What they had—if it had been a romance, which it was not—would have been a whirlwind romance. They were drawn to each other like magnets, pulled together almost against their will. Every moment they could be alone together, they were. Hermione could not make sense of how it had all begun, but the attraction was undeniable. She found herself questioning how long she had felt this way, if this was why she had been so fascinated by him for so long.
She also often wondered when Malfoy had become attracted to her, but she never asked. They never spoke of such things. It was as though they were unable to acknowledge what was happening, even with each other.
Hermione still cared deeply for Ron, but it was easy to forget him in the excitement of her clandestine meetings with Malfoy. He was everything Ron was not: confident, complicated, and thrillingly forward. Occasionally, she felt guilty about having told Ron that nothing was going on between them, but she reasoned that it had been true at the time—it was only later that it had become a lie.
The arrangement actually seemed to help their work. They were so eager to spend as much time together as possible that they threw themselves into their project with even more enthusiasm than before, and it was a success. Both Hermione and Draco received praise for their initiative and for the quality of their work, and their proposals were eventually adapted for recommendation to the ICW.
Sometimes she worried that she was falling in love with him. She knew that wouldn't do—he never openly expressed his feelings for her, and he visibly flinched at signs of affection, as if afraid of becoming too attached. There was always distance between them, dense and unnavigable; she dared not attempt the leap for fear of falling into the abyss below.
And yet she wanted to believe that it all meant something to him. He was, after all, thoughtful in ways that Ron never was. On cold mornings, she arrived at her desk and found coffee that had been charmed to stay warm. If she ever so much as mentioned in conversation a book she wanted to read, he plucked it from his family library and delivered it to her without a word. When she fell asleep copying laws into her notes, she woke to find that it had been finished for her.
But he never acknowledged any of it, and she, in turn, never thanked him. Instead, she protected her hope by hiding it from him, by kindling the small flame in secret. Since he himself would provide no comfort, she was forced to find it alone, in the passion they shared.
Hermione told no one, of course, but it wasn't long before Harry noticed that something had changed.
"You've been spending a lot of time with Malfoy recently," he observed one day over lunch.
"It's this project," she said very quickly. "It's been a lot more work than I'd hoped."
Harry nodded. He and Hermione didn't often get to see each other now that she and Ron were on the outs, but they sometimes managed to steal a lunch together in the Ministry cafeteria when Ron was busy on a case.
"Ron seemed to think that the two of you were getting a bit close," he went on. "But you know how he is; he's terribly jealous. I told him he was being insane."
Hermione bit into her sandwich to avoid having to respond.
"But you do seem to be getting along—I mean, you haven't fought once, right? I'm surprised you aren't having problems working together."
"He's grown up a bit," she replied as nonchalantly as possible. "Work is work. We make an effort to be civil."
He nodded again, looking thoughtful.
"How are you and Ginny?" Hermione asked, trying to change the subject. "I haven't seen her since—well, you know."
"She's great," said Harry. "Always away for games, though. Don't worry, Hermione, she's not avoiding you—she's just busy. She thought you and Ron needed the space."
"It must be hard having her away all the time."
"Nah, it's better than you think. I actually think it might have helped you and Ron if you hadn't worked in the same building."
"Really? But we never even saw each other at work."
"That's the thing. Being in the same place all the time, but not actually being together. I think it put a lot of pressure on you guys." Harry reached across the table and took her hand. "He really cares about you, you know. And he needs you. You shouldn't give up on him."
Hermione gave a weak smile. "I should be getting back."
They stood up to leave. "You should come by the Auror Office sometime," Harry suggested. "He'd be happy to see you. And so would I."
When Pansy owled him asking to meet for tea, Draco was happy to accept. The two were still friends, despite their failed romance at Hogwarts—though she had not initially taken it well when he had ended things, they had been friends since childhood, and she did not want to lose him completely. So they still saw each other on occasion, and any awkwardness between them had been mostly forgotten.
At the end of an afternoon spent catching up over scones in Diagon Alley, Pansy put down her teacup and leaned over the table conspiratorially.
"I have a confession to make," she confided. "I had an ulterior motive for asking you to tea."
"That doesn't surprise me at all," replied Draco.
"I have a date next week. A date I want to impress. And no one I know is as stylish or as critical of women as you are."
"Merlin, Pansy. Don't you have an airhead girlfriend you can drag out for this sort of thing?"
"I'd much rather take you," she whined. "You can provide a man's insight."
He eventually acknowledged defeat and agreed to go shopping with her. After she had picked out a few outfits, Pansy disappeared into the dressing room while Draco waited outside.
And then he saw her.
Hermione was walking towards the dressing room, several sets of work robes in hand, when she noticed him and stopped, looking confused. Before he had a chance to react, Pansy stepped out. "What do you think?"
Draco's lips parted, but he was too surprised to speak, and Pansy followed his gaze to Hermione, who was staring at her.
"Oh. Hello," said Pansy curtly.
The other witch mumbled something in reply.
"I didn't know you shopped here," Pansy started to say, but Hermione had already turned and fled.
That evening, Draco showed up at Hermione's flat uninvited. When she came to the door, she did not immediately let him in.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Can I come in?"
She bit her lip. "I'm busy."
"I won't stay long."
After a moment of hesitation, she stepped aside, then went back to her desk and silently resumed working.
"Do you have a minute?"
"I told you I was busy."
He walked over and took the quill out of her hand.
"What do you think you're—"
"Hermione. Listen to me."
She stood up and snatched her quill back from him. "What is it?"
"I wanted to explain why I was with Pansy today."
"You really don't have to do that," said Hermione, looking away from him as she sat back down.
"I want to."
"You don't need to."
"I didn't say I needed to; I said I wanted to."
"Well, don't!"
"Can you please look at me?"
"You don't have to explain yourself to me," she said, unsuccessfully feigning disinterest as she continued not to look at him. "We're not in a relationship. You're obviously free to do whatever you like."
"Stop it," he said irritably, kneeling down by her chair and grabbing her by both shoulders. "Will you listen to me? I saw Pansy today for the first time in months, to catch up over tea. She has a date next week that she wants to impress, so she asked me to help her pick out something to wear. She wanted a man's opinion."
"Why are you telling me this?" Hermione said in a small voice, still determinedly avoiding his gaze.
"I wanted to tell you that I'm not dating Pansy."
She looked him at then, and he was not prepared for the amount of emotion he saw in her eyes as they examined him. "I should get back to work," she whispered at last, before affording him a small smile.
Draco knew she was too proud to say anything else, so he nodded and rose. He left her flat cursing himself. There was no denying it anymore: his fears had been realized. He had gotten in too deep.
Everything changed after that.
Hermione became warmer to him, noticeably so. It was as if she had let down a guard that he hadn't even been aware of. He started to catch her looking at him at work, and she no longer bothered to look away in haste and pretend to have been doing something else. She began bestowing kisses, previously reserved for the throes of passion, as affectionate gestures of intimacy. And the day after he lost one of his favorite gloves, an expensive pair that was woven from soft black fairy silk, he found on his desk a neatly wrapped package that held a pair of the exact same gloves. Embroidered in shimmering gold at the cuff of each glove were his initials, and Draco recognized the spellwork immediately: they were charmed to be summoned by the owner no matter how far they were. He knew what the gloves cost and what that would mean for her. He knew her salary to be a pittance.
Draco was tormented. He had made a terrible mistake in starting anything with her—and an even worse one in giving her hope that their clandestine affair could lead to something more. He deeply regretted reassuring her about Pansy, but she had looked so miserable in the store, and he had not been able to bear the idea of hurting her. The biggest mistake, he knew, had already been made before then: he had not meant to become so emotionally invested in what they had.
And now, he realized, to his horror, he would have to hurt her even more. What had he expected? He could never marry her. He wished more than anything that he could return to the day that she had asked him about expanding their project and turn her down this time. But it was too late. He had been weak, and he had not been able to resist the prospect of spending more time with her.
He knew he needed to end things, but he could not bring himself to do it. So he was cold to her instead, trying to make it clear that their relationship could never amount to anything more than a few stolen moments. He hoped to crush any futile dreams early on, that he might spare her the pain of disappointment when she inevitably realized that they were no more than a dirty secret. But she was undiscouraged.
He insisted on paying her back for the gloves. She could not afford them, he pointed out. He even shouted at her that it was not her place to buy things for him. But still she refused, her eyes calm and steady, lit by a stubborn, brilliant flame that would not be extinguished. I know what you're trying to do, they seemed to say, and I'm not fooled.
When he stayed away for a week, blaming work, she remained unfazed. "Let's have dinner," she suggested, having appeared at his office unannounced and under the guise of asking him a question about their completed project. It was only when he saw her in his doorway that he realized just how much he had missed her.
"Are you mad?" he hissed through his teeth.
"You deserve a break from work."
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said, as coolly as he could.
"I'll cook."
"We both know you can't."
"Then I'll order something," she said with a shrug.
He could feel his resolve melting with each passing second. "It would have to be very quick," he said, fidgeting with his quill.
"We could go to a Muggle café. No one would know us there."
A Mudblood through and through, he thought to himself as he said, "All right."
Ultimately, it was the story he heard from a co-worker that forced him to bite the bullet.
"Check out Weasley," Tracey Davis said one day after lunch, nudging him in the side as they waited for the lift together in the Ministry lobby. "He's a wreck."
Draco glanced over at him. "When is he not?"
"You didn't hear?" she asked, clearly excited at the opportunity to share her gossip. "Harry Potter threw a party last night, and apparently Weasley got drunk and begged Hermione Granger back in front of everyone."
Fighting to appear uninterested, Draco gave a non-committal snort.
"It must have been humiliating when he woke up this morning and realized what happened," she went on.
"I take it she said no?"
Tracey leaned in closer. "She told him she's moved on and that he needs to forget about her. Can you imagine? How embarrassing. Rumor has it there's someone new."
He broke it off that same day.
Of course, he didn't tell her at the time—he wasn't strong enough. Instead, as they lied in bed for what would be the last time, he told her in a strained voice that he would be quite busy in the near future and most likely would not be able to see her for some time.
"Oh," she replied. "That's all right. Is it work?"
Keeping his eyes averted, he shook his head. "It's a lot of things."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps next weekend."
He did not respond, and she, too, remained silent. When he finally turned to look at her, he struggled to memorize her, to absorb every detail of her—the pale pink lips; the dark, intelligent eyes; the wild hair fanned out on her pillow like a halo. He felt a sudden onslaught of panic: he had so little time left, and he needed to remember these things. His insides smarted at the thought of never being this close to her again.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" she asked, interrupting his reverie.
"What?"
"You're studying me," she said with a laugh. "Why are you doing that?"
Because I don't want to lose you, he wanted to say. Because I'll never get to hold you like this again, and I want to remember every single thing about you.
He knew she would never forgive him for leaving her without an explanation, but he could not bear to say goodbye. So what he said instead was:
"Because you're beautiful."
It was the only compliment he'd ever paid her.
Hermione's eyes clouded with an unrecognizable emotion, like a room filling slowly with mist. As she leaned over to kiss him, he said, under his breath and so softly that she could not hear, "I'm sorry."