Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, etc., this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Prologue

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"Okay, I believe you. Please do move on. And by that, I mean - Draco is probably at your front door right now. Good luck, love! ;D"

Her heart trotted in its steadily erratic beat from previously having a conversation about her past with Ron as well as an unwelcomed one about Ginny and Harry's sex life. "What?" she exclaimed aloud, quickly setting the glass of red wine in her hand before she sloshed it as she predictably would. Her fingers were quick and furious, tapping away her reply to Ginny, her exact train of thought.

"What! You didn't say anything about him – my door – my house! Ginny, I'm in my pajamas! And the place is – papers – books – GINNY WEASLEY."

" I tooooldd you to be prepared didn't I? NOW GET YOU ARSE MOVING AND LET THE POOR BLOKE IN."

"But – I! You didn't say now! I thought you meant mentally prepared or – oh, Ginny!"

Goodness knows why she thought it would be appropriate a time to even reply Ginny anymore, she groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to smack herself in the head which began to reel at the possibilities – no. No! Surely, Ginny was playing a joke on her. It was improbable – no, absolutely impossible for Draco Malfoy to –

A knock on the door.

Hermione flew out of her seat, her fingers immediately entangled in her wild, unruly mane of hair. NO. She felt like she would explode from all the flurry of emotions she felt take flight inside of her, from her stomach to her heart and ensnaring her mind. She was angry – angry at Ginny and angry at Malfoy for unsettled past reasons that she could not possibly go into at the moment! She was nervous – nervous at the thought of Malfoy showing up! At her door! Surely, that was ridiculous! The nerves were ridiculous as well! Which brought her to embarrassment, embarrassed that she was flushed like a schoolgirl who received a smile from a crush – she was past all that now, and clearly, obviously, Draco Malfoy was not a subject of crushing – embarrassed that anyone at all would think she actually was attracted to this man who was previously, not evil, but foul and vindictive – in this admission to herself, she was met with hesitance to reevaluate his personality for who he really was at the moment and not who he was as a boy – and how embarrassed she truly did feel about it all. And then she was indignant, that Harry and Ginny found it in themselves to play matchmaker. But were they to blame, really? And she was trapped in wistfulness, which took liberty to twine itself tight around her every waking moment these days, seeping into her dreams in the night, with its lingering company of loneliness and bitterness and weariness. It was such a long list. And she was so tired.

She dropped back on the couch, sending the paperwork around her to flutter and settle messily back around or onto the carpeted floor. Her hands found its way into her curls again, her nails scraping at her scalp as she dragged in a deep breath she didn't know she had been holding, evoking a pang in the chest as she revisited her guilt and pain. If only she was still with Ron, if only that could've worked out. If only she were more tolerant and if only she were stronger, if only things were easier and if only she were braver. If only he was kinder and if only she found a reason to stay – if only she even bothered to seek one out!

Why though, she questioned forcefully. Why did it deem necessary to her that she should be in love with him, that she should be with him? She shook her head hard, as she contemplated her questions. These were questions marks upon question marks, and they tore at her already tattered conscience in unspoken ways.

A blink on her laptop screen caught her attention, breaking off the internal interrogation. She read Ginny's reply:

"Oh, just go greet him in your pajamas then. I bet he won't mind a bit ;D"

And it sent her up on her feet again. She forgot he was there! She didn't even have time to retch at Ginny's implication. She began to pace. She considered just ignoring him. She paused in her steps and realized, maybe that's what he thought she'd been doing and he'd taken the hint and taken off.

The second knock sounded and it was less curt, more hesitant, but somehow also much insistent – it triggered her to resume her pacing and was the wind to unsettle everything inside of her. She was lost at that point and plopped herself back down in front of the laptop and tapped furiously.

"Oh, I can't! I just!"

And that was all she sent in return because those were the only words that arose in the sea of bouncing letters.

"FLOO ME TOMORROW, DARLING. Harry and I have to go 'play' now ;D"

She would've snorted if the situation on her part had not been so dire. She slammed her laptop shut, wishing that technology had been advanced enough for Ginny to have felt that or at least, heard it, sending the message equivalent to a slamming phone without a word of goodbye or well-wishing. She also made a mental note to wring Harry's neck out for teaching Ginny how to use smiley's.

She took in her surroundings, the files she brought home from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes on recent Muggle-related incidents that needed to be sorted that had been fanned out were uprooted and scattered now. The books on Herbology that she had borrowed from Neville spread on the coffee table, on the couch around her, on the floor as she had hoped to get some research done on the possibilities of improving the effectiveness of the Wolfsbane potion.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, when for the third time, a knock came from the front door of her flat. She was too tired to be set on edge again. So she pushed herself up from her seat, a sense of dread shot from inside out, mirroring on her face. She strode to the door, her finger tips tingling as she reached for the door. She paused to put on a coat that hung on the rack beside her to cover up better. She took a deep breath, leaning her forehead on the cold wood as she listened to the shuffling of feet coming from beyond that door.

Oh! She miserably scolded herself when all of a sudden, she remembered, she had ordered takeout earlier! It might not even be Malfoy!

And at the happy, self-assuring thought, she unraveled her dismal outlook, and with a smile on her face that spelt relief, she heard the click of the mechanics as she unlocked the door and the rustling sound of a reaction it caused, and pulled it open.

Hermione Granger would say no, he had told them. He had insisted and pressed on to Potter and the Weaslette that she would say no because he was sure that was how it would go down – if she even opened the door to let him in. They had reassured him that no, she would not, that she had promised the Weaslette to give him a chance, and that she trusted Potter's word for it. He had skeptically told them they had gone bonkers and while internally hoping for what they proposed to be the case, stood by his conjecture of Granger's reaction anyway. He would be gleefully smug about being right if he weren't so gutted with disappointment – no, he was not disappointed. Frustration – that was it, coupled with indignation.

He huffed as he stuck his foot down onto the welcome mat with a silent thump, decidedly finished with fidgeting and shifting his weight – no doubt that would alert the downstairs' neighbor, he thought with perverse satisfaction, give the unnerving woman behind this door some trouble, for Merlin's sake. How dare she? She didn't even bother to cast a Silencing charm or the Muffliato spell that Potter took to using, which he was sure she knew of as well – he snorted at the thought of Potter practicing a spell without the bushy-haired Granger's knowledge. All the while, she just stomped around the flat like a bloody elephant, knowing he could hear her. How rude.

At the thought of her purposely relishing in denying him access to her home, denying him a moment for him to speak and show her who he was now, denying him the chance at redemption, he threw the bouquet of flowers he had brought along with him into this wretched Muggle building that accommodated this witch to the ground. Flowers, he snorted again brashly.

He had already knocked twice. The first time, he had been on fire, set on the absolute furthest edge of his mind with his raw-ended nerves. It took him quite a stretch to realize that clock had ticked past in the invitation of time in his fretful and empty stupor, yet the owner of this flat had failed to present herself at the door. Because of how the blood had rushed through his ears, he couldn't have paid any attention to what had gone on inside during his ten-minute wait – he'd checked his pocket watch then. Incredibly unsure, he raised his empty fist to knock again. This time, having cooled off from perplexity, he heard it – the pacing, the squeak of floorboards, the thudding on carpet, the plop sound of that sounded like someone flopping onto a couch, the shuffling sound like papers aflutter, the furious tapping like on a typewriter or one of those computers Potter and Weaslette used, and the loud, angry slam.

That brought him back to the present. He lifted his hand to run it through his hair and when it came in contact with his bare forehead, he was reminded that he had cropped it off, so he dragged his hand further upwards and let his fingers scrape through what remained. In his moment of vulnerability, he neglected to be hostile in his thoughts, as he bitterly claimed his victory in how Ginny was wrong and Harry was wrong. Granger, though the noble Gryffindor princess she was, could not bring herself to grant him a conversation, with a look in the eye and open ears and an open mind – never mind an open heart. Maybe she knew that it would be disastrous, that she could not accept what he would present to her, as if he were a case, a file, something to be analyzed and studied and drawn a conclusion to, and so decided to not even open her door of her home to him. It was a symbolization of how she was closed off to him as well.

Maybe this was for the best, he deliberated as his hair became more and more unkempt from his insistent fingers in their idleness. They wouldn't have to be obligated to go through with the date Harry and Ginny insisted on. They wouldn't have to be interrogated on how it went – how bad it went, he chided in his head grimly, and how and why it wouldn't happen again. And they most certainly would not have to go through that awful phase of awkwardness where they had to shift from former enemies to admittedly strangers and then mold their nonexistent relationship into one of friendship. They would not make it through all that. Not without a hex uttered or a punch, in her case, thrown at the other. She thought it too. She thought it with that logical, exasperating brain of hers and believed it with her heart, and so chose to ignore the man in the hallway. Yes, for she was a Gryffindor through and through, and the matters of mind and heart always intertwined. Yes, a Gryffindor, he supposed it would require some courage to deny the Weaslette of her wishes, or rather, demands, so in an ironic way, she was still incorporated with her bravery.

With a sigh, he rocked on the balls of his feet, clenching his eyes shut. For the best, yes.

Just then, he heard a click and froze, eyes snapping wide open in surprise. The click sounded suspiciously like the unlocking of a door. She was – no, clearly, she couldn't be –

Fuck, he swallowed, he had already been frozen for seconds too long. He bent quickly to pick up the flowers that had delicately shed some of its petals in protest of being chucked carelessly to the floor just as the door knob was turned.

A/N: This fic was started because of a bit of RP-ing I did just for fun with a friend. So this one's for you, Angel! I have never attempted writing fanfic before your reviews will be much appreciated, thank you!