Hermione stared at the white door of her flat for longer than she had intended after throwing Draco Malfoy out. It took several minutes, and all of a sudden she found herself deflating, allowing her body to fall back into the chair she had occupied during breakfast. She looked down at her plate, and sighed - pinching the bridge of her nose as her eyebrows scrunched together in irritation, frustration, and defeat.

A huge part of her still yearned for acceptance from him - for him to finally admit that the space between them was more than just static. That everything he had lived his life believing before the war was nothing compared to his feelings for the muggle born witch with whom he'd quite unexpectedly fell in love. She'd finally come to realize just how naive she's been - and Hermione isn't one to take that lightly. Because how dare he?

He'd been the only man that she'd slept with since Ronald, and that meant something didn't it?

She deflated and stared into the stillness of her now lukewarm tea. Her sad eyes lifted to the empty chair across from her, his plate still sat the way he'd left it, dirty and used — his cuppa only partially drunk like hers. Had she not just kicked him out, it would look as though her apartment was thoroughly lived in, comfortable. And yet all of these things that he'd touched and infiltrated hung heavy and ubiquitous in the air like commas. The rumpled blankets on the pullout couch, the two tall stem wine glasses still sitting on the counter. She sighed — the sound was heavy, and the heaviness of her sorrow sank deeply into her chest. She pulled a hand to her mouth as an errant sob escaped her lips. The tightness in her chest deepened and before she could stop it, the deluge began, swallowing her whole.

10 Hours Before...

Draco sat in his familiar barstool at the local pub near his loft. The Telly ambled in the background, playing replays of the football match from the night before. The Muggles watched and cheered along whilst their beers sloshed in their grips. Draco enjoyed coming to this bar, it was not too far from his flat and far enough from Wizarding London to remain inconspicuous. After the war, loneliness had sunk into his bones like a plague - if he wasn't hated by name or status alone he was excommunicated by pure blood families that deemed him traitorous. It left him ambitious, but loathe to maintaining relationships because what was the point?

He felt confident in his aptitude, and although he'd never admit it, he was thankful for a job with the Ministry for bollocks sake. The very institution that striped his father of everything — had given him an opportunity within their International department. He quite enjoyed the work even...and then...Hermione Granger happened.

Draco scoffed into his pint in incredulity at the thought. The bartender eyed him curiously over the counter. Draco grimaced, following up the thought with another sip of his beer.

He'd never expected Granger to grow up...of course he had too...but she was different. Gone were the beaver teeth of second year and the mountainous rats nest she called hair. Upon seeing her that day in South Africa at the top of the stairs...he can remember the way the sun hit the bounce of her auburn hair, the stretch of her calf muscles as they spun. Her body a shapely oil masterpiece where he had once seen youthful imperfection. She was beautiful...and it angered him...because how could she? It was as if the muggle deities themselves had orchestrated it, a joke for them to revel within, his misfortune their abundant hilarity. The pure blood prince of the Malfoy lineage — besotted with the smartest and most well known muggle-born of the 20th century. There would be stories written of her courage, songs sung of her many adventures - and he would be nothing if not a villain in the shadows of all of them - nothing but a dark punctuation within the brilliance of her life.

The cruelest joke there ever was.

Draco tipped his glass to swallow the last of its contents, he knocked the bar to signal for the next round. It was on nights like this, when his loneliness overcame him, that he sought her out. Her with her brightness and soft curves —was the only thing in his life that blocked out the darkness. He could barely admit to himself that he loved her while drunk, but it was there in the background. Folded neatly and compartmentalized behind sturdy walls and reinforcements — unfortunately alcohol was kryptonite to even the highest skilled occlumens.

He was soon on beer number 3. The football reruns on the Telly had begun to look rather intriguing. He walked over to the Muggle group of onlookers and joined in their revelry. They toasted to his arrival with shots for the table - Malfoy obliged. And by the end of the night he'd become properly sloshed and all he longed for was Grangers bed and her soft body pressed against his own. He stumbled out of the bar and apparated to the Manor — he no longer lived there but it was his in title and name. The elves maintained it in his absence. The cellar was damp and smelled of oak, he stumbled along the racks of wine, in search for a most important bottle.

"Pop".

Malfoy blinked, too drunk to react. A small elf stood before him, his eyes wide.

"Master Draco, sir. You needs to rest."

"What is your name?" Draco realized his words slurred a bit but it was of no importance to him. The small elf blinked nervously. "My name is Pip Master Draco."

"Ah, be a good lad Pip and fetch me that bottle over there, the 2003."

Pip followed his Masters line of sight and retrieved the bottled Bordeaux. Malfoy hiccoughed and nodded, he looked once again at Pip and grimaced. "This is between you and me, Pip." Pip nodded, and with a pop of his own, his Master had gone.