I have posted one other oneshot, The Riddle Enigma. This is my second oneshot. And a disclaimer: I own Nerissa. And Christopher. And Emma. And Jake. (Even though the two of them—Emma and Jake, that is—are only mentioned, and nothing else, in this oneshot.) And that's basically it. I probably don't even own the plot, because it's probably overused.

Another Lifetime

Lady Zabini

In books, forbidden love is romantic. In real life, it's a pain in the ar—er, neck.

He had it so bad.

He had always watched her from afar—doing homework with the Golden Boy, the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, and the dumb, redheaded sidekick, Ron Weasley. Cheering the Gryffindor Quidditch team on in the stands during a Quidditch game. Lecturing on the art of the N.E.W.T.s. Eating breakfast or dinner with her friends. Sitting in the library, her nose buried in a book, lost in the world of literature, oblivious to everything else around her.

She was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful—from her long, brown hair—some would call it bushy, but privately he disagreed—to her chocolate brown eyes.

She was a Mudblood. There was no way he could date a Mudblood. It was forbidden in pureblood society.

She was best friends with the Dark Lord's number one enemy. She stood against everything the Dark Lord represented. In short, the Dark Lord—and pureblood society—forbade it all.

Pansy Parkinson, Draco's girlfriend, called her ugly. Granger was an ugly, bushy-haired bookworm. Granger was a goody-goody Gryffindor. Granger was a Mudblood.

Draco always agreed. He made a point of singling her out and making fun of her and her friends in the halls. He cornered them and taunted them. He threatened them. He called them names and occasionally even hexed the Gryffindor trio.

But deep inside, he wanted nothing more than to stroke her soft, brown hair, and to cup her face in his hands and kiss her as hard and long as he wanted.

It was not possible. There was no way it would be possible.

But he still fantasized about it.

In short, he was in love with the enemy.

It's true—opposites attract. The good girl likes the bad boy. At least it's true in Hermione Granger's situation.

She had it so bad.

She had always watched him from afar—whether Draco Malfoy was taunting a Hufflepuff student, sneering smugly at her best friend, Harry Potter, or playing Quidditch, with his green Slytherin robes flapping out behind him, she had always watched him. And admired him.

It was an extremely sad thought. Draco Malfoy was the enemy. His father was a Death Eater. He hated Muggleborns—read: her.

But she couldn't help it.

She loved to hate him, but she just couldn't help to hate to love him.

There was something so deep and mysterious about him that just made her want to kiss him, to stroke his blond hair, to tell him that she loved him.

He was so appealing to her. And it disgusted her.

She had loved to slap him. In third year, it had felt so good to reach her hand out and strike him on the cheek. It had felt good.

As Ron would say it, "Infatuations bloody suck."

Ah, yes. Ron.

Speaking of Ron. She could tell he liked her. It was quite obvious. From the way he gave her goggle-eyed looks when he thought she wasn't looking to the way he blushed whenever she praised him. She could tell he was infatuated with her.

So she played this up to the extreme. She pretended to like him back. She pretended to be jealous when he went off and snogged Lavender Brown. She spoke to Ginny about Ron being an inconsiderate prat.

And somewhere deep inside her, she couldn't wishing it would make Draco Malfoy jealous.

Of course, it didn't work. He taunted her mercilessly about the fact that she was dating Ronald Weasley. He himself dated the cow Pansy Parkinson.

There was no way Draco Malfoy would like Hermione Granger. So she could just give the idea up already.

However, miracles do happen sometimes. Now must be one of those times.

"Go away, Malfoy. There is no way I would meet you," Hermione Granger spat angrily in his face. "You've proved what a coward you are already, two years ago. You've joined the Death Eaters. I am on the side of the Order of the Phoenix. So you can just let go of my arm."

"Please. Hear me out," he begged in a hoarse whisper. His platinum blond hair was matted and dirty. His eyes were sad and too old for his age—which wasn't even twenty yet. His robes were torn and frayed, and he was wet and dirty. Yet he didn't let go of her arm, looking at her in a sort of very un-Malfoy-ish way.

She stared him down, but there was that look again. He could very well whip out a wand and kill her. Yet she still couldn't say no.

How was it that Draco Malfoy joined the Death Eaters and she still found him so irresistible?

"Five minutes," she finally relented. "Five minutes, and no more."

"All right," he agreed, leading her up to a room.

She mentally swore. How could I have trusted him? He's going to kill me now, or rape me, or…something. And she couldn't help feeling disgusted with herself that even if he did try to rape her, she wouldn't mind.

He didn't however. He closed the door and locked it, but he when he turned to her, he still bore that expression on his face.

"I joined the Death Eaters," he finally began speaking, "because I wanted to earn my father's approval."

She nodded slowly, showing that she was listening.

He began speaking of how he had joined. How he had wanted his father to finally love him, and be proud of him. It didn't happen. He had left.

"I can be a spy if you want. Dumbledore's dead, McGonagall's dead, everyone's dead. I can help you win. The Dark Lord doesn't know I'm gone yet. Just please don't tell anyone."

Hermione stared at him for a moment. Then she said slowly, "All right."

That was when he kissed her.

Good things don't last long.

"I can't do this," Hermione whispered. "Please, Draco, don't make me."

"Why not?" he asked, staring at her intently. "We can make it work. The war is over. The Dark Lord is dead. We can get married, have a family together…"

"I can't." Hermione shook her head. "I'm engaged to Ron. You're engaged to Pansy Parkinson. No one but the two of us knows of your role in the Dark Lord's defeat. We can't make this work. Everyone would ostracize us. Criticize us. Shun us. It's not possible. I'm sorry, Draco."

"What, the bookworm Granger, who was friendless for a good portion of her first year, can't handle a little criticism? Hermione, please…"

"I'm sorry, Draco. Please don't make me. Marry Pansy Parkinson and produce a heir or two to the Malfoy line with her. I'll marry Ron myself and live the life of the best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived. We can't go on like this."

"I love you so much, Hermione. I can't."

"Yes, you can. Please, Draco. It would be so much better for both of us. If you love me so much like you proclaim, can't you just do this one thing for me?"

He relented. "All right." Even as he said the words, he could feel his own heart breaking.

And even as he slowly pushed her down onto his bed and kissed her, they both knew it was for the last time.

"Daddy, I'm smarter than I look. Please just tell me the truth."

"Daddy," seven-year-old Nerissa Malfoy said, looking up at her father innocently. "I know you love me. But you don't love Mummy, do you?"

Draco Malfoy looked down at his daughter, the offspring he had produced with Pansy Parkinson. She had received none of her mother's…ahem…unattractive looks. She had innocent crystal clear blue eyes, untouched by the casualties of war, and long, silky blond locks. She was dressed in one of those rather uncomfortable gray robes with the Malfoy crest on them.

"Of course I love your mummy," Draco lied. "What gave you the idea that I don't?"

Nerissa crossed her arms over chest. "Daddy, don't lie to me. I know you don't love Mummy." She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "That's okay if you don't. Sometimes Mummy gets mad and I don't love her either."

Draco couldn't help smiling as he bent down to pick up his daughter. He sat her down on his knee and tickled her.

Nerissa giggled and squirmed in her seat before saying, "That's enough, Daddy. But if you don't love Mummy, who do you love? I promise I won't tell."

Draco stared at his daughter for a moment. Could he trust her?

The answer was quite obvious.

"All right, I'll admit it. You're right. I don't love your mother. The girl I loved…well…Her name was Hermione Granger…"

"Mum, I'm not stupid. Tell me the truth. I think I deserve it."

"Mum, you are so obviously lying that I don't even think it's funny. Just tell me the truth. It's not that hard."

Hermione Granger looked up from where she was seated at the table in her family home. Her oldest son, Christopher Weasley, was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Christopher, I don't know what you're talking about. Please don't speak nonsense."

"Actually, you do know what I'm talking about." Chris gave her a defiant look. "You don't love Dad. There was someone else, wasn't there?"

"No."

"Mum, you're lying. I can tell. And it isn't fair to me, or to Emma, or to Jake. We're your kids, and I think we deserve to know if you don't love Dad."

There was a pause. Then Hermione sighed. "Fine. I won't deny it anymore. I don't love your father."

"As he would say, about bloody time you admitted it." Chris smiled wryly. "So who did you love?"

Hermione picked up her book. If there was one thing that had not changed over time, it was her love of literature. "That," she responded dryly, "is confidential information."

"Mum." Chris softened his tone. "I promise I won't tell Dad, or even Emma or Jake, or anyone, for that matter. I'll even make an Unbreakable Vow, if you want. I just need to know whom you loved. Or love. Whichever one."

Hermione sighed, setting her book down again. "All right, fine, I'll tell you. It was Draco Malfoy…"

There may be a chance…

"Go away, Malfoy," she said frostily.

She had grown even more beautiful over time. Her long bushy hair had grown out into glossy brown locks, piled on top of her head in a fashionable hairstyle. Her mouth smiled, though her eyes did not. She was wearing blue robes of the finest quality.

"Why should I, Granger? Or should I say Weasley?" He glanced down at the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. "Was it the money from Weasley's Order of Merlin that bought that for you?"

"Please go away, Malfoy. I haven't done anything to you."

"Go on, Granger. Say you missed me."

"I didn't miss you. I didn't miss you at all. I hate you. Go away."

He sneered at her. "Granger, it was you who made the decision. I didn't do it. I agreed only because I wanted to make you happy. But we both know you're not happy one bit, don't we?" he asked rhetorically.

"Please. Go away. I don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh, I think you do." He kept his hands firmly around her wrists. "Granger, you're killing me," he stated rather matter-of-factly.

"So are you, Malfoy," she returned.

He let out a long, suffering sigh. "Oh, damn it," he muttered to himself. Then he grabbed her and kissed her roughly.

She squirmed to get away, but he pressed his lips onto hers even harder. After a moment, she stopped struggling and just stood there.

Then they broke apart.

"I love you, Hermione," he whispered.

"I love you too, Draco," she whispered back. Then she turned and fled.

He stood there, staring after her. Then he turned and walked nonchalantly back to the Ministry gala, as if nothing had happened.

Well, there's no chance now, he couldn't help thinking. Not anymore, at least…

…Maybe in another lifetime.

Finite.

If you think I suck at writing romance (because I really haven't tried before), tell me what could be improved. Constructive criticism is appreciated. So are reviews.