"Hey yourself. What are you doing here?" Hermione asks, brushing off the dust on Draco's sleeve. She notices his attire, "Are you wearing denims?"
"Before you start, these are comfortable as hell. I don't mind Muggle clothing," he retorts, mocking hurt.
She smirks. She beckons him to follow her to her apartment. He walks in and sits down on the sofa. She goes in her kitchen. He asks, "Where's Rose?"
"At my in-laws," she replies, "How much sugar do you take in your tea?"
"Ha, no tea. You got anything stronger?"
She raises her eyebrows. Okay she might have a brand new bottle of St George's Chapter 14 somewhere. She brings out the bottle and walks in the living room. "I got whiskey. Muggle whiskey though."
"Doesn't matter. Alcohol is alcohol."
"Yeah, alcohol is beyond the fields of wizardry and racism."
They laugh as she measures two small pegs for them. "Cheers," he says before downing the entire content in one single gulp. The liquid burns down his throat but damn it feels great.
She takes a little sip and looks at him with a little awe. She asks, "Everything okay Draco?"
He sighs deeply, "I buried my former best friend today." He pours himself another drink and leans back.
"Oh." Sip. "I can't imagine how you must feel."
"I don't think anyone can. Do you want to know something funny?"
"What?"
"Blaise actually detested Death Eaters. I think our friendship started deteriorating when I became one…now that I think of it."
"He was? Huh, you learn something new every day."
"Huh," he clinks his glass with hers. They both finish their drinks. He notices the bandage around her arm, "That happen when you were fighting Blaise? Harry said you got hurt."
"Yeah," she finishes her second drink and pours another one, "Jim Moriarty shot at me to distract Sherlock."
"Huh." He leans back and sips his drink quietly, ruminating.
She leans back, her head dangerously close to his. She is not drunk, but her inhibitions were slowly eroding. She asks, "What's wrong with you?"
"I don't know. I just don't. I just feel like the last ties to my past got cut today."
"And it is my fault." She sighs, unconsciously rubbing her scar.
Draco looks at her, his heart swelling. Till now he had not let himself think about the fact that Hermione Granger was responsible for the death of his former schoolmate. He sighs, "I was trying not to think about it."
"Why not? Oh, I did your kill your friend. Broke a law. Went scot-free because why tarnish the reputations of a dead person and one-half of Golden Trio?"
"Tarnish? Your reputation, maybe. Not his."
"Hmm. It's just…death. I never thought I would, I never thought I was capable of it."
"Harry said that your actual target was Moriarty, so, you know, you did not mean it for Blaise especially."
"Draco," she rubs her face, as she gets herself another drink, "I took a life. I don't think I can ever come back from that. It will forever be there, as ashes underground and as a memory in my mind."
Draco sighs, "And how do I feel? I don't know. I lost that one, okay very horrible, connection to Hogwarts."
"Oh. But hey!" she perked up all of a sudden, "I am from your Hogwarts too!"
He laughs, "Oh Merlin I'd forgotten about you!"
"Am I that forgettable?" she mocks getting offended and makes a pout.
He laughs some more at the expression she is pulling. He thinks she rather looks very cute. She thinks he has never laughed like this in her presence. He looks attractive when he does that.
He places his palm, flat, on her neck. He can feel her pulse throbbing. He whispers, leaning in closer, "Fuck no."
She smiles at him. Her heart rate kicks up. His warm, whiskey infused breath blows softly on her face. The heat, the whiskey lulls her into a weird trance. She leans forward and winds her fingers at the nape of his neck, toying with his white-gold locks.
Then she does not remember who took the first step, but their lips meet and the barriers get torn down. The glasses slide on to the floor as hands slide over fabric and skin. The liquid seeps into the rug as tongues fight for dominance.
He kisses along her jawline, along her neck. He pushes aside the sleeve of her sweater to taste more of her skin. She lets out a little moan. It felt good. But she wants more of him. She grabs his head and brings him back to face her. His pupils are dilated and his skin is flushed. Merlin, he is gorgeous. She puts her lips on his, less gentle this time. She nips at his lower lip as he growls. He finds her bare skin under all the material and nearly bruises her. Sherlock touched her there once too.
Then a fragment of a memory floats to the surface and she breaks their passionate embrace. No, what is she doing. She says, "No. I can't do this. Draco, we can't do this."
His lungs are still fighting for oxygen as he breathlessly says, "Why? Because I am married? What if I wasn't?"
She does not look at him, lest she give herself away. He would read the answer in her eyes. She says, "Draco…"
"You still wouldn't, would you? Because I am a former Slytherin, a Death Eater?"
"Merlin, Draco! No! It is not that. I can't…"
"Is it because of…" he guessed it. He falls back into the cushions. He sighs and rubs his face, "Guess I am too late, aren't I? If only…"
She stands up and pushes her hair back. She says, softly, "You are welcome to stay the night here. Goodnight."
She uses magic to float some blankets and pillows to him. He does not reach for them so she places them beside him. Then she swiftly walks to her bedroom and shuts the door behind her. She crawls into her bed and takes a few, long breaths. She wants to and also does not want to. She wonders, angrily, what this feeling is—being confused and being annoyed at that confusion.
Damn it Sherlock Holmes!
Next morning, Draco wakes up with a headache. He decides to leave without waking Hermione up. After all, he is responsible for his own heartbreak. No reason to rub salt into his wound. Does he regret coming over? He mulls over the question for a few beats. The answer comes back as no. No, he did not regret it. If this is the proverbial nail in the coffin, then let it be. He stands up and stretches. Time to go home. He decides against apparating, his headache will only increase a hundredfold. He yawns, Muggle transport then.
He softly stalks out of her flat and closes the door behind him. He gets to the main entrance. He zips his jacket as he walks out into the early morning chill. The cold air feels good in a way. A sad smile curves his lips. They were never meant to be and he always knew it, didn't he? But chasing certain dreams is an addictive habit. And Draco Malfoy will always be in love with Hermione Granger.
He does not get to see a certain face staring down at him from the first floor window.
Sherlock wakes up, again, in his living room with stale air choking him. The weak sunshine illuminates the room slightly. He walks up, dragging himself rather, to go open a window. As he grabs the panes, his eye falls on the person who walks out of the main entrance to 221 Baker Street. The whitish blonde hair is familiar. His blood runs both hot and cold when he recognises the man. He staggers back. He rubs his lower lip in consternation. The danger of knowledge, that he knew this was going to happen. Then why is he so surprised and, astonishingly, hurt?