Once More, With Feeling

As she looked around her living room - at the green velvet ottoman she didn't remember purchasing, the 14th century Wizarding texts on her bookshelf, the hideous and obnoxiously ostentatious grandfather clock that could only belong to a Malfoy - she pictured the toothbrush next to hers on her bathroom counter, the old Slytherin quidditch jersey she regularly tripped over in her bedroom, and the mint chocolate chip ice cream in her freezer - a flavour she abhorred, but that a particular, pale, pointy faced aristocrat sat across from her had a tragic fondness for.

Her chest burning, as if she drank a barrel of bubotuber pus, Hermione turned to him with narrowed, accusing eyes. "Malfoy...are we dating?"