Hopelessly Devoted (to a Malfoy)

The Night That I First Fell In Love - Part II

July 1997, Côte D'Azur, The Sky Above Fréjus

Midnight

Draco was having one of the most incredible nights of his life.

He hadn't felt this light, content, and carefree in as long as he could remember. For the first time in weeks, he was living purely in the moment; his mind — usually addled with frustrating ruminations and worries about his future — was deliciously at peace. Now, all he had to focus on was the invigorating rush of the wind as it ruffled his hair, the earthy scent of the nearby forest mingling with the crisp air, the ebb and flow of the broom's power as it thrummed beneath him, and the perfect closeness of his lady passenger.

They were flying over low hills, leaving behind the highland terrain and trading it for flat farmland that led towards the centre of the town. They had Disillusioned themselves for this flight, of course, as they certainly didn't need a pesky breach of the International Statute of Secrecy to interrupt their evening.

Draco felt sort of like a marauder; stealthily navigating the midnight sky, invisible to the world below. He was reminded of the tale Hermione had shared about that Gaspard de Besse fellow. Undoubtedly a Slytherin, Draco thought.

It would be another short flight, to Draco's secret disappointment (he loved the inevitable cuddling that came with tandem broom riding; the main reason he'd devised this date idea in the first place.)

He was even more disappointed at the fact that this ride would soon be over, because this time Hermione was seated at the back, adorably wrapped around him, and — as it happened — hardly conscious.

Back at the dam, when they'd risen to embark on this last chapter of their little odyssey, Draco had noticed that Hermione was beginning to fade. He'd caught her mid-yawn when she thought he'd been preoccupied with setting up the broom. She'd tried to turn away and hide it, but it'd been too late.

"I'm sorry," she'd said, embarrassed. "I'm usually well off in dreamland right about now."

Draco had felt that they already were in dreamland — or at least, he was in his — but he didn't say anything of the sort. Instead, he'd simply obliged when she asked if she could sit at the back of the broom this time, supposedly 'just for a change.' But he knew that her real reason was to assume a more comfortable position; one where she could relax into Draco, rest her eyes, and spend less energy on holding on. He had been more than fine with that.

As they flew together over open fields, Draco relished the pleasant feeling of riding on a broom with a gorgeous witch hanging on behind. Hermione had her slender arms wrapped snugly around his waist, and her legs tucked just behind his. Draco could feel the warmth emanating from her, seeping in through his clothes. Her culottes were made of a soft, breezy material, so Draco could easily feel the shape of her lean legs contoured against his. Hermione's embrace made him feel safe, comfortable, and warm, all at the same time.

Draco didn't get many hugs, as it stood. The only person who really hugged him was his mother — a troubling realisation.

Sometimes he would get what could only be described as 'ambushed' by Pansy Parkinson, who always seemed to want to be clinging to him whenever they were in the same vicinity. But her little assaults of his person had always felt like a one-sided gesture; one that gave something to her, but nothing to him.

Now, however, Draco found himself enveloped in the longest, most pleasant hug he'd ever experienced (if one could call it a hug — which he did.)

Although the night was calm and the flying was easy, there had been a few swooping bends after leaving the damn as he manoeuvred their way through the hilly terrain, and he'd hoped Hermione had noticed the tensing and flexing of his formidable Quidditch muscles beneath her hands. The thought sent a thrill through him.