"Ron?" Hermione gasps. Neither she nor Draco move, both of them still leaning close enough to kiss. "Why...why are you here?"
"Fleur and Bill are taking some of us to dinner." Ron points an accusatory finger at them like he's caught them doing something shameful. "Why are you here?"
"What does it look like, Weasley?" Draco drawls, without removing his fingers from Hermione's cheek.
"It looks like you were trying to snog my girlfriend, Malfoy."
"Your girlfriend?" Hermione sputters. "Honestly, Ron, you can't be serious!"
Ron ignores her, not bothering to argue about their relationship status as he continues to glare at Draco. "You owe me an answer, Malfoy. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I think you can draw your own conclusions," Draco says with a derisive laugh. But he still pulls his hand away from her as though he was doing something wrong.
Ron flushes pink between his freckles, now too furious to care that they aren't touching anymore. "My 'own conclusions?'" he snaps. "My own fucking conclusions? Well, Malfoy, I conclude that Hermione would have to be some Death Eater slag to want to kiss the likes of you, and that's not bloody likely, is it?"
Draco rises from his chair so hard it falls backward, and he and Ron stalk toward each other.
"What did you just call her?" Draco hisses.
"I didn't call her shit. I called you something."
"You think I'm deaf? I just heard you insult her."
"Isn't that usually your favorite activity, Ferret?"
"You're doing a fine job on your own tonight, Weasel."
Ron balks and then makes a sort of snarling sound. "Get the hell away from Hermione, Malfoy."
"Or what?"
Both of their hands reach for their wands, just as the hostess reappears with a soft "pop" of Apparition. Closely behind her follow Bill, Arthur, a very pregnant Fleur, and Molly. The latter Weasley scowls at her son, almost as hard as the hostess scowls at Draco.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley, we get invited to one fancy restaurant, and you can't manage to keep your wand in your pocket for more than two minutes?" Molly's teeth grind together so hard, the sound echoes off the enchanted ceiling. Then Molly does an about-face to give Hermione a sweet smile. "Hello, Hermione dear. Don't you look lovely this evening!"
"Her?" Ron shrieks, clearly outraged. "You're complimenting her, when she's daft enough to be here with this bloody Death—?"
Draco draws his wand and points it directly at Ron's throat. "Don't you dare insult her again, Weasel, or I'll make sure the freckles on your face connect directly to the ones on your shoulders."
Whatever line the hostess has set for decorum, they've officially crossed it. Before either man can utter another syllable, the hostess pulls out her own wand – a thin, ebony affair that fits her to a T – and aims it at them.
"Out," she commands. "Both of you."
"My family—" Ron begins, but the hostess shuts him up with a flick of her wand.
"You take this problem outside and resolve it. You may return to your family when you've calmed down enough to respect the sanctity of Le Passage Secret." Her sharp eyes whip toward Draco, who's already lowered his own wand. "Your account has been billed, Mr. Malfoy. I assume you and Ms. Granger are prepared to leave as well."
That last sentence is a statement, not a question. Draco nods curtly and holds out his hand for Hermione to take. She's so flustered, she doesn't think twice – she just slips her hand into his, gives the Weasleys an apologetic grimace, and follows his broad strides down the stream-filled center aisle.
Outside, in the cool night air, she's able to breathe again. To clear her head and think. Which is fortunate, since Ron has followed them out and no one but Hermione appears to be capable of rational thought right now.
As if to demonstrate this fact, Ron and Draco begin circling each other in the alleyway like wild animals. Although Ron doesn't look at her, he addresses Hermione first.
"What the hell are you doing here, Hermione? Did he Imperius you, or something?"
"No, Ron," she grits out. Anger itches beneath her skin and threatens to spoil her focus. "I don't need a spell cast on me to have a date, you know."
Ron scoffs. "A date? Are you actually trying to tell me that you're on a date with Draco sodding Malfoy?"
"Did you seriously just ask her that, Weasel?" Draco taunts. "Are you so bloody thick, you need to repeat a variation of that question for a third time?"
"Draco," Hermione says in warning. "Please."
That finally captures Ron's attention, and his gaze slides briefly over to Hermione. "Draco? Since when do you call him Draco?"
Hermione groans and throws her hands into the air. "Since I agreed to go on a date with him, Ronald."
Draco raises a suggestive eyebrow. "Oh, even before that, I think."
The implication earns him a sharp poke in the shoulder from Hermione, who has edged close enough to the wizards that she can Stupefy them both if necessary.
"Don't antagonize him, Draco."
"Oh, please antagonize me, Draco," Ron jeers, slipping his wand from his pocket. "I'm daring you."
Draco reaches for his own wand again, pausing only when Hermione places a hand on his arm. Her touch is gentle, but she delivers her next words in a tone that could freeze blood.
"Draco. Ron. If you don't stop prowling around each other, I swear to Merlin I will hex you both. I mean it."
Hermione and Ron have been friends for years; she and Draco, only a few months. And yet it's Draco – not Ron – who stops moving first. The muscles in his jaw twitch nonstop and his glare remains murderous. But he complies with Hermione's wishes and drops his hands to his sides. Granted, those hands happen to be balled into tense fists that could connect with Ron's teeth at any moment, but…it's an effort. Far more than the one Ron makes as he continues to pace in front of Draco with his wand raised.
"Ron."
She doesn't change her icy tone. But something must finally break through Ron's angry haze, because he snaps to attention like he's been slapped. He halts mid-pace and slowly looks at her again. He blinks at her, once, twice, like he's seeing her for the first time. There's a small shift behind his stare, a softening so imperceptible she would miss it, if she didn't know Ron's face so well.
"You really do look pretty tonight, Hermione," he says quietly.
She opens her mouth to thank him, but a soft rumbling from the back of Draco's throat beats her to the punch.
Draco doesn't say anything else. He makes no more taunts or interruptions and gives no further reason for an attack, other than his presence in this alley and that low rumbling.
But the rumble itself? Hermione and Ron both know what it means: Draco Malfoy actually growled when another wizard complimented her. And that growl had a clear intent behind it.
Ron glances between Draco and Hermione rapidly – a tennis-match motion of the head that the Weasleys often make, when they're figuring something out.
Hermione can guess what Ron sees as he observes them: the protective way Draco angles his body toward hers; the equally possessive way her hand remains on his arm; the tenderness with which she keeps looking up at Draco, as if she's worried about his reaction to this confrontation. In that moment, standing in the darkened alleyway, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy don't look like childhood enemies, seconds away from a slap or a hex. They look like lovers, united against her jealous ex. And while Ron Weasley might be a loyal friend with a big heart, he isn't the type of man to let that kind of thing go.
Ron's face distorts until it's almost ugly. He's a good-looking guy, but he doesn't wear sneers well. There's something about his long nose, maybe, or the thinness of his upper lip, that makes the expression too sour and brittle all at once.
"Good job, Malfoy," Ron says, his voice so cold Hermione feels a chill run down her bare arms. "Perfect bloody job, in fact."
"What are you on about, Weasel?"
"Don't you know?" Ron's smile grows even harsher - it's almost a baring of teeth now. "I'm congratulating you for pulling a solid con on a smart witch."
"Ron, don't," Hermione pleads, at the same time that Draco says, "Seriously, what the hell are you talking about, Weasley?"
Ron lets loose a bleak laugh. "I'm talking about you, Malfoy – the perpetual liar and schemer. What did you do, make her feel so sorry for you that she agreed to go on a date with you tonight? Did you tell her how hard life is now for all you poor, pathetic Death Eaters?"
"Ronald Weasley, don't you dare," Hermione says, but that was just Ron's warm up. Ignoring her warning, he delivers his fatal blow hard, fast, and mercilessly.
"I bet that's exactly what you did, you ferret," Ron hisses at Draco, who's gone eerily motionless. "Hermione's been doing this…this weird tour thing lately, hasn't she? So she probably came by that snake pit you call home with some dessert. And you started preying on her like a bloody vampire. But you know the worst part? She fucking fell for it, that's how evil you are. You're poison, Malfoy. Fucking poison. Everything you touch dies. Look at Dumbledore and your precious Death Eaters. Shit, even Crabbe. You're a toxic pit of despair, Malfoy, and you're just trying to drag Hermione down into it so you don't have to drown alone."
As Ron spits out those last vile words, the two wizards are a study in contrasts. Ron's face has shifted from pink to scarlet, so that he looks like a slash of blood-red against the grey stones of the passageway. Across from him, Draco has become living marble – a pale statue from head to toe, cold and unmoving in the darkness. Ron, shuddering with spent anger; Draco, as still as a block of ice.
Hermione, however, is the picture of bitter disappointment. Not with Draco, who has yet to defend himself, but with one of her oldest friends in the world. The boy she loved first. The boy who just broke her heart for the second time in a year.
Ron's speech is a dagger inside her chest, and not because she agrees with him that Draco used her – not at all. If anything, she started out using Draco, to prove to herself that she was strong enough to help someone truly broken. To reassure herself that someone else was even more broken than she felt. But somewhere along the way, all that changed. Her heart changed. So Ron's words don't hurt because of what they say about Draco, or even about her. They hurt because of what they say about Ron.
Between each of Ron's venomous phrases, Hermione hears the hidden message: Ron still thinks her Tour, her fears, her need to work through the WarWarWar in her brain, are all unnecessary. He still can't reconcile them and the War in a way that they can both live with. Plus, he apparently thinks she's weak enough to fall for any old sob story. That alone sets her heart on fire.
And if her heart aches….
She turns toward Draco with tears in her eyes. How will she pull him back from the precipice that Ron just pushed him toward? How will she rebuild the fragile scaffolding that Ron just destroyed?
Draco looks so breakable right now, she has no idea how she should even approach him. But he stuns her when he shakes his head, straightens his spine, and fixes her with a bland stare. He tucks one hand into a tailored pocket and turns toward her with that familiar, aristocratic ease. If she didn't know him better – if she didn't see the small crease between his brows or the tight line of strain around his mouth – she would think he didn't have a care in the world.
When he gets close enough, Draco slips his free hand into her hair and tugs her toward him. The motion is gentle, but a lock of her hair falls from its bun anyway. Draco ponders that tendril for a moment – twists it carefully around one long finger. He lets go of the curl slowly, almost regretfully, and leans forward to press a firm, close-lipped kiss to her forehead.
"Go home with the Weasleys," he whispers against her skin.
"W-what?"
"Please," he whispers. Then he raises his voice so that Ron can hear him, too. "I'm sure the Weasleys won't mind if you share their Portkey home. They won't have hidden Aurors watching their journey, you know. Maybe you could even join them for the dessert we missed. While you wait."
"No," Hermione protests. "After all that bullshit you just heard, there's no way I'm going to let you—"
"I've asked you nicely," Draco sneers, his calm demeanor abruptly disdainful. "Don't make me repeat myself."
"What? What do you—?"
"I need to go home and think, Granger. When I'm ready to talk, I'll owl you."
Without further explanation or even a goodbye, Draco turns and walks out of the alley, leaving her alone with Ron. Who is now chuckling in triumph.
"Still a bloody coward," Ron shouts at Draco's retreating form. He grins as he turns back to her. "Once a ferret, always a ferret. Right, 'Mione?"
And suddenly, Hermione isn't the picture of tearful disappointment. She is the picture of unmitigated rage.
In that narrow corridor, with only darkness between her and Ron, Hermione releases her rage like a fire-breathing dragon. She's screaming at Ron before she fully considers her words. Before she can douse their heat with reason. Unchecked, those words ignite the air itself, furious and glowing and fused together with burning indignation.
She's only vaguely aware of the things she says, of the vitriol she spews at him. But she does keep a precious few things inside. For instance, she only just refrains from laying bare his failings as a friend, a lover, a person. Those thoughts are too mean, too painful for even this moment. So she locks them in her heart, inside a little cupboard marked, Things I Don't Say but Definitely Feel.
Unlike Ron, Hermione doesn't pant upon finishing. She doesn't turn puce or go pale. Instead, she rocks back on her pretty black stilettos and assesses Ron coolly.
"H-Hermione," he stutters. "I…I'm so sorry. I love you, you know. Not…not like that, anymore. But you're still one of my best friends, and I shouldn't have—"
"No. You shouldn't have."
With his stricken expression burning in her brain, Hermione Disapparates to the Gare du Nord station and prays that the last train back to London hasn't departed yet. Because there's no way in hell she's Portkeying anywhere with Ron Weasley tonight.
Or maybe ever again.