Chapter 2

"Malfoy," she said, by way of greeting. She was wearing a stunning dress of gold (of course), that shimmered in the low lighting of the magical crystal chandeliers, and he deliberately refused to notice that when she sat the slit in the side revealed the slightest peek of her thigh.

"Granger," he acknowledged, his voice husky with firewhiskey and the trembles that danced through his body whenever she was near. He looked in her direction but didn't quite look at her, being too busy with trying to ignore whatever scent she was wearing that seemed to want to slide under his skin.

She smiled a half-smile and said, "It's been a while," to try to break the ice. But Draco was having none of it, and just sort of nodded abruptly, not finding it in himself to be directly rude. Not to her, who was regularly the only person who was ever genuinely nice to him.

After ordering a drink, she let out a sigh. "Malfoy—" she began, before he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"I know, Granger."

Surprised, but not offended by his taciturn ways, she raised one eyebrow and asked, "You do, do you?"

Picking up his empty glass and looking into it as if more firewhiskey were going to magically appear inside (which it might, you never know), he stated with authority, "You're going to thank me for saving Weasley's life. Which is a part of my job. And which I did." And he added, with only the slightest hint of bitterness, "Because I'm good at my job."

His firewhiskey glass did not magically refill, but another glass magically appeared in front of him, so he figured that was just as good, and he began to work at making it look just as empty as its twin.

From Granger there was a brief silence, followed by quiet words. "That's not the way I heard it, Malfoy." More silence. "I heard that Ron could not be saved. That you went against orders, fended off three dark wizards at once, and hurled him to safety when the bomb went off. And the only reason you made it out was the Patronus you cast before you collapsed was one of the brightest witnessed on the field."

Draco toyed with his now-empty glass and said ruefully, "Sounds like you should be writing my reports for me."

There was a tsking sound from Granger that caused him to look up, immediately regretting the choice as her eyes stared straight into him making him wonder if the burning in his throat was actually from the firewhiskey. He quickly looked back down, shaking his head briefly.

"Malfoy, it was no little thing," she said, thinking he meant to shake off his heroic actions. She delicately sipped from her drink, and then tapped her fingers on the countertop, choosing her words carefully. "I know that the Department will thank you. And I know that even Ron might speak to you after this." She smiled a little smile at her joke, the smile fading quickly as she saw he didn't respond. "But I just wanted you to know that I see you, for who you are, and I thank you. For your bravery every day. But for that day, especially, I thank you."

Draco set his glass down, gently, trying to calm the maelstrom of feelings that swirled inside him at her words. Knowing she expected some sort of response, he just sighed, and said, "I know, Granger." He chanced a quick glance at her, before looking back down at his empty glasses, knowing and hating that she understood him well enough to hear that her words truly affected him.

Of course, she didn't know—couldn't know—that when he went after Weasley single-mindedly, jeopardizing his Auror career and his life in one fool-hardy sweep, that all he could think about was that Granger was waiting somewhere for Weasley to come home, and he could never, ever look at her again if he didn't find a way to make that happen.

And when he thought he was dead, it was the thought of her hand on his arm, the thought of her face tilted up towards his, that allowed him to conjure a Patronus shield for the first time, in a last desperate attempt to save himself.

So her words and her thanks cut into him, driving his self-loathing, in a way she could never understand. He saved Ron Weasley because he was in love with his girl. Pathetic.

As she walked away, carrying her drink, he wondered if it was possible this day could get any worse.

It was well on towards midnight when Draco went on a mission to find the loo. Some quack kept changing its location as the ballroom underwent constant construction. Sometimes it had a bright sign pointing right at it, and sometimes it was hidden away in a tiny, dark corner as if using the loo were a disgraceful, inhuman act.

Since the obvious locations did not yield the appropriate results, Draco was currently betting on the dark corners of the excessively decorated woodsy theme, figuring that even if he was unsuccessful a tree might do just as well.

It was in one such dark corner that he stumbled upon an amorous couple in a heated embrace. He should have been alerted by the faint scuffling sounds that he had not found the loo, but being a tad too drunk, and more than a tad too obsessed with self-recriminating thoughts, he didn't notice until he had literally bumped into them.

Wands were pulled on instinct, the couple grappling furiously at loose clothing, and in the faint wandlight, he was so surprised at what he saw that he temporarily forgot to remain silent, and blurted out, "Weasley?"

It was the Weasel all right. His messy hair was standing out every which way and he had lipstick all over his face. The thought passed fleetingly through Draco's mind that Hermione never wore that much lipstick, when it finally clicked in his mind that the female huddled against Ron, her face turned away from the wandlight, was not wearing a gold dress that sparkled in the light. And she didn't have cinnamon colored curls that smelled like heaven.

And in that moment Draco Malfoy felt a burning anger and disgust such as he had never felt in his life. Despite the alcohol in his bloodstream, every one of his senses were on alert, as if for battle, his wand hand ready to let fly the darkest of curses, if necessary.

"Weasley," he ground out, tones laced with an acrid loathing, this time not a question, but a confirmation.

Ron grinned sheepishly, and said, "Just a bit of fun, mate," by way of an excuse. His attempt at lightening the mood only caused Draco to glare at him more stonily, prompting Ron, ever the bumbler, to elaborate more fully. "Near-death experience, and all." As Draco's eyes narrowed, Ron blurted a hasty, "Thanks for the save, by the way."

The girl in the lavender dress made a small, distressed, whimpering sound, her body still rigid, afraid to turn around. Draco growled a low, "You're despicable, Weasley."

Ron responded with a look of hurt, "Now, Dra—Malfoy," he quickly corrected at Draco's look, "a man's just been through a crazy experience, and sometimes just needs to," his eyes darted towards the girl still clutched in his arms, "blow off some steam," he finished lamely. "Yeah?"

Draco lowered his wand to his side, vibrating with unreleased anger, the desire to use his fists to smash the look off Weasley's face the most prominent thought in his head.

Then Ron made the mistake of haltingly asking, "You—you won't tell Hermione, will you?"

With lightning fast reflexes, Draco hexed him, slashing him across the cheek, through the smears of lipstick, leaving a tiny thin line of blood. Ron didn't retaliate; he just stared at Draco in shock.

The hex felt good, but couldn't be nearly enough to soothe the rage he was feeling. With his wand pointed at Ron's throat, he took a few deep breaths, no doubt causing Ron to wonder if he would Avada him. But all he said was, "It's none of my business."

Before Ron could exhale in relief, though, Draco continued, "But Hermione's not stupid. She's the brightest witch of the age, and will eventually figure out what I have always known…that you are just a Weasel," this last word spat with as much contempt as Draco could muster. "She doesn't need me to tell her."

And just as Draco was thinking this was absolutely the worst night of his life, and he was going to need a lot more firewhiskeys, he heard a soft, quavering voice behind him.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Malfoy. But, clearly I'm not the brightest witch of the age, am I?"

Since his eyes were still trained on Weasley's face, he saw the look of surprise and fear that crossed it. He didn't need to look behind him to know she was there, beautiful in her gold dress, a look of profound hurt on her face. He could hear the tears in her voice. And if the rage he felt before was blinding, he was now like the sun ready to explode with massive destruction.

He yelled loudly in frustration, a roar of helplessness and uncertainty, causing the girl to whimper louder and clutch at Ron.

And in the echoing silence after, Draco whispered, "Petrificus Totalus."

Then he said, "They're all yours," over his shoulder, and without looking at Her, he walked away, quest for the loo forgotten. He ignored the questioning glances and the excited chatter, and when he exited the building, he promptly Apparated to his flat where his newfound sobriety was fought back glass by glass.

A/N: Sorry about the last chapter and the formatting stuff, you guys. After I had loaded it last night, it all looked fine. But clearly something went wrong in the copy/paste department. I fixed the last chapter, and posted this next one for you guys just to make up for it. :-) I am hoping to post a new chapter probably every week. This story is half written already, with the rest outlined, and I'm expecting probably about 25 chapters. And thanks so much for the reviews!