"Why are you looking at the wrong places? Look at me, I'm just right here."
Hermione pulled her head out from under the bed to glare at Draco. He was sitting in one of the armchairs his mother had insisted on giving them. His legs were outstretched. His shoes gleamed. "Yes," she said in a voice she hoped didn't sound like she wanted to throttle that smirk right off his face. "You are here. But my shoes are not here."
"Accio them," he said.
Hermione cast a pointed glare at the pile of tangled shoes behind her. As if she hadn't already thought of that. She'd managed to summon every pair of shoes in the house except the ones she wanted. She'd probably yanked a few away from the neighboring flats. "Gosh," she said. "What a great idea."
Draco laughed, and she leveled her wand at him. "I could transfigure you to a pair of gold heels," she said. "Just for this New Year's party. Then I'd put you back."
He laughed again, and this time he stood up and wrapped his arms around her. "We could always stay home," he said. "If the right shoes are that important."
Hermione was about to snap at him that no, they could not stay home. This was the biggest party of the year, and they absolutely had to be there. Then she inhaled, and breathed in the scent of his cologne and weighed her options. Party. Bad wine. Too loud. People who she needed to impress while wearing painful shoes. Home. Good wine. Soft bed. Someone who could take his time trying to impress her.
Really, it was no contest. They didn't call her the brightest witch of her age for nothing.