what the rest of the school thought about her. She was an attractive harpy. A pretty prig, even.
Draco had resigned himself to the fact that he found her easy on the eye. Whatever happened between now and Graduation, Draco was convinced that if he survived into later adulthood, he'd have a permanent fondness for long-limbed, slender, messy-haired brunettes with enormous eyes and no discernible skill for conversation.
And there was also the whole brains thing. Alas, his days of worshipping at the feet of busty Nordic barmaids who thought that the 'metric system' was the London subway were at an end.
The pain in his shoulder was apparently not enough to detract his cock from this realisation, and it was making its increasing presence known. He'd have to be a bit subtle about removing his pants or she might end up hexing him after all. News would reach Potter and Weasley by late afternoon and he'd be dodging more serious curses by dinnertime.
She was saying something now. It was impressive how she could summon up such a hideously shrill voice when she put her mind to it. Granger was usually soft spoken, albeit in a commanding, nagging, whining sort of way.
"Maybe you haven't noticed, Malfoy, but the bathroom is currently occupied! Wait your turn you letch! Get out right now or I'll-"
"What? Lodge a complaint? Fill out a student feedback slip and drop it in a suggestion box? Scream? Nobody will hear you."
She growled. Actually, growled. It was adorable. "You don't get to do this, you bastard. I'm not playing these games with you! We have an arrangement." She was so angry that she slapped at the water.
Unfortunately, this brought her attention to the fact that her breasts were now visible through the suds. Merlin's goat herder. How was it that the rest of the school never noticed that their Head Girl had such an aesthetically pleasing rack? Small but perfectly proportioned to the rest of her, with small tightly drawn nipples that were quick to respond to his hands and his mouth and flushed just as enticingly as her face.
She was slim to the point of being boyish, but with hints of curves and softness in all the right places. Most of these attributes were hidden under serviceable jumpers in winter, and baggy t-shirts or loose blouses in summer.
Perhaps it was better that way. She might start to get ideas if every other chap got all vague-looking and tongue-tied from staring at her.
Ron Weasley doing that was bad and disturbing enough already, thanks.
His memory of that night in London was still sketchy, though that fact didn't bother him as much as it did that first day. He remembered the feel of things more than actual events taking place in any kind of order. He remembered how she felt in his hands. Vague recollections of how both breasts fitted very easily, into his palms, the resiliency and smoothness of her skin, the way the curve of her shoulder and the spot where said shoulder became her neck felt under his lips.
She had been far from idle while all this touching had been taking place. Granger had taken to him with her usual confidence, aided to an astounding degree by her being blind drunk. Honestly, if she were his, he'd bar alcohol from her, for life. In case some other randy sod though to capitalise on her Achilles' heel. Just like he had.
Despite what he would call a 'natural lustiness' (a term used often by Crabbe in defence of his village-broomstick Beauxbatons girlfriend), there had also been a genuine innocence to Granger which he found terribly interesting. It was like looking at a colour he hadn't seen before.
She splashed water on him. Quite a bit actually. The effect was welcomed. He flicked his wet hair from his face, used some of the water to clean up the mess left by his bloodied nose, and gave her a tut-tut sort of look.
"Settle down, Granger," he scolded, with mock gravity, "you'll injure yourself."
"I'll injure you if you don't get out," she seethed. She looked around in desperation, probably for a weapon other than soapy water. Her wand was with her clothes and thus, was out of reach.
There was however, a tray with soap, bath salts, oils and a sponge.
The soaps came flying at his head, one by one, and he had the sense to dodge the small, hard, little missiles. This was followed by the jar of bath salts which shattered when it clipped the