Chapter 6

Draco thought of Hermione incessantly for the next several days. It was traditional to send a date a bouquet of flowers or some other token of appreciation for their company on the morning after. But since the tradition was an old one, he wasn't sure which would be more irritating to a Muggle-born: to receive a gift (as if it were payment?) or to be ignored (as if considered inconsequential?). After debating the question for hours, and having no one to consult with, he finally decided that he was wasting his time trying to figure out which was the right move. He went to sleep determined to go to work the next day as if nothing had happened.

That night, and every night after, he was plagued with shimmery memories of their night together. His brain seemed obsessed with replaying those moments when she danced in his arms. When he slumbered, he could feel again the satiny smoothness of her skin and the sensual texture of the lace at her back. In his dreams she looked up at him and she laughed, and he held her close, and they spun and spun and the world was just lights around them.

Sometimes he even leaned down to put his mouth on hers, and she wrapped her arms around him and he breathed in her scent. She was warm and soft, shy and eager, and he couldn't get enough of the feel of her, the magnificent emerald dress bunching in his hands as he clutched at her, until somehow it was gone and his hands were free to roam over her willing flesh. And it was just the two of them, spinning and spinning, and he didn't dare stop to breathe. Except he always needed oxygen, and when he finally gasped for air, he would wake up with his heart pounding, his arms empty and aching, and he would curse himself for being a lovesick fool.

He was gearing up for a raid, running a check on his equipment, when she burst into his office in a flurry. In her hands was a copy of Witch Weekly, and the excitement on her face caused him to pause in his actions to take in the pleasing color of her cheeks and the light in her eyes.

"We did it!" she said without any preamble. And when Draco raised one eyebrow in a questioning glance, she slammed the copy of the magazine down on his desk. He didn't tell her that he'd already received his copy that morning. As he always did he had devoured it for any news of her, so he knew she was on the cover and that there were several pages detailing their night at the Ministry dinner inside.

"I look fabulous!" she crowed, pointing out the moving picture of her laughing on the cover, the emerald dress sparkling, her eyes sassy and sultry at the same time—the very picture of confidence and poise. Underneath the caption read: "War-Heroine Hermione Granger Outshines the Brightest Stars of the Night." Smaller pictures on the side showed Harry and Ginny, the Minister, the Weasel, and even one of him, none of which could compare to the glowing image of Granger.

"You do," Draco acknowledged, forbearing to mention that he included the current moment in his assessment, as well as the picture on the cover. "But I thought we'd already agreed on that."

"I know," she said passionately, "but this is the first time that they talk about me as if I am a person and not just an extension of Ron Weasley, or even Harry Potter, and certainly not a tragic victim of infidelity. You were right: I just needed to out-confidence them."

He put a bored look on and shook out his gloves as he pulled them on and laced them up. "Of course I was right. That's what I do."

She laughed at him, and he tried to keep the pleased look off of his face that she could find his arrogance entertaining instead of offensive.

"I'm too happy to argue the point at the moment," Hermione said with good humor, making herself at home in the chair in front of his desk. She flipped the magazine back around so she could look at it, pointing out one of Draco's favorite pictures of the two of them laughing at the dinner table. "Look, here's one of the two of us!"

To amuse her, he looked, pretending to regard it carefully. In reality he was noticing the picture in the corner that showed a pouty Lavender Brown trying to wheedle something from Weasley. The image in the box stamped her foot repeatedly, her face ugly with frustration. He'd already seen the picture, of course, but his copy didn't include magically drawn horns and buck teeth.

She noticed him smirking at it and she grinned mischievously. "I never said I was an artist."

"On the contrary, Granger—you have a very perceptive eye." He made a show of looking at it more closely and added, "Your sense of proportion seems to be rooted in a different reality, as I'm sure those teeth are roughly the size of her arm, but there's a certain charm to it all the same."

"You don't think I'm being childish?" she asked hesitantly. "To feel triumph at something as shallow as a flattering shot in a tawdry magazine?"

Draco noticed she didn't mention the defacing of Lavender Brown's, well, face, because that was obviously a bit childish. She was still seeking reassurance that her feelings were valid.

After a moment of looking at the magazine, he looked up at her and said, "Granger, the first time I appeared in a magazine and wasn't called a Death Eater, a traitor, a pureblood fascist or anything on the theme, I celebrated being just Draco Malfoy. It's not childish to hope the public can see you for who you are, and not just what you've endured."

She sobered very quickly at that, no doubt wracking her mind for any times she might have contributed to Wizarding Society's shunning of Draco Malfoy. Though the war was well behind them, the scars left behind would never completely fade. She hadn't given much thought to how difficult it must have been for Draco to be accepted by society without having to make constant reparations for his misdeeds as a boy.

"We should celebrate, then," Hermione finally said, causing Draco to look up at her sharply. She explained, "I'm Hermione Granger, a girl who likes books and a good cup of tea, and has ambition to accomplish something great in the Ministry. And you're Draco Malfoy, an extraordinarily talented Auror who wears a lot of black and enjoys playing quidditch. And it doesn't matter what the tabloids or ignorant, blind, self-righteous idiots say, they don't define us. Only we can define us."

Touched, and a little bit thrilled to hear her use the word "us," he just nodded, once. "I have to report for duty and it looks to be a long day."

"Oh, okay," Hermione said, trying to hide her disappointment, slowly getting up. She picked up her magazine and made as if to leave.

"Tomorrow, maybe," Draco called out to her. "During lunch. You can bring a piece of cake or something."

She smiled at that, and as she walked out she said, "Be safe." No doubt she had said the phrase countless times to others, but it was the first time Draco had ever had anyone show such casual concern over his welfare, and he took a moment to savor it before hastily picking up his things and walking quickly down the hall to where he was already late for the briefing.

The next day, due to a flurry of teenagers illegally using magic outside of school and getting themselves into considerable trouble, Draco missed lunch back at his desk. He tried to convince himself that it wasn't like they'd set up a date or something. It would seem awfully formal if he sent her an owl telling her he was going to be late. She might not even have taken him seriously, and probably wasn't planning on coming by at all. He wasn't sure which was worse at the moment: that she would stop by his desk and not find him there, with no word, or that she wasn't thinking about him at all and had already dismissed their conversation from her mind.

Okay, clearly the latter was worse.

When he made it back, a bit grimy from the field, he stopped short to find a single slice of cake sitting on his desk. It had a magical protection bubble around it, presumably keeping it fresh, but also making it look a little bit like a special snowglobe of cake. He slowly lowered his gear in a corner, to be unpacked later, and with a casual glance over his shoulder, he closed his office door.

He was feeling sort of pleased and tingly and didn't want anyone coming in to ask him questions. He sat at his desk, noting the skill of the magic weaved around the cake, and with a few words and a flick of his wand, he disbursed it.

The cake was black. It smelled rather sinfully of chocolate, making it clear what flavor it was, but it was unusual for a cake to be so dark. The frosting was also black and on the top was a profusion of black sprinkles. In fact, there were so many sprinkles on the cake that they were scattered all over the plate as well.

He noticed a slip of paper sticking out from underneath the plate, and drew it out to see a note from Granger.

"Mine was gold. Because I'm not a depressive soul who resents all the colors of the rainbow in retaliation for being born with albino hair and as a consequence invents my own shade of black."

He laughed aloud at that, his fingers resting on the light lines of her signature at the bottom. It said, simply, "HG."

Idly flipping the note over, he saw a P.S. "I thought the sprinkles made it look more festive."

He ate it while logging his day's activities, a silly grin plastered on his face.