She huffs in an exasperated manner, much the way of someone thoroughly, positively, Blast-Ended Skrewt blastingly exasperated.

Throwing up her arms, she forgets her sandwich, and her books and papers, her half-used quills with nubs already worn down despite only a few weeks past being purchased, barrelling down the hallways with her exasperated rage, on silly red-headed boys and their silly red-headed stubborness, and she-

*BAM*

--barrels straight into a wide, hard, soft, warm surface-- there are *papers* *everywhere*, and possibly a broom, because it feels like there's a *stick*?- between her legs, and she's tangled with someone, and they are falling, falling--

"Oof!"

"Ow!"

"Ack!! Err..I'm *sorry*-"

"You *bloody* hell *well* be!"

"Malfoy?!"

And they seem to have tumbled together in a pile.

She realizes she's fallen straight on top of him, and she pushes off his chest for leverage, and their lower bodies brush against each other as she gets off him, and raises herself up.

And then she extends her hand, chin struck up with some amount of defiance, as though daring him to say something about the blush invading her cheeks, about how her hair flutters messily into place, a very new shape.

He looks at her, a moment's pause, silence both, and around them except for the sound of his broom gently rolling on the floor, and the papers, his papers, also making their papery noises of descent.

He grabs her hand, and hauls himself up.

"I'll be late for Quidditch practice," he says brusquely.

"I need to get these papers for Snape."

"Let me help you," she suggests. "And I can take them down to him."

They work on ordering the loose-leaf parchments into some semblance of order. She holds the growing stack, while he adjusts them, hesitates, nods, and then departs for the field.

They do not speak of it to anyone; they throw each other glances during opportune moments, because of having compassed square one.