Needing Is One Thing; Getting? Getting's Another

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Prompt: "Anonymous asked: Could you write a small scene/drabble/one-shot in which Hermione and Draco are dating and he introduces Astoria to Hermione. And Hermione is jealous because Astoria is really beautiful, and sometimes Hermione feels like she isn't enough (like in your Dramione with Ginny, in which Ginny told Draco that Hermione deep down cares about her appearance). And Astoria flirts a bit with Draco... But Draco loves Hermione :) It could be other part of the Dramione (with Ginny) series, or other new drabble."

Hermione: Part 2

Summer 2004

Dating Draco Malfoy was one of the most terrifying things she'd ever done. It slotted somewhere below the Battle of Hogwarts and somewhere above seeking out a runaway basilisk with a mirror.

It wasn't that he was a bad boyfriend. After four months of dating, she could say with reasonable certainty that he was actually a pretty good one; despite still being a massive prat, he consistently showed consideration for her interests, went out of his way to include himself in said interests, complimented her fairly regularly, and showed a keen interest himself in spending a lot of time with her. The sex, which had commenced somewhere around week two of dating, had almost shocked her with its excellence – she would never have guessed, in a thousand years, that Draco Malfoy was a generous lover.

He could be a bit of a selfish git outside of the bedroom, naturally, but once inside of it, it was like a secret alternative self unlocked and suddenly it was all a big, fat Hermione celebration.

In all honesty, it was a bit overwhelming. She was much more used to her boyfriends being the lackluster sort.

However, that wasn't what made dating Draco Malfoy terrifying.

That distinction lay with the social circles he frequented, especially the girls he'd previously dated, which he seemed to be on excellent terms with as a general rule. She wasn't sure how it was possible to date a series of people so bitchy and self-centered and come away friendly with them, but Draco had certainly managed it. He could probably write a book on how to end short-lived relationships on a happy note.

Whenever she asked, of course, he was dismissive, shrugging the question away. It hadn't occurred to him that enmity with one's exes was even possible.

Then again, the Pureblooded circles he frequented weren't exactly massive. Maybe they'd all been trained to stay on good terms with each other, no matter what, in order to keep garnering invitations to all the parties.

Speaking of the parties, Hermione hated them.

Talking with the snots that populated them filled her with anxiety, mostly because she could see in their bemused expressions that they had no idea why Draco was interested in a plain little thing like her. Sometimes, she'd be locked in conversation with one of them, and they'd just give her this curious look mid-way through, as if to ask, You? Why you?

She wished she could help them, but she had no idea, either. A part of her half-expected every day that Draco would show up for a date, burst out laughing, and say, "Seriously? April Fool's, Granger. Get out of my sight."

However, the months dragged on, and he never did. And his interest in her seemed sincere; she had no good reason to doubt it.

But looking at him, engaged with a small gaggle of beautiful women across the room, she couldn't help but doubt it a little. He was a strikingly handsome man, probably due to generations upon generations of selectively breeding with only the most beautiful women money could buy. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a trim waist that led into unreasonably long legs. His teeth were gleaming white and perfectly straight, and his smile was perfectly symmetrical. Even his ears were attractive.

And yet he was with her.

She'd found a less populated corner of the ballroom to stand in, praying for a few moments of peace – everyone wanted to meet the girl that had gotten Serial Bachelor Draco Malfoy caught in her wiles for longer than two weeks, and of course they were always a little disappointed with how average she was when they did.

Lucius Malfoy was across the room, holding court. Since the war, his public opinions on Muggleborns had changed radically, to the point that he almost seemed proud that his son was dating one.

Privately, though, he was still cold as hell, and she had no doubt that he disliked her.

Narcissa, bless her, was trying. Kinder by nature than her husband, she was usually the one to try and engage Hermione in conversation (although struggled to keep the polite smile on her face when Hermione actually spoke about the things that interested her, no doubt bored to tears). She tried to suggest fashion tips, makeup tips, hair charms, and Hermione tried to smile and promise to use them. But she never really did. She just didn't care about that sort of stuff.

But Draco seemed to like Hermione, so Narcissa had become determined to like her, too.

"Hermione." She turned, smiling wanly when Draco approached her. He looked briefly concerned by her location at the far corner of the room, alone, and then offered her a small wince of sympathy. He knew how much she hated these things; she was equal parts determined to go for his sake and determined to go so none of these snobs could say they'd successfully scared her off.

A woman moved along in his wake, tall and beautiful, like usual. Her blonde hair was half done up, and the remainder cascaded over her shoulder in perfect, smooth waves.

She recognized her as Draco's previous girlfriend – the one he'd had the longest relationship with so far, at nearly five months, although Hermione was close to shattering that record – Astoria Greengrass. Despite being friendly with Daphne, she'd never properly met Astoria; from what she'd heard, Daphne dating Harry Potter had estranged her from her sister a bit, although Hermione couldn't particularly fathom why that was.

"This is Astoria; you remember her from Hogwarts, don't you?" Draco said, gesturing towards the blonde.

She summoned a better smile. "Of course. Daphne talks about you a lot," she added, although that wasn't really true.

Given the sarcastic eyebrow tilt she received from the girl, she supposed Astoria had caught the lie. "We've always been very different people," she admitted. Daphne had been quiet and reserved in school, and Astoria had been more popular and confident. As adults, Daphne liked to socialize but was content to sit in the house with Harry and do something quiet and intimate. From what Hermione had heard, though, Astoria was sort of Queen Socialite, and possibly the most eligible potential wife in all of London.

"I like your dress," Hermione offered. It was beautiful and shiny, and the exact sort of thing Hermione herself never wore.

Astoria's eyes flicked over Hermione's attire – despite the nature of these parties, Hermione always insisted on dressing herself. To Draco's credit, though, he never once looked embarrassed to be seen with her, even though she was wearing yet another dress off the rack of a department store. This one, at least, was new. "Your dress is… very interesting," Astoria murmured, at a loss for anything truly nice to say. "Who made it?"

"Erm… I don't know," Hermione said, blinking. "A bunch of machines in a factory, probably."

Astoria's face went blank when she failed to recognize the most important words in that sentence, but she managed a tight smile. "I see." The music shifted, and her smile grew, becoming radiant as she turned to Draco. She put her hand on his forearm and leaned in, offering him a resplendent view of her chest. "Oh, I love this waltz. Dance with me?"

"Of course," he agreed, amiably. He glanced at Hermione. "I'll be back."

She nodded, her own smile a little tight as her stomach twisted. Astoria stayed latched onto his arm, simpering a bit as he led her to the dance floor. She knew it was stupid, but a part of her wished that Draco could at least look a little reluctant to be dancing with the gorgeous blonde.

As the waltz progressed, though, she had to admit to herself that he looked like he was having fun. Hermione had never agreed to dance with him at these things – not even once – because she was terrified of tripping and making a damn fool of herself in front of everyone. She didn't grow up learning these dances, like everyone else.

He'd asked her a few times, but had eventually given up.

Now, looking at him sweep Astoria around the room, she kind of wished he hadn't. A wave of something that felt a little like depression swept over her, and she hugged her arms in front of herself.

Maybe they were both just kidding themselves. She was never going to fit into his world – not when this stuff was such a huge part of it.

And Astoria Greengrass was a much better fit for it. Lucius adored her, Hermione knew, as did Narcissa. She figured they'd had plenty of confused conversations with Draco, trying to ascertain why he'd ever ended things with her only to downgrade to Hermione Granger.

It was utterly lacking in any sort of social graces, but she raised her glass and gulped back the rest of her drink before setting the glass on the nearest flat surface.

Then she weaved through the crowd to find the Floo, which was tucked away in another room. She couldn't spend another second in that packed ballroom with all those judgmental snots who hated her, watching her boyfriend grin happily as he danced with another, more beautiful (and obviously better suited) woman. She wanted to go home, get out of this itchy, uncomfortable dress, put on her baggiest pajamas, and curl up on her ratty old couch with Crookshanks and try to forget what existing felt like.

The Floo was across an empty drawing room, and she walked briskly for it, hoping to get there before someone noticed her leaving.

"Hermione?" No such luck.

She paused at his voice, her hand hovering over the little alabaster tin of floo powder. She supposed she at least owed him enough to let him know she was leaving. Turning, she smiled at him, and said, "Sorry, I suddenly developed this massive headache. I think I ought to go home."

Draco frowned, cross the room towards her. The waltz music was still going on, she realized; he'd left Astoria on the dancefloor?

"You don't have a headache," he told her, and she winced a bit. She'd never quite gotten the hang of lying. He stopped in front of her, his hand seeking out her elbow. His skin was warm. "Why are you leaving?"

She sucked in a breath. "Jesus, Draco," she muttered. "I don't belong here. I'm so ridiculously out of place, I feel like I'm more a show than an attendee."

His frown intensified a bit. "You got invited, just as I did."

"So everyone could see the dog-and-pony show that managed to trick you into dating them," she snapped, a little bitterly. "Nobody's actually interested in talking to me. They're just trying to figure out if I Imperio'd you, or slipped you a love potion, or something."

"That's ridiculous," he said, firmly. "If you'd done either of those things, I'd be acting very out of character."

"I know that," she hissed, bristling. She knew what the Imperius did. She knew what love potions did. She didn't need him to tell her that. In a room full of gorgeous women, her intellect was all she had, and damned if she was going to let him snatch that away from her, too. "Look. I'm fine, I just want to go home. Go finish your dance with Astoria."

His eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back a bit to regard her.

When he just stared, silent, she grit out, "What?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you jealous, before," he said, wonderingly.

"I'm not jealous!" Hackles fully raised, she shook his hand off of her elbow, crossing her arms in front of her chest and scowling with all of her might. "But I think everyone in this house, you and I included, can tell which one of us is probably the better match for you. What are you doing with someone like me?"

Sobering a bit, Draco's eyes scanned her face. Then, simply, he said, "Enjoying myself for the first time in a very long time."

Stunned, she blinked at him. She felt her mouth open, but she had no words, and eventually she closed it again.

"I'm not too good for you," he said, slowly. Her face went bright red, confirming what he'd suspected, and he laughed, incredulous. "I'm not. If anything, you're far too good for me. I should be kissing your feet every day, that you'd condescend to even look at me."

She knew her face was as red as it could possibly get. "Don't be stupid," she muttered, embarrassed.

"I'm not stupid. I was right behind you in marks," he reminded her, closing the small gap between them. His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up to look at him. He looked somber. "I don't think I've ever wanted anything as much as I've wanted you."

"Stop," she muttered, utterly mortified by his sincerity.

"No," he refused. "I would give all of this up for just one more day with you, arguing about something stupid like French politics, making you laugh." His voice dropped a bit, with promise. "Make you sigh with pleasure."

"Oh, my God, we're in public," she protested, shooting a scandalized look at the door.

His smile widened. "I love you," he said, and smirked a bit when he saw her eyes widen comically. She spluttered a bit, and he took mercy on her and kissed her so she wouldn't have to formulate a response.