𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 [𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐰𝐨

HERMIONE wondered if that fluttering feeling she felt in her stomach whenever she saw that irritatingly attractive blonde man was normal.

Maybe it wasn't fluttering—maybe it was vomit brewing in her stomach as looking at him reminded her of all the horrible things he had done. That was most definitely it.

There was no chance in hell it was because a dip into his silver eyes made her want to dive into the deep end, or how his iced blonde hair sat so neatly yet messily atop his head and all she felt her fingers curling at how much she wanted to rake them through it, or how his pale skin tone defined his already sharp features, or how his shoulders had broadened so much since the war; she remembered when he was a skinny boy who strutted on the grounds his father laid out for him, following in his footsteps, but now he was more manly and handsome than she could ever recall. The big man upstairs did Malfoy well.

What on earth was she doing? It's Malfoy. Malfoy. The biggest asshole she had ever come across. Who cares how bloody attractive the bloke was, she shouldn't be gawking over the boy who caused her and her friends so much hassle during their Hogwarts years.

But he was different now. He helped her when he accidentally hurt her, comforted her when she came crying to him after finding out that Ron cheated on her, even letting her stay in his room. He couldn't remember his old values; he couldn't remember her, or what blood she was, and she had to admit it felt nice to be treated like a person by him rather than a piece of dirt under his shoe.

She cleared her throat and sat back into her chair as she blinked rapidly. She didn't know why every time she dozed off, Malfoy came to mind. She wanted to help him recover, as his friend, nothing more.

So why was she always thinking about the way his hair was parted, or the way he fluttered his long eyelashes, or the way his eyes could tell one about a million things from a single stare. She simply didn't understand.

It was normal for people to want to help their friends, however it was abnormal for her to want to be closer to him every time they were in a room together, and want to touch him, and want to—

"As I was saying," Hermione blinked her way back to reality as she turned her attention to the man and the woman sitting across from her in the staff room. "I think plaid looks way nicer than stripes."

"That's where you're wrong, Pedro." said Avery, shaking her head as she took another bite of her cookie. "Plaid is so boring, whether stripes can be a variety of combinations. What do you think, Hermione?" They both turned to look at her.

"Hm?" She hummed softly, her brow raising.

Avery asked again more eagerly as she explained. "If you were to design a suit, would you rather it has stripes or plaid?"

Hermione didn't even take a second to think about it, for the words leaving her mouth weren't one of the options given. She hadn't even realized what she'd said, and immediately stilled.

"The only attractive suits are fully black."

She felt her cheeks redden and glanced away, down at her hands fiddling uncomfortably in her lap. Avery then laughed.

"Hermione..." The blonde woman pushed a strand of hair behind her ear as her smile widened, her eyes hungrier for knowledge. "There is only one man I can think of that wore a black suit," She took another bite of her cookie, and Hermione felt anticipation bubbling up inside of her. "Did you have a crush on Professor Snape?"

At that, Hermione spit out her coffee, the hot liquid burning her lap and her fingers. 

"Merlin, no. Are you mad?"