Disclaimer: Property of J.K. Rowling.

Fruits of Gossip

Winter wonderland. That was the first thought to come to Hermione's mind as she trekked her way through the gently sloping terrain. Her gloved hands were settled deeply in the pockets of her magically enhanced cloak, and she puffed visible breaths in time with the crunching of the snow beneath her heels. The Christmas holidays were nearing, and she could feel the merriment of the season in the stinging, Scottish air.

Brown curls gave way to the wind's fickle will, any semblance of order having disappeared the moment the witch set foot outside. Now, her tresses were at the spontaneously vindictive mercy of Mother Nature, as was her exposed face; nose and cheeks tinged red by the ruthless whiplashing of what she recognized as the beginnings of a snowstorm.

Still, she traipsed on, instinctively making her own path towards the Black Lake and ignoring the white misting that made everything in every direction look the same. Two weeks had passed since her queer encounter with a certain Draco Malfoy. Her fingers twined around the green- and silver-striped necktie tucked safely away in her cloak, stroking the silk of the fabric as it had become her habit.

She had refused to go to the library at half-past seven the day after. Her renowned Gryffindor courage had deserted her in the last few hours as she contemplated what the decision of willingly placing herself in Malfoy's (pale, strong) hands would really entail. Hermione didn't know a peck about him – other than Harry's insistence that he was a Death Eater. Allowing herself to play with fire like that meant she had a possibility of being burned.

And so, instead of heading for her place of refuge that night, she had sought out her friends in the Great Hall. Their scheduled rendezvous had been in the middle of dinner, after all. She had only seen glimpses of Malfoy in the halls since; the time he chose to take his meals seemed to change sporadically.

Hermione finally reached the edge of the Black Lake and plopped herself down on a fallen tree limb. Her eyes scoured the surface of the murky waters, looking for an unnatural ripple that could be caused by something other than the wind. She was curious as to whether or not the Giant Squid would reveal itself today, although the chances of that were probably on a scale of zilch to none. The creature was probably resting at the bottom of the lake, leagues away from the brutal chill of the wind.

Wisely so, she noted as a particularly strong gust forcibly tangled her hair some more. Merlin knew she was thankful for magic at times like these, shallow and petty as they seem. Without the glamour charms she'd read up on in Ginny's copy of Witch Weekly, her hair would've continued to rival that of a lion's mane for who knew how long. Muggle hair products just took too much time and too much effort.

Hermione sat there a while longer, simply taking time to drink in the panorama of white-crested trees and snow-laden grounds. Shuffling her feet, she slid her heel against the snow and unearthed a wet patch of brown. The cold was beginning to set in as the magic of her cloak tapered off, but she didn't want to go inside yet. When she couldn't suppress her shivers anymore, she made to stand – only to halt at the sound of grinding snow.

Someone was coming up behind her, and she harshly reprimanded herself for being caught outside Hogwarts alone in times like these. Stamping down her rising panic, she was up in a second. "Expelliarmus!"

"Protego." A hemisphere of translucent blue shimmered in the air between them, and golden brown collided with steely gray. Hermione blinked, then scowled when she recognized the platinum fringe and the impeccably tailored robes. She had successfully dodged him since the incident (no doubt aided by Malfoy himself), averting her eyes when necessary, seating herself on the opposite end of the classroom in an attempt to make learning less awkward.

"Can't you take a hint?"

She felt a flash of annoyance when he raised his brow, an expression she was confident he was privy to at the slight smirk that curved his pliant mouth.

"Avoiding me, Granger?" He seemed to be inspecting the stitching on his undoubtedly expensive leather gloves, his face the perfect countenance of innocent curiosity. "Why would you do a thing such as that?"

"What's it to you," she retorted, watching him warily as she finally chose to lower her wand. She didn't mention the fact that he was the one conspicuously missing from mealtimes because that would've meant she took the time to notice (and possibly the time to care). He shot her an amused look, having pocketed his own wand a few moments after shielding himself.

"You didn't show." She heard the accusation in his voice and mentally checked her sudden urge to apologize. This was Draco blasted Malfoy, she reminded herself, scoffing. She didn't owe him anything, let alone an apology.

Rubbing her gloved hands together in order to garner some warmth from the friction, she shivered again as a nasty breeze licked at her clothed but uncloaked ankles. Malfoy didn't seem like he expected a verbal response from her, yet he watched her in a queer way as she stuck her hands back into her pockets and hunched her shoulders in an effort to ward off the chill.

They stood like that for a while, engulfed in discomfited silence; she attempting to stave off frostbite, he merely watching her with that perplexing gaze. Then, without warning, Malfoy unclasped the front of his cloak and, in a flare of easy grace, shrugged it off and tossed it in her direction. Hermione blinked in surprise, thrown staggeringly off guard. She barely caught the heavy fabric before it crumpled onto the snowy ground.

"What …"

When she looked up questioningly, he was leaving. She could only make out the wisp of his white-blonde head and a glimpse of his black and green school robes before he vanished into the tree line. Had Malfoy just … lent her his cloak?

"Oi, wait!"

Choosing to decipher the implications of the Slytherin's actions at a later time (in a warmer place), the girl swathed herself with the woolen cloak and took off towards the castle, hoping to waylay him before he reached the doors leading inside. She didn't want his big, expensive cloak, nor did she want his charity (she ignored the green- and silver-striped slip that was burning a hole through her pocket). She definitely didn't want that unfamiliar scent (that could only belong to him) of sage, sandalwood, and a mixture she couldn't quite figure out invading her nose.

It reminded her of cool, autumn weather, filled with notes of roaring fireplaces and pumpkin pies baking in the oven. His fragrance smelled homey (although she rather wished for him to smell homely), and it was nothing if not attractive. It was the kind of heady cologne that made her want to bury her nose into a man's neck, her face into his chest. Something low clenched at the thought of doing such a thing with Malfoy, and Hermione resolutely quickened her pace. She was going to return this stupid cloak to him whether he wanted it back or not.

Something told her she wouldn't be able to catch him, and it was right. Her heart sank when she finally managed to throw open one of the heavy, engraved doors, just in time to see a flash of flaxen hair slip out of sight once more as Malfoy descended the stairs. He was undoubtedly headed for the dungeons – off-limits to the likes of her.

Immediately after dinner, she told herself doggedly. She wasn't about to let this cloak sit on her bed or in her dresser and stain her freshly laundered clothes and sheets with that maddening (exhilarating) smell. It felt like Malfoy had unleashed his proverbial pheromones and turned her insides to jelly in the process.

In a split-second decision, Hermione turned on her heel and hastened up the moving staircases, intent on making it to her room without accidentally bumping into Harry or Ron. They would know in a heartbeat that the cloak she was currently carrying draped over her forearm didn't belong to her, and that was definitely a scenario she hoped to avoid. When she finally reached her room without mishap, she pulled out her book bag and uncharacteristically upended all of its contents onto her bed. Only once Malfoy's cloak was securely tucked away, hidden by the flap of her satchel, did she breathe a sigh of relief.

It was just a matter of waiting now. Dinner wouldn't begin for another hour and a half, and she doubted Malfoy would be wandering the halls by happenstance just so she could have the fortunate opportunity to shove his cloak back into his hands and take off in the opposite direction. Hermione smiled wryly at the thought and looked at the clock again.

She could read up on her Ancient Runes … or she could take a bath. Not just a bath, she mused in delight, a bath in the Prefect's bathroom (she almost yipped in glee). Taking long, luxurious baths were one of her favorite pastimes – up there with reading by firelight and making lists. Organizing things (alphabetically, chronologically, whatever) was also deemed favorable.

Her feet automatically led her to the ornate door, a whispered password allowing her entry, and soon enough Hermione was sinking into an Olympic-sized tub with enough suds to clean even a full-grown troll. She sighed in pleasure as the hot water enveloped her, melting away her stress, freeing her from each and every thought she'd ever had about Draco sodding Malfoy.

Instead, she thought of Ginny and that (hot piece of ass) Blaise Zabini. It was impossible not to notice the juicy looks exchanged between the two; across dinner tables, no less. When confronted, the youngest Weasley had flushed red and smiled sheepishly. Hermione didn't blame her, but she couldn't help but giggle again as she recalled the look on Ginny's face.

After confirming that neither Harry nor Ron had detected the raging sexual tension in the air (the lunkheads), she had taken a vow of silence on the matter. Not that she would've snitched on Ginny anyway, but she understood that it was just a measure of reassurance.

"I made out with him," the redheaded Gryffindor had blurted once she was sure her friend would keep her secret. Hermione's eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline, and Ginny had begun fidgeting with the hem of her gray woolen skirt, eyes downcast in embarrassment.

"It's okay, girl," Hermione sighed, reluctantly touching a finger to her mouth once more. "I let a sulky, no-good Slytherin kiss me, too." And boy, it'd been hard to explain to Ginny why her clandestine relationship with Blaise Zabini was all right without mentioning her own experience with that wretched blonde bombshell.

An annoyed sound escaped her lips when she realized her thoughts had returned to him again. Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

Malfoy was a prat and a bloody wanker, two titles he'd probably earned the day he learned to speak. Nevertheless, Hermione sunk lower in her bubble-ridden bath until the water lapped serenely against her upper neck and – against all the judgment and reason and logic she often prided herself of – remembered just how damned sexy Draco Malfoy could be.

Author's note: I know this chapter was shorter than the first, and for that I apologize. Also, if everyone who subscribed to this story were to review, it could possibly motivate me to write faster in the future … Ahem. Next chapter will most likely be written from Draco's perspective. Thanks for reading!

Chapter note: Draco's cologne description is taken from Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men, which doesn't smell quite as good as the description would have you believe.