A/N: Hey guys! Welcome to my very first Hary Potter fanfic! Eep! I'm so excited/nervous to share this with you. Let me know what you think!

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Steam rose off a small, chipped mug cradled in the hands of the petite brunette sitting at a table in the back of the Leaky Cauldron. Her back was to the door, and she shivered every time it opened as the chill made its way to her table before it clicked shut again.

Hermione glanced at the watch on her wrist, wondering how much longer she could justify sitting at the table by herself.

Well, my drink isn't cold yet. A few more minutes won't hurt, she warred with herself. But what if someone sees me and wonders why I'm here alone? I don't want to have to explain that to them, she scoffed. I won't have to explain it to them. Will I?

Although the War had been over for several years, she still cringed every time she heard someone shout her name. It was even worse if it was accompanied by a flashbulb. Just once, she'd like to be able to walk out onto the balcony of her flat above Flourish and Blotts and not worry about ending up on the cover of Witch Weekly. At least they had stopped publishing articles about her "mousy wardrobe." It was expected for bookshop keepers to dress modestly, she supposed.

As she meandered through her thoughts, she missed the snick of the door opening. It was only when she felt the brisk air nip at her heels that she tried to covertly peer over her shoulder. A head full of wild brown hair moved toward the bar, and her shoulders relaxed. Not him.

She was, she imagined, rather silly to be sitting alone at the same table, night after night, only a warm cup of Butterbeer to keep her company. On the days that she remembered, she would also bring a book with her. Pass the time, expand her mind. There were worse ways to spend the weekend.

Hermione had been quite lonely since Harry and Ginny had moved to Godric's Hollow. The trip wasn't a long one, and she could Apparate there in an instant, but she didn't want to invade their privacy. The last time she'd shown up unannounced, she had caught them in a very compromising position on the kitchen table. In hindsight, the pathway of clothes to the kitchen should have been an indication to stay away, but she did have a bad habit of shucking off her pants and bra on the walk to the kitchen.

She chuckled to herself and took a sip of her drink. At least Harry was happy. He did deserve it, after all. Not many people could say they defeated the Dark Lord at 17 and lived to tell the tale.

She and Ron hadn't spoken in a while, but she was at peace with it. Their relationship had fizzled, and she imagined the spark had only been there because of their imminent deaths. Could anyone blame her for wanting to savor a relationship while she could?

She sighed. She missed Ron, her friend. Not Ron, the boyfriend. He and Pansy, through some miracle of fate, were happily together. She still wasn't quite sure how they managed that one, but it seemed his need for constant validation matched Pansy's need for constant attention. As long as they were in the same room together, they glowed. It was, if she was honest, slightly nauseating. But she had to admit, Ron was no longer an immature little git.

A smile ghosted across her face as she reminisced. Hogwarts had been great for them. She missed seeing Harry and Ron all the time. She missed the warmth of the Gryffindor common room and the swish of cloaks across the stone floors.

On days when she felt particularly nostalgic, she even missed Quidditch games. Not that she would ever tell Ron or Harry.

Hermione smiled. It wasn't that she wasn't happy. She was, deliriously so. She got to spend every day surrounded by books. She could travel to every continent to find rare editions. She went to bed drenched in the smell of old tomes and woke up every morning to do it all again. She had wonderful friends—family, if she was honest. Her life, she mused, was perfect.

Although.

Although it would be nice to have someone around who appreciated the books just as much as she did.

Here we go. She grumbled to herself. Right back to the same thoughts. She swirled the cooling mug of Butterbeer in her hands.

It was quite strange to yearn for a relationship. Human companionship, she knew, was in short supply when one spent the majority of their days surrounded by books no one had cared to open in years.

She huffed. Maybe that was how she had ended up in the Leaky weekend after weekend.

She wasn't sure how it had happened, but she had developed an...attachment to a certain customer. And she wasn't sure how she felt about it.

Draco Malfoy. An enigma, albeit a very fit enigma. She chuckled to herself, then glanced around to make sure no one had heard. When she was sure they hadn't, she settled back into her thoughts.

Two years ago, well after her break up with Ron, Malfoy had swept into her bookstore. She had immediately tensed when he rushed to the counter.

"I've heard that you have a limited edition Scamander piece," he panted, out of breath. Almost like he had run the length of Diagon Alley from the Ministry of Magic. His robes were askew and his blond hair stuck up at the ends. If she hadn't been utterly flummoxed as to why he was deigning to speak to her, she might have thought that flustered Malfoy was cute. When he stopped fumbling with his bag, which she was sure was filled to the brim with Galleons, he looked up and paused. Eyebrows slashed in confusion, he asked, "Granger?"

Hermione drew back from the counter a step, instantly on the defensive. "Still as observant as always, Malfoy," she drawled, trying to appear unmoved.

If she hadn't been watching him so closely, she might have missed his flinch. Might have missed the slight downturn of his eyes and the way his cheeks reddened.

"I'm sorry, it's just—I've been out of the country and I—" Draco prattled on, obviously uncomfortable, but Hermione didn't hear anything. She was still shocked that he'd apologized. Malfoy never apologized.

She started when he backed away from the counter and turned toward the door. The words tumbled out of her mouth before common sense could stop them. "Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry to have bothered you. I know with—" he mumbled, awkwardly waving his hand about. "—our history and what-not." He trailed off. "I'll owl order it." He turned on his heel.

Hermione wasn't going to say anything. She should let him walk out the door and chalk this encounter up to a strange spring day. And yet—

"Malfoy, stop."

He paused, his hand on the door. But he didn't turn to look at her, his shoulders tight, as though he was waiting for a blow.

He thinks I'm going to curse him, she thought incredulously. Or maybe—maybe he's afraid of what I'll say?

This Malfoy was very different from the Malfoy she'd known, and loathed, at Hogwarts.

"The book is in the back. I'll get it for you, if you wait here."

His shoulders relaxed slowly.

She turned and walked to the back room. As the door swung shut and she glanced at him again, she could have sworn she saw a relieved smile touch his eyes.

The table jostled and a lithe figure slid across from her, jolting Hermione from her memory. She nearly choked on the Butterbeer she'd been sipping absentmindedly.

Grey eyes pierced through her, and her heart started pounding.

Oh, Merlin. She had missed his entrance, too caught up in her daydreams to notice, even with the breeze nipping at her ankles.

Draco Malfoy sat across the table from her, Butterbeer in hand, and she was gaping at him like a house elf waiting for an order.

"Do you often sit by yourself at the bar, Granger?" Malfoy drawled, amusement quirking his lips upward.

"No. Well, not often—it's just a weekend thing." She groaned to herself. Just a weekend thing? You absolute dolt. Because that doesn't sound pathetic.

His grin only got wider, and she hid behind a sip of her Butterbeer.

"So you haven't, by chance, come down to stake out my reading booth?" he asked, mirth lighting up his grey eyes.

It's funny, she thought, just how pretty such a dull color can be on the right person.

Her cheeks turned red as he surveyed her. He'd caught her, and he knew it. Ever since he'd come into her shop that first time, their interactions had become less and less forced until they'd developed a friendship of sorts. They discussed books and recommended new reads to each other. He'd often go out of his way to visit the shop even on days when he knew there were no new shipments.

They were tiptoeing around their shared past and trying to forge something new.

And it was nice.

"Work has been a little frustrating lately. I just needed a place to unwind before I went home." She cringed as the lie slipped past her lips.

"If you wanted to continue our conversation, all you had to do was ask," Draco teased.

She gulped down the last of her Butterbeer, trying to gather her thoughts.

"As much as I do enjoy our conversations, I didn't want to impose. After all—" She was cut off by him holding up his hand. She spluttered angrily. "Excuse me, who do—"

"You have foam on your upper lip. From your Butterbeer," Malfoy explained.

She blushed crimson and snatched a napkin from the holder on the table, but Malfoy's hand closed on her wrist. She glanced up in time to see him take a drink of his Butterbeer and put it back on the table.

A foam mustache curved across his upper lip.

"There, we match." Malfoy smirked.

Oh, Merlin, she thought, her heart rate accelerating. He looks entirely too cute with that.

Hermione was in trouble.