A/N: The bold print below is text messages. Underlined her. Italicized him.
Chapter 1:
"He's unbearable."
Hermione Granger sat across from Garrett Munden at Aldo's Ristorante. She had agreed to a date with him when they'd passed in the atrium at the Ministry. She had her mobile phone under the table and had just sent the text message. Normally she wouldn't have been so rude as to fiddle with her mobile while out with someone, but she was growing bored and weary of these casual dates she'd been going on.
"Do you need me to rescue you?" her phone dinged.
She fought to stifle a laugh and looked up at Garrett, who was talking so much he didn't even noticed that Hermione's eyes had glazed over and she was blatantly ignoring him. "Yes."
Hermione only half-listened as her date droned on about his favorite quidditch player. He was decent looking—sandy blond hair and green eyes set into a boyishly charming face—and had always been pleasant enough to talk to when their paths crossed. But he lacked any real substance. For the last hour he'd spoken of the sport and she was finding herself testing her capability to tune out the mindless chatter as she had years ago in school when Harry, Ron and Ginny had started in.
A few moments later, her phone began to buzz and she put up one finger. "Garrett, I have to take this—work."
She made a show of leaning over and answering the phone. "—we need to revise this report, it's to be presented Monday and we need to go over it with a fine-toothed comb. We're missing an entire section—" came a deep, velvety voice.
"I'll be right there," she told him, pretending to be woeful as she looked back at Garrett. "I'm so sorry to cut this short. Work beckons, you know?" she gestured to the phone she'd just turned off.
Her date nodded, looking genuinely upset that she'd have to leave and she nearly snorted in disgust. She hadn't said five words all night. She pulled a couple of galleons from her bag and dropped them in the center of the table. "See you Monday."
"Did you want me to take you home?" he asked.
She shook her head and waved her hand nonchalantly. "That won't be necessary."
Hermione left the restaurant with a quickness and once outside in the cool air, took a deep breath. "Can I come over?"
She began walking in the direction of the closest apparation spot, knowing his response even before her phone buzzed. "I've already popped open the merlot."
Hermione smiled and apparated away from Hogsmeade. She landed in front of his door and it opened as she lifted her hand to knock. And there in the doorway, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, was her best friend of nearly five years. His aristocratic features were formed into a deep, amused smirk. Hermione threw her head back and groaned before dropping her forehead to his chest. "These wizards are incredibly dull," she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt as he patted her shoulders.
"Come on in," Draco said, moving out of the door and guiding her in with a hand between the shoulders.
Hermione would be the first to admit that her friendship with Draco Malfoy was unconventional, to say the very least. Neither could explain it. There hadn't been some tumultuous, rocky start to their friendship during an "eighth year" at Hogwarts. The two had hit it off famously. Draco had apologized for every wrong he'd ever committed against her and they'd worked compatibly with one another as Heads. At first their two, very different, very distinct, sets of friends were up in arms. And while they tended to stay separate, everyone had grown to accept the friendship between Hogwarts' top students.
Their friendship had really grown and blossomed after they left school. After graduation, they both landed positions at within the Ministry, Hermione in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and Draco in the Offense of Creatures Division of the Auror's Department. The two worked closely together on many tough cases, bringing dark wizards to justice swiftly and with combined effort.
All of this combined to create a strong, unwavering friendship between the two. When either of them was having a problem, they ran to the other. When something fantastic happened, a text message and congratulatory bottle of wine was exchanged between the two first before anyone else found out.
Hermione moved into the familiar space, kicking off her heels as she made her way to the couch. She pulled the clip from her hair and her elegant coif came undone and her curls framed her face wildly. Draco raised an eyebrow and smirked once more, handing her a glass of her favorite elf wine. He sat on the end of the couch and tapped his thigh. Hermione leaned back against the opposite arm of the couch and put her feet in his lap. He took one foot into his hand and began kneading the knots out. "What was wrong with this one?" he asked, watching as she took a sip of wine.
"Don't say it like that," she complained with a groan.
"Like what?" he asked, his tone far too amused for Hermione's liking.
"Like I'm just being picky and shuffling through blokes," she retorted.
"Well…you do seem to be on the hunt for something very specific. What, no one knows. Apparently, not even you," he told her, earning himself a toe to the gut.
He laughed and pinched her foot. "I can't help it if I have no desire to hear a man drone on and on and on about the Falmouth bloody Falcons' new Seeker, Greer Barkley—" she began.
"Bantley," Draco corrected.
"Whatever," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"I'm simply saying, if he talked for an hour about the new Seeker, one would think that you would have at least picked up the man's proper name," he teased, grabbing the wine bottle and refilling their glasses.
"There is more to life than quidditch," she complained.
"Not everyone is going to be able to keep up a conversation about seventeenth century French literature, Hermione," he tried to reason, applying enough pressure to the sole of her foot to illicit a moan from her.
"You can," she mentioned, turning her bottom lip out into a pout.
"I'm an exceptional man," he shrugged.
Hermione laughed and nudged him again. "And so modest, too."
"Modesty is one of my finer qualities."
She sighed and set her glass on the coffee table. Draco summoned a blanket from the chest that sat alongside his couch and handed it to her. She wrapped her hands into it and brought it up to her chin, hugging the edge to herself. "What about you?" she asked him.
"What about me?" he countered, continuing his ministrations as he worked his way up her ankle to her lower calf.
"How did your date with Hannah Abbott go?" she asked, almost certain she knew the answer.
Draco let out his own sigh. He'd agreed to a date with her at Neville's bequest. "I can definitely see why she and Neville dated once. She's about as interesting as a damp postage stamp."
"That's not very nice, Draco. She's a sweet girl," Hermione chided, giving her friend a mock glare.
"Yeah. So sweet she lacks any passion or…personality," he replied.
Hermione swatted his arm with the back of her hand. Draco let out a laugh before putting his hand back on the couch and closing his eyes once more. "Dating is for the hippogriffs, Hermione. I mean, really. The dating pool in wizarding England is more like a rain puddle in the hot July sun."
Hermione couldn't agree more. She was certain she'd been on fifty different dates that year and each one ended with her being less than satisfied. Of the fifty, she may have kissed ten, and of the ten, she had slept with two—to less than spectacular results. She knew Draco had gone home with far more witches than that this year, but he seemed just as displeased after every one. His longest relationship since the War had lasted six months, four years prior, with Astoria Greengrass. Hers a year, during their joint eighth year, with Ron Weasley. And so began their long drought, endlessly revolving doors of bad dates and dull conversations.
"What do you say, next weekend, we each choose a date for one another and we can go on a double date?" he suggested, not bothering to open his eyes.
Hermione put her arm over her eyes and groaned dramatically. "Why should I let you select a wizard for me?"
"Because clearly you are doing a piss poor job of selecting for yourself, love," he told her with a laugh. "And you can choose a witch for me. I trust your judgment," he added, making a point of emphasizing your.
"And if I agree? What if I fall madly in love with him?" she teased, her head feeling fuzzy and her body warm from the alcohol.
"Then I expect you to select a maid-of-honor dress that compliments the grey of my eyes."
o-o-o
A/N: And so begins another short story. Not too many chapters—maybe less than ten.
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