Eyes Open

"He's let the envelope fall into his palm. If she's surprised, she doesn't show it. 'You know the rules, don't you?' 'Only for when I'm at my lowest point,' he says. 'And after I open it, I go straight to you.'" Ten years later, and he's falling in love with her.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Major Character Death, Religious Discussion, Alcohol Consumption, and angst. Lots of angst.

Thanks to my first-ever beta, SeptemberSkies!

I. The Lift

March 12th, 2004

He doesn't understand why he took it. He should have thrown it back in her face, or opened it right then and there, or tossed it away as soon as he found the nearest rubbish bin. Or, best yet, flung it to the floor and ground it beneath his boot heel before he even held it between his fingers. But he didn't. He took it, and that's all he can think about when he sees her in the Ministry lift almost eleven years later.

She's more attractive than she had been back in school, but still very close to plain. Her hair is untameable, stubborn; as unruly as she is well-mannered. Her nose is quite button-like. Her skin is that strange shade smack in the middle of deathly pale and golden-tanned. Her eyes are not as muddy-coloured as he thought. Light brown, with threads of yellow and gold (he notices this first). Lovely.

She glances at him and then looks away, but not in a mean way. Just a simple I'm done looking at you sort of way. But he's not done looking at her. He stares at her. Watches her as she readjusts the strap of her canvas bag. Watches as she rolls her shoulders and cracks her knuckles. Maybe she's nervous, being the only one in the lift with him. But it's not like he can jump her. And it's not like he wants to. Her eyes fall shut and her head bobs slightly, as if a melody popped into her head.

And then, her scent. A tidal wave of cinnamon and vanilla, crashing into his senses and making his head whorl and pound. He finds himself breathing it in, and he has to steady himself against the wall of the lift, the scent is so overwhelming. But not in a bad way, he's surprised to find. No, the scent is more appealing than he'd care to admit.

Before he knows it, the lift comes to a stop and she walks out, without having spoken to him at all.

II. The First Grey

October 22nd, 1991

The sky is an angry shade of grey, if there ever was such a shade. It's boiling with sadness and rage and grief, and it takes out its emotions on the humans down below. It unleashes slabs of rain onto the landscape and roars its fury. Inside the castle, all are safe. Crabbe and Goyle have gone to dinner and he has slipped away. He sits in an alcove with his Potion's textbook propped up against his knees and he scans the pages. He siphons the knowledge off the page and pulls it to his eyes, and the words greet him with a friendly wave before diving into his mind and staying there.

The only light is provided by the torches lining the hallway, and the sky, as it blinks a bolt of lightning every few minutes. It's meagre, but sufficient, and he is too comfortable and settled to relocate.

But what meagre amount of light he is given is stolen by her. Just like she stole his chances at top marks. She stands in front of him, hands placed on her hips, her hair enlarging her shadow far more than any proper head of hair should. It's practically indecent, impolite, her letting it grow in such an out-of-control manner. Once, he joked to Goyle that she probably keeps extra brains in her hair for safe-keeping.

He's forced to look up, because without the light he can't make out a word. "Move out of the way, Granger," he snaps at her with as much menace as an eleven-year-old can be capable of, already feeling quite annoyed with her. She bats away the command as if it were a pesky gnat.

"Shouldn't you be at dinner?" she asks.

"Shouldn't you be at dinner?" he counters.

"I've already finished my dinner," she says, and there's that sliver of pride that's always wedged into her voice, even if she is only talking about dinner. "But you didn't even come into the Hall. I know. I was watching Crabbe and Goyle, and you always come in with them."

"Are you stalking me, Granger?" He scoffs. "And I thought you'd be above such foolish practices." They are both as pretentious as children of their age could possibly be. "Though I suppose there's no accounting for your manners when you're, well, muggle-born." He spits the word from his mouth, hurling it at her feet where it cowers like a frightened dog. "Who knows how you've been raised."

She sniffs at him. "You really are quite mean," she says, and it would almost sound matter-of-fact if not for the bit of hurt dabbed at the end. "I really don't know why I'm doing it."

"Doing what?" he asks sharply.

She sighs and reaches into her robes, brandishing a single envelope. "Here. Take this, and only open it when you're really sad. Really sad. Don't open it until then, understand?" She drops it into his lap. "And then come and find me, okay?"

"What if I'm never sad," he taunts, and she glares at him.

"You're the sort who gets sad far more than he'd like to admit, I think," she says ostentatiously, with the definitive air of a child who is attempting to say something profound. "But don't open it until you're at your lowest point. And then come and find me. You've got to come and find me afterward."

"I think I'll just open it now," he says, taunting her as he moves his hand slowly toward the envelope.

"Don't," she says, her voice dangerously low. "Don't, Malfoy, or I'll hex you into oblivion."

"Like you could," he retorts spitefully, his hand approaching ever-closer to the envelope.

"Don't open it yet!" she exclaims, and this time her voice rises to a squeak as she lunges forward to grab the envelope from his lap, just as his fingers brush over the paper.

"You… you git," she hisses, and he wonders if that's the worst thing she's said to anyone in her entire life.

"Oooh, Granger's getting out her big-girl words now," he mocks, and she spins on her heel and strides away.

The sky lets out a mighty bellow as Draco returns to his textbook, his curiosity a bit more piqued than he ever would have confessed aloud.

III. Nice

March 18th, 2004

He spots her sitting at a table with Weasley and Potter. She's laughing at something one of them said. Must have been Potter, he thinks as she lays a hand on his arm.

Pansy's beside him, though he isn't really paying much attention to her. She's weaving him a beautiful tapestry woven with strands of kind words and flattering sentiments, but he doesn't even glance at it because she's smiling, and Gods above, he can't remember how it feels to smile.

He hasn't smiled in nearly six years, and she throws around her grins at everybody like they're nothing, like it's the easiest thing in the world to do. And they're all genuine. Mother of Merlin, they're all so fucking genuine.

Her teeth are straight and perfect. It's probably the nicest thing he's ever done for her.

IV. Hold Your Breath

April 4th, 2004

She stops by his office, and she smells of cinnamon again (goddammit). He resists the urge to breathe in deeply as she knocks on the door frame.

She's wearing a sundress with a suit jacket and flats, an ensemble that does not reek of professionalism but is not quite casual, either. The dress nudges and points at her better curves but hides away her lesser ones, if she has any. It is probably just his imagination, but embarrassment and—shame? creep up his back, as he thinks he is salivating.

"Granger."

An acknowledgement. The first.

"Malfoy." Her voice is even and emotionless, but it's more than he expected. At least she hasn't insulted him yet. "I'm sorry if this is awkward, but I've been looking everywhere for a certain memo… It's gone and hid itself, I don't think I placed the charm on it right and it's got some really important figures on it that need to get to Kingsley—erm, I mean, Minister Shacklebolt, so if you could just check about, perhaps look under your desk—"

"No memo here." He cuts her off, slightly amused. He doesn't think she realises she was babbling, and it's sort of funny, how she can appear so serious, yet speak so ridiculously. "I've been here all morning, and none have flown in."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks anyway," she says, turning around.

It takes him a full minute to realise he'd been holding his breath, and when he does breathe again, the air tastes like cinnamon.

V. The Second Grey

September 4th, 1992

The air is grey and stale in that broom cupboard. "Get that damn envelope out of my face, Granger," he snarls at her, and the curse tastes good, though unfamiliar, on his tongue. "I'm not in the mood."

His pet snake had died the previous month, and he isn't ready to deal with any sort of bullshit yet.

VI. Finding

April 10th, 2004

He finds her office. Completely by chance, of course. He was walking past it on his way back from lunch. The fact that she walked in front of him the whole way there had nothing to do with it at all.

Nothing at all.

It's not too far from his. A few paces to the lift, barely a second going down, a left turn, and then a few paces until he would arrive at her door.

He pictures himself walking to her office with a bouquet of flowers or chocolates or something equally clichéd. He pictures himself leaning over her desk to place a kiss on her forehead.

And then he takes these imaginings and flings them away from himself, into the far wall, and he pictures them shattering into a million pieces and falling to the floor like a broken china plate.

He's disgusted with himself for even following her in the first place.

VII. The Swimming Pool

April 17th, 2004

Why is she here? She's not even in the same bloody department as I am, Draco thinks to himself, tapping the pads of his fingers against the wood of the table. Like she has anything worthy to say on this topic. Typical Granger, worming her way into anything important she can manage.

Too late, he realises that the only open seat is the one beside him, and he tenses, his breath locked in his throat, as she walks toward him and settles herself beside him. "Good morning, Howle. Good morning, Malfoy," she says. So fucking polite. Why does she have to be nice to everybody, especially me?

He makes himself breathe through his mouth, because if not, he's sure her cinnamon scent will drive him crazy. He finds it extremely annoying, how uncomfortable he is with his nose plugged and his mouth hanging open as if he's some sort of mental person, because of her.

Her voice fills his ears, like he's just dunked his head in a swimming pool and the alto strands of her voice is the water. It's nearly as distracting as her scent.

Though he supposes he'd look rather silly plugging his ears with his fingers at this particular meeting.

VIII. The Not-Date

April 21st, 2004

He can't hide his shock when she says it. It repeats in his head, over and over again, even after he pulls on his cloak and they head out of his office.

"Would you like to go out for some coffee?"

But it's not like it's a date. No. Minister Shacklebolt himself asked them to take a look at the case. But Draco had thought they would look at it, alone, individually, in the safety and comfort of their own private offices, and then come together at a later date, in full view of their fellow co-workers. It's not his fault that Granger caught him off his guard and dragged him away from his very important… other work to discuss the case review over coffee.

Besides, she's dating Weasley (the speckled, ginger idiot).

This is completely and utterly not a date.

IX. The Not-Date (part two)

April 22nd, 2004

"So I hear you went on a date with Granger. Though I thought she was going out with Weasley."

Pansy says it casually, or tries to, but Draco has known her long enough to catch the ring of hurt among the other, more amiable chimes.

"It wasn't a date," he says. "She dragged me out of my office for coffee and we discussed the case Minister Shacklebolt himself requested we look over." And she smelled like cinnamon. And her shin bumped mine as we sat down. And our hands brushed. Twice. Damn-it-all.

She stares at him with a look he can't quite read, which is strange, and sort of startles him. "That's why you looked so flustered when you came out of the coffee shop," she says sarcastically, and he stares at her in return.

"Were you following me?"

"Daphy and I were shopping across the street," she replies with an (unconvincing) shrug. "It was pure chance that we came out of our shop at the same time you came out of yours."

"You really are a terrible liar," he informs her.

"Well I'm sorry we can't all be emotionless bastards," Pansy snaps impulsively, and he flinches. Then he stands.

"Fucking hell, Draco, sit down, honestly, you know it's true—"

"I'll talk to you later, Pansy."

X. The Third Grey

September 21st, 1993

"Honestly, Granger, I'm flattered, but I really can't be bothered by another girl right now, I've already got six on my waiting list," he says with a smirk, and colour seeps into her pale, grey, slightly freckled face as if injected with a syringe.

"You're a complete git, Malfoy. I just came to see if you wanted this yet." She pulls that stupid envelope from her robes.

He notices it's the same one, but he doesn't tell her that. He's a bit baffled, knowing that she's kept the ratty thing around after two years of rejection. Stubborn, annoying Mudblood. "Now why would you want to give me that after all that's happened these past two years?" he questions her, half taunting, half genuinely curious.

"Just take it. And promise you won't open it yet."

"I'm not going to touch that thing. Knowing you, I'll open it and get hexed. Or worse—infected."

"You incorrigible git," she says, practically shoving the thin pieces of paper into his chest. "Just take it, for God's sake! It's not going to kill you."

"I think we're both pretty clear on the fact that I'm a git, and you're a bint," he tells her, silently revelling in the fact that her face has flushed an even darker red. "So why would you be giving me anything that you think will make me feel better?"

"Maybe because I believe in karma," she says. "And I figure if I do one nice thing in my life, it'll be this."

He stares (gawks?) at her. One nice thing. He can already list at least a dozen that have labelled her "goody-two-shoes-for-life" over the past two years.

"Just take it, Malfoy."

"No," he says airily, standing up and making to walk away. "You can go and shove that envelope up your arse for all I care."

XI. Reality

April 20th, 2004

He knows she is seeing the Weasel, so he doesn't understand why it shocks him so much to walk in on them pressed against each other, writhing like eels and snogging as if their lives depended on it.

Draco chances upon them like this: he spills his inkwell all over his desk and his clothes, much to his chagrin, and can't get the entire stain off him with a spell. So he leaves his office in search of the stain-removing potion Magical Maintenance keeps in the broom cupboards. Upon finding the nearest cupboard, he's surprised to find it locked and immediately casts an Alohamora charm.

Weasley sits on a bucket with Hermione in his lap, his hands fisted in her hair as she pushes herself against him, her hands running up and down the length of his thighs. Weasley's face is buried in her neck and her head is thrown back, her face twisted into an expression of lust. They're both moaning, Draco can tell, but they've put a silencing charm on the cupboard.

The sight of it makes him want to scream and vomit and hit something all at the same time, and he settles with banging the door closed, the stain on his shirt forgotten as the image of their snogging rebounds around his skull and whispers a promise to haunt his sleep.

He wonders if they even heard the door slam.

XII. Pretending

May 4th, 2004

The next time he sees her, he doesn't bring it up. He considers it for a while, just slipping a casual mention of it into their conversation to see where it takes them. But at the last minute, he bites back the words and lets them settle, dejected and unused, on his tongue.

He lets her direct the conversations, lets her talk about work and the new case Minister Shacklebolt assigned them. He lets her words ramble and her thoughts wander, because if this conversation was at all organised, things would be prompt, and she would be gone much sooner.

He tries to pay attention. He tries very hard, but it doesn't seem to work. Because he keeps picturing that paralysing image of her and Weasley, only Draco pretends that he, himself is in Weasley's place, and it is his hands that are winding in Hermione's hair and it's his thighs she is stroking and his lips on her neck.

XIII. The Fourth Grey

September 4th, 1994

"You know, I almost didn't offer this year," she says to him, as if it would have been some great loss to him. "What with all the shit you pulled last term."

"Oh, pity," he drawls facetiously, and she scowls at him. "'Cos you know, Granger, this is always the highlight of my year, being accosted by you in a highly suspicious location and having that ridiculous envelope flapped in my face. It's almost amazing, how quickly you manage to corner me every year."

"Come on Malfoy. Just agree to the terms and take the envelope. I'll even say please if it'll make you feel better."

"Say it."

"And you'll take it?"

"Maybe."

She sighs. "P… p-please," she stammers, (her voice grey and thin and quite unconvincing) and then she glares at him.

He simply grins at her and lets it fade into a smirk. "Hmm… no, I think I'll pass this year."

"You know, one year I'm just going to give up, and you'll never know what you've missed out on," she tells him, very matter-of-fact as she waves the envelope in his face.

"Oh yeah? What exactly am I missing out on?"

"I can't tell you yet. You have to take the envelope."

"You're mental, Granger," he informs her. "You'll have to tie me to a chair and shove it up my arse if you want me to take it."

"You insufferable git," she says before turning away.

XIV. The First Row

May 7th, 2004

He fights with her and it feels like a fire is blooming in his chest. They yell at each other, curse at each other, and this verbal sparring inspires too many emotions (Sweet Merlin, emotion) in him to face all at once. He's overwhelmed.

"—don't know how to make a single bloody decision—"

"—are too fucking impulsive—"

"—why you never get anywhere in—"

"—you're going to get yourself killed one—"

"—never going to change a bloody thing—"

"—and you'll finally regret the shit you've pulled—"

And on and on and on and on until both of them can no longer draw breath without gasping, and they collapse into chairs across from each other.

He feels her eyes on him and looks up to see her grinning at him, her chest heaving and her cheeks glowing red with exertion, her hair (having escaped from its bun) tumbling in coffee-coloured curls around her face. And suddenly, he's struck hard with a sharp blow to the back of the head as he comes to the realisation that she is (utterly, startlingly) beautiful.

XV. Deception

June 1st, 2004

He avoids her (like the plague) for the next few weeks. He's afraid that the more time he spends with her, the more likely the chances become that he'll fall in love with her. The idea of it scares him—being in love. Especially with her. It's wrong, it's strange, he doesn't deserve her at all, and she doesn't need the baggage that's clung onto his shoulders for far too long. It feels odd and foreign, caring for a person's feelings other than his own.

She corners him, though, bringing him back to their early Hogwarts days before the war and the five times she shoved that stupid envelope in his face (the one that lays on the top of a small stack of papers in a drawer, in a desk, in a flat—his). She gets him after he finishes his lunch break in the cafeteria, backing him into a corner and waving a file folder in front of him.

"Remember this? The Thompson Case?" she says, and she's not furious, but very piqued. "The one Kingsley gave us to look over together?"

"Yes," he replies, trying to keep his face expressionless and his tone even, as he pushes past her. She simply follows him. Like an annoying, stubborn, pesky dog. With a rather (endearing) bushy coat of brown fur.

"So why haven't you been seeing me about it? Or avoiding me when I went to see you about it? Is it about that row we had a few weeks ago? I thought we were alright after that one. I mean, you almost smiled. Almost." Ah, so she's noticed it, too. She and Pansy ought to make a club or something.

"It isn't about the row," he says as he pushes the button to the lift. "I haven't had the time for it."

A foolish, ridiculous lie if there ever was one.

Hermione sees right through it, as she should.

"'Haven't had time' for a case the Minister of Magic himself asked you to review? That's absolute bollocks, Malfoy, and you know it. Come on, what's really going on?"

The doors ding as they open, and they're no one inside. Draco steps into the lift and Hermione is right behind him. He avoids looking at her at all, because he's already seen what she's wearing—a dress too sexy to be dress code yet too classy to be called out on. He knows there are the beginnings of cleavage over the neck line and the soft hug the fabric gives her narrow hips and even smaller waist.

Since when did Hermione Granger dress so damn well? And since when did Draco Malfoy start noticing it?

"There's nothing going on at all," he says as the lift begins to rise. "I've been busy and I'll give the Minister my personal apology for the delay."

"You're lying, I can tell," she tells him, and the tone of her voice is reminiscent to her know-it-all cadence from their school days. "Honestly, you're being unreasonable. Just tell me what's going on and I'll understand. Hell, maybe I can help."

"I'll take a look at the case tomorrow morning and we can report to the Minister later in the day. Okay, Granger?" he says, keeping his reply short and clipped.

She sighs, crossing her arms, making her cleavage more prominent and… appetising.

Fuck, Draco, you weren't going to look.

"Yeah, okay, I suppose can live with that. But don't pull bullshit like this ever again," she says, raising a warning finger.

XVI. The Fifth Grey

June 26th, 1994

Though the sun is shining and the goblets are gold and the grass is a beautiful shade of green in the courtyards, everything looks grey to him. Grey and bleak. Empty. Colourless.

Diggory's gone, and Voldemort's back.

Voldemort is back, and he and his parents are fucked. Screwed. Done for. Labelled as spineless failures that didn't even look for the Dark Lord upon his disappearance. They are lucky that his father hasreceived a new assignment. It's another chance for the Malfoys.

He's thinking about this when Granger corners him one last time, backing him into an alcove two hallways away from the entrance of the Great Hall. Her face is grim and sad as she pulls that bloody envelope from her robes.

"It's probably not worth much anymore, but I think you should have it anyway," she says.

Later, he will blame it on the distractions of Voldemort, and of death, and of the grey, because he's let the envelope fall into his open palm. It's heavier, thicker than he expects. He feels his fingers close inexplicably around it.

If she's surprised, she doesn't show it.

"You know the rules, don't you?"

How could he not, after she practically shoved them down his throat that first time?

"Only for when I'm at my lowest point," he says; his reply, automatic and his voice, monotone. "And after I open it, I go straight to you."

"You don't have to do that last bit," she tells him, and the look on her face is something he's never seen before. He's seen her face twisted in anger, gleaming with amusement, and once, just a few months ago, shining with tears. But this is something new, something unfamiliar. Sad. Regretful.

"You don't have to find me after you've opened it," she tells him. "Not anymore. But keep it—you may find yourself needing it."

XVII. Cinnamon

June 5th, 2004

He returns to his desk, his paces heavy with exhaustion and his head pounding with frustration. He drags himself across the room and throws himself into his armchair, leaning back against the soothing leather and pressing his eyes shut before he opens them and sees what was left on his desk in his absence.

A cupcake. Chocolate. His favourite.

A candle stands (proud and erect and glowing) in the exact centre of a vanilla icing swamp.

And sprinkled on the icing.

Cinnamon.

XVIII. Completion

June 7th, 2004

He tries not to show his surprise when she sits across from him in the cafeteria. Her tray clacks against the table and he tries to focus on that, instead of the way her curls form a thick curtain down the side of her face, or how the vanilla is a smidge stronger than the cinnamon today. How odd. He decides he likes the cinnamon better, before he remembers that he wanted to avoid noticing all this in the first place.

"Did you get it?"

"Get what," he asks, though he knows exactly what she's talking about.

"Your birthday gift."

He nods.

"Did you enjoy it?"

He nods.

"Baked it myself," she says with a definitive air of self-satisfaction. Or maybe it's pride. "Molly's been teaching me some stuff, you know, because I am a naturally awful cook. I burn almost everything I attempt to make."

He's silent as he pushes his mashed potatoes around on his plate.

"Kingsley wanted me to tell you that our report on the Thompson Case was excellent," she says, stabbing at her salad. "He wants us to take all the cases of that sort now."

"That sort" meaning Magical Creature Rights. He delves into the legal aspects and she delves into the moral ones. If he thought himself the romantic sort, he would say they complete each other.

"He's considering taking us off our current positions and letting us work together like this all the time. He says he can raise our pay by twenty per-cent if we'd like. I'm thinking about taking the job," she says with a shrug. "How about you?"

"I'll have to think about it," he replies curtly. "Now if you'll excuse me…" he rises to dump his (unfinished) lunch and makes sure that Hermione isn't following him when he boards the lift back to his office.

XIX. Taking

June 8th, 2004

He accepts the job because he isn't sure what will happen if Granger takes it and he doesn't.

And he likes seeing her far more than he should.

XX. Partners

June 12th, 2004

"So we're partners now?"

"It would appear so."

"I'm going on my lunch break in a few minutes. Wanna join me for coffee?"

…

"Alright. Give me a second to finish this paragraph."

"Take your time, partner."

XXI. Assuming

June 12th, 2004

He forgets he kept the door open to his office and can only blame himself when she walks past his doorway and then backtracks, knocking on the frame and pulling on a (genuine) smile the way others might pull on a jumper. "Oh, hey there Malfoy," she says, her previous annoyance with him forgotten once she heard he'd taken the job.

"Good morning, Granger," he says stiffly, reaching over to take a sip of his water and mentally crossing his fingers that she will leave.

"I've got the Harrington case," she tells him, holding up a file folder jammed with documents. "Wanna come by my flat and look over it?"

He nearly chokes on his water. Her flat? Her flat?

"Or we can go to yours, if that's alright. Or, we don't even have to go to anyone's flat. There's a nice park about two blocks away from the Ministry if that's what you prefer. I just want to get out of this building. It's a lovely day out and looking through an enchanted window really isn't the same," she explains.

He wants to say no so badly. It's there, hanging on for dear life on the tip of his tongue. No. But that's not what comes out of his mouth.

"Sure."

And before he can process it, Draco's gathering his briefcase together, stuffing papers and a few pens and his wand inside while Hermione simply smiles. Always smiling. He bets she can count the number of times she couldn't bring herself to smile on one hand.

Hermione is right—as per usual. It is a nice day. The sun is grinning and the clouds have all been chased away by the ferocity of its smile, and the sky is the purest shade of blue Draco can remember since the previous summer. They agree on the park, and the walk there is awkwardly silent.

She leads him to a large willow tree, not unlike the Whomping Willow back at Hogwarts (excluding the fact that it was not magical in the least and very friendly because of it). Hermione sits down on a relatively flat knot of roots and leans back against the trunk, kicking off her shoes and pulling off her jacket. The sunlight filters through the verdant foliage and dapples her face.

Draco sits down (gingerly) on the ground across from her. The last time he had sat on the grass was perhaps eight or nine years ago, before the war was in full swing and he still had some sort of innocence still clinging to his person. Hermione closes her eyes and sighs, and he wonders at her, and the way she is so easily content.

"Okay, time to get to work," she says, lifting her eyelids and sitting up.

They discuss the case for several minutes, easily slipping into an animated conversation (surprisingly so) and taking notes. They bounce ideas off each other and fill in the holes the other unknowingly forms. Once they peel away the first layer of awkwardness and unfamiliarity, their exchange flows quickly and effortlessly, like water. Perhaps this always would have been the case, had one of them only thought to switch on the tap.

The pair runs out of fuel too quickly, though, and soon the discussion transforms into dribbling droplets, falling slow and unsure from the very corner of the faucet.

"…it all comes back to the idea that Harrington had no business or rights or even the financial backing to be in possession of that dragon egg in the first place, and—" Draco says, but is interrupted by a loud yawn on Hermione's part.

He glances up, more startled than offended.

"Oh, sorry," she says, covering her mouth as her face flushes red. "I think we did well, better than I thought we would. Do you think we could take a bit of a break? I didn't get a very good night's sleep last night," she explains.

"Alright," he concedes hesitantly, and she smiles, leaning back against the trunk again and closing her eyes. His back slumps slightly, and a tingle reeking of awkwardness clambers up his back.

And then she surprises him by speaking. Her eyes are still shut as her lips part and words flood out.

"Why don't you ever smile anymore?"

"What?"

He's alarmed, to say the least.

"I mean, whenever I see you, you look so gloomy. Even when Parkinson's jabbering away in your ear and trying as hard as she can to make you laugh or smile or even react. She's in love with you, you know. It's obvious."

He's conscious of the fact that Pansy feels more affection for than he should allow, but he's never heard it said aloud so… blatantly. Nor while using the word "love".

"I don't reciprocate her feelings," he says, and he attempts to make it clear he wishes to steer the conversation away from this particular subject. Either she doesn't understand, or she understands and ignores it.

"You don't reciprocate much of anything," she mutters so softly he barely even catches it, and before he can even open his mouth to respond, she's talking again.

"That still doesn't explain why you're so unhappy all the time. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen you truly, genuinely joyful, but you used to smile at school. It was almost… nice. You had a decent smile," she informs him, and Draco thanks a deity he doesn't believe in that her eyes are still closed, and she can't see him blushing. What sort of Malfoy blushes, for Christ's sake?

An almost-lie slides from his throat, half-formed and weak-sounding. "I guess I just don't like throwing my smiles around," he says. The statement is true, but it's not the answer to her question.

"How do you mean?"

"Your gratitude, your happiness, your affection… you toss them around, and people get the wrong idea. They either think you're easy to please, or they expect it from you all the time. I would prefer people think neither of me."

"Well who gives a rat's arse what people think of you," she says, and her eyes finally open. She sits up. "It's their fault they assumed anything in the first place. You know what happens when you assume?"

"Hm."

"You make an ass out of you and me."

He stares at her blankly for a long moment before he gets it. A joke. And a pretty good one, at that. He's impressed, and tells her so.

"Don't give me any credit. It's a muggle saying. Yes, Malfoy, muggles are capable of having a clever sense of humour, too," she tells him before he can say anything else.

"I think you're the one who's assuming, now," he says, and it almost sounds like banter. She shifts, so her back is facing away from the willow trunk. She lies down on the grass and a few coffee-coloured wisps brush his knee.

"Well, we all have our faults," she says, and her eyes are fluttering shut again. Maybe even Hermione Granger needs a break from the world.

He snorts, and it does not go unnoticed.

"What?"

"You're admitting it," he says. "That you have faults."

"Well of course I have faults! Who doesn't? Definitely not you."

He ignores the jab.

"What, did you think I thought I was perfect?" she demands, and he wonders how she could sound and look so commanding with her eyes zipped up.

"Everyone thought you were perfect."

"Even you?"

"In a sense."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He leans back on the heels of his palm and looks up at the leaves, swaying slightly in the cool June breeze.

"Well, I knew you were bossy and stubborn and annoying and a know-it-all and you had a knack for getting on people's nerves. And you were very self-righteous." She doesn't stop him, so he continues. "But it was like you could do no wrong. Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, perfect marks, champion of house-elves and the downtrodden, and, of course, one-third of the ultimate goody-two-shoes brigade. And then there was your blood, obviously, and the fact that you were all that and muggle-born. You were everything, and nothing, all at the same time," he says, his voice retreating to a whisper once he realises he'd said too much. Let go too much.

"And I was absolutely maddening," she adds for him, and he can tell by the way she says it that she's grinning.

"You most definitely were," he agrees reluctantly.

"You spoke in past-tense. Has it changed now, Malfoy?"

"You damn well haven't," he says, and comes out more condescendingly than he would have liked. "Still stubborn and annoying, still freakishly smart, still trying to make the world a better place, one house-elf at a time."

"Hey, that's a nice slogan."

He barely hears the phrase, because he realises that he's right. She hasn't changed. Not one bit. In reality he shouldn't be feeling this… this… affection and attraction for her at all. He should still dislike her, he should still want to infuriate her, and he should still not want to even touch her. She is still the Muggle-Born (he can't even think the other word any more, Merlin help him) Extraordinaire, perfect in all the ways he's come to value and imperfect in all the ways he was taught to loathe.

She's still over-bearing, annoyingly persistent, and maddeningly self-satisfied.

And it makes him wonder.

Maybe it's him that's changed.

XXII. Knowing

June 20th, 2004

"I think I'd like to go back to Australia one day," she says, leaning back against him so that he is suddenly surrounded by cinnamon. They're sort of friends now, he supposes, but not nearly close enough for this action to be considered normal. He stiffens, and if she notices it she doesn't make any comment.

"Oh?" he says, trying to keep his tone level. Her hair is warm against his chest and the most wayward curls tickle his chin. That cinnamon scent is absolutely overwhelming. Her body is warm and soft over his—distractingly so.

"Yeah. I mean, it wasn't awful. It was actually really nice. That's one of the reasons I sent Mum and Dad there in the first place."

"Sent?"

"Mhm," she says, and he can tell by the way she says it, all calm and relaxed, that her eyes are shut. "During the war. So they wouldn't get hurt."

"You've… you've found them again?"

"Oh, yes. They live just outside of London. I visit them quite often. Less than I used to, back when I first found them. But still very often."

He marvels at the fact that she's sharing this with him. How easily she's accepted him, after everything he's done. After everything he's said and thought and wished about her.

"Do they forgive you?"

"For Obliviating them and sending them to Australia for a few years while I placed my life in danger every day?"

"Yes."

"They understood. They were angry, but they understood."

"You're lucky."

"I know."

"My family—"

"I know."

Perhaps she truly does know, but she will never understand, Draco decides as his thumb softly strokes her arm (he won't even notice that he's doing it until she rises and all he feels is air where her flesh used to be). And maybe that's one of the reasons he likes being around her so much: her sort of… naivety to the horrors those you loves can commit, and the pain it can inflict on your soul. She's free. In fact, she was never imprisoned in the first place.

XXIII. Photographs

July 1st, 2004

He doesn't know why he ever agreed to this. The whole place smells like cinnamon and vanilla, but it's ruined by his smell. Weasley's. Not completely unpleasant (though Draco will be the last human on earth to ever admit it), but not her.

The entire flat is littered with photographs. They're all over the walls, and on the mantle, and smothering the end tables. He wonders how they even breathe.

Potter. Weasley. She-Weasley. Weasley. Her. Her. Potter. She-Weasley. All the Weasleys. Her parents (?). Weasley. Potter. Weasley.

Weasley.

Weasley.

Weasley.

"Who's this?" he says, nodding to a photograph on the wall beside the sofa. It's a muggle photograph, immobile, of a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, sitting on a bench in a garden. Bald. Smiling, but it doesn't look quite right. It's… broken.

Hermione looks up from the kitchen, where she's making a salad. "Oh. That's… erm, that's my cousin. Will."

"Does he know about…"

"Yes. He did. He used to beg me to do magic all the time when we were little. I had to explain to him constantly that I wasn't allowed to, not until I… until I came of age." Her voice breaks, and he turns around to look at her. Her eyes don't meet his; they're focused on that salad as if it held the meaning of life among the lettuce leaves.

"And by then, the war broke out," he says quietly.

"No. No," she repeats, sitting down at the kitchen table. "No, he passed away in my sixth year. He was… he was very sick. He died before he ever saw me perform a single spell."

"I'm sorry," he says honestly, though he knows it sounds feeble, and is probably useless.

"Thanks," she says, wiping her eyes and standing back up. "Salad. Right. What kind of dressing do you like, Malfoy?"

After they eat, somehowthey slip into a conversation that is very much unrelated to work. They're spread out on her sofa, Draco sitting straight on one end and Hermione with her knees drawn up to her chest on the other.

Somehow they get on the subject of Heaven.

"It doesn't exist," he tells her shortly. "Maybe there's an afterlife, or maybe our lives end and that's it. But there's no Heaven."

"Of course there is," she scoffs.

He shakes his head. "If there is a Heaven, then there must be a God. And no God would let His creations suffer so much."

"Maybe He lets us suffer so we can appreciate the rest of life. The good parts. Or maybe He lets us suffer to make us stronger, or to lead us to better things."

Draco has to try very hard to avoid rolling his eyes. "Granger. Think about it. If a parent started Crucio'ing their kid and gave those excuses to the Wizengamot when they were put on trial, how do you think things would end for them? Could you picture your own presumably loving, caring parents doing that to you, and giving you those excuses?" he demands, and she flinches. "Exactly. There is no God, and there is no Heaven."

"You're wrong, Malfoy. I know it's there. That there's a Heaven and a God up there who loves us very much. I know."

"You let your optimism get in the way of reality, Granger. You're an idealist, always thinking the best of everyone and everything."

"And you're a cynic, who's too goddamn stubborn to even consider there are more, options," she says, and continues before he can put in another word. "Why don't you have a little faith for once in your life, Malfoy, and maybe you wouldn't be so sad all the time, so solemn and so angry."

"Faith is for people who don't understand how the world works."

It's incredible, how quickly they can build up an argument.

Before he realises it they are both standing, facing each other, their voices rising in a rapid crescendo until it's only a matter of time that it all crashes down around them.

"That's a ridiculous statement—"

"It's not ridiculous, it's perfectly true and you know it—"

"You're wrong, Malfoy, you're awfully wrong, and it's a fucking sad thing you've become—"

"Sad? I'm Draco fucking Malfoy! Don't you dare pity me—"

"You are sad, you're pathetic every single second of the day because I think it would kill you to show some emotion for once in your life—"

"Why don't you be reasonable for once and maybe you won't get hurt so much—"

"At least I have feelings—"

"I have feelings!"

"Then show them!" she roars. "Goddammit, Draco, you're this cold, empty shell and when you do feel emotion for a change, you never let it out! It's not healthy and you're not just wrecking yourself; it fucking sucks to be around you sometimes."

He opens his mouth but not words venture out; she has scared them all away, back down his throat.

"I'm sorry that you don't believe in anything anymore. I'm sorry that you've crawled inside yourself, that you've never let yourself out and you've never let anyone in. But I'm not going to apologise for hoping that all the people I've loved, all the people who've died, have found something better than this hell we've been forced to endure."

She points to the photograph of her cousin. "I like to think that Will deserves something more than nonexistence after all that he's suffered."

There's a moment of silence in which they simply stare at each other, her eyes hardened (tightly-packed earth, woven with gold) and his eyes softened (quick-silver, sloshing about his irises).

"I… I-I'm sorry," he says finally, and her body, which had been tense with anger and vexation, deflated.

"No reassuring smile?"

"I—I haven't—"

She sighs, and he never would have noticed it had it not been for the slight drop in her shoulders. "That's alright, Malfoy. Come on. Let's get back to work."

XXIV. Edelweiss

July 14th, 2004

Even after their explosive row two weeks ago, they still bicker a lot, so much that it would seem like they weren't even friends. She seems to have forgiven and forgotten, and he is grateful for it. Though he is not convinced of Heaven's existence, he appreciates her desire for it and comes to respect it.

He still likes fighting with her (though they stay away from the more touchy subjects), challenging her, getting a rise out of her, but most of all, he just likes being the centre of her attention, as brat-ish and selfish as it sounds. But later, he won't remember what any of their little spats were about. He won't remember their twenty-minute argument sparked by Lavender Brown's reputation on June 7th or their shouting match that started with a spilled inkwell on July 10th.

He will keep track of them, number them, clutch them in his fists for weeks, but before long he will drop them, drop them onto the ground and walk away without ever turning back.

But he will remember the Assuming. The Knowing. The Photographs. Edelweiss.

Among other things.

His clock reads 19:34 when he hears a knock on his door. He stands from the sea of paperwork that surrounds him on the floor—there was too much of it to fit on his desk.

"Want to go out for a drink?" Hermione asks when he opens the door. She's wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and it makes her look like a teenager again. Younger.

A drink. He wonders if Weasley knows she's here. He never asks, and never will.

"No tonight, Granger," he tells her. "I've still got work."

"We've finished the King Case two days ago, and Kingsley hasn't given us anything since then. What work could you possibly have to do?" she asks.

"Family stuff," he says shortly.

"Oh. What kind of family stuff?"

"Business. Just because we're disgraced doesn't mean we're suddenly poor, too," he informs her, trying to keep most of the bite from his tone.

"You work too much."

"Look who's talking."

"Touché. Which is exactly why you and I both need this. We've become over-worked, and so delusioned toward the fact that this is normal behaviour for good-looking young people."

Good-looking.

"Just because we work too much doesn't mean we're over-worked. There's a difference," he says.

"It's a technicality. Now come on. I've already got a pub picked out."

They stay out far later than either of them expected, he thinks as they apparate back to his flat. Not that he's complaining.

"Why are you coming back home with me again?" he asks when they walk through his front door.

"I want to find your old Thompson Case file. I got a request from Roberts for some cross-referencing."

"And why couldn't we find this before you dragged me out to go to a pub?"

She shrugs. "I hadn't thought about it."

An awful excuse if there ever was one.

"Fine," he says as she slips off her shoes and tosses them onto the welcome mat, making herself perfectly comfortable despite the fact that this isn't her flat.

"It's in my office, I'll go look for it. Stay there," Draco tells her. The last thing he needs is her snooping around his home.

She's blatantly ignoring him, though. She's caught sight of the piano.

"Holy Hell," she says as she nearly sprints over to the baby grand he brought into his living room. "This thing is gorgeous!"

"It's not a thing. It's a priceless Eisenbrandt," he scoffs pompously, naming a German Instrument-Making wizard. "He's like the Ollivander of the wizarding music world," he further explains after catching sight of her puzzled look.

Hermione runs her fingers over the keys, first the white, then the black, with an expression on her face that he can't quite decipher.

"Do you… do you play?" he asks hesitantly, the words trotting out, meek and shy, from his mouth.

"I used to. When I was younger," she says distractedly, drowning in her own lake of whorling recollections. "I haven't played in perhaps seven or eight years."

"Oh? Why not?"

She shrugs. "Not as much time to practice, what with school… and then the war…"

"…You don't remember anything?"

"I think… one song… but I learned it so long ago…"

"Try it," he said softly.

"No, no, I couldn't, I'm not even sure if I remember it all—"

"Try it," he repeats. "Please."

She sighs.

"Fine."

And then—

Rolling arpeggios. Treble clef. Falling gently like snowflakes in sweet, cold winter air. Alighting down from what seemed like thin air and settling in his ear. A slight slip on Hermione's part (a flat, perhaps, when a sharp was in order). Though after that, perfection.

A melody, gently pushing aside the introduction with a courteous bow, and harmonies flitting in and out and alongside said melody like butterflies in a flower garden.

He visualises white flowers. Five petals. A bit fuzzy. Soft.

He finds himself stumbling back against the couch.

A voice. Like pure, transparent glass made beautiful by inexperienced, luck-blessed hands. Untrained. Unimpeded.

"Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Every morning you greet me
Small and white, clean and bright
You look happy to meet me

Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow
Bloom and grow forever
Edelweiss, Edelweiss
Bless my homeland forever."

A final run of chords.

An end.

And a beginning.

XXV. In Numbers

July 20th, 2004

They've had twenty six rows.

She's snapped at him fifty three times.

They've ignored each other in stony silence for approximately forty nine hours.

He's shouted at her forty two times.

She's threatened his genitalia twice.

He's insulted Weasley on six occasions.

They've gone out for coffee on twenty three afternoons.

He's been at her flat for four lunches.

Their hands have brushed eighteen times.

She's given him fifty five smiles.

They've had twenty one conversations that weren't about work.

He's stopped keeping track of the times he's gone to sleep thinking about her.

XXVI. Thoughts

July 22nd, 2004

He thought about opening the envelope that first night, after noticing that it had been opened and resealed (how curious), but ended up throwing it back in his trunk instead.

He thought about opening the envelope two years later, on a despondent winter's night when the pressures of being an assassin were pummelling his will to live to a pulp.

He thought about opening the envelope almost a year later, after she was captured and brought to the Manor and he heard her screaming in absolute agony on his parlour-room floor.

And he thinks about opening it now, after the Prophet arrives at his desk first thing that morning and the front page bares the headline NARCISSA MALFOY FOUND DEAD IN HER BED, CAUSE UNKNOWN.

She was, perhaps, the only person he had ever loved and felt loved from in return. And now she was gone. And he couldn't even remember their last conversation.

XXVII. Left Behind

July 25th, 2004

She's in his flat.

She's in his fucking flat.

He doesn't understand why she's here, of all people. Why not Pansy? Why not Blaise? Why not Theo? There are a number of people who have known him and his mother longer and better. Instantly, he's berating himself for not warding his door properly. He ignores her, leaning back in his arm chair and clutching his fire whiskey harder. I don't want to hear her bullshit.

She sits down on the sofa to his left and watches him as he takes a long draught and relishes the firestorm that crashes down his throat, along with the slowly growing buzzing sensation wrapping around his brain.

"You haven't been at work," she explains. "And Kingsley asked me to check on you."

Ah, so it's Kingsley. Despite his annoyance at her trespassing, he would have preferred her to say something more along the lines of, "I was worried about you, so I came here to see if you were okay."

"Go back to the office," he tells her, and cringes at how slurred his words are. How much had he drunk? Bottles sit, cross-legged and piqued with their abandonment, around the armchair, but his vision is too blurry for him to count them.

"Are… are you okay, Malfoy?"

"I'm fine." His words tumble, clumsy and heavy, from between his lips. They fall to the floor between them, among the gathering of bottles. She stares at them, and he stares at her.

"You're obviously not fine," she says with a sniff. "This whole place reeks of fire whiskey, and you can barely keep your eyes open, and you look… well, you look like hell."

"Thank you, Granger, for that bloody brilliant assessment. I'm sure these are the sort of observational skills the Ministry is paying you 500 galleons a month for," he replies sarcastically. "You're right, as always—I am in fact drunk, and I probably do look like hell. But I'm quite fine, thank you very much, and I would appreciate it if you would get the fuck out of my flat."

"I saw the article. In The Prophet." The words drift down from her mouth as if by parachute, and they hit the floor with soft, quiet feet. He expects her to tell him that she is sorry for his loss, or that his mother will be sorely missed, or some other complete bullshit that Gryffindors tend to make up, if for no other reason than to make their own damn selves feel better.

But instead, she stands up and walks over to him, her footsteps making not one sound. Her hands fall to his shoulders, soft as snowflakes and edelweiss, and she leans down to press her lips against his forehead. They brush the loose strands that hang over his eyes.

The kiss (it wasn't even on his lips!) has him frozen. He can hardly even breathe. Surprise has seized his limbs, taking them in a bone-crunching, inescapable grip. He closes his eyes.

"I'll tell Kingsley you're taking a bit of a holiday," she says, and her lips are moving against his forehead. He's suddenly self-conscious—does he really smell that badly? Is she regretting coming this close to him?

After the pressure of her hands leaves his shoulders and her mouth, from her forehead, she reaches for the bottle of fire whiskey. He loosens his grip and allows her to take it, and she sets it down on the floor among its comrades.

And then she's gone, and Draco could fool himself into thinking she had never come at all, if not for the trace of cinnamon scent she's left behind.

XXVIII. Forgetting

July 29th, 2004

He's returned to work, and the first person he sees is Shacklebolt, entering the Minister's office with an apology in one hand and leaving with the cases he's missed in the other.

Next, he stops by her office, but the door is locked.

There is Weasley's voice.

Some giggling.

A moan.

Shit.

He'd forgotten she was seeing him.

XXIX. Everything

August 1st, 2004

Clack, clack.

Draco looks up from his lunch to see her settling in the bench across from him.

"Yes?"

"What." It's more of a statement than a question.

"Well, this isn't exactly normal for you, Granger. Don't you usually sit with Potter and Weasley?"

Dammit. Why can't he say anything nicely?

"Sometimes we all need a change of scenery, you know? And no one told me you were back, by the way. I had to learn it from Lavender who heard it from Parvati who heard it from Padma who heard it from Susan who heard it from Hannah who heard it from Ernie who heard it from Anthony who heard it from Kingsley."

"That's quite a list."

"You got that right."

"I went to see you my first morning back. But you were occupied," he says with a (he hopes) casual shrug.

She looks thoughtful, as if trying to think back to that exact moment in time, and her face flushes as she realises what exactly he's referring to.

"Oh."

He nods at his salad.

"Look, Malfoy, I'm sorry if—at your flat I… I honestly had no idea what I was doing, it's just—"

"Don't worry, Granger," he says, taking hold of his tray and rising from the table. "I would have pitied me, too."

And he hopes she understands. He hopes she understands that he is willing to write of the kiss off (chaste and meaningless as it seemed) as a pity gesture, a simple action taken only to comfort a maybe-possibly-probably(-oh-God-he-hoped-so) friend.

He hopes she understands that he doesn't need it to mean anything more than that—or anything at all.

But also, in some remote, reluctant corner of him, he hopes she realises that he wants it to mean more than that—he wants it to mean everything.

But he leaves, and she doesn't stop him.

XXX. More

August 13th, 2004

There is less fighting.

There is more silence.

He would rather have the fighting. If only to hear her voice.

XXXI. The Why

August 18th, 2004

It's that article that does it. That stupid interview by some airheaded Prophet that makes him think.

He never knew that her parents were dentists. Or how she and Potter and Weasley first became friends. Or her reaction when she received her Hogwarts letter. Hell, he hadn't even known her middle name until he read it. The article makes him realise that he doesn't know Hermione Granger at all.

So why is he falling in love with her?

It tortures him. He lies awake in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling while inside, the gears cogs are whirring and turning at break-neck speed.

And then he realises that for some things in life, there never has to be a reason. Some things just are, and although things might have been easier if they weren't, he would hate to have never smelled her cinnamon scent or heard her beautiful voice or felt her lips on his forehead.

XXXII. Come Back

August 29th, 2004

He spends an hour just staring at the envelope, wondering if he will open it or not. He can't believe he's kept it as long as he had. If I had any sense at all, I would have thrown it out as soon as I realised I took it, he thinks to himself. If I had any sense at all, I would throw it away now.

But that's the last thing he wants to do, not now, when their previously friendly relationship has turned awkward and quiet. It's a link to a time when Hermione Granger was simply a mystery—the Gryffindor Princess, who, though she was so utterly imperfect in her blood, though she had invaded his world like a parasite simply by living and breathing beside him, was nearly flawless in all other ways.

He's spent many hours—maybe days, maybe weeks—sitting on his bed, or at his desk, staring at that stupid envelope and wondering at the contents. Wondering whether he would open it or not.

But for some reason, he never has. Not even when he mother passed away, and not even now, when his half-formed friendship with Hermione has faded into near-nothingness.

He studies it, though he's memorised its shape and appearance years ago. The envelope itself is thick, so that even when he holds it to the light in his kitchen, he can't see an outline of the contents. It's sealed with wax, though he can tell it's been broken once before and resealed. And the bundle inside is thick, as well. One centimetre, perhaps.

There's a knock on the door. Draco pulls open his desk drawer and shoves the envelope inside, closing it with a slam and rising from his chair.

When he drops the wards and opens the door, his throat catches hold of his breath and refuses to let it pass. It's her. She's standing there, fiddling with the buttons on her jacket (no cloak) and looking down the hall. And when she looks up to see him at the door, probably gaping with his mouth open like a dead fish, her eyes are unfocused and sort of… hazy.

"Granger?" he stammers.

"Hello there, Malfoy," she says, and her voice is… not quite right. Her words seem to float and drift into his ear, instead of dropping precisely into it. It's very un-Hermione-like, and it makes him uneasy.

"Can I come in?"

He stares at her for what must be fifteen seconds before he finally nods mutely, stepping inside and letting her walk through the door.

She's playing with her hair, now, running her fingers through the ends like a nervous teenager. He's only ever seen her touch her hair twice, and on those occasions she was pulling her fingers through it in extreme vexation.

"It smells nicer than when I was last here," she comments abstractedly. "I think I'm going to sit down." She sets herself down on the sofa in the living room, stumbling slightly when she seems to realise the cushion is farther down than she expected.

"Any reason for the visit?" he asks as he gathers his wits in one hand while pouring two glasses of water with the other.

"I was in the neighbourhood, you see, and I thought, you know, I bet Malfoy is really lonely."

A single pale eyebrow scales his forehead.

"You have this big, lovely flat and you're quite alone in here, with no company at all. So on my way back to my flat—I was at a pub, you see—I just thought visiting you would be a really splendid idea. You and I, we both need company today, I think."

Ah, the pub. That explains the haziness in her gaze, the vagueness in her voice. She's tipsy.

"You could have visited the Weasleys. Or Potter," Draco offers as he sets both glasses down on the coffee table and settles himself on the armchair. He wonders how long it will take for him to get her out of here.

She simply scoffs at him, though, reaching for her glass of water and taking it in her hands. "Ron and I had a… a falling out earlier. And Harry would just want to talk about it, at this point. And I don't want to talk about it. You won't talk about it with me, will you, Malfoy?" she asks him in a pleading sort of voice.

He considered it, when she first said "falling out". But she asked him not to now. He doesn't have the heart to ignore her wishes.

"Go home and get to bed, Granger," he advises. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

"But you're lonely, Draco."

Shock. It takes its heavy, hard fist and pitches it into the side of his head. For a second he can't even remember where he is. All he can think about is his name, flitting from between her lovely lips, and settling on his skin like a breeze.

She leans forward, like a toddler about to share a secret. "And I'm lonely, too."

"I thought you were happy with Weasley," he says, quickly building a wall between them made of brick and cemented with his desire to get her out of his flat.

She tears it down easily, perhaps sensing the glue is not as strong as it should be. Her eyes are bright and intense as she gazes at him, so intense that for a moment he doubts she was ever really drunk in the first place. "I am almost always happy with Ron," she says quietly. "But sometimes, I'm euphoric when I'm with you."

He swears his heart stops beating in that moment.

Six years of loathing the very sight of her.

Draco rises from the armchair and walks toward her, standing directly in front of her.

Two years of absolute confusion.

He offers her his hand and she takes it, her eyebrows meeting in the middle of her forehead to discuss their bewilderment.

Six years of trying to forget.

She stands in front of him and she smells of alcohol, vanilla, and cinnamon. Always cinnamon.

Five (fucking) months of falling in love with her.

He almost kisses her. He comes this close. He leaned down and closed his eyes, and perhaps she closed her eyes as well. But at the last second, when their lips were perhaps two centimetres away from each other, he sighed.

No.

She is tipsy, she is lonely, and she is still with Weasley.

This is not going to be their first kiss.

So instead he wraps his arms around her and simply draws her close, burying his face in her oh-so-soft curls. Breathing in her beautiful scent, despite its mask of alcohol. Trying to drill his thoughts into her pretty little head.

Take me. Choose me. I'm yours. All yours. Come back. Get sober. Leave him. Come back.

Come back.

Maybe she hears them. Maybe she doesn't. Hermione's arms cinch about his waist. Her breath nudges his chest.

Sixteen seconds.

He doesn't count, but he knows. Sixteen.

She leaves.

Come back.

XXXIII. Never

September 18th, 2004

She doesn't.

She never will.

Kingsley gives them their old jobs back, but promises to keep their pay the same.

Like he gives a flying fuck about the money.

They don't pass each other often, but when they do, it's filled with a heavy, awkward silence, like a dark grey raincloud that doesn't quite know when to drop its cargo, and simply hovers overhead. A smile will crawl onto her face, timid and shy, and filled with memories. A few moments in a lift. A month of bickering and coffee breaks. A snowfall of music. A kiss to the forehead in a flat that is soggy with fire whiskey. An embrace that lasts sixteen seconds.

And then she will pass him, and he will pass her, and they will walk down the hall and walk down their lives as if nothing had ever happened at all.

XXXIV. Five

September 25th, 2004

Her birthday was six days ago, and he sent her a bracelet (no card) with two charms. One was an otter, and the other was an emerald.

He passes her by in a hallway five times after that, and every time he sees her she is wearing it.

XXXV. Declined

December12th, 2004

She switched departments. Her office is now three floors above his, and perhaps a hundred paces from the nearest lift.

Astoria has asked him out once.

Pansy has asked him out three times.

He's declined.

Of course.

XXXVI. The Six-Letter Word

December 17th, 2004

"Cancer."

"Pardon me?" Draco says as Pansy takes a seat on the bench across from him. She sets her tray down and takes a bite from her salad before repeating herself.

"Cancer. Have you ever heard of it?"

He shakes his head.

"It's a sort of… disease. Well, it's a type of disease. There are lots of different types of cancer. Lung Cancer, Brain Cancer, Bone Cancer, Heart Cancer; even Breast Cancer. It's hereditary—it runs in families. A lot of treatments cause hair loss. Most types are hard to cure; some are completely incurable."

"Why are you telling me this. And why haven't I heard of this so-called disease before." Statements. Dropped like little lead balls. Plunk. Plunk.

"It's really rare for us, you see. Usually only found in… muggles."

There is a pause, and at first, Draco doesn't know what it's for. He stares at Pansy, trying to read her nearly indecipherable look, until finally, he gets it.

He gets it.

XXXVII. Acceptance.

December 17th, 2004

She had been in remission for about a year, but went in for testing four months ago and found that it had come back. Crept into her body and spread like wildfire, eating her up from the inside out. She told no one, except for her parents. Not even Weasley.

They thought it would be okay, that they had plenty of time to figure out the best course of action. That was, until she collapsed, quite unexpectedly, two days ago.

With treatment, they guessed she had a year more. Maybe two, if she's lucky.

Without, they guessed she had a month left. Not much longer. Perhaps shorter.

She chose without.

He sits outside the room, wondering if he should go in. If it would make her feel better, or worse. He doesn't know if Weasley's in there, and if he is, how the ginger will take his unanticipated appearance.

After maybe a minute of debating, Draco decides. He's going in.

The room is empty except for her. She's propped up against an impossible amount of pillows, deathly pale, face gaunt and hair limp and matted. Her eyes are closed. For a second, Draco thinks she is sleeping, and makes to back out, but then her left eye opens ever-so-slightly, and closes so quickly he thinks it is his own eyes playing tricks on him.

A silence hangs in which neither of them can draw the words.

She begins. She always begins.

"Hello, Malfoy."

A sudden rage.

"So that's what I get," he says, unable to cage his scorn. It lashes out like an angry beast, furious with its capture. "A simple Hello Malfoy, and no explanation of why I had to learn from fucking Pansy, of all people!"

"Who heard it from Hannah, who heard it from Lavender, who heard it from Parvati, who heard it from Padma, who heard it from Susan, who heard it from Ginny, who heard it from me," Hermione says, who seems to be on the verge of chuckling. "That's quite a list."

"This isn't a joke," Draco says, trembling in his effort to rein his vehement anger. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was no one to tell you, not directly," she says, her voice even. Calm. "They put me in St. Mungo's as soon as they realised my time was so short. And who else was going to tell you? Ron? Ron doesn't even know I know where your flat is.

Doesn't even know she knows where his flat is.

Doesn't even know.

"So that's what I've been to you? Your dirty little secret?" he hisses, his anger uncontrollable. He knows he shouldn't be taking it out on Hermione, of all people, but he can't bottle it up. He's angry at her for something she can't control (again), and he's angry at himself because he's been so stupid, so blind, so slow. He's furious, and it leaks out of him like poison. "Good enough to befriend under the guise of work, but not even to tell your own fucking boyfriend about?"

"Come now, Draco. You should know better than that," she says, and her eyes are still closed. He wonders if the prospect of death has made her mellow. And he realises that he's angry at her for another reason, too. She didn't take the medication. She's just going to sit here, waiting for death, and she's not going to fight it at all.

He knows she's fought everything that's ever come her way. His prejudices. Wizards' expectation of her failure. The bullshit Weasley gave her when they were young. Voldemort. And now she's giving up when finally, finally, he sees that she is the one worth fighting for.

"Why haven't you accepted the treatment." He makes it a statement—harder, more persistent—and he pitches it (hard) into her lap. Her hands fold over it. Her eyes are still closed.

"I'm going to die, Draco," she says, and the words leave her lips as easily as water. His hands are trembling down where they hang beside his legs. "And I would prefer not to drag it out."

"It wouldn't be 'dragging it out' to me. You'd be giving me time."

"Time for what?"

His mouths hangs open, floundering uselessly as he tries to form words he should have said days, weeks, months ago. But he can't say them. He's never said them in his life, and he hates himself for not being able to start now.

"Exactly. It'll be easier for everyone if I just died now. Ripped off the bandage as fast as I can instead of pulling it off, inch by inch. It doesn't make any sense, giving me a room, wasting space and resources, when there's already no chance I'm going to live past twenty seven.

"How can you say that?" he says, though it comes out as a whisper. It tiredly trundles out of his mouth and dribbles down his chin. Hopeless.

"Because it's true," she replies simply. "I've accepted it, Draco."

"Why can't you just stay a little longer?" he says, and maybe he sounds a bit childish. Petulant. Like a little boy who just wants his favourite toy back. But Hermione Granger was never his toy. She was never even his in the first place.

She sighs. "Some people are blessed with a quick death. They have a quick flash of pain and then they are gone. It's not going to be like that for me. I'm going to be in pain every moment I'm alive, from now until I die. Even now, I hurt so damn badly. I don't want to stay alive like this."

Pansy's words come back to him. It's hereditary—it runs in families. A lot of treatments cause hair loss. The bald young man. Smiling, but broken. Her cousin. "That boy in the photo. Will. He wasn't just sick. He had it, too."

"Yes."

"I kept—" but he cuts himself off. A quick slice, and the sentence is decapitated, the already-said bit falling with a thud to the floor. He was going to tell her that he kept the envelope, that it's sitting in his desk drawer right now. That he's kept it for ten years, and maybe he'll even open it when he gets home. But the words get clogged in his throat. A traffic jam, stuck among everything else he wants to say. None of them can get out.

If she heard the beginnings of his sentence, she doesn't show it. She simply lies there, breathing last breaths. Eyes shut in defeat, or maybe acceptance. Either way, they are the same thing to Draco now.

"Don't visit me again," she says abruptly, and it catches him off his guard. His knees buckle a bit.

"I'm only going to look like this for so long. And I don't want you around when I start turning bad. I'll be like an apple core, Draco, left out too long on the counter. I'll start to rot. And no one deserves to see that."

"Malfoy?"

He turns around and there's Weasley, holding two mugs of tea, looking incredulous.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to say—goodbye." He chokes on the last word, because he realises that's exactly what this is. This is goodbye. This is probably the last time he will ever see Hermione Granger. Because he doesn't know if he can handle watching her die.

It's selfish, but it's the truth.

He ignores Weasley and walks around to the side of her hospital bed. There is no scent of cinnamon, not even when he leans down and places a kiss on her forehead. This is his repayment, his recompense. But it's also his love. He drops it onto her forehead and he swears she stops breathing for all seven seconds of it. Maybe she understands, maybe she doesn't. He doesn't check—he can't check. He simply stands and turns and walks away from her, away from the girl he's loved so quickly, so inexplicably, so irrationally. He walks past her boyfriend of six years. He walks out of that room with the memory tattooed onto the side of his skull. Permanent. The memory of her lying there, never even opening her eyes. He would have liked to see them one more time. Even though he has the colours memorised.

XXXVIII. The Lowest Point

January 5th, 2005

She stayed for Christmas, though she could barely sit up for the festivities. She stayed for Boxing Day, though she couldn't even form a word. She stayed for New Year's, though she couldn't even kiss Weasley back. But it's five days afterward when her death is stamped on every copy of The Prophet.

When he finds the article, he's at his flat, getting ready for work. All he has to do is see the headline, and he's crumpling to his knees. They collide with a chair on the way down, but they doesn't really care. They blow past that stupid fucking chair on the way down and meet, headfirst, with the floor.

He doesn't understand why it hurts so much. He knew it was coming. Only a matter of time. It shouldn't hurt this fucking badly. But it does. It feels like his heart is being ripped out of his chest cavity, like his lungs are being pumped with water and then wrung out with unforgiving hands, like his head is being caved in with a beater's bat. He didn't know humans were capable of this much pain. He hates it, but tears stream down his face in long, shining streams. Rivers are forged onto his face and they form waterfalls at his jawline.

It shouldn't hurt this fucking badly.

Only for when I'm at my lowest point.

He's stayed true to the rules for ten years. Not opening it, not because of the apprehension, as he first thought, but because something, somewhere inside him whispered that the worst had yet to come.

But it did not simply "come". It hurled through the air and tore through his soul like a muggle bullet, leaving a gaping hole where his heart might have been.

He drags himself from his kitchen to his bedroom, pulling himself up onto the desk and throwing himself back into the desk chair. He opens the drawers so quickly, so forcefully, that there's a resounding slam! as the back hits the desk inside.

It sits there, at the very top of the pile. It waves a pale, despondent hand. Beckoning. Open me.

Draco grabs it in his hands and tears it open, breaking the wax sealing and seizing the pile of papers inside.

The first is a letter, written in her neat, perfect script.

The words float up to him like long-lost friends. Greeting him with open arms.

Dear Draco,

Well, you've opened it. I can honestly, truly say I am sorry for whatever happened that caused you to open this. And I can't help but feel a bit surprised that you kept it as long as you have. Unless you've opened it fifteen minutes after I gave it to you. In that case, you can stuff a Snargaluff pod up your arse.

Anyway, at first I was just going to send you the last page of this packet. But at the end of third year, I decided perhaps I ought to do something more. So I'm writing this letter and enclosing some photographs. You wouldn't believe how much I had to pay Colin Creevey for these, or how much I had to pay to bribe him to keep his mouth shut about it.

So here you are. Enjoy.

Hermione

He takes the letter and places it gently on the desk. Then he looks back down onto the stack. They're all photographs. Of him. Smiling. Laughing. Joking. Living. Living in a way that he hadn't for more than a decade, living in a way he'd forgotten how to, in a way that he was slowly edging toward in the last months before her death.

There's Goyle and Pansy and Blaise and Theo and a few with even Daphne, and there's Crabbe too, and God, he looks almost exactly the same as he did before he died. Jesus Christ. It's while looking at these photos that Draco thinks (for the first time) that perhaps they did truly like each other. Perhaps it wasn't just the formalities of building their Slytherin social hierarchy. No, not perhaps. They were friends.

In his hands, there are three years of memories that he never took the time to memorise, given to him in photographs by a girl he hated with all his heart. By a girl he's fallen in love with. By a girl who's dead.

He passes the last photograph (a candid of he and Goyle dodging a bludger on the Quidditch pitch, perhaps in third year), and all that's left is a square of folded parchment. It looks older than the letter. He thinks that this is what the envelope originally held, before Granger slipped in the photographs. Setting the photos and the empty envelope down on the desk, beside the letter, he opens it.

It's huge. Perhaps eighteen inches long.

And in the middle, written in the flawless, immaculate handwriting no elven-year-old but Hermione Granger could ever possess. Three words. Three fucking words he never managed to say.

I love you.

He's on his knees again, searching the floor because surely his heart has been torn from between his ribs and hurled into the ground.

XXXIX. Eyes Open

He walked. He talked. He worked. He breathed. But he never lived.

Living is an impossibility when one loses all one lives for.

Pansy gave up on him years ago. He understood and still understands. He was never worth her time anyway. She married Blaise and they moved to Italy and started a family. She wrote him every week, but he hardly ever wrote back.

Days passed. Weeks, month. Years. They soared past him with lovely wings, but he was left behind. In the past. A better place than the present, if only because she was there.

He lost track of the years. He stopped celebrating his birthday, and soon forgot the date altogether. Is it the fifteenth? The sixth? Before he knew it, he was old. His hair started falling out. His skin became wrinkled. His back curved and his hands began to hurt even when he was performing an act as simple as buttoning his shirt.

Now, when he is as close to death as he ever will be before greeting it, he thinks about death a lot more frequently.

When he was younger, Draco once entertained the notion that humans have many different lives. That they spend them as different people, in different times, in different places. He wondered, if this is true, will he remember Hermione when he gains his new life? And if not, if there is some sort of afterlife and no one is ever reborn, will she be waiting for him there? He never came to believe in Heaven.

Sometimes he had dreams. They were beautiful dreams, brimming with vibrant colours and sounds. He liked dreaming, because it was the only way he felt alive without remembering her.

He thinks it's a dream now. He opens his eyes and he's in a bare, white-washed hospital room, even though he doesn't remember getting out of bed. He simply opens his eyes and he's there. Standing in the corner of the room.

She's on the bed, covers drawn up to her chest, and her face or her body is not aged by the cancer. It is healthy and young and absolutely breath-taking.

Her eyes are open.

"Hello, love," she says.

Her voice.

He hasn't heard it in at least seventy-five years. Three quarters of a century. But he remembers it. Gods above, he remembers it, and it sounded just like that.

"I've been waiting for you."

She climbs out of the bed, and it's then that he realises she's not wearing a hospital gown. She's wearing a simple sun dress. Yellow. Her favourite colour.

She walks toward him and takes his hand. When he looks down at their fingers, intertwined, his are no longer wrinkled or gnarled. They are smooth and pale, as they were back when he was young and the love he felt for her was unfettered by grief.

"The envelope," he says, and his voice is no longer tired. No longer cracked or creaky, no longer as wrinkled as his skin had been. "I opened it the morning after you died."

"I know," she says softly, smiling. "I know."

And then she leads them out of the room, through the door and into a garden that is darkened with night and softened by moonlight.

There, amongst the trees. Small and white. Clean and bright. Edelweiss.

The stars smile and wave at them from their posts in the dark sky as she leads him to a clear spot of grass that rolls its shoulders under the cool night breeze. She sits, and he lies down beside her. She settles herself back against the grass, grabbing hold of his arm and nuzzling her face into his neck. Placing a tender kiss on his shoulder. Next, on his lips, slow and chaste and perfect. So utterly perfect.

And he tastes it and smells it and feels it.

Cinnamon.

It's then that Draco realises this is the afterlife he has been waiting for, this is the reincarnation he has been hoping for, and, in some way or another, this is the Heaven he has never dared to expect. This is him, this is her, this is the rest of their existence, here in this garden, here in this world, here with each other.

And there is the scent of cinnamon, Edelweiss underneath the trees, and her eyes. Open.

A/N:

OMFG. Gen just wrote a oneshot with more than 15,000 words. And there wasn't a word of sex. O.o I think this is called progress. But here's an apology to any of my followers who were hoping/expecting my next fic to be all steamy and whatnot. I'm attempting to write a fic that combines smut and good writing so that will be out hopefully soon... and, of course, I'm still working on Delicate, trying to make it all nice for you all :) I've finally gotten to reading the Fallout (Which was bloody fantastic, by the way, if you haven't read it yet GO READ IT NOW) and I'm not going to lie and say none of it inspired the extra scenes I've been throwing in :)

Well, this oneshot was brilliant to write, it took me more than 3 weeks to finish (thanks again to SeptemberSkies for the lovely beta work!) and I'm really happy with it! Hope you guys enjoyed it, despite the lack of smut, and thanks for reading!

~Gen