1999

"Merry Christmas, Malfoy," came a charming voice from behind him. He stiffened in surprise and turned, relaxing slightly when he saw who it was – her.

He bit back an automatic sharp retort. "Granger. Merry Christmas."

Her smile blinded him.

It had been a year and a half since the Final Battle, since the end of the war. They had both finished their seventh year. It had been hard, though – harder than he ever would have imagined. There had been so many losses, and though the school had been expertly restored, the battle lived on in the students' memories.

He had, to the best of his ability, tried to ignore the whispers that had followed him in the hallway. He knew full well that they would probably never go away – that they would most likely plague him for the rest of his life.

"Well, if you're not dreadfully busy, perhaps we could keep each other sane for the duration of this damn ball," he ventured, gesturing toward two open seats. She regarded him warily – he mentally kicked himself for how he had acted toward her in the past – but agreed. He led the way, pulling out her chair for her.

"You're supposed to push it in for me, you fool," she hissed when he turned to seat himself. He turned back abruptly, taking in her nervous expression – probably in apprehension for his reaction – before pushing her chair in with a sheepish smirk. He was not ashamed to say he had lost some of his arrogance in the past years.

"I don't do dates," he confided, and was rewarded with a real smile from the brunette. He found his lips turning up in response and quickly looked down at the table as he took the seat beside hers.

Uncomfortable silence filled the air between them for several moments. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she diverted her eyes around the room, drummed her fingers on the table, absently played with the curls that had escaped from the bun and framed her face. But Malfoys did not fiddle. And so he sat perfectly still, pretending to stare straight ahead, and yet hyper-aware of her every move.

She let loose a soft sigh. With a swiftness that surprised even him, he turned towards her. Her amber eyes met his grey ones, startled and – true to her character – curious. He noticed for the first time how enticingly beautiful they were. He sucked in a deep breath.

"Granger." His voice came out harsher than intended in his nervousness. She didn't even seem to notice.

"Call me Hermione." She kept her eyes locked on his, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Hermione," he breathed, the name falling from his lips like the sweetest, most unattainable honey. She waited. "Would you – would you like to go to dinner with me?"

She arched one perfect eyebrow in surprise. His breath hitched and he quickly looked away, waiting for words of rejection to fall on his ears. A small, warm hand grasped his chin, pulling his face back around to hers. Her eyes sparkled.

"That would be. . . wonderful," she finished, smiling. He was dumbstruck.

"Tomorrow at seven?" he asked, a small grin spreading across his face in his barely-contained happiness. She acquiesced happily and leaned her head on his shoulder. He stiffened in surprise and she straightened in embarrassment, smoothing out her gold dress and stammering out her apologies. He hesitantly reached out and place one pale hand on her bare shoulder. She jumped and hid her face more.

"Hermione," he drawled, reveling in the feeling of her name crossing his lips for the second time that night. His voice was warm, silently encouraging her to look at him. "I don't mind." He secretly hoped she would do it again. She did, looking up at his sharp-featured face and biting her lower lip. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. He tentatively smiled and wrapped his arm around her. She moved a bit closer to him, and he smiled, continuing their conversation. Merlin, why had he waited this long?

She was flawless, and he had a date on Saturday night.

She was flawless, and he was holding her to his side.

He'd be damned if he ever let her go again.