He hadn't seen her in some years. Only when he dreamed of her lightly, did he see her. She was golden, off-limits. He supposed that was why he was so drawn to her. Forbidden, he referred to it as.
She was here now, with her long, brown hair. Her brown eyes. He'd always thought that his slate grey eyes were more beautiful, but not now. His attention grazes to her and her little boyfriend. Oh, he wishes he could go and slap him. But he's already hurt her, he can't do so again.
He sighs and asks for just water. He needs to be sober walking home. He doesn't drink anyway.
She gets up. He's alert. His blonde head follows her to the ladies' room. He turns his head back furiously. What if she saw you, you idiot? Do you want her to catch you?
No, no. That would mess everything up. The alcoholic smell of the Hog's Head is acrid in his nose and mouth, and he does his best not to gag. He drinks his water, thanking his lucky stars. He turns in his seat.
Hmm. The weasel looks upset with her. Apparently she didn't say, "Excuse me," loud enough. Well. He is certainly loud enough now. She sitting there, taking the only one of his outbursts tonight.
She did that for me too.
He keeps forgetting that she treats the weasel with a different correlation. Like she's used to it, she knows to wait it out. I wonder if she did that for me when I left her hanging.
Oh, it looks like she's had it. She gets up and looks him in the eye, saying something. The weasel gets wide-eyed. His sister laughs at him. She walks out, completely perfectly. No wobble whatsoever. She hasn't had a drink. He gets up; he needs to talk to her.
He follows her out the door, seeing her wrap the maroon scarf around her neck, the no longer bushy hair into a pretty, messy bun. He sees her lean up against the wall, her pretty face looking up into the night sky. He leans into the same wall not too far away.
"Beautiful night," he says to her. It's not true. It's cloudy and the dim light of the moon is exactly that: dim.
She's not startled by his presence. Instead she smiles and sighs.
"If only it were," she says to him. He shrugs.
"Well, you know, if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have mentioned it," he says, a little impassive. She laughs lightly.
"Well, I wish I could see the world as you do sometimes," she says, almost to herself.
"The Weasel is blind, isn't he?"
"Ron, is seeing fine, thank you."
"Are you going to do that all night?" he smirks.
"Do what?" she sneers.
"Sneer the first words in each sentence?"
"I'm not—" she starts and clears her throat.
"I'm not doing that," she corrects. He snorts.
They stay silent.
"I don't regret it," he says without thinking. "Our time together."
She doesn't so much as regard him, already looking back up at the moon.
He shifts and leans back, with his silver eyes closed. He hears her move and his eyes are open again.
"Draco, I—" she starts. He cuts her off. He gets up and puts his hands on the wall behind her, each hand on one side of her face. He leans down his platinum haired head to her chocolate brown and smiles. It starts to rain.
"Let me rephrase that: I'd go through it all again if needed," he says, breathing the words. Her breath catches in her throat. The rain falls nicely on the cement and it starts to pour.
He presses his lips to hers and keeps them there for her. She seems to get it and kisses back, wrapping her arms around him. He keeps his mouth to hers and smirks, taking her into his arms.
"There's my Hermione," he says, still smirking.
She stares up at him, blushing and biting her lip. He watches as her face goes from shyness to regret. It twists her sweet smile into a round "O."
"Hermione—" He says to her. She doesn't listen. She clutches her jacket and runs down the pavement in her high heels. He stares after her, and even when she's long gone, he screams.
"Hermione!"