Draco/Hermione
Summary: Something in her attachment to that pink dress made him love her even more. (Inspired by "Something" by the Beatles)
He swore that dress had been made just for her.
The pink satin seemed to mold to her, draping gently - almost floating - over every curve of her body. It looked like someone tore the edge off of a cloud and spun it around her.
The first time he saw her in it - on their fourth date - he almost didn't want to touch her because of how perfect she looked. Every curl suddenly seemed intentional. Every blotch of red skin became a rosy brushstroke. She was always gorgeous, stunning, a hundred words worth of beautiful. In this dress, though...
She was something else. Someone else. Unapproachable. Eerily perfect.
He kept a distance from her. He had this feeling he wouldn't be able to so much as hold her hand without ending up bruising her lips or messing up those perfectly placed curls. He could either stay still or spill ink all over the table.
He asked her about it somewhere between the tenth and twentieth time he saw her wear it. She said it wasn't anything special, really. Her parents had given it to her for her 16th birthday.
Over the next few months, she wore it more and more frequently.
She wore it when she listened to old records. Sometimes, she'd sprawl out on their sofa, twirling her fingers in the skirt and tapping her foot to the sound of a piano or a violin or a synthesizer, just losing herself.
And Draco would just watch her.
She liked to wear it when she read her muggle romance novels. He noticed she bit her lip every time she turned the page. He also noticed she drummed her fingers on the paper sometimes, and he wondered if any those records were still playing in her head.
She always wore it on birthdays, and not just hers. She'd gotten green frosting on it once, because she had it on baking a cake for him. She never could quite get the stain out, and, for some reason, he loved that - loved having his name etched into the satin.
There were some evenings he would find her crying in it, leaving little tear stains on the skirt she buried her face in. He'd hold her and sing her a song from one of her records - her great aunt's records, she'd once told him. He could only remember the lyrics in blurry patches, but he knew she didn't care. He knew, in her head, she was filling in the blanks. Even her weakest moments, she never stopped being Hermione Granger.
Always in her dress. Always filling in the blanks.