It was not quite five o’clock in the afternoon; that time when the lengthening shadows still stand starkly in the lingering light of the sun but the heat of the day has already begun to fade into a whispering chill. The little café was just beginning to fill as the streets swarmed with people leaving work and wandering into the last vestiges of the autumn sun. Regulars quickly slipped in to their usual tables, jockeying for the most comfortable chairs and best views while newcomers hovered uncomfortably by the bar until a smiling waitress relieved their distress and directed them to an open place.

The thick, steamy smell of coffee billowed through the air, accompanied by the hearty odor of tonight’s special which followed the waiters through the kitchen doors, wafting on a breeze of basil, rosemary, and tarragon. Savoring the heady brew, a young woman installed comfortably at small round table gently lay down her book and sighed. A rather harried waiter caught her eye over the crowded room and raised one eyebrow with a questioning nod. She smiled brightly in return, her affirmative nod bouncing the few brown curls that had slipped from her half-fallen bun. A moment later a frothing mug of coffee was placed in front of her, and she wrapped her hands around it’s warmth with pleasure, returning her attention to the thick book that lay in front of her.

Around her the café bustled, a few folding tables set out in futile attempts to seat more people in the cramped space. People pushing, shoving, joking, and laughing filled the room with a hum of noise as outside the light faded into shadows.

“Pardon me, but would you mind if I stole this chair?”

Startled, the woman glanced up as she realized that she was being addressed. A thin young man stood with his hand on the back of the chair, glancing back at a large group trying to squeeze in around a small square table. “Oh, no, not at all,” she replied, trying to regain her scattered thoughts.

Stooping down to grab the seat of the chair, his pale tousled hair glowed in the light shed by the small table lamp and she watched it, suddenly lost in memories of someone else, some other time.

“You really don’t mind do you, I mean I’m sure I can find another…” the young man asked hesitantly, confused, and suddenly she realized she had been caught staring at him.

She blushed, tried to stop, and then blushed again. “No, really, take the chair. It’s just that you reminded me of someone I once knew, that’s all.”

He smiled politely, thoughts obviously elsewhere as he waited for two busboys and an elderly woman to clear the path between the tables.

She began to open her book again when the harried waiter who had brought her coffee appeared by her elbow, his eyes already betraying his weariness from the nights rush. “Good evening, Miss Granger.” He gave her a tired smile with his cheerless greeting.

“Hello, John. Long day?” she asked sympathetically, glancing at the crowds.

“Lord, yes. I’ve worked a double shift. Anyway, what can I get for you tonight?”

The blond man’s head had whipped around as he heard the waiter’s greeting, a puzzled frown settling over his features. “Hermione?” he gaped at last. “Hermione Granger?”

“Yes?” she said with an air of consternation, and then with a sinking feeling in her stomach she remembered why he had looked so familiar earlier. For a moment she couldn’t even think of satisfactory words to say before settling on, “I certainly never thought I would see you here, Draco.”

“Erm, I seem to be here at a bit of a bad time,” the waiter said, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as the two stared at each other across the table. “I’ll just come back later then?”

“Thank you, John. That would be lovely,” Hermione replied, her eyes never leaving Draco’s face.

Gratefully, the waiter retreated, soon sucked back into the endless cycle of ordering, preparing, fetching, and cleaning up while across the room two statues hesitated, frozen in time and awkwardness.

A loud shout behind them broke the spell. “Hey, Malfoy! What’s keeping you? Get lost on the way back or something?”

“I’ll be back,” Draco said, striding over to his table of friends.

He left the chair, Hermione noticed. She started to call him back, then thought the better of it. It was only a chair. She meant to go back to her book, dropped open invitingly on the table top, but instead she found herself watching him. He wove easily over to the table, full of young and hearty looking people. A particularly lovely girl with short spiky hair was pouring glasses of champagne when he bent down to speak, and she waved him away with her hand, her laugh like chiming bells. Suddenly, Hermione felt like she was intruding, and shamefully turned her face away, staring into the empty, dark pane of the window.

A chair scraped on the floor, and as the table shuddered slightly under a new weight, she knew he had returned. He was staring at her thoughtfully, chin resting in his hand. Uncomfortable, she reached down and began playing with the fading green cuffs of her cardigan, clenching and unclenching her hands from within their safe confines.

“You’ve changed.”

She glanced up surprised. “It’s been ten years.” He grimaced slightly, not saying anything, and suddenly she was struck by how different she had imagined this conversation being. “You’ve changed, too.”

And she meant it. It wasn’t anything too tangible, just that he moved a little more slowly, wore the world a little more easily than she remembered. The shirtsleeves of his button-down were rolled up at the elbow, she couldn’t remember a time he would look so casual in public. He was still scrawny, but his forearms were corded with the muscles underneath. Long scars ran across their surface, some shiny, others a stark white line on his sun beaten skin. Quickly she tore her eyes away lest she be caught staring again.

He laughed hollowly. “And it has only taken you ten years to admit it.”

She flushed again; irrationally angry at this power he seemed to have over the color of her cheeks. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

His face darkened, and for a moment she was relieved to see his familiar scowl. “Never mind, Granger. If you don’t know that, then I suppose I have merely been wasting your precious time. If you will excuse me…” He half rose from his chair before her hand snaked out and caught his wrist.

“Please, Draco, wait,” she begged, guilt welling up inside her stomach for being so petty when she knew, deep down, she was in the wrong.

He sat, eyes questioning her, searching for the words she still could not bear to say.

“I heard from Harry yesterday,” she said desperately, searching for an olive branch to offer him.

He accepted it, settling back in the chair with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “And how is Potter doing?”

“Quite well, actually,” Hermione gushed with relief. “He’s down in South America now, poking around some old Aztec ruins. Did you know that they have to most distinctive architectural feature? I was in the library the other day and I found a book that said…”

“Spare me,” Draco said, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

Hermione smiled ruefully, mentally rewinding the conversation to the last pertinent point. “Anyway, he is looking for some sort of feathered snake. Everybody thinks they are mythical but that only is making him more determined- you know how he gets.”

“Oh, lord; yes,” Draco groaned, ignoring Hermione’s look of surprise. He was still not ready to let on how much he enjoyed the monthly owls he traded with the Boy-Who-Turned-Out-To-Not-Be-So-Bad-After-All. And going by the look on her face, Harry had decided not to stir up that pot and tell her either. “So has he decided when he is going to drag his sorry carcass home?” Draco asked quickly to cover up his slip.

Hermione smiled minutely at the sardonic reply; how often she had wanted to ask Harry that herself! “Well, I did hear Ginny give him an ultimatum about that- so I’d keep a lookout come spring.”

“What kind of a world is it where poor, helpless bachelors are dragged off by unrepentant females and forced into matrimony?” Draco asked the world in general. “Harry had better run quick, before it is too late.”

“I take it you’re not married, then.”

“Lord, no! Don’t you ever scare me like that again, Granger.” He stared at her with his wide grey eyes. “And you? Don’t tell me you have succumbed to matrimonial bliss with Weasley.”

“Now you know very well that’s not true!” Hermione flared up. “Ron enjoys being one of England’s most eligable bachelors; I doubt he is going to give it up any time soon.”

Draco muttered something inaudible.

“What did you say?”

“Damn Quidditch players get all the girls.” As Hermione frowned, his smile widened, and he continued to wind her up. “Famous Keepers like him make all us normal guys seem so ordinary. I’m sure it must be terrible, the way he has a different girl hanging off his arm each night, the poor bloke. All the money, and the fame, and the women…”

“That’s enough,” Hermione hissed.

“But you just said…” Draco began with wounded innocence.

“I know what I just said,” she replied, her cheeks darkening with fury. “And I take back what I said earlier as well. You haven’t changed a bit.” Deliberately picking up her book she snapped it open like a shield between them. “I’m sure your friends are missing you,” she added pointedly, in case he missed the hint.

He continued to sit for a moment, and she was afraid he was not going to leave, and wondered what she would do then. At last he stood with a sigh and returned to his group. Still, Hermione found she couldn’t concentrate, and that she really wasn’t as hungry as she had thought. Quickly she flipped through her bag, digging out enough bills and coins to pay for the coffee. As she placed them on the table she noticed a small square of paper left where Draco had been sitting. Curious, she picked it up and found a quickly scribbled address and a single word- sorry. She meant to drop it back on the table, to be thrown out with the trash, and to let Draco Malfoy stay out of her life forever. She intended to do just that. And yet as she left the café, the note was folded securely in her pocket.
__________________

It was one o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and Hermione was found herself doing something she hadn’t done in years- dithering. Fingering the worn scrap of paper in her pocket she paced back and forth on the street outside a row of tall thin townhouses all squashed together in reddish brown brick and stone. It certainly was not what she expected the place to look like, and somehow that stole her courage more than the thought of meeting him again.

Quickly, before she could change her mind yet again she skipped up the three stone steps to the door and pressed the buzzer, her heart thudding like a locomotive in her chest. She waited, yet the door remained closed, and breathing a sigh of relief she turned to go home.

“Yes?”

Startled, Hermione turned to see the door cracked open behind her. Draco stood half behind the door, his hair standing up in a cowlick, his other hand buried in the pocket of the rumpled sweatpants he wore with a wrinkled tee shirt advertising Oxfam.

He peered at her, slowly blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Hermione? Now I know I must still be dreaming.”

“You were asleep?” she asked stupidly, all of her clever remarks banished by dread and confusion. “I’m sorry; I should never have imposed...” Apologizing she prepared to leave again, but he only opened the door wider.

“Whatever. If you want to grab a seat I’ll be back in a minute.” Suddenly Hermione found herself inside the front door, while Draco was disappearing down the hallway. Momentarily she considered fleeing, then scolded herself thoroughly for even thinking it.

Stepping out of the small entrance hall she looked around. A tiny kitchen spread open to the right, a large pile of dishes in the sink while a few clean plates sat forlornly in the drying rack. A small card table was covered with papers, both the Daily Prophet and a few sections of muggle papers, the crosswords half filled in. Picking one up, she smiled at the scratched out letters of number twelve down: czar.

“Did you want to sit down?”

Guiltily, Hermione dropped the paper, not wanting to be accused of prying. Draco stood behind her, now at least semi-respectable in a pair of worn jeans and buttoning a flannel shirt over his crumpled tee. Stifling a yawn, he ushered her to the left into a rather crowded living room. Flopping elegantly onto the faded, squashy armchair, he waved a gesturing hand toward the couch, the only other relatively free surface in the room.

Hermione bit back a comment about the mess; she had given up harassing Ron about it years ago, and somehow knew that Draco would care even less. “Thank you,” she replied, pushing aside a rather battered afghan and what appeared to be the remains of two tennis balls before perching lightly on the cushions.

“So,” she began before realizing she really wasn’t sure what it was she wanted to say. If only he didn’t sit there and just look at her, like she was some sort of puzzle he was trying to figure out, she knew she would be able to gather her scattered thoughts. “So,” she began again when a large golden brown blur suddenly leapt up and landed half on her lap and half in the afghan nest to her side.

“Bunbury, get off!” Draco commanded, grabbing the beast by the collar and trying to pull him back to the floor. “Just give him a shove, will you?”

Willingly, Hermione placed both hands on the rump, narrowly dodging the energetically waving tail, and pushed with all her might. With an injured look, the dog jumped down and sulkily curled up on an old jacket that was carelessly left on the floor.

“Bunbury?” Hermione asked, one eyebrow cocked in surprise.

“Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health I should never have a day off work,” Draco replied airily.

“I’d no notion that you read Oscar Wilde.”

Draco shrugged, a rather difficult feat from the depths of the armchair. “I had a lot of free time a while ago. And he proved to be one of my few acquaintances who was not entirely tedious.”

Hermione bristled slightly at the implication before realizing he was baiting her again. “Well,” she continued in a bright voice, determined to give him a taste of his own medicine. “I’d never realized that you were a dog person either, Malfoy. It’s positively domestic.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “Sometimes it’s nice to come home to something that doesn’t want to kill you, maim you, or fry you to a crisp. Although,” he gave the dog a withering look, “no one told me the thing would get so damn big. And what the hell happened to obedience to the master?”

“Really, Draco, he can’t be that bad,” Hermione contended, happily stroking the Golden’s head, much to Bunbury’s eternal bliss. “And I’m sure your co-workers aren’t that bad either,” she chided, momentarily recalling her short stint working for Human Resources at the Ministry. “You make it sound like you are working with dragons.”

“I am.”


“With that attitude, it’s no wonder you don’t get along.”

“No, Hermione,” Draco said slowly, like an adult spelling something out for a particularly flighty child. “I. Am. Working. With. Dragons. You know, big wings, claws, breath fire.”

“Oh,” Hermione replied in dawning comprehension, suddenly putting together the burn marks on his jacket and the scars on his arms. “But, how… when?”

“Charlie got me into it, shortly after,” Draco paused for a moment, struggling to find words he could say, “well, you know.”

“But why would Charlie have helped you?” Hermione burst out, knowing it was not the diplomatic thing to say, yet not caring in the least.

“Because Ron asked him to,” Draco snapped, hotly. “Not everyone thought I was still the same little shit I had been. Some people were willing to give me a chance!”

“And when did you prove you deserved one?” Hermione screamed at him. “When did you prove that you cared, that you were sorry?”

“Hermione,” he began, trying to keep his voice reasonable.

“No! For six years you tried to make our lives hell. Six years of taunts. Six years of being called ‘Mudblood.’ Six bloody years! You can’t just wipe that out, Malfoy, you can’t!” Panting slightly from her tirade, Hermione quickly pulled the back of her hand across her eyes, dispelling the few hot, angry tears that burned in their corners. “You can’t,” she whispered again, although whether to herself or to him she wasn’t quite sure.

A soft, warm pressure applied itself to her knee, and she glanced down at Bunbury’s upturned head, his chin pressing firmly onto her leg. With a wet gurgle of a sob, she buried her face in his fur, arms fiercely hugging the shaggy golden coat.

Draco watched, waiting patiently and a little uncertainly as she struggled to compose herself. At last she reemerged, running a hand over her face, and pushing back a few loose strands of hair from her eyes. Judging the time was right; Draco began to speak again, leaning forward slightly, his eyes imploring what his voice could not. “Hermione, I tried to prove I was sorry. I tried to make up for my mistakes. I know I was a bastard for years. I knew that. I tried to change. Only you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t want to listen.”

“I did,” she choked, her knuckles whitening as she clenched her fists in her lap.

“Truthfully, Hermione?” he asked sardonically. “Tell me honestly that you tried, and I will never mention the subject again.”

“I… I did…” Hermione began, refusing to meet his eyes. “It was just…” Too many memories came pouring back, too many bitter words swirling round, leaving nothing but a bitter and unsatisfying taste. She licked her lips, nervously. You are a Gryffindor, she chided herself. What have you been hiding from all these years? Wounded pride? That the know-it all was finally wrong? Or was it merely that she had been wrong about him?

Her hands, writhing in her lap fell quiet at last. Glancing up, she was surprised to see him still there, waiting for her answer. Of its own accord, her mouth opened to speak but the words would not come. It was enough.

A warm hand rested briefly on her shoulder, pulling back quickly as though afraid she might burn him. “Thank you,” he whispered, before disappearing into the kitchen. Hermione could hear the rattle of dishes and the unmistakable sound of coffee being brewed. Silently she gathered up her things and slipped out of the house.

When Draco returned balancing two cups of steaming coffee the room was empty except for Bunbury’s drowsy whines, and a whisper of wind trickling across his face from the crack of the half-open door.
___________________

The chiming bells of the clock over the doorway at Flourish and Blots cheerfully called out, “ten minutes to closing, closing, closing. Buy your books, books, books.” Hermione winced in the narrow aisle, careful not to knock any books from the overflowing shelves. Once, she had found the speaking bells amusing, now their shrill voices were annoyances driving her out of her comfortable haven and back into a reality that was never as clear as the black and white printing caught neatly between leather covers.

Sighing, she replaced a tome, Arithmancy Puzzles and Tricks for the Devilish Mind, her fingers lingering over the cover as she calculated going without dinners for a week to pay for it. But no, tempting as it was, she knew it was hardly a necessary expense. And she really did have enough books- if indeed there could ever be such a thing.

At last she tore herself away, convinced that to stay another moment might mean to lose willpower entirely. Edging out from between rows of shelves, she found the waning sunlight overpowering compared to the bookstores gloom. Blindly, she pressed on for a step before stumbling into a solid and unyielding mass. Blinking furiously and apologizing incoherently, she found herself steadied by two hands gripping her shoulders.

“Merlin, Granger, there’s no need to throw yourself at my feet in order to get my attention.”

As her vision cleared, Hermione could just make out a pair of slate grey eyes that betraying their amusement at her expense. Of all the people to have fallen on it would be him. “I can hardly think of any person I would be less likely to throw myself at than you, Malfoy,” she responded tartly, her best office voice laced with irritation.

He smirked, a wicked gleam tugging at the corner of his eyes, but before he could respond a vivacious whirlwind suddenly arrived at his elbow with a rush of chatter. “Oh, Draco, there you are. Moray and Donaghue won’t be joining us; they just sent me an owl. I think it is something to do with that rumpus in Shropshire the other day with the Welsh Green. And in any case Ted left a load of papers for them on the new smuggling case, and ooh, who’s your friend?”

Hermione blinked, the sudden transition startling her under the woman’s scrutiny.

Draco, however, seemed much more used to the abrupt changes and after a second’s hesitation replied, “this is Hermione Granger, she was a schoolmate of mine. Hermione, may I present Elaine d’Aspery, one of the best dragon healers you will ever meet.”

Elaine smiled indulgently at Draco, “stop that. You know Moray is far better than I will ever be.”

“I stand corrected.” With a slight bow Draco began again. “May I present the second best dragon healer you will ever meet… oough.”

Hermione stifled a grin as Elaine smacked him with her bag, momentarily knocking the wind from his lungs. “He talks too much anyway,” she said innocently to Hermione, who nodded in long suffering agreement.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Draco managed to gasp, and then glancing at Hermione amended it. “Both of you.”

Resisting a childish urge to stick out her tongue, Hermione decided the time had come to make a graceful retreat. “I should let you go,” she said politely. “It was lovely running into you.”

“Oh, Hermione, you don’t mind if I call you Hermione, do you? I’ve just had the most smashing idea! Why don’t you come to dinner with Draco and me? Our other group members had to cancel and that way you can tell me all sorts of stories from school that I can hold over his head for years to come.”

“I really would hate to intrude,” she tried to decline, unable to read Draco’s blank face.

“It wouldn’t be intruding at all,” Elaine insisted airily, linking her arm though Hermione’s. “Would it Draco?”

“Certainly not,” he said chivalrously.

“Wonderful!” Elaine laughed. “I know this simply excellent little Indian restaurant. It’s pretty tucked away but the food is absolutely to die for. Once when I was there I even thought I saw this man who…”

Hermione sighed inwardly, carefully nodding along as Elaine chattered on and on about heaven only knows what. But even the constant buzzing in her ears was not the distraction she had anticipated from the silent presence that walked beside her, occasionally glancing at her with a mixture of amusement and consternation in his eyes.
________________

The last lingering tidbits of food remained tantalizingly on the plates, yet Hermione was too full to even consider taking one last bite. The spicy curries still lay on her tongue, mellowed by the thick, sweet lassi.

“Enjoy it?” a voice whispered in her ear, surprising her.

Turning to Draco she nodded. “Yes, it was delicious. I really couldn’t eat another bite,” she added with a tinge of regret.

“Really?” Reaching over her, Draco slid her plate on top of his empty one. Spearing a piece of chicken he popped it in his mouth with a flourish.

“Draco,” Elaine chided from Hermione’s other side. “Manners.”

“I wouldn’t want it to go to waste,” he mumbled, his expression of innocence marred by his full mouth. Chewing quickly he swallowed with a gulp. “Such lovely food should be enjoyed.”

Elaine shook her head in disgust and rolled her eyes at Hermione. “Did he do this at school too?”

Hermione paused, “I’m not really sure,” she said cautiously. “We were in different houses, and I really didn’t spend much time in his company until seventh year.”

“Thank god,” Draco muttered with a martyred expression. “The girl was absolutely mad about studying, when everyone knows you go to school for the Quidditch.”

Elaine smiled. “Bookworm?”

Hermione spread her hands open in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.”

“I must confess I always preferred Witch Weekly as a girl, but you won’t hold that against me I’m sure.” Elaine drained the last drops of water from her glass and set it down on the table with a decisive bang. “I’ve monopolized the conversation all night,” she said ruefully, “can you forgive me? But I want to hear all about you. What do you do?”

“Well I’m sure it will seem positively tame compared to working with dragons,” Hermione apologized, “but I work with the Ministry. I head the Foreign Relations Department and act as a liaison with the Muggle world.”

“Ah, politics,” Elaine said sagely. “Give me dragons any day.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Hermione laughed.

“Politics is war without bloodshed while war is politics with bloodshed,” Draco added sardonically, leaning back in his narrow chair.

“You’re going to fall over,” Hermione warned him. “Though heaven knows why I should care. And I really don’t think that Mao Tse Tung is entirely appropriate under the circumstances.”

“I quote wisdom where I see it.”

“And sometimes where you don’t.”

“Oh my,” Elaine interrupted, glancing at her watch. “This conversation is getting too heavy for me, this late at night. Draco, I promised Michael that I would meet him twenty minutes ago, would you mind horribly much if I deserted you both?”

“We’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Go on.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Hermione. I’m only sorry I have to dash off so quickly.”

“Thank you; you’ve been very kind.”

“It was nothing.” Rising, Elaine pulled on her coat in a fluid movement and strolled to the door, her sassy hip-swinging walk turning a few heads as she passed.

Draco let out a low whistle. “You have officially survived the gauntlet,” he whispered confidentially to Hermione. “Are you still sane?”

She laughed a little unsteadily. “Well she certainly fills a room. And talks more than anyone I’ve ever met, Lavender Brown and the Patil twins included.”

“She certainly is quite a woman. I’ve often wondered how Michael puts up with it. They’ve been going out for two years now and I swear every time she starts talking I become more and more convinced that he must be either deaf or a saint.”

For a moment Hermione felt a funny little dip in her stomach as she realized the beautiful, vivacious Elaine was steadily attached, and not to the man she had thought she was. But that was silly. She certainly had no cause to feel any such thing. It must have been something in the curry that was making her stomach turn in loops. Yes, the curry was most certainly to blame.

“We should pay,” she said abruptly, quickly derailing her previous trains of thought. Digging through her purse she quickly pulled out a handful of bills, calculated down to a small tip for the smiling waiter who had brought her an extra lassi when the first was made too sweet.

If Draco was at all surprised by the sudden change of topic, or the rosy flush accompanying it, he hid it well. Dropping his half of the fare on the table, he righted his chair and walked in a companionable silence to the door of the restaurant.

“It’s a lovely night,” he commented to no one in particular. Hermione nodded her agreement. For a moment they stood awkwardly, neither wanting to be the first to break the silence yet each feeling that they somehow ought to.

“Well, goodbye then.”

“Yes, goodbye.”

Under the glowing puddle of the street lamp the two figures parted company; their inky shadows pulling them apart down the cold pavement, while something in their leaden feet wanted them to linger for just one more moment.
_____________________

The continually growing stacks of paper shuffled around the desk would have almost certainly been called mounds or perhaps piles if it had belonged to anyone other than Hermione Granger. But by sheer willpower the ruffled edges straightened and the entire mass organized itself, if not neatly, at least practically, under her exasperated glare.

Under normal circumstances she never would have allowed the mess to accumulate so high, but her regular assistant was on maternity leave and the replacement, Ethan, was as useless as he was timid. And, although she would never admit it, Hermione had found herself distracted the last few days, probably the result of some sort of cold going around the office. She had toyed briefly with the idea of calling in sick, but guiltily rejected it.

Her chin buried in her palm, she absently twirled her quill while reading the same line of the delegate to Bulgaria’s report over and over again. A gentle cough sounded by the door and she jerked upright, startled, her heart giving a little leap in her chest.

Draco, leaned casually against the doorframe, his grey eyes assessing her from under his slightly charred white-gold locks. “I did knock,” he said dryly. “Twice.”

She winced, her back cracking in protest as she stretched back in her chair, surreptitiously glancing at the clock. Eight o’clock. Shaking her head slightly, as though to clear it, she turned her attention back to Draco. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear.”

“Rough day?”

“You have no idea,” she said darkly, searching for the proper folder to file the report in. At last she spotted it under the potted plant on the file cabinet, making a mental note that she would have to chat with Ethan about proper filing techniques.

“You might be surprised,” he contradicted with disgust. “We had an incident with a Norwegian Ridgeback today that cost me an inch of hair. Bloody dragons, with their bloody stupid flames.”

“It’s only hair, Draco. It will grow back.”

“Well forgive me if I don’t want to squander my good looks,” he snapped petulantly. “I came by because I am desperately in need of a drink, but I think I will find someone a little more sympathetic to come with me.”

Hermione sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, alright. Like you said, it’s been a rough day.” Quickly she pushed a pile of papers unceremoniously into her bag and grabbed her coat from the back of her chair. “Ready?”

He grunted, pulling a thick wool cap over his ‘ruined’ hair, and glancing in the darkened window at his reflection. “Let’s go.”

Trudging with an air of utter depression he led her into the crisp night air and through a maze of twisted back alleys and small side streets.

“Are you sure you know where we are going?” Hermione asked anxiously after the fourth or fifth turn that seemed to lead nowhere.

“It’s a shortcut,” Draco muttered sullenly. “Just trust me, okay?”

Hermione didn’t say anything, just kept clenching her fists in her pockets, torn between worrying that they were utterly lost and how mad he would be if she insisted they stop and ask for directions.

Suddenly the alley opened up to a larger street, flooded with light from the storefront displays, and Hermione heaved a sigh of relief. Draco led them on, past one or two well lit muggle bars to what appeared to be a little hole in the wall. Hermione cringed slightly at the peeling paint and smudged glass as he pushed aside the door to let her enter. Inside it was clean, the lighting dim, although more likely from poor quality rather than a desire for intimacy. It was occupied, but not crowded, the green and red leather booths and stools littering the room with color, and a small crowd had gathered around an enchanted dart board.

They edged around to an unoccupied table near the edge of the bar. “What can I get you?” Draco asked.

“Nothing too strong, please.” Hermione slumped ungracefully into her chair. “Mulled mead would be nice.”

Draco disappeared, returning a moment later with two tall, frosted glass of mead, and a much smaller shot glass of an almost clear liquid. “Firewhiskey,” he replied in answer to Hermione’s questioning look, and quickly downed the shot. “Thank Salazar, I almost feel human again,” he murmured with relief.

Biting her tongue, Hermione instead concentrated on sipping her drink, letting the alcohol slowly relax her body and loosen the cramped muscles she had spent all day cultivating. Draco too seemed content to sit in silence. Cheery warmth was spreading throughout Hermione’s fingers and toes, and her head sat lightly upon her shoulders. Remembering that she had worked through lunch and dinner as well, she reached out to grab a handful of peanuts from the communal bowl sitting on the center of the table.

“Don’t touch those!” Draco commanded, swatting her fingers away from the bowl. “Do you have any idea how many disgusting hands have been in there already? Those peanuts are probably a greater health hazard than kissing the bathroom floor!”

“Draco, that’s disgusting,” Hermione said, temporarily forgoing the peanuts but pleased at least to see him looking a little green. “I haven’t eaten all day. And there are probably a few untouched ones at the bottom.”

“So, we can go somewhere to eat,” he replied, prodding the dish of peanuts away with his empty shot glass, as though he could not bear to touch the ceramic dish himself. “The ones at the bottom probably collect all the dirt that falls though, they just sit in puddles of the stuff.”

“Why are you so fixated on dirt?”

“Because it’s disgusting. All those thousands of germs crawling around, urgh.” He shuddered slightly at the thought, causing Hermione to laugh brightly.

“Well come on, and I can find you some dirt and germ free food,” Hermione offered, rising somewhat unsteadily from her seat. Tipping back the last of his mead, Draco meekly followed her back to the door, his earlier funk almost entirely worn off.

Once outside, Hermione quickly began waving out her arm towards the street, much to Draco’s consternation. “What in the name of Salazar are you trying to do?”

“Flag over a cab.”

“Why do we need a cab when we can walk?” Draco asked, now thoroughly bewildered.

“You can walk,” Hermione corrected, swaying somewhat. “However, between these wretched heels and the mulled mead, I will fall over before getting thirty paces.”

Sighing, Draco stuck out his hand, and a cab immediately swerved over to the curb.

“How did you do that?” Hermione hissed, exasperated as he helped her into the car.

Innocently he spread his hands out wide and flashed her his most disarming grin. “Skill.”

“Humph.” Giving the cab driver her address, she studiously ignored Draco for the moment, before slowly forgetting to continue her mock indignation. The angles of his face looked sharp in the dim glow of the passing street lamps, and even at its shorter length, his hair continued to glow like a beacon for all to see. A glimmer of light trickled down the side of his cheekbone, sliding gently down and over his lips. She watched it bobbing there, tracing the full curves before realizing she was staring. Blushing she looked away, back out the window and into the night.

At last the cab came to it’s final halt outside Hermione’s brown brick building. Tottering slightly she paid the fare, waving away Draco’s offering of money, and led the way into her flat.

Kicking off her heels onto the mat by the door, she quickly dropped her bag and coat on the kitchen table. Feeling slightly more steady, she quickly began rummaging around in the cabinets, pulling out a bit of this and that to eventually be compiled into a meal. As she pulled down a box of pasta, her clumsy fingers betrayed her, knocking another box off the shelf as well.

Deftly, another hand slid into view, catching it, and gently replacing it on the shelf. Turning, Hermione found herself face to face with Draco. “Thank you,” she whispered, suddenly conscious of the scant six inches which separated them. The mead was making her head fuzzy again, and her thoughts were swirling rapidly through her brain.

“You’re welcome.”

She could feel his breath stirring the hair around her face, gliding warmly across her cheek. Without thinking, not even sure what she meant to do, Hermione tilted her face up to his and kissed him, a soft butterfly’s touch brushing his lips. Suddenly aware of what she had done, she pulled back, confused and afraid, but then his lips were on hers, questioning, searching and she responded, deepening the kiss. The silky strands of his hair ran though her fingers while his palm pressed against the small of her back, the nape of her neck, their warmth seeping through the cloth of her shirt to the skin underneath like an electric shock.

He began to pull away, and she breathed, “don’t stop.”

“No,” he said firmly, though his breathing was as heavy as her own. “Not like this, not when you’re,” he trailed off, lost for words. Stepping back he gestured helplessly.

Suddenly understanding, Hermione laughed. Slowly and deliberately, with careful enunciation of every word she told him, “I am not drunk.” Stepping into him again, she carefully kissed the soft skin of his neck, just below his ear. “I know,” moving upwards she kissed his jaw, “exactly,” she kissed the side of his lips and he could not prevent a small moan, “what I am doing.”

Giving in, Draco held her eyes with his own before allowing her to take his hand and lead him down the hall, all thoughts of dinner forgotten for the night.
_________________

Draco smiled as he thought about how life with Hermione had gradually settled down to a routine. It still felt so new, such a beautiful fragile thing he was half afraid it would vanish as quickly as it had come. He never had to eat alone now, and even if Hermione’s cooking was only a little better than his own, he could only manage pasta, at least the company was pleasanter. Even Bunbury and Crookshanks got along well, although Draco guessed that Bunbury felt slighted about losing his place in the bed to Hermione, even though the couch was just as comfortable- Draco would never admit it aloud but he had checked.

Turning the corner he found himself at the grocery, and quickly wove through the laden shelves to the far back corner. Last night Hermione had forgotten her bag, and after dinner asked to borrow his toothbrush. In the grand scheme of things, it probably wasn’t important, and Draco knew that. Hell, they probably already traded saliva when they kissed, although he really didn’t like to think of that. But sharing toothbrushes, ew. So he’d snuck out after dinner while Hermione was going over another stack of reports, and set out to the store.

What he hadn’t expected was the sheer number of toothbrushes available. How firm did she want it to be? Medium was probably best since it was in the middle, but then you had to move on to decide size. Her mouth appeared so dainty and petite until she opened it to yell at him and then he was half afraid she could swallow him whole. How do you measure the size of a mouth anyway?

And she was a dentist’s daughter. Did she use one of those special toothbrushes? Cross action, massaging tips? He wants to yell, “It’s only a toothbrush! Stop trying to make it special!” but restrains himself.

Of course no matter what kind he picks there is going to be the issue of color. What was her favorite color anyway? Maybe he should go with Gryffindor colors to be safe. But they didn’t have any red and yellow brushes, which led to the question of which one was the dominant color anyway? Red or yellow?

To him yellow always seemed full of sunshine on daisies and other signs of insane happiness. Was Hermione really a yellow sort of person? Would she think the yellow was a subtle hint for her to cheer up. But then red was supposed to be an angry color. Did he want to get her an angry toothbrush?

Maybe he should just close his eyes, reach out and pick one. But she would probably know that too.

Draco groaned inwardly. It was going to be a long night.
___________________

Quietly, Draco slipped into his apartment, unsure if Hermione had given up on him and gone to sleep. Dropping the thin little bag on the carpet, he struggled to hang up his coat on the new hall tree Hermione had convinced him to buy. In the dark it missed, slipping to the floor with a dull thump. As he bent down to pick it up, a light flashed on in the hallway behind him.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I’ve been up,” Hermione said coolly. “Where have you been?”

“I got you a toothbrush,” Draco said, too exhausted to explain further.

Hermione’s eyebrows rose even further. “I beg you pardon?”

“I bought you a toothbrush,” Draco repeated, picking up the plastic bag and shoving it into her unresisting hands before heading down the hall toward the bedroom. “Here.”

“Are you really trying to tell me that you spent two hours picking out a toothbrush?” Her voice rose into a shrill little laugh at the end.

“Yes.”

“Draco, don’t lie to me, please.” Her voice hardened as he stripped down into his pajamas, ignoring her haranguing. “I’m not unintelligent you know.”

“No one said you were,” he snapped back.

“Where have you been? Or should I ask who have you been with?”

“What do you want me to say, Hermione?” Draco roared at her. “That I have been out sleeping with other women? That you are nothing to me but a good shag? Is that what you want to hear?” He paused, panting, looking straight into her tear streaked face without flinching. “I got you a toothbrush, Hermione. That’s all.”

“You were just gone so long,” she began, her voice quavering slightly. “And Elaine keeps sending you so many owls.”

Giving in, Draco wrapped his arms around her. “Elaine is a coworker, nothing more,” he whispered into her hair. “You have to trust me, Hermione. I don’t want to hurt you. Just trust me.” They stood like that, arms entwined about each other for a long time before at last crawling into bed, though sleep did not come as quickly as they would have liked.
_________________

It had been four days since the row. Neither of them mentioned it again, as though by forgetting about it they could somehow erase it from existence. When Draco brought Hermione flowers the next day, she had been sure to express her pleasure, perhaps even more than the small gift had warranted. When Hermione tried to make a special dinner for Draco, he had eaten every bit with a smile, even though the steaks were burnt and a little tough while the vegetables fell apart into a mushy heap when prodded with a fork. But they both just smiled, even if it felt a little forced, and moved on, waiting for life to move with them.

It was a gloomy, overcast, stay at home kind of day, and Hermione was curled up in Draco’s armchair, reading a copy of The Importance of Being Earnest she had found behind some mixing bowls in the kitchen. Bunbury lay quietly at her side, occasionally nudging her hand when she become too wrapped up in the play to remember to pet him.

A tapping noise began at the window, and at first Hermione ignored it, thinking it was the long anticipated rain. However, it continued to get more and more insistent, until at last she looked up and saw Hedwig fluttering patiently outside the window.

Jumping up she had a quick struggle with the sash before pulling the window open and allowing Hedwig to duck inside. “I’m sorry girl,” Hermione apologized as she took the letter from Hedwig’s leg. “Just a minute now.” Filling a dish with water from the sink she set it carefully on the table. “I haven’t got any treats with me,” she said regretfully to Hedwig’s questioning hoot.

Settled, the owl rustled up her feathers, gave Hermione a piecing look, shortly followed by a friendly nibble, then swooped back out the window before winging her steadily back on a tireless journey across the ocean.

Picking up the letter, Hermione stared at it curiously for a moment, noticing that Harry forgot to write any name or direction on the front before he sent it. Smiling at the thoughtlessness of her friend, she quickly pulled open the letter and read the first few lines. Immediately the smile drained from her face, and frowning now she went back to the beginning and began reading again as the first plinks of rain began to beat against the half open window.
________________

Draco fell in through the front door, shaking the rain from his hair in an unconscious imitation of Bunbury after a bath. “Hello,” he called. “Don’t go out if you can avoid it; it’s really pouring out there!”

Shedding his sopping overcoat, Draco stepped into the kitchen for a warming cup of coffee, but as soon as his gaze fell on Hermione all such thoughts fled his mind. She sat, white-faced, still, and silent at the table, a crumpled and re-smoothed parchment letter in her hand.

“My god, Hermione. What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

“How long have you been lying to me?” Her voice was quiet, but it could have been the voice of the dead it was so lacking in emotion. Somehow the flatness to it was more terrible to Draco than her half hysterical screams.

“What?” he began, utterly baffled.

“How long?” She thrust the paper out to him, and he quickly recognized Harry’s messy scrawl.

“Why are you reading my mail?” he countered, suddenly feeling betrayed.

Hermione dropped the letter once more on the table as thought the feel of it was distasteful to her very skin. “ Hedwig brought it, and as it contained no direction I assumed it was for myself. How was I to know that my best friend was writing you? Can I not even be informed of basic facts such as the fact that the two of you are such close chums and I’ve never even been informed? By either of you? Hell, he even writes you more often than me!”

“I thought Potter would have told you!” Draco replied hotly. “You were so upset about trusting a “filthy little ferret of a backstabber” like myself that I can’t blame him for never having got around to it!”

Hermione’s cheeks flared red as she heard her words spat back at her. “Yes, I’m sure you’ve both had a wonderful time talking about what a silly and superstitious person I am for ever assuming that a leopard could not change its spots. But you know what Draco, apparently they can’t.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty with me, ‘o ye of little faith’,” Draco snarled. “I came back despite the risk. This is about you and your complete inability to trust anybody. And until you do, this isn’t going to work, none of it!” Suddenly all the fight went out of him, and he could feel his shoulders slumping. “I’m going out, you’ll have all night to get your stuff, without worrying about seeing me. Bunbury, let’s go.”

Silently clamping a leash to the dog’s collar, Draco walked out into the pouring rain while Hermione sat alone at the table, wondering what it was that she had lost, if she really did believe nothing had ever been there in the first place.
___________________

When Ron heard the first knock on the door, he habitually ignored it since he reasoned that anyone who really wanted to see him would probably try again. By the third knock he reasoned it was probably someone who actually knew him, so he reluctantly put down his broomstick care kit and went to answer the door.

“You do know it’s raining a bloody hurricane out there,” Draco remarked acidicly, as Ron ushered him in, Bunbury following at his heels like a drowned rat.

Ron merely shrugged, used to such comments by now. “I didn’t really expect to see you here, mate. I thought you were spending all your free time with Hermione now.”

“Not anymore,” Draco said darkly.

Ron pulled him up a seat by the fire. “Drink?” he offered, grabbing a pair of glasses and bottle of amber liquid off the mantle piece.

“Thanks.” Tipping his head back, Draco drained the drink in one go, enjoying the cleansing burn of alcohol on the back of his throat.

Ron said nothing, waiting for the dam to burst with a patience he had slowly cultivated over the years from dealing with his more volatile friend.

“She found Harry’s letter, and we fought. It was bad. It was just like last time but somehow it was worse, and then,” Draco stopped, staring into the crackling flames. “She still doesn’t trust me, Ron, not even now, not after all this. She still doesn’t trust me.” Pensively he twirled the glass in his fingers, watching the last beads of liquid swirl around the edge in a jerky stumble. Raising the glass to his lips, he tilted it, catching the last drop on his tongue. “It’s over. I left, told her she had all night to be free of my presence while moving out. I didn’t know where else to go.” He laughed hollowly, burying his head in his hands. “I even let her kick me out of my own goddamn house.”

Walking over, Ron patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’ll work out, somehow. Now come on and lets find you some dry clothes. You and Bunbury can share the sofa.”

Clasping Ron’s hand, Draco allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and grey eyes met brown in perfect understanding.
___________________

It was nearly two in the afternoon when Ron heard what sounded like thunder coming from his front door. Skipping down the stairs two at a time, he opened it quickly as he had a suspicion who his next visitor would be.

“Hello, Hermione,” he greeted the tearstained witch.

“Oh, Ron,” she hiccoughed. “Everything’s gone so wrong.” Quickly he ushered her in, before she could burst into tears on his doorstep, and installed her in the seat Draco had occupied a scant fifteen hours ago.

“I can’t trust Draco anymore, and I can hardly trust Harry. I felt like such a fool when I found out they’d been writing. Whenever I shared the news I’d gotten, Draco just nodded and smiled and never said a word. What else has he been lying to me about?”

“Hermione,” Ron said calmly, “please, listen to me. You have to understand. When Draco came over to our side, we all knew you didn’t trust him, hell, the whole world probably knew that. But we did trust him. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about it, but by refusing to work with him, well, he paired with Harry on all the missions since I was with you. They went through all that shit together. And then Draco saved Harry’s life.”

“What?” Hermione demanded, her head shooting up from its dejected position.

Sighing, Ron ran a hand through his hair, standing it up on end. “I don’t know all the details, Harry never went into the particulars with me, but Draco saved Harry’s life at least twice, and once with a great risk to his own. Even though he doesn’t mention it, I know it rankles him that even after that people still doubt him.”

“People like me,” Hermione finished.

“You have to give him a chance, Hermione, or you may lose more than just Draco.”

“Have I lost him?” she asked desperately, suddenly aware that she didn’t even understand what she had until she lost it. “Have I?” Her eyes pleaded more eloquently yet.

“I don’t know,” Ron confessed. “You hurt him pretty badly.”

“I know.” Bowing her head for a moment as though gathering strength to go on, she waited. At last Hermione let out a shuddering breath. “Thank you, Ron, but there is something I need to do now. I can see myself out.” And with a swish of robes she was gone from the room.
___________________

Draco was getting Bunbury ready for his afternoon walk when he suddenly spied a folded piece of paper that had dropped through the mail slot. Picking it up he read it through, and allowed a slight smile to touch the corners of his mouth.

Draco,

My mother once promised me that she would never leave me. On the night she died I thought my heart would split in two. How could she not keep her promise? How could she be gone? The most precious promise that had ever been made was shattered. And then you came along. How could I trust you when someone nearer and dearer to me had already betrayed me? I couldn’t allow it to happen again.

I am sorry that I doubted you, sorry that I didn’t listen to you, more sorry than you can possibly imagine. Yesterday I was not yet strong enough to be broken again, but I think I’ve learned now that it can hurt just as much to try to be safe.

Whether you believe me, or not, I love you Draco Malfoy, but more importantly, I trust you. I don’t know how to prove this to you, so you must take it on faith as just as I must. I don’t want to be ‘of little faith’ anymore. And isn’t it written that even the mustard seed can blossom into the largest of plants? I want to try again.

Please,
Hermione