A/N: Hey all! I was blown away by your response to Chapter 1; thank you so much for all the love! This chapter is written from Draco's POV to establish what he's been up to since the war. Going forward, the chapters will alternate between their POVs, but most chapters won't always show the same situation
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Draco Malfoy hummed as he walked down the street, a spring in his step. He'd left the Ministry early and hurried home to change into clean robes. He had a hot date with a corner booth at the Leaky Cauldron. He was on a mission tonight.
A chilly breeze swept down the sidewalk, and he pulled his cloak tighter over his black robes.
Black, he thought, like my soul.
Muggle humor. He chuckled to himself. Blaise and Theo were going to take the mickey out of him.
Draco knew he had changed since the War. Hell, if he was honest, that pureblood supremacy shite had gone out the window in sixth year, if not earlier. Having the Dark Lord live in your manor would do that to a person. He was utterly terrifying, but Draco had known after just one meeting with the creature—for he was not a man—that some ideologies were nonsense. It just so happened that he was branded on the wrong side of one.
He flexed his arm as a phantom pain lanced through it. Five years and the damn stain still plagues me, he thought. He kicked the ground petulantly.
He had grown up, but there were still some things that stung as though they had happened yesterday.
He sighed. He is dead. No use letting him rile you up from beyond the grave.
Draco lost himself in thought. After the War, he'd left Hogwarts. He couldn't deal with Perfect Potter and the Weasel harrumphing through every hallway, trumpeting their victory from the highest towers. He was relieved the Dark Lord was dead, but that didn't mean he wanted to put up with the whispered comments and half-hidden judgement. He didn't need to justify himself to anyone. He was Draco Malfoy.
So he left. He took an entry level position at the Ministry and worked his way through the ranks. He was determined to prove himself as something more than a spoiled pureblood. With his father rotting in Azkaban, someone needed to make sure the Malfoy name was respected once more.
He tooks his N.E.W.T.s at home, and he passed them with flying colors. He just didn't know what he would do after that. He was running away from a past that chased him like a rabid dog, biting at his heels. Just when he thought he'd finally outrun it and could take a breath, it snuck up on him and breathed its putrid breath on his neck. He threw himself into his Ministry job.
He supposed that was why Astoria had left him. Astoria Greengrass, alabaster beauty. She was a beautiful, intelligent, fiercely independent woman. Draco swore her sharp wit could cut even the strongest man to his knees. He missed that about her; she didn't take his shite.
He'd worshipped the ground that she walked on. He showered her with everything she had ever asked for and then some. He'd planned to propose eventually. He made plan after plan after plan, but work—his driving need to prove that he wasn't some Death Eater punk—got in the way.
He should have known she was going to leave when she hugged him just a second too long that morning. He thought he had glimpsed tears in her eyes when he stepped into the Floo, but he'd chalked it up to an eyelash in her eye or allergies.
In hindsight, he realized what an absolute arse he'd been to her. They'd loved each other, though they didn't often say it. He just worked and worked and worked until he was bone tired. He came home so exhausted that he could barely muster the energy to shovel down whatever leftovers she had from the dinner she'd cooked—and ate—alone.
He found her side of the closet empty and a goodbye note on his pillow when he came home from work that evening.
Without Theo and Blaise's friendship and steady reassurance after that night, he wasn't sure what he would have done.
It was Theo's idea to get back into reading. Draco had always enjoyed learning, finding passages that allowed him to escape if he just read long enough. He had been at the top of his class in Hogwarts, second only to Granger. His competitive nature still wouldn't let him forget that the bushy-haired witch always bested him.
At Theo and Blaise's urging, he'd taken a couple weeks off from work, gathered a bunch of old books and some traveling clothes in a trunk, and gone to his family's summer home. He had been thumbing through old books from third year when a soft growling caught his ear. He pushed aside a crumbling broom servicing kit and discovered the source of the noise; The Monster Book of Monsters growled up at him, blinking bleary eyes. He reached for it, and it snapped feebly at him.
"Yeh've got ter stroke 'em," Draco had muttered to himself in a poor imitation of Hagrid. He'd winced and chided himself. He'd been a right git third year.
That book was how, three weeks later, he'd gone bumbling into Flourish and Blotts nearly arse over tit. He'd forgotten how much he'd loved creatures—when they weren't trying to claw his arm off or living in his home.
He turned the corner and walked past Flourish and Blotts. His lips quirked in an ironic grin. He hadn't meant to spend so much time—or money— there, but a certain brunette bookkeeper kept him coming back.
He hadn't been able to get the command out of his head after he'd stumbled into the shop for the first time.
"Malfoy, stop."
He'd stopped, alright. So had his heart and his breath, hand on the door as he waited for the damning words to leave her mouth.
But they didn't.
Instead, she'd said something about the book in the back and sailed away, bushy brown hair bobbing between the stacks of books. She'd disturbed the air when she'd turned away, and he caught the scent of her over the old books, teasing him.
She smells like sugar cookies, he smiled dumbly to himself.
She shuffled back up the hallway, book in hand. She dropped it on the counter, only to cover both of them in the plume of dust that issued from the book.
"Oh, drat. I'm sorry! I always forget how dusty that room gets," Hermione apologized, not quite looking him in the eye. She reached under the counter and pulled out a large blue square. She wiped her face, then handed him the fabric.
Hermione Granger was handing him a handkerchief. He knew better than to turn it down.
As he reached for it, their fingers grazed, and he paused. Hermione looked at him quizzically, and he snatched it out of her hands.
He cringed. That was smooth. She probably thinks you still go around calling people Mudblood, too, he chided himself. He dared to look up, but she didn't look angry. In fact, she looked—intrigued?
He shook off the stupor and wiped his face as she rifled through some papers on the desk. For someone so organized in school, the desk was a mess.
"I'm sorry; today's inventory, and I'm still trying to sort through the papers from the old owners. I don't think they knew what a file system was," she continued on, but he'd tuned out.
He'd never taken the time to look at her in school—he'd never let himself. Father had done a number on him; every time she had been in eyesight, it was like an alarm had gone off, alerting him to her "impure" blood.
She was pretty in an understated way. And, bloody hell, was she smart. He liked intelligent women.
He zoned back into sudden silence. A light blush colored her cheeks, and he realized he'd been staring at her hands as she rifled through the papers, utterly unaware of the words that had tumbled out of her mouth.
It's not fair for someone to have such delicate hands, he thought.
She cleared her throat and handed him the invoice. "That'll be twelve Galleons."
He nearly jumped out of his robes. "Twelve Galleons? For a book?"
"You're paying for a limited edition, signed Scamander piece, Malfoy. Those don't come cheap. You're lucky I'm letting it walk out of my store for any less than fifteen Galleons," she scoffed.
Right, he could pay that. He'd pay anything to get his hands on that book. He handed over the coins and their hands brushed again.
He had a feeling he'd be spending a lot more money at Flourish and Blotts in the future, anyway.
His trip through memory lane had taken him right to the door of the Leaky Cauldron. He brushed on hand through his platinum locks and shoved the door open.
He didn't look toward the table in the back, the one he knew he'd find a too-casual Granger nursing a Butterbeer at. Instead, he walked straight to the bar and signaled for Tom, the barkeep.
"Malfoy." Just the barest inclination of his head, but it was enough. He and Tom had settled their differences. Unlike Madam Rosmerta, Tom still allowed Draco to eat and drink in the tavern as long as he didn't cause trouble. He didn't blame Madam Rosmerta's hesitation. He wasn't sure he'd allow someone into his livelihood if they had Imperiused him either.
"I'll have a Butterbeer, please. Warm, if you could," Draco murmured.
Tom set about making his drink, and Draco surveyed the room.
She was sitting at her usual table, her back to the door. Three away and slightly left of the booth he usually sat in to read. A slight smile crossed her face, as though she was lost in a pleasant memory.
His breath caught in his throat, and he spun back around to pick up the Butterbeer that Tom had plunked on the bar, throwing a couple Galleons and a Sickle down in exchange. Tom raised an eyebrow at the generous tip but said nothing as he swept the coins into his palm.
He took a deep breath and crossed the room.
He hadn't meant to, but he jostled the table a bit when he slid into the seat. He hid his grimace behind the first words that spilled out of his lips. "Do you often sit by yourself at the bar, Granger?"
He tried to tamp his amusement down, but it was obvious she'd noticed as she stammered, "No. Well, not often—it's just a weekend thing."
Gods, she's cute when she blushes.
He fiddled with the rim of his mug, contemplating what he would say next. He could cut to the chase and ask her on the damn date he'd been inching oh-so-painfully slowly toward. Or he could tease her some more.
He did like to see her blush.
"So you haven't, by chance, come down to stake out my reading booth?"
Oh, he had her. He watched the blush slowly spread down her neck and—even the tips of her ears, peeking out of that mane of curls, turned a lovely shade of red.
"Work has been a little frustrating lately. I just needed a place to unwind before I went home." She was a horrifyingly terrible liar.
Something in Draco beamed at that.
He couldn't resist teasing her a little more. "If you wanted to continue our conversation, all you had to do was ask."
Hermione's face disappeared behind her mug of Butterbeer, no doubt trying to buy time before she answered. When she put the mug down, however, all thoughts screeched to a halt in Draco's mind.
She had a bit of foam lining her mouth like a mustache. His gaze immediately dipped to her mouth, which had continued on despite his complete distraction from the conversation. That mouth that had captivated them in their ever-increasing literary discussions.
"As much as I do enjoy our conversations, I didn't want to impose. After all—" He held up his hand, attempting to cut her off so she could wipe off the foam. He needed it gone so he could concentrate. She spluttered angrily, and he winced. Wrong move. "Excuse me, who do—"
"You have foam on your upper lip. From your Butterbeer," he explained. The last thing he needed was her hexing his bollocks off before he could ask her on a date.
She blushed crimson and reached for a napkin. Of its own volition, his hand snapped up and grabbed her wrist gently. He blinked, unsure what to do, then quickly reached for his Butterbeer and took a swig. Damage control.
As he lowered the glass, her eyes flew straight to his mouth, where a foam mustache curved across his upper lip.
"There, we match." He was gloating, and he knew it.
Her lips fell open, but no sound came out.
For the first time in his existence, he had struck Hermione Granger speechless.
Draco grinned. Oh, this is going to be fun.