Chapter Text
How to Inadvertently Make Hermione Granger Get Down on Her Knees
The very first time, she had her cheeky mouth to thank for.
It all started when she opened the Daily Prophet at breakfast and her eyes promptly fell on a photo of his smug face.
"Oh no," she grumbled quietly to herself. "That goddamned bastard."
"Who are you talking about?" asked Ron with his mouth full from across the table.
Hermione winced, closing her eyes for a moment. It was mornings like these that she wished she was finally living alone. They hadn't been a couple for two years now (and were happy with it) and yet Ron still hadn't moved out. She couldn't even blame him, after all she was the one who didn't have the heart to tell him it was time. It was her bloody helper syndrome. His insistent pleas and persistent whining because he didn't want to move in with Harry and Ginny or back to the Burrow (let alone live all alone) were responsible for the fact that they were still sharing a small (too small) flat in Diagon Alley. A nerve-wracking state of affairs.
"Malfoy," Hermione muttered, tossing the newspaper onto the table so Ron could take a look at the article beneath the portrait of the nuisance in question.
Ron looked up from the sports section she had given him earlier and skimmed the headline.
"He won a prize?" he enquired, puzzled.
"He was awarded a prize," Hermione corrected him. "And not just any prize, but my prize. The one for the most outstanding healing breakthrough of the year."
"If he was awarded the prize," Ron began slowly, thinking hard, "then it's obviously not your prize, it's his prize."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose to stop herself from going for his throat. Yes, they were still best friends, despite their failed relationship, but when it came to riling her up to the hilt, you could always rely on Ron.
She took what she hoped was a calming sip of her coffee. All it did was burn the roof of her mouth.
"What did he invent?" Ron asked distractedly, having long since turned his attention back to his Quidditch articles.
"He was researching something," Hermione corrected him once more, this time rather indignantly. "The psychological effects of different types of curse-breaking for healing purposes after contact with dark magic. He's published a treatise that's more or less a guideline on how best to treat curse damage without re-traumatizing the patient. The wizard's equivalent of a perfect narcosis, so to speak."
Ron's face told her that he'd only understood half of what she'd said.
"Well, that's pretty good for us Aurors, I'd say," he mused. "What is it again that you're working on? Still that memory restoration thing, right? Have you had a, er, breakthrough yet?"
Hermione pressed her lips together. She had managed to give her parents back their memories after the war, but the subject was still dear to her. There were more problems with the Obliviate than one would think, which was why she had decided after her exams to research the spell and find ways and means to fully restore the memories of those affected even after improper use or a very long period of time. So far, unfortunately, with moderate success.
"Some subjects respond better to my potions than others," she said with a challenging look.
Ron was oblivious to the warning in it.
"Mm, not a real breakthrough then," he assessed, shrugging his shoulders casually and lowering his gaze to the Daily Prophet again. "Still sounds pretty theoretical to me. Looks like Malfoy deserves the prize, 'Mione."
"Why, thank you, Ronald," she hissed, jumping up from her chair, even though her coffee and toast were still untouched, and left the kitchen, snorting with rage.
When Hermione stepped out of the Floo in the waiting area of St Mungo's, she found that it was busier than usual. However, there were no patients leaning against the walls and marble pillars, only Mediwitches and nurses.
As she made her way to the reception desk to get the files of the emergencies that had been admitted the previous night, she wondered what said witches were waiting for. She was a little earlier than usual (her stomach rumbled as she thought of her abandoned breakfast), but surely there was more to do, even at this inhumanly early hour, than just stand by idly?
"What are they all doing here?" she asked the reception witch in lieu of a greeting.
The supposed reception witch turned out to be a reception wizard.
"It's Tuesday," Dennis Creevey's deep voice informed her.
Hermione turned her head and gave him an apologetic look.
"Oh. Good morning, Dennis."
"Morning, Hermione," he replied with an indulgent smile.
"So, what are they all doing here?" she asked again.
"Like I said, it's Tuesday," Dennis repeated, now visibly amused.
She frowned and gave him a scowl with no heat to it.
"You really don't know?" came a second, much higher-pitched voice.
Padma stepped behind Dennis and rested her forearms on the back of his office chair, causing him to rock slightly back and forth a few times.
"I wouldn't ask if I knew," Hermione sighed. "Good morning, Padma."
"Good morning, Hermione," the Patil twin replied with a mischievous smile that was in no way inferior to Dennis'.
"Let's enlighten her," Dennis decided, tilting his head back and blinking up at Padma. "Shall I or will you?"
"The honour is yours, after all, you're an avid fan of the T-Days," Padma chuckled. "I'm only here because I like having my morning coffee with you. And because it's fun to watch the bints gawp."
"All right," Dennis nodded and gave Hermione a conspiratorial look. "So, the T-days. Tuesday and Thursday, as I'm sure you've worked out. If you're on the morning shift, you don't normally come in until—" He glanced at his wristwatch. "—half past six, which is probably why you've never witnessed it before."
Hermione tapped her foot impatiently on the freshly mopped marble floor. Thankfully, Dennis continued quickly.
"In about two minutes, Healer Malfoy will enter this foyer in his—" He mimicked a drum roll. "—sportswear, as he usually goes for a jog before work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And, wonder of wonders, it's Tuesday. Whoop whoop."
She didn't know whether to laugh or spontaneously vomit.
"Are you serious?" she asked, looking back and forth between Dennis and Padma with a raised eyebrow.
The former nodded enthusiastically, while the latter shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.
Hermione let out an incredulous snort.
"And you," she asked, turning to Dennis, "are a fan of the T-days, are you?"
Dennis Creevey made no secret of the fact that he fancied men, which was one of the reasons Hermione liked him so much, but the fact that he fancied Malfoy, of all insufferable gits, was news to her.
He opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by the sudden movement of the witches who had gathered in the reception area. Necklines were plucked, white coats smoothed out and carefully coiffed curls tossed.
Hermione watched the activity with widened eyes.
"He's early," Padma commented matter-of-factly. "Uh, must have been a sweaty morning."
And it really must have been.
The witches lay at Malfoy's feet by the dozen, Hermione knew that, even if she found it hard to comprehend. Years ago, he had started to win over the entire wizarding world with a purportedly unbeatable overall package, and he was still at it. To most, he was nothing but a reformed, smart, polite and successful healer — a rising star in the sparkling sky of society. She was one of the few people he hadn't twisted around his little finger and who therefore knew what he also was: an arrogant, obstinate and pompous prat.
However, Hermione was neither prudish nor blind. She could admit, albeit reluctantly, that one Draco Malfoy in his early thirties was an attractive man. Anyone who claimed otherwise was lying. What she hadn't reckoned with, though, was the fact that his running clothes multiplied the aforementioned attractiveness many times over.
The sight was devilish, to say the least.
He was still breathing heavily, which led Hermione to believe that he had jogged all the way to the visitors' entrance through which he had entered the hospital. He was wearing trainers, a dark grey long-sleeved shirt (winter had descended on London) and black running tights, over which he had pulled a pair of shorts, which was probably a blessing. (She wouldn't have been able to bear the sight of Malfoy's arse in skin-tight black Lycra.) His hair was slightly damp — whether from sweat or the usual London sleet, she couldn't tell — and stuck to his temples.
Although several dreamy sighs echoed off the walls, Malfoy didn't acknowledge his audience with a single glance as he walked through the entrance hall. It wasn't until he approached the reception desk and spotted Hermione that the absent expression in his grey eyes gave way to rapt attention. And then, to her absolute horror, his right eyebrow lifted, as did the left corner of his mouth, creating a deep dimple on his cheek.
She could literally feel herself being stabbed by a volley of hostile, feminine stares.
"Morning, Creevey," Malfoy greeted as he reached the counter. "Patil. Granger."
He held out his hand and Dennis handed him his patient files for the day without further prompting.
"Have a good day, sir," he fluted, beaming.
Malfoy winked at him, gave a two-finger salute and turned on his heel to saunter over to the lifts.
"Arse-crawler," Padma whispered with a playful flick against Dennis' earlobe.
He merely shrugged innocently and shifted his gaze from Malfoy's bum to Hermione.
"You're in trouble," he announced, causing her to snap out of her stupor.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
And, oh God, why did she sound so breathless?
"You're so oblivious and naive, it's really cute," he informed her, shaking his head. "See all those disappointed faces?"
He pointed unobtrusively at the witches, who, now that Malfoy's little show was over, set about their actual tasks, sulking and pouting.
"That's your fault," Dennis continued with a grin. "I've been doing this job for two years and guess what: Malfoy always keeps a straight face when he walks through here, but he smiled at you. This could turn into a witch hunt. Literally."
Hermione's jaw dropped, which made Padma giggle.
"Don't be silly," she reprimanded them both. "Firstly, that wasn't a smile, and secondly, he probably doesn't even know most of these women. We, on the other hand, are colleagues."
"Who can't stand each other," Dennis chipped in impishly.
"Allegedly," Padma added with a cough.
"Do you think he now assumes that Hermione is part of his fan club?" Dennis asked. He tilted his head back to look up at Padma once more and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe that's the nudge he needs to—"
Hermione never learned what Malfoy supposedly needed a 'nudge' for, because the first part of Dennis' statement had made her heart drop into her gut. Before she knew what she was doing, she was on her way to the lift that Malfoy had just entered. That he really thought she was part of his fan club (gods) was a risk she could not and would not take.
"Hold it!" she called, quickening her steps.
Malfoy reacted immediately by hooking a hand into the grilles and pulling them open again. Of course. His Seeker reflexes. Not that she had a soft spot for Quidditch-playing men. Tsk, never.
Hermione hopped into the lift cage and took a deep breath before positioning herself so that they were facing each other. Malfoy was looking at her expectantly, that sexy (no, not sexy, definitely not sexy) little smirk still playing around his lips.
"I wanted to congratulate you," she blurted out.
She cringed internally. Congratulating him was pretty much the last thing she wanted to do, but she simply couldn't think of anything better.
"Congratulate me?" he replied, uncomprehending, and cocked his head.
"On your prize," she said through gritted teeth. "You deserve it. It's an impressive piece of work and a very good treatise."
Oh, she wished she could Avada herself on the spot.
Her words seemed to have rattled Malfoy, as he opened and closed his mouth several times before clearing his throat.
"Well, thank you," he said at length.
And she could have left it at that. But she had to make sure (of course, why not make her life harder than it already was?) that he had understood her correctly, so she went one better.
"That was the reason I was there." She pointed at the grilles, which made no sense as the lift had long since started moving. "At the reception desk. Because I wanted to congratulate you. After the article in the Prophet this morning, I thought it only fair. Anyway, that was the reason. Not because I'm part of your—your—harem."
Mildly amused, Malfoy snorted through his nose, tucked his files under his arm and shoved his hands into the pockets of his running shorts. He scrutinized her, shaking his head and pressing his tongue against one of his canines.
"My harem?" he repeated. "You do realize that this word implies that I have sex with every single one of these women on a regular basis?"
"No need to get obscene, Malfoy," she said warningly, fighting the blush that threatened to creep up her neck.
"You're the one who picked the term, Granger," he said calmly.
Hermione bristled.
"Well, what would you call it?"
"As far as I know, they call it the fan club," he replied with a shrug.
"You know about that?" she asked, a little more scandalized than intended.
That sounded a lot like the Malfoy she knew. He was probably secretly wallowing in the admiration he undeservedly received every T-day of the week.
"Of course," he said, now also slightly irritated. "I'm the one who's had to put up with the whole spectacle for years."
"Tsk, like you don't love it," Hermione scoffed.
His features hardened and he clicked his tongue in exasperation.
The lift jolted to a halt and a cool female voice announced that they had arrived on the fourth floor and thus at the Spell Damage Ward where they both worked.
"Thanks for the lovely chit-chat, Granger," Malfoy snarled. "Too kind of you to congratulate me."
He turned away and shifted his gaze to the grilles that would slide open and clear the way at any moment. It was precisely this cool rebuff that was the straw that broke Hermione's proverbial camel's back. She just couldn't stand it when he had the last word.
"Knowing you, you probably would have preferred it if I had gone down on my knees in front of you," she hissed under her breath.
Malfoy heard it all the same.
His head snapped around so quickly that she flinched. The expression on his face was suddenly menacing and the grey of his eyes steely. Like the sharpened blade of a razor.
When he spoke, his voice was lowered, giving it a dangerous tone.
"You on your knees in front of me? Now, that would be something, Granger."
And then Hermione did something stupid. Something audaciously provocative and unusually haughty.
She smoothed out her pencil skirt, wiggled her toes to test the grip of her feet in her pumps and sank to her knees in front of him. Whilst gesturing down at herself with one hand as if to say "Tada!", she tilted her head back and looked up at him challengingly.
"Like this?" she spat at him.
It was only at that moment that she realized what she was doing.
Malfoy's hands were still nonchalantly buried in the pockets of his sports shorts, but his arms were tense, his eyes were wide and his nostrils were flaring. His Adam's apple was bobbing and there was something in his gaze that she couldn't place.
Hermione couldn't help but notice how bloody tall he was. How much he towered over her. And that this fact didn't worry her one bit. She was the one kneeling in front of him on the dirty floor of a lift cage, and yet she had the upper hand.
The grilles of the lift rattled open and the bubble they had been in burst. A jolt went through Malfoy's body and he let out a breathy sound — as if forcing himself to release the air he had been holding. Then he stepped around her and left the lift without a word or another glance.
And so it was that Hermione knelt in front of Draco Malfoy for the first time in her life.
The second time had nothing to do with Malfoy per se. At least not really.
Their little — well, Hermione wasn't sure what exactly it had been — in the lift had been two weeks ago and neither of them had ever mentioned it again. And why would they? They often quarreled, but the stressful everyday life of St. Mungo's ensured that they always fell back into a frosty (but at least professional) kind of collegiality immediately after their arguments.
It was four little words that made Hermione pause in the middle of the corridor during her ward round and prick up her ears.
"Such a good girl."
The pleased tone of his deep voice was what made her whirl around and march resolutely towards the ajar door of his office. If she actually caught him seducing one of his countless affairs during his shift, perhaps even on his desk, then he had another thing coming. Even he should have the decency to lock the door first, for fuck's sake.
She pushed open the door, burst into the room and put her hands on her hips. Only a blink of an eye later, she realized that the latter was completely unnecessary.
Malfoy was indeed leaning against his desk. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and his legs casually crossed at the ankles, but he was fully clothed. In addition to his usual healer's attire — white trainers, white trousers and a formfitting white polo shirt — he was wearing his reading glasses. (Also devilish.) And sitting in front of him, right at his feet, was… a dog. A golden retriever, to be precise.
"What the hell?" Hermione blurted, her hands slipping from her waist and falling uselessly to her sides.
Malfoy looked up, spotted her in the doorway and languidly raised an eyebrow.
"Granger," he greeted in his typical drawl. "Do you need me?"
For a moment, Hermione was stunned, but then the wheels in her brain began to turn again and she realized what he meant. With an effort, she dragged her thoughts out of the gutter. Oh my.
"No," she coughed, "I was on my ward round and heard your voice, so I thought—uh—"
Yes, what exactly had she been thinking? She decided to steer the conversation away from her own motives by asking about his.
"What is this about? Is this an Animagus?"
Malfoy let out a soft chuckle.
"No, Granger, this isn't an Animagus. This is Polly, a therapy dog. She's mundane."
"A therapy dog?" Hermione echoed, perplexed.
She involuntarily stepped closer and scrutinized Polly. The dog lifted her head, panting, and began to wag her tail timidly.
Malfoy took off his reading glasses and slipped them into the breast pocket of his polo shirt.
"A new healing approach that I intend to try out," he explained with a humble shrug of his shoulders. "In trauma recovery."
Hermione was absolutely speechless, which Malfoy seemed to notice, as he continued with his explanation, albeit suddenly less confidently. She noticed the change in his voice and the flexing of his shoulder muscles, as if his hands were clenching into fists in his trouser pockets. She felt as if he was physically preparing to defend himself and his idea in front of her.
"I know that dogs are rather uncommon in the wizarding world, but they have an extremely frugal nature. What we urgently need in trauma therapy is patience and unconditional affection. Dogs can give both. The Muggles have led the way and the results are nothing short of extraordinary, so I thought: why not give it a shot?"
And oh, how her heart warmed to him in that moment. It was so thoughtful and so free of any prejudices. (Not that he had any these days, but a compliment for something Muggles did was still as rare as it was unusual coming from him.)
Trying not to let on how touched she was, she approached the desk and held a hand in front of Polly's fat, black nose. The retriever sniffed it enthusiastically, but made no move to get up.
"Oh, you're a lazy little thing, aren't you?" Hermione chuckled. She sank to her knees and began to scratch the dog's ears, which she acknowledged by wagging her tail a little faster. "You like that, huh? Yes, you're very good. So very good." She raised her voice. "It's a refreshing change. Owls are convenient, no question. I love cats, but they're too headstrong. And I've never understood the toad thing, if I'm honest."
"So you think it's a good idea?" Malfoy asked.
His disbelieving and slightly hopeful tone made her want to be honest with him for once, instead of disagreeing with him just for the sake of bickering, as she usually did.
"It's not a good idea, Malfoy, it's a brilliant one."
He inhaled sharply through his nose, causing her to lift her head and look up at him. His gaze was on her and for a moment she saw something in it that made her heart leap. There was not only pride, which would have been confusing enough since Malfoy didn't really need to crave her praise of all things, but also relief. As if he actually cared what she thought about it.
She was so busy processing her observation that she forgot to look away, which was why she didn't miss Malfoy's pupils dilating. A muscle in his jaw ticked, then he lowered his gaze and his nostrils began to tremble.
Hermione's first thought was that he was an incorrigible arse. It was so typical of him to shut down at the first hint of genuine appreciation from her. But then she realized that rejection could not be the reason for his expression, for his eyes began a strange dance. They flickered to her face, then back to the hem of her pencil skirt. A short diversion to her collarbones. Eyes, mouth, skirt hem, eyes, skirt hem, collarbones, skirt hem. Up and down, up and down.
And finally the Sickle dropped.
She was on her knees. In front of Draco Malfoy. Again. And he had nothing better to do than look at her like that.
An unfamiliar heat washed over her.
Hermione didn't know how, but she managed to stand up, say goodbye to both Polly and Malfoy without blushing, and leave his office with her back straight and her chin up. For the rest of the day, however, her world was upside down.
The third time was in the name of science.
About a week after Hermione had met Polly, a patient was admitted whose condition, according to Head Healer Hippocrates Smethwyck, required her expertise, so she set off immediately after the morning information exchange with the night healers.
When she entered the patient room, she realized that Malfoy had beaten her to it. He was sitting in one of the visitor's chairs next to the patient bed, frowning at a clipboard. She suppressed a soft sigh. He was wearing his stupid reading glasses.
"Malfoy," she said as curtly and dismissively as possible. "My patient. You can go."
"Our patient," he replied flatly, not lifting his eyes from the papers.
Hermione leaned her hip against the end of the bed and crossed her arms.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you," she informed him with a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "Smethwyck himself has assigned the case to me."
"And to me," Malfoy said, ostensibly bored. "It's a magic-induced coma. The patient is an Auror and was hit by several curses during a raid. Afterwards, they tried to Obliviate him, which is probably the only reason you are here."
It was with those last words that he lifted his head and gave her one of his usual arrogant looks. It was lucky for him that her arms were folded so tightly in front of her chest, otherwise she might have punched him in the face.
"Well," she began, trying to keep her temper, "Smethwyck obviously thinks you need my help. How long have you been here?"
"All night," he admitted grudgingly. "Haven't figured it out yet."
That explained the shadows under his eyes and his slightly disheveled hair. Hermione caught herself thinking that his tiredness didn't detract from his attractiveness and mentally scolded herself for it. The pompous git didn't deserve it.
"Well then, bring me up to speed," she demanded with a prompting jerk of her head and Malfoy did as he was told.
The next time the door to the patient room opened, half an hour had passed. Hermione was now standing next to Malfoy, who had cast a diagnostic spell to show her what he thought might have caused the coma.
"Healer Malfoy, Healer Granger."
Smethwyck's cheery voice snapped her out of her trance. She nodded in greeting to the head healer, who strolled into the room closely followed by a whole bunch of trainees. So they and their patient were part of today's teaching ward round. It made sense, as Smethwyck loved to share the unusual cases with his protégés.
"You don't mind if we watch you at work for a bit, do you?"
Hermione shook her head with a smile; Malfoy just hummed non-committally as he was still absorbed in the glowing diagrams.
Say what one will about Draco Malfoy, but when it came to healing, he was as passionate as he was conscientious. It was one of the few qualities Hermione appreciated about him.
She shifted her gaze back to the diagnostics hovering over the patient's bed.
Malfoy was leafing through a whole series of runes that provided information about the effects the respective curses had on certain bodily functions of the patient. Just as he brushed aside the display for the amygdala, something caught Hermione's eye. She let out a soft gasp.
"Wait," she breathed.
Reflexively, she reached for Malfoy's wrist and stopped him in mid-motion. The touch made him flinch in his chair, but he didn't pull his arm away.
"Scroll back, please."
She applied gentle pressure to his hand until he turned it the way she wanted.
"Do you see it?" she asked.
Malfoy shook his head in the negative.
Hermione clicked her tongue impatiently and sank to her knees so that their heads were at the same level. She realized that the pulsating dot she had noticed was actually not visible from his perspective and tilted his hand a little.
He took a sharp breath.
"Is that what I think it is?" he asked, intrigued.
Hermione turned her head and watched him adjust his glasses and lean forward in his chair. His eyes darted over the diagnostics with laser focus, his lips slightly parted and his brow furrowed. The sight made the back of her neck tingle.
"The last curse that hit him was—" she began.
"—a Full Body-Bind Curse," Malfoy muttered. "Right after a ricochet severed his arteria femoralis."
"Uh-oh, that's pretty bad," Hermione heard one of the students whisper smart-alecky.
"We know how painful that is," she continued hastily, "and fatal. Our patient is an Auror, which means that he must have known how severely he was injured. When he was put under the Full Body-Bind Curse, he—"
"—panicked," Malfoy finished her sentence. "Understandably. He knew he'd bleed to death within minutes."
"Exactly. And fear activates—"
"—the amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for analyzing potential dangers. So he was unable to move and was afraid—"
"—and then he was Obliviated," Hermione said with an energetic nod.
Oh, there really were few things more electrifying than when someone was able to follow her thoughts so effortlessly.
Her fingers were trembling with excitement, so she let go of Malfoy's wrist and pressed her hand against the nearest reassuring surface: his thigh. He didn't even notice, so engrossed was he in their mutual discovery.
"The Obliviate made him forget the entire mission," he continued, moistening his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "Whatever and whoever he saw, what happened to him, how it made him feel."
"Yes. He didn't remember how badly he was injured, but—"
"—his amygdala was still activated and his body—"
"—declared a state of emergency. A natural protective reaction."
"Coma," they breathed in unison.
A low murmur went through the students.
"Shit, you're so brilliant, Granger," Malfoy said fervently, if a little hoarsely. "I could fucking kiss you."
His words echoed unnaturally loudly in Hermione's ears and her breath hitched. It was the same tone of voice he'd used with Polly a few days before.
Such a good girl.
Urgh.
It was one thing to receive a compliment from him — a true miracle in itself, no question. Besides, she had always had a weakness for being praised. But it was quite another thing to feel her body react to the second part of his statement. Namely, with tingling anticipation.
Gods, what the hell was wrong with her?
"Language, Healer Malfoy," Smethwyck admonished.
"Sorry, sir," Malfoy apologized half-heartedly before making his diagnostics disappear with a flick of his wrist. "So, what do you think? The—"
"Draught of Peace," Hermione said breathlessly.
For the first time since he had cast his diagnostic spell, Malfoy turned his head towards her. His gaze flitted over her face, making her acutely aware of how much her cheeks were burning, lingered briefly on her lips and then snapped to her eyes.
"I would have suggested the exact same thing," he murmured, a small, pleased smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
Hermione felt like she was on the verge of melting into herself. Since she could do without turning into a puddle in healer form and drying on the grey linoleum floor, she cleared her throat and brought herself to a standing position, using Malfoy's thigh for support.
If he had noticed that she had once again knelt in front of him, he didn't let it show. His stormy grey eyes were still on her face. This time, there were no fleeting trips to the hem of her skirt.
The Draught of Peace was administered and the Obliviate reversed. Less than twenty minutes later, the patient was awake and as fresh as a daisy.
"And that, ladies and gentlemen," Smethwyck announced loudly, "is why Healer Granger and Healer Malfoy are two of the brightest minds this hospital has ever seen. And an unbeatable team to boot."
"Oh no, sir," Malfoy interjected. "All credit goes to Healer Granger. She's the one with the brains."
That night, Hermione dreamed of him for the first time. Of his sparkling silver eyes and his reading glasses. Of white polo shirts that stretched tightly over lean muscles and black running trousers. Of a deep dimple that flashed exclusively for her.
She was on her knees in every single scenario.