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**** DRACO ****

"Seriously Granger," I groaned, shoving the now empty plate away from me. "I thought our days of competing were over."

Three weeks after flirting with her on the beach and Granger had proved beyond a doubt that she was an incredible cook. We were well past her three dinner debt, and we had eased into a casual routine where we ate together several times a week, taking turns to cook, and a silent competition had been happening between us.

She'd been anxious when she had first cooked for me - an incredible Spanish paella had been her first offering – and her self-deprecation at what she thought was a poor attempt, had me clenching my jaw yet again to resist the urge to use Weasley's name as a curse. Not because I thought he had hated her cooking, but because of the complete loss of confidence that she once had.

I had assured her that it was the best meal that someone other than myself had cooked for me in a long time, and she had laughed, telling me I was a conceited arse and that if I wasn't careful she'd forget our deal and lock herself away again.

She had begun to join me most mornings when I ran along the beach, not running, but meeting me with a bright smile as I approached the bottom of the stairs at her end of the beach on my second loop across the sand, and walking the half mile to the rocks with me. Our conversation had become easier with each passing day, until we were talking like old friends, and I found that on the rare mornings that she didn't appear, I missed her more than I probably should have.

I had arrived home earlier in the evening to find her in my kitchen - I had told her to use it any time she wanted - a simple lamb and vegetable stew bubbling away on the stove, which was perfect since the weather had grown cold as the winter fast approached. She had promised to make dinner for me again as we parted on the beach that morning, and I had assumed that I would venture down to the small cottage and spend another pleasant evening with her. But I can't say it was unpleasant to find her in my kitchen with a smile on her face.

She laughed as I groaned again, "So instead of competing in potions, it'll be cooking?"

"It's almost the same thing, isn't it?" I asked, clearing the table and making my way to the sink.

"Maybe," She said, leaning against the counter and sipping her wine, "Cooking is a lot less intricate."

"True," I agreed, "But potions don't generally taste as good."

She grimaced, "Polyjuice, bleh!"

"I'm sure you were an adorable cat." I laughed, picking up my scotch and leading her to the couch.

She slapped my arm as she walked past me and sat at the opposite end of the couch, her back leaning against the arm rest, her legs crossed in front of her. "I'll have you know, I was adorable."

I laughed and gently nudged her with my knee, "So, how are you doing?"

"Better, I guess," She shrugged, "I don't feel as angry anymore and I'm finally sleeping through the night, well, most nights, anyway."

"That's disappointing," I said with a dramatic sigh, "I was hoping that I could be your couch buddy again."

She narrowed her eyes at me, but was still smiling when she told me, "Well, winter has only just begun, I'm sure there'll be more opportunities for thunder storms."

I almost choked on my scotch. Was she serious?

I coughed, and didn't miss the smirk she shot me. She had been tentative at first, but the teasing banter that had begun between us three weeks earlier had slowly become more and more natural for her, and she had become so at ease with it, she managed to catch me off guard.

But I recovered quickly, and shot her my own wicked smirk, "Well, like I said, I'll happily sleep beside you anytime you want me to."

"Only on the couch, right?" Her wide-eyed, mock-innocent stare made me laugh.

"Of course.' I said, "Where else would I have meant?"

She laughed and looked around the room, "What is it that you do at night when I'm not here?"

"Um, I read, sometimes I work," I shrugged, "There's a piano upstairs, I play that sometimes."

"Really?" Her face lit up, "You play?"

I nodded, "Since I was about four."

"Would you play for me?"

"Ah," I hesitated. My mother had insisted that I learn to play, but music was something that my father had called frivolous and he thought it a waste of my time, and it was a voice I was still trying to get out of my head.

"Sorry," she said reaching over to me and gently touching my thigh, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, it's okay if you don't want to."

I looked at her. She had shared so much with me, playing for her was the least I could do. I pushed my father's mutterings out of my head and stood, holding my hand out to her, "Come on. I'll show you."

She twisted her mouth into a shy smile and took my outstretched hand, "Thank you, Draco."

"Thank you, Draco."

Her words rang in my head as I led her up the stairs. I'd only ever been Malfoy, despite the budding friendship that was growing between us.

She had only been on the first floor of the house – there had been no reason yet for her to venture up the stairs - and I watched as she took in the rest of the house. I hated clutter and my house reflected that. Clean lines, highly polished floorboards, simple furniture. I lived sparsely; I had no want to show off my family's wealth as my father had done. My only concession was the artwork on my walls - artwork that had her stopping in the long hallway that served as a gallery at the top of the stairs.

One piece in particular, halfway along the hall, had her stopping short and holding her breath - and I hadn't missed the fact that she was still holding my hand.

"This is a Chagall," She looked at me, "Isn't it?"

I nodded, "It is." I stepped back beside her, "Do you like it?"

She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes were wide with awe. "It's perfect." Her voice was barely a whisper as she dropped my hand and stepped closer to the painting.

I stood silently watching her. Her teeth dragged across her bottom lip, a look of concentration creased her brow as she took in the passages of colours. It was what had drawn me to the painting – the stark contrasts of blues and yellows, of greens and reds, of violets and oranges. The full colour spectrum in one painting, and I had stood in an almost identical pose to hers, when I first looked at it.

Her gaze finally returned to me, and her eyes were alive, almost dancing with excitement, "Chagall," She said, her voice breathy, "I can't believe you have a Chagall. I love his work."

I peered over her shoulder at the painting, "It wasn't an easy purchase." I told her, "But when I saw it, I knew I had to have it."

She looked back once more and shook her head again, "You're full of surprises tonight."

I held my hand out again and nodded, "I think I promised you a concerto."

"I believe you did," she said following me down the hallway to another set of stairs. "There's another floor?"

"Yes," I told her, "And it's probably my favourite."

"I can see why," She commented when we reached the top.

The third floor was one, large open room. The entire wall across the front was made of glass and the view over the sea was even more spectacular from this high up. The grand piano stood by the window, and the only other pieces of furniture in the room were a plush leather armchair and a small side table, both set next to the large expanse of bookshelves that reach the entire length of the far wall.

Granger was staring at me, a look of incredulity on her face. She pointed at the wall of books, "You didn't think to tell me about this?"

"I'm not stupid Granger," I drawled, "If I had told you, you would hide up here and I would never get to see you."

"I would be in your house every minute of the day, you would just have to come up the stairs." She said as she walked slowly along the shelves, the implied "du'h" hanging in the air.

I shook my head, wondering if it had been a wise idea to bring her up here. The dreamy look on her face left me with the distinct feeling that she had forgotten her request to hear me play. I made my way to the piano, glancing out the window and yet again appreciating my solitude. The sky was clear, and the stars were bright against the dark backdrop of the night.

I sat on the bench and lifted the lid, the instant calmness that I always felt when I sat here washed over me.

"Sit here," I told her, patting the piano bench beside me.

She turned from the shelves, "I won't be in the way?"

"Nope." I said and when she didn't move, I ordered, "Sit."

She smiled and sat beside me, our legs touching from hips to knees. I closed my eyes and pushed aside the image of my tongue making its way along her leg, going higher and higher...

I shook my head and opened my eyes and found her watching me with a look that had me wondering if she was thinking the same thing.

I took a breath. This was something I never did. My mother had sometimes listened as I played, but she was the only one. Music was something that I kept for myself. Like running along the deserted beach, music had always been an outlet for my anger and frustrations. And it had always had the calming effect that I needed in the midst of all the chaos.

I brushed my fingertips across the cool, white expanse of the keys in front of me, contemplating what I should play for her. She sat silently beside me, waiting patiently. In my mind I pictured several thousand music notes combining in an array of sequences, until I came to the one I wanted.

I looked at her and smiled, reaching my fingers to the keys and playing the opening chords. Debussy, I heard her whisper. And I smiled. I wasn't at all surprised that she knew it. I shut my eyes again, allowing each lilting note, each rise and each fall, to take over every other thought in my head. There was just me and the music, and the pleasant warmth of her body beside me.

The soft notes filled the room, and I felt her relax beside me. I could feel the tapping of her fingers on my thigh as she silently played along with me. Despite my hesitation at playing for her, I realised that she needed this as much as I did; the freedom that the music gave me, might just assist in chipping away a little more of anguish that she was slowly letting go of. I glanced quickly sideways and saw that her eyes were closed, a small smile playing at her mouth. The calming effect it had on me seemed to double for her.

When I finished, she wrapped her arm across my lower back, her fingers digging into my hip. Her head fell against my shoulder and I could hear the shortness of her breath.

"Granger?" I whispered and she lifted her head. I saw the tears in her eyes, but she was smiling at me.

She didn't say anything, she simply stared at my mouth. Then slowly, she lifted her hand to my jaw, her thumb brushing across my lips. She leaned in, closing the space between us, and gently pressed her lips to mine. Without a thought, my hand instinctively reached to the back of her head, holding her to me. Her lips were warm and her kiss tender, her mouth lingering over mine as her fingers lightly brushed my cheek, before she pulled away.

For several long seconds we just stared at each other.

Then her eyes went wide and she pressed her fingers to her lips. "Sorry...I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." she stood and backed away from me.

"Hermione, wait." I called as she turned and fled the room.

I caught up with her in the hallway on the next floor, in front of the painting the she had been in awe of. "Hermione, please stop." I pleaded, and to my surprise, she did.

Turning to face me, I could see the tears brimming in her eyes. I reached out slowly and took her hand in mine.

"What just happened?" I asked quietly.

"I kissed you," her breath caught in her throat and looked down at her feet.

I squeezed her hand, "I noticed that," I told her, "But why did you run?"

"I shouldn't have kissed you," she shook her head, almost violently, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and the piece you played was so perfect and you looked so beautiful playing it and when you finished I just…and I shouldn't have done that."

"Hey," I said, calmly interrupting her rambling even though my heart was racing. I dared to take a step forward, gently touching her face with my hand, "It's okay that you kissed me. I really don't mind."

She closed her eyes and unconsciously leaned into my hand as I caressed her cheek, "No," she said, her voice breaking, "It's too soon...and I shouldn't be thinking of you like..." She shook her head again.

"Hermione, its okay," I assured her softly, cupping her face in both my hands and forcing her to look at me. "I want this too."

Her tear-filled eyes overflowed and she let out a sob. I pulled her to me, wrapping my arms around her, expecting her to struggle, to try to get away. But she simply buried her face in my chest and her body shook as she began crying in earnest.

I held her tighter, tucking my chin over her head. I had thought she was moving on, returning to herself, but I couldn't have been further from the truth. She was still holding on to her anger and her hurt, she had just managed to push it all down and pretend that she was fine.

Her sobs slowly subsided and her hands that were fisting my shirt finally relaxed. She looked up at me, and my heart almost broke. Her usually expressive eyes were staring back at me and were lost and confused, and her lips were quivering as she fought to keep herself calm.

I wanted to kiss those lips, wanted to lift her into my arms and carry her to my bed. I wanted to make love to her the way she deserved; slowly, quietly, completely worshipping her. But I held it all back and instead I pressed my lips to her forehead and then smiled.

"You kissed me," I said and she nodded, "Is that something you've been thinking about? Something you want to do again?"

"I wanted to kiss you," she admitted timidly, "It seems that it's all I can think about lately…well, that and the fact that I shouldn't be thinking about it."

"Why shouldn't you be thinking about it?"

She shrugged, "I keep thinking that it's too soon, that I should wait for…I don't know."

I bent slightly to look her in the eyes, "What do you need to wait for?"

She covered her face with her hands and I waited patiently for her to gather her thoughts. She stood quietly, without moving as the seconds ticked by, and I finally, carefully, pulled her hands away from her face.

"Hermione, talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking."

She exhaled a shaky breath, "I don't know how long is appropriate."

"Appropriate?" I frowned, "What do you—"

Oh!

In typical Granger style, she was trying to find an answer, an answer that didn't exist. What was appropriate for one person was inappropriate for another, but I knew that in her analytical mind, she would need an exact time. It had only been two months since she had discovered her cheating boyfriend and I knew that she would be struggling with these new feelings that had arisen in such a short amount of time.

I placed my hands on her shoulders, "There's no answer to that," I said honestly, "And only you will know when you're ready. But until then, I will wait."

Her hands fisted my shirt at my hips, "But…" she hiccupped, "Why would you wait?"

"Because I know you're worth it," I told her.

"You don't mean that."

"I do mean it. Right now, you don't think you're worth anything, but you're wrong. I've waited so long for you that waiting a little longer won't kill me." She shook her head and I sighed, "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I don't know Draco," She shuddered and sucked in several gulps of air, "I've been lied to so many times, I don't know what the truth is anymore."

I gathered her in my arms and kissed the top of her head, "The truth is, I know what I want Hermione, and what I want is you."

A choked sob stole from her throat, but I felt her arms wrap around my middle. Her head rested on my shoulder and I felt the tiny spasms in her chest as she slowly calmed herself. We stood wrapped together for what seemed like forever, until her breathing became more even, and a small sigh sounded as an easy silence fell over us.

I cradled her head in one hand and leaned my cheek to her crown. She was tiny in my arms, her slight frame fitting perfectly against me, and despite the fact that she was shivering, she was warm, and her soft scent was all around me. It felt natural to finally hold her, to comfort her with my body, rather than just words.

"I like that painting," She whispered, and a laugh vibrated through my chest. I heard her own small giggle, and I hugged her tighter.

"We can stay here looking at it all night, if you want."

She shook her head and looked up at me, "I think I need to go."

"Do you need me to sleep on your couch?" I asked, hoping that I didn't sound too desperate.

"No," she said with a sad smile, "I think, I need..."

I cupped her face, "You need some space?"

She nodded, "Is that okay?"

"It is," I said, "But please stay. Don't run away."

"I won't." She reached up and touched my cheek, "I'll come and see you tomorrow?"

"Of course." I leaned in and pressed my lips to her forehead, lingering for several seconds before pulling back.

She stepped out of my embrace and took a steadying breath. She smiled at me and nodded, and then disappeared from my hallway.

***** HERMIONE *****

I rested my chin on my knees, staring into the fire, trying to lose myself in the slow, intricate dance that the flames were performing. I was struggling to stay afloat and not drown in the overwhelming jumble of thoughts and emotions that were clouding my brain. I knew I wouldn't sleep. I needed to process what had happened, and why I had reacted like I had.

I had kissed him. I had kissed Draco Malfoy. And the surge of emotions that I had felt in those few seconds our lips were pressed together had shocked me. Draco Malfoy had shocked me.

The insults that had been the norm when we were children no longer existed, and instead had been replaced with flirty teasing and playful banter. We'd had long conversations on the beach about books and potions; my parents; his father. We'd eaten together, laughing about his spoiled, entitled upbringing and my life before I learned I was a witch. And through all of it, I had surprisingly become friends with Draco Malfoy.

And then it became so much more. He was everywhere, every minute of my day. He had crept into my entire being, and even in my sleep – as broken as it was - I couldn't escape him as he flitted through my dreams. Every time he had come near me, I felt a heat rise within me that I hadn't been able to tamp down. And every smile, every laugh, every glimmer in those grey eyes, had managed to slip beneath my skin making all the feelings that were brewing inside of me even stronger.

And I was confused.

Six years was a long time to share your life with someone, to be completely and blissfully in love. And two months after it all ended was nowhere near enough time to be feeling what I was feeling. How did you move on after such a devastating betrayal, from what you thought your life was going to be? How did you push all of that aside, all the laughter, all the tears, all the adventures, all the plans for the future?

It wasn't possible to move on so quickly, to want to be with someone else.

Was it?

He had changed more than I could have ever imagined. The cutting, hurtful boy had emerged from the ruins of the war as a gentler, caring, funny, and far kinder person. He had apologised for his behaviour, had asked my forgiveness for the way he had treated me, had shown a vulnerability that I hadn't thought possible in him. And in my own weakness, my own vulnerability, he had held me close and had comforted me.

I closed my eyes and ran my finger along my lips. A sense of passion, of longing, of wanting had filled me in the few seconds we had sat staring at each other, and I wasn't sure what it was that drove me to do it - maybe it had been the dark gaze in his eyes, or the masculine scent of him filling my senses - but I was unable to stop the sudden urge to lean in and kiss him.

And his lips had been exactly how I had imagined; soft and strong, and feeling his mouth on my own had stirred something inside me that felt almost foreign.

But his gentle hands in my hair and on my face – the same hands that held me mesmerised as they moved fluidly over the piano keys - had all been too much. It was a tenderness I hadn't been prepared for, and my instincts to run had kicked in and I needed to get as far away from him as possible.

What I hadn't expected was for him to chase me, to tell me that my kissing him was perfectly okay, and the shock of his declaration to wait for me was my breaking point. But when he pulled me to him, I had felt the warmth of his body pressed against mine, the possessiveness of his arms wrapped tightly around me, his need to protect me and I had felt nothing but a sense of being completely safe.

I had never before felt such an intense need to have another person near me, touching me, holding me, and it was a need that I couldn't explain. But it was also a need that felt completely natural.

I turned and looked towards his house and saw the light in the small window that face my cottage, and I knew that he was there, that he was watching over me.

I felt the tears return, and I brushed them away, hugging my knees even tighter to my chest. I should have let him come here with me. I should have let him sleep on my couch. I should have slept soundly listening to his even breaths and I should have woken with him within an arms length of me.

But above all, I shouldn't have let my hurt and anger overshadow what I was beginning to feel for him.