Disclaimer: I own nothing! The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Another old story, originally from GE

*original author notes*
Yes… I know… I've written a Dramione. What has the world come to? Inspired by another song this had Dramione written all over it. So, against my better judgement, I wrote the damn thing! *mutters* stupid blond plot bunny…

Enjoy!

With thanks to my awesome beta: foggybythebay and eternal thanks to shinigamioni as well for the advice, suggestions, cheerleading and generally being awesome – you both rock!

The clock on the wall set a rhythm to the night. The seconds counted out like little hammers striking stone, each minute an eternity. Outside she could hear the steady patter of rain, trickling in the gutters, spattering against the window, and the rumble of distant thunder. The rest of the world was silent, those two sounds the only noise. No, that wasn't quite true. Somewhere in the darkness of the flat, at the foot of the bed, was a low rumbling sound. It was soothing, comforting, in a way that the march of time, highlighted by the clock, could never be. But it was another noise in the darkness, cutting through the night.

Hermione sighed and opened her eyes, giving up on sleep entirely now. Between the clock's persistent ticks, the building storm outside, Crookshanks' low snoring and her own thoughts, sleep was impossible.

The big, ginger cat gave a small start as Hermione pulled her legs up towards her. He watched his mistress sit up and rest her back against the head board, resting her forehead on her knees. Realising that nothing interesting was happening and he was unlikely to be getting fed anytime soon, Crookshanks stretched, turned and settled back down again.

Hermione's breathing was deep and ragged; she was cold, her head was aching from the wine she had drunk not long before and there was an urge to cry deep inside her. She couldn't bring herself to tears however, even though she desperately needed them. She felt only a bone-deep numbness that kept that depth of emotion at bay.

She simply felt empty and isolated from everything. Even the cold that nipped at her bare legs and arms did little to stir her.

Simple need finally made her move; no matter how awful she felt, she wasn't so far gone as to wet the bed. With another sigh she swung her legs out of bed and stood, holding onto the wooden bedside table for support as the room swung around her head for a moment. That bottle of wine had been effective in one way, though it hadn't removed the memories she needed erased.

She tugged her light night gown down around her thighs and straightened the thin shoulder straps, regretting her choice the short one now that she stood in the chill room. She stumbled towards the bathroom, snatching her dressing gown from the back of the door before dropping, gracelessly onto the toilet and draping the gown over her legs. Her head dropped onto her lap and a low groan escaped her. Her hair, wild and bushy at the best of times, splayed out in all directions over her legs as part of her felt a moment of relief.

She sat there, long after she had finished, partly hoping for the toilet to swallow her up. Maybe then her head would stop throbbing. From the lounge she heard the little, silver carriage clock, a gift from the cause of her apathy, play its little tune before striking the hour. Just the one chime – it was only one o'clock in the morning. If she was lucky she might have a chance at a sensible night's sleep… if she could find sleep tonight.

"What's the point?" she asked her knees, her voice croaking slightly.

It was a short time later that Hermione shuffled into the lounge in her dressing gown, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. She surveyed the mess she had left behind; the dishes piled in the sink from last night's dinner, the fireplace with its barely smouldering embers, the glass and almost empty bottle of wine on the table, an empty box sat on the couch with her wand resting in it, the photos from the box scattered around where she had been trying to organise them.

She scuffed her way over to the sofa, casting a look over to the kitchen area. She would normally have cleared up before going to bed but the combination of photograph organising and too much wine had driven her to bed feeling fuzzy headed and maudlin over her own situation. The kitchen window was being battered by the rain, the wind picking up speed and sweeping the glowering clouds across the night sky. The rain swept across the glass like the waves of the sea, each one rattling the window. The sky was lit up momentarily by a flash of lightning, the thunder grumbling a few seconds later.

With a sigh she settled herself in the open space where she had sat before, surrounded by the photos. Looking at them she saw all of her friends waving and smiling, sunny scenes, snowy scenes, party scenes, Harry, Ron, Luna… good times all of them.

She began to gather the remaining photos together, unable to bear looking at all the happy smiling faces any longer. She needed sleep, if only for her own sanity, but she wanted to tidy the lounge up a little first. Shutting the albums she stacked them on the glass table, promising herself that she would put them away in the morning. Pulling the box over to her she plucked her wand out and set it on the table before picking up the pile of photos and dropping them into the box. The box joined the albums on the table. Looking around for any stragglers she noticed the corner of one sticking out from under the couch. She pulled at it and it came out, with friends.

Hermione released the corner of the photograph as if it had burned her. It was one of a bundle, all secured with a twist of red ribbon, gold thread running through it in an intricate pattern. The photographs, maybe fifty in all, sat there, mute and terrifying in their silence.

She vaguely remembered stuffing them under the couch earlier, refusing to look at them; she couldn't help but see them now. They held memories too and they used to be happy ones. Now they were painful and she wanted to refuse them space in her heart.

But she found herself toying with the ribbon, her hands involuntarily pulling the bundle towards her. A burning pain was building behind her eyes, the sting of tears pricking their little daggers of sorrow into her mind, begging for release. If you let us go, they whispered, you would feel better.

But she couldn't cry over him. She had promised herself… the bastard didn't deserve her tears, didn't deserve anything. He had thrown her away; cast her aside when he could no longer use her. She didn't care how unfair an assessment of the man that was, she was still hurt and angry.

She looked up at the fireplace, remembering the last time she had spoken to him.

Two Weeks Ago…

He turned his back and walked away. "It's over, Granger," he said. "Just face it and move on. I have."

They were in Hermione's flat. Around them candles flickered. The romantic dinner Hermione took extra care to prepare grew cold on the table, the candles and scented oils burning in the bedroom remained unnoticed, as too the soft music that surrounded them.

Hermione sat on the couch in her favourite dress, his favourite, still reeling from his announcement, feeling sick to her stomach. The dress was long and elegant, black with silver stitching, accenting her figure nicely. Now, however, it was restricting, making breathing difficult. The lingerie under her dress was suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, its clips and straps seemingly tighter than they had been before. She was only able to stare at his back as he walked to the fireplace and reached for the Floo powder. "So that's it?" she asked in a small voice. "'Just face it'? That's all you've got to say to me, after four years?"

He stopped, his arms dropping to his sides, small grains of the Floor powder trickling through the fingers of his left hand. His right reached up to grip the mantelpiece, for support it seemed. His head was bowed and Hermione stood quickly, taking a hesitant step towards him, one arm extending as if to take hold of him. "Just because your father…" she began tentatively but he whirled around, his blond hair flicking away from his storm grey eyes; eyes that stirred her heart and fired her senses whenever they met hers. Even now, with anger filling them, he was an incredible sight to behold.

But his words stole all of the fight from her.

Throwing the Floo powder behind him, the fire exploding into green flames at his back, he glared at her. "My father," he grated, his tone angry, his words clipped. "My father is right. We are not a good match. I am from a pure-blood family and you are the spawn of Muggles! It would never work; I don't know why I ever thought it would.

"Besides," he said with a sneer that sucked the breath from Hermione's chest and made her step away from him. "Father has already assured me that a pure-blooded family from France is clamouring for a connection to the Malfoy name. They have wealth, power and a young, beautiful daughter to marry off." His eyes looked her up and down with contempt; his expression broke Hermione's heart in two. "I don't need to grub in the dirt with you anymore."

"Get out."

For a moment he just stood there as if he hadn't heard. The words had been quiet but cut through the air like a well aimed hex. Hermione was barely able to see, barely even recognised her own voice. Her eyes stung and her heart was pounding. "Get out of my flat and never come back. I don't want to see your arrogant, pointed, ferret-like face, ever again. You hear me!?" Her voice rose with each word, getting more piercing by the second, until she was shrieking like a banshee. "You think I want to be with a spineless prick, like you? Go play with your little French whore, you… you-you… MALFOY MANOR!"

The fire behind him flared at once, a destination voiced at last, a lurid green light casting a renewed glow over the room. The stunning spell, cast from Hermione's wand, caught Draco full in the chest. He was blasted backwards, into the flames and wrenched away with a small pop.

And now it was two weeks later and she was crying; large, hot tears that fell into her lap, burning as they flowed. All the pain that she had bottled up, all the rage at the way he left her, the reason he left her, her frustration at the unfairness of it all… She hadn't even wanted to fall in love with the arrogant bastard in the first place! And he had dumped her! What gave him the right?

Rage boiled over in her veins, a fury so hot and violent that she felt the very air churn around her. Her hair seemed to crackle with static and her breath was fast and heavy as she snatched up her wand and blasted the fireplace. The embers caught, swirled to life again by the jet of violet flame. With a shriek of rage, Hermione snatched the photos from the carpet and hurled them across the room.

Almost the very instant they left her hand she screamed, "No!" and toppled forward, sprawling full length on the carpet, arms outstretched, desperately taking her actions back. Her body was wracked with powerful sobs, her face in the soft carpet, a dishevelled and broken figure in a short night gown.

It was a few minutes before she could bear to look up. The violet flames danced merrily in the fireplace with the occasional pop of the remaining logs. And hovering a short distance before the fireplace was the bundle of photos. Hermione had been holding her wand when she had shouted.

The red and gold ribbon was starting to blacken at the edges with the continued exposure to the heat of the fire and Hermione scuttled forward on her hands and knees, snatching the bundle from the air and cradling them like a mother with her babe. She couldn't let them burn, no matter how angry she was, she couldn't bear to lose these memories.

Quickly, panting and gasping in her emotional state she pulled the smouldering ribbon off of the photos, already seeing that the topmost photo had been kissed by the flame, a small amount of smoke marred the perfect white of the back. She pulled the photo from the bundle, letting the ribbon fall to the floor. Turning the photo over, she gave a moan of sorrow as she saw the picture.

There he was, dressed in a heavy winter coat and gloves, the jet black material sprinkled with bright white snow. His hair was a shocking contrast to his clothes and his face, his pale skin and grey eyes, in sharp relief against the darkness of the trees in the background. They used to say that he had a pointed face but she hadn't thought of him like that in a long time. 'They' were Hermione's friends, Harry, Ron, most everyone from Gryffindor… and her too she admitted to herself. She used to call him 'ferret', or just Malfoy, somehow managing to make it rhyme with 'scum'. She had hated him.

And then they had been forced to spend time together in their seventh year at Hogwarts. And something had changed. Even now she couldn't remember what it was but one minute he had been 'that ferret, Malfoy', despised and reviled… then, the next, he was Draco, an almost completely different person.

She had been drawn to him. She had discovered a side to him, a deeper side, buried; smothered almost, that just wanted someone to talk to. And they had talked; they had become a talking point themselves. The pure-blood and the Mudblood, what a scandal!

In the background of the photograph was a girl in a light coloured winter coat, scarf and ear muffs, laughing, collecting more snow to throw. It was her, when she had been happy – when they had been happy together. Hermione watched the snowball fight for a few minutes before dropping the photograph to the floor, heart heavier than ever.

Almost as if compelled she picked the next photo up off of the pile and turned it to look. Another scene with the same people; they were dancing in a pool of light this time. A party vividly remembered with a pained moan. Her dress was long and straight; a blood-red, strapless affair with a short train that fell in waves at the back. The material was gathered at the knee and hip with a smattering of red, satin roses. A simple necklace of clear stones caught the light and sparkled at her throat. Her hair was tamed, held in an intricate twist that allowed ringlets to spill around her face. She remembered the feel of that dress, the soft caress of the material against her skin and his arms around her, holding her so gently, yet so securely.

His suit was immaculate, black as midnight with a tailed jacket hugging his frame perfectly. His soft, blond hair hung down, framing his face as he looked into her eyes. Together they turned and spun about the floor to the silent music, endlessly dancing, their gazes intense and excluding all others. Hermione could hear, in her mind's eye, the tune that the band played.

The photo slipped through her fingers to the floor and another was turned upwards, faster now: her blowing kisses on a beach in Spain, him raising a glass in a quiet, English bar, the sun setting behind him over a picturesque rural scene, the two of them kissing on a balcony, the night sky filled with diamonds, sparkling behind them.

Her with him, him with her,

So many times, so many places; so much love, so much passion.

Each photograph was glistening with her tears now as they fell to the floor, her heart clenching. Soon her hands were empty, the remaining photos falling in a heap. Around her they lay, each one a perfect moment from their shared past.

She should hate him for what he had said to her that last time they were together, that had ended in her stunning him. But she still loved him, still wanted him back. Did that make her pathetic? To want someone who clearly didn't want her? Did he ever think of her, the way he always seemed to find his way into her thoughts? Did he lay awake at night thinking of her, wishing his words back; wishing that he had defied his father and married the Mudblood after all?

He must have wanted to, no matter his words. He had proposed to her, told her that she was his for all time and that he could never be without her. But a single word from Lucius Malfoy had changed everything.

The terrible patriarch of Malfoy Manor had forbidden the union. And Draco… that spineless, no good, bastard ferret! Draco had capitulated. Gave up on her, just like that. Oh, sure, there had been arguments between father and son, Draco had told her about them; blazing rows that had lasted days. Hermione was under no delusions that Lucius Malfoy was anything other than horrified at the thought of her getting dirt on his pristine lineage.

But then Draco had stopped fighting; just folded and told her that it was over.

It was that sudden turn around that hurt the most – from fight to surrender in the space of a night. Hermione looked at the photos that lay scattered around her bare legs and felt another wave of sorrow roll her under. As the sobs shook her and the tears began to flow once more, the little silver carriage clock cheerfully chimed the quarter hour. Hermione simply folded where she knelt, rolling onto her side, curling into a ball with her hands covering her head. The memories lay all around her, mocking her with their simple happiness.