Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. Which is almost everything.

Two Can Play

Draco Malfoy suppressed a shudder at the feel of some 6th year Slytherin running her hand up his thigh. 'One lay and she fancies herself in love with me,' he thought to himself, mentally rolling his eyes. If only she could be more like her.

She knew that nothing would come of their times together. Not that anything could, or it would be both their heads, but that was beside the point. A girl who understood the basis of a purely physical relationship was exactly what he needed right now, and she was exactly that. Although, it's true—she was definitely the last person he would have expected to start any kind of relationship with, physical or otherwise. Of course, he wasn't complaining—they still hated one another, after all.

The thought of her brought to life the infamous Malfoy smirk, as memories of last week's escapades flooded into the forefront of his mind. Had it really been a week since he touched her? 'Merlin…' This was, without a doubt, the longest tiff they'd held since their agreement at the beginning of the year, and he wanted nothing more than to end the stupid fight now so they could go back to previous arrangements. However, he was still a Malfoy, and Malfoys never apologized. Never. His smirk faded as his jaw set in grim determination. She'd be in his bed by the end of the week. Maybe even the night, if he was lucky.

"Not now, Lorraine," he spat as the insufferable twit began to move her hand northward. Already, a plan had begun to form within his mind—he was a Slytherin, after all. Ever-observant, he knew by now exactly what she liked…and exactly what set her off, both good and bad. Lorraine wouldn't do. Oh, no—she wouldn't do at all.

The young Malfoy scanned the Great Hall, not noticing Lorraine's annoyed huff. Then again, nothing could distract him when he knew what he wanted. After a third scan of the Gryffindor table, he was certain—she had yet to come down for dinner. Perfect.

"Hey Pans," he greeted, his voice rich and husky. "Got any plans this weekend?"

"Not yet, though I'm thinking of visiting Hogsmeade. Care to join me?" she answered, equally seductive. She was, without a doubt, pure seduction in a 5'6" package, with her long black hair, shocking blue eyes, thin figure and pale skin. The whole of Slytherin agreed—as did much of the rest of the school—that she was Draco's female counterpart: both smolderingly sexy, both cool and quiet, both sultry, and both utterly ruthless. They were perfect for each other—or so the whole school thought.

It was this fact, among others, that led to Hermione Granger's complete loathing of Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin Sex Goddess to Draco's God status. During one of their rare conversations, the Gryffindor Princess had expressed strong dislike toward her classmate and when Draco asked if she was jealous, Granger had laughed at the apparent absurdity.

"I'll admit I'm jealous of that whore when you admit you're jealous of Harry and Ron," she replied.

"Why the hell would I be jealous of Scarhead and Weasel?" he exclaimed, voicing his disgust at the mere idea as he made his way to her from across the Head's common room they shared. "I'm the one fucking you every night" he reminded her, before proving his point. She responded readily to his touch—more so than before—and he realized…she was jealous.

Thus began his little game. Three days later, they had another argument over something stupid—Heads' duties, no doubt—and she refused to look at him all day…until, of course, he walked into the Great Hall with Pansy on his arm. A sly glance at the Gryffindor table revealed an irritated Granger who took her frustrations out on some First year, who was given a detention for spilling Pumpkin Juice on accident. Throughout dinner, Draco had avoided her angry gaze, but could feel her eyes all during dinner. Exactly what he wanted.

Later that night, after faking a headache to get away from Pansy, he teased her about the First year, enjoying her obvious state of annoyance.

"Really, Granger—what's got your knickers in a twist?" he drawled, lying back against the arm of the couch in front of the fire in their common room.

"You know very well that I don't wear knickers," she stated matter-of-factly, head hidden behind a book so she wouldn't have to look at him.

"I do know, but maybe I should check, just to make sure" he suggested, eyeing her.

"Huh. And here I thought you'd have your way with Parkinson tonight, the way you two were staring at each other throughout dinner. Honestly, why come back to our common room at all?"

Draco smirked. 'Exactly where I want her', he thought. He stood, walking slowly over to where she sat across from him, still buried in the book. Before she could register what was going on, he removed the book from her hands.

"Malfoy—give that back. Why don't you go screw the Slut or something?" she growled, angry now. He loved it.

"But Granger, I'd much rather screw you instead," he innocently responded, "though Pansy is somewhat of an interesting fuck…never know what she'll do…"

Just as planned, Granger's lips came crashing down upon his and he could have sworn he heard her mumble something about "showing him what an interesting fuck is", but it didn't really sink in. All that mattered was that he was right. After that, he knew he could use her stubborn jealousy to his advantage; being seen with Pansy during the day meant a phenomenal night with Granger. He figured this wouldn't be an exception.

'Screw the end of the week,' he thought to himself, 'she'll be in my bed in hours' time'.

Keeping close to Pansy, he kept an eye on the entrance, waiting for the perfect moment to lean into her and whisper something stupid into her ear. His cue was a flash of silky brown hair. Automatically, he moved closer to Pansy, choking on his words when she came into full view.

She hadn't exactly changed. In fact, the Gryffindor looked exactly as he had seen her before she left that morning for breakfast—except now she had that idiot Weasel wrapped around her. Angry fire coursed though his veins, and he suddenly felt ready to punch a hole in the nearby wall. His stomach burned with a feeling undeniably foreign, and somehow he knew that Weasley's death would be the only remedy to ease the uncomfortable-ness. What was she thinking, waltzing into the Great Hall with him!

It shouldn't have surprised him. The Weasel was her friend, after all. But the way she held herself while under his arm seemed to scream at him, "You want to play games? Fine—two can play at this one." The fact that she carefully avoided his gaze was added evidence—she had caught onto his little charade.

Any onlooker would walk into the Great Hall and see only a roomful of students and teachers eating dinner after a hard day's work. Upon closer inspection, said onlooker might notice one or two couples at each table holding hands and whatnot—doing what typical teenage couples do. At one table, a brunette and a vibrant red-headed boy were laughing together, the girl reaching out and brushing his fiery red hair from his eyes every now and then as his hand gently lay atop hers on the table. All the way across the other side of the room, a white-blonde-haired boy and a raven-haired beauty sent each smirk after sexy smirk, their whole conversation carried wholly in each other's eyes—which was a good thing. Whatever they were saying certainly wasn't appropriate table talk. He would run his finger down her cheek as she rubbed his muscular arm over school robes. Only someone who knew what to look for would see that every once in a while the brunette's eyes would flicker over to the blonde before returning her attention to the red-head, affection doubled; the blonde's silver eyes narrowing when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the brunette laugh and kiss the red-head on the cheek. Lucky for the brunette and the blonde, no one was really watching.

The minute he saw her leave, he rose from his place at the Slytherin table, claimed he forgot something somewhere, and left, taking a shortcut to the Heads' common room where he knew she would go. He wanted to be there before she arrived. She had a lot of explaining to do.

"What the hell do you think you were doing?" he asked, almost conversationally, as the portrait swung open to let her in. Surprise lit her face at the sight of him, but she masked it quickly with unfeeling indifference. After living with Malfoy for a few months, she had learned quite a few tricks.

"I'm on my way up, Malfoy. It's been a long day and I'm rather tired, so if you'll excuse me…" she trailed, beginning to walk towards her dormitory.

"That's not what I meant. What were you doing with Weasel?" he clarified, standing up from his seat on the couch.

"If you mean Ron—he's my friend. I'd like to think I can spend time with my friends every so often, Malfoy," she answered, glaring at him.

"And do you act that way with all your friends?" he shot back with equal malice.

"Excuse me? Need I remind you that we have done some pretty crazy things, and I'd hardly call us 'friends'… Besides, what's it to you, anyway?" she asked, anger lacing her words.

"You call what we've done 'crazy'?" he smirked, enjoying the sight of her getting riled up and beginning to forget, for a second, his initial annoyance.

"Yeah, well, what else would I call it?" she frowned, crossing her arms as he made his way toward her.

"Crazy." He echoed, loosening his tie. "Hot. Wild. Sexy…" each word, bringing him closer to her. Her stance never faltered, but a new fire burned in her eyes—one he was all too familiar with after the many months they had spent with one another. The Malfoy smirk never left his face as he lowered his head to her neck. "Wet. Passionate. Lustful. Sweaty. Satisfying," he continued, leaving a kiss on her sensitive skin between each word. His tongue darted out from between his lips, tracing small circles along her pulse point, causing a hitch in her breath.

"Malfoy, I can hang around whomever I wish," she demanded and he chuckled at how breathy it sounded—the only evidence that he was wearing away her resolve.

"Whatever you want, Granger."

"Damn right," she agreed before wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and capturing his lips with her own.

He smirked thought the kiss, fumbling for his wand before aiming a Silencing charm at the door, thanking the Gods above that Hogwarts taught silent spells in the 6th year. he knew tonight would be one of those nights—just like it always was whenever she saw him with Pansy. Of course, after her little stunt with Weasley, he had all the more reason to remind her just whose bed it was she slept in almost every night. With that in mind, he threw another silencing spell at the door, reinforcing the previous one. It was going to be a long night.