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The shift began partway through eighth year.
She can't put an exact timeline on it, but at some point between the meetings and the patrols and the hours spent in shared dorms, Draco Malfoy became tolerable.
Now, Hermione spots the little things. The way his eyes sparkle with hints of silver when a teasing smirk tugs at his lips. How his fingers clench and unclench, almost idly, when he's anxious. The way his Head Boy badge is always just a tad crooked on his Slytherin jumper―and how she's had to stop herself from reaching for it more than once.
How warmth coils low in her belly when he gives her a rare, genuine smile.
Although they both live in the Head student dorms, their rooms divided only by a shared bathroom, they see each other invariably every Thursday night in the Restricted Section of the library. Pince ducks out of the library at the same time every week, and it's easier to find the resources they need when the woman isn't breathing down their necks.
"Malfoy," Hermione greets, brushing her fingers down the cracked spine of a dusty tome that's scented of plumeria and death.
His eyes follow her for a moment, indolent and heavily-lidded. "Granger."
A breath hitches in her throat. And if she's adjusted the hem of her skirt up just a little―if she walks with a bit more swing than usual―she can't be blamed. There's an unspoken game playing out between them, now, though she can't always put her finger on it.
Her tongue dips out to moisten her lips in the dry air of the library. A part of her delights in the way his eyes track the movement.
Moments later, book in hand, he takes up a plush armchair and folds one ankle over the other knee. Hermione wonders what he might do if she were to settle in his lap. She imagines the feel of his palms on her arse, guiding her to straddle him, fingertips gripping flesh beneath the hem of her skirt. If she were to lace her fingers through his hair, join their hips together, would he oblige her?
His pale fingers are long and deft, and sometimes she finds herself watching the way he turns the page. Gentle and reverent, as though he has all the time in the world. She wonders about his fingers, too. And his mouth.
Warmth creeps into her cheeks, but in the dimly flickering candlelight, she doubts he notices it.
Instead, she settles at a table a few feet away, positioning herself so if she leans forward he might catch a glimpse down her shirt. The book heaves a great sigh when she cracks it open, wispy shadows emerging from its pages. Malfoy's gaze sparkles with intrigue as he watches. Even after the war, after his obvious repentance in the aftermath, she knows he still finds fascination in the darker material the school's library possesses.
Maybe it reminds him of home.
Malfoy's gaze lingers, unapologetic, and her breaths come a little quicker.
Most of her dreams are of him. She longs for him in a way she never imagined―a way she's never felt for anyone―but her pride is too stubborn to admit to it. Or maybe the game simply tastes too sweet.
She wants to kiss him, to touch him, to feel his hands on her.
But even more so, she basks in the power he allows her when he looks but doesn't touch. When he allows her to mull over the desire in his eyes, and he knows―she knows he knows―she thinks of him at night.
Hermione releases the knot of her tie, loosens three buttons, rolls the strain from her neck.
His gaze never leaves her, his book propped open and ignored in his hands. He stares instead at the slight swell of her cleavage, knowing she wants him to do so. Moisture pools between her legs.
If she were to undo the rest―to reveal the skin of her chest and stomach and walk over―would he touch her right here?
She bites down on her lower lip at the thought, then turns to the page she seeks. She offers a tight smile, and he averts his focus as she begins to read.
Several hours later, they walk in silence back to the dorms, elbows brushing as their arms swing. His hand brushes her hip once, and she can't tell if it's accidental.
"Good night, Granger," he murmurs, the words little more than a breath, when they separate outside of their rooms.
She allows her stare to hesitate. His dishevelled blond hair, the gentle curve to his mouth. The storm cloud grey of his eyes. "Until tomorrow."
It feels inevitable, but she can't say for certain.
Sometimes, they sit side by side on the sofa in the Heads common room, small, innocent touches connecting them as they move and study and write.
She wears a tank top and shorts, already dressed for sleep, and when he stares at her chest, she wonders if he's bold enough to act on the desire that dances in his eyes. Maybe not.
Malfoy knows she wants him―she hasn't been subtle―but she's never made a move. And neither has he.
Without a word, he leans over her, reaching for a book on her opposite side, and he's pressed against her for several teasing, agonising moments before he rights himself at her side. It's enough to get her heart racing, adrenaline coursing in case this is it.
"Excuse me," he says, smoothly but after the fact, and flashes her a crooked grin.
"Not at all," she returns, lifting her chin and returning her attention to the assignment in her lap. She adjusts her position and folds her legs beneath her, one knee pressing against his, and he doesn't move away.
"What did you think of Flitwick's lecture today?" he asks conversationally without looking up.
"Scintillating," she murmurs.
He stretches one arm along the back of the sofa, close enough that she can feel his heat but not his touch. She could lean back, sink into him, and she's sure his arm would shift to drape over her.
"I enjoyed the debate on charming humans with animal traits; the morality of it," she adds.
Malfoy snickers but doesn't respond.
As the seconds pass, she grows almost desperate for his touch. But although his fingertips tap along the upholstery behind her shoulder, he doesn't move.
Hermione briefly considers wrapping one hand around his neck, drawing his mouth to hers, tugging him flush against her.
But she doesn't. And he doesn't. She wonders if it's even still a game, or if this will carry on into perpetuity or the end of the year. If they might leave Hogwarts, having teased one another to insanity but never made anything of it.
The thought twists, sour, in her stomach.
"I thought it was absurd," he says at last, turning the page of his book. "Though it would be hilarious to see."
Their eyes snag for a moment, and Hermione sees the glint of humour. She likes him like this, easy and talkative. Likes when the air between them feels fresh and filled with promise. It's easier than the tension that characterises the rest of their time together.
She wants to kiss him―and for the millionth time, she doesn't.
"Blast it all," Hermione mutters, waving her wand to vanish the shards of broken glass from the carpeted floor. But Muggle habits die hard, and she ventures to the loo for a towel to soak up the spilled liquid.
To her knowledge, Malfoy is out flying, and she swings open the door without hesitation.
And freezes.
He must have returned without her notice, and for a moment she only hovers in the doorway, staring. He stands in the shower but the water isn't running, the glass door open on its hinges.
He's fully nude, one hand pressed against the interior wall of the shower to support himself. The other is wrapped around his cock.
The sharp, instinctive gasp that slips from her lips is enough to draw his attention. His gaze slides towards her, slowly, and the slightest flicker of surprise crosses his face. Her mouth hangs open, eyes drawn south only for a moment before she forces her gaze up.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, finding herself unexpectedly thrown off guard. "I only―I didn't realise you were here."
Malfoy shrugs once, idle and flippant, before lowering his hand. "I didn't tell you I was back." He looks utterly unperturbed, as though this sort of thing happens all the time. But if it does, it isn't with her. Somehow, the thought eats at something inside her.
She can't help it. Her gaze drops.
He's fully erect, firm and hard and long, and her mouth goes dry at the sight of him. She wants to touch him, wants to wrap her lips around him and taste him.
"Did you need something?" Malfoy asks, drawing her attention and bringing a flush to her cheeks.
"A towel," she chokes out, fumbling for the nearest towel on the rack. "Just a towel. I wasn't trying to―"
"Even if you were." That smirk curls his mouth, the one that makes his eyes glimmer with warmth. "I don't mind."
Despite everything that happens between them, they don't speak of any of it, and such an admission feels like a line that's never been crossed.
He toys idly with his balls, smoothing his thumb along the head of his cock as though he wants her to leave so he can continue.
Hermione crumples the towel into a ball in her hands, her embarrassment warring with the part of her that wants to stay.
She releases a breath, moistens her lips, and says, "May I watch?"
Grey eyes snap to her, his mouth slightly parted as though caught in disbelief or maybe the makings of a laugh. He drawls, "If it gets you off, Granger."
It does, but she can't find the words. She watches the way his long fingers wrap around his cock, still hard despite her intrusion. The movements are deft and languid, fully equipped with the knowledge of exactly what does it for him. She eyes his cock, greedy for the knowledge of how to please him even though she may never need it.
His thumb rounds the head of his cock, smoothing the moisture that beads there along his silky shaft.
Perhaps she should offer to help; watching isn't something she's familiar with, and it makes her feel ever so slightly out of sorts. But arousal swells within her, a surge of something almost unbearable when his gaze lifts and drags to hers.
"Good," she whispers, taking a step closer. He doesn't look away, one hand tugging and teasing himself with an easy languor. She leans against the wall just outside the shower. "Faster." His eyes tighten, and she adds a breathless, "Please."
To her surprise, he does. His hand tightens, pace increasing, and his cheeks grow flushed with the unsteadiness of his breaths.
Arousal floods through her.
"I want to see you make yourself come," she breathes.
"And," Malfoy drawls, the words a little strained, "are you going to return the favour?"
She thinks of the request, of herself laid bare before him, bringing herself to completion while he watches. She almost can't handle the thought. "Yes," she says in an instant, a breath catching in her throat. "Whenever you like."
Malfoy bites his lower lip to withhold a grin, and as if the idea holds as much promise for him as it does her, he moves quicker, a low groan falling from his mouth as he drops his head back. His fingers twist around the shaft, pumping himself faster still.
And when a sheen of perspiration breaks on his brow, when a string of low curses tumble from his lips, she holds her breath in anticipation.
She's close enough to see all of him, his proud length within his large hand, the veins that course through the silky flesh. Her own breaths come quickly, desire coiling raw and rich in her veins.
And he comes with a moan, his seed spurting in bursts against the shower tile. A part of her is enraptured by it, by the way he presses his forehead to the wall and releases long breaths of exertion.
Hermione's gaze traces the smooth muscle of his back and shoulders, threaded with silvery lines of scar tissue. She wants to memorise every hard edge of him.
His hand drops away, and with a wave the fluid vanishes from the wall. He looks at her, eyes glinting silver as his lips tug into something mischievous and teasing; her own arousal is overwhelming, her knickers soaked through.
Taking a step from the shower without a care for his nudity, he leans in and breathes in her ear, "I hope you enjoyed the show, Granger." He hesitates for a moment while her breathing picks up, heart racing in her chest. His warm breath tickles the shell of her ear, and it's a physical effort to restrain from reaching for him. "I look forward to seeing you touch your pussy for me. Getting yourself off while I watch. I can't wait to hear you."
A harsh breath slips from her mouth. She clenches the towel tightly in her hands and repeats, "Whenever you like." Her mouth is so dry it's a wonder she can speak at all.
As he strides from the bathroom without another word, Hermione curses under her breath.
The sight of him, cock in hand, sears her memory all night.
The game, it seems, has changed.
For weeks, she waits. If she didn't know him better, Hermione might think he's forgotten about their deal.
But she does know him―better than almost anyone, she might wager―and if anything she only thinks about him more. Despite her best efforts, she hasn't been able to push the mental images from her mind.
He haunts her.
The way his hand curved around his generous cock; the sinful look in his eyes when they locked on hers; the pure, sizzling pleasure that overtook his face when he came.
And now, instead of simply imagining how he might touch her, how he might look in the throes of ecstasy, she knows.
Every so often, she still finds him staring at her, but it's as though he's taken a step back. Like the games they play are too much now, like he no longer cares to participate.
Hermione feels as though she might be losing her mind.
Sometimes when she thinks of him, when her fingers slip down her stomach towards the burgeoning need she feels, she stops herself from seeking release. Like the teasing glances and the heated interludes, she desires the anticipation of it. She wants him to be there, to watch her like she did him.
His disinterest now is enough to cause her to falter. For her confidence in the inevitability of what might finally come to a head between them to waver.
She pushes him from her mind, attempting to focus on her schoolwork and her NEWT studying. It's almost as difficult, when he's become her primary study partner through the back half of their eighth year. Even when the pair of them run patrols after hours as Head Boy and Head Girl, he doesn't show the same interest he once did.
And for each time she almost asks him about it, she turns back one more.
Because if there's one thing she's learned about Draco Malfoy, it's that he desires the thrill of the build almost as much as the prize.
So she waits.
On a warm spring evening, Hermione perches in her usual spot on the sofa in the Heads' common room, clad in a thin top and shorts. She piles her curls in a messy heap atop her head, rubbing a crick from her neck developed from long hours of studying.
Malfoy enters from the corridor, and his gaze sweeps her for a moment overlong as he drops his pack to the floor.
Hermione lifts her gaze, a flush creeping into her cheeks when he doesn't look away.
"What are you studying?" he asks, tugging his jumper over his head. He's clad in only a t-shirt and jeans, and she can't help but remember the smooth physique he usually hides beneath his robes.
She clears her throat. "Arithmancy."
"Fuck Arithmancy," he says with a sigh. "Honestly."
He looks as worn out as she feels, with less than two weeks remaining until the first of their exams. Hermione laughs, turning her page, and muses, "I can't disagree with you at this point."
Malfoy crosses the room towards her and, ignoring her noise of protest, plucks the book from her hands. He closes it and stows it carefully on the end table at her side. Then he plants his hands to the back of the sofa, one on either side of her head, and leans down so they're almost face to face.
Hermione stares at him, eyes wide, heart leaping into a stuttering cadence.
Quietly―so quietly she almost doesn't hear him despite their proximity―he drawls, "Strip."
"What?" Her mouth goes dry as she stares at him, finding the flecks of silver in his eyes.
The corners of his mouth quirk up with mischief. He reaches for the low neckline of her shirt, his fingertips hovering just above the hint of cleavage she's displaying. She almost arches into him to solidify the touch, but doesn't. "We had a deal, did we not? I'm cashing in."
Anticipation flourishes within her, mingles with trepidation, spikes her heart rate still further. In an instant, arousal floods her body, settling as heat in her core.
She whispers a low, "Okay."
And although she's longed for him to approach her, for this moment to play out at last, now all of her thoughts in preparation vanish. He doesn't lean away, his grey gaze locked on hers, close enough for her to taste the spearmint on his breath.
Hermione reaches for the hem of her tank top, manoeuvring a little awkwardly with how close he stands, and she drags it up her ribcage and over her head.
Malfoy's eyes drop to her breasts, clad in pale pink lace. And now, after months of him scarcely looking, he stares.
A breath snags in her throat at the desire written on his face.
"You can touch, if you want," she whispers. She refrains from arching towards him.
But Malfoy murmurs, "That isn't part of the deal. I get to watch. So I'm watching. You touch."
She longs for him to touch, but even more so, she longs for this, the ignition of this game between them once more. So she holds his gaze, moistening her lips, and palms one breast. She gives a squeeze, circles the nipple with her thumb, pinches the sensitive peak between her fingers. A quiet sigh falls from her lips at the pressure.
And he doesn't look away, tracking each movement as though it's another exam and he wants to learn all there is to know. It's already the most sensuous experience of her life.
Her other hand slides up, teasing the other nipple, and she bites down on her lower lip to stifle a groan.
"Will you let your hair down?"
The question startles her, but she's too enraptured to do anything other than oblige. Her curls tumble free, falling down her shoulders; his throat bobs with a swallow.
Hermione reaches for the elastic of her shorts, slipping her fingers beneath the band, and hesitates. "Do you want me to do it here?"
"If this is where you're comfortable."
Seeking out his gaze for reassurance, she leans back against the arm of the sofa, bending her knees to rest her feet on the next cushion.
Now that the moment has dropped onto her without warning, Hermione feels a fluttering of nerves.
His gaze is so intent on her; he takes a step back, but stays close enough to watch everything she does.
Drawing a deep breath, Hermione tugs her shorts down over her knees, and tosses them to the floor.
His gaze drops briefly to her knickers before returning to her face.
Trailing one hand downward, Hermione steadies her breathing. She drags a finger over her covered slit, the fabric already damp with her arousal.
Malfoy remains curiously silent, and she can't say whether it's for a reason or if he just doesn't want to break the tension.
She thinks back to when she watched him, how she'd been enraptured by the sight.
A smile curls her mouth as she drops her head back against the sofa, one hand teasing her breast as she draws slow circles against her clit through her knickers.
His throat shifts with a swallow as he stares, his eyelids heavy. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips.
Seeing the effect she has on him only spurs her own desire, banishing her nerves as a groan falls from her lips. Her fingers move quicker, slipping beneath the gusset of her knickers, and she slides one finger between her folds.
She's already so wet―Hermione suspects she would be from his stare alone―and knowing he's watching every move she makes incites her arousal to swell still further. Shifting her knickers down her legs and to the floor, she's enraptured in the way his eyes gleam as he follows the movement before his gaze settles back on her.
Her fingers slide, slick, through her own moisture, and a sharp breath falls from Malfoy's lips when she pushes them inside.
He perches on the edge of the seat cushion as though he isn't certain whether he's going to stay, his gaze transfixed on her.
The experience of being watched is new, and she tries to quell the slight shake in her hand as nerves build within her. Almost unbidden, her eyes seek out his, searching for the reassurance she hopes to find.
Malfoy's voice drops low, as though reading her stare, and says, "You're so damn beautiful."
Her heart leaps at the earnest words, fingers delving deeper between her folds; her thumb circles her clit, and a quiet cry falls from her lips. She gives herself over to the heat, the desire building within her. That he's watching is intimate but not a deterrent, her fingers teasing and coaxing her pleasure forth.
Cursing under his breath, he stares, tongue dipping out to moisten his lips. Hermione bites down on her bottom lip when his eyes bore into hers.
He adjusts his jeans, and Hermione can see him straining against the fabric.
"I don't mind," she whispers, "if you want to―"
Although he hesitates, as if determining if he does want to, a knit furrows his brow for a moment and he tugs the closure of his jeans free. He plays with himself idly, distractedly, gaze still fixed on her.
But Hermione's eyes fall to him, to the way he strokes his hardness with languid motions.
She longs to feel him inside her, his firm cock trapped within her walls. The thought spurs her fingers to work harder, curling deeper inside, and a low groan slides from her throat.
Her legs begin to quiver as she works herself towards delirium, some part of her basking in the way he stares at her as though he wants nothing more than to ravish her. Quiet keens fall from her lips, her eyelids fluttering shut as pleasure slips in, tightening her core and tensing her nerves.
She comes, orgasm crashing upon her like the rolling wash of a storm; her vision darkens as she surrenders to the swell of release chasing through her. Long moments pass.
And when her eyes slide open, she finds him watching. Always watching, even when he isn't.
Malfoy's hand still lingers on his cock, tugging in slow, lazy motions, but his focus is on her. The line of his jaw is hard, lips pursed as his throat moves with an audible swallow. He blows out a sharp exhale.
When the intensity of her orgasm fades, Hermione feels a fluttering of self doubt curdle in her stomach, and she bites down hard on her lower lip. The silence between them hangs in a way she doesn't care for.
"So," she whispers at last, eyes drifting back up to his face. "I suppose we're settled, then."
"Settled," he echoes. His eyes flash. "If that's what you want."
What she wants is him, buried to the hilt inside of her. His hands on her, mouth writing searing kisses across her skin. But she can hardly hear over the rush of blood in her head. She recognises the door he's left open, and with all the courage she can still gather, she shifts towards him on the sofa.
What she wants is for them to finally take this game all the way.
He tracks her motions, and for once there's no glint of amusement in his face. His gaze lingers for a long moment on the curve of her cleavage, her breasts still confined in lace.
Hermione reaches for him, swallowing as she holds his gaze, and nudges his hand free of his cock. Almost imperceptibly, Malfoy's eyes widen when she coils her own hand around him instead, her heart leaping into motion at the desire that glazes his stare. He's as thick as she imagined from watching him in the shower, but feeling the silky skin with her own hand feels so much more intimate.
She gives him one pump, then two, smoothing her thumb along the tip and spreading the moisture already gathered there.
"If it isn't what I want?" she asks, enraptured by the silver in his eyes.
Malfoy leans in, burying one hand into the loose curls at the back of her head. His forehead presses against hers, his minty breath mingling with her own. "Tell me what you want," he says, low and cool and tinged with desperation.
Hermione smiles, their mouths so near she could simply lean in and close the gap. "Hasn't it been obvious?"
She can hear the smirk even though she can't see it. "Yes."
Her strokes of his cock slow, and she draws back just enough to see his face. "And is it not what you want?"
A part of her still feels a flicker of uncertainty. They've been playing at this for so long and yet neither of them have ever made a move. "Of course it is," he says quietly. His other hand drifts to her bare leg, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. A breath falls heavily from her lips, and almost unbidden, she shifts her hips closer to his hand. "I want you with every fucking fibre of my being."
The admission shoots through her like it carries weight, and a whimper falls from her lips when his fingers zero in on her clit.
He draws slow circles around the bundle of nerves, arousal already rushing through her once more. For all they know whatever it is between them, this is new. This is almost more than she can handle.
Hermione swallows, a tremble building at his gentle, torturous teasing. She tugs at the hem of his shirt and he obliges her as she pulls it over his head. "I need this," she whispers, finding his stare once more.
The look that crosses his face is equal parts amusement, lust, and relief. She can't make sense of it, but all she knows is the truth of her words. Malfoy eyes her a moment longer, his eyes dipping to her mouth, and then he's kissing her.
It's more than she imagined, the heat that swells within her, searing and enticing and overwhelming at once, and she drags him closer, their tongues tangling in an instant. The kiss is intense and desperate, a culmination of the months of watching. Teasing. His hands scour the surface of her body, drawing her so close she feels every line of him against her.
He manoeuvres her back down onto the sofa, and she feels the urgency between them. After all this time, they're both through with waiting.
He shucks the last of his clothes. Reaching behind her, he unclasps her bra and trails a line of burning kisses down her flesh, taking her nipples between his lips, his teeth.
"Draco," she gasps, his given name rolling from her tongue in a way that causes sharp, visceral bolts of desire to race through her. The grey in his eyes darkens to slate, and a smirk curls his lips.
He positions himself at her entrance, and with another kiss so soft it surprises her, he thrusts inside, burying himself within her.
For a moment, Hermione feels like time has stopped.
A harsh breath chases from her lungs; she's so deliciously filled with him, she can hardly bear it. He waits, suspending himself above her on his forearms while she accommodates his size, and their eyes meet.
At the honest vulnerability in his eyes, she's struck with something else. That this isn't about something so simple as lust, and it hasn't been for a long time.
She nods, emotion sweeping through her, and her head falls back when he withdraws then thrusts deeply into her. Burying a hand in his hair, she drags his mouth to hers as he sets a steady, teasing rhythm, as though they have all the time in the world to lose themselves in each other.
A small voice in the back of her mind tries to convince her that, just maybe, they do.
Hermione coils a leg up along his hip, and with each thrust he sinks deeper. The moans that fall from her mouth are swallowed up against his, and his hands are so cautious that she forgets the urgency that drove them. She drags her nails along his shoulder blade, arching her back towards him, the feel of him divine as he buries himself into her again and again.
His face finds her throat, his lips tracing the damp flesh of her collarbone, murmured words she can't hear.
And already she can feel her desire coil and tighten, cresting within her as another orgasm begins to build below her skin. She draws him close, his chest flush against her own, legs wrapped around him, and whispers, "More."
In silent response, he rolls his hips harder, faster, driving into her with sharp, snapping movements that draw cries from her throat with every thrust. She wants to explore, to experiment, to learn everything he desires―but at the moment, she longs only to melt into the pleasure he's offering.
Her head drops back against the arm of the sofa, her hips meeting his in a rapid, punishing pace that causes everything within her to tense.
Then all at once, everything breaks and she tumbles over the edge, a cry wrenching free of her throat as climax finds her. Her walls clench, body tightening as decadent waves of pleasure capture her in a frozen state of release.
Malfoy huffs a curse against her skin, driving into her twice more before he stills and holds her close. His eyes slide open to meet hers as their heavy breaths dance and begin to slow.
Hermione's heart still thuds a rampant cadence as she stares at him in the moments after, his grey eyes darkened and not entirely focused. There's a flush in his cheeks and a sheen of perspiration on his brow, and she isn't certain whether he's ever looked so good.
With a hesitant smile, she reaches up to brush a lock of his fringe back; moments later it falls back into his eye and he snickers.
Pressing a long, sated kiss to her mouth, he withdraws and settles at her side. He props himself up on one elbow, introspective gaze skimming her face as a peaceful silence settles into the cracks between.
"That was nice," Hermione whispers at last, her body still singing with the force of her orgasm.
He releases a quiet laugh and nods. "Nice is one word for it." He drifts his fingers along her bare skin, tracing a line between her breasts and around the curve of her hip. "Incredible." He presses a kiss to her lips, then another. "Phenomenal. Breathtaking."
She flushes despite the heat that already courses through her veins. "Those are additional words for it."
Malfoy grins, then tugs her closer into him. He reaches over the top of the sofa and drags a knitted blanket down on top of them both, as though he's in no rush to get up.
Although she doesn't want to broach matters between them―doesn't want to shatter the fragile contentment―the words hang at the front of her mind. "It's a shame we waited so long."
The year is nearly through, and now that she's experienced this, she knows she won't want to walk away so soon.
Malfoy's eyes settle on hers. "Is it?"
"I thought so." She's startled by the query; maybe she's completely misinterpreted the situation between them. Maybe he only ever wanted this to be a one-time thing.
But he sighs and relaxes. "Good. I sort of thought―" he sweeps a loose curl from her face "―that maybe we could just see where things go. If you're interested."
Relief is palpable as it sweeps through her, and she finally feels like she can relax. Her eyelids flutter, exhaustion cresting in the wake of her release, but she forces her attention back to him. "Why wait?" she asks. When he only blinks at her, she elaborates. "I walked in on you months ago. You could have initiated this at any point."
His eyes sparkle with silver in that way she's grown to appreciate―dare she call it something else. "Haven't you caught on? The sweetest part of this between us is the anticipation―what comes next."
Hermione can't deny it, and she smiles.
"What comes next?"
"Next..." He toys with her hair again, almost absently, before fixing his focus on her again. "I ask if you'll accompany me on our last visit to Hogsmeade this weekend."
Her heart thunders at the innocuous question, phrased so casually as though he already knows her answer.
A smile curls her lips. "And did you anticipate my response?"
His eyes shine silver. "I anticipate you'll say yes."
Hermione anticipates many such responses in the weeks and months to come, and as she holds his stare, nodding her agreement, every part of her looks forward to what comes next.