Six months.
It had been six miserable, frustrating, maddening months without Hermione, and Draco was ready to throw everything to the wind to see her again.
He began to wander around the places that he knew she would frequent – Flourish and Blotts, Gladrags, and several other places that he’d seen her at in passing. Mostly he passed his time at the bookstore, wondering if she was avoiding it because of him.
He’d finally come to the conclusion that either she was happy with Potter, or she didn’t realize how much he’d actually felt for her. Either way, he thought angrily, it was his own damned stupidity that had pushed her away.
He could have had her. He knew that now. Looking back on their last night together, and remembering the look on her face after she’d asked him not to go, he could identify with her feeling of desperation. He recognized it now, because now it filled him as well.
Natalia was long gone, after having decided to move back in with her parents in France, so that was one obstacle overcome. He was free, and blessedly so. His mother had noticed a difference in him when she’d returned home from her holiday, and he’d broken down and told her the entire sordid story, not leaving out a single detail.
She’d winced through some details and cried for him at others, but when he’d finished, she’d only had one thing to say to him: “Do you love her, Draco?”
And he’d had no answer to that.
He didn’t know if he loved her or not – he only knew that being deprived of her was sending him round the twist, post haste. How had Potter managed to just be her friend for so long? He wondered.
He was perusing the shelves of Honeydukes for new chocolates when the sound of her voice assaulted him like a ton of bricks. He turned to see her laughing with the Saleswitch as she purchased an entire box of sugar quills, and his heart leapt into his throat.
She looked especially fetching in too-tight black slacks and a royal blue button-down shirt. Her hair was fastened in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and stray tendrils of hair framed her face as she smiled.
There was something different about her, though, he realized. She was wearing lip gloss and mascara, and he could smell her new vanilla perfume from where he stood. Since when had she begun to care about makeup?
She paid for the confections and turned, running straight into him. She started to speak, but stopped short when she saw who it was that she’d run into. After a full minute of staring openly at him, she cleared her throat.
“Oh,” she breathed, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m so sorry – I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Apparently.”
A shadow passed over her face and her hand tightened on the box she held before she gave him a quick smile. “Well it was nice seeing you again.” She turned and left the shop, not noticing that he followed her. Once she’d gotten halfway up the street, she exhaled slowly.
“You’re brilliant, Hermione,” she muttered under her breath.
“Don’t you think you’re giving yourself a bit too much credit?” came the voice behind her. She stopped and turned around, eyeing him incredulously.
“Are you following me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On where it is that you’re going.”
“I’m going home.”
“Do you still live alone?”
“Of course I do,” she snapped.
“Then yes, I’m following you.” Her mouth fell open.
“What? But-“
“Is Potter waiting for you there?”
“No,” she said, tilting her chin up defiantly. He wondered at this, but before he could ask about it, she turned on her heel and started walking again. He hurried to keep pace with her. When they reached her building, she stopped and whirled around to face him again. “What is it that you want?”
“I just wanted to chat for a bit.”
“Are you crazy?” she hissed, glancing around. “Someone might see you with me!”
“Ashamed of being seen with me, are you?” he asked, amused.
“No,” she snapped. “But your reputation-“
“Means absolutely nothing at this very moment,” he finished, watching her reaction carefully. She frowned in disbelief.
“All right, but don’t blame me if someone sees you,” she said, turning and heading into the building. She opened the door to her flat and let him in before closing the door behind him.
The first thing he noticed was that she’d redecorated. The sofa and armchair had been reupholstered in jeweled shades of blue, and the curtains that hung at the windows matched. Azure rugs covered the floor of her hallway and her kitchen, and he was willing to bet that her bed was covered in blue as well.
“Well, what did you want?” she asked, not meeting his eye as she opened the box of sugar quills and placed them neatly into a container.
“I just wanted to visit and play catch-up with you.”
She leveled a glare at him. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“I don’t know why you would; it’s the truth.”
“Fine,” she said, moving into the living room. She placed the container of sugar quills on the oak desk that was in the corner of the room. “We’ll play catch-up, then. You’re looking well.”
“As are you,” he replied, his voice pleasant. “I see that you’ve redecorated.” Her cheeks colored slightly at this.
“What of it?”
“You’re color coordinated with the room,” he said suddenly, amused at the thought. She rolled her eyes.
“And?”
“New favorite color, I take it?”
“Yes.” She pursed her lips together and folded her arms over her chest.
“Ah.”
“How is Natalia, by the way?”
“She’s fine, I expect.”
“You expect? Don’t you know?” she asked, confused.
“How would I know? She’s been gone for nigh to five months.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“And Potter? How is he?”
“Harry’s fine.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he frowned.
“Well, we’ve caught up, I think. Was that all you wanted?”
“Why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?” he asked, his eyebrows raising.
“I’m not,” she said defensively.
“It would seem that you are. Do you have other plans?”
“Yes – no,” she said, frustrated. “Why do you care?”
“I thought we might spend some quality time together.”
“What?” she asked incredulously. There was silence for a few moments, and he watched as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“I sold some of my paintings,” he offered quietly. Her eyes flew to his.
“You did?”
“Seven, to be exact. I had them put on display in a Muggle art gallery in London, and they sold almost immediately.”
“Oh, Draco – that’s wonderful!” And there it was – the reverence of his name was still there, and it told him everything he needed to know. “Really, it is.”
“I sold the one you liked,” he said carefully. Her face contorted briefly before she forced a smile.
“It was a beautiful painting,” she breathed, averting her eyes. “It was nice of you to tell me. I wish I could have seen the display.”
“I was going to owl you and let you know about it,” he began. His voice trailed off, and she fidgeted again.
“It’s all right.” She rubbed the back of her neck, and then pushed some errant strands of hair away from her face. “Since you’re already here, would you like to stay for dinner? I’m trying a new recipe tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Lately I’ve been into experimental cooking – mostly Indian food, which means lots of spices. I’ve had a couple of accidents, but for the most part, everything has been edible.”
“Is that so,” he said, his eyes sparkling with silent laughter. “In that case, how can I refuse?”
“Well, if you’re going to stay, you’re going to have to make yourself useful.” She went back into the kitchen and he followed. “Here,” she said, shoving a large knife and cutting board at him.
“What am I cutting?” he asked, watching her bend over and extract some vegetables from the fridge.
“These.” She turned and headed out the door. “I’ll be right back.”
When she returned minutes later, she was wearing a pair of jeans and a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt. He gave her a curious look.
“I didn’t want to get my work clothes dirty,” she explained, going to work on dinner.
One small stove fire, a barely sliced finger, and two hours later, dinner was ready. She poured them each a glass of red wine and sat down at the table across from him.
“Well that was an adventure,” he said, taking a bite of the food.
“Never cooked before, have you?” she asked, smiling.
“How did you guess?” he asked dryly, taking a sip of the wine. The food was good; he had to give her that much – but it was spicy as hell, and made his mouth feel as though it were on fire. Dinner passed mostly in silence, though Hermione made a big show of having to refill his wineglass three times.
“So,” she said, sipping from her own wine goblet. “How did you come about the decision to sell your paintings – if you don’t mind my asking, that is.”
“I don’t mind a bit,” he said pleasantly, reclining in his chair. The wine had relaxed him. “Almost everyone who’s ever seen them has encouraged me to sell them, you know. One day I went up to the storage room to fetch something for my Mother, and I saw the paintings. They were just sitting there, collecting dust, so I decided to do something about it.”
“Why not use one of the rooms of the Manor as an art gallery and display them?” she asked curiously.
“My mother doesn’t especially care for my work,” he said, shrugging. “And I have no need to see my own paintings hanging on the walls of my home.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense.”
“Indeed. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What have you been doing with yourself? I noticed that you’ve stopped writing for the Prophet.”
“I still work there – I was promoted to Editor,” she said, pride in her voice. “The title may sound lofty, I know, but it’s nice not to have a partner to worry about – plus I get loads of time off now.”
“Not a workaholic anymore?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“What do you do with your free time?”
“A little bit of everything.”
“Such as?”
“Such as,” she said, refilling her glass, “dancing lessons. Fitness classes. Volunteering at the library.”
“Aha!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “I knew that books had to be involved in there somewhere.”
She giggled. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d had too much wine. “Some things never change.”
“Apparently. Well, dinner was lovely,” he said, rising from the table. He stumbled slightly, and she frowned at him.
“Leaving already? But you just got here.”
“I got the distinct impression earlier that I wasn’t welcome here.”
“If you weren’t welcome here, would I have invited you to stay for dinner?”
He considered this for a moment. Then, “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“If you do, I’ll let you know.”
He cast a rueful glance at the empty wine bottle. “I think I’ve consumed most of your alcohol.”
“So?” she shrugged nonchalantly. “I can always buy more.”
“I’m feeling a bit out of sorts.”
“You can sleep it off on my sofa,” she said, gesturing to the living room. “I don’t want you trying to apparate home and getting splinched as a result. Couldn’t live with that on my conscience.”
“Are you feeling sober enough for me to stay?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just wondering if you were drunk enough for me to take advantage of you yet,” he laughed. She snorted.
“Funny. I’ll go get you a blanket.” She disappeared down the hall, and he stumbled into her bedroom, feeling nauseated. He flicked on the light and started toward the bathroom door, freezing when he glanced in the mirror that hung on the wall. Slowly he turned around, and his eyes widened.
His painting – the one that she’d been so sensitive to, the sad one – was hanging on her bedroom wall.
That meant that she’d gone to the gallery and seen his pictures. That also meant that she’d lied to him earlier when she’d pretended she hadn’t been there. Why?
“Draco?” she called. She stopped in the doorway of her bedroom, taking in the scene that lay before her. “So now you know,” she sighed, suddenly looking tired.
“Why would you lie to me like that?” he asked angrily, sobering as he spoke. “What cause would you have, to pretend that you had no idea that I’d sold my paintings?”
“I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Which would be what? That you held something more than a passing interest in me?”
“That’s not fair, and you know it,” she shot back. “I was in London for a weekend with my Mum. My cousin was getting married, and we were shopping, and I just happened to pass the gallery where one of your pictures was displayed in the window. I went inside, and when I saw this one, I couldn’t help myself.”
“I know what you paid for this,” he said, his brow knitting in confusion. “You knew it was mine, and yet you paid the full asking price. You didn’t haggle with the dealer, and you didn’t put up an argument when he told you the price.”
“I expect he told you that my mother objected,” she said, her mouth twisting in a wry smile. “I didn’t haggle for good reasons.”
“Which were?”
“I didn’t want to cause a scene, for one,” she said, shrugging. “I didn’t want anyone to know that I knew you. I was afraid they’d refuse to sell it to me if they knew.”
“Is that all?”
“I paid the full asking price,” she admitted. “Willingly. And I would have paid more, had they asked for it.”
“Why?” he asked, amazed.
“It’s worth every penny of what I paid,” she said, moving to stand inside the room and look at it. “I’ve spent loads of time just staring at it. It’s the most moving piece of work I’ve ever seen.”
He stared at her, his breath caught in his throat. After a full minute, she turned and met his eye.
“I’ve got your blanket,” she said, suddenly feeling shy. “You can have one of my pillows, if you like.”
“Is that why you redecorated?” he asked softly.
“What?” Her eyes were wide with surprise.
“The flat,” he said, gesturing around him. “Is that why you redecorated, to match the blue in my painting?”
“Oh,” she said, understanding. “No, that’s not why I did it – though it worked out nicely, I’d say,” she said, smiling as she glanced around.
“I’m going to give your money back to you,” he said suddenly. She narrowed her eyes at him.
“You most certainly are not,” she said. “I paid for it, fair and square. It’s mine.”
“I don’t want to buy it back,” he amended. “I’m going to give you back your money, and you’re going to keep the painting.”
“Why would you do something so stupid?”
“Call it a gift.”
“I will not,” she said firmly. “And you’re not going to give me any money back, either, unless you want a good throttling.”
He took a step closer, and she retreated one step. The intense look in his eyes made her pulse race. “W-What are you doing?”
“I’m going to kiss you,” he breathed softly. Her expression reflected her surprise.
“What? Why?”
“Because I’ve wanted to since before I saw you in Honeydukes,” he admitted, his face moving closer to hers. “Are you going to stop me?”
She sucked in a quick breath and paused before shaking her head.
“No,” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering closed as he pressed his lips against hers. Almost immediately the softness of the kiss melted, leaving urgency in its wake. He pressed her back against the wall as he kissed her into oblivion.
His hands tangled in her hair, then trailed slowly down her sides until they rested on her hips. She moaned into the kiss when he pressed closer against her, allowing her to feel his arousal. Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers tangling themselves in his hair.
Her fingers trembled violently as she unfastened his pants, hungry for him immediately. When she’d undone his pants, she turned her attention to her jeans, pushing them down as quickly as possible, and then kicking them away. When she felt his hardness pressing against her leg, she moaned and shifted to allow him entry.
“Merciful Morgaine,” he breathed, sliding into her. His eyes never left hers as she bit down on her lower lip.
Too excited to take his time, he thrust rapidly. Within moments he felt her slick walls convulse around him, sending him reeling over the edge as well. He was still inside of her as he spoke.
“Hi,” he whispered, brushing the hair away from her face.
“Hi,” she whispered back, her hands still gripping his shoulders.
“It doesn’t seem like so long ago that I was looking at you from here,” he breathed. He reached a hand up to caress her cheek gently before pulling away from her. He watched silently as she pulled her knickers back on, and folded her jeans neatly across the edge of her bed before she turned to face him again.
“Would you like to stay the night? If you don’t have other plans, that is,” she amended quickly.
“I thought you’d never ask.”