Powder Blue and Garnet

He had not asked anything, at least nothing aloud, yet she had said yes. It did not sound as if she were trying to be seductive. It wasn't a sigh or a moan; it was assertive. It was as if she was arguing with herself, wrestling with the decision and she had decided she wanted this. She wanted it.

He let go of both Sean and of Draco. No longer was he some commoner nor was he some spoiled heir. He was whoever she needed him to be and whatever she wanted to call him. Identity was inconsequential and he was having trouble remembering what wasn't in comparison to her warm body in that unzipped dress, her hair falling on pale, bare shoulders, and those soft, smooth legs in heels stretched around him. Her scent and her heat pressing against him, her lips, her hands… He picked her up, and, gently and steadily as he could, moved in as little time and space as was possible to the bed where he carefully set her down. Success.

Leaning over her, he removed her heels and pulled her legs to his bent shoulders. She scooted back against the pillows as he lowered himself on top of her holding his weight on his elbows comfortably. He looked down at her resting softly on the pillow, the straps of her dress falling off, her face flushed and looking very pretty. Her hair glimmered slightly in the dim light of from the candles still lit on the table, abandoned with what was left of their food. The locks adorning the pillow were golden, he realized, like a halo around her head. Her brown eyes were even darker than usual, her lips swollen and wet, her mouth slightly open, waiting. Her body was on fire beneath him. Her hands ran again through his hair, nails scrapping slightly, and, unable to hold himself back, he dove in for her mouth. He had almost forgotten how pleasant kissing could be.

This moment was perfect. She was lying beautiful, half clothed, and willing underneath him. He was handsome, young, and strong. They were all each other had in the world; it was Valentine's Day, Dover beach. The room was lit by fire and candlelight. A storm was brewing on the open sea outside. Their mouths were stained with red wine, their wet clothes clinging to their youthful forms. Why then did such a thought pop in his head? Why did something so absurd choose this moment- this perfect moment- to invade?

He forced himself to close his eyes and thought hard: what color was her dress? Small, warm hands rubbed suggestively up and down his naked chest. What color was it damnit? Pink? No, he was all but certain it wasn't pink. It was a darker color. Perhaps emerald? She did look nice in navy, but it was hard to remember black from navy when someone was kissing up and down your jaw line, along your neck, then sucking at the bottom of your ear. He squeezed the pillow very tightly. As she moved underneath him, he sucked in air sharply.

'Think Draco think!'

'No forget it,' he told himself, 'What are you doing trying to remember her dress when she doing this to you? Who cares what color it is? You freak, open your eyes and rip the stupid dress off!'

That voice seemed practical.

But even as he continued his work, his mind trailed away to the day before. After their fight when he had to make her excuses he was in a foul mood. Dinner was awkward without her presence. Felix and Agnes talked more, it seemed, to make up for her absence and his unusual silence. It did no good. How could she be so immature as to shut herself up in a room all day? It wasn't like Hermione at all; rather it was like some silly girl. What on earth could have gotten to her so he did not know. He worried though, brooded even. Was she being this impossible on purpose, or had she finally snapped? The fear so clear in her shining, wet eyes as she had struggled with the window earlier haunted him that evening. She had been so panicked, like an animal caught in a trap. It seemed so weird to think of her afraid, and over a window… He dearly hoped she was not going mad, because, to be honest, he knew he'd never be able to survive on the run alone or return her to the Order half out of her wits. He concluded that her strange mood must be a "feminine thing". Being angry with her seemed a more pleasant alternative to his companion having a mental breakdown.

This he had been pondering as he did their laundry for the following day, assisted by Agnes. Hermione usually did this, he frowned. Why should she be excused from all her work that now fell to him? Now, he had to wash their clothes and pack if they were to still go on vacation tomorrow. And after all their preparations- the clothes they had bought, the polyjuice potion and hair, the hotel he had booked not far from the water- it was surely going to be a poor vacation if her company was to be consistently thus. He huffed. It was not the Alps, the Carpathians, Morocco, Paris or Greece. He'd been to more exotic places than Dover and stayed in finer, enchanted hotels that would have made Hermione gasp. But something was so inviting about the bed and breakfast cottage they'd reserved. This vacation he was more excited about than any other. Hermione would say it was because he'd earned it.

'Enough about her' he thought with a snarl. He so looked forward to wearing fine clothes again, even if they were muggle. He craved the fresh air. They must go tomorrow.

He must have been frowning darkly, for Agnes began to shyly inquire as to what their fight had been about (trying to offer advice no doubt). His stomach flipped as it always did when he had to conjure a lie quickly for without a real reason he had to make up an argument. What did happy couples argue about?

"She asked me what she was wearing at our engagement party and I'm afraid I got it horribly wrong so she thinks I don't love her, not like Felix loves you anyway. It's not so of course, but she thought it was awfully romantic they way he described it the other night. I've never been very good at colors," he added apologetically, though it wasn't any more factual the fabricated argument.

"Don't feel bad, love. She won't be angry for long," she consoled, patting his shoulder affectionately. He tried to look hopeful and dubious at the same time but was afraid it may have more resembled an expression that said: I've just inhaled detergent. "And it wasn't yellow," she added with a wink.

"What?"

"The dress I wore that night was not yellow, it was a powder blue. Girls always remember what they wore when they met handsome men."

"But," there was a baffled pause, "He got it wrong?" Draco shook his head in disbelief.

"Yes, but it hardly mattered that the dress was blue not yellow and that my hair was up in pins. I was wearing jasmine you know." She smiled wistfully.

"Two out three good enough eh?" He nodded, pouring detergent in the washing machine and assuming he understood.

"No!" she was quick to correct in surprised tones. "It was the yellow dress I wore when he proposed to me and, see, he did always love my hair in curls. The lavender was my only perfume that year because I had spent all my money on that one bottle of fancy stuff." She laughed. "It wasn't that his memories were mismatched and smeared together, it was the way he saw me in his mind. To him, I was always that young girl with the curls he loved, in his favorite yellow dress, smelling like jasmine."

Draco just stared at her as if she'd said something in French and he was trying to translate it.

"It was the way he said it," she sighed. "Did you hear it in his voice?" Then, finally understanding, he nodded and grinned to himself over the washer lid.

His eyes flew open, but the pitch black room told him nothing of the color of the dress dangling off the foot of the bed. It did however tell him that his belt had been removed. As smoothly and he could, dotting her skin with kisses here and there, he slid the dress the rest of the way off her slim, perfectly shaped figure and laid it at the foot of the bed. The light from the window revealed nothing except that it was indeed a dark shade of something.

She pulled him back from his hesitation and he pulled the quilt over their heads. Their kisses intensified, if such a thing were possible, until it was quite warm under the blanket. Quite warm indeed. As he attacked her collar bone with his tongue until he could resist it no longer. He must be rid of this annoying question. He whispered, hearing his own voice deepen, "Hermione?"

"Yes?" She all but moaned and his throat constricted as he fought for control of both his body and his mind.

'Don't do it!' part of him screamed.

"What color is your dress?" He asked between kisses.

"What?" Even as distracted as she was her voice was confused.

"What color is the dress you wore this evening?"

"Why?"

"What color?" he whispered in her ear. He knew how to get what he wanted. She shivered. Navy he was almost positive now. It had to be navy. It must be.

"Garnet," she replied in a half gasp leaning her head back seductively. He froze. She immediately responded to his rigid pose.

"What? Why does it matter?"

That stopped him. Why did it matter? Hadn't Agnes said it hadn't mattered at all? What was he getting at anyway? If he could remember her dress then he loved her enough to sleep with her? Since when did he have to love someone to sleep with them anyway? She was more than willing to go at and she didn't love him. He hated it, hated it with a passion he'd never known but he had to admit that somehow something about this felt terribly wrong. Maybe it was because it was Granger. Would she be insulted if he said he didn't want to this? He was willing to bet. After all, who wouldn't be? Would he care?

His answer shocked even himself. Yes. He jumped a little at that. Then he looked at her, very carefully, as if he were seeing her for the first or last time. He took in the eyes. They looked so innocent and warm. How could someone so knowing have such innocent eyes? He examined that friendly smile, the honest one she couldn't t give without meaning it. It was sly too, like she was pleased with her own cleverness. Then came the bashful one. Her hair was like…a bee hive all golden and brown and wild with waves. It was almost waxy too and it smelled sweet. Dark but shiny it fell onto her skin so white, so warm, cheeks flushed, lips red and puckered. And below that…

"What?" she asked. He was staring like an idiot. How had he never seen this all before? He'd never seen her naked, he supposed. That must be it. Who knew such a thing could hide under her bookish, frizzy exterior?

'You look beautiful' he wanted to say, but it wounded stupid even to him. Instead, he closed his eyes and recalled every facet of her face just as he had seen it a second ago. He did not open them until he could picture it, every inch, and then he smiled to himself. This would do.

"Draco,"

"Yes?"

"Why does it matter?"

Because I love you," he mumbled, hoping that would suffice for the time. He thought it odd how that phrase often leapt to his lips in the heat of the moment, but it seemed to fit and the time and was usually met with tremendous response. Still, he had said it the first time without even thinking it and not realized until after. It had made him bark with laughter at its outlandish and sudden appearance. Then, it had happened again. The only time he said such things to Pansy was when he made love to her, a fact that had roused her curiosity on more than one occasion. She was happy though to leave well enough alone. Granger would not be so compliant.

"What?" she asked in her true voice.

"I love you." He tried again, kissing her hair. He did not expect her to say it back, but he most definitely did not expect what happened next. She slapped him hard across the face.

"You bastard!" she practically spit all over him.

"What?" He was too surprised this time for the bubble of hate to boil to the surface. He just allowed himself to be thrown off her, blinking dumbly as she tore herself from the bed like he was contagious and grabbed her dress. It was cold. She pulled it on angrily. Even in the darkness he could see her face red with fury. She trembled as she dressed, slipping the fabric over her skin and hiding it from his sight, fabric he could now see was garnet. A lovely shade. He knew it would only infuriate her further, but he had to know.

"Mind elaborating?" he asked.

"I-I, you!"She stammered too angry even to speak, which was a first.

"Why don't you sit down?" He suggested calmly. She glared in response and did not accept his invitation, but instead began to pace rapidly to and fro. He sat up and clutched his head, suddenly feeling very tired.

"How dare you? You pathetic bastard! I am not one of your, your whores or your pitiful little dotting girlfriends who need to hear some false assurance to have sex with you. You're not fooling me; this isn't some game of quidditch where you just scored a goal. I don't need you to love me anymore than I am stupid enough to believe you do. I'm not some weak-minded woman who needs to be talked into doing something mature. Don't you dare disrespect me like that! The very least you could have done was keep your mouth shut."

And then she began to speak more to herself than to anyone else. "Well maybe it's best you did. Merlin knows what we would have done if you hadn't brought me to my senses! What was I thinking? How could I be so, so hormonal and foolish? I am being a silly girl. Thank the gods we stopped when we did. We have things to do, things to think about, and I'm thinking about-"

"I lost my virginity when I was fourteen," Well however he had planned on saving the moment that was not it. That had to be the least seductive thing he'd ever heard anyone say. Who the hell talked about this sort of thing at a time like this? And to a girl he was trying to seduce no less? No, seduce was not the right word. She was right; there was no seducing Hermione Granger. There could only be honesty and utter straightforwardness.

"What?" she asked, and he was pleased with himself to see her tone had changed. Not only was she taken of guard, but she had softened, naturally sensitive to others feelings and to their needs. Only this time he wasn't trying to take advantage of that. Having her here like this, and knowing full well how to have her, gave him this sensational feeling of power more so than any he had experienced through his practice of the Dark Arts. He vaguely wondered if the Dark Lord himself had ever even felt this sort of power. Perhaps this was what it felt like to hold someone's life in your hands.

She was completely vulnerable to him and trusted him completely. She was quite a thing to conquer too and for a moment he considered launching himself upon her and searching out every spot that would make her body turn against her, whispering in her ear how very logical it was that they should do this, that he needed it so badly. He thought of maybe even begging as that smug smirk would make its way across his face safely hidden in her hair. He thought of taking her right then, triumphantly having tricked and had the cleverest witch he'd ever met, being forever superior to her in her mind and his.

Then, quite unbidden, another picture of himself entered his head. One of him holding this power in his hands, both of them knowing he could now move the pieces into to place and get what he wanted, and choosing to spare her. He saw himself become a protector, standing sort of gleamingly and unusually tall. It wasn't the way he often imagined himself. It both frightened and delighted him.

"On the night of the Yule Ball," he went on. "When I saw you I was, well, I was amazed and it infuriated me. I was so livid with you, with myself, with Krum, with Weasley, and with Potter that I had to leave the ball. Pansy didn't even mind and that's when I knew that she'd do anything for me. She'd even have sex with me and it even would be easy. If she'd leave the ball for me, then all I had to do was offer myself to her and she'd take it. So I did. And she had me. And I pictured you.

"I hated you for it later all the more than I ever had, but I never forgot the way you looked that night. You wore a pink dress." He added as an afterthought, startling himself with the detail inclusion. He had remembered that dress. He understood now. He remembered that dress because it was the one that had mattered. No, the dress had not mattered. That night had mattered. Finally he understood what Agnes was trying to convey. That was the way he'd seen her since he saw her that night. That was the way he pictured her: in that wonderful pink dress.

"But you don't love me." She yanked him from his thoughts.

"I want you."

"But you don't love me. Say it."

"Hermione, I want you. I have dreamed of having you for three years. I did not seduce you with magic like my father suggested, rape you as Lord Voldemort wanted, or use you in my boredom and loneliness these past few weeks we've shared a bed. I didn't want to hurt you, I couldn't disrespect you, and for some reason I wanted you to want me to, like you did tonight. I wanted it to be like this."

"Me too." That was it. She wanted him.

He stepped forward, wondering if it was alright. She did not hit him or run away screaming so he took another timid step forward and she nearly made him jump out of his skin by all but pouncing on him. Her lips attacked his mouth. Her arms wrapped around him, one hand snaking its way into his hair and grabbing it. Her leg slid up his, wrapped around his hip.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." She was. Her sincerity perplexed and pleased him.

"It's alright. Have you ever done this before?"

"No."

"It's okay."

"I know." He hitched her leg up higher, lifted her off her feet and wrapped his arms around her body, holding her tightly as he backed onto the bed. She was straddling him when he sat down slowly. A hand on the small of her back, he flipped her carefully over in one move. She seemed to like this. Then without warning she stiffened and gasped as if in pain. He lifted himself from her just as she burst "Oh Bloody HELL!"

"What? What is it?" he asked in frantic tones. He hadn't done anything yet. How could she be in pain?

"Draco look!" Outside the window above the desk from where they had moved, an eerie figure traced its way across the blackened sky. Even through the torrents of rain it was visible: a brilliant green, an opened-mouthed skull, a serpent extended from it like a tongue. His blood felt cold inside him. Underneath him Hermione took shallow, frightened breaths and trembled, eyes wide in horror he imagined mirrored his. They spoke in whispers as if it mattered.

"How long has it been there?"

"I don't know. Can't have been long or else they would be here already, wouldn't they?"

"How could they have found us?" He was already up and dressing in clothes that would be easiest to move in, following her lead silently. The rest of their things she tossed in the fire. Her hands trembled but her voice was steady as she replied "We used magic, remember? At the restaurant, in the kitchen? They must have traced our magic to Felix and Agnes' flat, then tracked us here."

"Then Felix and Agnes?"

"I don't know but we should go to them."

"No, it's not safe."

"Draco we have to leave now. Where else do we go?"

"I don't know can't we just think of something first?" he hissed.

"There isn't time," she said, looking fearfully out the window at the dark mark. "They're here."

Draco took her by the arm firmly and concentrated with all his might. He pictured the alley way in which that girl Stacey had kissed him, the alley way he had grown to know so well. He pictured the window into the kitchen right above the sink, but did not picture the kitchen. And then, pulling her with him, he willed himself there with every fiber of his being.

He heard the pop as they landed in the alleyway and somehow still felt very constricted.

"No one is up there," Hermione told him as he opened his eyes. "Come on."

She led him by the hand in the kitchen with their key and up the stairs quietly despite her affirmation. The door was open.

The small kitchen, usually so neat and orderly, was in disarray. The cabinets emptied with what could only have been a spell, the food littering the linoleum floor. The table had a broken leg and one of the chairs was overturned. There was no sound or movement. There was no blood.

There was no need to search the house to know what had happened. Long before they steeled themselves and entered the den, they knew what they would find. Hermione had performed a spell to see how many people were inside the flat and she had said no one was there. No one. Indeed, there on the floor of the den where they had danced but a week ago laid the bodies of their benefactors. Agnes was faced down, hair pulled about and Felix faced up, staring widely at the ceiling as if imploring it for justice. Draco whipped around in time to be sick in the sink. Through his retching he could her Hermione's sobs.

"They'll be coming back soon." He croaked through a dry throat when he was done.

"Yes," she agreed, steeling herself in a way that nearly moved him to tears.

"We've got to leave then, don't we?" he managed.

"Yes, immediately."

"Take what you can," she commanded in a matter-of-fact fashion as she wiped her eyes.

"What?" his stomach fell further.

"Pack food, clothes, money, whatever you can. We don't know where we're going. We'll need it."

"Steal from the dead?"

"They would want us to have and you know it." She snapped with more fervor than was necessary. Her defensiveness showed she felt more guilt in it than she'd like to let on, but he knew how badly they needed it, and it was going to waste. Still, it sounded more like something he would say.

"The spell," he said as it dawned.

"What?"

"I used a spell to heal your finger not a day ago. They tracked the magic through the ministry, which means,"

"They'll be at the hotel soon and then they'll come back here if they continue to track us."

"And they'll be no more magic after this."

She nodded sadly.

"Good thing I had plenty of practice playing muggle."

"Hurry," she urged wading through the mess of food strewn about the flat. They scrambled to collect what they could. She got a box of poptarts, a can of applesauce, a granola bars, some bread and a few potatoes. He got the blankets and clothes.

"Would you take their hair?" she asked retrieving her polyjuice potion from under the sink.

"What? Why me?" His heart leapt at just the thought of it.

"Please?"

"Yes. I will." He answered, wondering why he'd agreed. It was the least he could do, he figured. His spell had been the one that had killed them in a manner. Leaning over Agnes's body was easiest. Her eyes were closed. He cut the hair from her head gently though his sense told him she would feel nothing. He could not bring himself to be rough with such a gentle creature. He tired to forget it was her, to tell himself she was out. Felix looked up at him urgently, as if trying to tell him something. As quickly as he could and pointedly avoiding his eyes, Draco took his hair as well and hid it in a plastic bag with Agnes'. His hands trembled because Felix looked so alive Draco feared that, as foolish as I sounded, he would leap up when he took his hair. He did not leap. Then, turning his face from him, Draco closed his eyelids with his fingers.

He waited in the kitchen for Hermione, trying not to vomit again. She emerged from their rooms with money which she hurriedly stuffed into a purse.

"Hair, polyjuice potion, wands, blankets, soap, food, money. Good." She went over things as if reciting a checklist before a planned outing. Again, he marveled at her composure.

"Let's go," he all but whined. "Let's go now."

"Can you apparate again?"

"I think so."

"We'll both try it."

"Where to?"

"The Forbidden Forrest."