SIX HOURS EARLIER
Hermione can't remember when she hasn't been hearing about Malfoy's alleged erotic feats.
At first it was just kissing, of course. Girls would whisper about his makeout stamina, a taste like tart green apples. They described how his hands moved under sweaters. And later, claims about the contents of his trousers.
All in good fun, of course. By now, at sixteen, it is widely assumed that, with the help of Silencing charms and Invisibility linens, he spends as much time in other beds as in his own.
The dirty jokes abound. He really is a Slytherin. How his eyes change colors when he's turned on. How he has filthy Latin poetry tattooed on his hip. How he shamelessly puts his mouth down there and spells out a strange sex alphabet similar to Parseltongue.
The rumors about his bits alone take the most magizoological flights. By now, it is no longer just girls who spread rumors. Everyone claims to have taken a bite.
Hermione has calculated that for everyone to be telling the truth about every one of their encounters, Malfoy would have to have screwed someone in every single corner, classroom, and alcove of Hogwarts at entirely unrealistic hours and frequencies, even for a nocturnal and hormonal sixteen-year-old.
Someone is lying. Hogwarts isn't that large. Malfoy has never actually been seen, by an actual eyewitness, kissing or marauding anyone. He barely danced at the Yule Ball. The few times she'd met his eyes, he'd just scowled as if wishing he were anywhere else.
The perception of him as a sexual magician has simply grown on its own over the years, along with the social cachet of a romp with the magician. And to his infinite discredit, Malfoy never tries to correct the impression. He simply smirks as the legend of his sexual prowess spreads through the school, truth or integrity be damned.
He'd even discredited her, this afternoon, when she'd chewed out some Ravenclaw girls who were feeding the rumor mill. "Stop saying those things!" she yelled, to the shock of everyone in the Great Hall. "Half of what you all say about him isn't even mathematically, let alone physically possible. Can't you all find something else to gossip about besides who Malfoy has violated, or been violated by, today?"
Malfoy had scoffed and said something about how she wished she was next. "Stop by for a nightcap, Granger," he'd mouthed at her as if she were the stupidest, most sheltered little novice who ever lived (which she isn't, mind you. Hermione has shared a few kisses and a few touches in her time, and doesn't think she's done at all badly, even if it didn't live up to the hoopla).
All of which makes the boy standing in front of her in a narrow corridor, his hair bone-white in the moonlight, seem more mysterious still.
"Library," she says — her safe space. The Hogwarts library is open at all hours for the benefit of the studious, and she takes advantage of it.
They sit at the table she usually commandeers for study, braced across from each other like attorney and client. She whips out parchment and a quill and holds them at the ready.
"Before I consider how I can help you, I'll need you to be absolutely honest with me about every single facet of the case," she says.
"Done." He clasps his hands piously in front of him.
"Why me?"
A smile tugs at his lips. "You're one of the only people to openly admit to NOT having shagged or engaged in some sort of indecency with me. It made me feel like I could trust you."
She sighs. He can suddenly trust her. But after all the years of insults and indifference — should she trust him back?
"Malfoy, how did this all begin? Why haven't you done anything with anyone yet? Is it a choice? It's certainly not for lack of opportunity. You're easy on the eyes and —"
"See something you like, Granger?" he smirks.
She ignores the bait. "Do you fantasize?"
"My thoughts are chronically and fantastically impure."
"Are you straight?"
"No."
"Are you gay?"
He tilts his head smugly. "No."
"So you have double the pool of eligible partners. Tell me, why the delay?"
He shrugs. "Despite my ease on the eyes and my unbounded attractions" — she rolls her eyes — "don't I get to make a choice, too? I haven't yet been in a situation where there was anyone I really wanted to kiss."
She scowls, her mental calculations again whirring at the unlikelihood of greedy, self-centered, take-what-he-wants Malfoy not having met one kissable person in his sixteen years on earth.
"Let me amend," he says flippantly. "Where I had the opportunity to kiss the person I really wanted to kiss. They could be taken, or ill, or preoccupied, or...as much as I hate to admit it, unwilling."
Hermione scribbles busily, half-hearing him.
He leans forward, his silver eyes shading to slate. Perhaps that wasn't a rumor. "There are all kinds of things that might separate two people who should be conducting a mutual tonsil investigation."
She stares back grumpily. "And somehow, this has led you to the conclusion that I should take up said investigation. Well, why me? What's in it for me?"
"First off," he says smoothly, "I know I can trust you to keep the secret. Gryffindor honor and all that."
"The Gryffindors gossip about you too."
"But you won't. Second, I know you'd be a good teacher, because you should already be teaching most of the classes in this school."
"Oh it's going to be classES, is it? A full syllabus? Will I be grading homework? Are you paying me a salary?"
"Actually, I am." He produces a coin purse from his trouser pocket and swings it lazily. "Only the best tutelage for an innocent, unsullied Slytherin in search of experience."
She gapes for the second time that day as he tosses the coin purse her way.
"Corrupt me, Granger. I'll make it worth your while."
From the metallic smack it makes on the parchment — very worth her while.
Hermione sits very still.
Then she huffs. "The last and most important question: What makes you think I would want to? My pleasure matters, too."
Something unfamiliar ripples across his face. Surprise...or dismay?
He quickly recovers. "Don't think I'm pretty enough, Granger? I can bat my eyes for you if you want."
Hermione considers.
He really is pretty. But even more than the striking hair, the angular face, the fascinating eyes and impish mouth, there's something else that tempts Hermione to take him up.
It would be fun.
It would be fun to get to teach arrogant Draco Malfoy, debunked sex god, a few lessons about oral spelunking. And more. With her course load, fun has been sadly scarce of late.
He wants experience.
She wants a little distraction.
And of course, she could use the extra cash.
"Okay," she says.
He starts for a second, then leans forward, intrigued. "You didn't even count your coins, Granger. I applaud your commitment to education."
"Let's establish some targets," she says, back to scribbling. "Muggles use a goal acronym called SMART: specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, and time-bound. I use a similar system to ensure I complete all my assignments on time with adequate space for revision and last-minute research."
Malfoy groans.
"We'll start by listing out the specific kissing skills you want to practice, as well as ways to measure and quantify your improvement. We'll keep them within a reasonable range for a beginner. And we'll set a deadline."
Malfoy's head falls back on his chair. He looks like he regrets tossing her the coins.
"Frankly, Granger, I thought we could just...approach it a little more organically? What are you going to measure, the range of motion in my jaw? My bite strength?"
"First rule of kissing, don't lead with biting."
His eyes gleam. "Okay, Professor. Like I said — when do we start?"