"Can I ask," Harry said, trying to make himself comfortable on Draco's stiff, too-large couch, "why we've started hanging out here?"

"What's wrong with here?"

"Honestly? It gives me the creeps." He rubbed his arms and looked around. They were sitting in the Malfoy Manor living room, and Hermione could see why he was bothered by it – it was too fancy, too stuffy, too large, too much of everything. "Like that. That thing over the fireplace? That's creepy."

He was staring at the portrait of Lucius Malfoy. From its position over the fireplace, it seemed to tower over everything, reigning over the whole room. Unlike most wizard portraits, his was silent and unmoving except for his facial expression, which went from an arrogant sort of haughtiness to a look of downright disgust whenever she and Harry came over. It didn't help that his eyes seemed to follow them when they moved.

"Why won't Malfoy take it down?" Harry asked.

"I can't," Draco replied, walking in the room, carrying a beer and a glass of water. He set both on the coffee table in front of the couch. "It's glued to the wall with a spell of some sort." He turned to face the portrait. "Just had to stick around somehow, didn't you, old man?"

Lucius' eyes narrowed in response.

"Like I said." Harry rubbed his arms again. "Creepy."

"You fought the ugliest war in history and a portrait of my father gives you the chills?"

"It scares me, too, a little bit," Hermione said.

This seemed to reinforce Harry's opinion. "So why do we even hang out here?"

"Because of all the space," Draco said, widening his arms to encompass the whole room. The walls seemed to stretch up all the way to the sky; their voices echoed when they spoke. Hermione had a hard time believing the Manor only housed a family of three. "I have more legroom than both of you combined. And more furniture."

"At least our furniture is comfortable," Harry muttered, shifting on the couch.

"You should sell the house," Hermione said. "It's probably worth a fortune, and this is too much room for just one person."

"Honestly, Granger," Draco said. "I thought you were smart."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Who the hell would buy this place?" He looked around the room again – the Persian carpets that covered the floor, the drapes on the wall, the pictures on a corner table at the edge of the room. In one of them, Narcissa was doing something Hermione had never seen her do in real life; she was smiling.

There was a tender expression on Draco's face, an odd mix of nostalgia and affection. Hermione shook her head at him. "But that doesn't matter, does it?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Nothing." She focused her attention on Harry, who had started talking about something he and Ron were planning on doing with their new apartment, but from the corner of her eye she could still see Draco looking around his living room. She bit back a smile.

. . . . . .

When Harry left, she decided to stay a little longer to help Draco clean up. He grinned at her while she followed him to the kitchen, throwing their beer bottles away. "Did you stay behind to seduce me, Granger?" She threw a nearby kitchen towel at him and he laughed.

"I don't seduce men who are in relationships."

"Who's in a relationship?" He blinked at her and she gave him a hard look. "Me? Oh, come on, it's not a relationship. I'm just dating for fun. How could I ever be with anyone else when I know nobody will ever love me the way you do?" He shrugged. "Your love is unrequited, of course, but such is the tragedy of life…"

"Why do you always have endless amounts of shit to say?" she asked him.

He paused. "Honestly, I'm not sure."

They went back out to the living room, where she scanned the room and once again told him to consider selling the house. He rolled his eyes at her.

"A little slower than usual today, aren't we? Do I need to repeat myself?" He extended his feet out in front of him, resting them on the coffee table. "Everyone knows this was Voldemort's hideout. Name one sane person who wants to live here."

"You, apparently."

"Since when have I been sane?" He smirked at her. "And since when have you cared about where I live? Not planning to move in with me, are you, Granger?"

She ignored him. "Then renovate it. Tear the whole place down and build something new."

"What, and build you the house of your dreams, where we will live happily ever after?" he asked, but he seemed to consider her suggestion, staring up at the ceiling. He shook his head. "I can't tear it down."

"Why not?"

He looked at her for a minute, looking like he was trying to make up his mind about something. She stared at him until he stood up and extended his hand out to her. "Follow me."

He led her up a staircase that felt endless. She climbed stair after stair, wondering where they were going and exactly what it was he wanted to show her, but then they climbed out a window and fresh air hit her right in the face and she knew: he had brought her up on the roof.

The view hit her as soon as she stepped out onto the crooked edge and took a seat. From where they were, they had the perfect view of the whole city at night, something like a picture on a postcard. In the distance, the lights shining through different windows looked like hazy stars.

He had that same expression on his face again, the odd one he only seemed to reserve for moments like this. "So this is why you won't sell the house?"

He looked at her. The city lights were reflected in his eyes. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

She watched a car drive down a road, following its headlights until it disappeared behind a building. "But it's not just about the view, is it?"

"Granger." He sighed, tilting his head and looking at the stars. "This house…my parents are everywhere. My mother picked out the color of the walls and the drapes and that ugly couch Potter hates so much. My father had the window built here so I could sit on this roof when I was a kid. If I get rid of the house, I'll be getting rid of them, too."

His sentimentality surprised her. He tapped his foot nervously, as if he was worried he'd said too much.

"I know you might not get it," he said.

"I do," she said, and she meant it. She still wore her father's old coat from time to time, and she was always happy when she would take a whiff of it and it would still smell of him – the strong smell of oak and the faintest hint of cigar smoke. "I get it. I really do."

He looked at her and she looked back at him. In the faint light, his eyes were darker than they normally were, and she could feel her pulse thrumming against her wrist. In spite of all his jokes, she still wasn't immune to that magnetic quality of his, the one that effortlessly pulled women towards him, and now, sitting out in the dark where everything else seemed so far away, she could imagine pulling her close to him, feeling his hands on her waist, on her back, on her face. He was still staring at her and she stared back, holding her breath.

In the end, she was the one who looked away first.

. . . . . .

A/N: This won't be that much longer - a chapter or two, at most. Please review!