"Never," he scoffs, raring to a challenge as ever, but there's a ghost of amusement in his voice, lurking in the corner of his own half-smile. Draco Malfoy is guilty of so very many things, but of all of them, he does have a tendency to dig his own grave and then wind up far too deep, stuck with no way to backpedal or get back out.
A good thing, then, that he's glad to be backed into this particular corner.
Draco fishes in his pocket for his wand, settles it in his right hand (fingers instinctively straight, wrist held at the correct angle, practiced dueling technique, he always was very good at it). And as soon as Hermione comes within reach, he catches her wrist with his off-hand — physical contact anchors the Side-Along — and pulls her the rest of the way closer, and crushes his mouth against hers in another kiss.
And a second later, the world around them slides and blurs. Everything jolts sideways as they're yanked through the neighbourhoods of London, with a dizzying disorientation which has everything and nothing to do with the kiss.
When they eventually re-materialise and catch their footing again, they're stumbling on the uneven cobblestones of Diagon Alley, standing outside Obscurus Books. There's a narrow, unmarked door crammed beside the shop, easy enough to overlook.
It's impossible to Apparate directly inside, since Draco's home is warded to hell and back (one habit he did, in fact, pick up from his paranoid father and uncle), but this is close enough. He breaks away from the kiss just long enough to untangle the wards, tapping the front door with his wand, the click of the lock opening before he leads them up a cramped staircase meandering upward to the apartment proper. It's a prime Diagon Alley location; small but eyewateringly expensive for the convenient location, right in the middle of an urban wizarding neighbourhood rather than having to enchant your building with secrecy charms against living elbow-to-elbow with Muggles.
But apart from that, it's perhaps surprisingly homely: an old-fashioned attic flat, all creaking wooden floorboards and a slanting ceiling under the eaves (there's a lovely skylight, but if he walks too far into the corner he'll knock his head against the ceiling). Sparsely-furnished, since he's evidently still finding furniture for it. A few stacks of books. Quidditch broomstick in pride of place over the unused fireplace mantle, hanging beside a pot of Floo powder. There's enough light from the skylight to see their way as Draco lets them in, and tosses his coat onto the sofa.
One bedroom, one bathroom. Not exactly the sprawling extravagance of Malfoy manor, but— he's trying, mostly, to make it on his own now. Earning his own paycheck.
And just as he's awash with the comfort of being home again, that ease is almost immediately overtaken with a kind of strangled anxiety about what Hermione will think of it. He pivots on his heel, walking backward, waves a lazy hand at the flat, trying to look nonchalant.
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A good thing, then, that he's glad to be backed into this particular corner.
Draco fishes in his pocket for his wand, settles it in his right hand (fingers instinctively straight, wrist held at the correct angle, practiced dueling technique, he always was very good at it). And as soon as Hermione comes within reach, he catches her wrist with his off-hand — physical contact anchors the Side-Along — and pulls her the rest of the way closer, and crushes his mouth against hers in another kiss.
And a second later, the world around them slides and blurs. Everything jolts sideways as they're yanked through the neighbourhoods of London, with a dizzying disorientation which has everything and nothing to do with the kiss.
When they eventually re-materialise and catch their footing again, they're stumbling on the uneven cobblestones of Diagon Alley, standing outside Obscurus Books. There's a narrow, unmarked door crammed beside the shop, easy enough to overlook.
It's impossible to Apparate directly inside, since Draco's home is warded to hell and back (one habit he did, in fact, pick up from his paranoid father and uncle), but this is close enough. He breaks away from the kiss just long enough to untangle the wards, tapping the front door with his wand, the click of the lock opening before he leads them up a cramped staircase meandering upward to the apartment proper. It's a prime Diagon Alley location; small but eyewateringly expensive for the convenient location, right in the middle of an urban wizarding neighbourhood rather than having to enchant your building with secrecy charms against living elbow-to-elbow with Muggles.
But apart from that, it's perhaps surprisingly homely: an old-fashioned attic flat, all creaking wooden floorboards and a slanting ceiling under the eaves (there's a lovely skylight, but if he walks too far into the corner he'll knock his head against the ceiling). Sparsely-furnished, since he's evidently still finding furniture for it. A few stacks of books. Quidditch broomstick in pride of place over the unused fireplace mantle, hanging beside a pot of Floo powder. There's enough light from the skylight to see their way as Draco lets them in, and tosses his coat onto the sofa.
One bedroom, one bathroom. Not exactly the sprawling extravagance of Malfoy manor, but— he's trying, mostly, to make it on his own now. Earning his own paycheck.
And just as he's awash with the comfort of being home again, that ease is almost immediately overtaken with a kind of strangled anxiety about what Hermione will think of it. He pivots on his heel, walking backward, waves a lazy hand at the flat, trying to look nonchalant.
"Home sweet home," he says.