Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all of the characters used belong to JK Rowling, as well as various ideas borrowed from Ruskbyte. The song is from the album "Fashion Nugget" by Cake, which I highly recommend. No copyright infringement is intended, nor is any money being made by this fanfic.

OoOo

What do I do?

Draco Malfoy screwed me over pretty royally a few months ago. It was entirely too much drama for my liking, so I'd rather not explain in too much detail. The whole situation's bloody confusing as it is.

However, as I'm laying in his bed in the Slytherin dungeons after a raging party, I can't really bring myself to care. So what if he used me like a paper towel? Who really cares if he split up one of my best friendships if he's being so sweet right now? Does it really matter, as long as he looks so good without his shirt on?

I curled up a little tighter under the covers, fully clothed, remembering. How long ago was it? May, June, July, August, September, October, November. . . almost seven months. We had almost hooked up on this same bed, but I shied away from The Deed like the prudish virgin that I was– that I am. Then I made up some lame excuse like missing curfew and being caught out in the halls, despite being a Prefect. Of all of the stupid, cowardly things–

I don't know what's wrong with me. For the love of god, I still feel guilty about walking out on him! I found out the next day that he had taken Ginny's virginity when they were both pissed at a Ravenclaw get-together, on Michael Corner's bed, no less. The next morning, he skipped out. . . and found me.

There was a point in time where I was practically infatuated with Malfoy, but that was admittedly a couple of years ago, when it became obvious that he was a warm, breathing male just like any of the blokes in Gryffindor. Besides being easy on the eyes, he gets a rise out of me in a way that few people can; I've smacked him, insulted him, argued with him, and while he made my blood boil, a part of me also admits that I like it.

Even as a virgin, I can tell that I'll be very into angry sex.

But then Ginny said that Malfoy took advantage of her while she was drunk, and Michael decided to show his displeasure physically. Malfoy got the worst beating of his life that night. As the last little capper on the whole incident, the blonde Slytherin decided to completely ignore me after that, no owls or anything.

How do I feel about that?

Confused. Uncertain. Disappointed. . . Unsurprised.

I don't know why he decided to start talking to me again. In all honesty, I'm a forgive-and-forget kind of girl, and he's lucky for it. He should just be ecstatic that I never told Harry or Ron, much less decide to hold a civil conversation! I was decided– no, determined– to make myself the most sarcastic, biting, underhanded, condescending witch ever to speak to Draco Malfoy.

OoOo

"Hey there, Hermione," he nodded and took a seat next to me in NEWT charms class. I glanced at him like a piece of rotting excrement and flipped open my textbook to reread it, especially focusing on the Reversal Charm, which was next we–

"How have you been?"

Oh. He wants to play. Goody. I turned to face the offending ferret with a very well-construed answer simmering away in my mind.

Now, Harry has told me that he's been on the bad side of a lot of people. Ministry officials, Death Eaters, other students, and even Voldemort are among the most notable. He's obviously been on the wrong side of a lot of dirty looks. According to him, however, none are quite so frightening or intimidating as mine.

Malfoy faltered and paled quite visibly when I fixed him with my frozen stare. After it registered, I could tell that it honestly hit him like a dagger between the eyes. Regret, from even starting a conversation, passed through his face, followed closely by a twinge of fear and. . . guilt?

But then his look evened and I doubt that I saw his true expression at all.

"I've been better, thanks to various factors," I said shortly. He winced. "And you?"

"Same," he replied. "What's been going on?"

"Nothing unusual."

". . .Hm."

Malfoy broke his eye contact and looked at the ground.

". . . Hermione. . .?" he wrung his hands in a subtle way, desperation seeping through every syllable. What the fuck was going through his head?

Luckily, my glare didn't waver at my confusion. "Malfoy, don't make me waste any more time– in which I could be doing something important– listening to you slowly turn into a reformed drama king." At that moment, the bell rang throughout the halls, signaling the beginning of the lesson. Silently dismissing Malfoy, I turned towards Professor Flitwick at his podium.

Malfoy touched my arm to regain my attention. He was awarded with another glare, but picked up courage quickly, and leaned a little closer so as not to be overheard.

"Look," he started, no irritation yet showing in his voice, "I owe you an apology."

OoOo

He proceeded to tell me that he was more or less sorry for being alive over the past seven years. And damn, it was an apology if I ever heard one. That sly Slytherin bastard, through magic yet unknown, managed to convince me to forgive him. Even the initial shock almost made me fall out of my chair in itself. A Malfoy, apologizing to yesterday's cheap Mudblood?

But he had apologized again, and again, and held open doors and kept his space and brought me food and drinks, answering to my every need with the speed and preternatural abilities of a house elf. He introduced me to his friends, showed me around modestly, offered me a heavier robe. . .

In all honesty, it was the best I'd ever been treated in my life. And it had been happening for a good three weeks now, nonstop, no hesitation. Malfoy was referring to me as "a Lady," for god's sake! I am no lady, I never have been, nor will I ever be.

Still, it's nice for someone else to think so.

He invited me to the Slytherin party tonight without knowing who would be in the common room. It was fun; we played cards, we drank firebombs (Red Bull with firewhiskey shots), and Blaise Zabini, ever the entrepreneur, snuck in about an ounce of Black Lotus to split amongst the select group of seventh years present.

OoOo

"So. Granger. This is pretty interesting, seeing you here," Goyle commented. He leaned back on the elegant green couch, passing the BL to Pucey on his left. Blaise slammed his shot on the table, downed it with his right hand, then chased with the other.

"I didn't expect it either," I admitted with a laugh.

Nott, a skinny, brown-haired sixth year, chuckled in appreciation. "I have to admit, I was thinking about which attorney to hire after you walked in," he joked.

"You seem to be holding up alright, though," Blaise flashed a smile from the spot beside me, his white teeth contrasting startlingly with his dark skin and green eyes, and winked. He was an incredibly vain man, yes, but he was good-looking enough that the trait seemed justified.

I smiled back tipsily.

"Hey, where's Crabbe?" Pucey asked curiously, exhaling. The smoke curled into a vine of flowers before dissipating into the cold night air, and he looked around in concern.

Wordlessly, and with his eyes still closed, Goyle pointed over to one of the many bookshelves. Sure enough, the large seventh year was sitting on top of it, feet dangling, hunched with his head on his chest.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked.

"He fell asleep," Nott answered simply. "He always does that. Last time, he just blacked out with his head on the table in the middle of a poker. We're almost sure he's narcoleptic."

Blaise clanked a glass down in front of me, while Malfoy dealt cards for another game. I watched Malfoy for a moment, the liquor making him seem absolutely fascinating. His skin! So. . . spotless. No freckles or birthmarks or anything. His eyebrows were fairly thin, perfectly arched as he raised them in appreciation of Goyle's racy joke, something about Dorothy's magic slippers. His–

"Granger!"

I turned my head. "Yeah?"

Blaise gestured at the cup and the shot glass in front of me. "Another firebomb?"

I considered for a moment. I was almost full, but not pissed, and there were no prefect duties first thing tomorrow, either. "Just a shot," I answered.

Nott raised his eyebrows, looking furtively from Malfoy to Pucey, then finally resting on me. "Granger, You're all right," he declared.

Pucey laughed, shaking his head as he filled my glass. "Why is that?" I asked.

He raised his glass thoughtfully. "You actually can drink."

"Most of the Slytherin girls just have a few mixed drinks and pass out," Malfoy explained.

I smiled jokingly, noticing the present lack of female companions. "So that's where they all are," I mused aloud. They all laughed; well, except for Malfoy, who just let out a low chuckle and smirked.

"I told you blokes, she's okay," he said, sounding like 'okay' meant a lot more than it seemed. The others merely nodded in agreement, looking at their cards. I glanced down at mine.

"You see," the blonde explained, "we have the sort of agreement where noone is invited down to Slytherin unless it's a person who's genuinely interesting and fun to be around." He looked at me seriously. He was reminding me that I was invited by him, and this significance of the statement was not lost on me.

I didn't know how to react. To buy time, I assessed my cards. Hmmm. . .

I gave him a lopsided smile; it was a straight flush. "Thanks, Malfoy. "

OoOo

Malfoy, luckily, was horrible at cards and was subsequently falling down by the time we decided to retire. The girls were obviously asleep in their dorms, the boys in theirs (except for Crabbe, who slept out on the couch because some fifth-year threw up on his bed), leaving me with the obvious dilemma of where to sleep. Malfoy was the last person awake besides me, which was completely mindboggling to someone of my low tolerance. Bless my high metabolism, yes, but being skinny means I have to drink like a bird if I want to keep my wits about me.

At this point, my wits are in Tuscany.

We put the cards away, joking the entire time about his rotten hand in the third game: three twos, a three and a four of different suits. We had to get rid of all of the alcohol as well, before the house-elves found it. It was Malfoy's dumb idea to drink all of the leftovers, and I stupidly agreed. It gets a bit hazy for a little while after that.

OoOo

Falling-Down Malfoy: Yeh, Hermoyne.

Partially Pissed Hermione: Hm?

FDM: Wherer you sleepin'?

PPH: Mednuh (shrugging)

FDM: Well, er– hm. You can– (trips up stairs to boys' dorms) –shit– You 'an sleep imy room, and I'll take th'couch in there.

PPH: (having forgotton that FDM is head boy and therefore entitled to a private bedchamber in Slytherin, much like PPH's back in Gryffindor tower) I's okay. Zm couch's fine.

FDM: No! (lifts chin very high, looking both haughty and stupid) gentlemn– Ladies on th'bed, gen's on th'couch.

PPH: Mmm. . . nah.

FDM: You're sleepin' on th'damn bed.

PPH: Wha'evr. . .(smirks, also tripping up stairs) hope you've had th'sheets washd recently.

FDM: I dunno WHAT (yelling loudly, then giggling as PPH shushes him) you're insnn-insunin- insinuating!

PPH: I claim the clean couch! (Runs upstairs)

OoOo

What can I say, I'm a happy drunk. However, when I actually got to Malfoy's room, the couch was one of those overly stuffed, garishly printed, rock-hard bits of cushion, and so I ran for the bed, crawling in. Malfoy disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me awake, listening to the sounds of him getting ready for bed.

Which is where I am now.

The sound of incessantly running water stops for the first time in a good ten minutes. Clack. He drops a comb. Mumbling is heard as he curses it half-heartedly. He begins to hum. The tune is familiar, like something I hadn't heard in a long time but remember the occasional word to sing out quietly.

In the brown shag carpet of a cheap hotel

In the dark and dusty corner by the TV shelf–

There's a small reminder of a simpler time

Where a ragged pair of trousers lost a brand new dime–

I'm fine- I'm a dime- and I shi-i-i-i-ine!

Hey!

Somethin', somethin'—mmm- hey!

You won't even pick me up, cause I'm not enough

For a local phone call–

The lyrics are all mixed up, of course, but I'm shocked to even hear him sing a muggle song. And an American one at that! And yes, it is a real song!

I simply open my eyes and stare at the bathroom door in awe. How. It's not even a question; just the fact that Draco Malfoy is singing obscure muggle songs, while combing his hair, after a drunken revelry, with his archnemesis in his bed, leaves me nothing to even think, but: How.

The door creaks open, and he charms off the lights in the bathroom.

And holy shit, he doesn't have a shirt on. A pair of trousers hang loosely around his hips as he walks out of the door, wiping off his face with a towel. Whatever exercise he gets has lightly defined his muscles, giving the impression of a slim, strong bloke who obviously doesn't try too hard. His pelvis is visible just above his boxers, sliding down deliciously and disappearing underneath the cloth.

Hungh. . . brain cells, losing control. . . must resist. . .oh gods, he's doing this on purpose.

"Er– Hermione?"

I close my eyes and turn my head, knowing that if I open them again I'll have to look back at his shirtless self. "Mm-hm?" I don't even trust myself to open my mouth at this point. The last time I saw him like this was when he was standing there, and I was in his bed, just about willing to have sex with him. I had trusted him after the war, and had wanted to connect so badly. . . but I didn't.

And now, we're in this situation again, dammit.

"I hope you don't mind, I sleep in my boxers. . ." he had obviously sobered up a bit in all of his time in the bathroom, since his voice was mostly unslurred.

Oh. "That's fine. It is your room. . ." I replied, trying not to look as I laid back in bed.

It didn't work.

Nice legs, just as I remembered them. One thing, however, was different. Seven months ago, his expression had been overly smooth, fake, lusty, even predatory. Now, as he brought the towel down from his face and threw it onto the sink, he was businesslike, honest, and completely unassuming.

Now, in all modesty, I'm a pretty good-looking girl. I've been told before that I am the most shaggable seventh-year female. With that in mind, the only people who have ever looked at me the same way as Malfoy was doing now were Harry and Ginny, my best friend and a girl who used to be, respectively.

What the fuck is going on?

Malfoy looked at the couch and sighed. "It's tough being a gentleman," he reflected, unfolding the linens that an elf had placed on the armrest.

"I noticed," I laughed. "Sorry about that."

He frowned at the offending furniture. "That's alright." He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it. Ran his hand through his short, ungelled hair. Shiver. Then he turned to face me. "Hey, Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

He ran his hand through his hair again, avoiding eye contact. "Do you mind. . . d'you mind if I sleep in the bed too?" He could see my surprise. "– I promise I'll keep my hands to myself and everything, but if you're alright with it, the bed is so much more comfortable, and I have duties in the morning. . ."

I opened my mouth to answer, an eyebrow raised, but he cut me off.

"– but if you'd rather I slept on the couch, that's fine, too," he finished.

I closed my mouth. "Hm." He looked pretty honest, he'd been positively saintly all month. . .

And you don't really care if he makes a move, do you?

I quieted that corner of my mind. I did not want a repeat performance of that night seven months ago. However, I did know some new hexes. "It's fine," I said finally, rolling over.

"Thanks."

"Mm."

There was a momentary pause in which Malfoy snuffed the candles still burning around the room and I slowly adjusted to the darkness, meditatively tracing circles on the forest green bed sheets.

They were Egyptian cotton that folded a bit under my touch, but felt nice enough that I wished I could take off my pants as well. Ah, well, that's probably why Malfoy bought them. I could tell that they weren't the usual type issued by the school. So smooth, and warm. . .

A depression and the creaking of springs told me that he had laid down on the bed behind me. I heard the cloth slide over to cover him.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," I said, closing my eyes.

"None of that," he said sternly. I reopened them and turned to look at him. The blonde wizard was propped up on his elbow, looking at me with a hint of rueful humor of what was to come. "Do you mind if we talk for a bit?"

I tried not to show my surprise, despite being mostly unable to see his face. "Alright."

He sighed. "Firstly, do you mind if you could call me Draco? I haven't thought of you as Granger for a while."

"Sure, I guess."

"And I wanted to apologize again for all that I did."

"Alright."

"No, I mean–," I squinted a bit into the darkness and could tell that he was gesturing a lot in an attempt to express himself, "I wanted to explain all of what happened. I want to get it all off of my chest, why I did everything that I did."

"I assumed it was hormones."

"Hermione," he pleaded gently, "just let me try. Please."

It wasn't so much a question as an order, and so I sighed. "Fine. What is it?"

He paused for a moment, rolling onto his back, his hands behind his head. "It's a long story. Sure you won't fall asleep on me?"

"I won't," I promised, mostly awake. This excuse had better be great.

"Well, I've never treated women or muggleborns as well as I should," he began ruefully. "I started thinking about it more when my father betrayed my mum."

"Hm." I didn't know about this.

"She had asked him not to tell about an agreement with Macnair so that I would be protected in case my allegiance came out. This was right before the final battle, by the way," he added. "My father overheard it, and decided to turn us all in." I nodded silently, though he couldn't see it, willing him to continue. "I managed to escape through my connections with the Order. My mum couldn't be helped. So, while Macnair was simply murdered on the spot for disobedience, the Dark Lord wanted my mother to be punished. My father happily agreed, and I believe you know the rest."

"Yes," I confirmed, shocked. I had known that Narcissa was found, after being tortured to death, a week old at Voldemort's headquarters following the battle. The fact that it was by her husband, for merely protecting their only son, was almost too much to handle.

Draco's voice shook. "She was just like any of the muggles when we found her. I was there. I was on the front lines. I got to see, firsthand, what little difference it makes between Mudblood and pureblood, and how little I had been taught to respect women. For the love of Merlin, he didn't even think to bury his own wife. I killed him myself."

"Oh," I said stupidly. For all of my intelligence, I had no idea how to drunkenly comfort a murderer, who I was supposed to be angry at. "Draco, I'm sorry–,"

"It's alright. At least now I get a bit of independence. First time in my life," he added.

I didn't believe it one bit. "Right."

He looked at me appreciatively. "I've always liked how easy you are to talk to," he confessed.

"Really."

He raised his eyebrows, "It's true! Even when I hated the air you breathed, I thought that for a girl, you understood how to undermine a boy pretty well. It shows that you know how to confront them. And I never had to explain my insults, either." He smiled. "On the other hand, you're also smart enough that you knew some halfway decent hexes."

I laughed. "It's because you gave me so much practice for them," I quipped. He laughed as well. Then we both grew quiet, and I could tell that he was thinking. The fog around my brain was slowly lifting as well, though it was by no means clear. I only knew that he had more to explain.

"You were saying?" I prompted.

"Er– yeah. Um, well, I kind of realized that I wanted you after that— whole. . .incident." Okay, referring to the violent deaths of his parents a bit lightly, but I kept listening. "I knew that muggles were basically the same people as wizards, and that my father, well– he hated everyone for no reason, which included mud- I mean, muggleborns."

"Right."

"And so, I like having reasons to hate people now."

"Ah."

"I really liked you, Hermione. And this is hard for me to say, but– Herm, you're hot. Smoldering. Sexy. Great sense of humor. Intelligent." He quirked an eyebrow, "And I wanted all of that."

I laughed. "You are chock-full of surprises," I told him appreciatively.

"Thanks," he let out a bark of laughter, then sobered. "However, I still didn't care about you. Or your feelings. I used you, I admit it. The She-Weasel–,"

"Her name is Ginny," I interjected.

"– she just threw herself on me after the battle. Yes, we talked a few times, but I didn't care about her, and so at that party in Ravenclaw, I had sex with her just because she was so insistent. Hermione, I'm a hot-blooded male.( This I could agree to, remembering how he had once moved his hands over my skin so greedily.) How, honestly, can I turn down a willing, decent-looking female?"

"It's called willpower, Sherlock." Yes, I'm a hypocrite. I know.

"Sher-who?" Draco asked, confused. I almost smacked myself in the forehead. For all of his efforts, the unfortunate pureblood was still woefully ignorant as far as classic muggle literature was concerned.

"Never mind. Muggle thing," I added, by way of explanation. "You were saying?"

"Ah. Yeah. Well, I didn't know that Ginny was a virgin. I hadn't planned on that part, and I suppose that I assumed the wrong thing about her, and then by the time I found out. . . it was too late. No girl should ever have her virginity treated like that, and I did it to her. I woke up the next day just thinking that it had only been a drunken mistake, and left before she woke up, too. Then I saw you that day, and I just. . . I just had to try."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling like an idiot. "And it worked." A memory of myself, kissing Draco passionately and pinning him between my legs, passed through my mind. "Really well," I added. Usually, I was so intelligent when it came to men. . .

So much for willpower.

"Ginny came over and asked me for a date after you left," Draco continued. "I said no. As nice as I thought she was, I liked you more. Even though it seemed like I had ruined my chances."

In other words, he had pressured me, and I had gotten nervous and run off. I nodded with a laugh at the understatement. He had slept with another girl and then tried to do the same to me within twenty-four hours! That's a pretty firm turn-off, if you ask me.

"Ginny ran off crying to Michael corner. When I stopped by Ravenclaw the next day to find my watch, he jumped me. I didn't throw a single punch back at him, and the bastard hit me in the face at least a dozen times, completely knocking me out. It was enough for me to think about how any girl is worth. But Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"You were the last thing I thought of."

. . . oh.

"And I know that I don't deserve this at all. And I'm not worth considering, and I'm lower than I thought a muggle could ever be. But. . ." he turned towards me, leaning on his arm. Those oddly pale eyes met mine, searching me, almost completely obscured by the dilated pupils.

I waited, my mouth slightly agape.

"I wanted to know if we could be friends. Equals. More than that. I. . . think you're worth enough to break the rules about society. You make me think to go against everything I've ever learned just in the hope of getting to know you better. And I'd be absolutely amazed if someone so wonderful and breathtaking, that I'd been so horrible to for so long decided to really, truly forgive me, and let me have another chance, but I wanted to ask in the hope that sometime, in the distant future. . . you could give me the honor."

Oh, Merlin.

It was, without a doubt, the most heartwrenching apology I had ever heard.

He was sorry. He thought about me. He changed his lifestyle for me. He apologized. He treated me like an empress. He turned down other, willing girls just so that he could get a chance of being friends with me.

. . .But wait.

No, that doesn't explain everything.

Why? Why didn't he talk to me for seven months?

Why, after I told him that I was a virgin, did he still try to pressure me?

And most importantly, why has he decided to tell me all of this now?

No, I didn't want to let him down. Yes, I thought he was hot, no, I didn't want a relationship, no I didn't want him to disrespect women either. Maybe he was trustworthy, or lying, or a good actor, or honest, or determined. . . or maybe he's just a Slytherin slimebag, who's full of shit. Then why would he fight for a cause that he didn't believe in? Why would he 'lower' himself to apologizing to me and basically giving me his heart and pride to step on? Why was I so tormented? Why was I considering? What was it about him that made me want to strangle or ravish him? Why couldn't I decide?

The questions swirled frantically in my head as I realized that Draco was waiting for an answer. He wanted a response, not a question; and in the overwhelming confusion of the situation, I could understand his desire for a simple answer. He was still watching me, too. I could feel his eyes on me as I considered one thing after another, tracing the same circle onto the green sheets over and over. I licked my lips and noticed him unconsciously doing the same.

And this is why I'm asking you.

What do I do?

OoOo

Author's note:

It's incredibly difficult to write a decent oneshot. I hope I've done okay. For some odd reason, this idea would never leave me alone. It's confusing, of course, but then again, so are the characters. For any of you who have ever read "How to Read Literature Like a Professor," you know what I'm talking about, and are wishing that you didn't. It's a really dreadful book.

You've got to let me know by feedback whether or not an answer or explanation is needed for this story. I'm not planning on writing a conclusion unless persuaded by popular demand; otherwise, I haven't really thought about it. You can even give me suggestions, if you want. After all, that is what Hermione's asking for!

For those of the younger (or law-abiding) crowd who don't understand drunkinese, here's the conversation on the stairs as presented by an overly prim Draco and Hermione:

OoOo

FDM: Excuse me, Hermione.

PPH: Yes?

FDM: Where are you sleeping?

PPH: I do not know.

FDM: Well, you may take the bed in my room, and I shall sleep on the couch.

PPH: That's perfectly alright, I will sleep on the couch.

FDM: No! I am a gentleman. The lady should sleep on the bed, and the gentleman on the couch.

PPH: I think not.

FDM: You are sleeping on that damned bed, whether you like it or not!

PPH: Fine. I do not care either way. Though I hope that you have had your sheets washed recently, you carnal brat.

FDM: I do not like what you are insinuating.

PPH: In that case, I shall go claim the couch. Charge!

OoOo

Sorry, thought it was necessary. By the way, Black Lotus is a drug somewhat like opium, I'm guessing, made up by Ruskbyte. Read the story "Flying Without a Broom" to know what I'm talking about. It's a H/NT and it's hilarious.

But anyway, we'll see what–if anything– happens for Hermione and Draco. Thanks!

Love and chocolate,

Cami