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Chapter Five

"Well, somebody's in a mood."

Hermione turned around, blinking at him. "What?"

"Might your bizarre behavior have anything to do with the little celebratory event Malfoy threw for your firm a few nights ago?" Harry inquired, stirring sugar into his coffee. "I take it you still haven't passed the olive branch between the two of you. Let me guess on what you did pass: some choice words of contempt, maybe?"

She shook it off. It was true that night had sent her off into what seemed like an impenetrable funk, but she would never admit that to Harry. How could she, when she could barely stomach admitting it to herself?

She was still digesting the side of Malfoy she'd seen that night. She resented the way he was inching her backwards from where she'd been, before he'd shown up. He turned her upside down and shook her for all she was worth, all the while she watched as all of her hard work spiraled down the drain.

He was a tornado and all she wanted to do was plant her feet down and grow roots.

"Still, I saw the pictures from that night and if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were there, they certainly didn't make a cameo in the photos," Harry continued. "I did see a few of Malfoy and Ginny, though, looking every bit the part of Witch Weekly's dream cover spread."

Hermione couldn't help herself: she snorted.

"Okay," he said. "I sense derision."

"It's a circus show," she explained, trying her best not to let the burning ball of tar in her chest show through. It had a way of showing up often these days. "A completely exaggerated form of PDA. It might even be strategic, a way of extending his company's reaches."

Harry was looking at her very closely. "Or," he said slowly, "he might actually like her."

Hermione couldn't help it, then – she looked up and met his eyes. The unholy expression of realization that washed over his face then made her wish she had never invited him over for breakfast.

"Jesus Christ, Hermione," he said, in half-awe. He leaned back and began laughing, shaking his head.

"Harry, it's not what you think," she said, pathetically.

"It all makes sense now!" he said, and she winced. "The brooding, the incessant hostility, the hesitant support of Ginny's ability to make her own decisions. You like him. I mean, you don't want to like him, but you do. Bloody hell!"

"That's not it at all," she insisted.

"Please, Hermione. Ever since the wedding, you've been all out of sorts. Extremely strung up – which I attributed to his acquiring of your firm, but I always had a feeling it went a little deeper than that." He was still laughing. "Jesus fucking Christ! What a morning!"

It was useless defending herself. Harry James Potter, in a rare moment of having witnessed the pieces fall perfectly together, knew. He didn't save the wizarding world from an oppressive tyranny just by brawn alone. He knew and she hated him a little bit for it.

"You," she said firmly, getting to her feet and pointing one finger in his face, "cannot tell Ronald. By any means. Do you understand?"

"And rob him the unique, unforgettable experience of finding out for himself? I wouldn't dare."

She glared at him, before sitting down. She allowed the feeling of defeat to blanket her, just for a few minutes. Just until she could figure out what she would do, now. Pansy and Harry knew. That was two more people than she had ever planned on knowing. What were the chances they would simply take this secret to their graves? And how soon would that approximately be?

"How long?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Don't. You don't want to know."

"Oh, that's where you're wrong," he said. "I actually, really do."

ooo

Three and a half years ago

After the meeting, she snuck into one of the rooms at Grimmauld Place. It was dark, musty, and covered with a substantial layer of dust. She gravitated towards the solitary window that glowed from the downpour of snow outside. She stood there, thinking, trying to come up with a better plan – one that involved less urgency for a goodbye. Her mind burrowed tunnels around the attack, searching for loopholes and weak spots, or ways to circumvent the fatalities they predicted.

She wasn't surprised when she heard the door creak open, and then shut again. She heard his light, muffled footsteps on the rug.

She kept her eyes on the snow piling up outside the window. "What they're sending you on – it's a suicide mission."

"We're in a war," he snorted. "Every mission's a suicide mission."

She turned around to look at him, her hand clenched around her wand. She was unconsciously gnawing on her bottom lip. This was one of her tells. It exasperated him.

He scoffed at her with condescension. "Don't get all sappy on me now, Granger. This is not a romance novel. That's not us."

"I wasn't," she snapped. She allowed her anger to flare hotly just for a moment before she realized what he was doing. He was good at this. He was a snake charmer and he knew exactly what to do and say to make her hate him. She used to think it was just an incurable condition – a side effect to his natural state as an asshole – but she knew now that his insufferableness was purely conscious. It was a weapon. It kept him a closed door; it gave him power that way.

"And there is no us," she said. "What we have – no, what we do, it doesn't get that. A title. It doesn't get to have one of those, do you get that?"

It's easier to bury that way. If it doesn't have a name, it doesn't exist.

"Fine," he said. That was all he said. Because then he just looked at her, his face slightly lit from the glare of the snow, his gray eyes as opaque as concrete. She tried to remember him before the war – the unaffected way he made everyone miserable, the darkness that was covered up by petty pranks and malicious words he peppered around the halls. As if that was his bloody legacy. As if that was all he was good for.

His face was so much more angular now. All harsh lines and pale blond scruff. The smoothness and ease that had been endowed to him through a privileged life was gone – or at least now hanging by a fine, fine thread. Like the rest of them, the scars he'd gained marked him like a roadmap. He was no longer polished silver and unwrinkled suits. Now he was sandpaper and smoke and scabs.

They would be leaving for their mission in five short hours. She tried to keep that in mind when she pushed herself into him, grabbing him with a kiss. When he draped her over the desk and she busied her hands with undoing his trousers, she thought of how she used to tell herself that every time they did this, it would be the last time. Never mind that she never allowed herself to think that it would actually come true – that it would, indeed, be the last time they buried themselves in each other because one of them might actually turn up dead. In her mind, she preferred to think that the way this would end was through voluntary means. They would make that decision. They would stand in front of each other and look each other in the face and end it. For that to happen, they would both still have to be breathing.

She cast a silencing and locking charm on the room before she let her wand go, hearing through the heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as it clattered down to the floor.

She closed her eyes tightly when she felt him empty out into her, some of his warmth running down her thigh. Her muscles felt like taffy. She was damp from where he'd run her mouth over her, making invisible trails, marking up an unseen constellation. Maybe that was some sort of code. Maybe that was, in a sense, goodbye.

They never kissed after the deed was done. This was a silent agreement that had happened along the way, in between the flurry of heated, desperation-fueled fucks against walls and trees and doors. It was a rule. Perhaps the only rule.

So when his mouth hovered around hers afterwards, their ragged breaths in sync, she shut her eyes.

"Don't," she breathed. She didn't know what she meant. Don't kiss me. Don't go. Don't die. Maybe she meant them all.

"I won't," he said back. But his mouth didn't move away.

"Good."

ooo

Hermione put all of her energy into avoiding him – which wasn't that difficult, seeing as how he rarely left his office. Even so, just knowing he was a mere twenty seconds walk away, rattled her. Their conversation from that night was now on a mental loop. You can't get what you want without asking for it. So ask for it.

Much to her dismay, Ginny was becoming a staple at their office. Lunch dates, dinner dates – she would always bring it upon herself to come early and "have a little bit of a chat" with Hermione. She asked about her brother, vented about him, asked about Harry and the bar, and expressed her concerns over his business. Hermione allowed her this, because deep down, she knew it wasn't Ginny's fault that her feelings about Malfoy were now on a second cycle.

That is, until she brought up her love life.

"You aren't seeing anyone, are you, Hermione?" she said. "I mean, at the moment, at least?"

"I'm seeing this desk and my bed," she said without looking up, signing off on a few owls. "And it's a bit new age but I think it's been working out so far."

"Oh, come on, Hermione. I only ask because I think you're letting yourself become devoured by your work. You deserve a little TLC – to be treated like the woman you are." Her eyes sparkled and the corners of her mouth turned upwards like a cat's. "Blaise Zabini has been asking about you."

"Ha!" Hermione said. "No."

"Oh, Hermione – he's better now, I swear. He's seemed to really embrace this whole 'love one another as yourself' thing after the war."

"A really, really firm no."

But Ginny was a train and she was barreling ahead at full-speed. "He saw you at Dean's wedding and he mentioned to me that he was interested. He admires the work that you do."

She snorted. "That's rich, coming from a person with zero work ethic."

She ignored her snarky comment. "He'll be owling you tomorrow to ask you out for dinner," she said, getting up. Hermione saw the door to Malfoy's office open, catching him talk to his secretary before his eyes landed on her office. Or – more particularly, who was in her office. She felt something harden at the base of her throat.

"Really, Hermione. You should give him a chance. Hogwarts is over and we're grown adults now. We should just let bygones be bygones." She shot her a beatific smile. "See you later then!"

Despite herself, she watched Ginny leave with Malfoy. She allowed herself the torture of seeing what it was everybody saw in them. Their graceful, slender figures and their alabaster skin made them a breathtaking couple. But what about the parts underneath? Had Ginny seen his scars? Had she heard him, in his sleep, recite the times and dates of when they had been given to him? Did she know him in precisely the way he didn't want to be known?

As they left, there was a pathetic part of her that wished he would look her way.

He didn't.

ooo

She had a tendency of putting an album on full blast when she was trying not to think too hard about something.

"Well, if this isn't awfully progressive of you, agreeing to go out to dinner with a Slytherin," Harry yelled above the music. He was smirking and leaning up against her doorframe.

She reached over and turned down her music, not having heard him Apparate in, before she glared at him through her mirror, putting on her earrings. Her fingers stumbled over the backings. "Don't start with me, Harry Potter."

She wasn't enjoying this. She hated that she had agreed to it – let alone that it had come with a nudge from Ginny. But what real reason did she have to say no? In the least, she would get a fancy dinner out of it and a justified sense of semi-cynicism.

"I'm not mocking you, Hermione. I'm congratulating you. This is good – baby steps to finally letting bygones be bygones. Truly. I'm proud of you."

"The next person who uses that phrase on me," she muttered, brushing out her hair, "is getting seriously hexed."

"Just try to have a little more self-control when it comes to your eyeballs. You have a tendency of rolling your eyes an awful lot when in the vicinity of ridiculous conversation. Oh, and by the way," he said, "you look nice. Good to see you out of a collared shirt and trousers every once in a while."

"Thank you for your visit," she said. "Now please. Go away. Don't you have a bar to open?"

"I love you, and be home by eleven," he winked. And then with a Crack! he was gone.

Hermione sighed, taking one last look at herself in the mirror. She grabbed her clutch and Apparated to downtown wizarding London.

She appeared in a dimly-lit alley behind a hat shop a few blocks away from the restaurant, and when she stepped out, there was a considerable flow of people strolling on the sidewalks. She glanced at her watch and began to make her way to the restaurant of Blaise's choice, Fleur de Lys. She had come by this restaurant before, and remembered the general impression she'd gotten from a peek from the window outside – which was that it wasn't likely she'd ever find herself in such a place. Not on purpose, anyway. It had crystal goblets and fine china with a dress code that cost more than what she made in a year.

And yet here she was.

"Hi," she said to the maître d', a stunning Veela with violet eyes. "I'm Hermione Granger. I'm supposed to be meeting Blaise Zabini."

She tried hard not to think of how wrong the words felt in her mouth. Entirely too self-conscious, like trying to speak in a different language.

The Veela gave her a look-over before nodding. "This way, Miss Granger."

She led her to an intimate table where Blaise was waiting. It was complete with candle lighting and fresh flowers. Blaise's face brightened when he saw her.

"Granger, you look stunning."

Hermione blushed as she took her seat, trying to forget that this was the boy who preferred not to associate with "blood traitors" a few short years ago. "Thank you."

"I've heard a bit about your firm from Draco," he said amicably, as their glasses filled with wine. "It's a shame the Ministry neglected such an asset, but I do believe you're in good hands now. Draco's been looking into acquiring your firm for quite some time now, you know. Ever since the beginning."

Hermione set down her goblet. "I'm sorry, you know this because . . .?"

"I advise Draco's acquisitions. I write up the pros and cons to every company he wants to absorb, underline the bottom line, and he makes the decision from there." He began to chuckle under his breath. "I was there the day the news broke, you know. The day you stormed into his office. I thought we'd have to run an intervention. There was a betting pool going around that we'd find his corpse shortly after you left."

Hermione was nodding. Draco's been looking into acquiring your firm for quite some time now, you know. Ever since the beginning. She took a very long sip of wine.

"If I thought I'd get away with it, there would've been," she said, smiling a little wider than natural.

Blaise shook his head, laughing. "You're Hermione Granger. You can get away with anything."

She couldn't believe it. Had she been so romantically distant for so long? Was Blaise Zabini actually flirting with her? She watched in relief as her goblet magically refilled with more wine.

They ordered dinner and extended their conversation beyond business and work. She was careful not to touch on topics that were too sensitive – their time at Hogwarts, for example. It was hard to believe this was the same Blaise Zabini who had looked down on everyone below his status – and even a few of those above him. He was, she dared to say, quite decent and charming. Hermione even noticed the jealous glances of a few of the women around him, their attention caught by the sound of Blaise's laughter.

She allowed herself to feel a little bit of that glow inside her. Was this how it felt like to be validated?

"Listen, Hermione," he said, and she was quite struck at his easy use of her name, "I know this wasn't easy for you – saying yes. I want you to know I haven't forgotten how much of a prick I was back in school. I know this won't even begin to make up for it, but I hope I can show you how much I've changed since then. I'm an enlightened man. I'm grateful you even gave me a chance."

That was when she saw him. Past Blaise, three tables away, looking straight at her, before she caught his gaze and he looked away. And then – as if sensing what was happening – the slender female sitting with him turned her head and looked her way. Hermione felt a tight knot form in her stomach.

It was Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy's dark eyes quickly narrowed into a glare.

Her heart felt like a fist in her chest. "Excuse me for a second, I need to go to the ladies' room," Hermione said, before getting up from her table and heading to the bathrooms.

She was in the middle of rinsing her hands with ice-cold water when the door swung open and Pansy walked in. She took the place at the sink next to her, one hand on her hip.

"Granger," she purred. "Fancy meeting you here."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Right. It was as if she'd walked right into a sodding Slytherin House reunion. "Coincidence, Pansy. It's a bitch."

A word you should be quite familiar with, she thought to herself.

"Yes. And yet here we are. And there you are, looking quite cozy with Blaise. Care to explain?"

"I couldn't care less to explain, actually," she said. She turned to her, exasperated with her sudden attentiveness to the wheezing heartbeat that was her love life. "Mind your own business, Pansy. I'm sorry I overheard you and Dean in the garden that night – trust me, I'm not the sort of person to be credited as a 'close family friend' in those Witch Weekly exposes. Your secret's safe with me. So leave me alone."

The tip of Pansy's stiletto was tapping against the marble tile. "Maybe you didn't know this, Granger, but Draco and Blaise are good friends – more than that, they're business partners in one of the most successful postwar companies on this side of the world. I know you're in a pool of your own self-denial, but this is low, even for you."

"Get over yourself, Pansy. I'm not a lost soul for you to herd. And – not that it's any of your business – but Ginny's the one who set this up. Maybe you've heard of her – the girlfriend of the man you're having dinner with?"

"He's helping me with my marriage," she said lowly.

"Somehow I highly doubt that," she snorted.

"Watch your tongue," Pansy hissed, and Hermione was momentarily taken aback. "Unlike you, some of us actually still believe in Draco. Face it, Granger: you're stunted. And you aren't fooling anyone, sitting pretty at a table with Blaise. Carry on with him if you're so inclined, but hear this: he'll find you out, sooner or later. In a startling moment of clarity, he'll see how even you can't dig yourself out. You're a fake, Hermione Granger."

Pansy ripped the towel out from the rod and threw it down on the sink in front of her.

"Have a pleasant dinner now," Pansy said, plastering on a smile that bit more than it should have, before exiting the bathroom with one last scoff of disgust.

Hermione stared after her. "Bitch."

ooo

Her dinner with Blaise ended decently enough. It was harder for her to carry on the way they had been – small talk, insert joke or ludicrous story here or there – once she had become aware that only three tables away was the man who had once been an expert at ruining good pairs of underwear and was now the owner of her company. She could feel his eyes on her and it made her feel like she had been lit from the inside. Sitting there, pretending otherwise, she burned.

She hated that he was the only one who could do this to her, even now. He was like a paper cut in-between the fingers of her life – inconvenient, stupid, and messy. Not to mention it made her irrationally angry.

He walked her outside of the restaurant, where they chatted for a few more minutes before saying their goodbyes. Blaise thanked her, and then did something shocking – he kissed her hand.

"It was a pleasure, Hermione. I hope to see more of you," he smiled.

She almost thought that if she willed it hard enough, he could make her heart skip a beat. "Same," was all she said. She watched him disappear with a Pop! and she stood there for a minute, trying to compose herself. She tried to tuck the muddled parts of her back in, at least until she got back home. At least there she could be as miserable and tortured as she needed and the only one who would know it was herself.

She absentmindedly started down the sidewalk. She had just decided to stop by Harry's bar before she went home for the night when she felt something clamp down around her right arm. Before she could yell out for help, she had already been dragged into the nearest alley.

The perpetrator let her go. She whirled around, her wand already between her fingers. "Immobulus!"

She missed.

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