Disclaimer: Not mine.

Chance Meeting

He is everything she doesn't need.

Draco Black Malfoy is a whirlwind of contradictions. He doesn't know where he stands, so he settles for falling into the shadowed ranks of Lord Voldemort. He pillages, he steals, he murders, and he laughs it off, like his actions are affecting no one but himself.

He is a Death Eater, and he is not. He is the epitome of evil, a manic follower of the Dark Lord, an enemy to all that is good and pure and right, and he is not.

She doesn't know what he is anymore.

And somehow, he makes her not care.

-

"'Mione, where are you? We're going to be late!"

She jerked at the sound of Harry's voice, struggling against the lean body pinning her down against the mattress. "Draco," she hissed in frustration, "I have to go!"

He shook his head like a petulant child and tightened his grip on her, mumbling obscenely against the curve of her neck about early mornings.

"Hermione!"

"I'm coming!" she yelled, swatting at Draco's face as she tried to make him let her go. He groaned when her open palm connected with the left side of his face and rolled over, his arms still locked around her waist.

She ended up on top and sighed, his face pressed to her neck. She had to resist the urge to smack the smug expression from his face when she felt him smirk, his beautiful grey eyes still closed against the sting of the morning sun.

"Kiss me."

Her eyebrows disappeared under her mussed hair. "Excuse me?"

She felt the flutter of his eyelashes on her neck as he opened his eyes, and she smiled at the scowl she knew to be there. Hermione dropped a kiss to his lips, and she lingered a moment longer than necessary. When they parted, his arms slipped away, and she rose.

"Hurry," he said, shooing her with his hand, a devilish smile on his face. "You're ten minutes late."

She could've screamed.

-

Hermione searches diligently through a messy stack of papers, ignoring the brown coffee stains and dark ink smudges. Finally, after fifteen minutes of traipsing through Ron Weasley's work desk, she gives up. He says he needs to have the periodical handed in by tomorrow, but what's she to do when it's nowhere to be found?

"Trouble, Granger?"

Her face freezes momentarily at the familiar voice, and she curses Ron for making her come, curses fate for allowing them their one chance meeting. He writes her, but she always finds something to busy herself with, prolonging her many responses to his many letters. He shows up at her apartment every second Thursday of every month to drop a flower at her door, accompanied by a small note every time. He never bothers to ring the doorbell, and she doesn't know why.

"Why are you here, Malfoy?"

She turns to face him, her hand convulsing on the edge of Ron's desk as she does her best to control her shaking. It isn't like her to lose control of something, and that is one of her reasons for not wanting to be around him. She likes control.

He stands at the threshold of Ron's office, his shoulder pressed against the doorframe. He arches an eyebrow at her waspish tone, his mien portraying nothing but his usual calm.

"Does it matter?"

He enjoys making her steam, and she knows it. "Of course it matters. I asked you a question," she snaps back, already feeling the heat rise on her cheeks.

She doesn't want to see him there, relaxed and casual. It has been four months since the last time they spoke, and she wants to keep it that way. She doesn't want to know what he's done with himself, and she certainly doesn't want to see his familiar, handsome smirk that used to make – still makes – her heart flutter.

He shrugs and shifts, leaning his back against the doorframe instead of his shoulder, his arms hanging down by his sides. It gives her a profile view of him, and she isn't sure if she likes it or not. It makes her notice that his hair is slightly unkempt, and he isn't as cleanly shaven as he likes to be.

"I wanted to see you," he says as if he were announcing the weather. There is no inflection in his voice, and she finds it curious that his lack of tone tugs sends a pang through her chest. Then, she puts two and two together, and she completely forgets how his words tugged at her heartstrings more than they should have.

"Did Ron –" she begins, but he stops her with his proximity. Draco stares down at her for what seems an eternity, and Hermione feels her heart jump to her throat, her mouth dry.

Then, he flashes her that devilish smirk of his and takes her hand, his eyes dancing with something akin to mischief.

"Not Ron," he says, emphasizing the 'not'.

And he kisses her, because he knows he has her with one touch, like it always has been. His tongue slips into her mouth, and Hermione feels it all the way to her toes.

"Harry, actually."

Draco smiles against her lips, chuckling at the indignant noise she makes.