Too Late by crystalpen

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters mentioned below. If I did, I wouldn't be here right now. I'd be locking Draco and Hermione together in a very tiny closet. ::giggles insanely::

Author's Note: I'll be continuing It Began With a Book. (I will!) It's just I had these random drabble-y thoughts floating around in my head and decided to write a one-shot. My apologies if it's rather difficult to understand completely. Oh, and I might not be updating much in November because it's National Novel Writers Month, and I've been persuaded to participate. :) Mm…well, enjoy! Reviews are appreciated, of course. ::winkwink::

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Out of all the places he could've imagined, he just happened to kiss her first in the Astronomy Tower. But he could have never imagined the way her kiss felt. The way her lips seemed to fit so perfectly, yet brutally upon his own. A kiss that was sweet, yet bitter at the same time. Lustful, but loving. Tender and forceful. It was just like her. It was just like…them. Out of all the people he could've imagined he'd kiss in the Astronomy Tower, Hermione Granger was the first.

He remembered how she had flown into him as he had just been heading into the library to start his essay. He couldn't even remember what the essay was about or who had assigned it. But he could remember her. How she had dropped all of her books. How she had knelt down to pick them up, muttering a weak apology. How she had looked up—her expression changing from a tear-streaked frown to a frustrated glare. 'I can't take anymore of this crap,' she had muttered. He remembered the way her voice sounded as he insulted her for the seventh time that day. Seven, he remembered quite clearly. He had counted too many times. Tears flowing from her resentful hazel eyes, she stormed off, pushing past him so as to make his bag fall from his shoulder. It didn't.

His limbs went limp after that; an unfamiliar warmth had risen in his face and spread to the farthest reaches of his body—or perhaps just his heart. He hated seeing girls cry. Even if she was just supposed to be a useless, good-for-nothing Mudblood. Even if he was supposed to be an unfeeling Malfoy. Even if everything between them but the insults and the hatred and the malice was supposed to be strictly forbidden.

That night, he had watched her all through dinner. She kept her head down, wearily staring straight through her food. Potter and Weasley had blindly yammered around her, probably about another of their idiotic ventures. Fools, he remembered thinking. He had seen her barely moving her lips, making an excuse to leave the table. He had seen them continue babbling on about whatever seemed to be more important than her. He had seen them blatantly ignore her. He had seen her eyes glisten for the second time that day as she hung her head and left the Great Hall.

There was something crucial he couldn't remember about that day, though. Just one thing, but he had desperately racked his mind over and over again to remember. What the hell had compelled him to follow her out of the Great Hall? He remembered he watched her go. He remembered pushing his chair away from the table and standing up, disregarding the curious glances sent his way. He remembered her cloak disappearing behind the doors. He remembered the pace at which she fled and how her arms were crossed clumsily across her chest. What could have made him, the great Slytherin Pureblood prince, feel sympathy for the dirty Gryffindor Mudblood? Just thinking of such things should have made him spit in disgust. But he hadn't.

The only logical reason he could think of was that he had wanted to seek redemption. He wanted his guilt to leave him alone. He hated it. He hated the feeling of being responsible for such feelings. Malfoys weren't supposed to feel—and for him to feel such a weak emotion at that. He hadn't thought of apologizing. That would never do, especially for a Malfoy. She would understand, wouldn't she? She would see the subtle pleading in his eyes that would explain everything. She would know that Purebloods do not go around apologizing to Mudbloods, no matter what he had done.

Yes, that would have been the only logical reason. Redemption. A Malfoy would always keep the blame away from himself. Blame the witness. Blame the bystander. Blame anyone. Even the victim. But never blame a Malfoy. But the way Hermione Granger had made him feel had nothing to do with logic.

He had followed her up to the highest reaches of the Astronomy Tower. Her sanctuary. He could tell by the way she had deftly opened the door. Her staggered breathing was the only sound she had made. She probably would have noticed he was there if not for the dissonance of emotions in her mind. A dissonance that drowned out all other perceptions and senses. Perhaps now would be the best time, he had thought. Now, when she was as insane as he was. He blocked the doorway. 'What the hell is it, Malfoy?' she had whispered—the usual strength in her voice absent. She looked up at him for the second time that day, but this time, she avoided his eyes. Why is it that the one time I have the most to tell her, she refuses to listen? 'Listen to me, Granger, God damn it!" he had cried, frustrated. 'Listen to what, Malfoy?! You haven't even said anything!" she had screamed back, equally frustrated. 'If you've got nothing better to do, why don't you leave the damned Mudblood alone, and go tell your almighty Pureblood posse about how the Mudblood was acting like the pure bitch she is again?!'

And for some unforeseen reason, he kissed her.

And she kissed him back.

He had felt the warm droplets of her tears as their skin pressed against one another. The flutter of her eyelashes as more droplets were released. But this only made her press harder into him. He had felt the loneliness, the hunger, the desperation that lined her kiss, but those feelings weren't meant for him. He knew that. But had that even mattered? Does it even matter now? Thus, he returned her kiss, with the same intensity, if not more, for he was seeking redemption. And he knew that she knew it wasn't because of her that he kissed her. It was because of him. It was always because of him. Because of the selfish, apathetic bastard he was. And that night, that was all that had mattered. They were two souls, searching for what they believed they could find in the other.

He had felt her pull away and the burn of the slap delivered almost instantaneously.

'What the hell was that, Malfoy?' she had asked angrily. Without allowing him to answer, she had finally looked him straight in the eye, but her voice faltered. 'I don't even like you.'

'It's too late for that, Granger.'

She stared at him once again and finally recognized the pleading in his typically composed grey eyes, which now grew stormy with passion, greed, and desire. This time, it was she, who pulled him in. She had wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his lips tighter against hers. There was nothing to be gained that night but the bittersweet aftertaste of the next day. So why not let go of it all? His hands went up to her face. His pale, slender fingers met the sun-kissed skin of her eyelids. They traced her silhouette, and that was all he had ever needed. No photograph. No painting. Nothing but the memory of her skin perpetually engraved within his fingertips.

They had left each other before the night was over. No word was passed between them for there was no need. An unspoken, mutual agreement that both knew they could never reveal. But after that night, there were many other nights succeeding it. Nights held in secrecy. Nights no one would ever know about but the two. Nights that silently flared with a love that neither could quite put a name to. A desperate love that wasn't.

They had left each other for the final time as they parted their separate ways after graduation. They hadn't said anything because as usual, there was no need for such things between them. She had headed off toward the Ministry, and he would be headed off to who knew where. She had married one of the fools, and he had two divorces, both kept secret by his father. She had become a revered member of the Ministry, and he was a despised professor. People talked about her in the newspapers. Students talked about him behind his back.

He had visited the Astronomy Tower many times since then. Only at night, of course. But those nights were when the cold stone walls seemed to whisper the secrets neither had the courage nor the necessity to tell. He remembered all those times he had sought her. And all those times she had sought him. He remembered the exact shape of her body. And the way she giggled when his fingers brushed lightly upon her skin, making it tingle with intensity.

And tonight, he remembered something else. Something he had kept secret all these years. Even from her.

"Leave the Astronomy Tower, and get back to your dormitory, Mister Weasley," Professor Malfoy spat, glaring down at the two students, who painfully resembled their parents in every way possible. "Take Miss Potter with you. That's fifty points from Gryffindor. Each. Next time I catch you snogging up here, you can expect an expulsion."

He remembered how he had probably loved her. How he probably still loves her. But it was too late for that.

Sixteen years too late.