Out of Time

Chapter 21

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

He should have given her the book. He had the opportunity, but his thoughts were properly preoccupied with her general nakedness. Oh well; tomorrow. They'll have more time then, anyway, and if he's being honest, he thinks it might take a good bit of time for her to explain the damn poems to him. And he wants her to.

Also, it's easily the nicest thing he's ever bought her. He doesn't want it rushed. It's tucked securely in his own bag, packaged up neatly and wrapped in an impervius charm for good measure. It's in a hidden pocket along with Hermione's notes. Either Crabbe or Goyle (Draco's money is actually on Goyle, for reasons he can't quite pin down) tried to go snooping the week before last. He didn't get very far, of course, but Draco feels better having things of value on his person.

Another missed opportunity: no ghostly shagging play with the blasted invisibility cloak. With dedication, he'd squeezed in three new things in a very trim span of time, which was... fantastic. All three. Draco's been extremely right about his hunch on going down on Hermione from the bottom, and about her burgeoning enthusiasm for dirty talk. But Draco can't wait until they can spend time together that doesn't feel stolen, where there isn't a clock hanging over their heads and ticking down minutes too fast to be natural.

Neither did it seem like the right time to say 'I love you.' He's not at all sure he should say it this soon anyway. It feels soon. But just like in the Prefect Bath, mid- or even post-shag is probably not the best time to toss it out into the open. Nor should it be pre-shag, Draco figures, although they're clear past the point at which he might only be saying it to get into her knickers.

Draco's never done that to a witch anyway. He considers it something of a cheap shot, a last resort for wizards who can't properly woo a witch into bed without it. A desperate manoeuvre.

Hermione would never have fallen for something like that - but then again, Hermione had asked him to shag her, eliminating the need for any such desperation on Draco's part - if Malfoys could ever be described as desperate.

Which they wouldn't be.

Well, his father might be, in Azkaban. But that's his own doing and has nothing whatsoever to do with wooing witches.

Draco's puttering around the Come and Go Room, waiting on Crabbe. Somehow he'd forgotten to consider that Crabbe would be playing in the Quidditch final, and thus can't meet until late. He plops down in the nearest armchair (a very un-Malfoyish gesture he'd never do if Crabbe were standing there), balancing the wobbly leg as required (with Malfoy-esque grace, thank you).

The broken snitch he'd spotted here weeks ago has finally croaked, its single working wing permitting a circular cobble of flight now defunct. It lays pitifully on the ground to his right. Draco levitates it and attempts to send it through each individual wire rectangle of an owl cage stuck atop a tall stack of other miscellany.

It's far enough away to prove a decent game for quite a while. Draco's awful at it at first and his determination to improve holds his attention for nearly an hour.

Eventually, however, this also grows old. He checks the time and sees he has almost another hour before Crabbe is supposed to meet him outside the room. He returns to pacing the stacks, idly inspecting for other things of interest scattered about.

There's a battered copy of Advanced Potion Making oddly visibly on a table, as if someone recently slapped it down there. Most things in here are in jumbled piles of things. Very few items seem distinctly placed. He flips the cover open.