Our meal was fine. We ordered another bottle of wine, so we've drank two between the two of us by the time dinner is done and we are encouraged to mill about. We move back upstairs and continue dancing. Some of the couples are way better than us, but I don't mind. I'm sure someone is looking at me and thinking that they wish someone held them as tightly as he holds me.

Eventually, the ship returns. We use a pay phone at the docks to order a cab home. The plan is to grab my stuff and bid him goodnight. Perhaps he would let me stay, but I worry I would kiss him in a way that conveys something other than lust and hunger. The excuse I tell him is that my flatmates will be quite cross with me otherwise.

We get in the cab. The music that the driver plays is nowhere near as wonderful as what we just heard. Draco doesn't tap along with his fingers in the car. It is only 8:00, and the night is young, but it is a Monday and so the streets aren't lined with people looking for a pub crawl. When we snake through smaller roads, for a second, it feels like he and I are the only people left in this city.

We get back to his hotel and head up to his room. This time, he doesn't wrestle with the key card. In a swift movement, it is in and out.

We are inside, and I rush into the bathroom. I've already gone once while on the boat, but five glasses of wine are quite a bit to drink. He switches out with me as soon as I'm done to use the bathroom himself. I go to put the clothes that I had intended to wear here into my new bag. While I was in the bathroom, he brought the bag onto the desk. I see the bell that I bought him. It was here, a few nights ago. I remember it ringing. My hands wrap around the handle and give it a shake. The sound is just as melodic as I remember.

He exits the bathroom. His footsteps are soft against the carpet. Much more muffled than when we danced.

"Can I have water?" I ask, looking back at him, the bell still in my fingers.

He goes into the minifridge and pulls out a bottle. He cracks it open before screwing the lid back on and handing it to me.

Once the bell is back down on the desk, I begin to chug water. Hopefully, that'll prevent a hangover but still keep me drunk enough that nightmares won't crack my head later. Realistically, when I go to bed in three hours, I will be more sober compared to my current state.

"Thanks," I put it down on the desk.

He steps in, so close. My body is turned away from him but that doesn't stop him. I can feel his chest pressing against my shoulder. His one hand fiddles with the hem of my skirt. My breath hitches in my throat. Never can my brain nor body work in conjunction. Usually, it is my brain that betrays me. The panic will set in and do things that I know ought not to be done. Tonight, it is my body that is disloyal. Rationally, I should not want this. It is a bad idea. Then his fingers lift the hem and trail up my thigh.

"I was supposed to be coming up for my things," I shake my head.

His head leans against mine, his lips just next to my ear, "well, you also weren't supposed to come out with me again."

"I rarely do anything that is proper and good," I admit.

His fingers leave my thigh. The second of relief I feel is lost quickly when he grabs me around the waist and pulls me so that we are face to face. Eyes interlocked. It's the alcohol, I tell myself even though my tipsiness hasn't passed into a drunken stupor. If I pretend that I am more intoxicated than I am, I can blame the alcohol rather than his effect on me.

It is not the wine though.

"I think," he hesitates, then pushes through the words, "the light switch in this room has a dimmer."

He says it without saying it. My brain goes to all sorts of stupid places, each one of them more ridiculous than the last.

"You won't touch my hair," I say.

"You won't take off my shirt," he continues.

I can feel my hands itching to grab him. There need to be some ground rules set, at least something more than that. A promise that he will stop me before I irreparably embarrass myself by saying something utterly and incredibly idiotic.

I just hope he kisses me roughly so that I can feel heat course through me instead of butterflies in my stomach. My brain doesn't trust my body not to lean up and soften.

Draco pulls me in. I let our lips match. His fingers on my back press into me harder and harder. I stumble with him, backing up towards the bed. We are close to the other wall when he flips us around and presses my back into the plaster.

We kiss so hard that I need air. Unfortunately, I need him more than I want to breathe. At this point, breathing feels entirely optional. My hands grab the buttons of his shirt. He doesn't stop me. They linger, and then he nods. It's enough of a yes for both of us.

Then, his hands are taking off my shirt. I move my arms out of the way, and he throws it on the floor. I don't even care that something so nice in quality should be folded. I'm folding beneath him.

My hands don't know where to go, but neither do his. I go to his hair, and his chest, and his back, and anywhere and everywhere. We should have discussed this first. He's not the kind for discussion though. He touches my neck, and my chest and waist and thighs and so much of my exposed skin.

It has been years since I've been shirtless with a man, and I definitely feel a bit more nervous than is normal for the situation, but I can't even count to ease the stress. My eyes are closed, so I see nothing. I taste and smell him. I can hear his breathing. I feel everything. Maybe people kiss with their eyes closed because of how overwhelming it would be to the brain otherwise. He devastates my defences. Every sense I have is taking him in. He is not just a thousand things. The universe is shallower than him.

I bite his lower lip.

He moans. His voice is a soft whisper, "I've missed you."

I pause. His lips move from mine to my neck, moving towards my collarbone. It was so quiet that it crosses my mind that I might have imagined the words, but I didn't. There they were.

I put my hands to his chest and push him away. His hands release me, and he takes a step back. He's panting, and lines are drawn between his eyebrows. He's frowning. I wait, staring.

His eyes widen, "fuck, I didn't-"

"You might as well have said her name," I shake my head.

"Fuck, I..." he trails off. "Look, I'm sorry-"

"Don't even bother," I tell him.

I grab the jumper he gave me off the floor and pull it over my head. He's struggling to button up his shirt as I move over to the bag on the desk. My hands are around the handle, and I notice the bell. Half of me wants to snatch it and put it in my bag too.

"Listen to me," he rushes over, blocking my path between the desk and the door.

"You will regret not letting me move," I tell him.

He sighs, moving out of the way. I brush past him. As I pull on my boots, he stares at me.

"I didn't mean to do that," he says.

A laugh escapes my laugh, almost choking out my oxygen, "oh, but you did do it anyway."

"You're unreasonably cross," he points out.

My head snaps from my boots back to him. I get up and grab my coat from the closet where he hung it.

"You thought I was someone else!" my voice is angry. "You are clearly not ready to do this. I don't know why I thought this would even work."

"I don't get why you're angry," he is shaking his head, actually laughing at me and not with me. "You... the only reason you're trying to sleep with me is to get over your ex. Why can't I do the same thing?"

I stare at him, anger boiling my blood. I don't even look at him, shoving past him to run out of the room. He doesn't have his shoes on, and I can hear him struggling to tie them while I race to the staircase. No part of me wants him to follow after me. He wouldn't be following after me anyway; he'd be following the ghost of that Pansy girl. The worst part isn't that he thought I was her.

The worst part is that I was actually starting to like him, and it is clear that he wasn't starting to like me.

~~~~~

It's late but here it is. I love this. Moments are going to be happening. Do enjoy!