Disclaimer: Hola mi llamo NOT J.K rowling

A/N: This story was originally called "An almost fairytale" but I was never truly satisfied with it, so I decided to take the story in a somewhat different direction. I felt like it needed some layers, as well as a little teeny tiny glimpse into dramione's past. Just a lil bit. Anyway, hope y'all like it! Read and review por favor! ;)

When Hermione Granger breaks the school rules, it's always for a justified, noble reason. She has great respect for the neat guidelines and only deters from them when Ron or Harry pull her arm and drag her along on an adventure. Or when someone needs rescuing. Or when the situation demands it. Hermione also has a set of her own rules, created solely for the purpose of maintaining order. She is the kind of girl that wakes up every morning at exactly six-thirty, homework done for the next three weeks, donning a perfectly pressed uniform within minutes. She loves Harry and Ron more than anything because they are so endearingly predictable. Press this button and Ron will get angry, say this and Harry will laugh, glance at them like this and whatever you want done will be carried out.

(But HE isn't like that)

When Hermione Granger breaks her own rules, it's usually for a justified, noble reason, and she only deters when certain previously-unknown factors come into the picture.

(Like HIM)

Neither of you knew where to meet, and since coffee shops tend to be a typical rendezvous point, you decided to come here.

It is just as awkward as you imagined. Between you two there is nothing but heavy silence, the kind that presses into your skin like hot wax. (Slowly dribbling down the sides of your arm, dripping from your fingers, spreading across the table, and before you know it you have become a wax statue trapped in this damn silence)

You won't break it for fear of destroying the only thing you two have left, which is hope, because as least in silence you can keep up the pretense that once your mouths open everything will be okay. (Actually speaking would crush that dream like a soda can)

He was never one to initiate anything, not with words or actions, and this time is no different (You kissed him first. You said the words first). He drums his fingers on the table and periodically sips at the cooling tea he only ordered to keep himself busy.

Hermione is sitting in the library, her own secluded table providing the perfect setting for a nice relaxing read. Unlike most rowdy sixth years, she loves silence. Relishes it. Adores it.

"This seat taken, Pince junior?" He climbs into the chair beside her and casually lays his legs across hers, reclining back with his arms behind his head. "This is the life, eh Granger?"

She glowers and closes the book with a pointed snap. "Just because we're heads doesn't mean I need to tolerate your disruptive behavior,"

He grins cheekily. "I know. You tolerate it because I'm your boyfriend."

Her strict façade wavers in the face of his smile, and she suppresses a grin.

"Shut up."

But he doesn't, so she wins back the silence by kissing him instead.

The little coffee shop is packed with life and color, couples kissing, babies crying, hot chocolate steaming the glasses of the bookworm in the corner, and yet you feel so detached from it all. As usual, his presence has sent you spiraling off to a different world- a different universe- in which only you two and the deserts menu exist. (Chocolate pie or custard tart? Read the menu so you don't have to look at him. Blueberry muffin, maybe? A slice of cobbler sounds lovely)

"How have you been?"

Ah, so the subdued snake slithers from the recesses of his now-empty cup and dares to hiss out a question. His voice is a strained kind of cordial with undertones of discomfort, the kind of tone one uses when speaking to a somewhat-familiar stranger. (Certainly not the voice for a past love)

You hate him more for this; for speaking as if nothing happened, as if he hadn't stolen your heart and sliced it to ribbons, as if he didn't sit across from you as detached as an acquaintance when the history between you two is as complex and colorful as an enigma.

"Granger, for the tenth time, there is no way you'll get hurt! You not only have all of my Quidditch gear on, but at least a dozen protection charms as well! It doesn't get much safer than that!"

Hermione pulls the helmet on tighter, her typically cream colored skin now a sickly green. She squeezes her eyes shut. "Draco, I know I promised, but flying is the one thing I have never been able to do. I'm too scared."

He pulls the broom out of the shed and locks the door tightly. "Do you think I would let anything happen to you?"

"No,"

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes,"

"Well, then what are we waiting for?" He helps her onto the broom, seating her behind him. "Hold onto my waist as tight as you need to and get ready!"

Before she has the chance to say 'okay' the broom has already lifted from the ground, flying rapidly in an upward spike.

"D-draco…" The fear is creeping in, clouding her vision, making her throat constrict. Just when she thinks her frantic heart will explode, he shouts, "Look!"

And there it is. The most beautiful sunset she has ever seen, the sky awash with golds and purples and rosy fingers stretching along the horizon, sunlight spilling across the black lake like egg yolk. Even though speaking would only disrupt the beautiful scene playing out before her, she allows herself a few words.

"Hey, Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

But you're a hypocrite, so you shamelessly bat the ball back into his court with the exact same swing. (Fake smiling it is, then)

"Fine, and you?"

He looks into his cup wishing there was something in there to stall his answer.

"I'm married now, actually,"

(Even a harmless snakebite can kill)

The words roll from his lips and settle into your skin like poisonous gas, so toxic you can practically felt the pain coursing through your veins alongside the blood cells. It hurts; (It shouldn't hurt like this- it's been so many damn years- but it does. A physical, tangible pain that spreads from heart to finger tips and back again)

"Draco, talk to me." She watches him from the doorway, his shadowed form rigid in front of the dying common room fire.

"There's nothing to talk about, Hermione." He never calls her Hermione unless he's in a terrible mood.

She wants to help him figure everything out, but he has built walls high enough to touch the sky ever since his last talk with Lucius.

"At least tell me what your father told you, Draco, you're worrying me,"

He chuckles, but it's a hollow sound devoid of humor. "I'm going to be marked."

He doesn't say 'He wants me to be marked' or 'I might be marked'. She knows his word choice was purposeful.

"Draco-" She begins pleadingly, her eyes big and shining. He can't do this to himself; she can't let him destroy his life.

"It's been decided." Cold. Just as cold and detached as he was before all of the 'I love you's and kisses and hugs. "I was also given another instruction,"

He turns to face her, but his eyes are downcast in either shame, sorrow, or both. She holds her breath and waits on the edge of her seat, heart pounding like a frightened sparrow's. He takes a deep breath, steels himself. Looks up at her with resolve.

"I can't be with you anymore."

You don't ask him who the wife is, because the unsaid name is Pansy, and he doesn't tell you, because the Daily Prophet already did two years, five months, and eight days ago. (What a booze-filled stupor that night was)

Jealousy flares briefly, but you know it's unreasonable because you 'moved on' too.

"That's wonderful, I'm married as well," You say, voice brimming with false cheerfulness, and in afterthought you add, "to Ron,"

"That's great," he smiles, and it would have seemed genuine if it weren't for that tell-tale twitch of his hand.

With a deep flush of triumph, you know that he is lying. This news upsets him.

Good.

But triumph quickly fades, because in truth, all you want is for this pretending to end. More than anything you want to speak truly and bluntly because you are so damn sick of skirting around topics and faking happiness.

She is crying, slumped against the corridor wall gasping for breath. There are too many words and feelings to sort out and make sense of, but all she can see is the constant image of HIM snogging Pansy, pressing her against the wall, his arms around her small waist.

He said he couldn't be with her, and she let him go. She kept her distance for his sake, purposefully avoided him just to make things easier on his part. And yet.

He rounds the corner, eyes wide. "G-granger,"

Her throat hurts from screaming into the material of her robes, so she can't force the words out for a moment.

"It's been two weeks," She is shaking in rage, hot tears spilling from each eye, trailing down her clenched jaws. "Is two weeks all it takes?"

The softness and compassion is gone from his eyes, familiar old sneer back in its place as Pansy rounds the corner to join him. "I told you we were done. What do you care?"

She can't tell if this is an act, or if he truly has frozen over. Doesn't matter, though. Pain is pain.

"I care because it's taken you exactly fourteen days to recover from a year long relationship," She wipes her eyes and looks up at his stoic face pleadingly. "If it was that easy, I have to wonder; did you ever love me?"

Heart on her sleeve. He has a knife. Pansy looks on with interest.

"Of course not."

"I should be going..." He says and you can tell there is an unasked question in his voice;

Are you going to stop me? Tell me what you really think?

He rises from his chair, but lingers, which proves your suspicion correct. Of course he would leave it up to you to mend the bridges and extend a hand. How typical of him.

You think back to all the wonderful times, the warmth that seemed to engulf your entire being whenever he was merely in the same room as you. You remember when he promised he'd stay and love you forever. You think back to stolen kisses and whispered promises, so sweet they were nearly saccharine, and you hate yourself for buying into it. A huge God damn lie you believed because his words were pretty, his eyes begged for your trust, his lips muted your protests and his hands didn't take no for an answer.

Dumbledore's funeral is sad for a hundred reasons, excluding the most obvious one. Not only does a wonderful headmaster die, but her last good memories of Draco die as well. He is gone, long gone, too far into the dark to ever emerge whole again.

It hurts in a hundred ways and Hermione is relieved that Ginny and Ron and Harry are there to squeeze her hand, helping her through both a funeral and another mourning they have no idea about.

Maybe if this wasn't reality, maybe if you two could live out your lives between the pages of a fairytale, then this would work out. You know that all it would take to fix everything would be to reach across the table and speak those magic words, and he'd say them right back and maybe you would get that happy ending you felt was guaranteed so many years ago. You could leave Ron and he'd leave that Slytherin bitch and you two could elope or screw marriage all together and live on a secluded little Island somewhere and raise a beautiful family and be content.

But here's the thing- this isn't a fairytale. Far from it.

In fairy tales, boys don't make promises only to break them. In fairy tales, the heroine defeats the evil being and rides off into the sunset, her hands wrapped around the prince's waist. In fairy tales, love is something inevitable and certain; it is a constant presence awaiting you at the end of your journey.

But sometimes journeys are in vain, aren't they?

Because you see him with his crumpled tie, weary eyes and stress-lined face and you realize he is no longer the impulsive passionate boy who would follow wherever his heart would lead. He is older now and he has grown up. You've grown up as well, you suppose. Working at the ministry, married, living in a house under both your names; Weasley.

And it's in that moment that you realize his chapter really has been finished already. That sparkle you used to have in your eyes no longer fits, and if you tried to force it, it would be like building a puzzle with every piece in the wrong place. That part's over. Maybe one day when you've stopped laughing or crying over this, you can paste a picture of him in your big scrapbook and mark it "past". And sometimes you'll flip through and stop on that page, a softish smile on your lips and memories skipping across your vision like clips from an old film. (But even in that warm moment, you'll always keep flipping and eventually close the book, and he will gather dust until you find him again. Open and close, captured in amber, always the same, like pretty music in a pretty music box)

"It was nice talking to you, Malfoy, congratulations on your marriage."

He shakes your hand firmly, eyes finally meeting yours.

"You too, Granger. Here, I'll walk you out" Draco helps you into your coat and the two of you leave the coffee shop full of noise and color and life, and walk out into the rain where he offers you his only umbrella. (Thanks Draco. No problem, Hermione.)

And you part ways, him smiling with half his mouth and all of his eyes, and you waving a little, thanking him again for the umbrella.

And maybe it isn't a perfect happy ending, equipped with singing birds and ball gowns and kisses, but it should fit in your scrap-book well enough, and that's all you can ask for.

Well! I hope that revised story was to your liking! I'm definitely writing a follow up oneshot from Draco's POV, and Ill probably just add it onto here as another chapter. Thanks bunches for reading, and don't forget to review! ;)