A few days before the disastrous dinner party, he came to her office with a blue folder – a Beasts & Beings case, which meant he needed her signature on another cross-office authorization form to coordinate personnel and resources between their two offices.

Hermione sighed as she looked over the usual stipulations and requests. "What is it this time? Anything interesting?"

"Kneazle fighting ring." He picked up the otter figurine and turned it around in his hand, his touch delicate as he ran the pads of his fingers across its back. He replaced the statue on her desk, then looked at her, gauging her reaction.

"Oh, that's–" she gazed at him, struck by the softness in his eyes and his brow, then jerked back. "Wait. Kneazle fighting ring?"

He grinned, tossing the file onto her desk and dropping into her chair. She followed his hands as he smoothed out the wrinkles of his work robes, and when she met his eyes, her breath caught at the affection with which he was watching her. Her cheeks heated, and she looked away, touching her fingers to the ends of her hair. "Of course not." Right, he was talking about something. "Another dragon egg smuggler. Robards thinks it may be related to the last one."

Hermione pulled the folder towards her and flicked it open to the first page. "Partner?"

"Hm? Oh." He stopped the click-clack-click of the Newton's cradle that he had started while Hermione was reading by wrapping his fingers around the marbles. "No. Copycat, possibly."

"I thought the last one was a copycat." She flipped to the second page, not lifting her head.

"Mm. The one before, as well."

Hermione paused. "There have been three?"

"Four, actually. That's in the six months that I've been here."

Six months.

Hermione stared at the page. That was six months that they'd been eating together, laughing together and dancing around each other, with no real forward movement. They didn't date, and they didn't even see each other outside of work unless Theo and Harry were there as well.

Harry and Ginny were moving forward; they were getting married in less than two weeks. And Hermione was...what was she doing? She was throwing a bachelor/bachelorette party for her best friends. And playing footsie once a week with a colleague.

"Hermione? Are you listening?"

Hermione looked up, her hair catching on her finger, which she had been spinning around a lock of her hair. "I'm sorry?"

He chuckled, oblivious to her current mild anguish. "I was saying that Moyer should do fine. She's familiar with the other cases. Richardson requested her, even."

"Oh." She shuffled through the pages in the folder, looking occupied. "Yes. Of course."

"Is everything in order?"

"Hm?"

He pointed to the folder. "You haven't signed it."

"Oh. Oh!" She flipped back to the first page and picked up her quill. "Right. No. Yes. Everything looks fine. I'll send her down this afternoon for the briefing." She scrawled a messy signature at the bottom of the contract.

"Actually," she continued, closing the folder and handing it back to him, "I'm glad you're here. I wanted to confirm your RSVP for this weekend."

"For the party?"

"The intimate dinner gathering, yes."

"To which you've invited Theo."

"Yes." Hermione sighed. "Apparently his presence is of vital importance to Harry, much as I tried to dissuade him."

"He is in the wedding. Merlin, I regret that those two ever met." He moved his hands to rest behind his head, stretching his legs out in front of him and drawing Hermione's eyes down his body. Past his coy smirk, broad shoulders, down his slim waist. She could imagine the muscles hiding under his robes and dress shirt, firm and strong, could imagine running her fingers over them, feeling the dips and planes of his stomach, scratching her nails through the thin blonde hairs leading her down to his –

"You should feel honored, you know." He was back to handling the small otter statue, dropping it from one hand into the other and then to the first hand again.

She raised a brow, taking several inconspicuous breaths to calm herself down. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Greg has Falcons tickets for Saturday night. He invited me, but I said no, because of this," he waved his hand around in the air, "thing."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There will be other games, Draco, it's not like this is some great misfortune."

He cracked his neck and narrowed his eyes. "Of course you'd say that. You hate quidditch."

"I don't hate quidditch." The look in his eye told her that he didn't believe a bit of that. "And anyway, Harry's your friend, too, and he'll only be married once. Well, that's the hope." She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. "Go on, then. What should I owe you for this distressing loss?"

He seemed to take a moment to consider it, but there was a glint in his eye that said he already had something in mind. "I hadn't thought about it," Draco cleared his throat, his eyes warm but intent, "but are you busy on Sunday morning?" He ducked his head, meeting her eyes again when she tried to look away. "We could get something to eat. You can decompress from being the model hostess, and – I'll even let you pay."

Hermione's chest warmed. The way he had proposed it so quickly made it seem like...he had planned on asking her. Like he was only looking for an opening to ask this of her, but his mind had already been made up. Her skin felt lighter at the thought.

"Fine," she said. "Sunday morning. You can pick me up at ten. Here, I'll–" She rooted around in her desk for a piece of parchment and ripped off the corner to scribble her address. "It's on the invitation, but here's your personal copy, because I know you've misplaced it."

"A personal copy," he repeated, amusement coloring his voice as he plucked the address from her fingers and held it up. "Do you give this to all your suitors then, or am I special?"

Hermione's brain short-circuited on the word suitors. Did that mean...was he…? How much did she want to read into that? How much did he want her to read into that? She shook her head and tried to tamp down the smile threatening to take over her face.

"It's standard procedure, I assure you," she said and bit her lip, trying to steady her racing heart.

He huffed a laugh and pocketed the address. "More's the pity. Hopefully, I'll be able to set myself apart somehow."

Her face was red; she could feel her cheeks burning. She could feel her entire body burning and humming with excited energy. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

He met her eyes then, and his gaze was open and inviting, with a heat that made her shiver. He tapped his signet ring twice with his left pinky.

"I suppose I'll see you on Saturday, then. And bright and early Sunday morning, as well."

"What? No. Ten, I said."

"Right. Of course." With a wink, he rose from the chair and sauntered out of the room.

The wedding was beautiful, as she knew it would be. Harry had teared up during the procession, and then again during the vows, and Ginny had glowed brighter than she ever had before. And then, at the end of the ceremony, Hermione's two friends were married. Married. Joined together for the rest of their lives.

During the ceremony, she found her eyes being drawn to the familiar white-blond head, sat two rows in front of her to the left. So much about him – about them – was unclear. The last time they saw each other had been so charged and emotional, and it showed that, on some level, he cared about her, right? Despite his actions throughout the week, something inside him was set off at the idea of her seeing someone else. It might not be life-altering or significant, but he must have cared about her more than just a colleague that he ate with once a week.

Fuck. This needed to stop.

Things were more relaxed at the reception hall, where she could surround herself with friends, and get drinks from the bar, and step outside for fresh air when she needed it. She stuck close to Neville (and Neville's male guest who was still just a friend) and Luna (and Rolf, who was able to come out because the sun had set), and although she didn't have much to talk with them about, it was better than standing by herself and moping. Harry and Ginny were dancing, Ron was — still uncomfortable for her to be around, and Seamus and Dean were hanging around Blaise, who looked open to associating with them for the first time in Hermione's memory.

The reception hall looked like it had come straight out of one of her childhood storybooks. The ceiling had been charmed to show the clear night sky, filled with twinkling stars, and fairy lights spun in the air around them. High tables were scattered throughout the hall, and a string quartet played a waltz in the corner.

Her attention was pulled, as it had been all night, to the ill-tempered blond standing in the corner, Theo by his side. His arms were crossed, and he swayed side to side as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His finger tapped against his glass, still a quarter-full, clinking his signet ring, much to Theo's annoyance (judging by the glare Theo gave him whenever he did it). Every so often, he would move the glass to his other hand to adjust his shirt cuffs.

He looked up at her, catching her watching him. She looked away.

The next time she allowed herself to look for him, he wasn't watching her. Instead, he had turned to observe as Harry and Ginny danced together. He didn't look happy for them – on the contrary, he looked pale and unsteady, his lips pressed in a tight line and his shoulders stiff. He frowned, looking down into his glass, before taking a sip and looking back up.

Theo leaned into him, muttering something in his ear, and he shook his head. Theo rolled his eyes and straightened, and then Draco was looking at her again.

She held his eye for a second, looking him over, and resumed her conversation with Neville.

He looked handsome, so much so that Hermione hated that she still wanted him. He wore a well-fitted black suit with a silver vest, and though it was a simple combination, his posture and his stoic impression made him look striking and aristocratic in a way that had Hermione feeling foolish that she ever thought she had a chance with him. Perhaps that had been his aim in dressing himself that night.

She had picked her dress weeks ago when she thought they were still a thing that could develop. She had thought of him when she stood in the dressing room of the muggle shop, running her hands over the deep purple lace, holding up the silver clutch and trying to see it through his eyes.

The wedding was winding down when he approached her. He didn't say hello, but he placed his glass on a nearby high table and fiddled with the cuffs on his shirt. He scratched his jaw and turned his ring twice, and she watched him, waiting for him to speak. After a moment, he leaned closer, his lips close to her ear.

"Will you come outside with me?"

Hermione nodded, and he placed a hand on her lower back, guiding her outside of the reception hall. His hand was warm and firm against the lace of her dress, and she felt herself pushing back into his palm. His fingers twitched.

Once outside, he slid his hand from her back, around the curve of her waist, and dropped it to his side. Taking a deep breath, he met her eyes with a certainty she couldn't begin to imagine the reason for, his face taut and his lips thin.

"If I tell you something, will you promise not to be cross with me?"

Hermione scoffed. "I'm already cross with you."

"More cross, then."

"That depends," she said, picking at the lace designs in her dress, "on whether you say something that I don't like."

"Fine. Just – Fine." He ran a hand through his hair. "I owe you an apology – a real one."

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away, and he pursed his lips.

"Is this your own opinion?"

He almost laughed. "It's not only my opinion – Theo has been quite persistent." He paused and met her eyes. "But if you're asking if I agree with him, then yes. You were right – I have been intentionally cold to you this week, and instead of being honest with you, I let my insecurities get in the way."

Some of the fairy lights had made there way outside and were floating alongside them, and Hermione forced herself to focus on them. On the warmth they emitted, the way they lit up the air around them with a comforting glow. She tried to concentrate entirely on them because the moment she looked back at Draco, she would break. She had remained strong for the past week – well, most of it – and she could still be strong now, but the longer he kept talking, the more she could feel it bubbling up inside her, in her chest, her lungs, and behind her eyes.

He must have seen the distress in her face, because he reached for her hand again, and this time she let him close his around her fingers. His ring was nestled against her pinky, the metal warm as if he had been twisting it all night.

"I was caught off guard, when I saw Weasley there, like that, with you–"

"In my office, you mean?"

He seemed confused by her question and brushed past it. "That, and the fact that...I've wanted you for so long – I didn't want to believe that I might have missed my chance. I fell into some old habits, and you didn't deserve that."

Her eyes widened, and she tried to suck in a breath, her throat catching on the lump that had formed there. He eyed her warily, evaluating how she was processing his latest confession. It might not have been the right time to ask just how long so long is, but her heart beat fast with the possibility. She touched the ends of her hair with her fingertips, and he watched her.

"And I know," he said, "I know I don't have any sort of claim on you, I do, I didn't mean to make you feel like–"

"Draco," she interrupted, and his mouth snapped shut. "What you saw with Ron, in my office, I." She took a breath, pushing her hair back. "I went back the next day to decline. I didn't – what you saw, it wasn't–"

Draco lowered his gaze and shifted his weight between his feet. "Ah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression sheepish. "That's the thing you might be cross with me about."

He squared his shoulders and then continued. "I was told that you might...have something of mine." He brought both of his wrists up at eye level, and while one cuff was unadorned, held together by a small button, the other flaunted a familiar design, the silver glinting in the fairy lights and the onyx inlay setting off the crisp white of his shirt.

Hermione's vision narrowed until all she saw was the silver cufflink, the same one that she had been obsessing over all week. And of course it was his because he would always find a way to occupy a large portion of her thoughts, even when neither of them recognized it. Her eyes flicked between the one remaining cufflink worn on a shaky wrist and Draco's steady, apprehensive gaze. He was nervous, she realized, because he knew she had been trying to return the missing piece to its owner, and he had said nothing for a week.

And then it dawned on her why he refused to listen to her about Ron kissing her, why his reaction to everything she tried to tell him had been so explosive, why, even when Hermione tried to correct what she thought were Theo's errors, he wouldn't listen to her. Because he had seen –

"You were there."

He looked away. "I was."

"You were there when I – when Ron."

"Er. Yes. I had just–" His face twisted, crumpled. He brought his hand towards her shoulder and let it hover over the skin, then released a shaky exhale as he curled his fingers into his palm and let his hand fall to his side. "I didn't stay. I didn't see what happened – after. But what you said about not knowing the whole story made me think I may have jumped to conclusions."

She drew the missing cufflink – the one she'd been carrying around all week – out of her clutch and took his wrist in her hand, relishing the way his breath caught. She slipped the bullet back through the opening of his cuff, sliding her thumb against the inside of his wrist and circling it with her fingers, needing to touch him even after she didn't have an excuse to do so.

Hermione's eyes were prickling and blurring, and she swiped at them to clear her vision.

"I know that I tend to act spoiled, and I can't promise it won't happen again," he continued, bringing a thumb up to rub at his nose, "but I hope in the future I can do a better job at...at showing you what you mean to me." He squeezed her hand. "If you'll have me."

A half-sob, half-laugh rose up in her throat, pressing on her lungs and her heart, and she pressed a hand to her mouth when her lips twisted and threatened to let it out. He was here, in front of her, talking to her in the same way that did before...before. She should say no, though, because he put her through hell for the past week, and she knew him, so she knew that it would happen again, maybe tomorrow, or next month, or two years from now. She should say no, but he was apologizing, and he was telling her that she wasn't crazy, that there had been something more between them all along, and, well, they could at least try, right? "I should have–" she bit down on her tongue and took several slow breaths. "I should have told you. What happened with Ron. What he said."

"No," he murmured, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes were red and glassy. "I should have trusted you. I...I shouldn't have made you question my feelings for you."

"I thought." Pressure was building up behind her eyes, in her throat, in her gut, and she tried to tamp it down. "After this week – I thought it was just me."

"Never." His voice, while still quiet, was firm. "It was never–" He dragged the pad of his thumb under his eyes and grabbed her hand again, his grip reassuring and strong. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

She squeezed her eyes shut, mourning the makeup that had taken so long to get right. "You're such a prat," she muttered.

A swift exhale hit her face, and when she looked at him, he was smiling. Just a small, warm incline in the corner of his mouth, but it was a smile, and it was directed at her. Her arm shook as his hand skated up to her shoulder, pushing under her hair and across her back to pull her into his chest. His other hand came up to cradle her neck, and his breath ghosted over her head. She shuddered and laid her hands on his waist. The heat of his skin seeped through his scratchy dress shirt to her palms, her chest, and her cheek, and it wasn't long before the pinching pressure overtook her walls and a tear leaked from her eyes, a wet spot developing where her face met the fabric. He tightened his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer into him.

Draco moved his hand until he was cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek with a reverent touch. Despite her best efforts, more tears escaped from the corner of her eye, and he swept those away as well. He tilted her head up and scanned her face, no doubt taking in her ruined makeup and general redness.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips against her forehead, and Hermione held her breath. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she closed her eyes and leaned into him, because dammit, there was something about this moment, and him being here and finally finally being honest with her that made her want to give in to the heat behind her eyes. He tilted her face to the side and kissed her cheek in the same slow manner. As his lips moved over her face, she could hear the change in his breath, the quickening inhales and exhales, and she could feel his hand start to tremble against her face.

This was the moment, she realized. This was the thing that she could turn to when he did something like this again – because she knew that he would. And when he did, she could think of this – the way his hand felt against her cheek, how his voice sounded when he said her name, the look in his eye when he was brushing her tears away. The feeling in her heart when she chose him.

"Draco," she whispered, and his eyes cut to hers, burning her. His lips hovered just millimeters over her own, and if she moved just a little bit, she could –

"Granger," he murmured, and he sounded as wrecked as she was. He licked his lips. "Hermione, please–"

It was the last please that broke her, propelled her forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and grabbing her forearms against his back, holding him to her, against her. He made a tight, keening noise when her lips met his and every other thought flew out of Hermione's mind until there was only the feel of his mouth, warm and gentle against her own. His nails massaged her scalp, hands running through her hair, and his body, flush against her own, was intoxicating and unrestrained and here for her to carry with her.

Her hands moved on instinct over his waist, his hips, tracing his ribs through his back, memorizing him as if he could disappear at any moment. She could feel his muscles tense and relax under her fingers, and he arched into her when her fingers fluttered over the dip in his waist and again at the sensitive spot just below his shoulder blade. The smell of his cologne wrapped around her, earthy and masculine, teasing her nose. She was intimately aware of his whole body, and Draco was – was –

– Fuck, he was wrapping both hands up in her hair, pulling hard at the roots for leverage and heaving her impossibly closer. His mouth opened against her and his tongue caressed her lips, inviting himself in. He tasted sweet, almost fruity, and Hermione laughed against him when she placed his flavor.

"What is it?" he breathed, keeping his eyes closed as he moved his mouth to her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her skin and grazing his teeth against her.

"You taste like cake." She felt him pause and grin against her neck. She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, it doesn't–" she choked on a moan as his lips landed on the spot just below her ear, and he sucked and licked at it. He pushed a knee between her legs and tilted her head as he continued to pay close attention to her neck.

"God," Hermione breathed. She had thought about this happening for months, but anything she could have imagined paled in comparison to reality. She felt like crying or screaming, or just rutting up against his leg right here outside of the reception hall, propriety be damned. Her arms tightened around his waist, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, the one she had just been crying into a minute ago.

She brought her hands up to his face, dragging over his back, pulling his shirt out of his trousers, desperate for more contact. She grabbed at his jaw, pushing her hands back so her fingers were threading through his hair, and pulled, bringing his face back up to hers. His breath stuttered when he looked at her, his cheeks bright red, his lips swollen, and his eyes bright and frantic. He loosened his hold on her hair and let one hand move to her back, smoothing down her spine and catching on the texture of her dress. He rested his hand against her lower back, rubbing his thumb in slow, lazy circles.

He kissed her again then, keeping one hand on her neck while the other drifted even lower. He brushed against the swell of her arse experimentally, and she rocked against him, rubbing against his leg. He shuddered, his leg pressing further between her knees, his tongue darting in and out of her mouth, willing and open, and oh god, he was so good at this. His hand pressed more firmly over her arse, tugging her into him, connecting their hips.

She should stop now, she thought, as she rocked into him again. This wasn't the place, and what he was doing was so sinful, it should be illegal, probably was illegal, actually, out in the open like that. Harry and Ginny were in there, having fun with their guests, while they were out here chasing their own pleasure.

"Oh," he sighed, rolling his hips. She could feel a tingling beneath her skin, a warmth starting in her toes all the way to her fingertips. "Yes, Hermione–" he moaned again, pressing his erection into her hip, holding her tight against him, right there during her best friend's wedding reception. Buried his face in her neck, a fistful of her hair clutched against his cheek. He breathed her in, a long, deep inhale. "You have to know," he said, pulling back and cupping her cheeks. His eyes darted across her face, taking her in. "You have to – how much I wanted this – you."

Goosebumps broke out under her hands as she slid them down his neck and over his shoulders. His breath ghosted across her lips, his fingers threading through the hair on the back of her neck. And the way he was looking at her –just – it was everything. It sunk into her, down to her bones and back out again, settling on her skin. It squeezed her lungs, twisted her stomach, heated her everywhere.

"Hermione," he breathed, and the sound of her name rang in her ears. His forehead pressed against hers, and he shut his eyes again. "Could we – would you come with me. To my home, after this. We could – talk, figure this out, and–" he shrugged, the corner of his mouth tilting up, and opened his eyes, "– if you want."

A smile stretched across her face, and she was helpless to stop it. Draco looked between her watery eyes and down to her mouth, still welcoming and wanting, and dropped a kiss to her forehead.

"First, though." He grabbed her chin and dragged her mouth back to his, drawing a high, needy sound from her throat. He held her still as he opened himself up and pressed his body into her, his mouth soft and hot against her own, and god if she knew it would feel like this she would have kissed him months ago. The coaxing pull of his warm lips, the teasing press of his fingers against her neck, the – ohfuck – the delicate slide of his tongue when she parted her lips. He released her mouth and leaned back in, nipping at her bottom lip, groaning breathlessly as he drew back again. He brushed his lips against hers once, twice more, like he couldn't get enough of her. Couldn't stop kissing her, pressing against her. And she couldn't stop pulling him back in, over and over and over again.

Her stomach fluttered like she might be sick, and her pulse raced like she might faint. She couldn't imagine staying until the reception was over without dying first from this headiness.

Draco opened his eyes and stepped back, straightening his shirt and tucking it back into his trousers, and fixing his hair. When he was done, he gave her a fond smile.

"Did you know," Hermione said, reaching for his hand and pulling it toward her until she was looking down at his cuff, "I think you're the only one who actually wore these things. I should have known."

He arched a brow and took his hand back to fiddle with the cufflink – the one she had found on her greeting room floor that pulled her away and then back to him. "I thought the invitation said black tie," he said, and she laughed.

He offered her his elbow. "Come back inside with me?"

"Yes," she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm as he led her back into the reception hall.

end

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed! I hope you liked my little story. This was the first thing I've written in about ten years, so I appreciate all feedback!