First of all, in case you didn't know, I am not JK Rowling. Therefore, I do not own these characters. Secondly, this story is dedicated to Jess6800. She made the lovely cover art for a contest in the Facebook group Dramione Fanfiction Forum as inspiration to write a one shot. Here is what came of that. Lastly, thank you to HeartofAspen for her beta work and Dramione84 for her Brit-picking.

He did not know if he should show up with flowers or not. Draco Malfoy was fairly certain Muggles did that on dates, just like wizards did. He was less certain if Muggles found the same meaning in them as wizards.

He had considered peonies; they were his mother's favorite flower. With the help of magic, she grew them year-round at Malfoy Manor. The idea of hand-picking a hanndful appealed to him. However, if Hermione Granger knew anything at all about flowers' symbolism, she might find that choice presumptuous.

He'd quickly dismissed roses also.

Snapdragons? Oh, no, that would be a disaster - they symbolized deception. Plus, on an aesthetic level, they were far too whimsical. He was not going out on a date with Luna Lovegood.

No carnations. Ugh. That would send nearly a worse message than the peonies.

Finally he found something neutral enough. And they came in his favorite color.

He had chosen his wardrobe carefully. Not that he didn't always. After all, he wasn't Harry Potter. He spent more time than usual trying to make his hair look like he had spent no time on it at all. Once again, not Harry Potter, he smirked to himself.

No, the Man Who Lived had ended up with a Weasley. Neither Potter nor Ronald Weasley had had the good sense to hang onto Hermione Granger. Draco was not going to make the same mistake.

He paused in his ministrations to wonder, not for the first time, if Harry Potter had ever actually had Hermione Granger. He had assumed so for many years now, despite the number of times he heard vehement denials from the both of them. Could he ask her directly? Not tonight, of course. That would be a sure-fire way to end a first date far too quickly, while simultaneously guaranteeing there would never be a second. Was there a set number of dates needed before he could directly ask her himself, rather than overhearing the answer she gave to others?

"How do I look?" he asked his bathroom mirror. He had changed the charm on it years ago. The original charm only had two settings - over the top-flattery, or abject horror. He never wanted to take a chance on leaving the house looking anything less than truly perfect. A wizarding mirror without nuance would let you walk out the door with the fly on your trousers down.

"Completely shaggable," the mirror assured him. Yes, the current charm was much better.

Casual, but not overly, he thought. He nodded to himself and strode out of the room. His clothing was both lightweight and light in color to go with the season.

He continued down the hall to the stairs, thinking about the night ahead. He had planned an early dinner out at a seaside restaurant in Blackpool, followed by a walk on the beach. He hoped to take in a sunset while they strolled.

A small smile played on his lips while he imagined where the the night would go from there. His pleasant thoughts distracted Draco so fully that he suddenly found himself standing in front of the Floo with no real memory of how he arrived.

He gave himself a mental shake and quickly catalogued the flowers in his hand, the wand stowed safely up his left sleeve, and the Galleons and Pounds in his pocket, before grabbing a pinch of Floo powder. He was as ready as he was ever going to be. He stepped into the fireplace and threw the powder into the flames.

"Hermione Granger's flat," he called out before spinning away.

Draco stepped into her flat a minute before his agreed-upon arrival time, exactly as he had planned.

She was just standing up from her sofa, smoothing down the skirt of her summer dress. It was a pale blue color with dark green ivy stitched along the hem. Her hair hung loose, her curls falling naturally around her shoulders. His eyes stopped at her feet incredulously.

She had on muggle trainers. Adorable ones that matched the flowers he held.

Was it a sign? Nonsense. It must be a coincidence. Neither he nor Granger believed in divination. Strike that. He believed in divination. There were true Seers in the world. But the nonsense that led people to believe they could discern portents in every little thing around them day in and day out? Nope.

He looked up to catch a defiant look on her face and couldn't help but smirk. So, she thought he would complain? No, she looked delectable in a way only she was capable of.

"Hello, Malfoy," Hermione greeted as he slid out his wand to clean off any errant soot that had gathered on his journey over.

"Hello," he replied, stepping forward to offer the bouquet to her. "I brought you flowers."

"They're lovely." Hermione took them with a genuine smile.

It seemed this was a gesture common to both of their worlds.

"Come in," she invited Draco, before turning to walk into the adjacent room. He could see through the doorway that it was the kitchen. "Let me get these into water before we leave."

She opened the cabinet beneath her sink and pulled out a vase.

"Why are you wearing trainers?" He could not help but inquire about the odd footwear choice.

"You said we'd be walking after dinner. I looked up the restaurant you chose. It's in Blackpool on the shore. I'd assumed…" she trailed off uncertainty.

His brow knitted in consternation. What could she possibly have assumed that she now felt uncomfortable about sharing?

"Yes?" he prodded her to finish her thought.

"Nothing," she answered, her cheeks pinking up. She looked so lovely, he did not care to push her just then and make her more uncomfortable than he already had by pointing out the shoes. He was playing things carefully tonight, after all.

"Maybe you'll let me in on your little secret later," he teased lightly.

Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. He wasn't sure he had ever been close enough, or felt he could stare at her directly enough, to notice before.

"All set," she announced after arranging the daisies on her little round table. The kitchen was quaint; he felt sure he had not been in one so small before. Though the table held four chairs, it would be tight to have that many people share the space. Her kitchen was also decidedly Muggle, as there were various appliances he did not recognize. Belatedly, he realized he should have taken more time to look around. No time to do so now, they had a reservation to keep.

"Of course," he answered. She led him back to her front room and grabbed a shawl from the back of a chair.

"Would you prefer to Floo or Apparate?" he asked.

"Floo," she opted, much to his chagrin.

"Imelda's?" she confirmed the name of the restaurant while reaching for the jar of Floo powder she kept on her mantle. Beside it sat an unmoving photograph of her parents, Hermione standing between them. Draco guessed she must have been in fifth or sixth year, noting her smaller teeth, and that her hair was on its way to being tame - definitely after Fourth year.

"Yes." he nodded. "Ladies first."

Dinner was lovely. They chatted about a wide variety of subjects. Some personal, some not as much.

They both worked at the Ministry, him in the Department of International Cooperation, her in the Department of Mysteries. As their departments rarely had a need to interact, neither knew much about what the other did.

"Except, I really can't tell you much more than that about my position," she laughed in response to one of his questions.

"Fine. How about you tell me your favorite subject in school?" He knew it hadn't been potions, but he wasn't sure what it was.

"Charms," she replied quickly. "Followed closely by Transfiguration. You?"

"Charms," he agreed. He could see she was thinking about his answer, rather than a question to ask him. Her head was tilted to the side a bit while she chewed her lower lip.

Merlin, her lip chewing was something he had noticed far too often before, and he found it to be such a turn-on.

"Makes sense," she declared suddenly, nodding decisively. He tore his eyes away from her plump, pink bottom lip.

"Why do you say that?" He genuinely wanted to know why she had decided he was not merely agreeing with her so as to have something in common. Honestly, he had done it with other witches before. When he had even bothered to pretend he cared. He found it funny if they answered Potions first, thinking they were slyly picking his favorite class. He had always agreed with them.

"Well, the various badges you made throughout school were a good hint at a natural talent for it. Then there's the work you've been doing to help the Aurors out over the past three years."

He had not mentioned that this evening.

"Potter," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Yes, Harry may have told me a few things." She smiled that same eye-crinkling smile when mentioning her best friend's name. She quickly amended, "The ones he is allowed to tell, of course."

He really did not want to go into the help he'd given the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in order to prove to himself; he wasn't the same person he had been growing up. If he had wanted the public to know, they would have already known by now.

She must have guessed his discomfort, for she quickly moved the subject to something more benign. "What's your favorite food?"

"Fish and chips."

"Fish and chips? Seriously?"

"Seriously," he confirmed. "The first time I had them was at the Three Broomsticks on a Hogsmeade weekend. Crabbe and Goyle were serving detention, and I'd managed to ditch Pansy. I found a corner table to sit at alone. I'd seen people eating them before and they always smelled so good. My parents would never have approved a such a plebeian food." He leaned in and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "They became my dirty secret."

"Who knew liking Bouillabaisse could seem boring?" she mock sighed, before grinning at his confession.

Their entrees arrived. Halfway through eating them, Draco decided it was safe to lean across the table and whisper, "Sorry, I'm not sure what all the fuss was about with this place. It isn't very good, is it?"

Hermione glanced around, then leaned in to agree, "It really isn't, is it? No doubt, I've had worse, but I don't think I'll need to come back here. Sorry."

"No need to apologize, I'm the one who brought us here," he assured her with a rueful grin.

When the server came back to offer them to-go containers for their half-eaten food, Draco politely, albeit falsely, promised him, "It was fine, but we can't take it with us. We decided to save room for dessert instead."

Hermione beamed.

They ordered a creme brulee and a lemon tart to share. The creme brulee came in a custard cup that was far too deep, and the caramelized sugar crust was too soft. At least the tart was decent.

They continued talking, and the conversation had turned to Muggle music by the time Draco was settling up the tab.

"...and so, we would sneak a radio out to the woods and try to figure out how to dance to what we heard," Draco finished his tale as they walked out.

"You did not!" Hermione's disbelieving gasp turned into a laugh.

Draco knew the idea of him, Pansy Parkinson, and Daphne Greengrass hiding on the far edge of the Greengrasses' estate to listen to Radio 1 seemed absurd. Hell, he couldn't believe they had done it either. If any of their parents had caught them, he did not doubt they would have been severely punished.

"We really did. I would offer to prove it to you by showing off the moves we made up for Michael Jackson, Wet Wet Wet, and Robson & Jerome, but I'm not sure I remember them now." He was lying through his teeth; he remembered every step.

"Come on! You must remember something!" Hermione called him on his bluff.

They had made their way to the edge of the sand by now. The setting sun cast a warm glow on the ocean as it moved towards the horizon. Draco looked up to admire the yellows, oranges, and pinks above them. The soft crashes of waves were nearly drowned out by the sounds of the city, but nothing could mask the tangy salt smell.

"Why don't we take a walk along the beach?" he suggested, already reaching down to unlace his shoes. He barely moved his head, but he made sure to carefully check his surroundings for nearby Muggles before he shrunk his shoes to place them in his pocket.

"Are you going to show what you've got if I agree?" Hermione quirked her lips.

Draco's eyes shot up to her, his face growing warm as her words brought an image to his mind of her on her knees in front of him, with her fingers delving just far enough into the waistband of his pants to get a grip and slide them down, saying the same thing in a much more sultry voice.

"Oh!" Hermione caught his look and realized the unintentional innuendo. "I meant you should show me your dance moves!"

"Are you sure that's the bargain you wish to strike?" He couldn't help himself.

A jolt went down his spine when she licked her lips. "Let's see where the walk leads us." With a wink, she bent down to take off her trainers and socks.

Draco loved watching the way the ocean breeze flipped up Hermione's skirt. It was starting to get chilly out, but she didn't seem to mind. Or maybe she was having too much fun to notice. Her certainly hoped it was the latter.

Once again, Draco found himself comparing this date to past ones. He figured it was merely marginally rude to think these thoughts, rather than saying them aloud.

He had noticed as they left Hermione's flat that she wore a small bag slung across her body; something he had never seen any past girlfriends do. Come to think of it, Pansy always seemed to be buying purses, but he'd be damned if he had ever seen her carry one. She used magic for nearly everything, including her hair and makeup, and with Draco always paying for anything she needed while they were out together, why would she need anything except her wand?

Yet here was his current date, with a small purse bouncing against her hip as she clumsily twirled across the hard-packed sand near of the surf. She still held her shoes pinched together between the fingers of one hand, her socks tucked down inside them. When she spun, Hermione's arms would raise from her sides and sometimes her eyes appeared closed. The motion of her hair beguiled Draco. She had inadvertently gotten her feet wet a few times, but did not seem to be purposefully seeking out the water.

He took a chance, reaching out to grab her empty hand as it came near him during her next spin. Nearly losing her balance, Hermione stumbled a step, her eyes now wide open in surprise. Her momentum brought her shoes around to hit him on the stomach.

He used his advantage to bring her closer, his free hand falling lightly on her waist.

Concerned she might have twisted an ankle, he queried, "Are you okay, Granger?"

"I'm fine."

"Perfect, because I decided to show you a little of what I've got," he grinned slyly while starting to hum a tune.

It was an old wizarding song, one Hermione would be unlikely to recognize, but it did not matter when Draco swept into a classic dance, pulling her along with him. He was quite happy he'd chosen a waltz. It was quickly apparent she wasn't much of a dancer.

"I expected something a bit more," she paused, "contemporary." The final word came out half as a question, but certainly with a sarcastic edge.

"Oh, well, since you didn't specify, it occurred to me that I had no incentive to attempt to hum a 90's pop song while dancing alone." He pulled her closer, enjoying the way her eyes flicked down to his lips as she licked her own. "This is much better, don't you agree?"

Hermione's eyes shone as she nodded.

The hand holding her shoes was now perched on his shoulder, awkwardly putting pressure against his neck. He took a chance and hooked his arm at her waist around the small of her back to pull her the rest of the way in to him. Her arm on his shoulder slipped further around him; he felt the shoes pressed against the middle of his back. That thought had barely registered before all else was forgotten, even the rhythm of his humming, as Hermione stopped moving and went up on her tiptoes, obviously intending to kiss him. He automatically bent down to meet her halfway.

Vanilla from dessert still lingered on her lips. When Darco let out a small sigh of contentment, Hermione swept her tongue into his mouth. His breath caught, and his thoughts jumbled up with the sensory overload of the zing created by her tongue touching his.

Hermione shifted slightly, and Draco heard a soft thunk behind him. He realized she had dropped her shoes. It was difficult to concentrate on much more than the slant of her mouth moving in time with his, and the soft scratch her nails on his scalp.

He still awkwardly clutched her other hand in his own, up tight against their bodies. No longer needing to lead her in a dance, he let go of it to tangle his hand in her hair. It felt amazingly soft and carried the warm, exotic scent of coconuts.

Before today, Draco had not put much thought into what Hermione would smell like. He quickly discovered her scent conjured up images of the summer sun glinting off azure water, heat rising from a white sand beach, and palm trees creating shifting shadows in the breeze.

He wanted to press her soft planes against his hard ones, devour her, imprinting himself indelibly upon her.

Instead, he stepped back, regretting the small whine of disapproval escaping her swollen lips, which he had surely caused. Her eyes slowly opened, regarding him with a mixed look of lust and disappointment. She dared to pout those lovely lips at him, her moue beguiling him enough that he swooped back down to kiss it away.

The interlude was sadly shortened by catcalls and whistles from three teenagers staggering down the beach, clutching bottles. There were others on the beach besides those three wankers, but none had bothered Draco and Hermione until now.

"Just as well," Hermione sighed. "No need to get carried away."

Draco held back a frown. He would have happily gotten carried away. Or maybe, he would have happily carried Hermione away. Away to his bed.

"Right," he answered, feigning nonchalance when she confirmed her desire to continue walking by bending down to pick up her shoes.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scuffed his toes on the hard sand, kicking up wet clumps with each step as they resumed their stroll. He didn't bloody care if he looked petulant. He felt petulant.

"Did you take dance lessons growing up?" Hermione broke into his thoughts.

She sounded genuinely interested, even though he imagined she had been trying to figure out a way to overcome the silence for the last few minutes.

He straightened his shoulders and told himself to get over it. After all, it had been quite the first kiss. With the last light of the sunset dying around them, he slid his hand out of his pocket and into her hand, lacing their fingers. The pinks and reds on the edge of the horizon had faded to purples - he hoped to remember the ethereal glow for years to come.

"I did," he confirmed her assumption with a smile. "My parents believed it an imperative part of being well-rounded. Besides a dance instructor, they also hired a French tutor and a piano instructor, each coming to the manor to assist me twice per week."

"I speak some French, but I am nowhere near fluent. I've been told my accent is passable, but I'm not so sure," she shared. "I find it much easier to read than to converse in."

Draco realized the screams of the seagulls wheeling above them were slowly being lost to a foreign sound. He glanced up and saw the lights of an amusement park. He looked to his side, gauging her enthusiasm.

"What do you think?" He cocked his head toward the carnival rides and games.

"It's the reason I wore trainers," Hermione laughingly admitted.

"Oh," he answered feeling a bit foolish. Of course. He led her up away from the water.

"Help me up?" Hermione asked as they approached a concrete wall along the upper edge of the beach. "I want to get my shoes back on."

She placed the trainers on the low ledge. He put his hands on her hips and gave her a boost. Before she could do it herself, he reached down to brush off the sand crusting her left foot. He couldn't help caressing the ankle he gently held as he made sure to get between her toes.

Hermione giggled and attempted to pull her foot back. "Draco, stop, I'm ticklish," she told him, twisting her leg to get it away from his grip.

She'd called him Draco.

"Should have told me that when we were sharing secrets over dinner, Hermione," he said, giving her his best innocent look. He slowly ran a single finger from her toes to her heel and back up again. She sucked in a loud breath.

He wanted to tease her a bit more, an instinctual reaction to having an advantage over someone, but held back. Instead, he gave the sole of her foot a pat and set it down. She silently lifted the other to him, giving him a small modicum of trust.

Intellectually, he knew he had already earned some piece of her trust prior to this. She allowed him into her office with her door shut. She took projects he worked on and quietly helped him, even if he hadn't known that she had known it was him on some of those secret projects until tonight. Then, speaking of tonight, she was out alone on a dark beach with him. That took more than a bit of trust.

His left forearm suddenly itched, and it took everything he had to neither move to satisfy the urge to rub it, or even glance at it. Instead, he took her right foot in his hand and carefully divested it of sand.

If this had been a romance novel, such as his mother secretly read, Draco would have kept eye contact with Hermione the entire time and they would have had a significant conversation using only their eyes.

Alas, Hermione merely said, "Thanks," before summarily putting her socks and shoes back on. He pulled his out of his pocket, brought them back up to the proper size, and did the same.

She hopped off the wall and held out her hand to him.

He took it, deciding you couldn't expect life to be a fluffy story devoid of angst, full of simultaneous orgasms, and a place where everyone lives happily ever after. Sometimes life was a fairly good first date with someone who forgave you for being a teenaged arsehole.

But maybe he could still do something about those orgasms, he determined as they strolled towards the Ferris Wheel.

In his imagination, he could now see himself as the one on his knees, slowly peeling off Hermione's knickers. In this scenario, she murmured a protest that they maybe did not know each other well enough quite yet to take this step. But he would convince her with a sure lick to the delectable treat in front him while divulging huskily, "You know that pink is my favorite color."

This is by far the fluffiest thing I have ever written. How did I do? If you would kindly leave me a review, even if you have some constructive criticism for me, that would be grand.