A/N: This is a three chapter fic, completely written and edited. I'll post the next two chapters later this week. Follow on AO3 for a slightly earlier update.

Thank you to my alpha rosenymphadoraweasley5 and my beta lydia6645 for helping me whip this story into shape!

If she hadn't stumbled that summer day, climbing into the long and narrow boat after their commencement ceremony, their lives would have played out much differently.

Hermione would have married Ron; Draco would have married a pureblooded witch who was hand-chosen by his manipulating parents.

The spark would have remained hidden in the depths of their mind.

As it happened, Hermione did stumble as she stepped into the boat, and Draco, instead of calling her a maladroit Mudblood as he would have any prior year, did remember his manners.

In fact, it was nearly a reflex — the way his hand bolted out for hers, fingers clasping firmly around her palm to steady her.

He'd have done it for anyone, he told himself later, and any other witch probably would have reacted the same — with an appreciative, albeit a slightly embarrassed smile and a quick but kind "thank you". And if it were any other witch, the whole thing would have been completely ordinary — not at all worth remembering.

But she wasn't any other witch, and it was anything but ordinary.

First, there was a prickle of recognition in the back of his mind which spread like lightning to his palm as it pressed tightly against hers, his entire body tingling with awareness. He was holding Hermione Granger's hand and it was soft and trembling a little. He realized she was slightly unnerved because if he had reached for her a second later, she might have ended up in the lake. When she looked up and saw whose hand she was holding so fiercely she froze for a second, her wide eyes searching his face for signs that he might throw her overboard or cast an insult.

He did neither of those things.

Instead, he nodded and held fast to her as she took a step forward into the boat. When he was sure she was steady, he gave her hand a quick but meaningful squeeze, dropping her hand quickly.

She took a seat in front of him, and as the boat moved across the lake, he watched the way her curls moved in the wind. The way she sat, poised and peaceful, the way her dress robes hung on her shoulders.

Time had changed them both so much since first year. But not enough.

The next time he held her hand, it was torrentially downpouring in Diagon Alley. It was the night before Christmas Eve and the carolers, with their flickering candles in hand, were singing familiar tunes under the protection of a large umbrella charm. He walked out of the Leaky Cauldron just in time to watch her bid farewell to her friends and walk toward him; toward the entrance to the Leaky, presumably to floo home. There was a small river of water running through his side of the Alley, and acting on an inexplicable impulse, he stopped and offered her a hand across.

Her eyes met his for two heartbeats, she took the hand he offered and hopped across in her sensible brown shoes.

They were close for a moment — arms brushing, hands still clasped, just inches from one another.

She glanced up and then quickly away before saying, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replied.

Her heels clacked up the steps behind him. The brick wall shuffled open, paused for a moment, and then closed.

A smirk tugged at his lips. She had blushed at his touch.

Draco rarely ever entered his family library. He loved books, but as with many rooms in the manor, the library felt tainted by dark magic. First, there was a cold and nauseating feeling that crept up his spine, usually a few steps into the room. Then, as he passed the second bookshelf on the left, he was hit squarely by the memory of Bellatrix burning books. Draco could still hear her shouting about the blasphemers who had authored them, could still smell the burning ash, as though it had seeped into the walls and carpets and no cleaning spell would ever be strong enough to fix it.

Regardless of how he felt about the room, when his mother summoned him, he was too respectful to object.

"I spoke with Faye Greengrass yesterday," his mother said. She brought her teacup to her lips, leaving him in disinterested suspense as to why that might concern him. He and Daphne were friends and had absolutely no intention of marrying each other. He'd told his mother this at least ten times since he had left Hogwarts, and now Daphne was with Blaise. Even if her parents were unhappy with her choice, the point was moot.

"Astoria will be home in the summer."

His stomach sank like a lead weight. "She hasn't even left Hogwarts, Mother. She's too young."

"It's important to Faye and Gavin to have at least one of their daughters wedded properly. I was nineteen when I married your father—"

"Yes I know," he snapped, regretting his tone immediately. They'd had this conversation just last month, and she knew where he stood. With a bit more patience and sincerity, he continued, "Times have changed. It's not as common to marry young."

She raised a brow. "Theodore Nott is married. Tracy Davis. Millicent Bullistrode and Marcus Flint..." Narcissa summoned a magazine with the wave of her wand, and it landed softly on the table in front of him. "Even Harry Potter is marrying soon."

Draco narrowed his eyes very slightly at his mother's ineffective attempt to bait him. Ginny Weasley was on the cover of Witch Weekly, again.

He considered arguing further, but it all seemed rather futile. Draco wasn't being forced, he was being encouraged...and perhaps his parents had a point. He didn't much enjoy casual dating and he didn't particularly like being alone either.

Still, the pressure to conform left an ashy taste in his mouth and it multiplied at the thought of courting Daphne's little sister.

"Arrange it then, if that's what you wish."

His mother offered him a pleased smile and stood up, placing her hand on his arm as she walked past. It seemed, for a moment, that she might say something.

When her hand slipped away without further comment, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

Ginevra Weasley smiled up at him from the front page of the magazine, and he felt guilt sweep over him as he thought of the many things he'd said about her family. After all the years of hostility, he still found it hard to be polite to a Weasley, but he begrudgingly understood now that they had it better than him in many ways, even as poor as they were.

Tradition felt like a noose around his neck on the best of days.

He watched her discreetly as she scanned the literature section at Flourish and Blotts. It was hardly the first time he'd seen Hermione Granger browsing books, but it was the first time since her recent interview with Witch Weekly; the one with the two page spread of her in a modest but unquestionably lovely dress robe, with her Order of Merlin, First Class. The interview where Penelope Clearwater, Staff Writer, asked Hermione how she felt about the pardon of Draco Malfoy.

I'm pleased, she had said. There's more to Draco than what you see in the newspapers.

It wasn't a sparkling endorsement, but from her it meant something.

Draco had stared at her picture for far, far longer than appropriate — not only because she was a pretty witch, but because of that sharp look in her brown eyes, the kindness in her smile. He remembered her smiling at him in the corridor once in fifth year when he'd said something clever enough to make her forget, for just a moment, who he was and how he had treated her.

He wished he'd had the courage to smile back.

When Hermione rounded the tall book shelf, Draco ducked out of sight behind her and watched her circle the table of romance novels that had been set out for Valentine's Day. Her eyes darted left and right and when she was fairly sure no one was watching, she picked up a book and stuffed it into her basket.

"Granger," he said, stepping forward from the literature section she'd recently vacated. She turned around so quickly she nearly toppled the stack of novels she was pretending not to peruse. "Good to see you. And in a bookstore. No real surprise there."

"Malfoy. Hello," she said, eyeing him apprehensively.

"If you have a moment—" said Draco, smoothing his hand over his lapel. Her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "I wanted to… apologize."

Her brown eyes widened and after a few seconds of hesitation, she set her basket on the nearby stack of books. The silence stretched on a moment longer as he gathered his wits.

"For the things I've said and done over the years... If I could name all the instances I was cruel, we would be here the better part of the day, so I'll need to offer a blanket apology for being… a prick." He paused, watching closely as her lashes blinked, lips parting like she wanted to say something and then changed her mind. "And I hardly expect your forgiveness—"

"You have it," she said with a frown that didn't quite match her words. "I've seen enough of you since the battle, Draco. I watched you eighth year, and I know you're not the same. None of us are, really."

He felt heat rise from his chest, a tingle in his limbs. He'd been almost completely oblivious to her their last year at Hogwarts. Had she been watching him and he never noticed?

"I kept to myself," he said uncomfortably, committed to being honest. If she had been watching him, his behavior must have seemed very strange. "Most of the year passed in a haze of calming droughts."

"For most of us," she replied, her head tilting a little, curls dipping against her shoulder and cascading forward. He dragged his eyes away from them as she continued. "It's easier now — being away from Hogwarts."

His eyes fell on a bookcase behind her. "The manor isn't much better."

"Sorry..."

He wiped his hands discreetly on his robe and looked at her eyes again. "Don't be. It's my choice to be there. I tolerate it for my mother's benefit. For now."

"That's… good of you."

"I didn't take you for a reader of romance," he added with a smile, ready to change the topic and fully enjoying the way her lips parted at his bold observation.

"Oh these? No, I'm not really. I was just...just..."

His smile widened. "No shame in it. They can be entertaining."

"Don't tell me you've read some," she said with a hint of amused skepticism.

She'd been watching him in eighth year and the idea of it rattled around in his brain, shaking loose an unexpected hope. He remembered the way she blushed the last time they touched. Perhaps she felt what he did — as if the world flipped on its axis when they were close.

He took a single step toward her and replied quietly, "Maybe I skip to the good parts."

Her eyes sparkled, recognizing his comment for what it was. Flirtation. It was brave of him, to jump directly from a long owed apology to whatever this was, but she'd opened the door. He'd simply walked through it.

"That's just like a man, wanting to skip over all the build up. You're all rubbish at romance," she chided.

"I don't know what sort you've been hanging around, Granger, but I know how to be romantic."

She pursed her lips, eying him with disbelief. As if a dare were issued, he leaned slowly forward and claimed her hand, then brought it toward his lips, enjoying the way her jaw dropped and eyes grew wide with surprise. He held her gaze and placed a soft kiss on her knuckle, his lips lingering as they stared at one another. Amusement faded as his breath warmed her skin, his thumb skimming softly over her fingers.

"Hermione, I didn't see the—"

Harry stepped out around the shelf to their left and the moment was over. Draco dropped her hand gently back to her side.

"Potter."

"Malfoy."

Draco witnessed an uncomfortable exchange of looks between Hermione and her best friend, unable to contain his grin when he noticed how Hermione's face had flushed a pretty shade of pink.

"I'll see you around," he said with a whisper as he brushed past her.

And he did see her around. Often. The remainder of that year was filled with random encounters — from a quick hello in the Alley, to a shared ride in the lift at the ministry. He made it a point to use his most charming smile when she was near and each time he did, she blushed that pretty shade of pink. Their conversations were short and often limited to the variety of day they were having, but sometimes, when no one else was listening, they spoke almost as if they were friends.

He rushed ahead once just to open a door for her and she had laughed softly and thanked him. As they walked side by side for several steps, she explained how the gesture became such an ingrained tradition — women wearing petticoats that obstructed their ability to move, or holding children which kept their arms occupied.

"It's silly isn't it," she said, "We should always hold doors open for people who need a hand. It shouldn't be based on gender. But.." she offered him a half smile, "I find I still appreciate it. It was good to see you, Draco."

"You too," he replied with an awkward amount of sincerity, which she also seemed to appreciate.

The next time they encountered one another near a doorway, she made a show of holding the door for him and he laughed because she was ridiculously cute and admirable and stubborn, the way she fought for equality, not just as a Muggleborn but as a female. She fought for fairness. Everything about her defied the traditions that suffocated him.

They sat near one another at a public Ministry of Magic meeting once, and she peeked over her shoulder at him. Twice. He was sitting beside Blaise and she was sitting beside Potter and four red heads. One of them, the one who looked like half of an incomplete pair, looked back at the two Slytherin men and rolled his eyes. Blaise lifted his middle finger in response and Draco struck him in the ribs with an elbow.

"What? Trying to impress your girl?" Blaise asked, rubbing at his side.

Draco didn't have a chance to retort, because that was the exact moment Hermione rose from her seat and made a compelling argument against solitary confinement in Azkaban.

"Minister Shacklebolt, we should be focused on rehabilitation. Mental health—"

"Rehabilitated and released?" said Dean Thomas, one row ahead of her. "You think that's what they deserve?"

She continued speaking confidently, even as the murmurs began. "They aren't all dangerous criminals—"

Half the room erupted in conflict, some opposed and others in agreement. She hadn't bent an inch, even with a dozen people haranguing her, and when she sat down she looked rather satisfied, even though small arguments had erupted on both sides of them.

"No wonder you're smitten," Blaise said.

Ginny Weasley turned and flashed him a look, and Draco wished the ground would swallow him whole. Right after he murdered Blaise Zabini.

One evening, in the middle of the summer, Draco looked across a restaurant and found her sharing a romantic meal with Ernie McMillan. Draco was on his own date with Astoria Greengrass, their fourth or fifth, but the mere sight of Hermione was sufficient to distract him. He felt a surge of annoyance at the way the two leaned toward one another over the table, as though sharing a secret.

When Hermione excused herself and walked toward the back of the restaurant, he made his own excuse to get up and follow her.

"Granger," he said as she exited the lavatory, feigning surprise. "How is your evening?"

"It's… splendid."

"Splendid."

"Yes. How's yours?"

"Interesting."

"That was Astoria, right?"

"Yes."

"She just finished at Hogwarts, didn't she?" Hermione asked with an indecipherable look.

He has the good sense to look embarrassed. She was barely of age.

"It's a courtesy date."

"You're doing her a favor?" Her brows shot into the air and he held back a smile.

"More like we're doing our parents a favor," he said, pausing to watch her curiosity roil. "They want us to marry."

"—Marry."

He let her simmer on his words for another few seconds. "It's not happening — we've both agreed on that point. Neither of us are interested in an arranged marriage and certainly not to each other."

"So you're not really—" she touched one of her curls absently, trying to grasp their antiquated pureblood customs, "—it's just to appease your parents?"

"They'll continue to meddle in our lives until we're both wedded, so yes, we're playing along to keep them at bay. She'd prefer my company to Goyle and Montague, for obvious reasons."

"And you prefer her company over others?"

"Not all others," he replied. After what seemed like a ridiculously long pause, during which a bright witch like her must have deduced that he would prefer her company specifically, he asked, "And you and McMillan—will there be wedding bells?"

She opened her mouth and closed it. Twice. Like she'd forgotten who she was there with.

The curl sprung out of her fingertips.

"Unlikely."

He grinned widely as he stepped forward, tugging softly at her loose curl. "Have a good evening, Granger. I'm sure we'll run into one another again."

"I'm afraid I'm starting to look forward to it," she replied, her voice betraying her nerves.

"Me too," he said quietly, brushing his fingertips against hers as he walked past.

Astoria was smirking when he returned to the table, like she knew exactly where he had been and who he'd been speaking with and was mildly amused. He sat down and took a sip of his wine, using all his will not to glance over at Hermione.

"It's always the ones we can't have, isn't it?" Astoria said after a moment. "Blaise and Daphne for example. She's braver than I am, openly disregarding our parents wishes."

Draco ran his hand over his lapel, thankful she offered a couple like Blaise and Daphne for examination.

Couple. The idea of being in coupledom with Hermione Granger flipped his stomach in a way that was pleasant at first, and then… confusing.

He re-focused on Astoria's words, trying to find a path through the new twist in their conversation. Daphne Greengrass had wanted to be an actress. Everyone in Slytherin at Hogwarts had known it. And suddenly Blaise, whose mother was in prison for the recent murder of her well-respected husband, was the proud owner of a theatre production company.

"He's brave to make such a fool of himself for her," Draco replied.

"Maybe. His boldness allowed for her boldness. When the cards are stacked against you, someone has to be willing to make a big sacrifice."

Draco nodded, finally risking a cautious glance at Hermione.

She was pushing her food around her plate, looking distracted. He held onto the image and met Astoria's sharp blue eyes. "I'm not sure I'm as bold as they are," he said quietly.

"No?" she asked with a soft smile. "Then you probably don't deserve what you desire."

Draco's face felt a bit warm. Whatever nonsense his parents might spout about blood purity, Astoria was absolutely right. He didn't deserve a girl like Hermione Granger. She was his better in every way that counted.

"How was dinner?" His mother asked when he entered the drawing room late that night.

He swept a hand over his jaw. "Good."

Narcissa smiled a little and rose from her chair. "That's wonderful. Maybe you can bring Astoria to dinner on Saturday."

Though his expression was carelessly indifferent, Draco was scrambling for any excuse to avoid bringing Astoria over to dine with his parents.

"We have other plans," Draco said, to which his mother raised a carefully sculpted brow. Her suspicious look suggested he might be taking events out of order with the youngest Greengrass, something he'd been very clearly warned against. His mother thought so little of him sometimes. "Blaise invited us to a get together."

Any ounce of joy that had been on his mother's face a few moments before disappeared abruptly at the mention of Blaise. As his mother saw it, Blaise had sidestepped tradition and "lured" Daphne away without her parents' consent.

They new couple had earned the contempt of old money snobs across Wizarding Britain. Prancing around on stage wasn't a suitable ambition for someone of Daphne's status.

"Sunday, then," Narcissa said, with far less enthusiasm. Draco searched again for an excuse to delay the inevitable, but fell short. "I'll send the owl to her in the morning."

He never really won any battle with his parents. It was so futile, in fact, that he rarely put up a fight.

It was a long while until he saw Hermione again, and Draco knew precisely how much time had passed because he counted every week, dropping into the bookstore and lingering around the fiction section, which provided a convenient view of the entrance.

He had no way of knowing, but she had been doing the same exact thing, always missing him by just a few hours. Sometimes minutes.

A few more weeks passed, and instead of fading from his memory, every corner he rounded or door that opened reminded him of his own cowardice.

One day in September, he found himself standing in a queue at Gringotts Bank in front of the new Mrs. Harry Potter, and he decided to take a chance. He congratulated the petite ginger on her recent nuptials and he tried — really, really tried to be a kind person. He even offered to let her pass him in line after they had been waiting an exceptionally long while.

"What's your game, Malfoy?" she asked with some amusement.

"I'm trying something new," he said honestly. "I've been a shit to you for a decade and as fun as I thought it was when I was young, I've grown up."

They stood silently in line for a moment while she contemplated his words.

"Is that your way of apologizing?" Ginny asked.

Draco wasn't really prepared to apologize for everything he'd done wrong right there in the middle of a bank queue, but something told him he might never find a better opportunity. Time had a way of slipping by quickly. "Yes," said Draco. "For what it's worth, I am very sorry for almost everything I've ever said and done to you and yours."

"Almost?"

"Well there was that prank in the dungeon that I don't really regret as much as the rest of it," he said with a slight smile. He was relieved when she slowly grinned back, because not everything he'd done was completely awful. He had been funny sometimes, hadn't he?

"Hermione told me you were different, but I admit I didn't believe her."

Draco's stomach flipped at the mention of her name, and he asked, as casually as he could manage, "How is she?"

"Well enough," Ginny replied, studying him much more closely all of a sudden. He fought against the urge to fidget. He wasn't sure how to ask about her, but a hundred questions ran through his head.

"Her birthday is tomorrow," Ginny continued at last.

"Tell her I said happy birthday," Draco said. "Or maybe I will if I'm lucky enough to run into her. We used to see each other all the time but..." he shook his head almost imperceptibly, still baffled that their frequent run-ins had ended.

There was an unreasonably long delay on Ginny's part. Her stare felt a bit like being held at wand point. "She refused to let us throw a birthday party. I expect she'll go straight from work to Flourish and Blotts tomorrow and head home with a dozen new books."

Draco's hand swept over his jaw, feeling a strange warmth at the thought of encountering Hermione at Flourish and Blotts again after months of trying to accidentally run into her there.

"Reading at home isn't a bad way to spend an evening," he said absently, in Hermione's defense.

She let out a half laugh, and Draco scratched his forehead with an awkward smile, suddenly certain Ginny had given him that bit of information intentionally so he would run into her.

Hermione had confided in Ginny about him, he just knew it, and his heart clamored to know what it meant.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "Perhaps I'll run into her after all."

"Don't make me regret it."

Draco stiffened a little, having already spent several weeks considering all the ways he could muck things up with Hermione should she give him a chance. "I'll try my best not to."

To Draco's relief, Flourish and Blotts was practically empty that Thursday evening. He'd been browsing the same two bookshelves near the entrance to the store for nearly an hour, and he was sure he would draw attention soon. Maybe it was a silly idea; to wait around and hope that Hermione would spend her evening just as Ginny speculated.

Draco half thought the youngest Weasley was standing behind a shelf somewhere, having a good laugh.

Just as he was about to give up, the bell above the door chimed for the first time in twenty minutes.

He navigated the shelves, two books clutched under his arm. If this wasn't her, it was truly time to go. This was bordering on pathetic.

But it was her. And because she didn't see him right away, he was given the opportunity to watch her greet the woman at the counter and silently browse the new releases. She wore a dark blue dress that was cinched at the waist, with long sleeves that she'd shoved to her elbows. The collar was modest and the skirt fell loosely around her knees, showing off her shapely calves.

But it wasn't her clothes or even her lovely legs that drew his attention. It was the adorable look on her face when she found that the book she wanted was out of stock. He watched her set her basket on the ground, get down on her knees and reach back into a low shelf, scavenging shamelessly to find a remaining copy. After a minute, she stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and slipped her book into the basket with a pleased expression.

"Granger," he said, smiling as she startled.

Her eyes widened. He dared to imagine she was happy to see him.

"Malfoy," she replied.

He glanced down at the book in her hand.

"Reading tragedies on your birthday? Surely you can find something more uplifting."

She smiled a little, her brown eyes sparkling that he had somehow known the significance of the date. "I'm not much for birthdays."

"You're alive to see another year," he said as he stepped in closer. "Surely a reader of tragedies knows why that's something to celebrate."

She exhaled audibly, shifting her half full basket from one arm to the other. "You always seem to catch me browsing fiction. I really don't read it very often."

"You say it like I've caught you at your worst. I think it's lovely."

"Fiction?"

"You," he grinned, "appreciating fiction." He reached forward and lifted her basket from her arm, suspecting it might be heavy with that many books. He peeked in and browsed the titles, which were an interesting combination of tragedy, romance and counter-charms related texts. She shifted uncomfortably as they both watched two lovers embrace on one of the covers.

"Let's see yours," she said, looking at the books tucked under his arm.

He held them out for her perusal.

"This is good," she said, swaying the conversation toward his reading habits. "The Dagworth Derelict. They're turning it into a play at the Montrose Theatre, aren't they?"

"Zabini is producing," Draco replied.

"Is he? That's — wow. I had no idea he was interested in theatre."

"He's head over heels for the lead actress," Draco said, amused.

"Daphne?"

Draco tilted his head in agreement. "I'm under the impression the entire thing was for her benefit."

"That's romantic." Hermione clutched his books against her chest with a faraway look.

"Or pathetic, depending on her performance."

Hermione laughed and he found he not only liked the sound of it, but also the smooth shape of her mouth. He had hardly ever seen her laugh and that seemed like a tragedy in itself.

"What are your plans for the evening?" he asked, summoning up his courage.

He didn't miss the way that her breath paused, surely putting together the reason he was asking.

"Nothing extraordinary. Just reading."

"Would you like to have dinner?"

She bit down on her lip as she studied his face, searching for his intentions. When he swallowed, her eyes dropped down to his collar.

He'd given away his nervousness.

"Yes," she finally replied.

His stomach swooped, nearly certain she had been about to say no, and they shared a smile that made his skin prickle with anticipation.

The pair browsed the bookstore together for another twenty minutes, laughing about which books might be ripe for Zabini Productions and who they might cast in the lead roles.

"Filch certainly," Draco said, holding up a book about a man who terrorized the local children.

Hermione laughed and then bravely said, "Your father would sell more tickets."

Draco felt a lead weight drop in his stomach at the mention of his father. He imagined the look on Lucius Malfoy's face if he walked in at that moment. Perhaps she had mentioned his father deliberately to test him.

"He likes to think he's scary," Draco said, smiling and reshelving the book. "I don't buy it much now that I'm an adult."

"Well, I do."

He looked at her curiously. Did the bravest girl he'd ever met really think his father was scary? He was surprised for a second before remembering how she'd looked on his drawing room floor. The lead weight in his stomach became heavier.

Fear made some people weak, but he thought the opposite might be true for her.

"You have nothing to worry about from my father," he lied, not wanting to spoil their evening with the harsh truth. Her face flushed prettily as he stepped around her, brushing his hand against hers.

A healthy squabble took place soon after over whether he could buy her books, but he won eventually after arguing that he might need a bit of good karma.

Her disputes fell flat.

As they made their way through the alley toward the apparition point, their conversation took a turn toward the philosophical, and whether karma truly existed at all.

If it did, Draco was surely in a lot of trouble.

"I don't think we have to carry our mistakes with us throughout our lives," she said. "We can choose to keep the lessons and let go of the rest, can't we?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. And what he didn't say was that he wasn't really ready to let go of his regret. It felt sometimes like it was all that kept him from backsliding into the thoughts and behaviors that had been normalized throughout his childhood. It was all that set him apart from his parents, who he knew for certain he didn't want to mirror. His regret was a lead weight in his stomach that he thought might be steering him in the direction of what was right, what was redeeming.

It pulled him toward her like a magnetic force.

She brushed her hand against his so slightly it could have been an accident, but he suspected it wasn't. He slipped his hand loosely around hers and braided their fingers together. The accompanying flutter in his stomach lessened that lead weight more effectively than anything else ever had.

They dined together in a quiet nook of a French restaurant in Northern Ireland, far enough from their usual haunts that they probably wouldn't encounter anyone they knew — but not quite far enough that they weren't recognized.

"Are you Hermione Granger?" their server asked. Hermione smiled kindly and exchanged pleasantries, even though it was obvious she'd prefer to be anonymous for the evening — as would he.

The server looked at him curiously, like he was certain he couldn't be Draco Malfoy. A girl like Hermione would never date him, would she?

The food was decadent, the candlelight was romantic, and the conversation was deeper than any he'd ever shared on a first date. They'd had nearly two years of banter and flirtation, and this time with their ankles touching under the table, they ventured into new territory. What it meant to be alive and to be happy, to be free from fate and from prophecy.

"Free will seems like an illusion sometimes," said Draco, turning his glass of wine on its cloth napkin as he voiced a fear he'd never said aloud. "Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of it. The thought that our path is predestined is lamentable. I'd rather carry the weight of my mistakes than to think I have no control over my own destiny."

"What makes you think you don't?" she asked, a small line between her brows.

"My childhood was riddled with stories about prophecies, and now that I've witnessed a few of them play out..." He scratched his forehead. "Well, surely the best friend of the Chosen One has seen some proof that destiny exists."

Hermione clicked her tongue. "Very little. I think it's more plausible that the people who heard the prophecy caused it to come true with their reactions. If no one had ever heard the prophecy, I have a hard time believing things would have unfolded as they did."

"Really," he said with a hint of skepticism.

Hermione offered him a lopsided smile. "I believe a chain of events can be correctly predicted… sometimes. More often with logic than with divination. But I also believe we have the power to do something different instead of walking through the predicted door. We can forge our own path. We're doing it right now, aren't we?"

Draco was reluctant to disagree, both preferring her point of view and also desiring her favor. Yet, arguing with her held an appeal of its own. That fiery look in her eyes charged the air and hastened his heart.

"It feels sometimes like I'm pressing against an invisible force," he said, honestly. "It bends to my will for just a moment, and then everything snaps back into formation whether I want it to or not."

Her eyes flickered, expression softening. "Maybe you need to press harder."

That was hardly the end of their conversation, but it was the moment he started to believe she was right.

Draco was reluctant to call it love on their first date, but by the time they walked out, hand in hand, he recognized the possibility that he would be in love if he continued pressing — leaning into this crossroad. He could see himself giving up everything to keep her.

It wasn't just the fantasy of her that he was smitten by — the one that had been playing out in his mind since he'd caught her hand on the boat at commencement — she was every bit as incredible as he'd always imagined. Being with her was worth any sacrifice he might have to make.

He threaded his fingers in her hair and by the light of a street lantern that made her hair glow like an oddly befitting halo, he kissed her softly. She even kissed like an angel at first, with her silky lips and warm breath, but he soon learned how her tongue teased and her hands wandered. When he finally gathered the will to pull back, she was breathless and he was hopelessly aroused. They embraced loosely as he met her eyes.

"When can I see you again?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.

"Is tomorrow too soon?" she said, just above a whisper.

He smiled and kissed her again, careful not to deepen it. He had a feeling they were both caught in the same spiral of need, wanting immediate gratification — the complications of tomorrow be damned.

"Saturday," he whispered against her lips. "I want you to have time to consider what you want."

"And you?" she asked with a curious look.

"I know what I want," he said as he pushed her hair behind her ears. "I knew before I walked into the bookstore tonight, hoping to run into you."

Her eyes widened a fraction. "You were looking for me?"

Draco nodded, biting his lips uneasily.

She took his hand in hers and kissed him on the cheek. "Saturday," she whispered near his ear.

As they each stepped back, he said, "Happy birthday."

She flashed him a sweet smile that left him regretting his decision to delay their date one day, and she disapparated.