Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and interactions between J.K's lovely characters.

A/N: Finally updated this story! here's Draco's POV you've all been waiting for. Enjoy! :)

"I thought maybe we should meet one last time, for closure's sake. Does that sound okay? Meet me at the little coffee shop on the corner.

-H.W."

You hold the note tightly in your fist and don't let go for a long moment.

"Do you still love me?"

It's a warm summer evening and maroon-colored shadows have just began to fall across the foyer, its windows providing a beautiful view of the setting sun. Pansy sits across from you, white legs crossed primly, sipping elegantly at her wine; ever the image of a perfect pure blooded wife.

In fact, her demeanor is so aloof and blasé that the question almost seems out-of-place on her blood colored lips. But you know it is genuine, because you've seen the way her eyes have dimmed and her shoulders have grown cold, and how those white teeth form smiles that are several shades less than true. She isn't happy and the remedy is so simple and so impossible all at once.

She wants you to love her.

It's always been like this with Pansy; her chasing at your heels with affection and adoration so vast they border obsession, while you simply take and take but never give.

Sometimes you wish you felt the same, but the heart is a complex organ with impulses even you can't control. As the saying goes; the heart wants what the heart wants. And when you slipped the engagement ring onto her finger years ago, your heart wasn't in it; your heart wasn't in her. It was a cold, almost business-like arrangement orchestrated by your father and Pansy's simply to expand riches and further the bloodline. Love held no place in your marriage.

There's so much you want to say but won't, and sorting out lies from the truth is too much to ask for right now, so instead you say nothing.

Silence.

She traces a red nail around the glass's mouth, gaze lowered, lashes fluttering against the pale curve of her cheek. When she looks back up, there are tears sparkling in her eyes. "Darling?" She squeaks, struggling desperately to maintain composure.

Lucius was never a good father, but if there was one thing he taught you, it was how to run from confrontation.

"I'm afraid I have a business meeting this evening, Pansy, I'll be back sometime later. We'll discuss it then," You rise from your seat opposite of her, gathering your jacket and straightening your tie, as informal as a businessman disbanding a company meeting. "Don't wait up,"

"Please, Draco," she whispers, her image of perfection finally beginning to crack, "Tell me the truth,"

And by the truth, she means what she wants to hear, what she needs to hear, so she can make it through the evening without crying away her expensive makeup.

"Yes, dear, of course I love you." And the way you say it is so bland, so flat and false and unfeeling, but she gathers up her gratitude and smiles as wide as she can. So wide, in fact, that her cheek twitches, and it's almost enough to distract you from her shaking hands.

"I love you too, Draco."

(And she means it, oh, Merlin, does she mean it)

Halfway out of the door, you can hear her sobbing. Quietly, almost inaudibly, she asks, "You're going to see her, aren't you?" She always gets to the owls before you do, and thinking back on it, the letter did seem to be partly opened when you'd found it.

You pause in the threshold for a few beats, before walking out of the door, leaving Pansy alone with no answer or comfort.

(Because yes, you are)

Draco doesn't love many people. The only ones he can claim to truly care for are Narcissa, Lucius, and himself.

But narcissistic and familial love are not the same as romantic love, so he is unfamiliar with the butterflies-in-stomach feeling, the clammy hands, the increased heart beat, and the endless warmth.

(He doesn't feel any of these things except when he's with HER).

And for a while he is scared by how much he enjoys kissing her and holding that smallish, pretty hand, or pulling her close and breathing in sweet, cinnamon perfume.

But she also makes him feel brave, so the fear doesn't last.

For some reason you thought this would be easy. You thought that after so many years, the fire would have died and your hands would no longer grow clammy in her presence.

Unsurprisingly, you were wrong.

As usual, she has turned you into some pathetic, quiet, nervous Hufflepuff of a man, too tightly wound to even utter a word of greeting.

She smiles a bit too widely and sticks out her hand to shake, "Hello, Draco, it's nice to see you"

You have to avert your eyes when you sit across from her, because, Merlin-

She's still breathtakingly beautiful.

Draco sits on the floor of the heads common room, textbooks splayed across his lap haphazardly, and in frustration he briefly considers tossing them into the fire. For some reason, he can't figure out the next bloody ingredient in Amortenia, and this paper is due bright and early tomorrow morning. He groans and drops his head into his hands, patience now thinner than that gangly Ravenclaw obsessed with dieting.

He grits his teeth together. Lacewings? No. Peeled shrivelfig? No.

"It's powdered moonstone," A female voice offers quietly.

He doesn't need to turn his head to know who the voice belongs to. A tired smile stretches across his previously pursed lips. "Thanks, Granger, but I really need to get used to figuring these things out for myself. You're not going to be there taking my NEWTS for me, are you?"

She chuckles softly and joins him on the floor. "Of course not. But you're far more intelligent than you give yourself credit for, you know. Why, I'm sure if you thought about it hard enough you could easily figure out the rest of this potion,"

"Granger, I've been sitting here for ages and I've tried that already-"

"Hey," she says, gently cutting off his excuse, "Just relax, okay? Try to picture each page and potion, and I promise the ingredients will come naturally." She motions for him to recline back until his head rests in her lap. She runs hers long, nimble fingers through his hair and he sighs.

He likes that she believes in him, even in this small, seemingly insignificant way, and doesn't want her faith to be wasted. With a deep breath he closes his eyes and mentally flips through the pages of his potions textbook, visualizing each carefully inked name and every last underlined and re-written ingredient. With a sudden gasp Draco opens his eyes and blurts out, "Ashwinder eggs and a sprig of fresh mint!" He laughs out loud and shakes his head in amazement, astonished that it took him such a long time to remember something so simple. He sits up and looks at her with an odd expression.

"How in the bloody hell did you do that?" He asks, partly in confusion, but mostly in wonder.

Hermione grins and shrugs her shoulders. "Sometimes you just need to unwind and take a deep breath, and every thing becomes clear," She pauses and considers something. "But, I suppose a more mysterious answer could be, 'magic', so let's stick with that."

"Yes, let's" He agrees, a smile still lingering on his lips.

"Draco, just out of curiosity, what does this potion smell like to you?"

He inches closer, a devilish smile playing on his lips, his schoolwork now forgotten. "Oh, if I wanted to be verbose I could describe the scent as sweet like lavender and vanilla, musky like the forest at night, with the distinct smell of a fresh pot of ink and sugar quills from Honeydukes. But," He says softly, now mere inches from her, "If I wanted to be concise, then I'd simply say; you."

"Me?" Her cheeks bloom like roses.

"Yes, darling, you are a treat to the senses," He mutters, crushing his mouth to hers.

(And he smiles to himself because it turns out she tastes like sugar quills too)

"Draco? Hello, earth to Malfoy!" Hermione waves her hand before your face, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You snap back into reality with the shock of a man abruptly splashed with ice-water. She sits across from you wearing an expression of exasperation and confusion. Damn it. You don't even know how long you were zoning out.

"My apologies, I'm afraid I didn't get much sleep last night. What was it that you were saying?" And even as you say this, you can feel self-hatred spiking your throat with barbs. Why the hell that dull, unimpressed voice responding to her well-intentioned questions belongs to you is beyond understanding. You aren't sure why you sound like a drab, borderline-indifferent version of Lucius when he spoke to your mother, but you know you don't like it. Clearly she does not either.

"Nothing worth note, apparently," Hermione replies tartly. She takes a long swig of black coffee and you have a feeling she wishes it were something stronger, like fire whiskey or a potent Ogden's brew.

Or maybe that's just you.

Either way, you need to rectify the situation. With the most natural smile you can muster, you reach across the table for her hand and ask, very kindly, if she would please repeat what she said because you'd love to hear

Ha. As if.

Of course you don't say that. You lost that boyish charm and easy confidence so long ago, that even the mere memory has began to gather dust. In reality, you order another cup of tea to break the silence, and 'rectify the situation' by saying;

"Alright then, let's discuss other things."

Smooth, you think to yourself, really smooth.

He waits in the library for her, disinterestedly examining the pages of his Divination book in the mean time.

She walks into his line of vision moments later, books clutched to her chest as usual, a suppressed smile caught on her lips. "Hello, Malfoy," She says with feigned disinterest, though he can plainly see the sparkle in her eyes.

"Did you do something different to your hair?"

She stares at him oddly, expression filled with both surprise and pleasure.

"Er- you noticed?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I? It's plain as day; you always wear that headband and instead your hair is down today. It looks wonderful, by the way,"

She takes the seat across from him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Well, thank you! This is a surprising start to my morning, but welcome nonetheless," Her bemused expression remains, though, and he asks why.

"Well, it's just, I've been with Harry and Ron all day like this and they haven't seemed to notice…"

For a moment he considers giving into habit and insulting her friends (They are easily the most daft, unaware lot to befoul this castle, and that they didn't notice her hair shouldn't come as a surprise, given their history with obliviousness) but, for some reason, he decides to bite his tongue instead.

"Well, whether they noticed, it looks lovely and so do you. As usual." He adds, disarming smile deftly in place.

She stops removing the books from her pack, cheeks turning pink at his words. "Draco, you're really laying it on thick today. Either you want something, or someone slipped something into your pumpkin juice this morning," She jokes.

He chuckles and pecks the tip of her nose, causing her face to scrunch up like a rabbit's. "Maybe I'm just feeling rather generous today," He says, now peppering her jaw line with slow, languorous kisses.

"Or," she mutters, eyes fluttering shut in contentment, "maybe you want something,"

He plants kisses along her neck, chuckling into the hollow of her throat, "Yes, alright, Granger, there is something I want…"

She grins at her own accuracy, and squeals when he playfully nips the skin of her collarbone. "I knew it! Now what is it you're after, Mr. Malfoy?" She asks playfully.

"Oh nothing much," He murmurs into her skin as he pecks his way along the smooth contour of her shoulder. "Just the one thing every bloke in this school would love to have; you, as my girlfriend,"

She stops running her fingers through his hair. He lifts his face to meet hers, confused at the ceased motion and suddenly insecure about his request. Is this too soon to ask for commitment? Will she say no?

"You…you want to be in a real relationship? As in…out in the open? No more illicit library affairs, or secret meetings behind closet doors, or made up stories to our friends?" She asks, her eyes rapidly searching his for sincerity.

"Y-yes," He begins, decidedly less confident than before, because he can't make sense of the expression on her face or the tone of her voice. He feels blind because he hasn't the slightest idea of what she is thinking. "I want to be with you, and only you, and I want the world to know it,"

She bites her lip and considers this for a fraction of a second, before a big, beautiful smile breaks across her face.

"Yes," She says simply, and his heart nearly soars.

Minutes – or decades as far as you're concerned – pass by in a silence that is periodically broken by the sound of your slurping tea and her drumming nails.

"How have you been?" She asks at last.

You consider your answer for a long moment, articulating a careful response as you examine the dregs at the bottom of your cup.

"I'm married now, actually,"

If you felt like lying to yourself – which tends to be most of the time – you'd simply chalk that rather odd response up to thoughtlessness. Oh, whoops, it slipped out. Had no ill intentions accompanying what I just said. But, in honesty, you said it because you want to see how she responds. Does she care?

There is a pregnant pause in which something indiscernible flashes across her eyes, but it's gone before you can analyze it.

"Congratulations," She says abruptly. It sounds as if this simple phrase has rolled around inside her head for a while, and she only said it to regain peace of mind.

(But then again…isn't that why she's here in the first place? To find "closure" by dispelling bit by bit of whatever remaining memories she has of you, until nothing is left but your half-remember name and forgotten history?)

"Thank you," You reply, as is expected. In reality you don't feel gratitude in the slightest. Blast it, there are too many social niceties that stand in the way of what you'd really like to say, which is God damn it, Granger, can we please speak as if we weren't acquaintances or distant business colleagues? Just say what's on your mind. Yell your damn head off if you like – I just need to hear at least one genuine thing from you. I'll try to return the favor.

"I'm married as well," She smiles, "To Ron," she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Oh that's nice. Here, I'll nod my head and smile like I should, because – yay! – the unscarred two-thirds of the golden trio wedded just like everyone expected! I didn't go to your wedding for a reason, Granger. He doesn't deserve you, not in the slightest; he's far too daft and simple and unchallenging, and my bet is you'll be bored with him within the next five years. If you aren't already, I mean. But of course you'll stay with him, because of loyalty or some rubbish, and pop out a litter of red headed Gryffindors that will grow up alongside Potter's brat and then you'll all ride off into the sunset together, leaving big bad Malfoy alone in the shadows.

Fuck- maybe I don't deserve you either, but at least I understand you. You're too smart to settle with sub-par people, Granger. Then again, I'm a hypocrite, as Pansy is not exactly stimulating to the mind. Funny how the smartest people – as in us two, because we always were the brightest – make the stupidest decisions.

"Congratulations to you too,"

You smile and it feels like murder.

Draco is thumbing through his Potions textbook before the fireplace when Lucius floos. At first, he ignores the increasingly loud sound of crackling flames and tell-tale cloud of ash that permeates the common room's sweetly scented air. In fact, he hardly glances up from his book, as Hermione pointed out a particularly interesting potion earlier this morning and he is utterly engrossed.

It is only when Lucius's slow drawl stabs into the silence that he looks up, startled. "Hello, Draco,"

"Father?" Years of practice allow him to keep the fear out of his voice.

"Yes, my son, it's been some time since we've last spoken," He brushes a bit of remaining ash from his shoulder nonchalantly, "Care to update me on your current affairs? School? Housemates?" He pauses and turns to look Draco in the eyes, his voice deadly calm, "Girlfriends?"

Draco swallows and soundlessly drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. "My grades are impeccable, my housemates rather miss my presence since my promotion to head boy, and as for girlfriends…" He clears his throat and assembles a look of indifference, "I'm dating Pansy Parkinson. You're familiar with her, I believe?"

Lucius watches his son with dark amusement. "Draco, I find it endearing that you think you can lie to me. Excellent attempt, though. I do applaud the effort. However, I know very well that you've been dabbling with filthy blooded girls, and I've come to tell you that your mother and I do not approve," he steps closer, cane clutched tightly in his fist. "But more than that, we will simply not allow such a thing to continue."

Draco's heart pounds against his rib cage like a drum and his hands grow abruptly clammy. "Father, I don't know where you heard such things-"

"Enough!" Lucius shouts, slamming the tip of the cane into the floor, fury marring his features. "Do not waste my time with lies! Perhaps you underestimate my ability to keep track of what occurs in your life, but I can assure you my sources are most definitely accurate. But that, son, is beside the point. I demand that this-this affair with miss Granger cease immediately. And if you refuse to comply…." he trails off, glancing at his son with deceptive nonchalance, "Well, let's just say I'd hate for something unfortunate to occur to the girl."

His heart plummets in his chest, and the room falls utterly silent, save for the white noise of crackling flames in the background.

"Well, Draco? Are we quite clear?" asks Lucius.

"Yes, father, I believe we are." He swallows hard and feels as if there are rocks in his throat.

Lucius smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Splendid. Oh, and, Draco, before I go: do consider Miss Parkinson. She is someone I certainly approve of," He flashes his son one last smirk, before tossing floo powder before him and stepping into the fireplace.

Minutes after he's gone, Draco is still left standing in the middle of the common room; eyes fixed on nothing and mind whirring. He knows that when his father suggests something "consider Miss Parkinson" he isn't simply throwing ideas up into the air. He is demanding. And as for what he said about Hermione…

Well, Lucius does not bluff.

You really don't like playing games, but seeing as that is the only way you two can communicate with each other, you'll have to make do

"Well, I should be going…" You slowly stand, but linger, hoping her theatrical, Gryffindor tendencies will kick in and prompt her to finally speak her mind. Because what red and gold fool can resist the urge to dramatically dispense last words at the latest possible moment? You've seen the muggle movies – the one's in which a character yells wait just as their lover is about to leave, then delivering a thoroughly dramatic monologue – so you're hoping she'll do the same.

"Draco- this is so sudden!" Pansy whispers in a scandalized voice, her excited giggling already giving him a headache. He ignores her question because her voice is irritating, and dives back in for another insatiable kiss, devouring her mouth and sprawling his hands across every peak and valley of her uniform-clad figure.

"Mmm…what made you change your mind?" He doesn't answer again, sucking at her pulse point like a wanton vampire, wishing for all the world that the hair in his fist was russet and curly instead of silky black. He presses Pansy into the wall of the deserted corridor, his mind so clouded with anger, lust, frustration, and bitterness that the sound of footsteps does not even reach his ears until it's too late.

The familiar feminine voice he internally associates with warmth and safety pervades the still air, "D-Draco?"

He immediately freezes, his mouth still partly suctioned to Pansy's. He feels sick.

"What…you…" Hermione's wide brown eyes gloss over with unshed tears, "Her?" She squeaks at last.

He has time to fleetingly think "Bloodyfuckinghell" Before Granger turns and runs down the corridor, now blatantly sobbing.

"What the hell's her problem?" Pansy asks, "I suppose the mudblood has a wittle crush on you, Drakey," She smirks.

He clenches his fists and forces an expression of indifference. "I better follow her to make sure she doesn't report us for being out after curfew," he says, already striding in the direction Hermione fled. He knows it's a rubbish excuse, but since Pansy is as daft as they come, she buys it.

"I'll come with you-"

"No, no. I'll be fine on my own." But he knows she plans on following him anyway, when she thinks he won't notice, so he mentally decides what he will say to Granger in the brief uninterrupted time they will have. Though, it isn't as if there is much he really can say without letting her know he's still madly in love with her, and only fooling around with Pansy to throw Lucius off his scent. And to make you hate me enough to leave me alone, he thinks to himself.

…

When he finds her slumped into the wall, begging him to admit he loves her – or at the very least, loved her – he feels his heart breaking. Because he can't tell her the truth, which is 'Yes, I bloody love you'; instead he must lie and tell her;

"Of course not."

much to Pansy's delight and Hermione's horror. I'm sorry, he thinks, watching tears trail down the curve of her cheek. I'm sorry-sorry-sorry Granger.

You wait for the theatrics. The last words. The dramatic twist ending.

"It was…It was nice talking to you, Malfoy. And congratulations on your marriage,"

But it never comes.

Of course it doesn't. She doesn't leap from her chair and announce her undying love. Instead, she smiles cordially and extends a hand.

And damn it, you should have known better than to assume Granger would be like everyone else, so dramatic and spotlight hungry. She isn't, nor was she ever. Cheap tricks simply don't work on the brightest witch of her generation.

"You too. Here, let me get your coat," You smile like the perfect gentleman and help her from her chair.

Granger, by the way, before you go, I'm in love with you. Hopelessly, endlessly in love. Yeah, I'm married, and so are you, but let's not pretend that our respective 'spouses' are what keep us from being together, hm? I know that if you really wanted to – and I mean truly – you'd pack up your things right now and let me whisk you away to somewhere far and exotic where we'd have gorgeous curly-haired blonde babies with giant brains and the obstinacy of mules. (Because you are I, we're quiet stubborn) I'm sure if I was the one you really desired, you'd forget all about Weasley and that hideously second-rate ring, and run away with me.

But you won't, because that isn't what you want, is it, Granger?

When he's marked, the white plane of his left wrist burns hotter than anything he's ever felt. The world is drenched in flames and biting, green-colored pain. The Dark Lord looks merry, cackling to himself as dark incantations thicken the air, while Lucius watches with the stoicism of a statue.

He doesn't want this – he's never wanted this – but it's happening. After what seems like a lifetime, he glances down at the sinister blackness marring his arm and feels sick. Honest-to-Merlin sick.

He throws up on the floor.

Voldemort laughs and the Death eaters quickly join in. Lucius bores holes into his son's bowed head, fuming with embarrassment and anger. For a long moment, the world is a swirling mess of shadows and malicious intent, bright spells and his father's mercury stare.

Draco wishes he could curl up and die like that muggle from this morning.

No, it obviously isn't what she wants. You messed up one time too many, let her go far too long without an explanation and apology, and by this point it's futile.

This hurts; this feels worse than being marked, or being struck, or falling down and having the whole world laugh. This is heartbreak. Because you have to let her go; it's the decent thing to do.

Not that you've ever been decent in the past, but you figure now is as good a time as any to start. Weasley may be beneath her, intelligence and personality-wise, but he never hurt her. And you're certain he's never made her feel unloved.

Maybe if this were one of those terribly clichéd, but ultimately adored, muggle movies, you'd reach out to her and shout-

Wait!

Maybe you'd be the one to show Gryffindor-esque theatrics. You'd stop helping her into that stupid coat, and instead wrap your arms around her, pull her close, and kiss her like you've wanted to for years. Pansy would melt away, she'd forget Ron, and the movement of your lips on hers would be enough to express your regret and apologies; words wouldn't even be necessary. And maybe then you'd hold hands and run through the rain like kids, giggling and slipping around in the beautiful storm, with not a care in the world except for that fact that you were with each other.

It would be perfect. It could be perfect.

Could.

But, see, this isn't a muggle movie. In fact, this isn't fiction at all. This is the real world in which love is as breakable as fine china, and just as difficult to repair.

And she deserves better than a washed up, former-death eater, anyway.

"Allow me to walk you out," You offer, helping her rise from her chair.

Together, the two of you leave the shop filled with noise and color, and step onto the rain-drenched sidewalk. Together you stand under the awning, where you watch her contemplate the quickest way home that will allow her to stay as dry as possible. You remember faintly that she never liked the rain, as it made her hair even frizzier than it already was. She told you this years ago, and you still remember the endearing expression she wore, bottom lip pouting and brow slightly furrowed.

("It's already bloody frizzy as is. The rain just makes it look like a lion's mane," Hermione complained, holding her bag over her head in an attempt to shield herself. "Why are you laughing?" She asked in exasperation.

"Because," he said, a smile still lingering on his lips, "I happen to love lions."

She rolled her eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. He took advantage of the visible improvement of mood, and leaned in to kiss her, taking handfuls of frizzy, rain-soaked lioness hair.)

You smile crookedly to yourself and offer her your umbrella. She looks surprised, but grateful. "Thank you. I'll return this as soon-"

You stop her with a raised hand, "No need; keep it. I have more than enough umbrellas at home; this one won't be missed." Yes, Keep it. Maybe it'll remind you of me when it rains, and you'll remember that day I kissed you in a storm.

"Goodbye, Malfoy," She says amicably, opening the umbrella and stepping into downpour. She waves once more and turns to go.

You watch her retreating back until she merges with the busy crowd of London, one spot of color lost amidst a rainbow of others.

When she's long gone and you're left alone under the awning, you realize she'll always live in the back of your mind. Even when you both have children and your hair becomes less blonde than grey, and the smooth quality of your memory wrinkles along with your skin, you'll still think about the bright-eyed Gryffindor witch with the lioness hair and heart of (red and) gold. The one girl, among the many, that managed to capture your heart and kiss it to life in ways you never thought possible.

And now she's gone.

Gone

gone

gone.

You step out into the rain - arms spread at your sides, eyes shut - and the water soaks you to the core

You remain silent and let nature do the crying for you.

A/N: So what did you think? Like it? Love it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews! Also, check out my newest series of one shots about young Draco, "Salted Soil". Chapter one is up and ready to read! :)

Thanks for reading, loves.