Hello! I think I definitely made you all wait long enough, and chapter four can now be released into the wild! It's a super long one, so fingers crossed it was worth the wait! I'm working on chapter ten at the moment, which is nearly done. So, hopefully, this story can be fully rolling over the next couple of weeks!
Alas, for now, hopefully you enjoy this!
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As maid of honour, I am sitting at the top table, watching Ginny and Harry dance together for the first time; as Mr and Mrs Potter. Ginny in her flowing white gown, and Harry in his tux. They're not really dancing, but people rarely do on their first dance. It's more of a gentle and loving sway to the artist I don't recognise, sung by the woman they hired for the early hours of the evening before the DJ steps in.
I know Ron is sitting to the left of me, but try not to acknowledge him, or the beautiful girlfriend who is perched beside him. Exhaustingly and gloriously polite, and stunningly pretty. Hair that shines in chocolate waves and deep blue eyes. In my periphery I see her beaming at him and I take another sip of the white wine placed in front of me - courtesy of the happy couple. When I glance again at Ron and his beau, they are standing to leave and join Harry and Ginny on the dance floor. As is his duty as best man. Without a second glance to me.
Doesn't bother me.
With that, I decide I am in need of something a little stronger to drink for the evening. This wine will go straight to my head and leave it somewhat cool. Nope, that will not do. It's got to be something else. So, I hitch my skirt up a little higher to attempt to wade through the sea of seats, without falling over any disregarded shoes or chair legs. The bar stretches across the other side of the room, complete with some non-dancing couples, and a few of Harry's single friends, all ordering that staple substance: Beer.
Several cheery people wave to me on my way to the bar, and several more offer condolences about Albus Dumbledore's passing. I thank them, and only have one or two conversations - filled with inane chatter to bring them to a quicker close. People continue to move around me, making their way onto and off from the dancefloor, then removing shoes or taking long drinks to soak in the night. I am extremely eager, at this point, to be drinking before the next soppy love song.
Thankfully, the bar tender is either sympathetic and understanding, and grimaces appropriately before pouring me my order of vodka and lemonade. That should numb me out a bit.
"Hermione Granger."
My first reaction is a clenching of the stomach. Not in surprise, but anxiety I suppose. His voice isn't the drawling, petulant one it once was. It's turned mature, almost business-like. With a hint of friendliness that makes me want to kick him down and threaten him to within an inch of his life. Suspicion races through me, and quite unceremoniously. I don't know, but I have had the bad feeling of him all day. He's clutching a beer - stereotypical - and wearing a very non-stereotypical suit. Probably designer, with the green silk trim on the lapels.
Casual, is another way to describe him. His demeanour, and thankfully his hair. It's no longer disgustingly lain flat with gel, as it was during out school days. He wears a near-expressionless façade, watching the couples.
"Draco Malfoy," I say slowly, not hardly daring to approach any further than the three feet which separate us. Wondering what on earth he is doing here. The classroom tormentor. The bad boy who is also a suck-up. The horrible, whiny, daddy's-boy. The boy who was completely awful to me and to my friends throughout our school lives. Taunting and teasing. Maybe I should have my wits about me, with this devious imp being here.
In accordance with my less-than-friendly thoughts, I feel my nostrils flare against my will. Dammit.
"Calm down, Granger. I was invited," Malfoy says, turning to me and I can finally meet his face. After the whole day of dancing around to catch a glimpse and realise any fears. I'm struck by how grown up he appears to have become in the seven years since we have seen each others. His dull grey eyes have become sharp and intuitive and his jaw is more defined. No desperate stubble attempts.
"By who?"
Yeah, I didn't mean to sound quite so rude. Not like I'm going to tell him that, though. It's really best to be hostile now and regret it later on. Alas, Malfoy laughs derisively and indicates the couple dancing in the centre of the throng - red-head in white dress, and bespectacled man in the tux. "Harry?" I ask.
"The man himself."
"Why?" I frown and again have to curse myself for the rudeness. Oh well. Blame it on the wine. It usually makes me say things which should - but aren't - untrue. So there we have it. Truth serum with the most horrible man I have ever known. This should be interesting.
"Some rubbish about the past and having made friends a little during sixth form, and him considering himself adult enough to call me a friend." He laughs again and swigs his beer. "Really, I have no idea. But first, I have a question about you." Oh great. I roll my eyes and take a sip of the drink. A little strong, but it will do. Maybe it will wash about my wine-truth-serum brain. I nod at him, as an indication that he might as well ask. "What happened to you and the Weasel?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" I retort.
Malfoy seems to consider me for a moment, before answering, with a twinge of a eyebrow raise. "Really," he sighs heavily. "Well, I thought the pair of you were going to fall completely in love and go to live in his shack with his family of twenty-something." He fully raises the eyebrow now, daring me to comment. The audacity of his actions astounds me. But I'm not surprised.
"There are nine of them."
"Until Potter and the she-Weasel start procreating." Malfoy almost laughs as I scowl in disgust. How can he be so crass, and at their wedding nonetheless. Oh yeah, this is Draco Malfoy. How could I forget. Ha. Sarcasm. "You didn't even answer my question, Granger. How come Weasel is dancing with someone else, when I predicted such a long future for the pair of you." He drags the word 'long' out, making it seem like we were destined for a boring life together.
"We broke up. It was amicable."
Repetition is not something I frequent, being an English teacher and an avid reader. Unless it's this particular phrase. It's the one phrase I have been using to tell everyone - old friends, family and anyone who has been asking, the last year and a half of my life - what happened between us. At least, the easy version of events. The simple statement. We broke up. It was amicable. That way, no one will ask any prying questions into the details of any messy arguments we had during the break-up stages. Usually, people follow to say that it's a shame, ask if I am happy, and then I answer positively, talk about my work, new apartment. And we can move on. No one need know any more.
"And yet, unfair," Malfoy muses. "You do not have a dance partner, I notice." He raises an eyebrow and moves closer. The barman has moved away, given us the privacy that causing the strange intimacy of the moment. Which I absolutely hate. "You look like you might enjoy a little dancing." Malfoy smirks and I scowl instantly.
"I would rather be alone than with him." Then curse my words.
"That doesn't sound amicable," Malfoy notes. His smirk half-disappears, as though he is uncertain. Impossible. Growing up a prat, I know, causes his undisputable confidence in every action he makes.
"Shut up, Malfoy." I down my drink. By what-could-be-called-magic, the barman appears and pours another of my order. Vodka and lemonade. Thank God. Only alcohol can save me from this situation I appear to have got myself into.
"Stiff drink, priss," he comments as the barman walks away again, to serve a tall and batty woman at the other end of the room. For a moment, I pause to consider how silly it is that there is only one bartender. Then again, there is wine on every table and servings of champagne, in addition. "Didn't think you were that kind of girl." Malfoy's words made me scowl again and I take a large gulp, liking the slight burn.
"To be fair, you don't know me," I say, turning back to him, having gained a small amount of courage, trying not to look at the dancers. If I can briefly hold this not-completely-awful conversation with Malfoy, I don't have to think about Ron and Natalie and her prettiness.
"Ouch." He touches his chest lightly with spare hand, as if deeply hurt. Of course, sarcastically. Not having that. Nope.
"Don't pretend you care."
This is definitely not how I envisioned my evening playing out. Malfoy smirks, whispering in my ear in a deep, insinuating voice,
"To be fair, you don't really know me, either. But we're not strangers, Granger."
"Malfoy, I am not spending this beautiful evening of my best friend's wedding, trapped indoors with only alcohol and you for company. You hated me as a child, and I hated you. Let's just leave it at that." I take another gulp from my drink, looking away from him. Hoping to have hurt his feelings, but also knowing I wouldn't have done. It would be impossible to do such a thing. He could revert at any second, and be nasty, say something awful, and I would go back to the top table, waiting for some poor sod to approach with words of kindness, or something about the happy couple.
"Well, then, let's go outside." He doesn't falter and I can't help but blanch at his words. Random and ridiculous thing to say. "You said it yourself. I don't know you. Neither of us want to be trapped inside. I have nothing better to do." He shrugs. "No one will ask me to dance. Let's get caught up." Malfoy pauses, waiting for my reaction. To throw a drink in his face, or accept. But I'm frozen. "Oh come on, don't pretend you're not interested." He leans back, smug, against the bar. A smug sip of beer.
I consider it. Yes, I am intrigued. Draco Malfoy, after all these years. He's not been awful just yet. Rich and powerful, and definitely not hard on the eyes. Dare I even think such a thing. Of course I'm intrigued. But interested?
"Fine," I say, finally, sighing heavily. "Don't expect me to act like I did in school. I have changed."
"Wouldn't dream of it. So have I," he admits, that smirk plastered onto his face. I almost laugh. I've seen the papers and the gossip magazines, when I can't find anything more intellectual to read. Filled with images of his late-night and early-morning escapades and conquests. Beautiful women coming and going from his beautiful mansion, all the time. The scandals, magazines call them.
"Yeah, right," I say, laughing to myself. He raises a single, pale eyebrow, and gestures which direction we should leave. Good timing. A soppy love song has just begun the very first few strikes of a piano. Eugh.
I lead the way to the French doors, out into the gardens beyond, now adorned with fairly lights and lamps hanging from trees in a large variety of colours. To make up for the pretty colours of flowers that can be seen during the daytime, I suppose. Then again, Ginny does have a particular fondness for fairy lights, so maybe the colours were her choice. It's far quieter outside, with only the noise of music leaking out to permeate the silence. There is no one else outside, thankfully. Malfoy closes the door behind him, causing the music to die away a little more. Not completely. Muffled.
"You shouldn't believe everything you see in the tabloids," says Malfoy very quietly, wandering around the back of the mansion, into the wider expanse of grounds. Where the flowers are in fewer collections, and instead, there is a bench and the broad lawns. I take a sip of my drink, enjoying the gum-receding feeling a little. The strength of the drink could definitely be put to good use. To either forgetting this conversation, or making it somewhat decent.
"So you're saying none of it is true?" I ask, walking backwards momentarily. Then turning again so I don't trip, as I know I am prone to do. I stumble very slightly and scowl at myself. That wasn't graceful. Not that it matters.
"Absolutely not," Malfoy agrees, putting a hand deep into his trouser pocket and sipping at his beer.
"Rubbish," I laugh, feeling that slight freedom that alcohol provides. He simply shakes his head at my words, looking down at his feet. As if watching where he is going, but I assume that he doesn't need help with that, so is taking the time to think about something. At least I don't have to worry about my heels sinking into the mud, having changed into my flats: The great conquerors of muddy grounds and sore feet. I can't dance in heels very well, so there's not a huge point to them after the ceremony. "Draco Malfoy, I do not believe for a one second that you have not had a girlfriend since sixth form."
Malfoy points out the bench several metres away, and makes a beeline for it, gesturing that I should follow. His sits down.
"No, Granger," he says simply, shrugging and laying his flats upon the air. A small drop of beer sloshes out, and he takes another sip from the bottle.
"I don't believe you. I've seen the photos, Malfoy." He shakes his head dismissively. As if thinking 'those ones', with the lack of good nature about whoever took the photos in his mind.
"Try me," he suggests. I move closer to sit beside him on the bench, dress rustling in the movement and the breeze of the evening air. It's cool outside, but not unpleasant. Unusual for an evening in May, but certainly beneficial for tonight. The leaves rustle too, as if daring me to test Malfoy. To check his conniving ways, and he wrong. Ha. To see whether he is the same. Lying, desperate and annoying.
"Astoria Greengrass," I begin.
"Business deal."
"Oh, is that what they're calling it, now?" I ask with a smirk heavily displayed. Malfoy simply looks at me, utterly incredulous. But pleased? That can't be good. Oh God.
"Granger, what has happened to you? You used to be a prude. And now...? Making a dirty joke. That is a man's task!" He takes a hearty swig of beer, as if to seal his words with a testosterone-filled action. I find it a little hurtful that I'm not allowed to make a dirty joke, in his book. And that he thought I was a prude. I made out with that exchange student in Year 10, Victor Krum. Malfoy's outburst is both unexpected and intriguing. I utterly blame it on the alcohol we have both consumed; a natural thing to do at weddings: Get drunk with strangers, and bond with them. Malfoy and I are as good as strangers.
So I avoid his question entirely. Knowing the answer. But certainly nowhere near to telling him, of all people.
"Okay, explain then?" I demand, coolly. "Business?" The phrasing is polite, but we're both smirking. Thinking of my joke. Well, I am. Malfoy shrugs nonchalantly.
"Her father wanted to strike up a deal about percentage hold in Malfoy company. Exchange some things for a cut in profit. Wanted to wager, so sent his daughter." He pauses, considering his words. "We grew up together, both around business-orientated families. Smart move. She knew what she was doing." He smirks. "Didn't fool me. I knew the comparative worth." I nod along, pretending to understand. But there's more. "She stayed the night at mine because it's a seven hour drive back to her home in Wiltshire."
Makes sense, but she could have gotten a hotel room... Then again, they grew up together. It would be a bit of common courtesy - If Draco Malfoy posses such a thing.
I nod in understanding, again. The photo was shot very suggestively, so I guess it's easy to see how these things could be manipulated to strangers' eyes. To tell people what could be seen, other than what is actually being seen. I only half hope Malfoy isn't offended by my asking.
"Pansy?" I question, feeling as though I am testing him.
"Really, Granger? That rumour?" He laughs shortly, amused with me. I fold my arms, almost spilling my drink in the process. Damn. "Didn't think you were that sort of girl." I look at him questioningly. "Gossipy."
"I thought it had substance," I shrug, retaliating.
"Pansy Parkinson? God." Malfoy shudders. "I kissed her once, then everyone thought she was pregnant with my child when she started wearing those bulky jumpers." He gestures a bump with his hands and shudders again. "People thought I was that guy. Pansy and I never did it. We've met up as friends since - for coffee or lunch. Never anything remotely romantic."
That guy? I decide not to ask.
"I never heard the pregnancy rumour," I muse, thinking back to the old days of high school. There were, of course, plenty of rumours about everyone - especially Draco Malfoy - so maybe that one just bypassed me. Certainly, I had heard the one about Blaise Zabini and Rosy Watling during year 12. And plenty others involving Malfoy's seemingly expressively-active sex life. Gross. I never wanted to hear about any of that. Any of what he was doing, or what anyone else was doing. Not my thing, really.
"You were a recluse."
"You were an arse."
"Touché."
Malfoy is silent for a moment, and stares down into his bottle of remaining beer. He takes a pensive sip and glances at around us. Then, almost inaudibly, he mutters, "Yes, I was." Then louder. "Another drink? Vodka lemonade again?" I hardly have time to nod before my glass is snatched from me and Draco Malfoy is sauntering back to the French doors to the party - light floods the area where he returns briefly. It leaves me wondering. What happened to Draco Malfoy? Rich Boy Extraordinaire. Known for being a arse and loving himself for it.
Has the world really changed him that much? Working in the tough business line? Or has it been people, who have made him see a sense? It's strange. I like his confidence, but I suppose he is... Uncertain? Of who to be?
Footsteps penetrate my thoughts, and the rattling of ice inside my new glass of drink. I decide to go back to the guessing game we had earlier.
"I've got one." I grin at his confusion and take the drink from him.
"One what?"
"Your supposed girlfriends. Marla Stevenson." A flash of recognition races across his face and I swear I see a hint of blush travelling over his cheeks and neck. Standing out against the very pale skin. It definitely isn't the heat of the evening - substantial breeze between us now. Maybe it's not embarrassment? Anger?
"Blimey." Malfoy whistles out a low, slow breath. And I sense I have caught him out, finally. "I forgot about her."
"Ha!" I shout at him, triumphant. "Have I won?" He stares at me in bewilderment and chokes on the next sip of beer, leaving me to grin. Malfoy laughs briefly at his own antics, wiping his mouth and smirking. But he has that look in his eye again. Like he thinks he is right and I have lost. Oh great.
"Absolutely not," he says, resolute. "She was Zabini's girlfriend at the time, and stayed over one evening while we were waiting for news about him at the hospital. She was distraught - it was an emergency procedure. And he was in hospital for a while after the operation, so she crashed at mine." He laughs bitterly. "Of course, it was all over the magazines that I'd slept with her - my 'latest conquest', they said." Another bitter laugh and a swig of beer.
"What happened?" I ask before I can consciously stop myself.
"It forced them apart. They separated over the issue." He glances around, as if not wanting to meet my eyes. "Blaise tends to prefer his women if they're not shacking up with me. Kinda ruined our friendship for a while." Malfoy coughs uncomfortably and swigs at his beer again, thinking of what happened those years ago. Suddenly quiet, I'm not entirely sure of what to say. To this other side of Draco Malfoy.
"What was he in hospital for?"
I tell myself that I'm just checking his story. But decide not to consider any consideration or care that I might have.
"Appendectomy." I turn away from him. It feels like there is something more to be said, but I don't want to look at him to omit such a thing. I'm too caught up in my silence to think about the next thing that happens. Humming. Music emanates from the room. Sweet sounds of a classical guitar and a melancholy voice. But I know the tune. It's sweet and soft and one of my favourites. Malfoy mutters, "what is happening," savagely before continuing to stare at me.
"Shut up," I demand, less harshly than I intended to say it. Trying to pick up the words that I sometimes can't always remember correctly. The quiet ones and the longer notes and the faltering messages.
"Why?" he demands in an interested tone.
"I like this song," I muse, still trying to listen to the music and the words forming in my head. Obviously, I shouldn't even begin to expect that Malfoy would give me anything of what I want - which is to listen to the song, at the moment.
"This rubbish!" he exclaims. "Blimey, Granger, I thought you might like more decent things than this. With all your..." He waves his hands around, "Intelligence." He shakes his head in bemusement. A couple of strands of pale blonde hair fall across his eyesight, but are quickly brushed aside by the wind. I think of my own hair, snarled in it's place, surrounded by knotted tendrils. Urgh. Hair jealousy.
"Yes, this rubbish," I argue, smirking. "I happen to like it. I expect you're more into your usual posh repertoire of orchestral pieces, and nothing less than a million pound worth of stage." The mirth in my tone disguises any bitterness I might have felt in my youth. I happen to like classical music, but I will not be telling him that. I only have the very faint resentment now. If even that.
"I like classical music." I raise an eyebrow, having never considered him to be musical, as such. Of possessing such creativity as someone might need to listen to classical music. Granted, that is a rather close-minded view. Malfoy is smiling though, in that slightly sarcastic way. "How dare you insult me, of all people." I try not to snort in laughter. The irony is too much.
"You insulted me first."
"And I am eternally sorry." It could be the alcohol that we have both consumed, so I am not certain if I really do detect the seriousness in his voice, which I am not completely enamoured with. Perhaps he feels a little of the same. "Let's dance." Malfoy stands and places his beer down on the now-vacated seat.
"You must be joking," I laugh. "Who the hell are you?"
"I am Draco Malfoy," he announces, placing a hand on his chest with that pride he holds. I shake my head in surprise.
"And you're obviously pissed to want to dance with me." Malfoy laughs and shakes his head at my words, placing his hands into his pockets. Supposedly the epitome of cool - looking casual and not at all interested, though very interesting. Behaving as though I am something greatly amusing, and also greatly annoying. Such a strange look from someone so hateful. Well, allegedly.
"Madam," he begins in a deep voice, pretending to slur, and then stopping very suddenly. As if he knows it sounds ridiculous. "I have merely had a couple of glasses of wine, and two beers so far. I am not pissed. I can hold my liquor. Now, dance with me?" I laugh at him. Malfoy's expression doesn't falter. He doesn't move to open his body language so much. But his eyes are laughing. Or planning my death. Happily.
"Why?" I query, not daring to stand and to take his hand. To dance with him. He must have gone insane. Probably all that work.
"Maybe I want to dance with you." He's definitely insane.
"I really don't understand why you would." I shrug slightly.
It's one of those things where I don't know that I mean it at all. I should be perfectly allowed to dance with Draco Malfoy if I wanted. And I suppose that I wouldn't mind. It's ludicrous that he would want to dance with me. But's he's being nice. For once. He's being different. I don't know how to react to it, I suppose.
"Christ, Hermione, just give me your hand," Malfoy demands, sticking out one hand for me to grab, should I magically decide to dance with him.
The Draco Malfoy who tormented me through my childhood and through my sixth form and early-adulthood years. The Draco Malfoy who caused that slither of doubt to fester into an entire beast of being. The Draco Malfoy who just called me by my first name. The name rolling easily off his lips, as though he'd practiced it in his youth. Said it to me, instead of the famous 'Granger'. And he's used it twice this evening. It's to set anyone's heart racing with suspicion.
"Jesus, please, no Malfoy."
He looks unperturbed. Which worries me.
"Fine," he mutters, grinning maliciously, and grabbing my drink from my fingers, pulling my hands up so that I am forced to stand in front of him.
"It doesn't matter, I can't really hear the music," I tell him, uncomfortable at the proximity. "I don't want to dance." The words come with such finality that they surprise even me. Malfoy looks frozen, for a nanosecond. He then relinquishes his hold and elicits the next words in a harsh tone. Not unkind, but harsh.
"You mean you don't want to dance with me."
We're still standing a little too close to each other. I take a step back, and Malfoy doesn't move. He glances away, taking his beer from the bench and listening out. For some reason, I want him to look at me. To talk to me. About whatever it is that's going on inside his head. A strange thought indeed.
"That's not what -"
"It's fine, Granger. Really, I get it." He sighs heavily and presses his heels into the soft ground. "Mean Draco Malfoy is disturbing your evening of selective peace." He stops completely and we hear the muted rumbling of applause from inside the hall. The song has definitely ended, and our moment is certainly ended. Moment. Unlikely. Eugh. And Malfoy asks again. "What happened between you and the Weasel?"
"I told you, it was amicable." Malfoy swigs his beer and shakes his head disbelievingly.
"And yet, you seem awfully sad." He pauses. "I don't believe you."
"What makes you say that?" I ask, quietly. A new song has begun inside, but much slowly and softer. Restful, with a lilting, beautiful voice. Peaceful, almost. It must be nearing toward the end of this particular set. I can't hear the lyrics and I don't recognise the tune. Odd.
"Well, you're out here, in the cold, with me, your childhood bully. Why would you not want to stick with your friends." He shakes his head. "It doesn't add up."
"I'd rather be here with you, than in there with him." The words escape me before I can register my want to say them. My desire to tell exactly how it is. Having been completely fed up of lying to families and friends about how things ended. And about why we're broken up. The reasons I haven't found anyone new, yet. I blame Ron. And the wine. The cursed wine.
"There it is again, Granger," Malfoy sighs, following with a bitter laugh.
We remain in silence for a short while. I know that Malfoy is laughing at my internally. Thinking of how silly I am to hide behind this version of myself. And here he is, again, forcing me to admit to a slither of doubt. Assuredly to press further to a fully-fledged panic over what I am doing and why.
"Fine," I huff. "I'll tell you. But, for Christ's sake, sit down."
He sits. No asshole version of himself present.
"We used to fight," I start. He raises that single, pale eyebrow, again. Demonstrating his mocking of me. I glare him down. To shut him up before he can start. "We fought constantly. He disagreed with everything I chose, did, or said. Where we lived, what we bought, who we saw, what we did, what I was allowed to do." Malfoy's eyes flash in annoyance. Good. "It was exhausting. He was refusing to grow up and let me make decisions; refusing to let go of any semblance of control." I sigh. "He's always been confrontational. Petulant and demanding at times." Malfoy snorts derisively. "He wanted more than what I could offer."
He looks up at this.
"What did he want?"
"Malfoy, it's a little complicated," I protest. Fully understanding I am going against my word to tell him everything, in this moment. I am whining, but not caring. This part of it could be too personal to reveal to an ex-enemy. However, I could blame it all on the alcohol in the morning if I need to. Malfoy is giving me this hard look. Steely, grey eyes, and everything. The power look.
"Try me."
Lord, does he say it with... Gusto. That power look on his face and the slight fierceness of his tone. Daring me to challenge him on this. Oh God. I try looking for something around me to talk about; something far simpler than this. Given that I haven't spoken to anyone else about this - not even Ginny or Harry or my parents - that makes it especially hard to tell a certain blonde ferret-boy, who happens to have called me a menagerie of awful names throughout out school lives. Or so it feels.
Dramatic much?
Then again, people say talking to a stranger is better. There's no resounding judgement. You're unlikely to see them again. Here goes.
"Granger, just tell me."
"He... He wanted a family." First hurdle. Next ones, here we go. "He wants a family. Babies and marriage. Big Christmases and all that malarkey. Yeah, at twenty-four!" I breathe for a moment. "He wanted to live near his parents, and be with them a lot of the time. It was... Awful." The word escapes before I can change my mind. "He couldn't decide on anything and had no real ambition, and wanted to live that same life he had always considered. Settle down early, hate his job, and bring home the bacon." I pause again to take a drink, steeling myself. "I felt trapped. Stuck in a life I didn't want. With someone I didn't really want to settle down with, in the end."
I drain the drink, remembering the final night.
"We had this raging fight about it. All of it. I told him everything I was thinking. And he said I didn't love him enough to make it work. And I guess that I didn't. I told him that too. He wanted more, but I couldn't give any more. So it was over."
I look over at Malfoy, who is watching me closely and silently, and choose my words as carefully as I can.
"Fuck. He was right. But I wanted more than a small life, living with my high school boyfriend, kids by twenty-five." I glance at my empty drink. Damn. That went quickly. "We were both too different for each other, in the end. He wanted someone on a different intellectual level, and who would give him babies, should he demand. I didn't want to be that. We decided to be friends, and to tell everybody it was amicable. Even if it wasn't completely."
The breeze itself shits uncomfortable around us. Malfoy is looking at me still, but my eyes are watching the ivy I can barely see, crawling up the wall. A very slight prickling in my eyes tells me that I should not say a word. For a while. Maybe a long while. Who knows.
Malfoy breaks the silence, without hint of laughter in his voice.
"Well, shit."
I nod, laughing shortly and quietly. Perhaps more bitterly than I had intended. A chill passes over us and I shiver involuntarily. Malfoy looks away, thinking.
"Anyway," I say. "It was a year and a half ago now. It doesn't matter. I'm over it." My voice betrays me a little, sound thick. I can only hope he pins it down to the drunkenness, and my tiredness at this late hour.
"Good," he murmurs. "Dance with me, Granger." I raise my eyebrows in confusion. Dance? What if he's taking pity on me? Or mocking me? Because I just exposed everything... Oh lordy. I told everything to Draco Malfoy...
"Why?"
"I like this song." Malfoy stands and places the empty beer bottle onto the bench. Smirking. Bloody smirking. Oh great.
"Hadn't pegged you as a Shar Sistre lover," I comment, looking up at him. Having finally recognised the slightly more upbeat song. Malfoy grimaces for half a second, listening. But his smirking doesn't falter.
"I just want to dance with you!" He proclaims loudly, gesturing and grinning at me. He must be ridiculously drunk. Obviously. I roll my eyes at him and fold my arms, feeling that I shouldn't play to his attentions.
The wind rolls past us again, causing the goosebumps to reappear on my pale skin. Definitely should have brought a cardigan, alas it is definitely a bit late for that now. Malfoy takes my hand, leaving a very slight tingle there, and pulls me to stand in front of him. He begins to sway, and I almost laugh at him. Glad the music isn't too sloppy, just a little slow, and soft. The way I might imagine a sweet French Romantic to finish. With the girl whisked away from her enemies on a retro motorbike, clutching onto her lover and saviour.
Yet, it's me. Dew-soaked shoes. Twirling with Malfoy.
I guess it's not so bad.
It's odd, though. Draco Malfoy attempting to cheer me up with the power of dance. Very odd indeed. The world has clearly turned completely on it's head. I decide to play our little game again, when I guess which of his 'girlfriends' were actually girlfriends. This feels like common ground, now.
"So, who was your last girlfriend?" An innocent question, and he's quick to answer.
"Cresta Cunningham. Year Twelve."
"Malfoy that was seven years ago!" I laugh out loud and stop for a moment, staring at him. He doesn't let go of my hand. I pretend not to notice. He's as serious as he would be if he were telling the truth. Then again, Malfoy was known for being an exceptional liar. Both then and now.
"So?" He asks, innocent as anything. I laugh again and throw my head back this time, not believing one bit. Utterly ludicrous.
"I am afraid that I do not believe you," I say simply, in answer to his staring at me. His hair falls slightly into his eyes as he shakes his head in amusement. And pulls me closer. Not that I notice in the very slightest. At all. The song inside reaches a shaky crescendo, finishing with a terrible follow-on note to the next verse.
"Some of us don't need relations to sort their lives out," he says quietly and smirks. "While you and Weasley were shacking up, I have been endeavouring in the world of business and travel. Big cities and bright lights, you know." He smirks and twirls me again so fast I almost fall. And gosh, do I wish I knew. About the wonderful world and all it holds, and how business feels. Powerful? Freeing?
"So you're a virgin?" I ask, grinning and knowing the answer. He laughs immediately, signalling that I am right.
"Fuck no," he almost shouts. I laugh then shiver again as another bluster of wind whirls through us. A few stray leaves bound across the grass over our feet. Mine in flats, his in those fancy, shiny shoes for the occasion. There is a silence that falls between us again, but it's not entirely uncomfortable as the times beforehand. Almost pleasant, but not quite. "Cold, Granger? We can go inside if you want?"
"No." I smile politely and step back from him a little, still not letting go of his hand for some reason. Again, not that it makes a difference. His other hand rests on my back. I smile wider, not necessarily thinking about my response. "I wish I had the money to travel. I've just never really had much chance."
"Save up," he advises simply.
"It's not that simple."
"How is it not?" He asks, moving as if to step away, but staying anyway. The song has long-since finished.
"I have expenses," I say, frowning. "Money that has to be spent elsewhere. I have to pay for my own utilities and taxes. It doesn't come on a plate for everyone, unlike business extraordinaire, Draco Malfoy." He doesn't say anything but merely frowns back at me, thinking. It's not a face I have seen often. In our school years he would only consider which hurtful thing to say next. Whether it was about my beaver-teeth, or my frizzy hair, or heritage. Comes with being intelligent, and never applying empathy. I suppose.
"Get a job."
"I have a job!" I exclaim and he twirls me again. I almost don't follow through just for sheer not-anger-fuelled-outrage. "Two, in fact!"
"Barriers, Granger. Barriers." He twirls me again. It's quite dizzying, all of this dancing. The wind and the rush of air and Malfoy's face spinning to meet me. Expect when I stop spinning, he is still swaying gently across my vision. Definitely too much alcohol by now. Ooooopsies. Malfoy changes the subject. "How long did you and the Weasel date?" He sounds curious, but I suppose he is trying to avoid uncomfortable topics. Like my lack of money, or drive, or the fact that I should not have attended Hogwarts - that I didn't deserve it. That I should have used my scholar-worthy supposed intelligence to get me a better job than the one I have.
The things I tell myself.
"Five years."
"Jesus, that is a long time." He whistles in a low tone and sways me to one side. Or maybe that's the vodka spinning me now.
"It was a long-term relationship," I agree and don't dare to look at him. Not sure I can. Maybe I'll vomit. Maybe I'll cry. All bets are off. "How long did you and Cresta date? A week? Or less?"
"Maybe six months or more." Painfully honest. "Long enough to warrant a shag, but not enough that I had to become emotionally invested." I snort in a very unladylike manner, but don't care. So bloody Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Wants a shag, but no actual involvement. None of that real relationship crap. No empathy. No consideration. Nothing for charming Cresta Cunningham. Just a damn good shag for Malfoy.
"Wow. You were such an arse." He smiles politely, but something is missing from his expression. Did I say something wrong? "What the hell did she see in you?"
"Probably my dashing good looks and incredible intelligence," he says smirking expressively. I laugh at him, wondering how someone could really be that conceited. But it could only ever be Malfoy who was like that. Arse. "You don't think I'm intelligent?" He sounds hurt. Or is that the alcohol?
"I don't think you're dashingly good looking," I say, laughing. The laughter has got to stop. I must sound ridiculous. But he simply smiles. And calls me a liar and asks why I dance with him now. I admit, "You did ask..." and he smirks at that. His hand pressed on my back, other hand holding mine and twirling me every so often in time to the music neither of us can hear all that well. It's a strange sensation. Draco Malfoy. Dancing. With me.
"I did indeed."
He stops moving all of a sudden and I realise that the music has, yet again, stopped. The applause from inside the mansion is faint and weak. As if people are tiring of the dancing and the expressions of drunkenness and the party spirit. His face slackens from the smirk he has worn and his hand loosens the tight push on the small of my back. He begins to talk, and to my utter surprise.
"Look... Hermione." He pauses as if choosing his words carefully. One of his hands travels to his hair and drags through the short blonde locks. Agitation? Nerves? For impressiveness? No idea. He continues slowly, "I'm... I'm sorry for everything. Everything I said and did during high school, and sixth form, and everything onwards, which hurt you. It was horrible, cruel and childish and definitely unwarranted. Hell, if I ever meant it then, I certainly do not mean it now. Let me make that crystal clear.
His voice is gentle and, for a moment, I I am not entirely sure if I hear him at al, but I acknowledge what he says. In the dulling evening and crisp air, suddenly it really doesn't matter anymore. Instead, I find myself chuckling and half-smiling at the strage man who has manifested before me. How can this possibly be Draco Malfoy. And, in my drunken state, it's funny. Everything is utterly ridiculous. An old joke.
"What?" I laugh. He barely has a moment to respond. "That I was too poor and unworthy to attend such a prestigious school? That my blood was insufficient?" How can that have ever possibly mattered? Unworthy blood. It's ridiculous. I am smiling, but Malfoy does not seem to be. Sad? I don't think about it. My mind is on striped yellow butterflies. I wonder that breed that is... Is that a breed?
"I knew you were there for good reason, Hermione," he says quietly, probably not wanting to draw attention to his words and the content of confession. Yet my inebriated reverie is broken and I am all ears. He used my name again. I didn't miss that. But he's looking into my eyes and my mind has slowed it's whirring. "You're intelligent; brilliant. Always have been. No wonder you got that scholarship." He smirks a little. Private joke? Glances away and back. "I was jealous."
"Ha!" I burst out very suddenly, causing Draco to stumble backwards in surprise. But I'm just laughing - though not unkindly. In the depth of my mind I wonder what is funny, and then realise I have no idea. But I am utterly silly - knees together, hands on thighs, choking through laughing kind of silly. Struggling for breath I exclaim, "my God, I knew it!" And then I laugh some more. Relief? He seems especially perplexed when I begin giggling nonsensically, perhaps even more so when I press my face to his chest, filled with mirth. In fact, I swear I can feel him smiling. "Are you taking the piss?"
"Absolutely not," he says leaning back so he can look at me. Draco Malfoy's pale grey eyes are watching me in amusement. He half laughs. An eyelash has fallen on his cheek. Stark against pallid. I pick it off carefully and bow. Then shiver at the breeze.
"Apology accepted," I murmur, smiling serenely. Then I laugh again, breaking the silence, and shake my head. I pat his chest kindly and say, "get me another drink and tell me about all of these wonderful places you've been."
He smirks at me and raises an eyebrow, already beginning to wander backwards towards the rainbow lights being emitted by Harry and Ginny's reception party. Some kind of cheesy tune by now. He pauses in his walking backwards, but he is close enough that I can hear him. He hasn't walked far at all. I take a few steps closer, uncertain.
"Warning," he says with a smirk. "This may lead to drunkenness."
I laugh at his comment.
"Draco Malfoy, this is a wedding. I am allowed!" I try to be huffy and bossy, but it's near-impossible in this state. So, I end up laughing yet again. He almost smiles, but it dies at his eyes - not that I can see what's really going on in his mind. But I'm curious. He begins to turn away, so I have to ask before this spell is broken. This moment of calm and quiet. "Malfoy, what happened to you?"
His lips press into a thin line. He barely thinks.
"Sobered up," he says and turns to get us more alcohol.
At this thought, I find it all highly ironic, and amble back to the safety-island that is the bench. I don't know whether to laugh or not, and stick with the gentle smile I seem to have adopted since the laughing fit. The scent of freshly mown grass slinking through the air and bringing the end of spring. The intoxicating scents joining together in the cool evening.
I fall back against the bench and think about the man who led me outside, away from my best friends. And how very changed he appears to be.