Disclaimer: Je ne possédé pas les livres Harry Potter . Meaning: I don't own the Harry Potter books. -smile-

Raise Your Hand, If You Want to Be That Apple

"Oh, come on! Tell me that you think he's hot." Under the pretense of studying A History of Magic, I leaned down to whisper into her ear.

"Hmm . . . he's not." Hermione barely glanced up from her giant tome as she answered my question.

"Are you completely batty?" I asked incredulously, not even bothering to lower my voice. It wasn't as if anyone could hear me, anyway; all the students were talking away about Quidditch practice and OWL's and the like, failing to notice the magnificent wizard sitting but a few feet from them.

"Look," Hermione began, closing her book with a snap, "I don't think he's hot, alright? Maybe because I know he's a freaking bastard, or . . . you know, it could be the fact that he despises all Muggleborns. Just a guess, you know."

"But-"

"Hey, if you're willing to throw yourself at the guy, go ahead, but I for one, am not helping you." Turning to the page she had left off on, she began reading again.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, I'm not throwing myself at him," I retorted, exasperatedly, running fingers through my long black hair. "I just asked if you thought he was hot. . . . And I do know that he's a bastard. Hello? I'm around you long enough to know what's going on. Besides, I'm a Muggleborn, too, remember?"

Hermione, who appeared to have been barely listening, tore her eyes away from the tome in shock. "You – you're Muggleborn? But your last name is. . . ."

"Black, yes, I know . . . but Sirius isn't really my father. My parents are somewhere in America and I got my name from them – Zaldivar."

"Then why the change?" she asked, curious at this new aspect of my history. History that, unlike the old, forgotten book in her lap, was still alive and well . . . and sitting right next to her.

"Dumbledore thought it was best for my protection," I explained. "You know . . . for knowing all your guys' futures." Nodding understandingly, she stared for a few moments, shocked, before returning to her book. She had barely turned the next page before I caught sight of something that made me groan with lust.

"What?" Hermione asked, looking around for the source of my fascination. "What's wrong?"

"Look at that, Hermione. Just . . . just look at that," I whispered hoarsely, pointing toward the Slytherin table where he sat.

"What . . . oh, Malfoy, you mean." She shrugged. "All I see is him eating an apple."

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air – this time, a couple of second years glanced my way – and nodding excitedly at Hermione. "Exactly. And I'd give anything – anything – to be that apple."

Hermione looked disgusted. "You're kidding, right?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"No! No, I'm not. I bet you a ton of other girls would agree with me, too," I said confidently, sitting straight on the bench.

Hermione could only roll her eyes. "I doubt it. Most other girls wouldn't want that bastard. Not when there are other . . . much more suitable guys around." Briefly, her eyes flicked toward the end of the table where the Quidditch team sat, talking strategy.

"Really? You wanna bet?" I asked.

"Sure. Why not? The usual, I presume?"

"Yes," I repeated. "The usual." Standing up from my seat, I scanned the crowded Great Hall. Hermione, meanwhile, looked amused.

"Hey!" I yelled, wrapping my hands around my mouth like a megaphone. In one motion, everyone's eyes turned to me. Harry and Ron – two of the aforementioned discussing Quidditch – looked first to me and then to Hermione who sent them a mischievous grin.

"Ladies, if you please, could you raise your hand if you want to be that apple." With a great flourish, I pointed directly at Draco, still munching on that damned apple. His usual Malfoy suaveness vanished to be – for just a moment – replaced by shock.

However, no one raised their hand. Not one single person; even Pansy Parkinson looked apprehensive, seeing as the question had come from a hated Gryffindor. Damn, I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this. Steeling myself with one last deep breath, I, very slowly, raised my own hand, waving it above my head like a white flag.

For a few seconds, there were shocked murmurs as students glanced at each other. Then, ever so slowly, girls began to raise their hands. Pansy was of the first, then Marietta Edgecombe and Cho Chang – Harry's face fell at the latter – and Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott. Even some Gryffindor girls showed their support for the handsome Slytherin. Finally, after what seemed like forever as I stood there, sweating, the majority of women had raised their hands.

Sneaking a peek at Draco, I saw that he was smirking – that famous, Malfoy smirk that I abhorred and, quite strangely, adored. Crap!

However, I couldn't dwell on this for long. Shouting a thanks to the girls, I turned to Hermione with a triumphant grin.

"You lost." Hermione sighed, closing the book with a snap. She barely acknowledged my presence, only nodded as she began to walk briskly toward where Harry and Ron now stood, mouths gaping.

"When?" she asked me.

"Hmm . . . how about today. At midnight?" She had barely nodded her consent before a long-fingered, cold hand caught my arm. I gasped.

"Get your hands off of her, Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice barely above a growl.

"It's alright, Granger," he sneered. "I just need to talk to her for a second. That's alright with you, isn't it. . . ?" He trailed off, unsure of my name, as he began to move his hand slowly down my arm, to my wrist, my hand . . . finally interlacing his fingers with my own. Looking into his eyes, I noticed that they no longer held the cold, piercing look I was so used to. No, now they were – dare I say it? - gentler, a warmer gray.

"Oh, yes, that's fine," I gasped, cursing my girlish voice. "You go ahead, Hermione." I couldn't even look at her; Draco's eyes had me entranced, entrapped, ensnared. . . .

"Okay. . . ." She sounded worried, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

"So, Black. . . ."
"Michelle." I cut him off. "My name is Michelle." His lips twitched slightly, but he nodded.

"Michelle," he repeated slowly and I fought not to shiver. I lost, as always. Damn my heart for making me such a twit around him.

"So . . . what was the whole . . . wanting to be my apple thing?" He arched an elegant eyebrow quizzically, eyes dancing with amusement. However, it wasn't malicious, as when he teased Harry, Ron, or Hermione. No . . . once again, his eyes were, inexplicably, warm.

"Oh, that." I attempted a casual laugh, but it came out strangled. "I was talking to Hermione and were betting about just how many girls would love to be in your apple's position." I waved my free hand airily. "It's no big deal. . . ."

"And you raising your hand. . . . What did that mean?"

As quickly as I had grown more confident in his presence, I looked to the floor, cheeks flaming. Dammit. Vaguely, I heard him chuckle and felt him release my hand, placing it instead under my chin as he forced my head up to look, once again, into those eyes. Those beautiful eyes. I let out a sharp breath as I noticed his face was only centimeters away from my own.

"You know, Michelle, you didn't have to do all that." His voice was quiet, but it was as if he had shouted. I could feel myself trembling at the knees, his gray eyes boring into my hazel ones.

"Oh?" I managed to choke out. My heart was thumping so fast and wildly, I was sure he could hear it. His lips twitched once more and he inched forward. Our lips brushed and I felt shivers race up my spine . . . just as they did every time he touched me. But now he was closer, much, much close. This can't be happening, it can't be happening. . . . As if to convince myself it was a dream, I squeezed my eyes tight shut before reopening them.

He was still there.

"Yeah," he answered, continuing without a lull, "I'm already yours." And, with this final whisper, he finally – finally – closed the gap.

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