A little, lighthearted one-shot for my favorite pairing. Based on the insanely catchy "Tattoos Together" by Lauv.

Said I'd never fall, I'd never fall,

I'd never fall, but then I fell for you.

"6…5…4….3…2…"

"Merlin's saggy left ARSE-"

"Bloody fucking bugger."

"That was disgusting, Ronald."

No one has finished the golden broomstick, not yet, at least, but it is Ronald Bilius Weasley who manages to drain the entire thing, standing on a table at the Leaky Cauldron. It was a massive, thin sort of glass contraption that held enough butterbeer to fell a centaur. A small centaur, to be sure, but the Weasley's were always good at holding their liquor. Tom the Barman had come up with it after Hagrid had requested a more festive receptacle for drink than his usually rough hewn bucket, and it had turned into a bit of a competition among younger ministry employees.

"I'll never understand where the hell he puts it all," Ginny Weasley comments to a very tipsy and very indignant looking Hermione Granger, who snorts loudly and finishes her drink. It is a mystery to her, too, or perhaps not so much a mystery- since despite his massive caloric intake and affinity for mulled mead, he was still as skinny as the day she'd met him.

"Oh – and here comes Lavender – you'd think the two of them would have at least learned some decency in 10 years, I mean really – he's got his tongue in her trachea," Ginny rolls her eyes, a gesture that extends to her shoulders as she whirls around, scanning the crowded bar. "Where the hell is Harry? Probably sidling around somewhere – I did see him talking to Malfoy a minute ago, now that I'm thinking about it – "

"Malfoy?" Hermione finally speaks, tearing her eyes away from the spectacle that is Lavender dry humping a half-lucid Ron into a nearby chair. "He's talking to Malfoy?"

"Come off it, Hermione," Ginny groans, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the bar, "You spend so MUCH time in the DRCMC that you miss absolutely everything. Malfoy's working for Harry now – they've got some sort of rehabilitation arrangement thingy going on – oh jesus, THERE you are, Harry – see, I told you he'd be sidling."

Harry was, in fact, sidling up to them, a bemused expression on his face and a tumbler of firewhiskey in one hand. Catching sight of Ginny, he yanks her to him and plants a kiss on her cheek, causing her to giggle and shove him away. Hermione fixes him with one of her very best glares, but it comes out a little wonky because she's still, unfortunately, drunk.

"Harry – Ginny told me about Malfoy? Please tell me he's not actually working for you and it was just a figure of speech, or whatever-"

"I swear we've already had this conversation," Harry raises his eyebrows and flashes a grin at Ginny, "You never listen to me when you're in the middle of a case. Unicorns and doxies, wasn't it?"

"It was an important case! Don't change the subject!"

Harry finishes his firewhiskey and another somehow appears in front of him, courtesy of a wizard at the end of the bar. It's always courtesy of someone, which is sort of a perk of being the savior of the wizarding world. Among other things.

Hermione's crossing her arms and ordering another drink, and Ginny scampers off to join George in a round of shots, and she sees him.

Blonde and tall and too fucking expensive for the Leaky Cauldron, as per usual. And he looks like he's enjoying himself, which might be even worse.

"Harry," she hisses, "Harry – why'd they let him come back? After the trials and the reparations?"

"Hermione," Harry replies, patiently, clasping her shoulder, "We're keeping an eye on him. He's still a bit of dick, but that's a vast improvement, let me tell you – and he's sworn off the whole blood purity bit. Kingsley wouldn't have hired him if –"

"He's a CRIMINAL!" Hermione glares at Malfoy even though she's sure he can't see her.

"Why don't you go talk to him?"

"I'm not – what the hell – no!" Hermione splutters, "I'm not going to go talk to him, for Godric's sake Harry, it's as if you think I've got a death wish."

"C'mon," Harry goads, grinning at her, "He's not so bad. Sort of intelligent, passable conversationalist, and hasn't said the m word in about five years, according to his probation officer."

"Will you just listen to yourself?"

"I am. I sound bloody fantastic."

"You're drunk," says Hermione, attempting to impale the cherry at the bottom of her drink with such ferocity that she nearly upends it.

"If my calculations are correct, that makes approximately two of us."

Hermione scowls at Harry one more time, for good measure, and stomps off to find Luna or Hannah or SOMEONE that doesn't believe in the merits of Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy is surveying the landscape with something like disgusted fascination. Another one of these ministry parties where all the Weasleys get fucking plastered and he's left trying to find someone who will willingly sleep with him with a faded Dark Mark and a load of unpleasant baggage.

But for right now, he's just thankful to be here, secretly grateful for the drink Harry hands him, the unspoken inclusion into this frantic, colorful, chaotic world. And then–

He sees her before she sees him, and of course she looks fucking wonderful, because she always looks fucking wonderful, even when she's wearing those horrific ministry robes and her ridiculous hair is everywhere and she's got ink splatters on her nose.

The first time he thought she was beautiful he thought it there was something seriously wrong with his eyesight. The second time, he wondered if it was just some kind of unfortunate personal failing. After that, he just resigned himself to the fact that she is brilliant and infuriating and beautiful, and he doesn't give a fuck what color her blood is. Which is a stunning revelation.

And fuck, she's glaring at him and he just wants to shove her up against a wall and kiss the furrows out of her brow and it's just one more thing in a long, long list of things that he wants to do to her. He clearly makes her furious, which is something. It's better than indifference, which is what he tells himself as she marches along the bar and out of sight.

Back against the wall, against the wall
Against the wall, that's how it felt with you.

Hermione Granger does know how to walk at anything that qualifies as a leisurely pace, especially when she's at work. She is either marching or sprinting, fast and nearly always furious. And right now she is LIVID, because her supposed best friend Harry Potter has just informed her that the memo she desperately needs is currently in the hands of none other than Draco Malfoy.

Which is just too perfect, really, considering that it's Monday and is an absolutely atrocious day already, due in part to her incompetent intern and the slightly less than satisfying funding approval and now - now this damn memo.

And so, she's marching through the hallway, her hair at least two times the size it normally is, and Ministry employees are practically jumping out of her way, and then – of course, there he is.

"Malfoy." She skids to a halt in front of him, rearranging her expression into what she hoped was cool, professional indifference. Malfoy was not going to have the pleasure of seeing just how flustered she felt. "You've got my memo."

He's lounging against the wall in his expensive robes and his Italian loafers, smirking at her. He looks like he owns the entire hallway and it's completely and utterly infuriating. How does he still afford to look that completely ridiculous (good, delicious, perfect).

"Is this yours?" He says, innocently, holding up the folder of parchment. "This memo? The one with – let's see – Bixby's signature?"

"Yes, it is," Hermione grits her teeth, trying not to hex him despite how badly she'd like to. One simple jelly legs jinx and she'd have her memo and her day would only be half ruined.

"Bowtruckle populations in – Bath? How fascinating. You must need this - " he pauses, savoring the look on her face, "Very badly."

"What did I just bloody say?" Hermione says it loudly, and the smirk is suddenly wider, eyes glittering.

"Ah, ah, Granger," he says, goading, grinning, "You'll have to play nice if you want it."

Hermione steps closer, her hair crackling with electricity. She tries to keep her voice steady, tries to sound long-suffering instead of indignant. "Please, Malfoy, I'm extremely busy and I really need that."

"But this is so much fun," Draco drawls, and Hermione steps closer, and suddenly she's much too close and Malfoy is holding the folder out of her reach, and without really thinking about it, she jumps for it.

He pulls it out of her reach and slides off the wall, moving so quickly Hermione is barely able to turn around, and then he's got her pinned up against the wall, the weight of him so incomparably warm that for a second Hermione forgets she needs the memo more than she needs this – or is the other way around?

And for a second Draco Malfoy can't breathe because she smells like fucking apples and cinnamon and how does she – how can she smell that good – and then –

Blinding fucking pain.

Hermione knows how to throw an elbow, and she's not above doing it for an important memo, and especially not above it when it comes to the very person she'd punched in the face third year.

"Don't get in my way, Malfoy," she says, and then she marches back down the hall, heart pounding, cheeks considerably pinker than a few moments ago.

And it's a testament to the electricity in the air that Hermione can't stop thinking about how he smells like rain and firewood and it's so contradictory. She wonders, vaguely, if he will be at the Leaky on Friday.

You weren't even my girlfriend
We were walkin' and talkin'
Then somebody said, "Let's get tattoos together, something to remember"

"Alright, dickheads, twatbags, arseheads and holes," Lee Jordan takes a seat to a burst of virtuous applause, "It's time for – a little drumroll, if you please, George," he says pointedly to George Weasley, who begins to pound the table in glee, "A GAME."

Everyone cheers, even Hermione, who is trying to avoid Malfoy's gaze, wedged between Angelina and Ginny. She has no idea how he was included in Lee's weekly game, but there he is, and he seems to be glaring at her. Or maybe it's just a very stern glance, but she did elbow him in the dick a week ago and he's not the forgiving type.

So, of course, she does what anyone would do. She downs her drink, smiles and ignores him.

"The game is Odds Are. One person will prompt another in this" he gestures around, "lovely group and then they will state their odds. You will both choose a number – but DO NOT share it. Fair play, alright? Then I'll count you down, and if you both say the same number – the person who was PROMPTED has to complete the prompt . As with all our games – no backing down and"

"NO BACKING OUT!" The rowdy group slams down their respective pints, and the game is afoot.

It is wild from the start. Lavender is already down two pieces of clothing, which forces Lee to ban her from partnering up with Ron for the rest of the game. Ginny serenades a total stranger with an acoustic version of "A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love," George kisses Harry square on the mouth, and Hermione receives an extremely lewd lap dance from none other than Seamus Finnigan.

Lee is giving out drinks right and left, as he suspects some people (Neville) are abstaining, and after another hour, the table is getting rowdier and rowdier.

"No one's done a really good one yet," George says to Angelina, loudly, "I want to see some unbreakable vows – don't look at me like that, Ronniekins – or at least – a tattoo, now that Millicent's opened that studio-"

It is at this precise moment that Lee landed on Malfoy with what could only be described as – well -trepidation would be the word. It takes them awhile to get around the room, what with all the drinking and shouting and losing going on, and the tension is palpable as the table quiets. Draco's odds are low that night, mostly drinks, and he is now approximately one sifter past logical.

Which would explain what happens next.

"Alright, Draco, pick your partner and your odds, if you please," Lee says, with the frank professionalism of a card dealer. No one is shouting anymore, even the drunkest watching Draco with rapt attention.

"Granger," he begins, and Hermione feels her stomach drop, "What are the odds you get a tattoo," an evil grin begins to spread across Draco's face, "With me. Tonight."

Silence.

"Mate.." says Harry, shaking his head.

"I told him not to do it," says Theo, wisely, sitting back.

"You were egging him on," Blaise rolls his eyes and shoves Theo and they grin, menacingly in sync.

"That's what I'm talking about!" exclaims George.

"He is a Death Eater," whispers Ron, loudly.

"You don't have to do it!" Hannah chirps, squeezing Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione shoots Malfoy her coldest, most impenetrable stare. Several people at the table shiver and silently thank the Gods they've never been on the receiving end of one of those. Lee swallows once, then twice. Ron snorts and shakes his head. Ginny wonders why she feels like she's missing something, however small that something is.

"Fine," Hermione says, coolly, "One in ten." There's a collective gasp. Even Draco looks surprised that she'd go so low, but he knows it's a dare. Where's that Gryffindor bravery now, Granger?

Lee counts very slowly, and when they both speak, it's in unison.

"3."

Hermione goes white. Draco tries not to look smug. Tattoos he has, and one more won't matter. But a tattoo with Granger? That was positively scandalous. He likes to shock, and he's gotten good enough at it to silence the table.

Check and mate, Granger.

In the end, it is decided that Ginny will accompany Hermione to Millicent's Magnificent Tattoos & More. And because Ginny's going, Harry has to go, and then Ron won't let Hermione "alone with that smug bastard," so Lavender's going too. And then Lee has to go, because fair is fair, and by the end of it there's a small contingent of people following them out.

Draco is striding along, as pleased with himself as he could possibly be, when a hand wrenches him back and he stumbles for a second.

He wasn't expecting her to be so strong, although judging by the elbow she'd thrown at the Ministry, she was scrappier than she looked.

"Hey," she hisses, her expression mutinous.

"Why, hello there, Granger," he says, smirking slightly, "Excited for our little outing?"

"You're a complete and utter swine, Draco Malfoy."

"Sticks and stones, Granger," he turns and continues up the street, amused by the way she's trying to keep up with him, jogging right below his elbow, the heat radiating off her in waves.

"Are you doing this," she starts, still whispering, "Because of – " she glances back at the rowdy group behind them, as if afraid they'll overhear, "Because of what happened at the ministry?"

Hermione hasn't told them about their encounter. What a curious thought.

"You really think I'm that vengeful?"

"Yes," she exclaims, "Based on past evidence I'd say you're extremely vengeful, but this seems like a bit much, even for you."

"What, Granger, " he stops in front of the parlor, a garish maroon display illuminated by neon pink lights. "Are you scared? Because you can always back out, you know, if-"

"I'm not. Scared." She spits it at him, her cheeks rosy in the pink light. She looks furious, and beautiful, and he aches to reach out and touch her, but he can't, so he holds the door open for her instead.

Hermione sweeps inside without looking at him, and he calls after –

"Something to remember me by, Granger."

Hermione hates needles. Wizards and witches don't think much of needles, because they don't use them and don't need to. But Hermione's had plenty of shots, and she doesn't relish the thought of that needle crossing her skin a million times.

Couldn't she always remove it by magic? She files that thought away for later. If it takes her years, she's going to figure it out. Nothing is worse than permanence, especially Malfoy-led permanence.

"So -what'll it be?"

Millicent Bulstrode is large and ugly, as she's always been, but there is more kindness around her mouth now. Hermione is strangely comforted by this, and she doesn't shrink from the odd catalogue of shining, twisting shapes.

"Malfoy picks," says Lee, and Hermione shoots him one of her looks, and he just shakes his head because he's been on the receiving end before, and her bark is worse than her bite. Sometimes.

It surprises literally no one when Malfoy picks a dragon. It's a pretty dragon, Hermione has to admit, ocean blue and silvery scaled, the illusion of magical ink making it climb the skin.

"You know, you don't have to do this," whispers Ginny, squeezing her arm.

"Yes, she does," Lee interjects, and Ginny punches him and he yelps loudly, and for a second Hermione considers, just considers telling Malfoy to shove it.

But then she sees his face, expectant and challenging and something else she doesn't quite have a name for, and she sits down in the chair, cheeks red, eyes bright.

"Fuck it," she says, to more perfectly timed, collective gasps. "Whatever."

Ginny's holding her hand when she finally lifts her shirt, holding the edge to her chest. Ron's scowling at everyone who will notice him, and nobody really sees Draco's intake of breath.

"Ow," Hermione bites out. It stings, painful and metallic, and she is trying not to cry and trying not to remember cold stone floors and blunt knives and screaming, screaming.

"Done." Millicent sits back with a flourish and Hermione looks down. It is beautiful, a tiny dragon spiraling up her ribcage, and for a single, delicious, second, the ache makes her head clear.

And then she sees Draco's shoulder, and the tiny blue dragon that climbs over the muscle, and she feels a feeling she can't name yet.

"I need a drink," she says to Ginny, and Ginny nods, understanding, following her gaze to the twin blue dragon.

One weekend, no sleepin'
You weren't even my girlfriend, yeah
We were kissin', like, real kissin'

When Harry Potter proposes to Ginny Weasley, it happens at the Leaky – because of course, it happens at the Leaky. He always says he's going to do it at the Burrow but he's finished one half of a golden broomstick and he has the ring already and it feels perfect, anyways, to be here with the people he loves most in the world.

And everyone's crying, of course, and Tom the Barman kicks everyone else out because this is now an engagement party and Hermione drinks far more than she's ever drunk before because despite how happy she is, she is being confronted with the very real possibility of being alone forever.

Depressing, but not as depressing as sobriety in the face of true love.

"You'll be my best woman, of course," Ginny giggles, throwing her hands around Hermione's neck in a embrace that smells like rum and flowers and Hermione is crying, of course, because hope is an extraordinary and beautiful thing.

"Not if she's my woman of honor," says Harry, and he's slurring a little bit and looking at Ginny like he's never seen her before, and then Ron is there and he hugs Hermione and whispers "I'm glad you and I are in this together," and she knows he doesn't really love Lavender, and that's alright and it's all just a mess, isn't it?

And it's decided that Hermione and Ron and George and Angelina and Hannah and Neville and Luna and Bill and Charlie will be the wedding party and everyone is toasting to happiness and a long, long life, and lots and lots of sex and then of course, of course, she catches Malfoy's eye.

"Didn't Tom make him leave after you proposed?" she hisses to Harry and Harry rolls his eyes at her and says "I told him to stay, Hermione. He's not that bad!"

"I've got a dragon on my torso that says he is, in fact, that bad."

Harry turns around and puts his hands on her shoulders and squints through his glasses at her. "Hermione, you're my best friend in the world and you're brilliant, but the simple fact of the matter is that you have to put it behind you at some point."

"You know what happened," Hermione fumes, and suddenly she's on the verge of tears and she hates herself, hates her scars, hates that stupid, fucking tattoo. "You know why I can't."

"If anyone can, it's you. I'm not forcing the reconciliation, alright? I know it takes time. But Hermione," and he's putting a drink in her hand and squeezing her shoulder and his smile is reassuring and intoxicated, all at the same time. "Just let yourself let go once in a while."

But the letting go is relentless and terrifying, and Hermione wonders if she trusts herself around Malfoy and if that's been the whole problem all alone, because she doesn't know if she wants to fight him or fuck him and that's – well, it's complicated.

And then it's 4 am and the Leaky is finally emptying out, and Susan Bones tells Hermione that she's got a room upstairs, if she wants somewhere to sleep. Hermione is giggling because she's the last one at the party and that's never happened in her whole life and it feels a little like letting go.

At 4:30 am, Ron finally tells Lavender that he doesn't love her and comes meandering down the stairs, and his cheek is brilliantly and furiously purple, but he looks happy and sure of himself. He sees Hermione after a moment, her feet propped up on the table and a book on her knees and he grins at her and goes to sit beside her.

"You want to come to bed?" he asks, innocently, a last-ditch effort, and Hermione just laughs and slings an arm around his neck.

"Where's Lavender?"

"Well, I broke it off and I think - she's definitely gone by now," he massages his cheek, ruefully, "That bloody witch. She hits much harder than I thought she would."

"You probably deserved it."

Ron stretches, puts his hands behind his head. "I reckon I did, yeah. But to be fair, I never actually said I loved her, she just sort of assumed I did and ran with it."

"Boys," Hermione sighs and shakes her head and Ron chuckles and reaches out a hand and musses her hair and there is a sudden, understood affection between them and Hermione thinks that some endings aren't so bad, after all.

"What exactly are you doing down here, anyways?" Ron asks, yawning, checking his watch and shaking his head because it's almost five in the morning.

"I'm not entirely sure, actually," Hermione shrugs, "I think I just like the quiet. And I can't sleep – and no, Ron, sleeping with you won't automatically resolve that particular issue."

"It was worth a shot."

"Not very well thought through, though."

"I'm about a bottle of mead too far gone to consider the repercussions," Ron's grinning despite himself, now, watching Hermione's hair glinting in the firelight. It's massive and he misses her – no – not her. He misses the feeling of someone else who knows him better, even, than Harry does. "We were awful together, weren't we?"

"Horrible," says Hermione, kissing his cheek and pushing him out of his chair, "Now for goodness sake, go to bed."

And Ron mumbles something about "just like my mother" and Hermione chucks a cocktail napkin at him and settles back into her book, and the warmth in her chest has nothing to do with fire.

Of course, like most things, even this predawn calm is too good to last.

"Weasel's gone to bed alone, has he?"

If she's being honest with herself, she half expects an interruption, but it doesn't make Malfoy's drawl any less jarring. And he's there, by the stairs, looking a little drunk and a little wrecked and too fucking perfect for the shabby, unkempt mess around him, his hair's in his eyes, and he's not wearing robes, just low slung trousers, and his shirt is unbuttoned, and Hermione's staring despite herself.

"You know Ron and I aren't together, Malfoy."

"I don't know anything of the sort," says Malfoy, who is now approaching, steadily, drawing closer and closer, and Hermione doesn't know whether to fight or to flee, because every time she looks at him, she can barely breathe.

"You're an incomprehensible arse."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"I said you didn't have to do it!"

"But you didn't really mean that."

"You're right. I would never have let you forget it."

"See?"

"I'm joking, alright?"

Hermione stands up abruptly and meets his gaze, her book falling to the floor, fierce and fiery. "What's gotten into you, Malfoy?"

"Come again?" He's all innocent eyes and parted lips, but Hermione refuses to falter.

"Don't play dumb with me, Malfoy. You've started turning up everywhere – at the ministry, at the Leaky – in the middle of my life, really, and I can't figure out why you're so set on just…disrupting everything with your- your snide glances and your idiotic comments and-."

"It's not all about you, you know."

"Did I- "Hermione is so angry she can barely speak, but she does it anyway. "I did not say it was all about me, I just said that you seem to be intent on sweeping in here and messing everything up, acting like you're some sort of Casanova-"

"Casa what?"

"Let me finish!" She stamps her foot and she knows she's being childish but she doesn't care, because he's still smirking at her like she's too thick to understand. "You're not a Casanova, you're an arrogant bastard as far as I'm concerned, and if you think for one second that Harry's approval means I'm one single millimeter less suspicious of your motives, you're dead wrong."

Draco wasn't smirking anymore as he moved towards her, expression impassive. "And what are my motives, exactly, Granger?"

Hermione can't speak for a second – it's not that she can't, really, it's that she's the brightest witch of her age and she doesn't know what to say. She steps closer to him, fists clenching, defiance in every nerve of her shaking hands.

"I loathe you," she says, as if she doesn't want the words to dissolve into the air. She wants him to know it, right up close.

"Funny, Granger, I was just about to say the same thing about you," he says, coolly, and she's confused, expecting something different and suddenly, without realizing what she's doing, she's kissing him.

It happens like a car crash. One moment, you're cruising steadily along, and the next minute everything changes. It's a fiery, incomprehensible, painful, aching mess, and all Hermione can think is that never, not even in her wildest dreams, has she ever been kissed like that.

Yeah, your cherry earrings are my favorite
It looks so good, I had to save it.

"Just wear them!"

"They're ridiculous, Ginny."

"Imagine how Luna would feel if she heard you say that."

"Where did she say she got them again?"

"She made them. Some sort of weird new-age workshop where you sort of align your chakras and then all the energy goes into the earrings. See, I've got blueberries."

"Do they have to be fruits? Or can they be vegetables too?"

"Will you just put them on? I'm not asking for you to – I don't know, tattoo your ribcage, or something. "

"Oh HA HA."

Hermione is holding a pair of massive, jewel bright earrings, shaped like twin cherries, and she doesn't want to wear them, of course, because it's Ministry party and she's got a perfectly nice pair of diamond earrings that her parents bought her, sensible earrings for a sensible girl.

Is she a sensible girl anymore? The dragon begs to differ.

So, she puts the earrings on, and looks in the mirror and – she looks – brighter, somehow. She's all silvery grey robes and Sleakeazys and glittery earrings and when Ginny wolf whistles, she can't help but smile.

Draco isn't necessarily fond of Ministry parties, but of course, the possibility of seeing Granger is too positively scrumptious to pass up and so there he is, cleaning the bar out of single malt whiskey and Theo's hitting on the senior undersecretary to the ministry and Draco's finding it too, too funny, and then –

She's walking in and fuck, she looks like an angel, a perfect, mouthwatering angel with shimmering robes and delectable curls and Merlin, Morgana and Circe, he's far too drunk for this. She's turning her head and she's laughing, and the light catches them –cherries, suspended in gold, and for a second, Draco Malfoy can't fucking breathe.

"Cherries, Granger?"

He appears so quickly that Hermione thinks, blindly, that it must be magic. His hair is slicked back and his face is pinker than usual and his velvet robes are cut so fine that she can just make out the outline of his chest and it makes her feel strangely lightheaded.

"What did I tell you about – about" she's whispering now, but it's more like a hiss, "Turning up everywhere, Malfoy."

"I couldn't quite remember if you didn't want me to turn up, or if you did, so I thought, better just turn up and then – " he doesn't quite finish, because she's dragging him behind a pillar and down a corridor, away from the crowds of people, and she looks gorgeously, extraordinarily pissed off.

"Is this because," she glances back at the fray, checking the entrance of the hallway and then whirls back to him, cheeks aflame, "of the – the kiss?" She says it so quietly Draco almost doesn't hear her.

He steps closer and she doesn't back up, but her cheeks darken, and Draco silently thanks the Gods that she is, at least, not immune to his charms.

"I seem to remember, Granger," he drawls, closer than ever, "that it was you who kissed me."

"I was – it was – I was intoxicated. And – it was late, and Ginny and Harry had just gotten engaged, for Merlin's sake, and you saw Ron leaving - and I wasn't – wasn't thinking clearly."

"What if," and Draco's got her cornered now, right up against another one of those awful, ornate marble pillars, and he's much too close, and Hermione thinks that if he just exhaled his dress robes would brush her hand, and she doesn't know what she'll do if it does, "What if you just wanted to kiss me?"

"That's – ridiculous."

"Why is it ridiculous?"

"Because," she breathes, "Because it's you."

And she ducks out from under him and hurries back down the corridor and Draco's leaning up against the pillar and all he can smell is fucking apples and cinnamon and then – he sees it. The ruby red glint of two twin cherries, caught in a crack between the column and the floor.

He grins and it's a feral sort of grin, and bends down, grabbing the earring and pocketing it before striding after Hermione, whistling something that sounds oddly like the Weird Sisters.

Knew it from the moment, from the moment,
From the moment that I saw you naked...

She doesn't know why they all decide to stay at the Leaky after the Ministry party, but it's oddly nostalgic, watching Lee and George setting off fireworks in the hallway in her pajamas, sipping mulled wine out of a mug. Everyone's piling onto beds, drinking and laughing, and Harry and Ginny keep disappearing, and Ron shows up with Gabrielle Delacour, of all people, and she finally falls asleep on Luna's shoulder as the sun starts to rise over Diagon Alley.

Everyone wakes up at approximately the same time, because Tom the Barman is ringing some sort of infernal bell, and it's nastily loud and clanging, and Theo and Blaise are yelling at each other in what Ginny calls a "post sex rage," which causes tittering amongst the Patel sisters.

Hermione's rolling out of bed and blearily pulling on a jumper and when she catches sight of herself in the mirror, she stifles a gasp.

There are massive circles under her eyes and her hair is sticking almost straight up from her scalp, which seems impossible, given gravity, so she decides that she has to at least wet the hair so it doesn't look so much like a bird's nest. An owl's nest, really, if we're comparing size.

She hears the shower turn on in the nearest bathroom, Luna's peculiar singing wafting into the room, which causes Hannah Abbott to moan and yank a pillow over her head. There are at least 4 girls on the bed, and a lump on the floor that she's positive is either Lee or George, or possibly Neville, but thinking about it too much is making her head pound.

Poking her head into the hallway, Hermione checks to see that it's deserted and hurries down, past two more rooms, to an empty bathroom. Sighing with relief, she strips off her jumper and pajamas and steps into the shower, wondering why on earth someone's taken down the shower curtain. Under the spray, she traces the dragon on her torso, the curving sides along her ribcage. She's threatened to remove it a hundred times, found the spell in a book, practiced the incantation enough that she can practically say it backwards, but every time she lifts her wand to perform it she can't get the words out.

And then -

It all happens very quickly.

First, she hears the footsteps, but the water sort of drowns them out and she just assumes that its Tom the Barman, and it's alright, because she locked the door. But then, horrifically, someone starts knocking at the door, softly at first, and then louder, and Hermione switches the water off and grabs for a towel, but there isn't one, because Neville's using it as a pillow two rooms away and then –

The door unlocks and swings open, and Draco Malfoy's halfway through pulling a cashmere sweater over his chest when he sees her.

She's dripping water onto the tiles, and her hair is slicked back and soaking and she's naked as the day she was born and the look on his face is indescribable and for a blissful, electrifying moment, Hermione forgets where she is.

Draco Malfoy wasn't expecting to wake up at the Leaky, but there he was, and Merlin, he needed to piss. Theo and Pansy would not stop fucking talking about Blaise and all he wants is some goddamn peace and quiet.

So, he grabs his sweater and his trousers, and he sets out in search of a toilet and of course, of course the first one he finds is locked. The water's running, but he assumes it's just Blaise, so he unlocks the door and then –

She's just standing there, dripping wet, holding a jumper in one hand, and every inch of her is blissfully, completely bare. Her skin is the color of milky tea, and every inch of her is soft curves, and she's all pastels and dark eyes and long, shapely legs, and that fucking dragon, climbing her ribcage and it's better than every single wet dream he's ever had and he knows he should leave and shut the door but there's something in her eyes, something that makes him stop.

"MALFOY," she all but screams, and it jolts him awake, "Get the hell OUT!"

And she's grabbing her clothes and her wand and he's backing up and he doesn't have a single clever comment, not one, because he knows that he'll see her standing there until the day he's lowered into the ground.

"Malfoy did WHAT?"

"Blimey, Hermione, you didn't even hex him?"

"Damn it, I'm going to kill him. No sublety at all – "

"Wait," Hermione is relaying her story to Harry, Ron and Ginny, but it's Harry's comment that makes her stop and narrow her eyes, "What do you mean, 'no sublety at all'."

Harry looks disturbingly guilty and Hermione's stomach drops and she's got her wand out, and Harry's backing into a wall, looking amused and a little terrified.

"Hermione, I swear I didn't say anything, alright? He asks about you sometimes, I thought it was just curiosity at first, or that he was being polite, but then I started to get a bit suspicious and I had that good bottle of bourbon and he just wouldn't stop talking about how good looking and smart and – well, swotty was the word he used – you are and I told him to, you know, talk to you."

"You told him to TALK TO ME?" Hermione is shrieking, her wand tip singing a hole through Harry's shirt, and Ron and Ginny are staring at each other in horrified fascination, "Is that why he's been POPPING UP all over the place and MAKING MY LIFE HELL?"

"I really think that's a bit much, Hermione," says Ginny, and Hermione whirls around and points an accusatory finger at her.

"You!" she yells, "Did you know about this too? Have you been conspiring-"

"Don't yell at my sister, Mione, they were just trying to-"

"Just trying to WHAT, Ronald?"

Ron looks terrified but resolute as he starts to speak. "Ever since the war, Hermione, everyone else is – well, dealing with their respective shit and trying to move on and let go, and you're just – you just ignore it and you let it simmer and it hurts you, I know it does, but you just hold onto it tighter,"

Hermione stares at him, wand lowered, chest heaving, eyes bright and head spinning.

"And it's not just Malfoy," his voice is stronger now, and he steps forward, inching closer to Hermione, "It's Fred, and Lupin and Tonks and – and everyone. You're so angry and guilty and you won't let yourself just – move on."

"I'm not – I won't," her voice cracks, looking at him, desperate and frantic, "Aren't you angry?"

"Yeah," he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Harry, "Sometimes. And having that Slytherin lot around doesn't help. But – "

"They're just people," says Harry, "Life's hard enough as it is. We all made mistakes, but we were kids, Hermione. You know as well as I do that they're not responsible for their parent's indoctrination. Or for Voldemort's, either."

"So, you'd just forgive him," Hermione's crying now, but she's angry, not sad, "For years of arrogant, baseless, pigheaded cruelty, because he suddenly thinks the girl he called mudblood for seven fucking years is GOOD LOOKING?"

"I'm not asking you to marry the man, I'm just asking you to forgive yourself. And to just – have a little faith in redemption."

Hermione is suddenly exhausted, her anger fading into familiar sadness, a wave of tremendous loss making her limbs ache.

"The bathroom thing wasn't ideal, though," says Harry, mending his t shirt.

"Yeah, I'm going to kill him for that one," Ron quips, throwing an arm around Hermione, "Will you lighten up, Hermione? Please?"

Hermione glares at him, but doesn't say anything, and then Ginny suggests breakfast, and Hermione grudgingly nods her head, and they all grab their cloaks and finally, finally, leave the Leaky.

I've been hopin', prayin' we last forever
'Cause there's nothing better than you and I -

Hermione's not looking for Draco Malfoy, not really. They're at Harry's house, in Godric's Hollow, and it's a work party, sort of, but like most weekends, everyone is sort of tipsy and there's music everywhere and a million fireflies and it would be a perfect evening, really, but –

It's sort of weighing on her, which she doesn't realize until she actually fakes a laugh at one of Fred's jokes, and she knows that she's feeling guilty, and her dragon is itching and even if she's yelling at him, she just wants to know that he's there.

Ginny comes sidling up a minute later, Luna at her elbow and Hannah trailing just behind, with a very determined look on her face.

"Hermione," she says, and Hermione knows she means business, "What the hell is wrong with you? You look like you just ate a puking pastille. Spill."

"Nothing's wrong!"

"Nargles," observes Luna, drawing a circle in the air around Hermione's head, "Lots of them. You're either….incandescently happy, or you're upset about something."

"I think we can see that she's not incandescently happy, Luna," Ginny yanks Hermione towards her and whispers, loudly, "Is it because of Draco?"

"It is NOT because of Draco, thank you very much."

"You're a terrible liar, Hermione," says Hannah, eyebrows raised. Hermione glares at each of them in turn , feeling very ganged up on and very, very sulky.

"It's just –" she glances at Ginny and rolls her eyes, "He's so incredibly annoying, right?"

"Right," the girls chorus.

"And by all accounts I should never want to see him again, after what happened in the bathroom, but I just can't stop thinking about him and his stupid face and his stupid jokes and then there's the whole thing with the kiss – "

"THE WHAT?" shrieks Ginny, who looks completely and utterly flabbergasted, "He kissed you? When the hell did that happen?"

"Actually," and Hermione's not looking at any of them now, scuffing the floor with the toe of her sneaker, "I sort of – kissed him. After the engagement party."

"Holy shit," Ginny breathes, and Hannah and Luna are giggling madly, and Hermione's trying to look anywhere but at the three of them, "Harry's going to be so pissed off."

"What d'you mean?"

Ginny grins, evilly. "He wanted you to befriend him, maybe exercise some civility, not fall madly in love. And now look what you've gone and done."

"Ginny, I feel quite a few different things for Draco Malfoy, but I can personally guarantee that not a single one of them qualifies as love."

"Yet."

"Ever!"

"But you do want to shag him," Ginny adds.

"I do NOT!"

"Look," Hannah hands her a freshly made drink and gestures to the sitting room, "He's been skulking over there for about fifteen minutes. See if you can't put a smile on that pretty little Slytherin face of his."

And that's when she sees him, and he's wearing muggle clothes and talking to Neville, of all people, and Neville looks a little shocked but strangely animated and Hermione almost loses her entire train of thought, but then Ginny yells "Oy, Neville, your girlfriend needs you!"

And Malfoy's looking right at her.

So Hermione turns around and slips out the garden door and she's thinking, quite seriously, about running away, and Malfoy's following her out the door and the night is warm and soft and velvet smooth and then –

"Granger."

Hermione stops. Slowly, slowly, she turns around, and there he is, in his stupid jeans and his stupid cashmere sweater, his stupid hands in his pockets and his stupid hair everywhere. And he's looking at her like she's magic and she's not sure what that means, exactly.

"You running away?"

"I needed some air," she crosses her arms and considers escape routes. Now that they're here, it feels claustrophobic, like the hedgerows of Harry's back garden are trapping her in Malfoy's gaze.

"How are you?" he's asking like he cares and it makes her so fucking angry she can barely see straight.

"I'm fine." She spits out.

"Is this about the bathroom thing?"

"Did anybody ever tell you not to open locked doors, especially if someone's-"

"Naked?"

"I was showering, you pervert."

"I thought it was Blaise, if it makes you feel better."

"It does NOT make me feel better," Hermione marches off, unsure of where's she's going, wondering if the cup in her hand will magically refill with Hannah's concoction, but knows it can't because of Gamp's Law of-

"I'm not done talking to you, Granger," Draco's in front of her, suddenly, leaning up against of those massive old oak trees, and Hermione honestly wonders if he just apparated, or if she's just a little drunker than she thought she was.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she's got her hands on her hips, now, "Do you really think it's that amusing to get a rise out of me?"

"Turns out it's not actually that difficult, Granger," he's drawling, and Hermione hates how languid, how sensual, his voice gets. It prickles her spine and gets under her skin and she has the sudden urge to shake herself.

"Listen to me," she says, pointing an accusatory finger at him, "I don't know where you get off, telling Harry that you think I'm good looking and swotty, and turning up all over London – "

"I didn't say good looking," Draco interrupts, coolly, "I said passably attractive. Two very different things. But you are, actually, quite swotty."

"That is NOT the point, Malfoy and you know it."

"What is the point, Granger?"

Hermione steels herself, takes a deep breath, and prays to any gods that will listen. "The point is, you spent seven years being the biggest jackass that you could possibly be, and then we get to the other side of Hogwarts and the war and you wake up one morning and decide that you're going to –" and she's barely one minute away from crying, but she won't cry in front of him, she won't, so she says it with as much venom as she can possibly muster. "Make fun of me."

Draco's face registers surprise before anything else, and then it fades into something vaguely resembling resentment.

"Is that really what you think I'm doing?"

"Y-yes," falters Hermione, suddenly unsure, unsure about everything, even the very sturdy ground beneath her. How can she be, when he's looking at her like that? "Aren't you?"

"No, Granger, I'm not making fun of you, although it is rather baffling that I'm pursuing a witch who's opinion of herself is so low that she truly believes that the only reason a wizard would pay any attention to her is if he's making fun of her."

Hermione is staring at him, because he just said the word "pursuing" and even though she knows it means to 'seek to attain or accomplish a goal over a long period', she can't think what it possibly means in regard to her.

"B-but" she manages to stammer out, and Draco steps closer, and closer, until she could lift a finger and touch his sleeve, and it's all she can do to stay upright, because he's just looking at her with those eyes, like sharpened steel.

"I've got a tattoo on my shoulder that says I'm not fucking around, Granger."

"No," she says, "No," she says it louder, backing up, "I'm not – I'm not just going to let it go, not like that. It's too easy, it's too – " and she's pleading now, even though she doesn't want to plead, because she can't beg anyone to care and she can't make herself not care. "How am I supposed to reconcile this," she gestures at him, "With everything? How do I- "

If she's two steps back, he's two steps forward, and suddenly he's too close again and he's breathing hard and it's the first time she's seen him really, really lose it.

"You don't get it, do you, Granger? I rode a broom for six fucking years, and Potter starts riding for the first time, and in two days he's better than me. And I was an arrogant, jealous arse, but he was this little, spectacled git who everyone worshipped – and I just thought – and then you, the pretentious muggle born who was so much smarter than me – than everyone - and I couldn't fucking believe that either – and it was just – it doesn't excuse what I did, but it was never straightforward, not for me. It wasn't right and wrong; it was family and loyalty and then – it was everything else."

"And you're saying that justifies – what – what you did? What you are?"

"I'm not justifying it, Granger. I'm explaining it."

"And what about me?"

"What do you mean, what about you?"

"How do I fit into – your – your redemption arc?"

Draco smirks down at her. "You didn't. You still don't. But the fact of the matter is, that doesn't stop you from being fucking beautiful, and smart and infuriating, fuck, you are so infuriating, and it doesn't stop me from wanting to kiss you, and I don't care if I spend a hundred years alone, drinking myself to death in the shrieking shack, I will never-" and he's so close now that she can feel his breath on her skin and it makes her feel electric, "Stop wanting to kiss you."

Hermione nods and swallows and suddenly she knows that life, by design, is unfair and sometimes you're born into a family of kindhearted muggle dentists and sometimes you're born into a family of prejudiced, pureblooded Death Eaters and - it's not all your fault, after all.

It isn't what someone is born, it is what they grow to be. Damn it all to hell, she thinks, Dumbledore was right.

Draco Malfoy is still self-serving and conceited, but he's also funny and ridiculously intelligent and sometimes he looks at her like she is the only existing person in the world, and it makes her feel a storm of something she's only just beginning to understand.

"And for what I did to you," he says it quietly, sincere for what seems like the very first time, "I know it'll never be remotely enough, but – I am sorry."

She does not expect him to reach toward her.

"Can I see your arm?" he says it slowly, and when she pulls back her sleeve, his hands are soft and reverent and tracing the lines etched into her skin with a concentration that is deep and dark and inscrutable.

"You're brave," he whispers.

Without meaning to she says it, lets it tumble off her tongue in curiosity and question. "Can I see yours?"

And when he rolls back his sleeve, and she sees the grey, twisted scar, marring that perfect, pale skin, she reaches out to touches it and he flinches, and she looks up at him.

"So are you."

And for that moment, at least, Hermione realized they are two people, with scars on their arms to remind of where they had been, to remind them that there is no insurance for the person you used to be, and no assurance of the person you'll become.

And then he kisses her, really kisses her, like every urgent, fleeting thing, like she will disappear the next second.

"I shouldn't forgive you," she breathes, strangled and wanting.

"I know, Granger," he says, lips brushing her neck, "I know."