He'd been debating since beginning preparations for dinner whether or not he should bother her and tell her that dinner was ready. He'd frowned and sulked and pouted about it, trying to convince himself that he didn't really care that she hadn't meant to touch him, and that it hadn't meant anything to him.
It wasn't working.
He paced back and forth in front of the oven as he thought. He'd been thinking so much that his head was aching and felt as though someone had hit him with a blunt, heavy object. It had only been two and a half weeks since Ginny had been murdered, and he'd been in love with her. What, then, was this strange emotion that was clouding his mind and making him feel strange about Hermione?
He opened the oven door just a bit to inspect the roast he was cooking. It was nearly done, and he knew that any moment, it would be ready to eat. His frown deepened – he still hadn't decided whether or not to call her from her room.
He'd eaten lunch alone, sitting on the back porch with a mug of cocoa and a blanket over his lap as he ate. It was nice, this place where she lived. He'd had to walk most of the way there, so as not to alert anyone to his presence, and it had been dark on the night he'd arrived. He hadn't been able to see much of anything through the combination of night sky and torrential rain. Now that he was looking out over her back yard, though, he realized why she must have chosen this place to settle down in.
The back yard was nothing more than a peaceful expanse of flat grassland, met in the very back by a cluster of trees. It was relaxing to be able to sit and just stare out across the grounds, not a worry in the world troubling his mind.
Well – not for the few minutes he'd been eating, anyway. Once he'd finished eating and had nothing else to do with his hands, no other job to concentrate on, he'd found the silence and solitude unnerving. It was then that he couldn't stop the thoughts from rushing to his mind; the things he never wanted to think about and always pushed to the furthest recesses of his brain.
Now they bombarded him. Thoughts of Ginny, of their short but happy time together, memories of his mother and father in happier times, and even though it confused him, thoughts of Hermione.
He checked the roast one more time, and sat down at the kitchen table with his glass of wine. She'd preyed on his mind all afternoon, and it made him uneasy. After all, Ginny had just passed away – shouldn't he be devoting all of his thoughts to her? He squeezed his eyes shut and took a long drink of the tart liquid. He'd loved Ginny, but he'd never been one to dwell on the past. When his first real relationship had ended, he'd never looked back, even though he'd loved Pansy more than he'd ever thought he'd love anyone else. Back then, she was the end all be all of women, and he'd never wanted to be with anyone else but her.
When she'd walked away from him and started seeing Blaise Zabini, it had hurt like hell, but he'd put her behind him. It was the only way he knew to move forward.
The big surprise of the entire school was when Blaise had broken up with Pansy to ask Hermione out in their seventh year. Potter was preparing for his face-off with Voldemort, and people were choosing their sides very carefully. It surprise Draco that Blaise had gone against his parents and chosen the way he had; he remembered wondering at the time if Blaise had done it all for Hermione.
She'd dated him for well over a month, until the boy Weasel had made his feelings known. Poor Blaise had never had a chance. He chuckled to himself as he recalled Blaise's dejected face the day that she'd broken up with him. Of course, he didn't stay sad for long – a dotty Ravenclaw girl had had her eye on him, and snapped him up right away.
Draco poured himself another glass of wine. He should go and fetch her. Yes, it would only be the right thing to do, especially if he wanted her to eat and become strong enough to participate in the kind of research he wanted to get done. He stood, about to make his way to her room, when she entered the kitchen. He sat back down quickly.
She went straight to the oven and opened it to peer inside.
"Hey!" he protested, standing. "It won't cook right if you keep opening it like that!" She shut the door and turned to him with a sheepish look.
"Keep opening? I only opened it once! It just smelled good, and I wanted to know what was in there."
"Curiosity killed the cat, remember?" She sat down at the table and watched as he poured her a glass of wine.
"I'm no feline."
"True enough." They were silent for a moment while they sipped their wine. Finally she looked up as he was taking the roast out of the oven.
"Why didn't you wake me up?" He nearly dropped the roast as he turned to look at her with wide eyes.
"What?"
"For dinner. Weren't you going to wake me up?" she asked, looking confused. His relief was obvious, though he turned his back to her to hide it. For a moment, he thought she'd been talking about earlier. What had thrown him off was the fact that he'd been puzzling over the same thing, and hadn't yet come up with any feasible explanations.
"I just thought you were tired. But I was going to wake you up – I was about to come get you when you walked in."
"Thanks for not teasing me about earlier."
"The night is still young, so don't thank me yet," he said, shrugging. He placed a plate full of food in front of her. "Feeling good enough to eat again yet?"
"I'm starving," she admitted, picking up her fork.
"Just don't eat too much tonight," he said distractedly, piling food onto his own plate. She stared at him in wonder. Was this what he'd been like at home? So relaxed and- and- generous?
"I won't," she promised, shaking her head. He sat down and began to pretend to eat. She tried to ignore the fact that he was just rearranging the food on his plate, but after she'd finished hers and had seconds, it was beginning to bother her that he wasn't eating. He hadn't said a single word all through dinner, and it felt strange to her. Was their encounter from that morning still bothering him?
She chewed on her bottom lip as she thought. It hadn't really been all that bad, and she hadn't felt bad about it – well, not too badly, anyway. Had she really disgusted him that much? Tears sprung to her eyes, and she sighed silently. Why did she even care if he was disgusted by her or not? Wasn't that par for the course? He'd always hated her, so what did it matter now if he still did?
It mattered because she didn't want him to. It mattered because he'd been so damned civil these last few days. It mattered because she was lonely, and she needed a friend. Obviously he did too, whether he knew it or not – he wouldn't have told her any of the personal things he'd said so far if he didn't.
She cleared her throat, but he didn't look up. He just kept raking his fork through his mashed potatoes. "So, did you do anything interesting while I was asleep?"
"I cooked." His voice was flat and emotionless. She blinked at the apathy of it.
"Dinner was lovely. You know, if you don't want to cook all the time, just tell me, and I'll do it." She waited for him to come back with some witty comment about how she couldn't cook, or some scathing remark about his superior culinary skills. Nothing.
She sat her wine glass down on the table and stared pointedly at him. Something really was bothering him, and she wanted to know what it was. "Are you all right?"
"Don't I look it?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.
"If you looked it, do you think I would have asked?" She pursed her lips together.
"If you already thought that I didn't look all right, then why did you ask me if I was? Why didn't you just ask what was wrong, instead?"
"I suppose I thought that you'd just volunteer the information," she sighed. She looked down at the tabletop. "You're not eating."
"Yes I am."
"You're not. You've just been pushing your food around on your plate."
"Bollocks."
"Why aren't you eating?"
"I am eating. I'm just not eating as much as I normally do – I had a big lunch." She glanced around the kitchen, focusing on the rack where the washed dishes were drying. She turned back to him and frowned.
"You did not."
"How in the bloody hell would you know?" he snapped. "You were asleep."
"You would have used more than a mug if you'd had a big lunch," she said, nodding towards the drying rack. He rolled his eyes before meeting her gaze.
"You know that sometimes you're too smart for your own good?"
"And I expect you're not, then?"
"We have different sorts of knowledge," he said distractedly, averting his eyes.
"Different how?"
"You're all light and goodness, and I'm all darkness and misery." Her mouth dropped open in surprise, but she remained silent. "Glinda, the good witch. What does that make me, then?"
"You can't possibly believe that," she said, shaking her head gently.
"Perhaps I'd be one of the monkey foot soldiers," he mused thoughtfully. She snorted, and he looked at her.
"I'm sorry," she said, smiling. "I know that you're trying to be serious, but the imagery... well, it leaves a bit to be desired in regard to the more sober topics." He grinned suddenly, stealing her breath away.
"It does a bit, doesn't it?" he agreed.
"I didn't even know that you were familiar with that particular story."
"There are a great many things you do not know about me."
"You're right." She sipped her wine silently for a moment.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Aren't you going to ask me to tell you what it is that you don't know?"
"Are you that eager to tell me?"
"I just thought you were curious."
"You did say that Alice was an annoying bint," she pointed out. "I've no desire to be annoying."
"Since when?" She ignored the smirk he wore.
"Very funny, Malfoy." His face fell a bit. "What did I say?"
"So it's back to that, then, is it?"
"Back to what?" she asked, puzzled.
"You'd been calling me –"his voice died, and he shook his head. "Never mind, it doesn't matter." She straightened in her chair.
"It does matter, or you wouldn't have brought it up. Please, tell me."
"Let it go," he said, frowning.
"Not until you tell me what you were going to say."
"I forgot." She glared at him.
"You forgot," she echoed. He nodded. "Like hell you did! Just tell me, already!" His eyes widened slightly at her language.
"I've never heard you speak so forcefully before," he mused. Her cheeks colored pink, but she didn't break eye contact.
"Well, now that you have, will you tell me what you were going to say? And don't say that you forgot, because we both know you didn't!"
"Why do you care?"
"Because I do!" she snapped, flustered. "Do I have to have a reason to want to know what you were about to say?"
"Yes."
"I don't like things left unfinished!" she said, her eyes blazing.
"What was it you wanted to know?" he asked coolly. She groaned in frustration and stood up, then left the room. He smirked to himself. She really was too easy to annoy.
He finished his dinner slowly, relishing every bite. Something about annoying her worked up his appetite, he supposed. He took his plate to the sink and washed it, then did the same with hers. He poured another glass of wine, and almost as an afterthought, poured one for her, as well. He went into the living room, but she was not there. His next guess was the study. She wasn't in there, either. He stopped in front of her closed bedroom door, the wineglasses in his hand, and his heart thumping wildly.
He knocked before he could second guess himself.
"What do you want?" she called angrily.
"I've brought you some liquid refreshment."
"I don't want anything to drink."
"You need it."
"I don't want it!"
"You don't – damn it, I refuse to speak to you through this door!" He turned the knob and went inside, only to be greeted by her very shocked face peering over at him from the side of her bed.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Invading the sanctity of your tomb," he said sarcastically, moving toward her. He held out the wineglass and his lips tightened into a thin line. "Take it."
"I don't want it."
"Look here, woman. I can be as stubborn as you any day of the week, so either you're going to take it, or we're just going to stay here like this as long as it takes." She narrowed her eyes at him, but took the wineglass and sat it on her night table.
"I won't drink it."
"You will, if I have to force it down your throat."
"What did you put in it, that you want me to drink it so badly?"
"What could I possibly have to put in it?" he snapped. "And why won't you just drink it?"
"Why do you want me to so badly?" She folded her arms over her chest. He growled, causing her eyes to widen slightly.
"Fine, don't drink it. See if I care." He turned his back and started to walk away.
"Wait," she said, her voice hesitant. He stopped and turned slowly to look at her, his anger still bubbling inside his stomach. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
"What?" he almost laughed. "You think that your not drinking the wine is going to hurt my feelings? I thought you knew me better than that, Weasley."
"I wasn't talking about the wine," she said softly. "I think I figured out what I said to make you mad at me, and I've figured out what you were about to say." His cheeks instantly began to burn.
"Is that right."
"Yes, but what I can't figure out is why it upset you so much."
"You don't know what you're talking about, I'm sure." He turned to leave again.
"Draco." He froze. His hand began to tremble.
He waited for her to say something, but she remained silent. Finally he turned around, and was surprised to see that she'd been crying. He could see the moisture glistening on her cheeks as she looked at him.
"What?" he asked, his voice gentler than he wanted it to be.
"Please, stay and talk to me."
"We've nothing to talk about."
"Please, Draco. I'm asking nicely." Damn. There it was again; she'd said it twice now. Both times it had sounded nice, no matter how much he tried to dissect her inflection inside his mind. He turned and pulled the chair away from her vanity table and placed it in front of her, then sat down.
"What is it, then?"
"I'm sorry."
"You've already said that. If that's all you wanted, I'll be going, then." He started to stand, but stopped when she reached out and lightly touched his arm.
"Please, don't go." Reluctantly, he lowered himself back onto the chair and stared at her, hoping that it would unnerve her to the point of letting him out of her room. Things in here felt much too private for him to remain; he was acutely aware of her scent permeating the room, not to mention that they were sitting so closely that if he moved just so, their knees would touch.
"What do you want?"
"I'm apologizing for calling you by your last name at dinner instead of your given name. Sometimes it's just too easy to slip into old habits, you know?" He got the distinct impression from the way that she tilted her head that she was referring to more than her slip of the tongue.
"It is," he agreed, focusing his gaze on his wine glass.
"If you want me to call you Draco, I will."
"That's my name," he said indifferently, giving her a quick shrug. Instead of snapping at him as she had earlier, though, she merely tilted her head to the other side.
"Tell me what you want." His eyes widened and his pulse quickened. He knew that she was referring to his name, but the words rolling off of her lips were definitely stimulating in other areas, as well. He felt his throat go dry and cursed his traitorous body. His mind might still yearn for Ginny, but obviously his body had other plans.
"Malfoy is fine," he lied. He didn't want to think about how his first name sounded coming from her mouth; he wanted to forget the way it made him tingle when he heard her say it. If she would just call him Malfoy, he would remember their history; would remember his place with her, and things would be so much easier for both of them.
"You got angry with me when I called you that," she pointed out calmly. His palms were starting to sweat. "If you don't want me to call you Malfoy, and you don't want me to call you Draco, what should I call you?"
"Malfoy is fine," he repeated through clenched teeth. He was starting to feel warm. If he didn't get out of here in a moment, he didn't know what was going to happen.
"You know, if you ever want to talk about anything, I'm here to listen," she said, her cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. Mordred, Morgaine, and Nineve, when she blushed like that, she looked impossibly innocent... "I know I'm not who you'd choose to speak to if you had that choice, but I can listen just as well as anyone else. And you know I don't talk to anyone else, so you know I wouldn't tell anyone what you told me."
"I don't want to talk to you," he said abruptly, standing so quickly that he almost knocked the chair over. She frowned and looked confused, which only made his body temperature rise more.
"What did I say now?"
"Nothing. I just don't want to talk to you. Goodnight." He practically ran for the door, not even looking back when she called after him.
He'd been lying in his bed, awake, for the last two hours. He'd lain silently through her gentle rapping on the door, had ignored the concerned calls of his name (both first and last) through the door, and had finally heard her retreat into her own room. This had to be done; it was what was best for the both of them. It wouldn't do to get too close to her, especially not after all they had both been through.
After all, his lover had just died, and her husband had died four years ago. He frowned. It had been four years, hadn't it? Why hadn't she moved on? She'd told him she was lonely, so why hadn't she made the effort to get out and find some friends, or at the very least, contact some of her old ones?
He sat up and stretched slowly. As soon as he was sure that she'd gone to bed, he'd get up and watch something on the telly. He pressed his ear to the door and listened, but he heard no sound. She must have gone to bed. He opened the door and crept quietly into the living room, then lowered himself onto the couch gently. He reached for the remote. Just as he was about to push a button, however, he heard noises from the kitchen.
He stood and looked around for a weapon. His eyes landed on an umbrella in a nearby corner. He grabbed it and made his way slowly to the kitchen, where he snapped on the light. Almost as soon as his eyes fell on her, he dropped the umbrella.
She was sitting at the table, her eyes red and puffy, nursing a tumbler full of liquid. She barely even glanced up when he entered the room, choosing instead to stare into her glass. He stepped closer and the smell of alcohol flooded his nostrils. He grimaced.
"What are you drinking, Weasley?"
"Alcohol."
"Obviously," he snapped, frowning deeply. "I meant, what kind?"
"Don't care." He leaned forward and sniffed gingerly around her face, and she recoiled. "What are you doing?"
"You haven't had any of it," he accused, taking the seat across from her. Her cheeks turned scarlet.
"I have."
"You don't like it enough to drink it, is that it?"
"No," she admitted finally, sniffling. "It burns."
"So this is what? You trying to sit here and convince yourself that you're going to drink it because you don't want to waste it?" He'd just been teasing, but the way that the scarlet on her cheeks deepened told him that he'd been right.
"Please just leave me alone."
"I want to see you drink it," he said decisively, reclining in his chair. She blinked.
"What?"
"I don't believe that you'll drink it."
"Go away."
"Chicken."
She glared at him. "This is incredibly childish, do you realize that?"
"For a Gryffindor, you're not very brave," he commented coldly. Her face moved through several emotions in rapid succession – shock, humiliation, and finally, anger. She lifted the glass to her lips and drained its contents.
"Yuck!" she gasped, sticking her tongue out.
"You've no promises from me to hold your hair back tonight," he said, arching an eyebrow. "Where did you get that stuff, anyway?"
"Cabinet," she gasped, pointing. She began coughing. He went to the cabinet she'd indicated and pulled out a bottle of vodka. After he'd inspected the label, he retrieved her empty glass from the table and filled it. She stared at him. "I'm not going to drink-"her voice died as he downed the entire glass.
He sat the glass in the sink, not bothering to rinse it out, and sat down in front of her again. Their eyes locked across the table, and she couldn't hide her amazement. "What? You've seen me drink before."
"But you used my glass, without washing it. Aren't you afraid that you'll get some kind of germ, or something?"
"Not particularly."
"Why did you do that?"
"We're on an even keel now. We've both had a glass. Even."
She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. "What do you want?"
"I want you to tell me why you were crying. You owe me that, at least, seeing as how I got out of bed to flay an intruder, and now I don't get to."
"Why does anybody cry?" she answered, hiccupping. He arched an eyebrow at her again.
"I don't want to know why anybody cries, I want to know why you were crying."
"Because I'm frustrated."
"Why are you frustrated?"
"There are lots of reasons."
"I'm not going anywhere. Explain away."
"Why should I?"
"Because you told me earlier that you wanted to listen. Well, I'm returning the favor."
"But I didn't listen to you, so how can you return the favor before I've given it?"
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
"Are you referring to yourself as a horse? Because personally, I would have chosen to compare you to an ass."
His smirk was wide as she answered.
"You sound better already, although don't think you won't be paying for that ass comment later."
"Right, because everything has a price." He cocked his head to the side and studied her intently.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It's supposed to mean that I think there's something behind us being nice to each other. Why are you being nice to me, anyway?"
"This again," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "We already had this discussion."
"So you're just being nice to me because you're here and you want to work with me on the wandless magic research?" Her lower lip trembled slightly, and he fought not to stare at it.
"I thought we'd already established this."
"You're not being nice to me because you like me at all?" His hands instantly clenched into fists, and his jaw tightened.
"What would give you that impression?"
"That's traditionally why people are nice to each other, Draco." He closed his eyes against the sound of his name. Damn it, why had he insisted on making such an issue out of that? It was going to be his undoing if he wasn't careful.
"Is that why you're nice to me?" he asked, opening his eyes and sneering at her. "Because you like me?"
"I-I didn't say that," she protested, her cheeks going pink again. His heart plummeted. Oh, Gods, she likes me!
"You most certainly did, Weasley. I heard you. Your exact words were 'That's traditionally why people are nice to each other'." She looked up.
"No, those weren't my exact words. My exact words were, 'That's traditionally why people are nice to each other, Draco.'"
He swallowed down the lump that rose in his throat. "You're not denying it."
"And you don't want me to say your name now, when you made a fuss about it earlier," she observed, her tears drying. "Why?"
"This is boring me," he said, standing. She stood just as quickly and moved in front of him, effectively blocking his exit. "Move."
"Not until you tell me why."
"Why what?" he asked, his steely eyes boring into her.
"Why you wanted me to say your name earlier, and you don't now."
"I've no idea what you're talking about, and if you don't move, I'm going to do something that we're both going to regret."
"You do know what I'm talking about, and go ahead and do it! Do you think I care?" His pulse was pounding so loudly in his ears, he could barely hear her.
"I've no intention of telling you anything, Mudblood." She winced, and then stared at him defiantly.
"So that's what this is, then," she said, her blood boiling. "I slipped into old habits and called you by your last name once, and then you get angry with me. To punish me, you pick fights and call me 'Weasley' and 'Mudblood.'"
"Last time I checked, Weasley was your name," he said, the irritation clear in his voice.
"But Mudblood isn't."
"You are one, you know."
"And I know you don't care about my blood anymore, so it won't work."
"What?" he snorted.
"I remember what you said to me the night you went into the attic, about being born with magic. I remember you calling me Hermione. You can't just erase all of that by reverting back to your tried and true asshole persona, just because you think it will throw me off the scent!"
He met her gaze and stared wordlessly. The fury in her eyes was undeniable, but just behind them was something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on yet, even though he could see it there. In this disheveled state, she was terribly attractive – even though it was clear to him that she was going to keep talking, no matter what he said. So what could he do to shut her up?
Without warning, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.
DENY