"Oh hell," Ron muttered, pausing in the act of refilling his date's glass with champagne. His eyes were fixed on a spot behind the two young women who sat across the table from him; Hannah- for that was who Ron's date was, Hannah Abbot, a Hufflepuff year-mate of his from Hogwarts, and quite a beautiful young woman to boot- and Hermione, whose dark eyes fixed on his face in consternation.
"What is it, Ron?" she asked.
Harry, who was seated beside Ron and across from Hermione, looked up from his menu, his eyes following the line of Ron's gaze. Hermione, who was looking now at her own date, saw Harry stiffen in his seat... barely- someone who didn't know Harry quite so well as she did would easily have missed it- but Hermione did not. She caught it, and began to turn in her seat to see what had disturbed both of "her boys" so deeply.
"Don't," Harry said quietly. Hermione stopped, and looked at him inquiringly. "Malfoy just came in," he explained, "I don't think he's noticed us yet. So don't turn around and stare at him." He addressed his next comment to Ron more than Hermione; "we're none of us in school anymore- we're all adults, so let's act like it, and trust him to do the same. Right?"
Ron finally tore his eyes away from Draco, looking extremely disgruntled. "Of all the people I didn't want to see here-" he muttered angrily.
"Is he-" Hermione interrupted, having suddenly gone very still in her chair. "Is-" she swallowed- "there anyone with him?"
Harry gave her a quick, queer look, then glanced beyond her again. "Yeah, it looks likes Parkinson... oh wait, I guess she'd be Malfoy now, too."
"Just what the world needs," Ron grumbled, "more obnoxious, stuck-up Malfoys... look at how the M'aitre D is fawning all over them... makes me just sick-"
Harry, Hermione, Ron and Hannah were- or had been, at least, until this less than welcome arrival- enjoying one of the best tables at 'Aberforth', wizarding London's hottest new restaurant- and tonight being New Year's Eve, the reservation list read like a who's who of top wizarding society. It should not have been surprising, therefore, that Draco Malfoy would escort his new bride to the eatery that had recently been written up by Rita Skeeter as "The posh new place to be seen- and the food's good, too!"
Hermione sat as still as a statue, feeling like a deer caught in headlights, torn between relief that Draco was out of her line of vision, and a desperate desire to whirl about and look at him- and at his wife. This only intensified when Ron rolled his eyes and said "oh great, he's looking this way," then, looking off past her shoulder again, pulled a very juvenile face. Hermione wondered just how close behind her Draco was sitting.
Thus what had started as quite a fun New Year's Eve out on the town was beginning to feel like torture to Hermione- of all the times, she thought unhappily, of all the places!
It was terribly unfortunate; that much was indisputable. But Harry and Ron were disinclined to leave, and apparently so was Malfoy- Hermione could only assume that he remained seated somewhere behind her, as Ron continued to shoot glares over her shoulder every so often as the meal progressed. Hermione would have liked nothing better than to flee the restaurant (while taking, if she were entirely honest with herself, a good, long gander at the new Mrs. Draco Malfoy on her way out), but could hardly let on to Ron and Harry that Malfoy's presence rattled her to the extent of wanting to call off their New Year's dinner- they'd had these reservations for over a month- without giving them serious cause to wonder exactly what it was about their former schoolmate that affected her so deeply. Especially when she couldn't even see him from the angle of her seat.
So she had no choice but to endure.
Eventually, she relaxed enough to allow Hannah to draw her back into conversation; the Hufflepuff girl was easy to talk to; far brighter, more interesting, and a better conversationalist than most people gave her credit for. Hermione hoped Ron would stick with this one for more than a month or two... she'd be good for him, if he let her.
By dessert she was so wrapped up in discussing work with Hannah- the two of them taking turns regaling one another with stories from their new jobs, as well as post-Hogwarts gossip as to which of their former yearmates were now employed where, not to mention who was seeing whom, that Hermione had nearly forgotten Draco's presence somewhere in the restaurant behind her.
Nearly.
She also nearly missed it when Ron leaned in toward Harry- (who, she had noticed, had seemed unusually... edgy tonight, and was pushing his food restlessly around on his plate, hardly eating a thing- is it Draco's presence here that's bothering him this much? she wondered briefly)- and muttered, aiming yet another dark look past Hermione's shoulder, "you still going through with it, mate? Even with him right there?"
But being who she was, she didn't miss this either. Her eyes flew instantly to Harry, sensing that something big was afoot here- bigger than just a fancy dinner to ring in the New Year. What was going on? Her heart began to thud as a possibility occurred to her. Surely it couldn't be... he wasn't about to...?
He was.
Harry's green eyes met hers, then he shot Ron a seriously disgruntled sidelong look. "Thanks, Ron," he muttered back, "why don't you just ask her for me and steal the rest of my thunder while you're at it?"
Ron looked over at Hermione, startled, saw her watching his and Harry's conversation keenly, and had the grace to look chagrined. "Sorry, mate," he mumbled, as his face flushed the color of his hair.
Harry looked back to Hermione, ran his hand through his untidy black hair- a gesture strongly, painfully reminiscent of what Draco did when tired or anxious, and gave her a small smile. "I was going to wait for the countdown," he said ruefully, "but what the hell."
Oh my God, Hermione thought numbly, oh my God he's going to do it, he's really going to do it and Draco's right behind me, dear God in heaven what do I do?
And then it was actually happening; Harry had come around to her side of the table and gone down on one knee, and suddenly all conversation in the restaurant ceased. There was a breathless hush and Hermione felt dozens of pairs of eyes on her, and on Harry- it wasn't every day, after all, that one took the family out for dinner- even at an exclusive place like this- and was rewarded with the opportunity to witness the Boy Who Lived proposing.
Hermione could hardly breathe. Her hands, of their own accord, rose- one covering her heart, the other her mouth. There was a rushing in her ears. Harry was proposing marriage to her, and all she could think about was how Draco, somewhere behind her, might be reacting right now.
That isn't fair, she thought then, fiercely, that isn't fair to Harry at all. This isn't about Draco sodding Malfoy, who's here with his sodding WIFE. This is about Harry and me. Harry is a good man. He's good for ME. Focus on Harry. On Harry.
He was speaking.
"-very long, but you've been my best friend for seven years, and I love you so much it scares me sometimes. You're everything I could ask for in a partner; you're brilliant, and brave, and gorgeous, and kind, and when I'm with you I understand how it feels to have a family and a home. I don't know what the future will bring-" (Hermione's throat constricted; she knew he was talking about the prophesy- he'd explained it to her and Ron near the end of seventh year) "-but if I'm able, I want nothing more than to build my future around you. Hermione, will you marry me?"
She simply stared at him for a moment longer in a state of shock, and there was such vulnerability in those green eyes, and God, she did love him, she'd lay down her life for him if it was called for, in an instant and with no second thoughts, so if she would give her life up for him, why not give it over to him? Harry would never hurt or betray her; she would be safe and loved, and really, practically speaking- (and Hermione was very good at practically speaking)- what more was there to ask for in life?
She wasn't even aware of the tears that had begun running silently down her face until he reached up, still kneeling before her on the floor, and brushed them gently away.
She reached out to cup Harry's cheek in turn, then opened her mouth, only to surprised when a single, yet powerful sob immediately escaped her. She clamped down on it, hard, stifling it before any more could follow... and she even managed to smile a little through her tears as she choked out, "Harry... God, of course I'll marry you!"
The entire restaurant erupted into applause, and Ron, who now had quite a comfortable income as a professional Quidditch player, called for champagne all around.
00000
Hermione stepped out of the bathroom feeling moderately composed; composed enough, at any rate, to make a bee-line straight for Harry and ask to be taken home. She'd ducked in here shortly after the proposal, needing desperately to have a private moment, to pull herself together, and instead had fallen apart even further, locking herself in a stall and crying for ten solid minutes. Her eyes were finally dry now, though still red. But that was okay- lots of women cried when they were proposed to, right? It was an emotional event. Sure.
That was it.
It was an emotional event, and she was unaccustomed to allowing her emotions to get the better of her- she needed to get home where it was quiet, calm, where she could hear herself think. Harry would understand that, he knew her as well as she knew herself.
She glanced down at the sparkling ring on her finger. A diamond nearly the size of Pansy's. A voice in the back of her head whispered, does he really know you that well, if he can choose a ring that runs so completely opposite to your taste? She quashed the voice immediately. Diamond engagement rings were traditional. So Harry was a traditionalist, what on earth was wrong with that? This ring was not a symbol of ownership, but rather of love and respect... so it was worth ten times more than the opal ring Draco'd given her, no matter how carefully selected that stone had been.
She straightened her shoulders. Time to find her fiancé and go home. She only hoped Draco had taken his wife and left; she really didn't want to see him on the way out. She didn't want to see his reaction to this.
00000
Draco hadn't left.
As became glaringly apparent in the next instant when, just as Hermione had taken a step back down the short hallway that led from the restrooms into the restaurant proper, a pair of strong arms came out of nowhere, grabbing her from behind, fast and hard. One hand covered her mouth while the other snaked around her waist, and she was yanked like that, unceremoniously, around a corner in the hall and into an even smaller service corridor that led into the kitchen.
Draco shoved her against the wall hard, then removed his hand from her mouth and pinned both of her shoulders (which were bare, as the dark blue dress robes she'd selected for this night had a daring, off- the-shoulder cut, and she feared that his fingers would bruise her exposed skin), holding her in place.
She glared furiously at him, but did not scream. It would have been pointless anyway; out in the dining area, the New Year's countdown was beginning. No one would have heard her. Draco had engineered the perfect opportunity for a private- albeit forced- conversation.
"Malfoy," she spat, her eyes narrowing to slits, "Let. Me. Go."
Draco shook his head. He was still gripping her shoulders so hard it hurt, but there was no anger in his eyes. Only a deep unhappiness and... was that a hint of betrayal she saw? Could he be that big of a hypocrite?
"No," he said flatly. "You don't love him. You can't do this. You can't."
Hermione was practically speechless with disbelief and indignation. "You... you... how... DARE you?" she finally managed to choke out. "After what... what you did... to me... how dare you try to tell me how to live my life? I don't have to listen to this. Let me go this instant!"
Draco shook his head, just once back and forth. It was a curt gesture, with an air of finality about it. "Not until you take that God-forsaken thing off," he said. "You're making an enormous mistake. I will not allow you to do this, Granger."
Hermione's indignation was ebbing now, to be replaced by pure, red fury. An angry flush tinted her cheeks. "I will never take it off," she retorted. "How you can even stand there and make demands of me when you... you... of all the hypocrisy... and you have no idea what my feelings for Harry are- I've loved him for years, Malfoy, since I was eleven years old-"
"You're not in love with him." Draco's tone was implacable, and the worst thing about his words was that they struck a resonating chord of truth deep within her.
That bloody well hurt.
As if she hadn't been hurt by him enough already.
"Harry is a good man," she said coldly. "He will give me a good life-"
"I could give you a good life."
"You offered me a WHORE'S LIFE! Harry would never devalue me that way! Just go away, Malfoy, I've made my choice! Harry is twice the man you'll ever be!"
Draco released her shoulders at that, as suddenly as if her skin had burned him. He took a step back and for an instant she could see the hurt clear in his eyes, and felt almost remorseful- her last comment had obviously cut him to the quick.
Then his defenses kicked in. His eyes went cold and distant; his mouth straightened into a hard line.
And Hermione, who'd felt herself relenting just a little bit at the sight of that unexpected spark of pain in his eyes, hardened in return, moving in for the kill with words like daggers, honed to a fine point in hopes of penetrating the armored walls he had just so quickly and skillfully erected.
"Harry is my life now," she said, still heatedly. "I don't ever want to see you again! There is nothing I want from you, Draco Malfoy, not your wealth, not your cottage, not your love-"
"Well, that's good, then, Granger," Draco interrupted, a hint of his old drawl creeping back into his voice, and his eyes were like gray steel, "because I never offered you my love. I wanted you for one thing only, and I'm man enough to admit that hell, I still want you for that... but have it your way, the whole 'scared little virgin' act was really starting to try my patience anyway." He allowed his eyes to sweep over her lewdly. "So," he asked conversationally, leaning back in toward her, pressing his palms to the wall on either side of her head to hold her in place, just as he had an eternity ago, in that classroom in Hogwarts before he'd given her her graduation gift, before everything had gone so horribly wrong- "have you given it up to scarhead yet? Have you become the whore you claim I tried to make you?"
Hermione felt herself on the verge of being sick. Tears started again in her eyes. "You unbelievable bastard," she whispered, and raised a hand to slap him- Merlin, did he have it coming this time- but he caught her wrist and slammed it back against the wall, holding it in place.
"Well?" he asked relentlessly.
"No," she said, and thought she saw just the smallest, briefest flash of relief in his eyes- he still thinks of me as a possession of his, she thought furiously, not to be shared with anyone- and added defiantly- (and falsely)- "just a whole lot of... things involving tongues."
Draco sucked in a sharp breath; it was as if she'd kicked him in the stomach. His gray eyes flickered- no longer were they cold and indifferent-seeming; they were dangerous now. He looked mad enough to kill. She tried to pull away, but it was no use; he had her pinned to the wall by her wrist, and his grip was like iron. When she shoved at his shoulder with her other hand, he grabbed it and pinned it too. The noise in the other room was reaching a crescendo as the diners raucously celebrated the arrival of a new year.
Twin tears streaked down Hermione's face, and she turned away from Draco, biting her lip, struggling to hold back the sobs that wanted to come. She was terrified, but her Gryffindor pride would not allow her to show him that. Dear God, she'd pushed him too far. This was no longer the Draco she knew and trusted... or had trusted, once upon a time. She had no idea what this half-mad man who held her trapped against her will was going to do.
He bent towards her, ducking his head to the side so that when he next spoke, his lips were brushing her ear. Hermione shuddered; a single sob escaped her and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
"Thank God I never sullied myself with you," Draco murmured, "you filthy little mudblood sl-"
"Let her go. NOW."
Hermione's eyes flew open, and revealed the fact that Draco was now facing down the business end of Hannah Abbot's wand- and it was clear from the expression of grim determination on her face that she meant business. The unassuming Hufflepuff girl looked downright intimidating... something Hermione wouldn't have thought possible for sweet, blonde little Hannah.
"I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, you let her go now or you'll regret it."
Draco released Hermione without a word, looking briefly once more into her eyes, and his guard was down again, and all she saw in his pale eyes now was pain; a howling pain and confusion to match her own. And that was even worse, really, than allowing herself to believe him some sort of a monster- he wasn't. His words and actions had been monstrous this night, but so had hers, God, so had hers. And then he was shouldering roughly past Hannah in the narrow corridor, and then he was gone.
Hermione suddenly couldn't seem to get enough air in her lungs. She attempted to drag in a hitching, sob-choked breath- it was no good. As her hands rose, seemingly of their own accord, to clutch at her temples in an unconscious gesture of profound distress, breaths piled on top of shallow, rapid breaths until she was hyperventilating.
She felt herself swamped in an emotional anguish more deep and desperate than she'd ever dreamed existed. She was going under. She thought she must surely drown.
Then Hannah was there, all cool, soothing hands and soft, lilting voice, drawing Hermione's own hands away from her face and pulling her gently, insistently, back toward the dining area. When they reached the place where the hall terminated in the restaurant's main room, Hannah stopped Hermione, grasping her lightly by the upper arms and instructing her to remain where she was.
"I'll go and get Harry and Ron," the blonde girl said, sensing that the very last thing Hermione would want to do right then was navigate her way through a large room of celebrating people. Hermione, continuing to battle tears in a vain attempt to simply catch her breath, nodded dumbly.
Then Hannah was gone too, and she was left alone.
It was then that her legs gave out, and she slid slowly down the wall, to land in a puddle of midnight blue organza, the skirt of her dress robes spreading out around her on the floor. She pulled her knees tightly up to her chest and laid her head down on them, and then she was sobbing in earnest, her flushed face pressed into the fabric of the robes, soaking it with tears; salty water stains that would never come out, while her arms wound tightly around her legs and her hands balled into fists, clenched in her skirt, fingernails biting into her palms through the sheer fabric.
That was how Harry found her a moment later, throwing himself to his knees beside her and pulling her into his arms without a word. She stiffened against him at first, then gave up and surrendered to his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder and wailing out her pain and grief and confusion as he gathered her even closer and began to rock her gently back and forth.
Ron and Hannah stood slightly off to the side, in the mouth of the hallway, blocking the couple on the floor from curious eyes, as more and more of the restaurant's patrons became aware of the new drama that was unfolding in their midst. Hermione, whose hearing seemed to be fading in and out, could make out only snippets of what Hannah was telling Ron in a low, urgent voice.
"-been gone a long time... went to check up on her in the women's room... Malfoy was... yes, pinning her against the wall... always knew he was bad news, but... heard what he was saying to her... 'filthy little mudblood'... yes, Ron, I'm sure that's what he called her!... Me? I'm fine... need to worry about... brought it on? Well, what do you think?... always hated Harry, and her too... couldn't stand to see them happy tonight, that's all..."
Ron's voice, when it came, was perfectly clear and angrier than Hermione had ever heard it.
"I am going to rip that bastard apart."
Then Harry was standing, bringing her up with him; she was only on her feet for a second before he scooped her into his arms and said simply, "Ron. Portkey home. Now, please."
Ron quickly "accio'd" the handiest item to them; an empty water goblet off a nearby table, and muttered the spell that would allow it to transport Harry and Hermione directly back to the living room of their flat. Passing it over to Harry, he said quietly, "you go ahead and get her home. I'll settle up here."
"Thanks mate," Harry said simply, pressed the portkey into Hermione's hand so that they were both holding it, and said "activate."
The young, engaged couple was whirled away.
00000
CRASH!
It was quite gratifying, Draco reflected with grim satisfaction, to be in a position where one could hurl against the wall crystal vases and objects d'art that were worth more than most Ministry officials earned in five years.
Let alone a runty, orphaned, halfbood, scarfaced Auror-in-training like Harry-Bloody-Potter, whose days, Draco happened to know, were severely numbered- things were coming to a head, the final battle would be fought soon, any fucking idiot should be able to see that, what the bloody hell had all those people in the restaurant been celebrating for, were they blind? Or stupid, or delusional, or a little of all three? Merlin, how he wished he'd never gone, he'd only taken Pansy because she'd been yapping on about it since the damn place had opened! Did he ever regret it now, with a pounding headache and a vision that assailed him, with crystal, cruel clarity, every fucking time he so much as closed his eyes, of Potter slipping an engagement ring onto Herm- Granger's- finger, and her words, God, her words- 'of course I'll marry you'-
He grabbed a heavy, antique crystal paperweight off the nearby desk.
CRASH!
But back to the battle- it was coming, and when it arrived, Potter wouldn't stand a chance- the Dark Lord's power was growing by the day, his ranks were swelling, and he would grind Potter underfoot like an insect, Draco was certain of this, how could it be otherwise? The most powerful dark wizard of the age against an eighteen-year-old who was still in the beginning stages of his Auror training, what chance could Potter possibly stand? And when he was gone, who would take care of Hermione then?
Who would bloody well protect her?
And make no mistake, she would need protection in the aftermath of the war, in the Dark Lord's new world order.
If she survived the war at all.
NO. He didn't want to even think about that.
Wait. Why the bloody hell not? She'd made it crystal clear she had no more feelings for him whatsoever, why in Merlin's name should he care what happened to the damn mud- the damn-
He seized a china desk clock.
CRASH!
He was pacing back and forth like a caged animal in the confines of the small- well, small by Malfoy standards, anyway- study of the London townhouse that had been a wedding gift to him and Pansy from his parents. The newlyweds also had a wing of Malfoy Manor entirely to themselves, with a separate entrance and serving staff, and in the short time since they'd returned from their five-day honeymoon in the south of France, they'd split their time more or less fifty-fifty between the two residences. They were in London tonight simply because it was handy to that god-forsaken restaurant.
He was never going back there again. If Pansy liked it, let her take her mother next time. Let her take his mother. Hell, let her take both their mothers, and twenty of her closest personal friends- he'd gladly foot the bill, but he wasn't setting foot inside again, wild thestrals couldn't drag him back through that door.
Back and forth he paced. Back and forth, back and forth, from the desk to the door, from the door to the desk, massaging his temples with the first two fingers of each hand when he wasn't hurling unfortunate breakables at the walls.
Granger. Potter. Granger. Potter. Hermione. Potter.
Hermione Potter.
Hermione Bloody Fucking Potter.
GODDAMN IT.
He swept up a wedding photo of himself and Pansy in an ornate sterling frame, but before he could throw it, a throat was cleared directly behind him.
Draco froze in his tracks. Who in the hell could be in this room with him? Neither Pansy, nor any of the serving staff would dare intrude- and even if they took a mind to do so, they couldn't get in. He'd used an extremely complex locking spell on the door that he was confident Pansy would not be able to counter- he'd always been more magically apt than she was. Besides, she'd knocked timidly and called through the door half an hour ago, right after the crashing had begun, wanting to know if there was anything wrong, and he'd fed her some vague, placating nonsense and told her to go on up to bed.
He was sure she'd obeyed him. She always obeyed him. Just as his mother always obeyed his father. It was what well-bred, pureblooded wives did. They supervised their servants and redecorated their manors and went on shopping-and-brunch excursions and joined charitable organizations and produced well-bred, pureblooded babies, and overall, they deferred to their husbands. Pansy, so far, was flawless in her role. She spent her days in the company of wizarding London's top decorators, choosing paint colors and fabrics and silk wallpapers, crystal light fixtures and regency furniture and everything she could possibly want or need to make the townhouse "hers"- a project for which Draco had given her carte blanche- and her nights pinned between the satin sheets of their enormous bed and the body of her husband as he thrust into her, wondering why it was he never opened his eyes as they made love, why even during this most intimate of acts between a husband and wife, he seemed so distant, so inaccessible to her.
But she never questioned him. Not about that, not about anything. He couldn't recall her questioning him about a single thing since they'd gotten engaged- the last time she had presumed to question him was the time she'd come upon him and Hermione in that corridor of Hogwarts... and, Draco had to concede, she'd probably been within her rights that time.
She hadn't questioned him earlier this night when he'd sent her to bed, telling her through the locked door that everything was fine, even though she'd known- must have known- that that was patently not the case.
And so she couldn't possibly be in here now; she had neither the know-how nor even the inclination to break through his locking spell. But then-
Then who in Merlin's name was in here with him?
He went for his wand, then whirled about with near-feline speed and grace, while dropping into a defensive, dueling stance. He could hardly credit, after all, that someone sneaking into his study unannounced would have friendly intentions.
And there in front of him was-
"Severus?" He asked, astonished, straightening up and lowering his wand. He had stopped calling the older man 'professor' upon his graduation from Hogwarts- it had seemed reasonable to progress to a first-name basis, now that they were both adults, and considering that his former potions teacher had recently stood up for him as best man.
Snape regarded him steadily through dark eyes, from where his head rested, seemingly disembodied, in Draco's office fireplace. If anything, his expression could be said to be one of bland amusement.
"Draco," he acknowledged. Then, as those hooded, near-black eyes swept the wreckage-strewn room, he added, "problems?"
"No," Draco managed, "I- you surprised me, that's all. I thought... I didn't think the floo was on tonight," he finished, quite lamely.
"That hardly explains the sea of destruction I see spread out before me," Snape remarked calmly.
"It was..." Draco glanced down to put his wand away, saw that he was still clutching the framed wedding photo, and slowly, sheepishly, placed it back down on the edge of the desk. "Windy," he finally choked out.
Snape's left eyebrow shot up nearly to his hairline. "Really. Windy." The corner of his mouth twitched.
Draco sighed explosively and ran a hand through his near-colorless hair. "Can I help you with something, Severus? Would you like to come through?"
"Thank you, but I rather think not," Snape replied. "I believe it's safer for me here where the wind is not so violent... and stays outside the castle."
I do believe he's going to start laughing at me in a minute, Draco thought in mounting irritation. "Then the reason you're here...?"
Ordinarily, he would never dream of being so abrupt with the man who was something of a cross between a mentor and a favorite uncle to him, but this really was a bad time. He was in a piss-poor mood, and would infinitely prefer to be alone at the moment.
The humor in Snape's eyes vanished as abruptly as if someone, somewhere, had thrown a switch. "The reason I'm here," he said, "it that's I'd like you to come through into my office, if you have a moment. There is a matter of grave importance I wish to discuss with you."
Draco was taken aback. It was the middle of the night. Snape couldn't even have known that he'd be awake- he must have flooed just hoping. If I hadn't been in the office, would he have tried me in the bedroom? Draco wondered, horrified by the thought. After all, though he may not be in love with his wife, not a night had gone by since the wedding that he hadn't taken advantage of her warm and willing body. And tonight would have been no exception. He even had new fuel for his fantasies, for the world he went to when he closed his eyes and drove himself in, hilt deep.
Hermione in her blue dress. That bloody sexy, off-the-shoulder blue dress. Merlin, if he'd gone upstairs when Pansy had, and Snape had tried him there- he felt heat rising to his cheeks.
What is so bloody important that it can't wait until morning?
Well, if it was that urgent, he'd better go and see.
"I'll be right there," he said, and Snape withdrew immediately, to give him room to come through.
Draco glanced around his study, muttered a quick "Scourgify" to vanish the mess, stepped into the large, ornate fireplace- the flames still had a greenish cast to them, signifying that Snape was holding the connection open for him- and was gone.
00000
(A/n: I have to pimp my new story "The Reason". It's a LOT more light hearted than this. If you want a break from perpetual angst, check it out!)