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The closest Professor Draco Malfoy has come to religion is this belief: there's a special circle of hell reserved for teachers who abuse their position of power.
A belief god himself seems hellbent on testing, starting one fine Monday.
Now, Draco is no novitiate to students' flirting; he's had years to perfect his deadpan, his Absolutely-Not face, and a crowd favourite: his "Try that again. Go on. See what happens."
And while it's a nice, regular ego boost, his boundaries are the stuff of academic legend.
Even the most ambitious, old-money brats of Hogwarts are no match for his "soul-shriveling sneer", his "slave-driving tendencies", and his "admirable dedication to the maiming and murder of many a students' hopes and dreams" (Snape et al., 2012; citation needed).
But on the day god deems him as one of his strongest soldiers, it is not by way of any Chanel-toting, Frap-bearing, buxom heiress and their batty, extended eyelashes.
Oh, no. It is much, much worse.
A divine punishment must, after all, have a measure of the divine.
He nearly does a double-take when he walks in and sees the freckled skin, wild curls, and absolutely jaw-dropping specimen of human beauty sitting front and center in the lecture hall on the first day of classes.
Fifty minutes before first period.
She's biting her pen and reviewing the readings.
He's... somewhat utterly dumbfounded he isn't the first person in here.
He's never not been the first person in class. Ever.
Not as a teacher. Not even as a student.
And then, the first offense: she looks up.
Not a single inch of interest in that split-second of hazel. Only a curious frown framing large eyes. She drops her attention back to her book, teeth plucking off the cap of her highlighter. Haphazard curls falling over her face.
Intelligent. Gorgeous. Unintimidated.
And absolutely does not care for him one bit. He might as well be one of Longbottom's disemboweled amphibians: pinned to the table, guts spilled. Uninteresting once opened.
She is exactly his Type (A). To the T.
Shite.
(Already, he wonders what he's done in a past life to deserve the torture this semester is about to become for him.)
"You're in my lecture hall," comes out of his mouth like brain fart.
She cocks a brow at him, looks around the room.
"Well spotted," she retorts and good god, did she have to rival his snark, too?
"Aren't you a little too early for class?" he asks as he readies at his desk. Self-preservation at its finest.
She narrows her eyes at him. "Aren't you a little too young to be a professor?"
They stare at each other. He glares. So does she. Both their arms cross over their chests. A long moment of tension. Neither of them keen on losing.
"What's your name?"
She squints at him again. "Hermione Granger."
It's a fucking beautiful name.
"Well, Granger..." he says, washing his mouth with it despite the attempt at casual, "I don't suppose you could indulge me as to what you're doing in my lecture hall this early? I don't much fancy sharing." He defaults to the defensive.
Because what else are you supposed to do when the woman of your dreams materialises in front of you... in the most inconvenient, most inaccessible way possible?
Draco mentally throws a finger at the pomp and circumstance of this personal hell.
He waits for the cower, the shift. The way students always fall back when offended by his pointedness.
But instead, she gifts him with only her amusement:
"Ah, a capitalist through and through. I suspected as much. Don't worry, Professor," she tells him. "I know your reputation." As though she weren't already the cause of his internal breakdown, "And I plan on being the exception. Whether or not you 'fancy' it is irrelevant."
Said only with the flattest, most serious of expressions.
"You can try," he can't help but say, something awfully dangerous resting in his mouth.
And her small, secret, self-satisfied smile is his fall from grace, the first bite, the first taste. The single, most terrifying possibility: the instant dissolution of his principles.
It strikes him, fast and hard, with the fear of god.
(In the distance: sirens.)
(Despite that he's already considering delivering himself to hell in a handbasket for a chance to see that smile again.)
~ fin