Title: Final Hour

Summary: Getting captured in the middle of a war turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Draco Malfoy. DHr, non-DH compliant.

Disclaimer: Yep yep yep JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, dunno if you knew that but now you do!

Draco was surprised by how easily it happened, falling in love with her. Not too long before it happened, if someone would've told him he'd be looking at Granger and thinking about her in a way that made his heart beat fast—in a way that actually made his forehead break out in a sweat—he would've ordered Crabbe and Goyle to punish them for having such a sick sense of humor.

But when he realized what was happening—or rather, what had already happened—he accepted it without resistance. Alrighty then. So he was in love with Granger. Wasn't that interesting?

It happened at the Weasley wedding, the one with the veela girl and the ugliest Weasley brother. Of course he would've never chosen to go there—circumstances made it unavoidable. If events had occurred normally, he would've been at the Manor licking Voldemort's boots or something like that. But he had to go and get himself captured. He had to spend the last month living in that revolting shack under the same roof as the Weasleys and Potter and her. It was all so embarrassing.

But back to the wedding. Poor Granger had been making moon eyes at Weasley all night, and the git either hadn't noticed or was too chicken to actually do something about it. It was sort of funny when you thought about it—everyone said Granger was the brightest witch of her age, but wasn't she smart enough to see that she was far too good for the likes of Ron Weasley?

I mean, just look at them, Draco thought, sitting by himself in the corner and nursing a bottle of firewhiskey. Forget Weasley's stupid robes; he was poor, what could you expect? But everything about him was just so infuriating. His stupid hair, the stupid expression on his face. His complete disregard of Granger, who was fawning over him!

And Granger, look at her there in that dress. Light purple, sleeveless. It belonged to Weasley's sister, the one who looked halfway decent for a Weasley and therefore spent most of her time flirting. The dress was risque for Granger—she'd seriously considered not wearing it. The "cut was too low", the dress was "too tight". While Malfoy never much cared for the Weasley girl, he felt he owed her a great debt now, staring at Granger.

Who would've known that's what the shape of her body looked like beneath her school robes? Of course this wasn't the first time he'd noticed that—live with a girl for a month and you notice these sort of things. She'd started out the night with her hair tied back into some fancy updo Weasley's sister had arranged for her. Now, a few hours into the reception, that had all gone to hell. She was good old bushy haired Granger again, perpetually looking like she'd just touched a live wire.

And she was drunk! That was the best thing. He'd watched her all night, sipping slowly but getting the job done. While he was watching from the other side of the tent, she reached and touched Weasley's arm. Draco couldn't hear her from where he sat, but he noticed the way she nodded towards the dance floor. The lovely way she blushed and smiled.

And Weasley, the great idiot he was, shrugged her off and kept talking to Potter about quidditch or Dumbledore or whatever the hell those two gits liked to talk about. And before he entirely knew what he was doing, Malfoy was walking up to their table. He cleared his throat loudly and offered Granger his hand.

"You want to dance?" he asked.

She just gaped at him.

"Look, I haven't got all day. I'm drunk, you're drunk. You wanna dance. Let's do it."

She looked over at Weasley.

"Ah, screw him. Come on, Granger."

She looked up at him, questioning. "What are you playing at?" Then she snorted. "Is this some sort of prank? Are you going to lead me over there and have me stand under a bucket of pig's blood or something like that?"

"Not a bad idea. But no. Just dancing."

The band transitioned to a ballad. The couples on the dance floor held onto one another and started their swaying.

"It's a slow song," she frowned.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Granger. Last chance." He had a bright idea. "Do you want to listen to Weasley's sister brag about how many men she danced with when you didn't dance with any?"

"Hey!" Potter butted in, his stupid glasses all askew. He'd been drinking too. "Ginny only danced with me!"

"Oh, really? Is that you then?" Draco pointed at the dance floor. "Weird. You look a lot like Dean Thomas to me."

"Dean Thom…" All the blood drained from Potter's face.

But Draco wasn't concerned with him. "I'm not asking again, Granger."

Weasley apparently needed attention. "Is this prat bothering you, Hermione?"

And then, gods be blessed, she actually ignored Weasley, said, "Fine, why not," and took Draco's hand. He hadn't planned for things to get this far—he had to improvise. He led her out to the dance floor, turned to look at her, and sort of just stared at her for a second.

"Well!" she said.

Hand on waist, hand in hand. They stood there, awkwardly posing, not sure what to do next.

"Oh, Merlin." Granger closed her eyes.

"What?"

"I feel dizzy. I drank too much."

"What do you expect when you've been hanging around Potter and Weasley all night? Come on, then."

She sort of fell into him, and then they were embracing each other, mimicking the other couples on the dance floor. His heart started hammering when she rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair smelled like flowers. Lavender, the color of her dress.

He was terrified she could feel his heart galloping around inside of him.

Granger sighed. "I don't know why I bother."

"I hope you're not talking about Weasley. Because if you are, I don't know why you bother either."

She laughed. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"Like I said, I'm drunk."

Plus you're funny and smart and brilliant and Merlin help me how did this happen?

Her body relaxed against his. "You're not so bad, Malfoy. I mean, don't get me wrong—you're still you, but…you know what I'm saying."

"Wow, what a compliment."

"No, really!" She nestled her cheek against his chest like she was searching for the most comfortable spot in a pillow. "Can you promise me something?" she asked.

And because his heart was beating so fast and his head was swimming from the firewhiskey, he said, "Anything."

"Be yourself around me. Like this. This is you, isn't it? Not that mean, bigoted prat I went to school with?"

"Sure." He closed his eyes, held her more closely to him. "Yeah, I can do that."

He wanted to kiss her, but how could that happen with Potter and all the Weasley demons crammed under this tent? So he settled for the next best thing. He slid one arm around her waist, pulled her even closer, as close as she could get.

"Malfoy!" she giggled, then looked at him with her large, dark eyes.

"Let's piss off Weasley. Kiss me."

"Oh, stop it," she laughed, and then the song was over. She hugged him and pulled away. "Wait a second. Are we friends now?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Sure. Just don't tell anyone."

"Okay." She nodded, wild hair bouncing up and down. "I can agree to that."

"Hermiiiiiione!"

It was Weasley's sister swooping in, clutching onto Granger's arm.

"Um, can we talk?"

She steered Granger away, looking over her shoulder at him with her stupid freckly face. Why did every single member of the Weasley clan have to be such infuriating pains in the ass?

But anyway, that's how it happened, Draco Malfoy falling in love with Hermione Granger. It'd actually been taking place for awhile before that, but that's when he realized it, and after that things started happening fairly quickly. The War seemed to put everything on an accelerated schedule—not only love but death as well.

The wedding of Bill and Fleur was only a brief distraction. But it was a welcome distraction. And for Malfoy, it was the night he officially accepted the truth—that, yes, Hermione Granger was an insufferable know-it-all, and yes, her hair was utterly ridiculous—yes, she prattled on about spellwork and histories of magic like other people actually cared, like she deserved a medal or something for reading and designating useless information to memory—but he was in love with her and there was nothing he could do about it.

Dammit.