Author's Note: Some background information for you all - The title, Cue the Sun, is borrowed from a song written by the band Daphne Loves Derby. I heard this song many years ago and the lyrics really spoke to me. They inspired a Dramione drabble that eventually turned into several sparse chapters and eventually, a solid outline and storyline.

Chapter Three

Will I Laugh About

He entered Malfoy Manor again around ten; it had taken that long to find his way home, even though Apparation was easy for him. Draco had walked the grounds for longer than he'd meant to, but now he was back. Home sweet home. Bitsy was scurrying around snapping her fingers in rapid succession, trying to get rid of all the dust in a hurry. She was picking up stray shoes and old cloaks on her way.

"Bitsy is so sorry for the mess!" she cried, her eyes fearfully wide. "Bitsy is cleaning it up, please be closing your eyes until Bitsy finishes!"

"I," Draco corrected her, hanging his cloak on the rack by the door. "I am so sorry for the mess. You shouldn't always talk in third person, Bitsy."

"Bitsy tries, Bitsy tries!" the house-elf squeaked. "Too difficult for Bitsy!" She ran into the parlor next, smoothing out the antique rug carefully with her long fingers. After she was done, she stopped in front of Draco and added, "Dinner is being on the table, Master Malfoy. Spanish rice and pinto beans, your favorite!"

For what seemed like the first time in years, Draco cracked a smile and nodded. "Thanks."

Spanish rice and pinto beans? Not exactly his favorite, as he didn't believe in having favorites of anything. But ever since Bitsy's first night working at Malfoy Manor, Bitsy would always insist on asking him no matter how many times he said he didn't hold favorites, and on one particular night he had glanced down at his plate and muttered the name of the dish in front of him, which had happened to be Spanish rice and pinto beans. It was alright though. Bitsy was a considerably accomplished cook, so anything she made was fine.

And anyway, it was the thought that counted. The fact that anyone cared about what he wanted to eat was enough.

He found himself sitting at the dinner table. His father was somewhere else, so Draco just left the packet of documents on the table next to him, being careful not to actually touch them but instead doing an awkward little dance such that they slid gently out of his pocket. He chewed slowly. The Spanish rice was particularly good tonight. The beans could have been better, but they were still worth mentioning in conversation. He made a mental note to ask Bitsy what her secret ingredient was and then ask her to use it in all her cooking.

Draco looked around. He was nineteen and single, and he was still living at home with his borderline mental father. He worked part-time at Flourish and Blotts, which was a bookstore that hired anyone who could be classified as a mammal, and probably some who couldn't. Some nights, Draco just wanted to end it all.

But things were different now, weren't they? He'd talked to other people today. He'd struck up a conversation once, twice, three times! Draco suddenly paled. Wasn't that a bad, thing, though?

He stood up abruptly from the dinner table and headed quickly to his room, his thoughts reeling.

Merlin, what had he done? What happened to the life of modified solitude he'd sworn himself too? He was supposed to speak to only his father, Bitsy, and assorted co-workers. It wasn't official or anything, but it was kind of an unspoken agreement between him and his own conscience. It had lasted about four months, since he'd just broken it today. It had been going so well….but it had all gone to hell when she'd shown up….

Speaking of which, what was this whole thing with Granger? You smell nice, he'd said. At the memory of this—the almost painful memory—Draco paled yet again. Had he really said that? So what if she smelled of raspberries and pine? A lot of people smelled like fruits. And trees, for that matter. And honestly, they'd been standing right next to a forest.

He didn't understand why he'd stopped to speak with her. She'd just looked a bit lonely, sitting there on the swings holding a fancy hardbound book. But since when did Draco give the faintest hoot about lonesome teenage bookworms without anyone to talk to?

"Holy Hufflepuff, I'm going soft," muttered Draco madly, smacking himself in the face.

He'd sworn he'd never go soft. It was a pact he'd made with Crabbe and Goyle his first year when the three of them had gotten a good look at Quirrell and his stuttering speech impediment. Of course, Crabbe and Goyle hadn't really understood what a pact was ("Can you eat it?" Goyle had asked), but it was the whole principle of the thing.

He'd just forget about tonight. Yes, that would be simple enough. It had only been a five-minute conversation, anyway, even if it was with Granger. If anyone asked, he had Apparated straight home after leaving Theodore Nott's house. No detours. Certainly not.

Even if he couldn't forget about it right this instant, he eventually would. After all, it wasn't as if Hermione Granger was going to actually come looking for him or anything.

"Draco, there's a Miss Hermione Granger looking for you at the counter."

Draco nearly slammed his cup of tea onto the table in the worker's lounge in dismay and glanced up at the heavens. Naturally, he thought.

"I'll be right there," Draco answered in defeat. What else could he do? He got up from his chair and headed over to the counter, where Hermione was standing, obviously ill at ease. Draco raised his eyebrows in a sort of unspoken question.

"Your watch dropped last night," explained Hermione hastily, pushing the golden timepiece into his hands, and sure enough, there his name was: Draco Abraxas Malfoy was engraved on the back in small letters. Draco and Abraxas were both smaller than the word Malfoy, which reached from almost one edge of the watch to the other. "I doubled back after you'd left and found it by the swings. The clasp was broken. I fixed it, though. I would've given it to you last night, of course, but you were gone by the time I realized… I remembered that you worked here, so…"

"It's alright," Draco managed, cutting off the rest of her sentence. "I actually didn't notice I was missing my watch."

Hermione said nothing.

"Well…thanks." Draco shrugged and snapped the watch back on his wrist, then made to turn away so as to continue drinking his coffee. A sharp tap on the shoulder stopped him.

"I want to know why you talked to me last night," Hermione told him resolutely, her mouth set in a thin line so determined that Draco was almost a bit intimidated. In fact, he was so strongly reminded of Professor McGonagall in that instant that he almost began fabricating excuses for his missing essay on Transfiguring invertebrates.

Draco frowned and placed his hands in the pocket of his robes. "Oh, believe me, Granger, I'd like to know that as well. If you'll excuse me—"

Hermione stepped directly in front of him so that he could not pass. When he took a step to his left, she mirrored it and blocked him.

Draco sighed in exasperation. "Granger, what do you want?"

"I want to know," said Hermione.

"I don't know," admitted Draco, "so how can I possibly tell you? For the love of Merlin, I'm working a shift now."

Hermione, apparently, was not concerned with whether or not Draco Malfoy had a job to do. "How can you just stand there and not care?" she wondered aloud. "Here I am, my mind completely cluttered with possible theories concerning why my schooltime nemesis would even bother to talk to me after two years, and you're worried about your shift?"

"Okay," said Draco in complete annoyance. "Granger, I accept that there was something strange about our conversation last night, but it was just like any other spur-of-the-moment conversation you strike up with a stranger. Consider us stranger. And like any other spur-of-the-moment conversation, you forget about it. We spent three minutes on a playground talking about nothing at all. It's not important."

"It is important!" insisted Hermione. "Now tell me why!"

"There is no why!" whispered Draco harshly, trying to sidestep her to get to the shelves where another crate of unpacked books was waiting for him. Any more delays and Cyrus would have his head, smiling the whole while. "I stopped to talk to you because I had nothing else to do, and there's nothing else to it. Stop making a big deal out of it. Must everything add up to the sum of the parts, Granger? Can't you accept that sometimes there isn't a reason for everything, or is that too vague a concept for you to understand?"

Hermione's eyes grew cold as she straightened her posture and folded her arms. Draco met her steely gaze as she said, "So…you're not going to do anything about it?"

"Do?! What can I possibly do?" countered Draco in exasperation, finally throwing his arms up in the air, appearances all out the window. "Apologize for offering my intellectual conversation yesterday? Or offer my intellectual conversation yet again?"

Instead of laughing as he had expected her to, and instead of seeing the preposterousness in this matter just as Draco did, Hermione swiftly offered a hand and said, "I accept."

Wait, what?

His jaw would have nearly dropped to the floor had he been anyone else, but he was a Malfoy.

"I'll see you at seven sharp, Draco Malfoy. I think we could both benefit from talking about this. Meet me at Ida's Spaghetteria…it's the Muggle restaurant right across the street from the Leaky Cauldron."

"Really?" challenged Draco, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. As if Granger had any say in what he chose to do. "And what if I decide not to show?"

She didn't hesitate. With her head held high, Hermione started walking briskly out of the shop, stopping by the door just long enough to answer him:

"Then I'll come fetch you myself."

The bell jingled merrily as she shut the door behind her.

"Wow," breathed Mart, and it was only then that Draco realized he had been standing beside him breathing down his neck the entire time. "Yeh're one lucky house-elf."

Draco swallowed. He wasn't so sure.

"Don't jiss stand there like a bloody prat, start unpacking boxes," ordered Mart, shoving a crate of books into Draco's unprepared arms; his knees nearly buckled from the sudden force. "If you're leaving before your shift is over you'd better bloody do your part."

When Mart's back was turned, Draco scowled and stuck up his middle finger, then cursed angrily when the crate of books fell and hit him squarely in the toe.

For once in his life, Draco Malfoy would have given anything to be able to slow time, yet somehow his disinclination to see Granger later that evening only made the minute hand on the clock move faster. This was the peculiar thing that he hated about time—it always did the exact opposite of what he would prefer. Every single time.

He checked his own watch, just to make sure the time was correct. Draco scowled. Apparently the clock in Flourish and Blotts was seven minutes slow, and it was actually a quarter to seven at the moment, leaving Draco a mere fifteen minutes to get to the Muggle restaurant.

"Great," he muttered to himself. He dusted one last bookshelf, taking his own sweet time, then informed Cyrus once again of his early leave. He even waved goodbye to Mart on his way out, just to delay him the extra three and a half seconds.

As soon as he walked outside, Draco knew something was very off about today. The sun was much too bright; the people around him were speaking and laughing much too loudly. It was as if the entire universe was against him today, trying to prevent his happiness. He kept walking.

He wasn't even entirely sure why he was even going to meet her, but he figured that he had to set things straight with her eventually. After all, she'd said that if he didn't show, she would come fetch him from Flourish and Blotts, and walking around with Granger in the much-crowded Diagon Alley was a thousand times worse than sitting across from her in a wizard-free Muggle restaurant. Draco supposed Hermione had thought this through, and actually credited her for this brilliant scheme.

He was just going to go into that restaurant and tell her what was what.

He nodded his greeting to Chesmire as he passed the apothecary. Chesmire was a family friend…family. Draco'd head started to hurt as he remembered his father sitting at home. He wondered what Lucius Malfoy would think of Draco's spaghetti dinner tonight.

Draco rounded the last corner and finally entered the Leaky Cauldron. He checked his watch again—6:57. He didn't even have time to stop for a Firewhiskey to numb his mind before going in there. Perfect, he thought bitterly. He seriously considered just being late and having the Firewhiskey anyway, but Draco Malfoy was nothing if not punctual.

Taking a very deep breath, Draco pushed the front door open and stepped out into Muggle London. He could see Ida's Spaghetteria right in front of him, across the street just as she'd said. He could see her too, sitting at the table by the window. Her wrists were crossed daintily in front of her as she looked straight ahead into nothingness. Her hair was everywhere, but in a nice sort of way. She was wearing Muggle clothes—a pale blue top and a gauzy white skirt that fell to her knees. Draco was not sure he could do this.

The bell on top of the door of the restaurant clinked merrily as Draco entered. Hermione saw him and waved…he had trouble reading her expression… Draco sat and took in his surroundings. The restaurant was small; the walls were decorated with cheap-looking wallpaper that was yellow and covered with little hens wearing bonnets. He scowled at the tasteless décor. The table they were sitting at was small and round with a red and white checkered tablecloth covering it. Draco felt the material—the tablecloth was plastic. There was a dark blue vase on the table containing a single fake fabric rose.

"I've already ordered," said Hermione shortly.

Draco suddenly became aware of all the Muggles in the place and looked down at his own attire. "Granger, I look like an idiot here in my robes."

"You shouldn't have worn robes, then."

Draco frowned. "You're right, I should have just gone through my Muggle closet and picked out a straw hat to match the horrifying interior decorations in this particular restaurant. Oh, and those awful denim pants with the built-in suspenders."

"They're called overalls, Malfoy."

"Like I care, Granger."

He was surprised to see her crack a smile. "I know," she said lightly. "This place looks silly with its hens and roosters, doesn't it, but trust me, the food is great. And they make all of their own pasta."

Almost as if on cue, a waiter appeared with two large plates of spaghetti and meatballs. As the acne-ridden teenager set the plates down before him, Draco noticed roosters in overalls painted carefully on the porcelain. He was slightly amused by this and mentally congratulated himself for hitting the nail on the head earlier. Lucius would skin him, he realized, for being here. But Draco had to admit, the food did smell good. He took a bite and nodded his head towards Hermione in approval. Then a thought seemed to occur to him.

"Granger, why am I here?"

She shrugged, twirling some of her own spaghetti on her fork. "I thought maybe we could chat. I just was curious as to your behavior last night. I mean…after everything's that—that's happened."

Draco could have guessed as much. "So am I," he admitted honestly. "But trust me, I will not be talking to you ever again."

It came out a lot more harshly than he'd meant it to. He could see her shoulders deflate, her eyes widen slightly, and her jaw drop a centimeter. He almost wished he could retract that statement, but Malfoys never apologized. And anyway, it had been honest. He just looked down at his plate of spaghetti and speared another meatball. Chewing furiously and swallowing, he pushed his chair back roughly and stood up, trying to ignore her wide and confused eyes. He did not think he could look at them any longer.

"Er, here…I think a galleon should more than cover my meal?" He hastily shoved the coin in her direction. He paused, and after a second thought, he dug into the pocket of his robes again, plunked another gold coin on the table, and left the restaurant without eating another bite. Hermione bit her lip in frantic contemplation as she watched him close the door behind him. Through the window, she could see him crossing the street and almost diving into the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione could have slapped herself.

She didn't know why she expected Malfoy to act any differently than he had in school. Clearly, he couldn't stand to be around her, couldn't possibly fathom that mere Muggle-borns could ever have the slightest measurable amount of intelligence or honor. Hermione would have been lying had she pretended not to be hurt, and she hated herself for thinking that way. This was Malfoy, after all, and Hermione Granger did not care what Draco Malfoy thought of her.

She ate another bite of pasta. She did feel a little pathetic for chasing a potential friend in Malfoy, she'd admit. But it wasn't as if she were alone. Her friends were just…elsewhere. Harry was just so busy with Auror training that he hardly ever even left the Ministry—never mind the mountains of textbooks he had to study on top of his physical training; knowledge of potions and enchantments necessary to pass the exam had taken even the best of Aurors years to perfect. Hermione hadn't seen Ron since graduation, except in the Quidditch section of the Daily Prophet and Christmas last year at the Weasleys. And Ginny…well, she'd never been particularly close with Ginny, not like she was with Harry and Ron anyway, but Hermione considered her an indispensable friend nonetheless and regrettably understood that Ginny was busy studying to be a Healer.

But her loneliness didn't fully explain her sudden wish to befriend her best friend's arch-nemesis. This was Hermione's inherent instinct to see the good in everyone, she realized. Hermione smiled at this fleeting fancy and almost laughed out loud. Of course, she thought—she'd seen the good in Malfoy back in second year, hadn't she? She'd defended him again in sixth year when Harry insisted that Malfoy was behind all of the Dark Magic going on at Hogwarts, when he'd sworn that Malfoy had already been initiated into the Death Eater clan. And now, just when she'd hit rock bottom and was reasonably alone in the universe, she forced herself to see the good in him now.

Hermione's previous distress was then replaced by a sudden burning anger. Who was Malfoy to just walk out on her like that? Who was he to humiliate her, leaving her with two plates of unfinished pasta in front of her, when she was the one who should have always had the upper hand? And who was he to confuse her by so very enigmatically initiating a conversation with her underneath the blankets of night?

She'd stuck up for him back at Hogwarts, saying he was just a normal boy with normal fears and concerns…she'd said that there was some good in everyone.

Perhaps not.

But the things he had said last night…it was a normal conversation. It had made her feel better. And to tell the absolute truth, Hermione was just a little bit curious. But then again, her curiosity was usually the source of her previous adventures and woes. Still, she'd daresay she enjoyed those adventures.

Her thoughts trailed back to what Malfoy had said to her in the park yesterday night.

There's nothing wrong with being alone, Granger.

She wondered if he had been talking about her, or if he had purely been trying to convince himself.