A/N. Okay, so this story is a little AU...okay, more than a little. The war never ended - the Battle at Hogwarts was just the beginning. Harry died, becoming a martyr for the cause. Everyone that's supposed to be dead is, just add Harry to the list. But this really isn't relevant in anyway.

So, basically the war has escalated and Voldemort basically has complete control over the wizarding world. But the Order is still fighting.

Also, in the past my spelling of "Grimmauld" HAS been corrected before you ask, but the thing is I just like it better spelt with one "m" instead. If it bothers you so much, just think of it as more "AU".

...~oOo~...

Dragging himself through the fireplace and into Grimauld Place, Draco groaned and strode heavily into the parlor. Dead of his feet, his eyes were half closed while he slowly unfastened each button on Oxford shirt and slipping off his suit jacket, letting it fall to a lump on the floor. He didn't care about leaving it there - chances were the mother hen, Weasley, would pick it up in the morning.

He shucked off his shirt as well, kicked off his shoes and socks, and dropped onto the couch, his usual place of rest. A year ago, he'd been nagged by the other Order members to choose one of the rooms on the many floors of Number 12 as his own, but he'd refused. They were always trying to coddle him and make him fit in like a bloody puzzle piece, because they just didn't get it - despite where his allegiance lied, he would never be one of them.

Draco was so tired that he even ignored the deep cut in his upper arm, even as it dripped large drops of crimson down his arm and onto the upholstery. He smirked and let the blood run, staining the couch. He knew he'd probably be berated for it by McGonagall later - something about respect or some nonsense - but he couldn't care less.

He pulled the memory of the night from his mind and put it in the phial that he had stashed in his pocket. He set it on the table, satisfied that it would be fine for morning, and began to fall asleep. He was floating somewhere between dream and consciousness when the sound of small padding feet infiltrated his haze and slowly pulled him from it.

Draco was fully away when the sound of running water hit his ears from the kitchen. It sounded like the sink and the water was hitting metal... a kettle, more likely. Someone was up after midnight making tea. It wasn't an unlikely occurrence for the Order headquarters, with sleep being so unattainable for many of them, and of course the nightmare tendencies.

Honestly, Draco was surprised there wasn't a whole party in the kitchen having tea with the latest spread of insomnia.

Maybe it was time for a little investigating. Draco wasn't going to be able to sleep, even if he was half-dead, because that was just his luck. He heaved his body up from the couch and drudged his bare feet across the hardwood floor.

When he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, he found a certain friendly enemy of his standing at the stove, staring at the kettle as if she was willing the water to boil already.

Hermione Granger changed very little since she abandoned Hogwarts to go on her little Horcrux hunt with her friends Weasley and Potter. Her hair was still a frizzy mess, and was no pulled into a sloppy bun, making it look even more like a squirrel's nest, Draco reflected. And her body was as flat and narrow as always, clad no only in cotton shorts and a camisole. Her twig-like arms were stretched out in front of her, leaning on the counter, and he could plainly make out the scarred word "mudblood" carved there.

Leaning against the door frame, in only an under shirt and trousers, Draco searched his head for some kind of snarky or rude comment to make, but his brain was so fried that even the space reserved for sarcasm was disconnected for the night.

When Hermione turned to reach into a cabinet for a tea cup, she almost fell over in shock to see a person there, but only squealed quietly seeing as she was trained not to scream unless absolutely necessary.

Hermione clutched her chest and regained her breathing patterns and said, "God, Malfoy, I didn't see you there."

Draco said nothing. He certainly wasn't going to apologize.

"Did you only just arrive?" Hermione asked, still summoning her calm. She'd been a half-second from drawing her wand when she saw a figure watching her. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the tea cups again.

Draco hummed and affirmative. "I was trying to sleep when your ruckus woke me."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly, and it sounded sincere. She pulled off the kettle before it could escalate to a full-blown whistle. "I just... couldn't sleep. I know you rarely have time for rest and I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"That's alright," Draco mumbled. "The house is yours anyway, not like I can tell you when to roam about it."

Hermione said nothing for a minute or so and Draco knew why. It wasn't her house. It had been Potter's, but once he died... it was sort of just there. They still used it, of course, because they know Harry would have wanted that, but as far as official "ownership" went, it was no one's. Technically the Order were just squatters for the time being.

"Would you like some tea?" Hermione said, finally breaking the silence.

"Sure," Draco said, going to sit at the table. "Why not?"

Hermione put out two tea cups and filled each one. They sat across from one another quietly, stirring sugar and cream into their cups.

"How did... tonight go?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"Same as usual," Draco intoned, his low voice raspy from lack of sleep. He looked like a zombie, really. His blonde hair was overgrown and disheveled, his jaw was unshaven, and his grey eyes were framed by dark circles.

Hermione wasn't much better. She had lost weight in the last year, and she had bags of her own under her eyes.

"Just the usual plotting against Muggles, plans to enslave them," Draco continued, now just stirring his tea for the sake of it. "I pulled out the memory so that McGonagall can see it first hand tomorrow."

"I appreciate what you do, Malfoy," Hermione said, her tone genuine. "It can't be easy, following in Snape's footsteps as spy. We all saw how it affected him... and it kills me to see it steal away your life as well. If I wasn't a muggle-born... I would do it myself, you know."

"No, you would not," Draco hissed, his voice abruptly becoming hard. "I need to do this. This is my penance, not yours. I wouldn't let you, nor would McGonagall."

Hermione just look a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I wouldn't let you, either. I fought them on it, Shacklebot, McGonagall, and Aberforth. But they didn't listen. If it were up to me, you wouldn't be a spy."

"Where exactly would I be, then, Granger?" he demanded harshly. "What purpose would I serve? Because I wouldn't be here if I wasn't what I am."

"I would have you in hiding," Hermione told him, perfectly calm. She sipped her tea. "If it were up to me, you would be in a safe house halfway across the world, far from Voldemort's reach. You would be safe."

Draco's famous Malfoy sneer adorned his face. "You've gone soft, Granger. This is war, not tea with the Queen. Talk like that can get you killed."

Shaking her head, Hermione sighed. "You don't get it, do you? I don't care what can and cannot get me killed anymore, because if it is going to happen, it will. Look at Harry, Mad-Eye, Fred, Remus, Sirius, Tonks... and hundreds more. It haunts me some nights, trying to figure out why I'm alive and they aren't - it's because not all of us can be survivors in this war. And to be honest, Malfoy, if any of us deserve to see the end of this, it's you."

"And why the fuck is that?"

"Because you've seen both sides of this," she said gravely. "You've been a pawn for both opponents. You've seen the worst of it from every which angle and have had no choice in the matter. Your life has been a vicious round of tug-of-war and you deserve to live for that."

Draco scoffed. "As if I want to live after this. It's not as if I could go back to normal, walk into Malfoy Mansion, and resume my life. This is the end of the world, Granger. There is no 'end', because it will never be over. Happiness is but a far off memory, one that we will never touch again."

Draco watched as a single, fat tear fell from Hermione's eye and ran over her cheekbone and down to her jaw where if finally plummeted from her chin. "I miss happiness," she confessed thickly. "And the only thing keeping me going is the hope that I will see it again... so, please, Malfoy, don't steal that from me... not yet."

"What kind of happiness do you expect to find 'after' the war?" Draco asked snidely. "Marry Weasley, pop out a Quidditch team for him, live to the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-fifteen?"

Hermione propped her chin up in her hand and shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Ron will be apart of it, but probably not. I haven't even seen him in weeks. First Harry is gone and now Ron is as good as a ghost. I feel like I'll never see my friends again, and I'll never make more. And forget romance for now. And I'm not entirely sure I want children, not after this. It would be too risky, wouldn't it?"

"I sure as hell am not," Draco declared firmly. "Bringing a child into a world with the potential for so much disaster is... despicable. Selfish. Wrong."

"Oh, but the world has the potential for such brilliance as well," Hermione said with a wistful look in her eyes. "Beauty, too."

"The world is disgusting," Draco denied. "It's cruel and sadistic."

"The world isn't Voldemort, Malfoy."

"It may as well be," Draco grumbled. "He'll have control over it, soon enough."

"I very sincerely hope not," Hermione whispered. "Draco, if you have no hope, what convinces you to wake each morning?"

Draco paused. "Duty."

"To whom? To Shacklebot?"

"To myself. To my mother. To God."

"You believe in God?" Hermione inquired.

"Sometimes," Draco confessed reluctantly. "When I want someone to talk to who will listen."

"Malfoy..." Hermione said softly. "If you need someone to talk to... I'm right here. I'll always listen, even if you don't want a response."

Draco said nothing.

"Sometimes, I go up on the roof," Hermione said. "And I look at the stars. I usually look for Sirius, the brightest star in his constellation. And I talk to him and I can hear his laugh, and I can smell his cologne. And I'll talk to Harry, too. I like to think his star is nestled right up next to his godfather's. And Professor Lupin, too. I like to pretend I can hear his voice, giving his lecture on hinkypunks or boggarts. And then... I always save Fred for laugh, because I want to be able to hear the echo of his laughter until morning.

"And then the sun rises... and they all disappear," Hermione said, choking on the last word. "But they're never gone... they just become the rays of sun, falling on our heads and warming our faces."

There was a long silence between them as Hermione sipped her tea and held back tears.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Draco asked.

"Because I want you to know," Hermione said, 'that you aren't the only one who talks to the sky, pleading for some kind of answer to this hell."

Then Draco looked at her. Really looked at her, for the first time. She may have been eighteen, an adult, but she looked like little more than a frightened, lonely little girl. Her big brown eyes were glassy and tired, her pale nose and cheeks sprinkled with freckles, and a delicate pink mouth, the lower lip swollen from the constant abuse of her teeth.

And she looked so... small. And sort of pathetic, if he was being honest. And cold. Like a stray kitten in the middle of winter. The kitten that you want to pick up and bring home with you to feed and warm, but know you'd get in huge trouble for it.

When Draco was finally read to say something - he had no clue what - Hermione saw the blood caked on his arm.

"Oh, God, Draco, you're bleeding!" In her panic, she hadn't realized that she'd called him by his first name, but he certainly did, and he only watched as a frazzled Hermione hurried anxiously to the sink to run a cloth under warm water.

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" Hermione demanded as she pressed the warm, wet rag to his upper arm.

"It would stop bleeding eventually," Draco dismissed.

"Still! It could get infected!" She gently rubbed away the dried blood and cleaned around the slice. "How did it happen?"

"Dueling practice with my father," he said. "He got in a good shot."

Hermione observed the cut and winced. "It's pretty deep. I could brew you a salve -"

"Don't bother," he said, taking his arm out of her hands. "It will heal."

"But -"

"Granger, for Merlin's sake, just shut up," he said, more exasperated that cruelly.

Hermione pressed her lips together automatically.

"Thank you," he said on a grateful sigh. He rubbed his temples. "You were beginning to give me a migraine."

"I'm -"

"Not even an apology, Granger," Draco snapped. "Hush."

She scowled and spun away, dropping the rag into the sink with a wet slap and marching silently to the cupboard for a box of cookies. She gave him a sarcastic wave and began walking out of the kitchen.

"Wait," Draco said before he could stop himself.

Hermione halted and faced him, raising an eyebrow.

"Stay," he said.

Her frown deepened.

Draco huffed, rolled his eyes, and added, "Please."

Seeming satisfied enough, Hermione walked back to the table and opened the box of cookies to stuff one in her mouth before offering him the container. He declined and she shrugged.

"Sometimes," Hermione said, "I feel like I could eat the entire house. And others, I go for an entire week without eating anything."

"That explains why you're so fucking skinny," Draco said, sitting back and crossing his arms.

She frowned and looked down at herself, but admitted, "Probably. I probably look gross, don't I?"

Not gross, Draco thought, just... hungry. But he said nothing instead.

But then she blushed and stuffed another cookie into her face and he felt guilty. She'd probably taken his silence as a confirmation, so he said, "You look... fine. Don't worry about it. There are more important things to worry about."

"I have the frame of a twelve-year-old boy," Hermione sulked.

"Yes, but that doesn't really matter, does it?"

"It matters to me."

"Not to anyone else, though."

"How am I supposed to get married one day if everyone else thinks I look like a boy too."

"Trust me, Granger," Draco said firmly, "you don't look like a boy. For one, boys don't have breasts. Two, they normally don't wear camisoles to bed. And your hands are way too tiny to be a boy's."

Hermione sighed. "It's been a long time since I've felt pretty."

"When was the last time?"

"... The Yule Ball in Fourth Year."

"And you've felt hideous for every year after?"

"Well... not exactly... I mean, when Ron... when Ron paid a little more attention to me, I felt, you know, more secure, I suppose, about myself," Hermione explained awkwardly. "But now, I don't really have a reason to feel pretty."

Draco knew he was going to regret admitting this, but she just seemed so... sad. "I think you're... attractive." He just couldn't bring himself to say "pretty".

Hermione froze. "Is this a joke? Are you being sarcastic?"

"No."

Hermione shook her head. "You're lying."

"I'm not," Draco pressed. "I find you very attractive. Granted, more so when you've had a decent night's sleep, but beggar's can't be choosers, as the Muggles say."

Hermione had a curious look on her face. "But... you hate me."

"I also hate the Weaselette, but it isn't as if anyone could deny that she's fair-looking too."

Hermione smirked faintly. "Ginny is beautiful, isn't she?"

"I wouldn't go that far... I never really liked gingers."

"I'm assuming you prefer blondes?"

"Surprisingly enough, no," Draco said, saying nothing else.

Hermione's eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. "Brunettes? Really?"

"Would I have dated Pansy if I didn't?"

"Well, maybe... okay, I guess that makes sense. Normally, people overlook the brunettes. Too plain, they claim," Hermione said.

Draco shook his head tiredly. "I like... brown hair. Can't say why, I just do."

Hermione looked down at her hands for a long time. "Draco..."

"Hmm?"

"I find you... attractive as well."

"Obviously," Draco snorted. "I would be appalled if you didn't."

Then Hermione snorted too, and the snort grew into an honest chuckle. And seeing her slowly light up made Draco smirk as well, and before he knew it, he was laughing too. They shared soft, full laughter between them, letting the mirth fill every corner of the kitchen.

Hermione's laughter died out, leaving a smile in its place. "Thank you, Draco."

"For what?"

"For being a cocky prat," she giggled. "It made me feel better."

"Happy to be of service," he drawled. "Really, though, you look better when you're smiling. Healthier."

A light blush colored Hermione's cheeks, making her look even more healthy.

A sudden image crashed across Draco's lethargic brain of ways that he could make her whole body flush from under him. She was so fair-skinned, her could imagine her panting while every inch of her skin turned pink.

Where did that come from?

"Malfoy, are you... alright?" Hermione asked tentatively, seeing his eyes bug after zoning out for a moment.

"Hmm? Oh, yes," Draco said, shaking his head. "I'm fine. Just... thinking."

Thinking of ways he could thoroughly have her, ways that she wouldn't be able to help but smile, and ways that they could both obtain that unobtainable happiness for a few hours.

Hot skin... warm breath... soft touching from tiny hands...

Why was this so abruptly in his head? Why now? Was their talk of brunettes or happiness? Or was this all triggered by her laugh and her smile?

He wondered if maybe...

No, no, no, she would never. Even for the sake of forgetting the rest of the world for a night, she was far too sensible for such a one-nght agreement. Anyway, this midnight conversation of theirs definitely felt like a temporary sort of truce - she was likely just tolerating him for the sake of having company.

"...in bed? Draco? Did you hear me? Are you sure you're alright?"

Draco spoke up, "What about 'in bed'?"

"I was wondering if you were thinking it was time to get in bed," Hermione repeated, a concerned wrinkle between her brows. "You look exhausted and a little flushed. You could use some rest."

"I'll... I'll be fine," he answered. "I don't want to go to bed yet."

"Really, Draco..." Hermione sighed, standing up and walking around the table. She slowly touched his shoulder and looked down into his eyes and said, "You need sleep."

"No," Draco said, commandeering her hand and yanking her further towards him. "What I really need right now is you." And he made the split-second decision of crushing his mouth onto hers.

At first, she was shocked into a frozen state before slowly she began kissing him back. He felt the hesitation in her hands, like she didn't know what to do with them, so he took both of her wrists and guided them around his neck. Then he gently led her hips down onto hips lap so they were level and he could kiss her more thoroughly. His tongue swept across her lower lip and she granted him entrance, albeit hesitantly.

Draco could tell that Hermione wasn't used to this. Even light snogging seemed to make her nervous and he could feel her heart thudding through her skin and camisole.

Oh, shit, Draco thought, she's a virgin!

Why hadn't he considered this? It was obvious, wasn't it? She was so insecure about her body and never had a real boyfriend... how had Draco been so stupid to think she'd agree to a one-night stand in the Grimauld kitchen?

It wasn't like he wanted a quick, dirty fuck - no. He wasn't that kind of man. He wanted to lay her down and savor every piece of her, taking his time until she was completely, utterly taken. He had no clue why, but he wanted to taste every inch of her, not just the obvious places, but really consume her.

Just when he was trying to imagine what she would taste like, she pulled back from their kiss, blushing fervently, and stuttering, "I'm s-sorry, but... what is h-happening?"

Draco tried to shift so that his hardened member wasn't pressing into her, but stopped when he only made it worse. "We were snogging," he said simply.

"Yes, but... w-why?"

"Did you not want to snog me?"

"W-wel, I wouldn't say that..."

"Then what's the problem?"

Hermione stood off of Draco's lap and pressed her hands to her flaming face. "Malfoy, what... what the hell? None of this makes sense. Why are we kissing? Why were we even talking, in the first place? You're a big bully and I'm a nerd... this doesn't happen in real life, only in stupid Muggle novels!"

"I'm not quite sure I'm following..."

"Glorious, passionate, randy nights in the kitchen between two unlikely protagonists - it doesn't happen in real life! It's fiction, Malfoy!" Hermione was quickly cleaning up all the tea things, obviously trying to keep her shaking hands busy in her anxiety.

"Why can't it happen?" Draco demanded, rising from the chair himself. He could feel his blood simmering. "Huh? Why not, Granger? Why can't you and I have a happy ending for a change? Weren't you just talking about how you wanted to be happy again?"

"After the war is over! Once everything is stable again!"

"Nothing will be stable, ever again," Draco told her sharply. "Either we die or we live with survivor's guilt. But why can't, for a few measly, stupid hours, we know what it feels like to be next to a warm body? Don't we deserve it? The chance to play pretend, only once."

Hermione was still scuttling around the kitchen, putting things away.

"Goddammit, Hermione, look at me!" he commanded, raising his voice. "Look at me, and give me a good reason!"

"Because tomorrow I won't be able to be the same!" Hermione shouted, throwing down the last of her things into the sink, sounding like she shattered a tea cup. "I can't just pretend like nothing happened after it's all said an done, because that's not how I work! I can't promise myself only a few hours of happiness - because I'll only want more! I'll crave it until it consumes me and I can't think of anything else!

"How am I... supposed to be the brightest witch of the generation... when I can barely focus because she succumbed to Draco Malfoy for one night," she finished on a whisper. With every sentence, she'd grown more and more tired-looking.

The silence hung between them once more like a third part observer, like they were being watched by the quiet air around them.

Taking a deep breath, Draco allowed himself a moment to clear out his head. Neither of them were thinking straight, it was too late and they were too emotional. He dragged his hands down his face and tried to think of the right thing to say, but she ended up beating him to it.

"But..." she said quietly, hesitantly. "If you could... maybe, just..." Then she shook her head. "No, never mind. It's stupid. You'll think I'm silly."

"Just say it," Draco sighed. "It can't make things any worse."

"Could you... perhaps... just..." She swallowed. "Hold me? For tonight? Clothes on?"

Before his brain could process it, Draco was nodding.

About five minutes later, Draco was lying on his back across the couch with a feather-light Hermione lying on top of him, curled into his chest like a blanket. It was very tense and awkward at first, but once it turned to be three o'clock in the morning, with every chime of the grandfather clock, their bodies relaxed.

Hermione yawned and said, "Thank you, Draco and... goodnight."

Draping one hand across her back, gently rubbing circles with his thumb, Draco answered, "Goodnight, Hermione."

...~oOo~...

A/N. So... that was an emotional rollercoaster. I just wanted to write something where Hermione and Draco could talk for a bit without the outside world interrupting. I originally planned for them to go at it on the kitchen floor, but it felt better to plant a seed of hope rather than take the easy way out.

~ So Long And Thanks For All The Fish ~