Here's something else you'd bet nobody else knows about, a dirty secret as such: Hermione Granger breaking school curfew. You watch, unseen and tucked against the opposite wall, as your friend slips away from the abandoned girls' toilet on the first floor a bit after midnight, still in her school uniform with the top button of her shirt undone. You'd seen her head up to her dorm hours ago, during the last minutes of another chess match with Ron (he'd won, so now it was seven games to three), when she'd drifted by to say a breezy goodnight, one hand lightly hovering over each of your heads. Now you think Oh, naughty Hermione, amused; you'd laugh, but the small gusts of breath cause faint ripples across the silver fabric and you remember to be cautious and stay hidden. Hermione adjusts the waistband of her skirt as she walks past you and as you hear her gentle footsteps fading away, you get the second surprise of the night.

It's a nasty surprise. Draco Malfoy slides out from the dark entrance of the bathroom, eyes scanning the corridor nervously; it's only when he thinks the coast is clear that a smirk spreads over his fine features and he strolls forward. You're not stupid and you have two immediate reactions, wants, to this turn of events: to run after Hermione and shake her until you can hear her teeth rattling, maybe wailing "Why?" and "Are you mad?" at the same time; to stick a foot in front of Malfoy's proud strut as he goes by now, watch him sprawl across the floor then grab him by the shoulder of his robes and hiss menacingly at him to leave Hermione alone.

But you're not stupid. You stay quiet, and Malfoy walks past you swiftly. You close your eyes so you can't see the green and silver winking at you from his breast pocket in the low torch light, only hear the soft brush of leather soles on stone, and you wait for silence to return.

You resist the urge to discover a routine in Hermione's little secret. Some nights she stays up late with you and Ron in the common room, and on those nights there's a loose hilarity in your speech and actions that leaves the three of you in high spirits; a touch of hysterics, if you were being truly honest with yourself. Some nights you have Quidditch practice, and there's the chance that by the time you've showered and return Ron will tell you she's gone to bed already. You think oh and say, "Hey, want a game?" It's not really any of your business that Hermione's seeing one of your enemies, her enemies, on the sly. You're not going to spy on her, you respect the idea of freedom and breaking rules once in a while for one's own sanity, remember? But if you happen to spend a few nights a week hidden behind a chair, under your cloak, in the common room, watching for a lone figure to step furtively down the staircase from the girls' dorms, well, that's your business then, isn't it? (Two, no more than three nights a week, mostly Tuesdays and Fridays. An hour and a half tops.)

There are never any visible signs the next day - no hickeys of teenage passion that some of the others girls sport at the breakfast table, giggling and unsubtly burning holes into their paramours' backs; no stubble burn, no finger shaped bruises, nothing but pale English skin and a blush when she asked you why you are staring at her like that. You shrug and ask for some more toast from the platter sitting by her elbow. You had Malfoy down as someone who marked his conquests, and you're not sure why you feel disappointed to be found wrong. It makes you wonder - just for a second here and there, in quiet moments late at night when you can't sleep - what they do, what they get up to in dark enclosed spaces. You don't give it that much thought. Just enough to make you breathe harder and keep a supply of cloths in the bedside drawer and draw the curtains around your bed at night.

Following Hermione is too risky. There are doors that creak, and steps that shout if you step on the left and not the right, and stone corridors have a nasty habit of echoing. So you take a chance one night, throw the cloak over yourself a few minutes after you hear snoring all around you, and run lightly down the hallways to let yourself into one of the stalls. After midnight, a cramped two hours, you admit you may have picked the wrong night and take yourself back to bed, upsetting the Fat Lady with your sleepy request. The next night you're knackered, from the punishing practice on top of the little sleep you've had, and the sudden heavy load of homework handed out by Snape. You fall asleep on Ron and Hermione in front of the fire in the common room, head in her lap, feet stretched out over Ron's. Drowsily, you hear a frantic muttered, "Hermione! What am I supposed to do?" and the giggled reply, "Oh hush Ron, let him nap a while, we've some time to go before we're finished here." You remember to hide your smile. She's not going anywhere tonight, and you hope Malfoy gets blue balls waiting. It's a Tuesday.

You think briefly about your only half-written paper due tomorrow, sitting on the table just above the level of your head, the stack of tomes borrowed from the library between the three of you; then of how comfortable you feel right now - the slightly scratchy wool of Hermione's skirt against your face, the warmth of her thighs beneath that, the faintest hint of roses from her soap. Ron gingerly cradles your legs closer so you don't slide off, and you give up any ideas of waking up when Hermione absent- mindedly smooths down locks of your hair with one hand while she reads, turning pages with the other.

Snape gives you a night's detention and an almost gleeful dressing down in front of the class the next day. From where you're standing you can see Malfoy shooting dark glances at Hermione over his cauldron; she ignores him, and there's a little thump-thump jumble in your chest. That night, she slips out of the portrait hole at eleven sharp and you gaze dully at the fire until she returns, slightly flushed, an hour later. Your shake out the cramps in your fingers from gripping the cloak edges too tightly when she's headed up the stairs.

You try again.

The acoustics in the bathroom are shockingly loud after the muted shuffle you can achieve on the carpet in the Gryffindor area, the quiet tap tap tap you've learnt to get around the stone walkways on your invisible journeys. Here there are echoes and hard tiles and only the drip of ancient taps drowns out your panic, fear that you might be caught. You haven't been here in a while and you've forgotten how dark it is but it's not light you could have brought a lantern in with you. You fumble around, cursing the utter uselessness of your glasses, cringing as your hand meets a patch of slime and then another, wet dirt on your palms. You finally stumble into the end stall, pushing the wooden door closed a little too quickly so that the rusty hinges squeak. You wipe your grubby hands down the length of your trousers and sit with your legs tucked up on the toilet with its lid down.

It's not a long wait. You think Malfoy arrives first. The footfalls paced some time apart, a harshly spat out curse when some part of him collides with a sink or two and you grin, partly in sympathy, partly because it's just funny when Malfoy hurts himself. Then there's a familiar girl's voice whispering, "Are you there?" and you stop breathing, straining to keep quiet and hear and start imagining what is going on beyond the walls around you. You don't have a lot of experience in this department, so the images in your head are rather limited, but the sounds are helping you. It seems they're breathing your share of the air, sighs and light breathy directions as they find each other and explore. There's a wet noise that you can't place until Hermione's voice breaks the silence with a hitched, "Draco, no, yes, keep kissing me there -" followed by a gasp, and you wonder where, where? in your fevered mind.

They actually have sex. You think your mind short circuits in the moment you can hear Hermione moan as Malfoy enters her. You can see it in your mind - Hermione held up between two sinks back to the mirrors, legs around Malfoy's waist, skirt bunched up between them, her forehead against his as they move as one. Your hand between your legs, down past the waistband of your underwear and you're breathing again, little quick pants that escape until you clamp your mouth shut; hand still moving faster and faster, a little flick of your wrist and you're so close, listening as the quiet frantic noises of the two of them going for it outside bounces off the high ceiling and into your corner, loud in your ears. You come before either of them does, sticky and hot in your hand, collapsing against the cistern with both of your legs braced on the ground as the glow fades.

Malfoy grunts as he finishes and then there's nothing left but shallow breaths falling into a slower deeper rhythm. Almost immediately there's sounds of clothing sliding over exposed skin, buttons in the right holes and you're startled to realise you can recognise when Hermione is brushing her long hair back into a manageable ponytail, tying it up with quick efficient twists. Malfoy speaks first. "You head on up, I'll stay for a moment."

There's a hint of teasing in Hermione's voice when she replies, "Need some time to recover?" and you think Malfoy's not going to let that pass without retaliating. But the door closes with a click and it seems that their relationship has very little going for it in the conversation department. You start to get impatient when after a few minutes Malfoy still hasn't left and you can't leave to go back to bed. You always feel sleepy after jerking off, a good thing when you're in your nice soft bed, but the last thing you want is to fall asleep on crusty porcelain. You hear a tap gushing water and you groan under you breath, willing Malfoy to just leave already. So you're completely caught unawares when a hand reaches under the stall and grabs you by the ankle, water still running in the sink.

"I know you're in there, so don't even think about not coming out now." You kick for good measure anyway, kick his hand until he swears and withdraws it. But you open the lock with trembling hands and step out, not bothering to put the cloak back on. You get little satisfaction from the surprise in his face.

"Potter. Well."

There's an awkward silence then, because he obviously hasn't planned a speech, and there's very little you can say in this situation. Except, oh of course the inappropriate, that you enjoyed -

"Enjoy the little show?" Malfoy breaks into your thoughts and it's just too close to what you were thinking so you squirm without thinking. A nasty grin crosses his face. "I'll bet you did. I could hear you, did you realise that? Acoustics are two way in this room, and Hermione's not usually that loud."

You're probably bright red now, it feels like it, hot and uncomfortable spreading across every inch of your skin, and Malfoy moves in for the kill. One step closer, and his mouth up next to your ear, like you imagined it was before with Hermione panting down his neck and oh god.

"I fucked your girlfriend, Potter," he hisses in your ear and you close your eyes, wait and see. His mouth still hovering by your skin, but not saying another word. Your turn. Swallowing is difficult, your throat feels so dry and scratchy, but you force the words up anyway.

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Do you want her - no, that's not the right question. She could be, you know." His hand replaces hot puffs of air, sliding down the side of your jaw in a caress, and you will yourself not to respond in any way. It's still his move. Fingers lightly pressing over your lips and in the next breath his mouth is on yours, gently. He licks at the gap between and you open your mouth to let him in, a few seconds of nothing but impulse and leftover lust. You know you can taste Hermione in his kiss, his gift and reminder to you. You don't put your arms around him, you don't press yourself closer, and after a minute or so you break apart. Game over. His eyes are clear and he repeats, "She could be," as he slips out the door.

The Fat Lady threatens to turn both you and Hermione in for all the trouble you've given her in the past weeks, and you put up the feeblest of pleas before she giggles "young love" and lets you in. You crawl into bed and fall into dreamless sleep.

You surprise Hermione in the library one night. She is going over Ron's homework when you sneak up behind her with the cloak securely around you. You breathe shallowly as you read over her shoulder for a moment, hearing her recite the list of ingredients from memory to compare with what Ron's written. As she reaches for her pen to correct his spelling of asphodel, you wrap your arms around her and kiss her neck to her mouth, letting the cloak slip from your shoulders. Ron watches you both with wide-open eyes, and you can hear murmurs and mad shuffling of paper as other students turn to look at the spectacle you're making. Hermione kisses you back, as you knew she would. She doesn't taste like anything familiar, anything at all.

END