“Neither do I,” he announced. Then with a wandless, nonverbal wave of his hand, another bottle of Ogden's Reserved appeared. “Let's drink.”
She stared at him. She hadn't anticipated the evening going in this direction.
He had to be just ridiculously drunk. With the amount of firewhiskey he had imbibed, he should have been insensate.
“I don't think that's a very good idea,” she said, sidling toward the door.
“Come on, Granger,” he said cajolingly and stalked forward, closing in on her, bottle in hand. He was still shirtless. “The Order's lonely little healer. Try drinking somewhere that isn't a creekbed.”
Hermione bumped into the wall as she backed away from him. He loomed over her, and she tilted her head back in order to maintain eye contact. He smirked down at her.
“You should feel privileged. I hardly drink with anyone. I never get drunk around anyone. It's such a terrible idea. Occlumency's shoddy. Slowed reflexes. Terrible idea.”
“You said that,” Hermione pointed out, sliding her hand behind her back and trying to find the door knob.
“Did I...?” He blinked. “See? Somehow — when it comes to you—,“ he sighed and rested his forehead on the top of her head. Hermione stood frozen in astonishment.
His empty hand came up and he grazed her cheek lightly with his fingertips. Gliding his thumb along her cheekbone. Hermione's breath caught in her throat.
“You inspire terrible decisions. Something about you. I can't understand it.” He lifted his head and leaned back just enough to stare at her. “What makes you so special?”
Hermione found the doorknob and turned it, trying to pull the door open. It wouldn't budge. She glanced down and found the toe of Draco's shoe lodged against it.
She looked up at him, and he smirked.
“Come on, Granger. Where's your Gryffindor courage?” he said, his voice low, coming from the back of his throat so that it sounded husky. “Have a drink with me. I'll even call you Hermione.”
She shivered at the sound of her name dripping off his lips. The clipped, to-the-point manner in which he usually spoke was gone. He was terrifyingly playful. Like a kneazle with a gnome in its claws.
She tried the door again. He seemed to be getting closer. There was barely any space between them. She could feel the heat of his bare chest on her face. His eyes were hooded but glittering as he stared down at her.
Her heart rate started to steadily spike. She was on the verge of asking him to let her leave. Of telling him that he was scaring her.
She opened her mouth to say it. Then she caught herself.
She should stay.
Draco Malfoy was handing himself to her on a drunk platter.
If she had ever hoped for an in, this was it. The opportunity would never repeat itself. Even he was admitting he was making a mistake. That it was a risk.
Staying was a risk for her, a corner of her mind whispered. She shook slightly and ignored it.
She had to stay.
She tried not to be overt about her change of mind.
“I'm not afraid,” she said, jutting her chin out and pulling her hand off the doorknob.
He smirked. “Really?”
“Really,” she said taking a minuscule step toward him. There was barely space to move.
She grabbed the bottle of Ogden's from him and appraised it. It was an eighty year old reserve label. She pulled out the cork and sniffed it.
She was a lightweight, but she doubted she could fake drinking. Draco would notice.
And she needed the courage. She had no idea what a Draco Malfoy with lowered inhibitions might do. The thought made her feel cold with terror.
She met his amused gaze as she took a swig.
One of them was on a platter. The question was merely whom.
August 2002
The firewhisky burned brightly down her throat, and instantly the pounding of her heart eased slightly. The hot feeling of courage spread across her chest.
She tilted the bottle toward Draco, and he plucked it from her hand and took a swig of his own. His eyes were locked on hers until he lowered it. Then he glanced around the bare room they were in. Pulling his wand from a holster strapped to his right arm, he flicked it and conjured a loveseat.
Hermione gave him a look.
“I'm not scooting across a sofa every time we pass the bottle,” he said. Then he added in a mocking tone, “I can conjure a courting bench if you require a barrier.”
His eyes were taunting. He was still shirtless.
“Or you could have conjured some tumblers,” she retorted, giving him a pointed look. She dropped down onto the small couch and waited for him to do the same.
He leaned down, resting his hand on the back of the couch behind her shoulder and leaned over her, sliding the bottle into her hand.
“Your turn. You've got a lot of catching up to do,” he said in a low voice before seating himself beside her. He was much closer than he needed to be.
Hermione took another sip, and he watched her. When she tried to hand it back, he demurred and indicated that she continue.