"New York?!"
"Are you crazy?"
"You can't leave!"
"Please," she whispered, turning away to hide her tearstained face, "don't make it worse."
"Hermione," Harry said firmly, taking her by the shoulders. "Why can't you just get a job in London?"
"I've told you," Hermione said miserably, smearing her tears away with the back of her hand. "St. Mungo's just doesn't have the same status as the hospital in New York. It's the most prestigious hospital in our world, and there's really no place in England for the type of medical magic that I studied at the university."
Ron angrily slammed the palm of his hand down on the coffee table, causing Hermione and Harry to jump. "Why can't you just settle with second-best?" he demanded, not looking at her. "Why do you always have to have to try so hard? Wouldn't it be easier just to live with your second choice?"
"Ron, don't, please," she whispered, frightened by his outburst. "I'll come back on weekends to visit, I promise, we won't lose touch—"
Ron, ignoring her, grabbed a jacket from the closet and stormed out the door of the apartment. Hermione buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
"Shh, Hermione, it's okay," Harry soothed, enveloping her somewhat awkwardly in his arms. "He's just taking it hard. He needs time to understand, that's all."
"I've known Ron for as long as you have," Hermione snapped, pushing him away. "Don't try to apologize for what he does." She stopped abruptly, and took a deep, quavering breath. "I'm sorry. I just didn't think it would be this hard."
"Well, as long as you're sure it's what you want," Harry said doubtfully. "I bet everything will work out. I'll talk to him."
Hermione suddenly felt frozen. He had been right. Neither of them understood. He had told her so, and she had ignored him. It all of a sudden seemed as if she were completely detached from the situation.
"Look, Harry," she said briskly, standing up, "I really need to be getting home. It's late."
"It's only seven," he said, looking at the clock, and then back at her with a confused expression.
"I'm really tired," she told him shortly, pulling on her jacket. "I'll see you later." She left his and Ron's flat without waiting for a reply.
Hermione strode through the streets, winding her way through the crowds, her heels clicking briskly in a businesslike manner. She walked with purpose, heading not for her own flat, but for another that she knew very, very well. She stepped into the lift and waited to reach floor seven, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor. Her arrival was announced with a ding!, and she hurried down the hallway. She knocked on the door of 7-C, and waited to be admitted.
The door swung open with a squeak.
"You need to get that fixed," she admonished, giving him a small smile.
"I know," he said with a rueful grin, ushering her inside. "I've been needing to get it fixed for weeks." He helped her out of her jacket and hung it up in the closet. Hermione made her way to the living room and sank onto the white leather sofa, holding her head in her hands. She could hear him making tea in the kitchen. She began to idly flip through the photo album on the coffee table, which was full of all their pictures. She, sitting in front of a fountain in Venice, looking off into the distance, unaware of the camera's presence; he, standing in front of the fountain, head thrown back at such an angle that it looked as if the water was spurting out of his open mouth; both of them in a gondola boat, arms around each other, smiling happily at the photographer.
Hermione's emotionless mask cracked and silent tears began to fall down her cheeks; tears of regret, tears of nostalgia, tears of worries. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing silently, allowing the tears to cleanse her. She heard him set a tray down on the coffee table, and then she felt his arms around her, rocking her. He was silent. He, alone of all people, understood that she needed silence when she was upset. Her tears subsided gradually, and his arms relaxed their comforting grip.
"You told them?" His voice was quiet.
"I tried to tell them," she corrected, hiccupping. He took her hand in his and stroked the backs of her knuckles with his thumb, a familiar gesture that comforted her. Hermione breathed in deeply, trying to calm herself. "Draco, if you were me," she said suddenly, looking directly into his eyes, "what would you do?"
He looked down at their clasped hands, white-blonde hair falling in his face. She waited patiently for his answer.
"I would do what I thought was best," he said eventually. She waited for more, knowing that he wasn't finished. "What was best for me, and what was best for everyone else."
"But I don't know what's the best thing to do," she whispered. "I just don't know."
He cracked a grin. "There has to be a first time for everything, doesn't there?" She allowed herself to smile briefly.
"I want to go to New York for a better job," she said, working out her reasoning out loud. "But I want to stay in London for my family, and my friends . . . and you."
"I'm not a friend?" Draco asked, his expression teasing and serious at the same time, a contradiction that he alone was able to express.
"You're more," Hermione smiled, squeezing his hand. "You know that. Ever since university—you've been everything to me."
"Well, I'm glad," he told her, passing her a cup of tea. "Because if I felt like that and you didn't—well, then we'd have a problem." There was a companionable silence as they sipped at their tea.
"I applied for the job yesterday," Hermione said eventually. "If I get in . . ."
Draco finished the sentence for her: ". . . there's no way you're not going."
She nodded, her expression blank. "Well, I doubt that they'll hire me anyway, so I really have nothing to worry about, right?"
"Don't slight yourself, Mya," he admonished gently, steely eyes meeting hers directly. "I thought you were getting better about not doing that."
"I thought so, too." She shrugged. "I must be regressing."
"Or temporarily relapsing," he suggested. They shared a grin.
"When are we going to do this again?" Hermione asked, tapping the photo album, changing the subject abruptly.
"Whenever you like."
"How about if I get the job—"
"When you get the job—"
"If I get the job, we can go somewhere as a celebration."
"Sounds good to me," Draco grinned.
Hermione sighed and leaned back against the couch. "At least now I'll have something to look forward to."
Draco flopped an arm around her shoulders. "Come on, lighten up," he commanded teasingly. "Everything's going to turn out fine."
Hermione shrugged.
"Have you eaten yet?"
"Hmm?"
"Did you have dinner?"
"Not yet," Hermione told him. "I came here straight from Harry and Ron's."
"Let's go somewhere," Draco suggested.
"Ooh, can we go to Pepper Terrace?" Hermione pleaded. "Chinese sounds really good right now."
"Anywhere you like," he replied with a grin.
"I need to change first," she said, looking down at her pants and blouse outfit. "I can't go anywhere nice looking like this."
"You look beautiful," Draco said, his eyes intently on hers, waiting for a reply.
"You're just saying that." Hermione swatted at him, blushing. "Apparating would be faster. Let's go." She vanished with a CRACK!, and Draco, sighing, mimicked her.
~*~
An hour later they were finishing their meal. The waiter brought over a tiny silver tray with two fortune cookies lying on it, gave a little nod, and left.
Draco grabbed one of the cookies and cracked it open.
"You act like such a Muggle sometimes," Hermione smiled, watching him affectionately. "It's just a cookie."
"My dear, it is much more than just a cookie," he said solemnly, leaning closer as if to whisper a secret. "It is a prophecy."
"Pray, what does it foretell?" Hermione inquired, playing along.
He said mysteriously, "He who stands on toilet is high on pot."
Hermione stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing. "Okay, okay, it worked," she admitted through giggles. "The whole dinner thing, joke fortune cookies . . . I'm in a better mood. Now are you satisfied?"
"Yes," Draco grinned. "I knew it would work."
"What does it really say?" Hermione asked curiously.
"Your love life will be happy and harmonious," he read, looking up at her.
"That's a nice fortune," Hermione said, looking mischievous. "Too bad they don't really come true."
Draco put on a hurt expression. "You're paying for that," he warned, shaking his head sorrowfully.
Hermione picked up her own cookie, neatly split it, and unfolded the little piece of paper: "Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."
"I told you," Draco interjected, folding his arms. "They are true. Your man-hating policy is even disliked by the makers of fortune cookies."
"I don't hate all men," she insisted, biting into the cookie with a crunch. "Just most of them."
"Well then, I'm lucky I'm in the minority, aren't I?" His eyes locked onto hers, chillingly steely. She couldn't understand how his eyes could be so cold and intimidating, and his personality so effervescent.
"You're a walking contradiction," she announced, stabbing at a piece of broccoli with a chopstick. "I don't understand you."
He shrugged, deciding not to press for details. "I don't understand myself either. Are you finished?"
She nodded.
"Let's go."
"Go where?" Hermione asked as he helped her into her jacket.
"My flat."
"But it's late," she protested as he steered her out into the chilly autumn night. "I'm tired."
"I will lend pajamas," was the only response that she got. She gave in and walked on her own, but without shrugging off his arm. The fabric of her dress was thin, and the jacket didn't help as much as his body heat did. His building was only a few blocks away, but by the time they arrived, she was shivering.
"You should have worn something more practical," Draco admonished as he unlocked the door.
"I'm never practical when I want to look nice," Hermione managed to get out through chattering teeth.
"You always look nice." His gaze was so direct that she had to look away.
"How about those pajamas?" she asked, hugging herself despite the fact that the radiator was banging away.
He crooked a finger and started down the hallway. "Follow me." She made her way behind him into his bedroom. He directed her towards the chest of drawers, and then vanished into the bathroom. Hermione picked through his things, chose a large t-shirt and baggy pants, and changed before he reemerged, clad in a pair of boxers and a long-sleeved shirt.
"They're a little big," he joked, watching as she rolled up the waistband of the pants.
Hermione bristled. "Are you making fun of me because I'm short?"
Draco raised his eyebrows, grinning, and flopped down on the king-sized bed, closing his eyes with a sigh of contentment. "Are you coming?" he asked without opening his eyelids.
Hermione folded down the sheets on her side of the bed, and crawled underneath them, basking in the warmth of the flannel comforter. "Mm," she said happily, stretching her arms above her head. "I feel alive again."
Draco rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at her. "Can I ask you something, Mya?" he said seriously.
"Sure," Hermione said sleepily.
"What you said earlier, about hating most men—why?"
She understood what he meant immediately, even with the sentence fragment. "I just don't want to be involved with anyone romantically right now." She shrugged. "I don't want to mess up my career. Maybe when I'm firmly settled in a job—"
"You're twenty-three," Draco said, as though she didn't know this. "You could at least have a fling or something, if you don't want a long-term commitment."
Hermione winced. "That's so wrong."
He laughed. "I know," he said, affectionately running a finger down her cheek. "But I think you should give someone a chance."
Hermione gave him a death look. "That's what you said about Terry. Look what happened there!"
"Well, okay," he admitted. "Terry would be one example where my superior judgment failed me. Still, just because Terry was horrible doesn't mean that all men are."
"I know," Hermione said, her mahogany eyes meeting his gray ones. "I just want to wait. There's nothing wrong with that."
"No," Draco said, defeated, "I suppose not."
"Look, I just want to go to sleep, all right?" Hermione told him gently. "Good night." She reached out and switched off the lamp.
A few minutes later, Draco broke the silence: "You're not asleep, are you?"
"No," she admitted, rolling over to face him. "I'm too worried to fall asleep. Draco, what if—"
"Shh," he said, gently placing a finger on her lips, silencing her. "Don't worry. No matter what happens, I'll be here, okay?"
Hermione nodded, and heaved a sigh. "I'm still worried."
By the moonlight shining on his face, she could see his features contort into an impish smile. "Mya?"
"Don't tickle me!" she shrieked, grabbing her pillow and holding it protectively over her stomach. Draco pounced, ignoring the whacks he was getting with the pillow and her screams of laughter.
"I'm serious," she wheezed, clomping him in the face with the pillow. "I'm going to pee my pants if I laugh any more."
"My pants, you mean," he corrected, stopping his assault. "And you'd better not, cause you'll be the one cleaning them."
"It's your fault," Hermione pouted, hugging the pillow. "Okay, I honestly need to go to sleep now. If I get any more stressed out I might explode."
"What, pillow fights don't help you get out any stress?"
Hermione smiled, her face illuminated by the light of the moon. "Goodnight, Draco." She rolled over, and in a few minutes her breathing became deep and even.
Draco lay staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe and smiling. He loved her more than she knew. He only hoped that he was doing the right thing by letting her go.
~*~
Yikes, long first chapter. If it doesn't seem to have a point yet, bear with me. I'm getting there, I promise. I like to make long introductory chapters so the readers can get the feel of the characters. And I will explain how they became friends in the first place very soon, possibly in the next chapter. Review please! Criticism accepted—I want to know what you honestly think, even if it sucked.