Author's Note: The happiest of birthdays to the lovely Hermione Granger! This is just a flangsty little piece, inspired by a line in the song Hold You Down by X Ambassadors. I hope you enjoy!
This piece has been unbeta'd, and mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: This is fan-created content. I don't own any part of Harry Potter, and no copyright infringement is intended.
We'll be the last ones dancing in the faceless crowd
When there's no one to hold you, I will still hold you down
Hold You Down―X Ambassadors
The flatware gleams.
Just one detail indicative of the rest of the hall, sparkling with a veneer of beauty and wealth. From the carefully pressed tablecloths to the shining chandeliers―to the piles of galleons offered in charitable contributions, often for the sake of little more than keeping up appearances.
If Draco's been to one fundraiser gala, he's been to them all. The empty small talk and the greasing of palms and pocketbooks, the gowns and suits and the way it all stretches into one elaborate ruse.
He can't remember whether the beneficiary of tonight's event is St Mungo's or the War Orphans fund.
It's irrelevant; no matter the cause, he's always certain to leave a filthy stack of Malfoy galleons behind.
If Draco never again had to attend one of these blasted events, it would be too soon. But with his mother in the south of France, he's been forced to take up the mantle. To play his part in keeping the Malfoy name integrated in the who's who of the society pages.
One might have thought a war would have changed things.
But if it did, the reactionary period was limited.
He sighs, leaning back in his seat and sipping from a crystal tumbler of aged Ogden's. It isn't swill, but it isn't anything compared to the cases in the cellar at Malfoy Manor.
He's nearly put in his time for the evening, and soon it will be reasonable to depart.
Still... he has to admit it isn't all bad. His gaze tracks across the hall, absently following the singular reason why many of these galas sparkle and shine and always fulfill their purpose. The woman herself is resplendent, even if she looks a little fatigued.
Draco takes another sip of whisky.
Hermione Granger. Most of the time, he can't even fathom how many hats she wears, from her profession in the Ministry to the numerous boards and committees she leads. And most of the time when he sees her, it's at the helm of another successful event.
It might be the reason he doesn't put up a fuss every time his mother informs him of yet another good cause.
Something in her countenance snags his focus, and he watches as, in the span of fifteen minutes, she fields questions and inquiries from no fewer than eight people.
No wonder she looks ready to collapse. At all of the events where he sees her, Draco never sees her actually enjoy the fruits of her labours. Idly, he recalls much of the same even when they grew to know each other at Hogwarts during their eighth year after the war. At the head of everything―inter-house unity gatherings, NEWT study groups, the war memorial―and never able to enjoy time to herself.
As though feeling his gaze on her, Granger's eyes slide across the room to land on his. And despite the way they'd once known each other, she only tenses and offers him a brief nod, her expression stoic.
Draco lifts his glass half-heartedly, just as she bustles away in the opposite direction. He takes another sip, watching her steps for another moment until she vanishes.
He ought to leave. The hour has already grown late and many in the room have already left.
But Draco's glanced at his watch to confirm the date several times, and not once has he seen so much as an acknowledgement from the people who consistently badger Granger.
She nearly collapses into a seat alone at the next table, a furrow forming briefly between her brows.
"You look tired," Draco observes, raising his voice just enough so she'll be able to hear her.
A flicker of irritation crosses her face but she doesn't deny the sentiment. She pours herself half a glass of wine from the remains of a presumably warm bottle, grimacing when she takes a sip. "I am tired," she allows at last.
Setting his empty cup on the table, Draco leans forward. "I don't know how you do it," he muses. "Coordinating everything all the time."
She offers an absent shrug, her expression far from the certainty he knows from her. "I suppose I don't know any other way. If I didn't do it, who would?"
"Anyone else?" Draco offers, rolling his eyes. "May I join you?"
Her gaze skims the otherwise empty table, and she sighs. "Fine. But I have to get back to work shortly. There's still plenty to do."
Draco's already on his feet, slipping into the seat next to her. He catches the slight unease in the set of her shoulders, but she doesn't shift away. He shouldn't be surprised, when they've been little more than acquaintances for years now.
"You don't need to drink that swill," he drawls, gesturing at the warm wine. "Let me buy you a drink."
Granger scrubs at her eyes, shaking her head. Despite her clear exhaustion, her hair remains impeccable, her dress a stunning and flattering cut that favours her curves. "I shouldn't."
A smirk tugs at his lips. "Okay, then dance with me."
At that, her eyes fly to his, wide with surprise. "I can't―"
"One dance, Granger."
And then he sees the hint of something in her eyes. Something he once knew implicitly. Warmth; wry amusement; intrigue.
"Surely someone else can cover for you," he adds.
Snagging her lower lip between her teeth, she nods at last. "Fine, one dance. It seems a shame not to enjoy my own party just a little."
He detects the deeper sentiment beneath the words but doesn't say anything as he rises to his feet and proffers a hand. Although he'd anticipated a little more persuasion, she slips her smaller hand into his and allows him to help her to her feet.
He can't help the way his heart beats just a little faster. How it pulses a little more intently in his fingertips where her skin grazes his.
Even after the years that have separated them, he has to fight the urge to draw her in close.
Clinging to all the shreds of propriety he can summon, Draco leads her to the dance floor; her heels bring her almost level with him but not quite, and he finds himself momentarily caught in the melted chocolate of her eyes, flecked with gold and amber. Once, he would have gladly fallen into her eyes.
And despite the way she moves easily with him, allowing him to lead, he can sense her stiffness. The way she doesn't quite hold his stare for longer than a moment; the way she maintains a careful distance between them.
Following her lead, Draco keeps a respectful hand to her back, when all he wants is to draw her flush against him. To lose himself in the warmth and comfort of her, falling into the rhythm and the feel of the stolen moment.
At the end of the song, she draws back; her cheeks are a little flushed and she offers a smile, but it doesn't entirely reach her eyes.
"Thanks for the dance, Malfoy," she murmurs, her hand lingering in his just a moment overlong. Draco fights the sudden urge to grimace at her usage of his surname. "You're as skilled on your feet as I remember."
He doesn't instantly release her hand; her gaze catches on his.
"One more dance." He ducks his chin, and adds, "It's been ages since I've had a proficient partner."
Within moments, something else registers in her eyes, and he sees the softness drift in mixed with a hint of surprise. It was the same thing he said to her in eighth year, when they started studying together for NEWTs.
Her throat shifts, lips parting as she gazes up at him, and her hand goes slack in his once more. Voice a little breathy, she returns, "One more, then."
Without hesitation, he draws her in once more. And as they fall into another easy, slow rhythm, Draco feels some of the tension evaporate from her body. The strain sinks from her shoulders, her stiff form relaxing a little. He plants a hand to the small of her back, smoothing along her spine.
All Draco wants is to draw her close, bring her body flush against his. To feel her warmth and welcoming presence and―
"Did you have a nice evening?" she asks, her voice soft and hesitant. Her eyes drift up to meet his.
"I did." Draco offers a nod, drifting his fingers a little higher along her spine between her shoulder blades. "Everything was perfect, as is customary when they put you in charge. I imagine you raised a good amount?"
A slight flush appears in her cheeks at the compliment, and she nods in return. "We did, thank you. St Mungo's will be thrilled."
"Good." He releases the word as a breath, allowing his eyelids to fall heavy. "I don't know how you do it, you know. Every time I come to one of these events, you're at the helm, taking care of everything. Don't you have anyone else who can help you?"
When silence returns, he opens his eyes to find her expression tight. "I do, of course. I suppose it's just how things are."
"Seems an awful lot of work for one person to take on."
"it's quite an odd concern," she allows, though her voice carries a hint of uncertainty. "Especially from someone I've hardly spoken to in years."
Draco hears the edge to her words, and despite his best efforts, it stings.
Because she's right. For more than five years he's kept her at arm's length, and after the way they grew to know each other at Hogwarts, it's felt counter-intuitive.
"You never needed my concern."
That's the truth, too. When she took on more than she could handle in eighth year, when she overloaded herself to the point of exhaustion―an attempt, he later learned, to keep her own demons and the insistent nightmares that followed her from the war at bay. Even when Draco offered, she didn't need anything from him.
Her voice drops to little more than a whisper. "I seem to recall the way you didn't need mine, either."
Instantly, he stiffens. And for a stifled heartbeat, he's thrown back. He's eighteen years old again, the night he'd lost his father to the Dementor's Kiss. After avoiding classes all day, he came across Granger in the corridor, her curls hazy through his bleary vision.
He'd expected derision, at best icy stoicism.
Never did he expect for her to wordlessly step forward and fold him into her arms, her embrace fierce and tight and like she cared. And he'd been just emotionally wrung out enough that he sank into her hold without a fight, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as she offered the strength he didn't have left within himself.
And when he'd drawn back, embarrassed, locking on the flecks of gold in her eyes for the first time, there hadn't been pity, but empathy.
She hadn't offered any empty, useless platitudes. But something had eased between them after that night, though she'd never once brought it up.
"I thought I didn't," he murmurs at last, his fingers grazing the loose flyaway curls at the base of her neck. He offers a half-hearted smile that he doubts reaches his eyes. "But it turned out I did."
At that, she softens again, and if he isn't mistaken, she shifts ever so slightly closer. "I appreciate your concern as well," she says at last. "But it's not necessary. I enjoy what I do, and I like to keep my calendar busy."
Draco can infer what she doesn't. "Nightmares? Still?"
"Sometimes."
He's surprised she doesn't deny it. He releases a long breath and drawls, "You never deserved them, and I'm sorry it's still a struggle."
Granger's hands twine together at the back of his neck, and once more, her eyes snag on his. "I recall finding you awake in the middle of the night more than once yourself."
"Sometimes as well," he replies to the unasked question. "That bloody snake."
She snickers, warmth lifting the corners of her mouth. "I always thought it was a little ironic that your worst nightmares from the war were of your house mascot."
"Hilarious," he returns in a droll tone. "But if you lived with the damn thing―"
"I'd be singing a different tune," she titters. "I remember."
"Merlin," he huffs with a chuckle. "Your memory is as sharp as ever."
Her nails graze the back of his neck. "As is yours, apparently."
They move together, quietly, neither too concerned with the steps of anything more complex, and Draco basks in the soft comfort he hasn't drawn from her in years. He swallows, the light, floral scent of her perfume reaching his senses.
"Tell me something," he says at last, careful to keep his voice low. She lifts her brows, expectant, and he draws in a deep breath. "You and I... sometimes I thought there was something there."
It isn't what she expected him to say, he can tell. For several moments, she stares at him in silence before averting her gaze. "I thought there was, too. I think..." She titters, her cheeks flushing pink. "I think half our year thought so, too."
He tugs at a loose curl. "Why didn't it happen?"
He's asked himself for years. Every damn time he sees her at one of these events, he asks himself all over again. Dwells on the interactions he remembers like they were yesterday, lingers over the hours they spent together, the casual touches that could have so easily led them down a different path.
Granger's hold on his back tightens, and it's incongruent with the words she speaks next. "I thought you didn't want to." She gives a bit of an idle shrug. "You were reeling from the loss of your father, and we were both struggling with the ghosts of war and..." The words drop off into silence, and he's startled to find he feels her pain, just like he did all those years ago. "And maybe it just wasn't meant to be."
If it wasn't meant to be, Draco wouldn't still think about her almost daily. He blows out a tight exhale. "Maybe our timing was off. And for the record... I didn't not want to."
Her gaze snaps up to his, but she only shakes her head. "It was a long time ago. We drifted apart."
By the end of eighth year they'd been nearly inseparable. But he'd gone back to the manor to clean up the remains of his life, and Granger had moved on into a career with her old friends from before.
"We shouldn't have," he says, surprising himself with the forcefulness of the words. "You... Merlin, Granger, you were so important to me."
"Please don't," she whispers, and he notices her gaze is fixed firmly ahead on his chest. "Whatever chance might have existed back then... we missed it."
The words feel fixed, hard and unyielding, but not nearly final enough.
She doesn't draw back, though; in fact, she shifts closer still, resting her head faintly against the hollow of his throat.
If she's right, it isn't his place to push. To bring up the topic, to force the conversation to linger. "Just so you know," he murmurs softly, "I don't think we went through everything we did to have just one chance."
"We're different people now." Her words are muffled against his shirt, and Draco nods even though she can't see him. "We aren't eighteen and nineteen anymore."
It's a testament to the friendship they once had, he thinks, that she doesn't try to deny what once existed.
So many nights spent poring over tomes, revising prefect schedules, and then, when they knew each other better, sharing their hearts and experiences and fears. For so long, everything between them felt so easy, so inevitable, that he forgot to feel surprise when it never happened.
"You're right," he says at last, smoothing easy circles across her back with his palm.
"I really ought to get back," she muses, though she doesn't make a move to step back. He suspects―he hopes her will to walk away has lessened.
"They don't need you." He shakes his head, tightening his hold a little in case she tries to walk away. Somehow, instinctively, he knows they'll never have this conversation again. He missed his chance with her, and he can live with that. He already has for years.
But he can't help the way the sorrow of it still stings in the cracks she left behind.
"I don't know, Draco," she breathes, and it's the first time she's used his given name in years. "Maybe we just became too easy. Maybe our friendship was too intuitive, and we just slipped right past what could have been."
If the way she feels in his arms is any indication, that isn't the truth. His heart hasn't stopped racing since she sank against him, her soft curves pressed into his chest. He brings a hand to the back of her head, feeling her soft curls under his palm as he absently plays with her hair.
Still, he allows a quiet, "Maybe."
They fall back into silence, the slow music naturally lulling the nerves that threaten to overtake him, and one song drifts into a dozen. Granger's eyes have slid shut when he looks down, adjusting his hold on her form, and a gentle smile plays about her lips.
Releasing a sigh, Draco draws her still closer. She doesn't resist, any tension she carried when they first started dancing vanished entirely, and he's drawn back to the easy way they melted together years ago. Before life and the real world intruded in the careful bubble they'd cultivated.
Back when Draco didn't know about any of this. When he didn't understand how much she truly meant to him.
The other couples dancing have dwindled, only a handful left, but Draco has scarcely paid them any mind. Enraptured feels too convoluted of a sentiment, but it's the truth. Her hands wind around his neck, fingers teasing the short hair at the base of his skull, and the feel of it is enough to distract him from everything else.
He wants nothing more than to keep dancing, to never let go.
He should never have let her go in the first place.
When he tries to speak, he finds no words. There isn't anything he can say in the moment that could possibly encapsulate every thought racing through his mind, encompassing the racing of his heart. Almost certainly, she can feel it.
They're hardly dancing anymore, arms wound around each other, but Draco can't let her go.
If he does―if they step away and carry on with their lives―this precious, heartrending limbo comes to an end and it would be the end of this moment that threatens to break him down into his barest parts.
Despite his best efforts and the empty years that lie between them, he never truly let her go. Even when it would have made more sense.
Her eyes blink open and she stares up at him, her lips parted as if to speak. Then her gaze tracks across the room, eyes widening at the sparse crowd that still lingers in the hall.
"I should go," she breathes, shifting back a half a step. A hint of colour rushes into her cheeks. "Thank you for dancing with me; this was... really nice."
"It was," Draco allows, feeling as though he might shatter if she walks away.
She blows out a breath, her hands still lingering on his neck. A soft, genuine smile curls her lips. "It's so rare that I can actually dance and enjoy myself at one of these events without worrying about everything, and today's actually―"
He cuts her off. "Happy birthday, Granger."
Surprise lights her face along with something else he doesn't know how to unpack. "You remembered."
"I remember everything." He shakes his head, slow and drawn, heart clamouring in his throat. "Everything you shared with me. I remember all of it."
Her eyes widen as he speaks, then fill with a glassy sheen. He can't fathom her surprise, the way she looks astounded at something so simple as the fact that he remembered her birthday.
So he presses on. "You never get to enjoy your hard work." He smooths a hand along her spine, a tingle in his fingers as he grazes the soft silk of her dress. "And..."
"And you wanted me to. Tonight."
"Too intuitive, remember?" He echoes her words, feeling the bitter undercurrent of the sentiment she'd shared earlier. That they'd never had a chance at anything more than friendship.
If anything, she looks taken aback. "I didn't―I don't..." She blows out a breath, stopping mid-step as she stares up at him. "Maybe our timing was off."
They're the same words he spoke earlier. All at once, Draco feels the air rush from his lungs and his world tilts on its axis.
Her large eyes land on his again, all smooth chocolate and glistening chips of gold in the dim lighting. Her hand is still wrapped around he back of his neck, and a knit forms between her brows as she swallows.
The last of the other dancers evaporated when he wasn't watching, and the music dies down with the last refrains of the final song as they stare at each other in silence.
"Maybe you were right," she breathes at last, "and we didn't go through all of that for just one chance at this."
"Merlin," he huffs, a sting of incredulity giving way to bemusement as he stares at her, unblinking. "Granger, I―"
The words never make it from his lips as she leans in, her nose brushing his, then her lips, and then she's kissing him. His heart thunders in his chest as surprise swells within him, catching him frozen for only a heartbeat before he drags her in, kissing her back.
Her lips are spun sugar, soft and enticing, and his fingers slide into her hair around the back of her head as he delves, briefly, between her lips. Heat erupts within him, tempered by something else.
By the friendship they'd once had. The countless nights they'd spent together, studying and sharing and piecing each of their broken shards back together. By the way he's fought whatever it is he feels for her for years without a single strand of reprieve.
Finally, she pulls back, eyes bright as her lips warm with a smile. Her hand winds in the silk of his tie.
"Maybe what could have existed," she breathes, brushing another gentle kiss to his mouth, "is still ahead."
Draco returns a quiet, "I'm certain it is," and feels a flicker of something fresh and hopeful and inevitable tighten his chest as he draws her back in again.
Hope you enjoyed xo
PS to my FFN readers - I've posted a few sexually explicit one-shots on my AO3 lately, if that's your thing.