All You Want

33) I Feel Your Lips Move In

Hermione sat huddled on a bench in the Quidditch pitch as Draco kicked off and shot straight upward until he was a speck in the sky. He flew in figure eights and loop de loops and then zoomed down doing corkscrews and aerial somersaults and a dozen other things that were enough to make her stomach flip just watching.

She smiled to herself, pulled a book out of her bag, and started to read, glancing up every now and then to watch Draco whoop and do yet another stomach-churning maneuver.

She could not imagine how flying so fast could possibly be enjoyable, but Draco's expression was thrilled as he zipped around and around the Quidditch pitch, going faster, and faster, and faster until he was a black and platinum blur.

She turned back to her book and kept reading until she heard a crunch and looked up to find Draco had landed a few feet away from her.

He had ice crystals in his lashes and eyebrows. He could have been a character from a fantasy: tall, pale, chiseled and etched with snow.

"Right. Flying basics. The first thing you need to do is become comfortable with flying."

Hermione stiffened, and she gripped her book. "Draco, I really don't want to learn flying."

"I know. I'm still going to teach you. I have nine hours and fifteen minutes for the rest of the school year." He stepped over, plucked her book out of her hands, and stuck it into his cloak pocket.

Hermione pursed her lips sourly and crossed her arms. "Draco, brooms and I, we really don't—"

"Come on, Hermione, where's your Gryffindor spirit? Come fly with me."

"I know how to fly," Hermione said, arching her eyebrows and staring at him pointedly. "I've flown on thestrals and a dragon, I've even flown on brooms occasionally, but they—we don't get along with each other."

"That's because you distrust them. Brooms are like wands; you have to get a sense of them and let them get a sense of you. Come on."

He pulled her over. He barely raised his hand, and the Firebolt jumped into the air, into his grasp. He slung a leg over and nodded toward Hermione.

"You sit in front of me."

Hermione sighed and fidgeted. "Draco... I really don't want—"

"Hermione," he met her eyes with such intensity it made her stomach flip, "I will die before I let anything happen to you."

He said it with an entirely straight face that made her feel like he actually meant it and expected it to make a significant difference. She rolled her eyes.

"It's not a matter of doubting you, it's a matter of doubting it." She eyed the broomstick dubiously.

"It's my magic." He expression was mulish.

She sighed and resigned herself to a flying lesson, climbing on. He was so tall her toes couldn't reach the ground, and she was obliged to cross her ankles, gripping the broom tightly.

"Don't go high. If you do a corkscrew with me on board I will hex you into next week."

Draco gave a low laugh and kicked off gently. "No finals, and I jump straight to your heat; don't tempt me." She could hear him leering.

She snorted.

Draco tipped the handle upward, and they rose up higher and started moving more quickly. Hermione immediately tensed.

"Don't—" she choked, squeezing her eyes shut.

Draco leaned forward so that his chest pressed against her back and one of his hands slid firmly around her waist. "Granger, this cannot possibly be more frightening than riding a dragon."