Prompt 1: "Can I refill your eggnog for you? Get you something to eat? Drive you out to the middle of nowhere and leave you for dead?
Prompt 2: Two candles to feature somewhere in the story.
Written for LightofEvolution's Let Your Heart be Light fest 2017. Beta hearts to In Dreams (did you know Saskatchewan has its own tartan?) and hugs to Sweetiehoney19 (for making me laugh as I wrote this).
They say gin makes you morbid, depressed, and pessimistic. A year ago, Hermione Granger would have laughed in your face and declared Cork Dry Gin to be a girl's best friend. But only Cork Dry Gin, mind; she hated all the others. And it had to have two cubes of ice and a slice of lime — not lemon — lime. And did I mention the mixer had to be Schweppes Slimline Tonic? No?
Well, now you know.
Gin also happened to be the name of her best friend.
This year, well, let's just say Hermione Granger was staring into her G&T — morbid, depressed, and pessimistic.
"Mione, please! You're breaking my heart! I don't know what to do!"
"There's nothing you can do, Gin," Hermione replied. "He sobered up, walked away, and hates me."
"Did you try—"
"No, I didn't try to talk to him! He made it very clear last Christmas. It's bad enough without me making a bloody tit of myself!"
She finished her gin, glancing around at the festive decorations proudly displayed throughout the little pub — even if the Christmas tree was slightly tilted. "I'm so glad you're back from travelling, Ginny. Sorry to burden you with all of this."
"Are you fucking mental?" Ginny Weasley hissed. "Calls, texts, and emails for nearly a whole year but not once — not once — do you mention you're heartbroken and alone! I'm your fucking best friend—"
Tears pricked Hermione's eyes. "How could I do that to you! One year to travel the world and write about all the exotic and shitty places you've visited for a top magazine." She wrapped a rogue piece of red tinsel around her index finger. "If I'd told you even an ounce of what was going on, what would you have done? Hmm? You'd have hopped on the first flight home from wherever! How could I do that to you, Gin? To your career?"
Ginny frowned and drained her Jack Daniel's and Coke. "After all these years, you still have to learn what the words 'best friend' mean, Mione. Same again?"
Draco Malfoy leaned back in his chair, rolling his head around to loosen the knots forming as a result of sitting in the same position for too long. He always wanted to teach; he never wanted to correct. Especially first year Chemistry papers.
Flurries of snow floating by the window caught his attention. Shit! Rugby practice will be fucking freezing.
Draco stood up, stretching his arms before walking over to the bare window. He couldn't bring himself to decorate his room in glowing shades of red and gold; the thought made him sick. Leaning on the oak window sill, he caught his reflection through the glass.
At twenty-seven, he was fit and healthy. His abnormally blond hair highlighted his tanned skin, coloured from endless rugby matches and senior team coaching. He had the palest grey eyes that shone silver in certain light. She had commented on them before.
Draco sighed heavily and hung his head.
She.
The fucking bane of his existence.
As if on cue, a taxi drove up the gravelled driveway and stopped outside the main entrance to the castle. Yes, he taught in a castle, and not just any castle — Hogwarts School for the Unbelievably Rich. Don't ask me where it is; you're only told the address if you can afford to go there. I don't qualify.
The passenger door of the taxi opened and he heard her thanking the driver and wishing him a Merry Christmas.
Look at you, all happy and fucking… happy.
Draco watched her walk towards the castle steps; she wore her hair loose — all dark waves bouncing around her face as she moved. He loved the colour — chocolate brown with natural highlights of caramel and honey. The colours complemented the mocha in her eyes.
He was going to tell her once.
Closing his eyes, his aching heart brought him back to the previous Christmas. The teaching staff were having a meal together at the local pub — the Three Broomsticks — and he had purposely tripped that fucking French-teaching twat McLaggen so he'd get to sit beside Granger.
Hermione Granger.
The new History teacher. He loved her name. Fuck that! He used to love her name.
Fucking bitch.
Over Rosie's exceptional Christmas fare at the pub — that woman could cook! — they struck up a conversation about politics. She was a staunch supporter of workers' rights and ensuring the voices of the 'little people' were heard. He, mostly due to his privileged upbringing, completely disagreed with her. Their arguments were passionate and intense; their drinks were topped up regularly and, by dessert — Christmas Pudding with brandy sauce — he had insulted her stupid curly hair at least three times. She had called him foul, loathsome, evil, and — would you believe it? — a cockroach.
More drinks led to more deep and meaningful conversations. He told her she was beautiful. She was mesmerized by the silver glint in his eyes. He asked her out to dinner but couldn't remember her answer. What he could remember, however, was his decision to kiss her once she returned from the toilet.
She never came back.
He saw her the next morning, laughing and joking with the rugby coach, Potter, and his assistant, Riddle. Riddle! What the fuck sort of a name is that!
That was almost a year ago now and still, every time he saw Hermione Granger, Draco's heart cracked a little more.
"Mr Malfoy!"
Draco turned, having heard his name being called by the Headmistress. Minerva McGonagall approached him with purpose, peering over her glasses to eye the young Chemistry teacher. Today, she was in plain Herringbone Tweed. Yesterday, it was Fraser tartan.
She was like a walking advertisement for the Scottish Highlands.
"Headmistress, how are you?" He bowed his head slightly as she approached.
"Very well, Mr Malfoy. I thank you for asking."
"What can I do for you?"
"Much as it pains me to admit, Mr Malfoy, I find some of my staff members are not, shall we say, as organised and efficient as the Chemistry faculty? With less than two weeks until the festivities, Mr McLaggen has completely forgotten that his senior students were to organise this year's staff Christmas party. I am—"
"Would you like my help?"
The Miss Marple lookalike sighed with relief. "I would like nothing more, Mr Malfoy."
"Right, you lot. Listen up!"
Draco closed the door behind him, narrowly avoiding the mistletoe that some love-struck fourth year had decided to hang perilously close to where he was now standing, and addressed his sixth years. Of all the students, they were his favourites. He could talk to them as equals, not permanently vibrating first years who practically shat themselves every time a teacher spoke.
"McLaggen's fucked up… again."
Jeers and laughter spread around the room.
"Alright, settle down," Draco smirked. "It means we're coming to McGonagall's rescue."
"What do you want us to do, sir?" Theodore Nott enquired.
"We're organising the staff Christmas party. We have eight days."
"And what do we get in return for pulling out all the stops, sir?"
"Miss Parkinson, you will each get my eternal gratitude, glowing reports — even you, Zabini — and £100 each."
Pansy Parkinson crossed her arms. "£200."
"£150."
"Done."
Gin. U free 2moro?
Yep.
Need u. 8pm.
Where?
School. Staff party. Need support.
No probs.
Thanks Gin. Love u.
Love u2. XX
Hermione stood in front of the full length mirror in her private rooms, biting her lip, and trying to keep calm. She may have managed to avoid him for most of the year within the school corridors and grounds but, as his faculty were hosting the Christmas party, he would wait at the door to the Great Hall and personally greet each guest. Her stomach was in knots.
Her dress also had her on edge; she remembered him telling her he loved Cary Grant and one of his favourite movies was Indiscreet. Was that the reason she chose to wear this vintage gold lamé gown, so like the Dior Ingrid Bergman's character wore?
Ginny walked into the bedroom, daring in a teal belted off-the-shoulder dress with flowing skirts. Her fiery red hair was tied in a high ponytail that swung like a pendulum.
"Your hair looks gorgeous like that, Mione," she commented. "He won't—"
Hermione twirled around. "Don't! Gin, please," she cried. "It's going to be hard enough."
Ginny rushed over to grab her best friend's hand. "Talk to him, Mione," she pleaded, "about bloody anything! Just talk. You've no idea what went wrong last year. At least, ask. Then you can get closure—"
"Closure."
They both said that awful word at the same time.
"Stiff upper lip and all that shite," Ginny smiled.
"All that shite," Hermione agreed.
She leaned over to gently blow out the two candles that were lighting on the mantelpiece but decided to leave on the Christmas tree lights. She loved the glow from the green and silver decorations.
Stepping out into the hallway, she took one last glance around before closing the door. She really loved teaching here; her rooms were cosy and welcoming — the Christmas decorations making them feel so much like home — but Hermione didn't think she could stay very much longer.
Draco stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, trying to ignore the sultry glances of colleagues' wives and former female students. Mostly female, anyway.
His collar was choking him and he'd gladly have given away half his family fortune to rip apart his black satin bow tie.
You can do this; it's only for a few hours. It'll all be over in a few hours.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and the stinking breath of cigars wafted across his face. McLaggen — fucking drunken twat.
"Malfoy! Mind if I smoke?"
"I don't care if you burn," Draco muttered.
McLaggen smacked him on the back. "Now, now, Malfoy. You have to be nice to the guests, and that includes me."
Draco took a deep breath, remembering to face away from the prick in front of him.
"You're right, McLaggen," he smiled, a completely un-Malfoy-like fake smile. "Can I refill your eggnog for you? Get you something to eat? Drive you out to the middle of nowhere and leave you for dead?
"Now, just a— WHAT THE FUCK!"
"Oh! I'm so sorry, Mr McLaggen, sir," Pansy looked shocked, the contents of her non-alcoholic eggnog rolling down the back of the French teacher's head and neck, "I tripped."
Following McLaggen's hasty departure to his rooms, Draco turned to Pansy.
"I hope there won't be any repercussions for you, Pansy. He's a prick but—"
"I take German, sir."
Draco laughed out loud. "Consider your fee doubled so."
More guests, both past and present, rolled up to the Great Hall. Draco smiled, shook hands, smiled, shook more hands, cursed his fucking bowtie; it went on and on. He managed to grab a five minute break where he practically inhaled a glass of Champagne and wolfed down a blue cheese and pecan tartlet.
Hearing the tap of high heels making their way across the stone floor, he turned away from his mind-numbingly boring conversation with a member of the Board of Management to see a striking redhead approaching him. Pansy, pristine in a Wednesday Addams dress, greeted Miss Ginevra Weasley by ticking her name off a list and presenting her with a glass of Veuve Clicquot Rosé. The young student then proceeded to formally announce the grinning stranger to the evening's host.
"Miss Weasley," Draco proffered his hand, "you're very welcome. Are you here alone?"
Ginny shook his hand, wholeheartedly approving of this blond eyeful her best friend was going to marry — if she had anything to do with it.
"I'm not," she replied. "I left my companion speaking to someone dressed like my mother's carpet."
Draco laughed. "Yes, that would be our Headmistress. It will be interesting to see what tartan she's wearing this evening. No doubt there are bets on. May I ask the name of your companion?"
I have you now. Ginny's smile would have made angels jealous. "Of course. I'm here with my best friend, Hermione Granger."
Draco's smile faltered — only for a second — but Ginny caught it. "Yes, Miss Granger… our History teacher."
The tell-tale sound of footsteps announced more guests. Ginny stepped to the side; this she wanted to see.
At the same moment, Theodore Nott came out to relieve Pansy and caught a glimpse of the vision walking towards the table.
"Buggering fuck—"
"Theo!" Pansy hissed.
Draco couldn't even find the words to reprimand his student. In fact, he couldn't find any words.
Hermione shook like a leaf on the inside but every deity that existed must have taken pity on her as she calmly approached Pansy.
"Miss Granger," the young girl gushed. "You look—"
"Beautiful," Draco whispered. Only Ginny heard it.
"—absolutely gorgeous!"
"Thank you, Pansy," Hermione smiled, lowering her voice. "These bloody shoes are killing me."
Pansy laughed, handing the popular teacher a glass of Champagne.
Hermione walked over to Draco, praying for decorum — and balance.
"Mr Malfoy."
"Miss Granger, welcome." He reached for her hand.
Hermione didn't realise he would shake hands with all the guests; she just assumed he was positioned there — like Adonis in a tuxedo — to smile and nod. Passing her Champagne flute from her right hand to her left, she offered her hand to him.
Never taking his eyes off hers, he raised it to his lips. If Ginny Weasley was wearing flats, she would have performed Snoopy's Happy Dance.
"Will you join me for a drink later?" Draco was internally praying she didn't notice his shaking hand.
"I-I don't—" she panicked. Hermione couldn't do this.
But Draco didn't let her go; this time he was going to fight for her.
Suddenly the double doors burst open and Harry-bloody-fucking-shit-timing-Potter walked out, his arms waving everywhere as he demonstrated some rugby tackle to Riddle who was trotting along beside him. As usual.
The Man-Draco-Was-Going-To-Fucking-Kill stopped in his tracks, however, as he locked eyes with Ginny Weasley.
But the moment was broken — smashed to pieces like the glass of Champagne that fell from Hermione's grasp. She stepped back, pulling her hand from Draco's, and looking around frantically.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she mumbled over and over before grabbing hold of her dress and running.
The commotion over the broken glass, Harry's sudden realisation that the woman of his dreams was standing right in front of him, McLaggen's boisterous return to the hallway — it all happened so fast. Draco just stood in the middle of it all and Ginny swore she saw his bottom lip quiver.
"Go," she shook him roughly. "Go get her!"
He blinked, focusing on her face for a moment before his thoughts fully returned. "I—"
"It'll be alright, I swear," she urged him. "Go!"
"Potter, take over." Draco didn't wait for a reply.
To this day, Hermione Granger will never know how she ran in those shoes. But run she did, with tears flowing down her cheeks and her heart in more pieces than the Champagne glass she'd left behind.
Rustling towards her rooms — damn dress! — she reached forward to retrieve the key that she'd hid under the vase outside her door. Well, it saved her from bringing a bag, didn't it? And the dress didn't require a bra so there was nowhere to actually stash her key.
She fumbled with the lock, keeping her head down to avoid the partygoers and students who really shouldn't be outside their dorms at this hour. The noise around her hid the sound of his rapidly approaching footsteps.
As soon as Hermione heard the familiar click of the lock, she dashed inside, swinging the door behind her. Then, collapsing in a heap in front of the smouldering fire, she sobbed pitifully into her hands.
"Granger."
Blood drained from her head to her toes; she didn't realise the door hadn't shut behind her.
Hermione turned her head slowly and, through her tears, saw him standing just inside her room. Before she could say anything, he closed the door, softly turning the lock.
"No!" She cried, struggling to stand. "Just go, please."
Draco strode over to her, tears pricking his eyes as the sight of her so distraught. He gently placed his hands on the bare skin of her shoulders, trying desperately to ignore the rush of desire that threatened to bring him to his knees.
"What's—"
Hermione jolted back as if volts of electricity had pulsed through her.
"What's wrong? Is that what you're going to ask? What's wrong? You! You're what's wrong!"
He looked shocked. "I don't understand—"
Her face was full of fury now, her tears of pure anger.
"DON'T! Don't stand there and say you... ugh!" She threw her hands up in the air.
It was Draco's turn to get annoyed. "No, I fucking don't understand. You've been like a bitch to me for a year — an entire year! What did I do to deserve that? Hmm? Fucking tell me because I have had it up to here!" He held his hand in front of his forehead.
"I'm not one of your students. You do not get to speak to me like that!"
Tears? What tears? She was in full Hermione Granger mode now, hands balled into fists at her side as she raved.
"Last year, remember when we all had Christmas dinner at The Three Broomsticks? You and I? We clicked. I know we did. I was so attracted to you and I really thought that—"
"Granger—"
"Don't bloody interrupt me! I really thought there was something but you cut that short, didn't you?"
"What? NO!"
"I came back from the loo and heard what you said. I heard every single bloody word!"
Draco lost it. Right there.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? LAST CHRISTMAS I—"
Well, if he could shout, she could shout louder.
"AND I QUOTE 'I'VE REALLY FUCKED UP, POTTER. SHE'LL HANG OUT OF ME, ALL HAIR AND ATTITUDE. I SHOULDN'T HAVE GIVEN HER ANY INDICATION I LIKED HER. HOW DO I FUCKING GET OUT OF THIS NOW?' END QUOTE."
Silence.
Somewhere a door slammed.
More silence.
Draco cleared his throat; the noise was almost deafening.
"May I sit down?"
Taking a deep breath, Hermione brushed down the front of her dress and composed herself.
"Certainly."
Draco flicked open the buttons of his tuxedo and pulled his trousers slightly, his arse barely brushing against the sofa cushion.
"Will you allow me explain?"
"Is there any point?"
"Yes, there's a fucking—" he stood up again. "I need a drink."
"I have gin."
"Cork Dry?"
"Duh!"
Tacky as they are — admit it, you know they are! — Hermione always loved those drinks cabinets that are hidden inside big wooden globes on wheels. Lifting the lid, she retrieved a fresh bottle and two glasses.
"Would you like me to slice the lime?" Draco stepped over to take the glasses from her.
"No need," her eyes sparkled, "all in hand."
She squeezed into her little kitchenette — it was easier in pyjamas — and opened the fridge. The little freezer compartment at the top held an ice cube tray with wedges of lime stuck into each cube. Cracking the cold plastic quickly, she dropped the iced wedges into the glasses Draco held out in front of him. She then reached for her pub measure — this was Hermione after all — and placed it on the countertop before bending back down to the fridge for the tonic.
"Leave the glasses there, I'll bring them over," she instructed, as if the past ten minutes had never happened. "Would you mind throwing some fire logs onto the fire?"
Draco nodded slightly and did what she asked. The surreal atmosphere was — well, it was exhausting.
Hermione followed him after a few moments, carrying the two drinks.
"Would you like to take off your jacket?"
"Thank you." He did just that, draping it across the armchair to his left, then reaching up to rip his bowtie apart and undo his shirt's top button.
Hermione busied herself, closing curtains and lighting candles. Her calmness was terrifying — on the outside. Inside, she was burning for the man standing in front of her fireplace. She was still in love with him, after one whole year of nothing but snide remarks and rudeness.
Draco waited for her to sit down before joining her on the sofa. She was so on edge, her arse cheeks were the only part of her connected to the seat — the rest was in fight or flight mode.
"I need to explain," he began. "Please let me finish before saying anything, alright?"
He took a long drink before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and cradling the glass in his fingers. Nerves getting the best of him, Draco addressed the Royal Stewart tartan rug.
"Just… just don't interrupt." He bit his lip. "Please."
"Okay," she replied, almost whispering.
"When you arrived here at the start of term, all the male teachers — married or otherwise — had to wipe the drool off their chins at the sight of you… including me."
Hermione felt her cheeks burn.
"But you were so… so wrapped up in your work that I never got a chance to really speak to you until Halloween. I know we were so different — different backgrounds, different beliefs and all — but our arguments and debates… fuck, I loved them! It was such a breath of fresh air to have an intelligent conversation with an adult! I only had Potter before you came along and we talked about rugby; he knows nothing else! You see, my upbringing makes it… difficult… for me to interact with people who are not—"
He took another sip of his gin.
"You were my breath of fresh air."
Draco stood up and placed his glass on the mantelpiece before turning to look at the beautiful woman sitting in a dress just like the Dior Ingrid Bergman wore in Indiscreet. He had noticed.
"Just before last Christmas, my mother was given a Persian cat by my father as a gift. She called it Sybil. I was visiting not long after she arrived at my family's… house… and seemed to take to me. She climbed everywhere, it was… my clothes were ruined with bloody hairs. I had to vacuum my trousers! My bed was bloody destroyed and I was eating fucking cat hair! The day before that Christmas dinner in The Three Broomsticks, Mum announced she was off on a cruise with Dad for the New Year and asked me to mind Sybil. I tried to get out of it but you don't usually get away with saying no to Mum."
Draco moved over to Hermione and carefully knelt down in front of her. He rested his hands on hers, a Cork Dry Gin between them.
"I wanted to get out of minding my mother's cat. That's what I was moaning to Potter about. I wanted to kiss you when you came back from the toilet."
Hermione could only fall deeper into the silver eyes gazing back at her.
"I remember everything you said that night, well, except one thing. You argued so passionately about issues you believe in that I read up on your political beliefs afterwards. I voted left in the last general election, Hermione; I joined a fucking trade union! You-you bewitched me, body and soul. And I have spent the last year so in love with you, it's killing me that you don't feel the same. I'm so—"
She raised a finger to his lips.
"Shh," she whispered, "I'm sorry I ran away, Draco."
Hearing her say his name caused a wave of lust to crash through him. With shaking hands, he lifted her glass and set it down on a small table somewhere nearby before reaching back to twirl her hair around his fingers.
"I love your hair," he smiled warmly. "I love your passion, Hermione. I love you."
Tears threatened to spring from her eyes again. "We lost an entire year to my stupidity—"
"Shh." It was his turn to comfort her. "We have plenty of time to make up for it… if you'll let me."
"I thought you broke my heart, Draco." Hermione rubbed stray teardrops from her eyelashes. "This year has been hell without you in it. I've been in love with you for so long."
He stood up, his smile causing her breath to catch. She rose from the sofa and joined him in front of the roaring fire. And it was there, under a sprig of mistletoe, that — one year later than originally planned — Draco Malfoy kissed Hermione Granger.
She awoke in his arms the next morning, smiling at the memories of what had happened after that first kiss.
Her body could still remember the tingling it experienced when he slipped the lamé straps from her shoulders and caressed her skin with his tongue; his voice, so close to her ear, asking did she wear the dress for him? She knew deep down she did.
Hermione recalled the moment she first stood naked in front of the fire, her heels still on at his insistence, and her back to him. Draco — fully clothed and oozing sex appeal from every pore — held her close with one hand cupping her breast, the other between her legs, bringing her to orgasm as he dictated his actions.
She thought about his naked body writhing over hers as they made love for the first time, slowly and lovingly in front of the fire. She blushed slightly at the images of the hot sex that followed on the sofa, under the Christmas tree, in the shower, and the bed.
Fantasies of positions and locations to come had her running her hand down his body to feel him ready for her and Hermione wasted no time in waking Draco up.
He made coffee — naked — which made her so wet he barely made it back to the bed with the mugs intact.
Afterwards, they lay in each other's arms again — hungry but too comfortable to move.
"Draco," she turned her head to look at him.
"Yes, my love," he smiled.
"You told me you remember everything I said that night, bar one thing. What did you mean?"
"I asked you out to dinner the next night," he replied, his fingers twirling her hair again, "I just can't remember what you said."
Hermione bit her lip and scrunched her nose. "I remember," she winced, "and you're not going to like it."
"It's in the past, Hermione. It doesn't matter now."
She smiled and cuddled back into him. Five… four… three…
"Just out of interest… what did you answer?"
"I said I couldn't go out with you the next night as I was minding my Mum's dog while she was away for the weekend."
To be continued.