Disclaimer: Not my characters!
It had been almost exactly a month to the day that Draco and Hermione had first slept together. The year was a month old and their relationship—or rather, their arrangement—was a month old as well. Ginny, after the New Year, had left for a quidditch tour and hadn't been home since the first day of the year, so they'd had quite a bit of time to explore whatever it was they were.
"We're getting quite good at that," Draco said as he lay with one arm propped behind his head, staring up at the dark ceiling. Hermione could hear the smile in his voice and playfully rolled her eyes.
"That was the last time," she said, her voice muffled from where her cheek was pressed against his bare chest. With this free hand, he absently pulled at her frizzy curls, which were splayed across his pale skin.
"Of course it was," he said, his voice a deep rumble behind his ribs.
"It was," she said, pushing up to look at him, her hands on his chest.
He bit his bottom lip as he studied her, then gave her a single, slow nod. "Alright then," he said, letting his hand drop away from where he'd been playing with her hair to land heavily on the bed. He released his bottom lip and looked up at the ceiling with a sigh.
Hermione felt guilt pool in her gut, but she tried to ignore it. For a month he'd been asking her strange things—like wanting to go to dinner or to see a show—and she'd laughed it off. But something about his demeanor the last couple of days was different. There was a chance that she'd been misreading him and that his offers to take her on a date had been sincere.
"Draco," she said, using his first name because she knew it would get his attention, and it did. His eyes shot to hers, silvery in the moonlight. "Come on." She cocked her head to the side. "We're friends, aren't we?" She chewed on the inside of her lip, suddenly anxious. He nodded, never breaking eye contact. "And this, what we do—" she blushed crimson and saw him smirk slightly, "it's fun." She looked away for a moment as the muscles beneath her hands tightened. "Really fun," she breathed, then looked back at him again. His gaze was molten. "Don't you think?" she asked, her voice squeaking slightly.
"I do," he said, his voice a rumble in his chest. "I would just also like to take you out for a meal, which I don't think is too much to ask."
Hermione sighed and pushed herself up to sitting, pulling the thick, purple blanket that clothed her bed up to cover her chest.
"Listen," she said, "that was the last time we'll do that." She lifted her chin, waiting for him to scoff or laugh, but he didn't. "It's amazing, but we're not—I mean, you and I, wouldn't—couldn't—" she tugged the blanket higher. "I like being your friend," she told him as all other words escaped her.
"I like being your friend, too," he said after a long pause. Then with a sigh, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. In the many times they'd slept together in the last month, he'd only stayed the night once and the following morning had been both wonderful and confusing for them both. He stood and pulled his pants on, facing away from her. "Astoria Greengrass and I are scheduled to have dinner tomorrow night," he said just before he pulled his black tee-shirt over his head. "My mother arranged it." His voice was neutral, but Hermione felt her stomach drop.
"Oh," she said, hating the rush of jealousy in her chest. "Well, OK." She shook her mane of hair back. "Alright." She did her best to keep a neutral face.
"I could cancel," he said, his voice quiet and vulnerable. He stayed facing away as he sat back on the bed to slip his boots on and tie them. "If you wanted me to, I would." In the weeks they'd been spending time together, she'd never heard him sound so vulnerable. So serious.
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn't know what to say. She watched the muscles in his back through the thin fabric of the tee shirt as he tied his shoes.
In the last month, she'd gotten over Ron—that, she was sure of—but she wasn't sure she wanted to risk this interesting friendship over what could conceivably be a fluke. But at the same time, the thought of him with someone else just didn't sit right with her. But could she ask him not to go out to dinner with an eligible witch without offering him something of substance in return? No, she couldn't.
"You should go," she said, trying to force her voice into some semblance of normalcy. "It'll make your mother happy, anyway." She was going for flippant but knew it sounded strained.
"Right." Draco took a deep breath and stood, then slipped his jacket on over his tee-shirt. He turned to face her, and she smiled, but he didn't return it. "This was a one time thing anyway, right?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers.
She nodded as tears started to well in her eyes, unbidden.
He saw the tears and softened. He put his knees on the bed and knee—walked over to her. With cold hands, he gently cupped her cheeks and pressed a kiss to her lips. Her eyes fell closed as she leaned into his touch, hoping that like all the other times, this wasn't actually a one-time thing. He pulled back after a moment, centimeters from her face, and looked down at her.
"See you around, Granger," he said. With the grace only a seeker could possess, he slid off the bed, waved at her, and quickly left the room. There was a loud crack from the living room and the whole place went quiet.
Hermione fell back onto her bed, still warm from Draco's body, and stared up at the ceiling. She knew Astoria. She'd seen her in the papers—a beautiful, raven-haired pureblooded witch who, like Hermione, adamantly fought for equality among the various blood classes. Unlike Hermione, people tended to give Astoria the benefit of the doubt. She was, undoubtedly, a perfect candidate for marriage for a family like the Malfoys.
As she thought of them out together, more tears well in her eyes. The one time they'd had dinner on New Year's Eve had been wonderful, and the thought of him sharing his time like that with someone else hurt more than she would dare admit.
She fell asleep, naked, and slept fitfully, dreaming of beautiful Astoria scooping Draco up and taking him somewhere far, far away.
At dinner time the following night, Hermione felt restless. She paced her apartment, wishing for the first time since Ginny left that she was here to distract her. But she wasn't.
For the last month, almost every single day, Draco had come over. The first time it had been because he said he'd forgotten his cufflinks. She wasn't sure if he had or not, because almost as soon as they'd started looking for them, they'd fallen together again. He'd stayed a while after, talking about how fortunate he'd been to run into her the night before.
The next day, she'd run into him at a coffee shop near her flat. He'd offered to walk her home and before she knew it, they were back in her bed, laughing and rolling around as if it had been weeks since they'd seen each other rather than merely a few days.
And that was how it had gone or nearly four weeks. There had been a few days, of course, where she hadn't seen him, but never had there been a day like this, where she was so anxious to know what he was doing that she could hardly stand it.
New Year's Eve night, Hermione had let her gut guide her, and so, when her gut told her to go and just see if she might see them out, to try and gauge if he was having a good time or not, she listened. With a fluffy scarf and hat to try and hide her trademark hair, she set out.
During dinner on New Year's Eve, Draco had told her that this was where he took all of his first dates because you could tell a lot about a person from what they ordered. She'd laughed and ordered the biggest, fanciest thing she could think of, which had earned an eye—sparkling laugh from. Now she couldn't help but wonder what Astoria was ordering and if it had made Draco laugh, too.
As if her feet had a mind of their own, she found herself standing outside Draco's first date restaurant. The couples going in and out were dressed beautifully and Hermione felt very out of place in her blue jeans and oversized winter garb.
There were a few windows, and Hermione discreetly tried to peek in. She looked toward the corner that Draco said he'd preferred, and sure enough, there they were. Draco was wearing the same dark charcoal suit he'd worn on New Year's Eve, but Hermione was surprised to see his hair slicked back. He was sitting up tall, sipping a glass of red wine, but there was no smile on his face. Across from him sat Astoria—thin, angular, and beautiful. She had a small salad in front of her and a tall glass of what looked like champagne.
Hermione watched, her heart in her throat, as Astoria said something, then laid her hand on Draco's. Draco smiled, and from the angle at which Hermione watched, she couldn't tell if the smile reached his eyes.
After a few more minutes of watching, and earning some strange looks from passersby Hermione stepped away from the window. She should leave. She should go back to her flat and break into the new gelato she had in her fridge and drown her sorrows.
No, not sorrow. She told him to go on this date. She told him she didn't want him to cancel. So this couldn't be sorrow. It was something, though.
And it was because of that something that she couldn't leave. Instead, she took a seat on a bench across the street and waited. She wasn't sure why—maybe to see where they went after, maybe just to see if he looked happy—but she waited.
She'd expected to wait a long time. When Draco had brought her here, they'd stayed for nearly two hours drinking wine and talking. So she was surprised when less than half an hour later, they exited.
Hermione was on her feet, crossing the street before she realized it. Draco's hand was on Astoria's lower back, but when he saw her—big hat poorly hiding her big hair, cheeks red, eyes wild—his hand fell away.
She was only a meter away when she felt a tingle at the back of her neck. It reminded her of when she'd been on the run from Snatchers. Sometimes, just before they would appear, she could feel them.
She stopped a meter away and spun, wand out from instinct alone. As if from nothing, a man appeared. His wand was out and it was pointed toward Draco and Astoria. Hermione had been placed in Gryffindor because, when she needed to be, she was brave and stupid.
The man looked shocked, a spell Hermione didn't recognize tumbling from his lips. "Magia foret inexpiabile!"
"Expelliarmus!" she cried half of a moment after his spell—a startlingly purple light—leaped from his wand. As the word left her own mouth, the purple light struck her chest.
Time seemed to slow down as Hermione fell. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, though there wasn't pain. It was more like the absence of something vital that caused her lungs to constrict.
Her vision started to go black around the edges and she tensed, waiting for the ground to catch her, but instead, warm arms were there, wrapping around her.
"Hermione," he said, his voice shaking. He held her to his chest, pushing her hat off to better see her face. "Hermione," he breathed again. His eyes, silvery and wide and panicked, were the last things she saw before the world went black.