Part IV

Had he not thought to actually spare a glance my way before the incantation left his lips, Draco would probably have had me in a full body bind, or worse. In my own home. Which was frankly a bit ridiculous, considering that he was the one that broke into my house, not the other way around.

Granted, he lowered his wand as soon as he registered that it was me standing there, my own wand carelessly at my side, my eyes just a little wide.

"Damn it, Hermione," he cursed softly, setting aside his wand and leaning with his back to the kitchen counter. His grey eyes moved over my form swiftly, and I couldn't help the small smile that curled my lips as my given name rolled off his tongue. If we were back in Hogwarts, he would have called me mudblood, or some other derogatory term, and now he was in my kitchen. Funny how life worked, really.

"Did I scare you?" I tried my best to coat my tone with innocence, joining him at the counter. He raised a fair brow, and turned his attention to the pot simmering on the stove. "I could have hexed you, you know," he said matter-of-factly, brushing away a few stray strands of hair from his eyes.

Choosing to ignore his statement, I peered at the pots he had discarded; it was relatively easy to figure out that he'd been trying to make spaghetti, but it hadn't worked out in his favor. It made me wonder how he even survived on his own. Judging from the fact that his clothes hung a little more loosely than they had before, not very well.

"You've used too little water, so it boils before the noodles are cooked right," I offered some words of wisdom, trying to hide the smile that threatened to pull back my lips. He flushed a little, giving some color to his otherwise pale face, and relinquished the spoon to me.

"Why are you even cooking anyway? We both know you're terrible at it," by some miracle, the noodles that were cooking now were salvageable with the addition of some more water, and some salt.

The flush on his cheeks dimmed, and his gaze shifted to indifference, his beautiful eyes shutting off; they had done that so many times before, I've lost count.

"You weren't here, and I was hungry," he stated, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. I suppose it was, in a way. It was just so hard to know with Draco. He jerked you this way and that, until you had no idea where you stood. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"Right, I'll take care of this, you can go watch the telly, or something," I took the spaghetti off the heat, strained it, and set about tempering the noodles. I could feel Draco's eyes boring holes into my shoulder from where he stood beside me, but he let out a barely audible sigh, and shuffled away into the den.

I wish I could say that it was easier to concentrate on the task at hand without his presence, but it was hard to ignore the fact that my earlier suspicions were true –I was barely anything more than someone convenient to him. Someone he could come to when in need, and just leave me alone after.

I cut up some garlic and drop it onto a frying pan, trying to focus on the faint sounds of the telly to distract me from my thoughts; they weren't going anywhere good.

I was halfway through adding a frying a few crisps of bacon and listening to a documentary about some chateau in France or other –what Draco wanted with that, Merlin only knew—when he padded back into the kitchen, shoes thumping lightly against my hardwood floors. I didn't turn to face him.

"It's not done yet-," I felt my mouth go dry and scratchy as lean arms encircled my waist, and Draco pulled me back so gently it almost hurt, my head resting back against his sweatshirt-clad chest. My breath hitched in my throat as his head came to rest at my shoulder, soft hair tickling the sensitive skin of my neck. The spatula fell out of my hands, and I considered telling him that the food would burn, but only his name would leave my lips.

"Draco?" It scared me that my voice was no more than a whisper. His arms tightened even more around my waist, just an edge away from being painful. If I were the main character of a romance novel, I would say that our bodies fit perfectly, and electricity coursed through my veins at his touch. But it wasn't like that. His touch was awkward, as if not used to this –and raw. It felt warm –safe.

Suffice to say that the bacon burned.

I actually had this written out at like two this morning, but didn't have access to Internet to post it. Oh well. Hope this wasn't too OOC. And please, I know this story gets hits so if you read this, and enjoy it, leave a review so I can know what you think of it.

-Alistair.