She hadn't realized how much she truly missed the boys until her memory was jogged, and she experienced what she could have been missing. Ron and Harry were just as lively as she remembered them, though the difference was night and day from her first encounter with them to the present day and age. But some things never changed. Ron teased Harry about all the girls still flocking around him, and Harry just sighed and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses (he refused to get contacts), looking far more tired than a normal eighteen year old boy should. Ron chattered a mile a minute, regaling Hermione with fresh stories of Fred and George's entrepreneurship (they were currently fighting a lawsuit that accused them over the unwanted side effects from some of their treats) and his newest passion – muggle baseball.

After ice cream cones for everyone, a stop into the bookstore for a few supplies for the boys and a leisurely stroll up and down the various streets, the boys finally bade her goodnight and the trio separated, making plans for lunch the next day.

As Hermione lay on her bed, flipping through her various lists compiled over the summer ('Books I Need to Buy Before School Starts' 'Books I Need to Finish Reading Before School Starts' 'Books I Need to Get For School'—that list was totally crossed off, with the exception of her Arithmancy book), she kept herself busy making sure that things were in order for the trip to Hogwarts, since her time spent in Diagon Alley were coming to a close. Busy, that's the way Hermione liked things. Busy was good – it made her feel productive. It practically helped the world go 'round.

In fact, she was almost busy enough that she was able to forget about the fact her last ride to Hogwarts wouldn't be with her two best friends, that she was still missing a book from her list of school supplies, and that there was One Blond Ferret who was currently stalking her (not only physically, but also taking up residence somewhere in her temporal lobe).

Almost.

Some things were just a little too big to forget about.

Hermione, after dissecting the past few days under the guise of alphabetizing her assorted lists (Would 'Clothes To Give Away' go before or after 'Clothes That Need Mending'?), finally came to one bloody conclusion:

She had to figure him out.

Somehow, Hermione knew, way, far before the whole mess even started, that it would ultimately come to this. Hadn't he even been able to tell her that fact during one of their first meetings? She hated to admit that Malfoy was right, but when it was over a matter of her own mental stability and health, Hermione supposed she could allow it to happen, just this once.

The biggest problem, she mused to herself, as she moved on from alphabetically sorting her papers to reorganizing them into piles of the degree of possibility of their completion, was that there was no logical reason for her… obsession with him. They had co-existed happily (Well, okay, maybe not always happily) for the past six years; why change now? Was it necessary they explore this new, uncharted territory? Maybe there was a way she could just slowly, discreetly step backwards out of this mess, not unlike the way she'd delicately backstepped out of the common room where a horny Ron and Lavender had been going at it on the couch.

But then there was the question, her other side brought up, did she want to exit the arena before the game had ended?

It took her five seconds to come up with an answer for that- of course she did!

But, er, that was five seconds too long for comfort.

Hermione sat herself down for a firm talking to, forgetting all about lists and organizing and anything that might actually be productive.

"Listen, Miss Head Girl," she told herself, crossing her arms and picturing herself sitting across from, well, herself. "You have no time to get caught up in boys. You have had six successful years at school, and you have only one more to go before you enter the real world and things relax a little, and then you will have all the time you could ever want to pursue a frivolous relationship with whatever-" non-blond "boy you happen to fancy. So don't ruin things for yourself now, when you've gotten this far and come this close. Just be the good girl you've always been, and don't let any hormones get in the way of your school."

She was so into her spiel that when the knock came at her door, she didn't hear it.

"Because after all, what does a guy get you? Sure, he might bring you flowers and candy, but what good does that do? All that does is give you a mess to clean up and makes you fat! And the kissing and hand holding can't be worth it, because we all know the path that travels! And when he leaves you, are the emotional scars really worth the few moments of happiness and chocolate? And what about the way they—"

Knock, knock.

Hermione could've sworn her heart stopped beating for a minute, and all those points about why guys weren't worth it scampered out of her head to find some chocolate elsewhere – they clearly didn't care about getting fat. Her mind suddenly was all too free to concentrate on one, suddenly painfully important question.

Was it him?

Time froze as she stared at the door, the sound of a fist against wood echoing in her mind. Numbly, she uncurled her legs and stood to walk the five or six paces to the door.

First step. Why would he come here at this time of night?

Second step. I wonder if he forgot something.

Third step. What if he's dropping something off?

Fourth step. What if he secretly hopes I'm not here so he doesn't have to see me?

There was a brief pause before she took another step, in which she contemplated this.

Fifth step. Oh well. He should know better than to come to a girl's room at ten at night and hope she's not there, because any good girl would be in her room at curfew and doing something like homework or-

"Are you in there?"

She stood, inches away from the door, tense, fingers stretching towards the door knob, just itching to open it and see who was behind it. See who's behind door number one…

"Who's there?" she finally spoke up, voice sounding as calm and confident as always.

There was a pause, and she could just see the person behind the door smiling.

"Who do you think is there?" the bemused answer came back.

Drat. It didn't work.

The door muffled the person's voice. And while Hermione thought it was Malfoy (and maybe…. even hoped it was…?), part of her knew it was equally as likely to be Ron or Harry returning for something. And she didn't want to prepare herself for one person, and it turned out to be another—that could be awkward.

"I'm not going to open this door without my rude, late night guest first identifying himself." Good. That sounded strong and authoritative, right?

"Open the door or you'll be sorry you didn't."

Ooh. Even more authoritative. Two points to her rude, late night guest.

"And I cal tell you're already at the door, so you should just open it."

Drat. And he was fairly skilled at deducing… the obvious.

"I'm afraid I can't and won't do that," she told the door, wishing she was staying at a muggle hotel where they had glorious inventions called peepholes. Sure, she could run grab her wand and perform a quick spell to check out the visitor on the other side, but that would take effort.

A moment of silence, and then a sigh. "Fine, have it your way."

Hermione had only three blessed seconds to contemplate the meaning of that statement before her door began to swing open and she had to jump back so it wouldn't smack her in the face and leave her comatose (and a helpless target) whatever boogeyman (until recently) stood behind her door.

"Good evening," the boogeyman drawled, eyes flickering at her look of shock, confusion and otherwise panic at his appearance.

"Hey," she said faintly, her worst dreams – make that nightmares – coming true.

Before her unbelieving eyes stood one Draco Malfoy, Ferret Esquire, holding a dozen of long-stem red roses and a bottle of champagne.

Bloody. Effing. Hell.