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"Kiss me, quick."
Draco feels his eyes widen before Hermione Granger yanks him roughly by his collar and slams her lips against his. It's not exactly the stuff of fantasies, this nearly violent physical event, but she's still Granger, and he is still Draco Malfoy, and she's kissing him in spite of this.
She softens, either of her own volition or because Draco wills it, sliding his hand across her cheek, fingertips brushing into her curls, cupping her skin in his palm with reverence. Can she feel his pulse in his wrist? Hear his heart thudding against his ribs as blood pumps like liquid fire in his veins? Do her lips gentle because Draco nibbles at her, his tongue peeking out to kitten lick at the seam of her mouth?
What began as Granger pulling him against her roughly, transforms into Draco stepping forward, laying his other hand on her hip and guiding her to lean against the wall behind her. The room is loud, he knows this deep down, but all he can hear is a rushing in his own ears, the delicate whimper from the witch in front of him.
She had made a sound, hadn't she? A positive, happy sound that has him lapping at her more aggressively, his palm tightening at her hip and fingers digging into the satin of her slinky azure gown. She will be all over Witch Weekly tomorrow, the Prophet too. Every journalist and two-bit hack in wizarding Britain will be vying to be the first, the most thorough, to cover Hermione Granger's first social event since her promotion at the Ministry. Not to mention, she is, once again (for the seventh time in 5 years), a single witch.
A single and very sought after witch.
Granger, though, isn't interested in being sought after. Her very public relationship with Ron Weasley has been replaced with five years of more private affairs. Some casual, some more long standing, Draco has been friends with her since before she left Weasley and watched her date a host of wizards who are completely wrong for her, all with a front row seat to each fallout.
Meanwhile, Draco hasn't had a date in eight months as it has become increasingly obvious to Draco and everyone around him, that he is completely in love with the witch and has been since 8th year.
Obvious to everyone, that is, except for fucking Granger.
So here he is, playing escort so she could get away with not having an actual 'plus one' while somewhere a very heartbroken Anthony Goldstein is pining and drinking his sorrows away.
"Hermione?"
Ah. There he is.
Draco pulls away from the kiss with great reluctance and finds a very wide eyed Granger staring up at him. Turning on his heel, Draco's attention lands on Goldstein standing behind him, staring pitiful daggers at the wizarding world's queen of heartbreakers.
"I thought... You said you were just friends," the man whines, eyes darting briefly to Draco. "How long has this been going on? Is this why you left?" He's becoming more agitated, on the cusp of making a scene.
Draco steps forward, hand out in some sort of surrender. If he can smooth this over, it can only be good for his standing in Granger's eyes. Draco is a Slytherin, after all. Why not use this to his advantage?
"Never, Goldstein, not while you were together. It's..." He looks back, finding wide eyes considering him. Draco doesn't look away as he gives her a small smile and finishes, "quite new."
The shock and hurt seem to be seeping away, leaving an agitated wizard in its place. "You know, Dean warned me about you," he says, staring hard at her once again. "Told me not to get attached, that you'll never find someone as long as you're hung up on Ron." Shifting his eyes to Draco, Anthony tosses out a petulant, "Watch yourself, Malfoy. You may be a Death Eater, but she's the evil one."
Draco gapes after him as he stomps away, vaguely aware of Hermione sputtering behind him.
"Why that... he's such a complete... fucking Dean says?...who does he think..."
Dean. Right. Draco forgot about that particular fling. Granger's 2002 rebound, followed by Muggle Mike, as Draco dubbed him, the mild mannered accountant from Derbyshire. How many muggle men and wizards has she dated since they've been friends? Yet here he is, hanging around like a well-trained hound.
It occurs to him, and he frowns, that she had pulled him in for a kiss as if she had a reason not entirely on the up-and-up. He turns back to her and lifts his brow.
"What was that?"
Her sputtering stops, and her eyes go impossibly wider. Caught, Draco thinks. She looks caught.
"It's just, Rob from the DMLE was starting over and he gave me such grief about not having a date tonight when I refused to attend with him."
His eyes narrow, regarding her. "And you thought you would just use me to get him off your back."
"I just-"
"At the most high-profile society function of the year?" He becomes incredulous, mind spiraling into the damage control he doesn't want to do because he wants it all to be real. "The fuck, Granger? You realize at least three papers will have caught this story by morning."
"No, I'm sure-" She starts to argue, but Draco's thoughts continue spinning around the audacity of her short-sighted plan.
"Golden Girl slums with Death Eater," he announces, possibly a bit dramatic. She shakes her head and makes to protest again, but the more Draco considers what she's just done, the angrier he is.
Angry, and fucking hurt. Does she really not see how much he cares for her? When she had Dragon Pox, he brought her favorite muggle take away for five straight days. When Weasley proposed to Pansy Parkinson of all people, Draco spent an entire weekend drinking wine, eating chocolates, and watching terrible muggle programmes that made his head hurt with their inanity. He bought her a kitten for her twenty-fifth birthday after she lost that great orange beast that she loved more than life. He portkeyed to Australia with her the day her parents decided they could forgive her and wanted to reconnect.
He wears fucking denims because she said they "suited him".
"I'm sure the Prophet will be the kindest," he goes on with a sneer. "They've always given our association a lot of respect. But what do you think Skeeter and that rag of hers will say? Or Witch Weekly? They've had it out for you since you demanded a retraction over Weaslette's sordid little love life. I'm positive that horrible Pureblood Quarterly will use some disgusting metaphor about me 'playing in the mud'."
He watches that one land, and she flinches but doesn't back down.
"Where is all this coming from, Draco? Why are you so angry?"
"Why am I…?" Draco scoffs a little, a laugh with no humor. She has no idea the havoc that she wreaks, broken wizards laid out like felled trees in the wake of her storm. "For being so fucking bright, you ask some really stupid questions."
Shoving past her, Draco is through the Ministry Atrium and out onto muggle streets before he knows what's happening. Where he's going is anyone's guess, Draco the most confused of all. He just stormed out of the Ministry Annual Charity Gala when he's meant to be one of the hosts and largest donors. He's supposed to give a speech, praising the various works of the Ministry, including but not limited to the department headed up by his own dear friend Hermione Granger.
Well, fuck that very much, thanks.
He glances around, taking in the familiar cityscape around him.
There: the diner where Granger likes to grab a coffee before work. Draco used to pretend to happen upon her just to sneak in extra time with her, making a big show of ordering the same thing she did to give them something to laugh about.
He doesn't even like fucking chai.
Here: the bookstore where Granger drags him on her days off to browse muggle literature for hours. She's always lounged in a large chair with a stack of potential purchases beside her. Meanwhile, Draco has a book propped in his lap but spends the entire time sneaking glances at her. And she has never, not once, noticed.
Draco kicks an aluminum drink can on the pavement, noting the prominent red motif and swirl of text across the side. Granger loves this garbage. Complains that it was in short supply in her home growing up because of the high sugar content, but since she can magically clean her teeth she indulges more than ever.
Everywhere, every city block, every shop and restaurant and public space, reminds him of her and the numerous years he has spent wishing she would give him any indication she might fancy him in return, even just a little.
Maybe it's for the best. His pace slows as a melancholy creeps in. Really, he should just go back and apologize; make up some ridiculous excuse about a bad day or feeling poorly or stress from his parents. Because, what does he really hope to gain? A five month relationship (her record, by the way) that strips their friendship down to the awkward silences and stilted interactions she now shares with Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas and Goldstein and Pucey and even fucking Blaise?!
He should apologize and carry on as they were. At least he has all the other benefits of dating, aspects her list of casualties would probably kill for. Draco gets her lazy Sunday mornings, stumbling from her guest room to find her making a full English to cure their shared hangovers. He gets her holidays, travelling together as the only singles left in their groups of friends. He gets her lows, the only person allowed to comfort her when she's down or listen to her rage when she finds injustice and incompetence in the world.
He gets her softness, cuddled beside her on her disgusting hand-me-down sofa when she misses her parents because they rarely visit from abroad.
He gets everything except for that kiss. That first kiss she just stole from him, that he had wanted to give her so many times. Everything except for the feel of her hip beneath his palm and that soft moan he just swallowed down his throat.
Before he knows it, Draco is standing at the rail of some muggle bridge, staring out into the night. The air is crisp, not quite cold but certainly far from warm. He shivers and considers a warming charm, looking left and right to assess the proximity of any muggles around him, only to find there are no people in sight.
"Notice Me Not."
With a rather undignified yelp, Draco jumps and swings around, searching for the source of the voice.
Directly behind him, Granger is standing with her wand out and her wrap hastily secured over her shoulders, hair wild.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I cast a Notice Me Not so I could do this." With another flick, a soft glow trails from her wand, the air around them warming considerably.
He stares at her for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall with the breath of obvious exertion. Did she run here? Disheveled, a little wild, she certainly looks as though she's been through it.
"I'm so sorry. I can't imagine how uncomfortable that made you."
Lost in thoughts of his own, wondering why she hunted him down, Draco is confused by her apology. Is she afraid that Goldstein was the source of his discomfort?
He waves it off, turning back to the rail and leaning over it, looking anywhere but the distraction of her.
"It's fine, he just agitated me," he says, placing some vague blame on his departure and foul mood on the other wizard. Truthfully, Draco can more than handle fucking Goldstein, but this is an easy out. Let her believe what she wants. "I'll head back in a few and give that speech; you don't have to wait."
"Draco?"
He glances back, noting the concern on her face. Brave lion that she is, she plows forward even through her own obvious trepidation. "I wasn't talking about Anthony. I don't imagine you much care what he thinks." She hesitates, just a beat.
"I meant the kiss. It was stupid and selfish and I know you've made it perfectly clear you don't see me like that and I just... I panicked. Please say you forgive me? That I haven't messed everything up?"
Mouth hanging open, Draco thinks of a thousand ways to respond, though he's not sure how many make sense. See her that way? What? His jaw tries to work but isn't very helpful when his vocal chords seem to have seized up. Before he can work through the virtual melting of his brain, Hermione winces and, with a hiss, slips a foot out of one very tall shoe.
"Not made for running," she mutters, which distracts Draco from his mental breakdown and back to his earlier thoughts on her appearance.
"Why in Merlin's name did you run?"
She steps out of her other shoe and works out her toes, wiggling them against the pavement, as she speaks completely flippantly about the course of events that led her here. "Well, after you left, I was going to follow, but I remembered I needed to give Anthony a very stern lecture about using "Death Eater" about you in my presence, the little prick. Then, on my way out, I found Dean and made sure in no uncertain terms that he stop spreading around that I'm hung up on bloody Ron." She scoffs. "I've been over Ron since before the breakup, and Dean has no idea what he's talking about."
"Wait, stop there. You absolutely are hung up on Weasley."
"Oh, not you too," she grumbles back. "Why does everyone think that?"
"Well," he says, bracing his hands on the rail behind him and trying for a casual stance, "I can't speak for Goldstein, but for me it was the three day indulgence of wine and chocolates when the Prophet announced his engagement that clued me in."
Granger gapes at him, and he can't fathom the level of her disbelief. "Are you serious? I hadn't even seen the paper! You showed up with five bottles of Garnacha and a pound of French chocolate. What, you thought I was going to turn you away?!"
"I did that because I thought you could use a friend," he bites back.
"And here I thought you just liked to spend time with me. What a fool am I," she retorts, eyes narrowed.
Draco takes in her battle stance, the glare on her face, and sighs. He softens immediately for her, always does. "I do like spending time with you, Granger. I would think that's obvious."
"Well... I thought so." She pauses before adding quietly, "I like spending time with you too, you know."
A very uncomfortable pause falls between them before she leans down to collect her shoes and hobbles over his way. He turns and they both stare out over the rail, the lights of London stretching into the distance.
He swallows hard before he asks. But after this many years, this may be his only opportunity to ask. "So who is it, then?"
She looks over at him in question, but Draco keeps his eyes trained ahead. He's obviously a fucking masochist, but he has to know. "Not Weasley, so who? Everyone knows you have some secret lost love. Krum? He's the only one that wasn't left devastated by losing you, so that would make sense. Oh, or Blaise? Though I don't personally see the appeal." He chances a glance to find her looking nervous beside him. "Fuck, it's not Potter is it? I know you never really dated but everyone always says-"
"Merlin, stop. You can't possibly be this cruel or stupid."
Draco furrows his brow. He hadn't realized this would cut so deep. The rumours always seemed pretty solid, every wizard that tried to get close coming away burned by the indifference of Hermione Granger. It seemed obvious to all involved she was pining for some unrequited romance.
"Sorry, I don't mean to pry. We've been friends for a long time, Granger. I hope you know you could talk to me. I mean, if you wanted."
She doesn't answer, and Draco grows increasingly nervous, eyes trained on the night sky as her gaze sears a metaphorical hole in his face. "Do you know how I found you?"
That grabs his attention, and Draco glances her way. She clarifies, "Tonight. Do you know how I found you here?"
Pondering that, he shakes his head. It hadn't occurred to him, but if she spent time chastising party-goers before following him, it should have been difficult for her to track him down."
She ducks her chin, indicating the boutineer attached to Draco's muggle-style tuxedo. "I charmed it. Just in case we were separated during the gala, I wanted to be sure I could find you. I wanted to be there before you gave your speech in case you were nervous. I wanted to be able to reconnect if some other witch pulled you onto the dance floor."
"I..." His eyes dart between hers as he gathers the final shreds of his thoughts, swallowing deeply, and rasping out, "Why?"
She just stares, pushing off the rail and stepping closer but saying nothing. Draco turns to face her as well.
"How can you not know?"
Fucking riddles. Draco has no patience for this, his need to confess warring with all the vast amounts of self-preservation he has stuffed inside himself. If she could possibly mean… but what if she doesn't…
He can't be the first to say it. He can't. It will break him if he's wrong.
"You'll have to be more specific, Granger," he manages, voice low and rough and, if he's honest, a touch angry. Not at her, per se, but there is anger here that he doesn't know how to focus it. Inward, perhaps.
"I can't tell," she says on a whisper, "if you're being sincere. I can't believe you would hurt me on purpose but... "
A step closer. A held breath. Her eyes are glassy and bright, the skin of her cheeks flushed. "I've…"
She licks her lips, hesitates. Draco feels his lungs start again lest he suffocate as he waits.
"Granger…" He's pleading. Fucking say it. Please, please just say it.
He almost can't hear her when she finishes, "I've just loved you for so long."
And that's all he needs. For the rest of his miserable, charmed, cursed life, that's all he will ever fucking need.
He swoops in so fast, she steps back in shock before his lips press hard against hers, a strangled sound from the back of his throat her only answer, his arms around her his best response. He kisses her and it's just as nearly violent as that fake kiss she landed on him at the gala. But instead of coaxing her into something gentle and sweet, he pushes harder, takes more. Mouthing at her lips and holding her roughly against him. His heart soars when she wraps her arms around him so tightly, he would swear she might break his ribs. They are against the railing, pawing at each other and mumbling between breaths.
"...I love you. Fuck, I love you…"
"...so many times I wanted to tell you…"
"...wasted so much time..."
"...Fucking Goldstein. None of them fucking deserved you..."
"...Didn't think you would want me. So handsome, every witch wants you..."
"...You're all I've wanted..."
Draco isn't entirely sure how they end up back at her flat, but he would suppose she Apparated them. A testament to her considerable prowess as a witch that she doesn't even break the kiss to do it. They are in her bed, half unclothed, still muttering adoration into each other's skin, before he has the presence of mind to slow them down.
Seeming to notice that he is pulling back, pulling away, she mouths at his neck, forming words between kisses that are nearly bites. "If you ask me if I'm sure," she says, "I swear I will Avada you then drag you back across the veil to do it again."
Draco laughs, delighted by her as always; surprised by her and nearly drowning in the joy he feels. "And give you a chance to reconsider? Please, I was just thinking I might have missed my speech."
That gets her attention, the little swot she once was, the girl who survived on approval and high marks, warring with the confident and strong witch she has become. "Oh! Oh, Draco, we should go back. You worked hard on that speech."
"And you worked hard for the promotion, but they aren't going to take it away from you. So unless you're concerned about your own appearance tonight, you're staying right here."
Flipping them over, Draco lays her onto her back and settles on top of her, legs between her spread thighs and mouth returning to work on the tops of her breasts, licking a path down her sternum as nimble fingers unclasp the front of her brassiere.
"I liked your speech," she says, and he chuckles against her skin. The speech was, after all, about her and her work on unification after the war. It was as much a love letter as anything else, praising her for the patience, and forgiveness she had exhibited to purebloods after the war. Really, it was a laundry list of the ways she made him feel despite the fact that he hadn't deserved her overwhelming kindness. It was the closest thing to a declaration he had managed, hidden in context of her work with all purebloods and former Death Eaters rather than specific to him.
He feels her hand card through his hair before gripping lightly close to his nape. "But I've already heard it. I'd much rather have you to myself."
"I'm yours," he answers without thinking, completely knee-jerk and laid bare. He's rewarded with a smile and a whisper of her own adoration before her lips meet his again.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
"I fucking knew it."
Draco bolts from bed, a cloud of hair half choked down his throat, to find Harry Potter looming over him, pointing in accusation. "Knew you'd bloody be here!" he declares, then turns to yell over his shoulder.
"You owe me ten galleons, Nott!"
"Oh well, sure, just barge into the bedroom, Potter. I told you those were Malfoy's shoes. Didn't need to make this weird."
"It's already weird," Draco hears, mumbled to the point of almost being indecipherable. Beside him, Hermione groans as she sits up, clutching her bedsheet to her chest. "It was weird the moment you decided to apparently bet on my sex life."
"Not yours," Theo Nott offers helpfully. "Draco's."
"Well that makes it way less fucking weird," Draco deadpans, helping to pull the sheet around himself and his witch in an effort at modesty.
"I almost don't want to know, but why are you betting exactly?"
Theo turns to Hermione and grins that irritating smile of his. "Because this wanker has been pining over you for years."
"What?" All eyes turn on Potter, who is gaping in agitation at Nott. "You didn't tell me that! That's unfair."
"Just a bit of insider information," he argues back. "I certainly wouldn't have bet on them if I didn't know." Theo considers for a moment then ponders, "Not sure why you even took the bet. By all rights, Granger here wouldn't give my boy the time of day. Not beyond friends."
Harry gapes at Theo in turn. "Are you serious? Hermione has been in love with this bastard since 8th year!"
Theo chuckles, smacking Harry lightly on the chest. "She has fucking not."
"Swear to Merlin. Ask her."
Both wizards, matched in their dark hair and positively ridiculous need to overstep into everyone else's business, look back to Draco and Hermione, brows raised.
Draco glances down, offering an affectionate smirk. "8th?"
She shrugs. "You were dating Astoria. Seemed like you were serious about making it work."
His eyebrows make a break for his hairline. "Greengrass? It was arranged by our families; you knew that. She was fucking half of the Puddlemere roster on the side while we tried to get out of it."
They stare at each other, the knowledge clicking into place of the years they wasted.
"I left Ron because of you. It wasn't fair to him." she says.
Draco lifts his hand to her cheek, drowning in those doleful eyes of hers. "If I'd known…" he starts, but she just shakes her head.
"I should have said. I was so afraid I'd lose you."
Studying her face, memorizing the silhouettes of her features, her flawless skin and slight frame, her delicate neck and the beautiful symmetry of her face, Draco lifts his other hand, framing her face between his palms and says clear and succinct, "Get the fuck out of this room, you meddling fucking cocks."
Two sets of footsteps scurry away and the door slams behind them not a moment before Hermione is straddled above him, vigorously claiming what is hers.