A little tribute to My Immortal-sort of. Nobody can top that awesomeness, but I tried.

Here's what you should prepare yourself for:

(1) Adverbs. So many of /

(2) Alternate dialogue tags. Tagged with adverbs. They /

(3) Malfoy's eyes are So /

(4) Malfoy's Aristocratic Browbr /

(5) Hermione's endless sighsbr /

(6) Incredibly moving sex scenes complete with "And Then..." moments

If you hate this, please blame disenchantedglow for not holding me back when I started on this crackfic route. Also, their sex talk belongs to a fun plunny from Janiiith.

Great big thanks to TheMourningMadam for hosting this fest and letting us go crazy with the prompts.

My name is Hermione Jean Granger and all the things you've heard about me are 100% true, at least the exceptional parts. Not to brag or anything, but I am indeed known as the Brains of the Golden Trio and I've been hailed as the Cleverest Witch of Her Age. I have hair that is as immortal and intimidating as a giant pyramid and eyes that see through to the heart and soul of a man. I'm not related to the famed potioneer Dagworth-Granger, although I'm probably better than he was, since he's a Pureblood and I'm not inbred.

Before I leave for work in the morning, I look at myself in the mirror and repeat my daily mantra: "You're Hermione Granger, and you will do whatever it takes to get to the top. You will topple civilisations and wreak havoc in the souls of men. Nobody and nothing can hold you back." How my hair looks doesn't bother me because looks and prettiness don't count for anything when you're after grander things. Everyone knows I was top of my class, and that is nothing compared to what I plan on becoming.

Currently, I work at the Ministry, which is where most of the most influential wizards and witches are employed. Twice a week I teach the Muggle Awareness Class, which is why I am dressed as Mugglelike as possible.

When I step through the door of the classroom, only one person is there ahead of me. I stop and lock eyes with Draco Malfoy, who stares smirkily back at me with eyes the color of an old man's hair. Today, he is wearing a Pureblood outfit of all black with the only concession to color a white cravat. The wide white tie shimmers intermittently.

"Granger," he smirks salaciously, quirking a very snarky eyebrow at me.

"Malfoy," I huff haughtily, as only I can.

For the past year, his presence has been something of a fixture in the class. At first I ignored him, which was surprisingly doable only because he stayed uncharacteristically silent for that first course. He missed the first test entirely, which meant he had to retake the entire class all over again.

I then resigned myself to his silence for another three months, only to find that he suddenly turned very attentive, moving to the front of the classroom. Also, he started to make me very suspicious with some of his comments and "questions." Questions such as bringing an old noose to class and asking its purpose. All with a beatific smile on his face.

I didn't think anything of it until he managed to find an actual guillotine, which he then brought to class. When I mentioned it to Harry, he sat straight up in his chair and narrowed his exceedingly greener-than-green eyes at me from behind his glasses. " Mugglebaiting," Harry hissed heraldically at me.

"Nonsense," was what I scoffed skeptically back in response. I offhandedly decried Harry's suspicions then, but all my alerts went up and remained up.

After all, given our history, it isn't completely out of the question for Draco Malfoy to try to get my hackles up. After Harry's comments, I couldn't help but be wary of Malfoy. These suspicions did not abate in the least when he began to open doors for his classmates, even Mrs. Howard, the Pureblood who works in clerical and is a hundred and fifty or maybe even three hundred. He does all of this very pointedly, turning back towards me with a smirk on his face, as though he knows something that he shouldn't.

I'm pretty sure he can't know anything, but I don't want my stint with these hard-line Purebloods to end overnight. It's the perfect chance to re-educate these people, after all.

He is currently repeating the course for the third time, having managed to magnificently fail all of his quizzes and tests. It makes no sense, since he did perfectly well in those two quizzes before he missed the first test. Also, he was no slouch in the academics department back at Hogwarts.

It's beginning to seem as though Harry might be onto something. I can't help but recall that he suspected Malfoy all during sixth year and turned out to be right in a spectacular way. Worst moment of my life. Ron still throws it in my face at odd intervals. If I still had a Time-Turner, I'd definitely fix this for good.

"I was just thinking," Malfoy now oils opulently. "That Adolf Hitler would have thought twice before putting you into Auschwitz."

Malfoy's smiling at me as though he said nothing weird or creepy or threatening. In fact, he looks almost gleeful. We had spoken of Hitler in the previous class, but I hadn't mentioned any of the concentration camps by name, since I definitely don't need to give these students any pointers in genocide. Which means he read up on the additional material. About Hitler. That could be showing initiative in class or doing creepy research into mass murder. I decide not to engage. "Whatever, Malfoy. Just go to your seat."

"Why, when the view here is so much better?" he emotes elaborately into my face. He's leaning forward across my desk, giving me a clear and unfettered look at his old-fashioned cravat, which I now see reads Purebloods Rule in tiny iridescent lettering. Harry would consider this another subtle threat, and it is proof of his views on the class.

I heave an enormously aggrieved sigh. "Don't be ridiculous," I tell him testily.

Recently, I have been considering fudging his test papers a bit to get him out of the course. His answers on the quizzes and tests are becoming increasingly facetious. On a quiz during the last course, I had given a ridiculously easy question: "Who were the two main characters of When Harry Met Sally?" The movie had been shown as a treat after the students complained of excessive reading.

Malfoy had written "Draco and Hermione."

Afterwards, I hand back the quiz to him. "Seriously, Malfoy?" I ask angstily. "Why take this class if it's only required for people who want to be employed by the Ministry?"

Draco raises one aristocratically shaped eyebrow. It stays elevated on his forehead like an angular, fallen question mark. "How do you know I'm not? For all you know, I could be extremely passionate about getting into the Ministry."

I sigh again, gustily. "Malfoy, you must know all the material by now or else you've been skiving the entire time. Why can't you just write the CORRECT answers on the tests?"

"Tell you what," he bargains in a business-like manner. "What will you give me if I make an effort on the first quiz?"

There are two quizzes and a test over the course of the class. I consider his question.

The only reason I took on this class was to take notes on this batch of Purebloods, half of whom have suspicious, blood supremacist ties.

It isn't the best idea to cheat on Malfoy's behalf but he is small peanuts, threatwise, next to some of the other Purebloods. Ergo, it's why I decided that having him out outweighed the puny morality of cheating in standardised testing. If I can make him do well on just ONE quiz, I can show my supervisor that he can do it, but is simply being a giant pillock about it.

"Anything," I promise philosophically before I narrow my plain-as-mud brown eyes at him. "Within reason."

"Maybe I could get you to strip off and prance around on the table during class," he suggests scandalously.

He is simply trying to get me to gasp and huff. How juvenile. "Aside from the utter uselessness of that exercise, is there anything else?"

"Alright," he relents reluctantly. "I wasn't really serious anyway. How about a kiss, then?"

"Why would you even want to?" I inquire impatiently. "I'm a Muggleborn, remember?" It is probably not hard to remember since I wore a tee shirt that said Muggle and Proud of It on the first day of class. I caught Malfoy staring hard at the word Muggle , which was the larger word right over my chest.

"Just trying to see if Muggles do it differently," he states shruggily. "But if it's not worth getting rid of me…"

"I would think it's worth more to pass the course," I snipe back sassily. I shuffle papers loudly on my desk and wait. After a few minutes, I hear his retreat from the room and let out a breath of relief. It's as though he just discovered sexual harassment and how stressful it is on women. That right there is yet another of my goals for the Ministry.

When I discuss Malfoy with Harry and Ginny, they have very differing views. Harry, of course, thinks that he wants to dismember my body. Ginny rolls her eyes and suggests that maybe he is actually interested in me. Harry scoffs at that—not meanly, but not in a complimentary fashion either. In fact, his comment earns a fierce glare and a painful elbow in the side from Ginny.

"There's a new line of makeup George is offering at the joke shop," Ginny opines officiously, ignoring Harry. "I told him there was too much rubbish catering to boys and farting. So he came up with charmed makeup. One of them is a lip gloss. It's like Legilimency in a tube. It's charmed to discern any bad intentions of the other party."

I frown at her. "Couldn't George have made it some sort of a lotion? Do you actually need to kiss before you can learn about his—or her—intentions? That seems unnecessary."

Ginny shrug. "Dunno. He said something about the lips being closer to the head, yadda yadda." She dug into her purse and pulled out a pale peach tube of lip gloss. "Here it is. I haven't used it yet."

I don't fancy being George's guinea pig. I don't pick it up. "Has it been tested? Or will I be the first?"

"Oh, no worries. The first person to use it was Mum, and she would have let him have it if anything went wrong."

If there is anyone that George feared, it may have been the Weasley matriarch. There isn't anyone else who can scare George Weasley. I mean—I get it. Molly Weasley terrifies me as well. It's just as well it never worked out between Ron and me.

I hold the lip gloss between two fingers and place it carefully into my purse. I will, of course, thoroughly test it before coming close to putting it anywhere on my body. I don't fancy sprouting horns or thorns while George rubs his hands in glee, probably all the while supervising me from some scrying mirror.

I don't even think anything of it until the quiz is over and I grade it. Then, my headache returns when I evaluate Malfoy's answers. He tried—a very little. He wrote correct answers to three of the ten questions. He drew on two of the blanks. On the rest, he doodled a one word response to the rest, something that strung together to read dying to take you— , with the "out" supplanted with some rather grotesque cackling clowns holding balloons.

When I show Harry Malfoy's test papers, he's angry on my behalf.

"It's a threat!" Harry almost shrieks with banshee-like shrillness. "He's trying to kill you! ' Dying to take you out' is clearly a threat!" Harry is almost hysterical. "Look, it can be reordered to read 'take you out to dying'!

"But that's not even grammatical," I posit pedantically.

"'You take out to dying,'" he insists inaudibly and I watch his lips move as he goes through all the different variations. "'Take dying out to you.'" Harry looks up. "Any way you order it, it's a threat." His eyes are narrowed as he plots a shakedown of Malfoy Manor or possibly my classroom. "Look, the balloons pop when you jab it."

I lean over. That was rather neat charm work, actually—and in thinking that, I get annoyed all over again. If Malfoy can do this level of charm work on a quiz, why can't he just write the right answers?

Harry mumbles to himself, jabbing all the balloons, which—since Malfoy had used red ink—pop red confetti. Harry is, of course, horrified, certain Malfoy is out for my blood. I promise to let him ward my place in order to calm him down.

"It could be a way to ask you out," Ginny cuts across Harry's unintelligible muttering. "Granted, not a great wording." Her arms are folded across her chest and she surveys both of us like we are idiots. "Did you use the lip gloss yet?"

I hadn't.

"I mean—" Ginny sighs "—he's pale and pointy and a prat but I've kissed worse than that for less." She shrugs when Harry narrows his Slytherin green eyes at her. "I'm just saying."

Ginny is a girl after my own heart, not bound by puritanical morality or other misogynistic ideas. She makes a good point since I am unfortunately no good at legilimency. Malfoy, on the other hand, is reputed to be somewhat of a prodigy at occlumency, so the spell itself wouldn't have worked for me anyway. Not that I fancied having to stare into his colourless eyes more than I have to.

Before class the next time, in my office, I take out the lip gloss and look at it closely. Nothing in my testing had revealed anything nefarious about it. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to wear it just as a precaution. Even Ginny hadn't been completely convinced that Malfoy is trying to ask me out. Who would be? If grinning maniacally at the teacher, bringing macabre items to class, and failing every single test is a sign of interest, then the world is spinning straight for the sun. If he's plotting anything that affects what I'm doing with the class, it doesn't hurt to have a backup plan.

Malfoy is once again the first person inside the classroom.

I take out his quiz paper and hold it up. "This is trying?"

Malfoy blinks twice before smirking and leaning in close. He's positively looming over me. "Not yet, I haven't. That's just a sneak peek."

I make a sound that's both a scoff and a growl. "You scored a thirty."

"And I used to score a zero. So I'd say that I was definitely trying."

He seems to indicate that he's capable of doing better, but then, why doesn't he? One possibility that I had been considering was that he was actually a boneheaded moron. He had seemed intelligent in school, but that can often be misleading.

I examine Malfoy in silence. Today, while I am wearing jeans and another tee-shirt that says Don't Muggle Around , Malfoy looks like another '80s vampire stereotype with black cape, a black button-down shirt, and black trousers. Some of the other students wear short sleeves, but not Malfoy. He's dressed in so many layers that his even his cape has a mini cape of its own. I suppose one certainly could make the case that Malfoy was more into starch than books.

"Do you need help passing this course, Malfoy?" I question quizzically. "Is that why you're doing so poorly?"

His Captain Hook's hand-like brows snap together over the bridge of his nose. "No! Obviously I'm having a go at you."

I take a deep breath and tap my fingers on the table. "What do I need to do to make you do better on the next quiz, Malfoy?"

"I told you—a kiss," he answers assertively, as though he has been waiting for me to ask.

My head snaps up. "Not this again!"

"How am I supposed to get the full impact of... Muggling —" his cement-coloured eyes drop down to the words on my shirt before slowly traveling up to meet mine again "—if I can't even get the full experience?"

I huff the biggest, longest, and heaviest sigh of my life. I feel like the wolf in the story of the Three Little Pigs.

In order to come up with some sort of an Effort Certificate that we can give on a one-time basis, I had spoken to a supervisor about Malfoy's failure to pass the class. My supervisor had narrowed his eyes and hinted that this class could be passed on down to the next teacher. I really need Malfoy to pass this class, or else I'm out as the teacher, and then who would be left to re-educate this group of Purebloods? I don't trust someone else to do it.

In the face of all this, a measly brush of lips in order to find out what exactly Malfoy is plotting doesn't seem like very much. "You want to know how Muggles kiss? Fine. Whatever. After the class ends. Then, we'll talk about the next quiz."

There is a slight stillness to Malfoy as though he is bracing himself. "After class?"

"That's what I just said," I expelled emphatically.

Malfoy dithers about in the back of the room while the other students troop out after class. Then he casts a locking charm on the door and approaches me with intent in his eyes, which now look like the bottom of a pepper spray canister.

I back up until I hit the edge of the teacher's desk.

He pauses immediately and looms stormily over me. "You're not backing out of this deal, are you?"

"What? No," is my instinctive reaction. And, "Is this some plot to kill me?" is my second. I'm not afraid of him, but forewarned is forearmed. I do have magic and the entirety of my bookish knowledge at my instant disposal and the full force of my superior Gryffindor might, after all. In fact, my brain is on fire, reviewing the spells I can use on him to make him wish he had never messed with me to begin with. Boils on his you-know-what, if you catch my drift. Those are just some of the nicer things I can do to him.

He rolls his steel-grey orbs. "Of course not."

And then…!

We kiss.

He sticks his tongue into my mouth tentatively, like a caterpillar searching out a new home to build a larvae. Having achieved that, he sets out to clean the area and expertly swirls his tongue around in my mouth not unlike a toilet brush washing out the toilet bowl, but infinitely sexier. That happens for a little longer, like about the length of time it'd take to pull off a scratchy nail, although it was more pleasant by far. Then it's over and we stare confusedly at one another.

I clear my throat. "Well."

"Thank you," Malfoy communicates civilly and ceremoniously.

"Have a nice day," I cite chaotically.

I manage to leave the room without breaking into a run. It is only later that I reflect that he had been digging his wand into my leg the entire time. Also, the only thing I am completely sure of from the Legilimency lip gloss is that Malfoy only has sex on the brain. No wonder he's doing so poorly in class.

"Your product stinks," I reveal roundly to George Weasley even before he sees me.

He doesn't even look up as he responds from behind the counter at his shop. "And a cheery how'd'y'do to you as well, Hermione."

"Is this lip gloss supposed to incite hormonal passions in the wearer, because if so, I am this close to bringing a case against you. You sell this to underage girls!"

Throughout my tirade, George's eyebrows go up, then together, before his eyes narrow in speculation and drop to the product in my hand. I see the rack of Legilimency in a Tube on the counter, which has an advertisement containing a cartoonish picture of a girl with thought bubbles continuously floating towards her. When George looks back up at me, his mouth is pulled widely into a familiar and also dread-inducing grin. "Hormonal passions, did you say? Never. Do tell all—unless it's regarding iddle Wonniekins, in which case, please restrain yourself or I'll have to. I thought that episode was long over."

I fight the tide of red heat rising in my body, knowing that George's eyebrows are just looking for a reason to waggle at large. "It's not Ron. But it's supposed to be Legilimency and this person—" No way would I ever tell George who it was. I'd never hear the end of it. I lower my voice instead and he leans forward in anticipation. "This person is the last person to think such thoughts of me. Your product is flawed. I want my money back." Well, I didn't pay for it, but a faulty product needs to be recalled. I was doing good for all of woman—and man—kind.

His red eyebrows are flying high up on his forehead. "You kissed a person who doesn't have naughty intentions towards you? Hermione, my dear, you are going about kissing entirely the wrong way. You see—"

He is about to go off on another birds-and-bees lesson, and if there's anyone you don't want teaching you about anything, it's someone who has a chronic addiction to pranks. "Never mind. I just wanted to let you know." I sniff fastidiously and hoist the strap of my bag higher up on my shoulder.

"Well, I do have another product that's similar…" George hints harmoniously just before I'm about to turn away.

Annoyed as I often am with him, I can't help but marvel over some of George's inventions. I slowly turn back around.

He's holding a perfume bottle in his hand. "Behold—!"

I instantly cast a Bubblehead Charm on me. "Oh no. Not another love potion. George, I thought those were banned!"

He looks sulky at the mention of the regulation on illegal emotion-incurring substances. "It's not a love potion, but thanks for reporting me to the Board of Potion Misuse—"

"You're welcome, all Voldemort-free people."

"This is a completely new invention. It's called a Cooperation Potion," he announces authoritatively in ringing tones before he hears his own words and he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm still working on the name."

"What does it do?"

"Well, it's really to promote empathy and the willingness to work together. I'm expecting that students working on school projects would be wild about it and—"

He doesn't have to say more. My mind is whirling with the possibilities of it already. Cooperation. People working together towards a common goal. Empathy. George really can do lovely things sometimes. "Give it here," I order officiously.

George's eyebrows are like two stairs, one elevated an inch higher than the other. "What happened to the 'oh, no, you can't possibly make more mind- altering—'" His voice is raised in a falsetto and a bad impression of me.

I reach out and grab the bottle in his hand, spritzing it in the air. George blinks in surprise as the colored mist envelopes him. He shakes his head a bit and smiles at me. I smile back through my Bubblehead Charm. I siphon the air around us into a vacuum with my wand and vanish it before I remove my Bubblehead.

"So, Hermione, I believe this will be vastly helpful for whatever you need to accomplish," George avers amicably, holding the bottle out to me. "On the house."

"Thank you, George. And I'm glad to be able to tell you that so far I find its effects very pleasing indeed. I'll even help come up with a better name for it as well."

"Lovely."

"Cheerio."

Malfoy's next quiz papers earn him a 60%. For the question, Discuss the discovery of electricity, Malfoy had written Ben Frank. Clearly, he is determined to put in as little effort as possible into putting extra effort into the quiz. I give him the points for it even though I really shouldn't. Too bad all the test papers have to go through my supervisor and a slew of other personnel before I can officially hand them their certificate. Otherwise, I'd simply pass him to save myself the trouble.

Malfoy grins at me as I hand his quiz paper back to him. Today I'm wearing a green tee-shirt that reads Mugglelicious. Again, he stares at the words on my tee with so much intensity that I almost expect blue-grey flames, similar to a torch used to make creme brulee, to shoot out of his eyes. I fight the urge to hunch my shoulders and think seriously again about giving him a different, easier test paper than the other students.

After I dismiss the class, he stays in his seat, grinning like a loon again. He seems to be in rare good humour, which makes my sympathy leach out of me. "Now what?"

"I'll pass the test like a good boy," he suggests spicily.

"Will you?" I disdain disbelievingly.

"Sure. If you treat me to a nice dinner. With wine."

This is...new.

"Where?" I might as well hear his entire "request" before doing anything about it.

He seems to think about this for some time while I huff and sigh into space, the classroom, and at the world at large. "I think the most torturous place for you would still be Malfoy Manor, don't you think? With my house elves serving you food." He shudders theatrically and I narrow my eyes at his pretended innocence.

He isn't wrong, but I'm not about to let him see how he has gotten me. Furthermore, this comment of his proves that the kiss was not really about kissing, but about trying to rile me up. If Malfoy is up to anything else besides imagining sex with me in numerous and exceedingly acrobatic positions, I'm sure I could have Harry and the Aurors there in the blink of an eye.

"Why not?" I say in the most innocent voice I can manage instead of doing what I want to do, which is hexing him in unmentionable places. Maybe Harry is right; maybe Malfoy is trying to kill me, in one way or another.

If so, then he has no idea what I'm capable of. The man couldn't even kill two innocent bystanders by accident, whereas I... well, modesty alone forbids me from bragging how I exerted myself to keep from killing two annoying women when I could. Three, if you want to count Marietta Edgecombe.

"Five-thirty, then. I keep country hours."

I wear a stretchy tee to this veiled threat of a dinner that reads To Muggle or Not to Muggle paired with stretchy trousers. I figure they would give me added mobility should Malfoy attempt anything untoward. In the last conference with Harry & Ginny while discussing Malfoy's thought processes, Harry had blushed and looked embarrassed and Ginny had looked intrigued. No one would tell me whether I should be prepared to fend off a sexual predator or a homicidal monster, and so I prepared for both contingencies.

When I Floo through to the Manor, Malfoy is standing not five feet away, holding two glasses of some sparkling beverage. He's wearing his signature vampire impersonation. His eyes immediately fall on my shirt again and he lifts his coat-hanger brows. "Oh, definitely to Muggle ."

"Which one's poisoned?" I interrogate him immediately, gesturing to the glasses in his hands.

"Both," he includes insouciantly and lifts one up toward me.

After a moment's hesitation, I take it and watch him drink the one he held, watching me all the while over the rim of the glass with eyes like a mixture of black and white paint.

I vanish the contents of my glass nonverbally and clink my glass against his. "Cheers."

Those round marble-like eyes miss nothing. "Pity. Shall we?"

We sojourn deeper into the Manor, which looks nothing like how it did that time I was pinned to the ground and tortured mercilessly while Harry and Ron yelled uselessly from afar. Malfoy seems to realise my preoccupation with the decor because he clears his throat. "Does this place make you uncomfortable?" he cross-examines me cautiously. He doesn't seem to be smirking about his family's racist history, which is a point in his favour.

"Torture any Muggles recently?" I suggest sarcastically.

"That doesn't happen anymore," he rejoins reprovingly, as though much offended. "It hadn't for a very long time, actually, even before... hisreturn."

A house-elf appears and Malfoy stops to introduce us, much to my surprise. "Here is Blinky."

Blinky is aptly named as he is definitely on the blinkier side. He is blinking so fast it is hard to know whether it's a tic or he has something in his bulbous eye that he's afraid to mention out loud.

"Hello, er, Blinky," I respond receptively. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, happy day, mith," Blinky lisps limpidly to me. "Blinky ith tho thrilled that mith can condethend to dine here with Draco."

"Yeth—I mean, yes." Under Malfoy's watchful cold porridge orbs, I smile at the elf. "What have you prepared for us tonight?"

Blinky blinks. "Oh, I ith not the cook tonighth. Mathter Draco hath cooked."

To say I'm taken aback would be a definite understatement, somewhere between saying the sky is dark at night and clouds are grey. (They sometimes aren't grey at all, unlike someone's eyes.)

Unfortunately for my stringent resolve, some very enticing aromas billow from our table and I must say that the Beef Wellington looks incredibly good. It would place alongside Molly's shepherd pie, and that is a dish the woman is insanely proud of.

I hold out for approximately twenty minutes, which is thirty minutes more than Ron would ever hold out against such temptation. Then after cutting off a piece and ensuring no charms or poisons are on it, I take the tiniest of bites. I hadn't eaten since lunchtime and the meat practically melts in my mouth. Before long, the entire plate's empty and my glass as well and, your honour, that's the last thing I remember.

Honestly, that should have been my first warning.

Okay, I remember some parts of the story.

The wine was paired perfectly with the meal. At some point, Malfoy and I end up sitting adjacent from each other, Malfoy having shrunk the dining table in a fit of amiable camaraderie over reminiscing on Harry's cheating in Potions class. We are laughing so uproariously at his impression of Professor Snape (rest his snide soul) that I haven't even noticed how close he is. My bag slips from behind me on the chair and out rolls the bottle that George gave me.

Malfoy stops laughing and squints down at the bottle. "Isn't that—" He looks back up at me with a glint in his eyes.

I freeze. Certain things are coming back to me. Harry's paranoia of Malfoy. My purpose in coming here. Why on earth had I let my guard down? The table has been cleared and there isn't even a dessert fork to use as a weapon, and my wand is in my bag and my bag—

We both lunge for the bag, but Malfoy gets it first. "Is this a love potion, Granger?" he inquires incredulously, holding it up with one hand and my bag in the other.

"Of course it isn't, you idiot," I impart indignantly, rolling my eyes. "Love potions are banned, remember?"

He looks at it thoughtfully. "It sure looks like one, but it's not like you need it—"

I think I jump forward to get my bag away from him and he is much less steady in his seat than I thought he was. The seat flies backwards and I land awkwardly astride him and we both make noises of pain and discomfort like "ouch" and "get off me" and "what is going on here?"

Then I smell something that I shouldn't be smelling and I see that George's bottle smashed when the chair hit the floor because of course the product hadn't been thoroughly tested yet. Otherwise, George would know to put an anti-shatter charm on the bottle and—

Oh, what is this sensation?

Draco is looking at me with such beautiful clear eyes, like the dew on grey alder trees on a foggy morning. Like the mystical smoke rising off a grilling piece of hippopotamus skin. Like that soft, fuzzy mold that starts to grow in your bathroom.

I don't know why I used to refer to his eye color as the color of a drowned corpse. It's gorgeous. He's looking back at me like I'm a—a god.

Which, you know, is not the worst. I mean, I'm not god, yet , but it's good to have worshippers— supporters.

"Hermione," he starts to slowly say, and licks his lips. My name doesn't sound strange at all coming from those saucy lips. In fact, I think what a pity it isn't my tongue cleaning that beef sauce off his lips. "Hermione," he tries again, "Do Muggles do everything the same as wizards? For example—" there goes his tongue again "—in more intimate settings."

In that moment, I'm not sure why I ever thought the Muggle classes were a bad idea. Poor Draco. He doesn't know anything about Muggles. I mean, sure, he lives in Wiltshire and that's an actual county in the country surrounded by Muggles and the world is primarily populated by Muggles and he went to school with actual Muggleborns and—

All that is beside the point. "Yes, Muggles do things exactly the same. They put on their trousers one leg at a time and they take it off the same way." Somehow my words sound very suggestive and my lips are really dry, so I wet them with my tongue. I shouldn't have thrown away that lip gloss.

"Fascinating," he intones interestedly, his eyes flickering down to look at my now not-as-dry lips. "And they... er, arrive at the same destinations?"

"We are all the same species, Mr. Malfoy," I comment coquettishly. "If you like, I can endeavour to show you exactly how similar."

Then, yadda yadda yadda, he takes off his vampiric garments and I shrug off my tee and we mash our bodies together.

And then…!

...his not inconsiderably-sized boy thingy A, the aforementioned wandlike protuberance in his pocket, heads into my corresponding hole girly slot B, like a thick sausage generously dipping into wet, juicy batter to be made into a corndog. Or like a hot, velvety key plunging into the depths of a dark, cavernous keyhole. Or like a vigorous fist punching into an unknown bag in the search for said key. Malfoy continues to murmur in my ear the entire time.

"Splendid," he exclaims ecstatically. "Just splendid, Hermione!"

"Scrumptious," I ejaculate just as enthusiastically. Memory of that tender Beef Wellington from dinner comes back to me as I am jostled by another not-so-soft piece of man-meat currently pistoning in and out of me, kind of like an enthusiastic plunger suctioning out a blocked toilet. Like a straw being jabbed forcibly through the thin plastic covering of a to-go cup. Like a spoon reaching in to baste the inside of a turkey with stuffing. I really must remember to ask him for his recipe.

Before long, I breathlessly inquire in between the shudders and twitches, "Are you...arriving at your destination, sir?"

"Good heavens," he pants patchily. "I believe I am ...arriving." He then makes an undignified sound somewhere between a coarse eldritch scream and the bellowing of a broken foghorn.

The aftermath is a lot less yelly and a lot more formal. I look at him with an expression that's either horrified or lustful, I can't be completely certain. He looks back at me with—well, the man really has occlumency down, doesn't he? He has no discernible expression that I can decipher.

"Well," I remark reservedly.

"Well," he repeats, equally reservedly but also very redundantly. "I believe I'm suitably grateful for your attentions."

"Your gratitude is noted," I reply regally. I am dressed in the next thirty seconds and upright beside the bed, which Malfoy had very cleverly and very quickly transfigured from an upturned plant. For all my brevity, I endeavour to be a courteous guest. "Have a pleasant evening."

"Indeed," he returns robustly.

I stumble drunkenly from the room only to come across a slovenly Lucius Malfoy. I nearly screech my head off in alarm. The man has been so reclusive in recent years that everyone presumed he was exiled or dead. Certainly, I don't expect this slovenly version of Draco Malfoy's father where his hair is matted against one side of his face and the only thing he wears is a pair of ratty undergarments. I definitely don't expect to see him leisurely scratching himself with one hand down the front of his pants.

"What's this?" Lucius has the nerve to challenge imperiously with a nobly elevated eyebrow not unlike a right angle ruler. "Draco, are you consorting with Muggles now?" He casts an narrow-eyed look and sniffs the air. "And using my...special wine?" His belligerently hollered inquiry is ruined in effect when Lucius, formerly starchy and bewigged wizard, gives a loud belch and I smell onions on his breath. "Apologies."

I hold my breath through the stench and beat a hasty retreat, this time from the Floo.

Draco Malfoy manages to ace the final test, which means that it had all been worth it. A perfect score. I can definitely sign over his certificate now.

He stands in front of my desk with a patricianly quizzical brow popped up and nods at his paper. "Well. Now that that's taken care of—"

"Congratulations. With this, I can definitely pass you and that'll be that."

"—Perhaps we can see the sights sometime—" he breaks off and narrows his eyes at me. I was relieved to note that they didn't seem especially beautiful to me today. Just like regular grey eyes. "Pardon?"

"Yes?"

"Granger, are you giving me the brush off?"

I have no idea what's going on here. He said something about the sights, which sounds as though he is asking me out. But—wait, really? This casts a completely different vibe over our entire year here and I need to take some time to reconfigure my thoughts. "What did you just ask me?"

The smile on his face is condescending and knowing—it's the look on a man's face when he thinks you're into him and that you're just playing coy. Essentially, it's an annoying look, which also happens to be his signature look. "Come now, Granger. You had a love potion on you when you came to dinner. A bit redundant, really. Now, if you ask nicely, I could be persuaded to give out seconds…"

His tone of voice is probably intended to be cajoling but I'm afraid I saw red. "It wasn't a love potion, Malfoy! Geesh. It was a Cooperation Potion that I got from George—so that I can get you out of this class."

He loses his smile in a hurry. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, Malfoy. You've been in this stupid class for almost a year . I honestly don't know if there's anyone dimmer than you at this point. Even Ron could manage to pass on the second go."

"I was—" He looks nonplussed, discomposed. "So you—" he breaks off again. "Wait, then, what was—what was that ?" He lowers his voice. "Youslept with me, Hermione. I don't think girls do that unless—" He looks really confused now. "I mean—I thought you fancied me."

"What?" I bark out blisteringly. "No! Of course not."

He blinks, taken aback by my vehemence. "So, wait—you were just that eager to see me out of the class?"

I don't know what to say. The disgust in his voice is unnerving me. "Er—well, kind of?"

Malfoy looks incensed. "I can't believe I've been taking this class over and over again this entire year in order to impress you, you stupid woman."

"Oh. Well. That's—nonsensical. How would failing anything impress me?" Seriously, has playing dumb ever worked in the whole history of impressing anyone? Honestly.

He throws up one hand. "I don't know! I regret the entire thing! Stupid Muggleborns," he grumbles grudgingly.

I understand now that he's not really being insulting to me what with his endless slurs; it's unfortunately just part of his idiotic nature. There's also something about his dejected pout and the way he doesn't leave that makes him look like a kicked puppy. It's the most attractive look I've seen on him so far. "It's probably because you say things like that that this happens."

"You shouldn't sleep around like that," he mumbles meaningfully.

"Well, I usually don't," I inform him inexorably. "Not that there's anything wrong with what I did— with my own body —or that it's any of your business."

"Then why did you?" he persists pigheadedly.

I consider his question. "I guess when you aren't being heinous, you can be quite charming. And the potion—"

His shoulders sink some more. "Right. Never mind then."

I grab his arm. I don't love the guy, but it just seems like I shouldn't let him leave with the wrong idea. And—I'm not going to lie—the man is exceptionally talented with his wand and er, fingerwork, and this wouldn't sidetrack my greater work at all. "It's not a love potion. It's a Cooperation Potion. Meaning that it helps both parties achieve what they want." Saying it aloud now makes me realise what I had been avoiding thinking to myself. Had I, over the course of truly gourmet Beef Wellington, started to want to give Draco Malfoy a second chance? I am having a hard time understanding this myself.

"So—you're saying you wanted me too," he reiterates rhetorically with a glimmer of hope in his voice. The way he peeks at me through his fringe is boyish and not unattractive. Maybe the Cooperation Potion has lasting side effects.

"I guess I must have. I don't know. The wine was good."

"I have more of it," he suggests sensuously. "Entire casks of it. There's nothing illegal about its contents at all, either. Really. No mind-altering potions or anything." He gives a weird little laugh. "Anyway, continue."

"Then just what have you been doing in this class then, Malfoy? Harry thought you were trying to kill me."

Malfoy growls something under his breath that might have been "that damned Potter" or "fat ram trotter." "NO, Granger. Haven't you noticed the extra Muggle materials I've been bringing into class? I've gone to a lot of trouble to find those rare items! And the extra reading I've been doing? Or the fact that I've managed to fail all of these ridiculous tests in order to get you to talk to me?"

"A noose , Malfoy?"

"Not just any noose. It once belonged to some fellow who attempted to assassinate the Muggle monarch—not the current one, mind, but some rather famous person. They've got masks and everything for him, so I thought you'd appreciate the equivalence to the—er, Dark Lord…"

"Are you referring to Guy Fawkes?"

"Yes, that's the one. Wasn't it a marvelous souvenir?" he prompted plaintively.

Not at the time, no, but I suppose now I can see the very faint logic to his terrible ideas. Put like that, I guess he must have been interested and gone about it in the most horrendous fashion. His comment on how I didn't belong in a concentration camp must have sprung from the same mindset. The man is simply terrible at flirting.

On the other hand, he went out of his way to tell me I'm not meant to be exterminated. Given our history, he's right—it is an overt indication of interest.

It's not in my plans, but I suppose I can make a detour when necessary. Especially when the sex was so good. Everyone needs the exercise, particularly when they're planning on taking over the world.

"Lesson number one. To begin with, never gift anyone with a noose. Not—ever." I give it some thought and backtrack a bit. "At least, not without my say-so."

Draco casts a wordless locking charm over his shoulder and slowly begins to unbutton his shirt. He is wearing a light blue shirt with dark grey trousers and there is almost nothing black in his wardrobe today. I, on the other hand, sport a black tee-shirt and the words snuggle up to a muggle in long narrow script. He wets his lips before stepping forward until his foot bumps up against the toe of my shoe.

"Well," he husks hedonistically. "I'm listening."

The other things can wait. His binding signature on the certificate I personally devised for every single Pureblood going in and out of the Ministry can also wait.

After all, I had him exactly where I wanted him, especially once he signs his name on the Muggle Awareness certificate.

The idiot.