuping sniffles of the tiny first-year clinging to her sleeve. The lantern light flickered, making the portraits’ eyes seem to follow them.
“It’s alright, Elara. Everyone gets lost the first week. The moving staircases are a menace, honestly.”
The girl, a Ravenclaw with tear-streaked cheeks, just nodded. Hermione adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, feeling the weight of her prefect badge. The familiar, dusty silence of the post-curfew hallways was usually a comfort. Tonight, it felt like a held breath.
He melted out from behind a giant suit of armor near the junction to the Charms corridor, so suddenly it was as if the shadows had conjured him. Draco Malfoy, leaning against the cold stone with an infuriating, practiced ease.
“Granger,” he drawled. The word was smooth, a velvet-wrapped stone. “Playing guidance counselor again? Or is collecting stray first-years your new hobby?”
Elara flinched, her small fingers tightening on Hermione’s robe.
Hermione’s spine straightened automatically. “She’s lost, Malfoy. I’m taking her back to her tower. Something you’d know about if you ever did anything except skulk in dark corners.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. His grey eyes, sharp and mercury-bright in the low light, didn’t leave hers. “Skulking implies I have something to hide. I’m just enjoying the view.”
His gaze travelled over her, a slow, deliberate sweep that felt entirely too physical for a public corridor. Hermione felt a flush creep up her neck. She willed it away.
“Move, please. We’re blocking the way.”
“Are we?” He didn’t budge. He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them in two lazy strides. He now stood close enough that she could smell the crisp, clean scent of his cologne, something like frost and green apples. He looked past her at the trembling first-year. “Run along, kid. The Eagle door knocker’s waiting. I’m sure Granger here gave you a map.”
His tone brooked no argument. Elara looked up at Hermione, wide-eyed.
“It’s okay,” Hermione said, her voice softer than she intended. “Go straight down that left passage. You’ll see the blue torches.”
The little Ravenclaw scurried away, her footsteps fading into echoes. The silence she left behind was thick, charged. They were alone.
“Your charity case is gone,” Draco murmured, his voice dropping. It wasn’t the mocking tone he used for crowds. This was lower, intimate. A thread meant only for her to follow.
“She was frightened. There’s no need to be cruel.”
“I wasn’t being cruel. I was being efficient.” He took another half-step forward. The space between them crackled. The faint, enchanted dust motes swirled in golden eddies around his shoulders. “Now we can talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“Liar.” The word was a breath. His finger came up, not to touch her face, but to trace a line down the heavy wool of her robe sleeve, from her shoulder to her wrist. Even through the fabric, the path of his touch burned. Her knees threatened to buckle. She locked them.
“Don’t,” she whispered, but it lacked conviction. It was their oldest, most useless game.
“Don’t what?” His finger completed its journey, his thumb brushing lightly over her inner wrist where her pulse hammered. “I’m not doing anything. Just talking. You’re the one who’s breathing like you just ran a lap of the pitch.”
She snatched her hand back. “What do you want, Draco?”
“You. In the Room. In an hour.” It wasn’t a question. His eyes were dark, intent. All pretence of casual arrogance was gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, hungry possessiveness beneath. It should have scared her. It did. And it thrilled her in a way that nothing else ever had.
“I can’t. I have Head Girl rounds. And a Charms essay—”
“Skip them.”
“I don’t skip things.”
“You skip them for me.” He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She shuddered, a full-body tremor she couldn’t suppress. “You always do. One hour, Hermione. Or I might just have to find you here. These portraits look like they enjoy a show.”
He pulled back, his public mask sliding back into place so seamlessly it made her dizzy. The arrogant smirk returned.
“Do try to keep your lost puppies to a minimum, Granger. It’s undignified.”
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing with a confident, fading rhythm. Hermione stood rooted to the spot, the stone cold beneath her feet, her skin on fire where he’d touched her. The corridor felt cavernous and empty without him filling it.
A soft thump from her dropped book bag broke the spell. Crookshanks poked his squashed face out from the top, blinking his large amber eyes slowly, as if disapproving of the entire encounter. He gave a low, rumbling mrrp.
“Oh, don’t you start,” she muttered, scooping the bag and her cat into her arms. The weight of both was familiar, grounding. But as she walked toward the Gryffindor tower, her carefully planned schedule for the night shattered and rearranged itself in her mind.
The Charms essay could wait. The rounds could be… brief.
One hour.
The portrait of the Fat Lady was just coming into view when she felt it—a warm, tingling sensation on the inside of her left wrist. She pushed back her sleeve. There, in shimmering, silvery script that faded even as she watched, were two words:
You will.
Her breath caught. She glanced back down the dark, empty corridor, a slow smile touching her lips despite herself. It was a cheat. A beautiful, infuriating, magical cheat.
The fire in the Gryffindor common room was too bright, too loud. She murmured excuses, climbed the stairs to her empty dormitory, and stared at the clock by her bed. The minute hand dragged. Each tick was an eternity.
Fifty-three minutes to go.
Crookshanks wound around her ankles, purring. She bent to stroke him, her mind already in that room of endless possibilities, where the only rule was them, and the only sound was the frantic, secret beating of her own heart, finally free of its prefect badge and its responsibilities.
For one more night, she wouldn't be Head Girl. She would just be his.