watch as she spent an amusing thirty minutes ransacking the hotel room. He might have handed the panties over if she had only admitted that they were missing.
It had been close to lunchtime by the time they Apparated to Diagon Alley. While his own absence at breakfast at school that morning would have caused only a few raised eyebrows among Slytherin House, Granger's prolonged disappearance would have likely sparked mild panic. And so it had been Draco's suggestion for her to write to the two slack jawed mollusc-brains she called friends, in addition to writing a brief letter to McGonagall.
The Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress would no doubt have a conniption at the slightest hint that her precious Head Girl had fallen into trouble.
And Draco supposed his bed probably did qualify as 'trouble'.
Once they arrived at the post office, he had felt charitable enough to extend the hand of Companiable Silence by giving Granger a few sickles to pay for the delivery of her letters. The ungrateful, puffy-haired know-it-all had responded to his kindness by giving him a look that ought to have curled the hair on his head. With a disdainful sniff, she had tossed the money in his face and stormed inside the post office, narrowly missing his smile of amusement.
The girl had the balls of a Gryffindor, he'd give her that. He had watched her from outside the post office, lest she try something monumentally stupid, like erupting into a crying fit in front of the laidback, weekend crowd. For him, she had scowls, frowns and death stares. For the jolly, portly, balding Postmaster who served her behind the counter, Granger was all smiles and polite banter.
At least she was possessed of a range of emotions, Draco decided. As opposed to Ron Weasley, for example, who took 'good nature' to new and annoying levels.
Draco watched as she bit on the tip of her pink tongue for a moment, pondering on what to write. It was muggy inside the building, and Granger had pulled the hood of her cloak from her head. The lightweight cotton caught and dislodged the jewelled barrettes from her hair, causing it to tumble past her shoulders. She absently gathered the curly mass over one shoulder as she wrote, wrapping a curl around a nail-bitten finger.
For a girl who didn't seem to give two Knuts about what she wore, Draco conceded that Granger was surprisingly feminine. It was easy not to notice her light-footed gait or the subtle sway of her meagre hips when she was consistently rushing about the castle, obscured behind an armload of books or behind her standard-issue Head Girl clipboard.
Really, she ought to have worn better clothes. The rags she took to wearing while off-duty were no better than sack-cloth with armholes cut into them- rough, drab, shapeless and uninspiring. Draco knew about clothes. Along with a secret penchant for herbal shampoos (his indulgence of the month was 'rosemary and hawafena'), it was a trait he had inherited from his mother. Idly, he eyes assessed and then dressed Granger in rich, russet coloured velvet robes. Low-cut, to show off the smooth skin between her small breasts.
Better yet, he thought, as he blinked and visually stripped her down to her high-heeled shoes and the silver chain she wore around her left ankle. The girl looked a hell of a lot better sans clothing altogether. In fact, the more clothing Granger wore, the more annoying he found her.
Or perhaps it was a case of the less clothing she wore, the more distracted he got.
Yes. That was probably it.
He wondered if their evening together had shaken her maidenly sensibilities a little. It would have been a shame for such an obviously passionate girl to revert back to her old, frigid ways.
Granger didn' t need a crystal ball to see into her future. All she had to do was to observe her Head of House. Minerva McGonagall was an exceptional teacher and a formidable Deputy Headmistress, but she also possessed the sexual allure of a Flobberworm. This was most unfortunate, seeing that witches generally lived longer than wizards and reached their sexual prime comparatively later in life.
If Granger bothered looking beyond the next prefects' roster, she might have noticed that there were far more pleasant diversions to be had at Hogwarts besides marching up and down corridors like a prettier and better smelling version of Argus Filch.
Or perhaps she had noticed what she was missing out on. That might have explained her sudden interest in his