Hermione gapes at Malfoy.
"You...impossible...I mean..." she stammers. Words are forsaking her. She shrinks her wand and twists it into her hair as she does sometimes when she's thinking extra hard.
"Never," he shrugs.
"Not once?" she squeaks.
"Not one single time."
Malfoy appears relaxed aside from the fingers that absently worry his green tie. A small chink in his armor — the very smallest.
"It's not that big of a deal, is it?" he asks, the first note of genuine uncertainty in his voice.
"But you're — the entire school — they all think — "
He makes an impatient sound. "It's all rumor, feeding on tittle-tattle, spiced with scuttlebutt. The problem is that now, I can't go to anyone to actually solve the problem. Except, well you."
Hermione crosses her arms and scowls at him.
"Go ahead. Say it."
Draco Malfoy goes ahead and says it.
"Granger, the entire bloody school thinks I'm a debauched, goatish, degenerate sex fiend, and the stories keep multiplying faster than I can keep up."
He takes a deep breath.
"The fact is...I'veneversomuchaskissedanyonesoIneedyoutohelpmeoutandfast."
She stares.
A nearby clock ticks. An owl squawks as it glides past the window.
Truly, she has heard it all.
Malfoy pauses slightly after his avalanche of words. Then he grins roguishly, arranging his ice-blonde hair and rolling up his sleeves like it's any other project to tackle.
"So, Professor. When do we start?"