A very Happy Birthday to MHCalamasm with whom I have found to have many commonalities (Coffee Lover's Only!) MH is currently working on a multi-chapter Dramione I have had the good fortune to read while in the works :) She deserves all the birthday cookies. But, as I may have mentioned, I don't bake... So here: have a story.

Thanks and love to In Dreams who alpha'd this piece. She also has a birthday surprise, Voyager, to post (which you should all go read btw because it's beautiful and devastating).

A ball. Seriously?

Draco is standing off to the side of the Great Hall, transformed into a paltry version of one of his manor's grand ballrooms, trying to fade into the woodwork. He doesn't want to be here. Not at Hogwarts. Not at a fucking ball. And most certainly not stuck listening to a simpering Astoria Greengrass.

He had outright refused to invite anyone as his date to this obligatory affair. McGonagall had made it clear, however, that all eighth year students were required to attend. Being Head Boy, Draco in particular is expected to make an appearance for a large part of the evening. But the witch couldn't require he hitch himself to another person. Even still, after making it known throughout Slytherin House that he had no interest in an official date, Daphne's sister had sought him out as soon as he dragged himself through the door and has been nattering at him ever since.

"Oh! The Weird Sisters! Oh, I just love them! Don't you, Draco? Their new lead singer, did you know, she used to date Celestina Warbeck's drummer?! It was a terribly messy break-up. Witch Weekly said she was just devastated. That song, Cauldron of Fire? That's all about him! It's sort of romantic, if you think about it. I mean, terribly sad, of course, but just… she's just so talented, and to be able to use that talent for something so important. It's like self-care but she's also sharing it with us! Generous of her, actually…"

Merlin's Hairy Sack, she just never stops. And for the record, Draco thinks, The Weird Sisters are a trite, simplistic, manufactured little troupe, who's worst decision amongst a sea of bad decisions was replacing Myron Wagtail with the whingy bint on the stage.

He needs an escape. Anywhere, Draco thinks, any possible way to get out of earshot of the mindless, asinine drivel that falls from this girls lips. Before the topic of the band, it was the punch (which would only be drinkable if it had something alcoholic in it, and he assures you it does not), his robes (which are expensive, of course, but nothing out of the ordinary), and her dress (which is so low cut he can nearly see her navel and obviously a pathetic grab for attention to her nonexistent chest).

Scanning the room, his eyes land on the Gilded trifecta that is Harry Potter and his cohorts just entering the Hall. Draco's surprised they have the audacity to show up this late, but then, Harry Potter always has felt inclined to do whatever he fucking pleases. Draco scowls initially, until he realizes he just found his escape.

"Tori," he interrupts. He's not sure what he is interrupting since he tuned her out ages ago, but he does nonetheless. "My apologies, my drink is empty and I need a word with Granger. Head duties, you understand. Must be certain the hor d'oeuvres never run low."

"Oh, of course! But, come find me when you're done. I'll save you a dance, handsome." She winks at him, honest to fucking Salazar winks. Draco attempts to hide an all over body shiver. Astoria's done her level best to make herself less and less appealing as the night progressed.

With a polite nod, he makes his way over to the punch bowl, wretched though the swill may be, within earshot of the Head Girl and her friends.

She looks, if he's honest (which is rare beyond the privacy of his own head), good. Really good, to extrapolate. Stunning even.

From the corner of his eye, he assesses her appearance in more detail. Eggplant color gown that sets off her creamy complexion and rich, honey-kissed hair? Check. Fitted in the right places to accentuate her figure with a dainty flair of the skirt so it can swing fluidly around her legs? Check. Quality fabric with the natural imperfections indicative of specific silks? Check. Previously mentioned honeyed curls tamed into a rather fetching chignon? Check.

Draco thinks even Narcissa Malfoy would approve. The girl looks like a dream.

"Ugh, what is this."

Ron Weasley is making a face and not-so-subtly spitting food into a cocktail napkin like the complete cretin that he is.

"Ron, don't be rude. The elves worked hard on the food for tonight."

"Right, sure," he obliges, "but this is disgusting. Who can eat this rubbish?"

Granger huffs and stomps one foot softly. It's a little adorable, Draco thinks, the soft toe of her pump barely making a sound. "A lot of people like this type of food," she argues, taking one of the hor d'oeuvres in question from the tray.

"What are those little black things?" Harry pipes up, looking intrigued more than disgusted. Draco will give him credit for at least having more social decency than Weasley, though he still sounds like a moron in Draco's opinion.

"Caviar," the Head Girl says primly. "It's a caviar and creme fraiche tartlet." She gives her friend a smile and explains, "My mum used to have them catered at events when she sat the board at a small art museum. She always said…" And her voice has grown soft, wistful and something else. Sorrow tinting the edges perhaps. "She liked to say 'we all eat, and it would be a waste of opportunity to eat badly'. I think she read it in a cookbook. Or maybe in a fortune cookie." She laughs a little, but it's strained, and Draco notices Potter giving her a mildly pitying look.

Weasley, however, is oblivious as per his usual state of being. "Well, whatever you call it, it's gross, innit. Don't they have any chips or something?"

Draco's cup is now full, and he really has no reason to stay any longer. Having ditched Greengrass, who he notes has now sunk her claws into poor Theodore Nott (better him than me), and not having actually intended to talk to Granger, he's a little at a loss as to where to go next. It had been made clear to him by McGonagall that he's not to leave until at least half-ten.

"Hey, they got The Weird Sisters!" It seems the weasel somehow just noticed the band that has been playing since he walked through the doors. "That new singer is something else, eh?" he comments a little dreamily. "Way better than that troll, Wagtail."

"If you're into that sort of thing," Granger answers primly.

The tosser stares at her, agape. There's no better word Draco can think of. His mouth is hanging open like a codfish. "Who isn't into this sort of thing? Merlin, Hermione, don't tell me you don't like them!"

"Sure, they're alright," she shrugs. "If you like self-indulgent twits complaining about the unfairness of her charmed life against the backdrop of flavorless, sanitized bass lines and inappropriately upbeat guitar work, they're positively stellar."

"They really are," Weasley agrees.

He can't help it. Draco snickers.

"Oi, no one asked you, Ferret. This is a private conversation."

He turns slowly, making a show of levelling Weasley with a look, one eyebrow cocked and a smirk curling one side of his lips. "Yes, so private you're hardly required to attend, Weasley. It doesn't seem you have much of value to offer."

"Whatchit, Malfoy." The ginger has the utter audacity to step up into Draco's space.

His eyebrow raises further, challenging. "What are you going to do, Weasley? Attack the Head Boy?"

"You may be Head Boy, but we all know it was just so McGonagall could keep you away from everyone else. Failure as a Death Eater… no one wants you around, you murdering git."

"Ron!" Granger sounds affronted enough for everyone involved, but Draco doesn't need her protection or her pity.

"You'd best turn around and walk away." Draco narrows his eyes, his levity evaporated.

"Or what? You'll tell your father? Can he hear you from Azkaban?"

"Ron, that's enough." Potter lays his hand on Weasley's shoulder, subtly pulling him back. "Come on, I've spotted Lavender. You said you'd meet her."

There is a pause, a moment of pure silence despite the general clamour of a party and the music playing in the background, before the sound returns to the world in a rush, and Weasley steps away. "Yeah, let's go."

Draco watches as Potter leads his friend to a cluster of giggling Gryffindors. The blonde one of questionable repute flings her arms around his neck as soon as he's within her reach.

It's then he notices Granger is still next to him, filling up her own cup of punch and trying to watch the scene without being obvious. She's failing on that last part.

"Seems your date is straying, Granger."

"He's not my date."

"No, I suppose he's obviously not," Draco notes with a bit of a sneer. "So then who has the singular honor of escorting Hogwarts' Head Girl?"

"Hmm? Oh, I came alone."

He hums in reply, not really wanting to follow that line of questioning any farther, lest she ask-

"Who've you brought then, Malfoy?"

That. Hoping she wouldn't ask that.

"I've kept my options open for the evening," he says back, thinking that's a nice way to say he had no prospects he wished to pursue. The majority of Hogwarts either thinks he's a traitor or a villain with the notable and irritating exception of Astoria. She's a pretty thing, but she's virtually a child, completely vapid, and only interested in Draco to fulfill some bad boy fetish she seems to have picked up over the past two years.

Granger hums right back at him.

"I thought you and the Ginger Wonder were an item," he tries again to lead the conversation away from himself and back to where he's comfortable: Making other people uncomfortable.

"We were. Briefly. We broke up over the holidays."

Months ago, he notes. She still seems to hang around the other two like she needs them to breathe. Having only had two Hogwarts relationships, and both being pre-war, he's not sure how anyone can remain friends with someone they've seen in various states of undress. For his part, he's not spoken to Abigail Pugh or Diane Carter in months. Though he has no way to know the details of Granger's relationship, he would assume after dating for months, there had been some level of intimacy.

"Not a fan of the band?" He gestures to the stage at the far end of the Great Hall, grateful for the low key silencing charms that surround the food and drink area, making it possible to have a conversation and ignore the particularly passionless rendition of Do the Hippogriff the new lead singer is floundering her way through.

Granger wrinkles her nose in a strangely endearing manner. It reminds Draco of his mother, actually. Narcissa makes a similar face when the window treatments are not pressed just so or the manor elves over-salt the soup course. "I wasn't terribly fond of them before, but this particular iteration is unbearable. I suppose you disagree?"

"Not in the slightest," he chuckles at her. "I think they're wretched on a good day."

She smiles at him, and they share a moment of quiet understanding; the divides between them not seeming as complete and insurmountable as they had in the past.

It's funny, Draco would suppose, how little he's spoken to the witch before him over the past eight odd months. Being Heads of their year, they have been required to work together in an official capacity. At the beginning of term, they barely spoke. Their rooms were close together, hers just down the corridor from his own private space, but their schedules were busy and they passed like ships in the night more often than not.

Truthfully, Draco would suppose, he interacted very little with the majority of the student body in any social way, especially when the year began. The Slytherins in his year have been, much like Draco, keeping their proverbial heads down. It is only the younger years that have much opinion on the happenings of the war. Students like Astoria who were largely protected from the realities of the war feel entitled to judgements and opinions. Daphne being her older sister and friends with Draco since childhood, she seems to see him as some sort of misunderstood dark hero.

He supposes there are worse things than misplaced hero worship. Back in October, Draco caught two Ravenclaw sixth years charming his Quidditch robes to occasionally flash from his name to T. Riddle on his back. At the time, he'd been too beat down to say much about it, beyond an obligatory removal of house points.

In January, the same Ravenclaws tried to spell his books to change their titles to charming little numbers like "Death Eaters' Handbook" or "Malfoy, A History: Tales of Murder and Failed Schemes". By that point, having worked hard to keep his marks high and his nose clean, he had much of the faculty on his side. Who knew Sprout had it in her, but when the offending duo pulled their stunt in her class, she was the first to come to Draco's defence. He had stood smirking while she dressed them down with phrases like "what if it had been your mother being threatened?" and "all I remember you two doing in the final battle was charming your ties green to hide in the dungeons with Slytherin house".

After that, Draco found a bit of his old swagger. He didn't return to the bullying of his youth, having seen the other side of violence and intimidation, but he suffered no disrespect, and gave no quarter when challenged. His interactions with Granger followed suit, changing from cold, to professional, to just almost friendly in recent weeks. Even still, this is the first conversation they have had outside of dung bombs and Peeves that didn't end in awkward silence when one or the other of them would mention anything indicative of the past.

"I thought you said you didn't bring a date."

He looks down at his fellow Head, brow furrowed. "I didn't."

"Then why is that blonde witch trying to murder me with her eyes?"

Draco looks around, trying to find whatever it is that has caught Granger's attention. When he does, it's Astoria, as he anticipated. She is still in conversation with Theo, but scowling over his shoulder, staring daggers at Draco. He realizes then how close he is standing next to Granger. There can be no questioning if they were simply both retrieving punch versus engaged in conversation, especially with her body and his slightly turned toward the other.

Astoria makes eye contact,and her glare hardens. He imagine he can read her lips when she tells Theo "excuse me" in what looks to be a very clear and succinct way. Then she's making her way toward him, skirt hiked up in one hand so she can move quickly.

"Granger, would you like to dance?" he rushes out.

"Excuse me?" Her expression is some strange concoction of annoyed and disbelief.

"Please," he adds, desperation smoldering around the edges of his tone. "Just one dance. For… old times' sake?" He grimaces even as he says it. What possible thing could he imagine they would celebrate or lament as a pair. Merlin, he feels like an utter knob.

"Old times… you must be desperate." Then she grins and Draco knows she completely has his number. His answering expression is sheepish which turns into mild surprise when she offers her hand for him to take.

His lip curls up one side into his signature smirk, and he takes her hand like a gentleman, leading her delicately onto the dance floor. The music is much louder now, having left the muffling charms near the refreshments tables. He looks down at Granger, a little out of his element only to find her equally unsure, biting down on her lower lip and gazing out at the throng of moving bodies.

"Full disclosure," she yells over the din, "I've only had formal dance lessons. I don't really know how to do…. that." She gestures vaguely to the student body, cheeks a little pink.

Relief would be the appropriate word for how he feels at that moment. "I'm adept at the waltz, myself," he half-yells back. "And the Tango. But I'm afraid Madame Alexandra of Paris didn't instruct modern dance."

A grin splits her face and her eyes light up. "Well, Madame Harriet of London thought the Rumba was too suggestive. I only studied the Viennese Waltz and the Foxtrot."

Draco chuckles. "Well, what in Merlin's name are we going to do then?"

He would swear her smile turns mischievous more than anything. "I picked up a little Swing from my dad. Can you follow my lead?"

Shrugging, Draco assures her, "I can follow as easily as lead, but what's 'Swing'?"

She takes his hand back and guides it to her waist. It hadn't necessarily occured to Draco when he invited her to dance just how close their proximity would be. Panic had taken over in that mment. Now, he's holding her close, one hand in hers and the other settled at the dip of her curves. She's looking up at him, their heights somewhat offset by her tall heels, though she still barely reaches his chin. Her smile hasn't diminished; broadened if anything.

"This is fast, Malfoy. Try to keep up."

The gauntlet down, he grins at the challenge. "Let's see what you've got then, Granger."

She leads, and he discovers that what she's got is a lot. Grangers twists and turns, using his own arms to lead the way. He's not familiar with this dance in particular, but he has enough rhythm to accept her cues and play along. At one point she tricks him with a half turn, framing her own face with his arm, then sliding back away. "What was that?"

"Spanish door," she says back loudly, pulling him close to speak into his ear. Such a comfortable and intimate thing to do for two people who barely know each other.

The song ends and links right into the next, and they dance through the transition. A third song comes and goes, and it is only on the fourth when she pulls away, face flushed and hair a little dishevelled. Truthfully, she looks a bit shagged. It's a good look on a girl he's rarely seen more than slightly ruffled during a difficult potions brew.

She lays one hand over her heart and breathes for a moment. "I think I need a break," she tells him. "Do you think you've shaken her?"

"Who?" he says, because he'd honestly forgotten why they came out here, to the middle of the Great Hall. "Oh, Astoria." He glances around, not finding her, but gaze instead landing on a rather red-faced Ron Weasley staring over the top of that Brown girl's head.

"Uh oh." She seems to find the same view as Draco in that moment.

Draco keeps panning the crowd and finally sees Astoria. She's wrapped around a Fifth Year Slytherin at the other end of the dance floor. Good.

"Maybe one more?"

He looks over at Hermione. She's looking up at him, but keeps glancing out of the corner of her eye. "Trying to instigate my murder, Granger?" He's nearly serious, knowing Weasley looks like he might be capable of striking first blood, but he's teasing also, and it's that she responds to.

"If I was, I'd never admit it," she grins back.

Draco steps forward and opens his hand, silently asking for hers back. The band leads into a new song, and it's a little slower this time, almost a ballad. Draco thinks it's time he took the lead. "Well then, we should make sure he has proper motivation. Let's make it convincing, Granger."

She flushes as she lays her palm into his, responding to what he is fully fucking aware was a flirtatious comment. How fun, she is turning out to be.

He moves into the steps of a slightly modified waltz. He holds her closer than is proper, petting her skin with his thumb any time he shifts. She responds by keeping her head tilted near him and sliding her hand lightly up and down his back.

"So I suppose the Weasel imagines he still has designs on your romantic choices?"

Looking up, Granger cocks one eyebrow at him. "Romantic? I thought I was just helping you out of a spot." There is teasing in the cadence of her speech.

He grins back, picking up the banter where she leaves it. "Obviously," he agrees. "But I didn't see you running back to explain just now. It seems to me you might enjoy rubbing it in his face that you're in another wizard's arms." It's a calculated phrase, giving voice to their physical proximity. He flexes his fingertips against the skin of her back to punctuate the comment.

Draco almost pulls away when her response is to simply study his face for a long moment. There is uncertainty in her eyes, but not anything he would call fear or trepidation. More that she is puzzling him out. Finally, she nods. "He's been with Lavender since the week after we broke up, yet he makes petty comments anytime I'm paid attention by the opposite sex." One of her delicate hands snakes up his back to grip his shoulder as she steps into his hold and rests their joined palms against Draco's chest. "Let him glare."

"Let him," he agrees quietly, suddenly feeling a little like he can't get a deep breath.

"It seems he's not the only one," she says casually, their dance steps becoming less coordinated, more just swaying in place. Taking the lead back, she turns them in a half circle until he is facing Astoria. She is standing at the edge of the dance floor once again, watching them intently.

"Well, I assure you she has even less designs on with whom I spend my evenings."

"You never dated her?"

"Never."

"Shagged her?"

Draco startles, pulling slightly away to look down at his partner. "What the fuck- No!"

Granger shrugs and explains, "Your reputation precedes you."

"I should think," he clips out, "that you of all people wouldn't put stock in reputation. Or were you actually fucking both Potter and Krum in Fourth Year?"

She doesn't seem to like that much and scowls. "I was barely fifteen, Malfoy. The fact that a grown woman even considered those types of things is, to say the least, a little gross. The fact that she wrote about it in a periodical is despicable."

Draco quite agrees. He's aware he helped feed Skeeter her gossip, but even he was shocked at how she dragged the Golden Princess through the mud. Even more so that upstanding witches like Molly Weasley believed it.

"Well, Molly Weasley is the worst sort of Mother Bear there is when it comes to her boys."

Oops. He wasn't aware he'd voiced that out loud. "I thought you were close with that family."

"Thick as thieves," she says with a nod. "But Molly and I have a complicated relationship. I'm much closer to Arthur. He reminds me of my father." Her expression goes a little off, for lack of a better word. Draco scans her features, trying to determine what exactly is furrowing her brow.

"And you and your father are close?" he tries, continuing to watch her.

"We were, before the war."

"But not now?"

"But not now." More information doesn't seem to be forthcoming, and Draco, fearing the worst, nearly moves on from the topic when she continues. "I did something, during the war. When all of those attacks were happening to muggleborns and their families? I… erased their memories. Selectively of course. Mostly, just erased myself out of it so I could hide them."

"Granger, that's…"

"Awful? I know. I've been told, alright? Molly Weasley being one of the most vocal," she notes with a grimace.

"I was going to say admirable, actually. Completely Gryffindor," he adds, and with a smile, "Maybe a dash of Hufflepuff…"

She seems to appreciate his look and tone. "Oh, yes? And what would have been the Slytherin reaction?"

Two choices here. On the tip of his tongue is that a Slytherin would take his family and run. That they would hide themselves away as surely as they might save another. But, for some reason, perhaps having been so starved for anything close to affection since coming back to Hogwarts, he says, "Try to kill an innocent man to save your father from his own self-appointed demi-god?"

Her mouth opens and then closes again. Draco is waiting for her to pull away. To thank him stiffly for the dances and stomp her way back to Potter and Weasley. Ultimately, she doesn't.

Looking over his shoulder, not necessarily at anything but more seeming not to be able to keep his gaze, she says, "No one is innocent, Draco. Certainly not Albus Dumbledore. Not me, apparently. Not you… but you're no worse than the rest of us."

Momentarily, he's stunned. Her face gives very little away, but he doesn't find anything less than sincerity. Thinking of Weasley, the wizard no doubt still staring daggers across the dance floor, he chuckles, "I don't know that everyone agrees with you, Granger, but thanks, nonetheless."

"Ahem." A throat clears behind him and Draco stiffens. Hermione looks up at him and their eyes meet briefly before he steps away and turns slowly.

"Astoria."

"Draco," she starts with an effort at patience and a stiff, put-on smile, "You were meant to come right back. I think I'm ready for our dance now."

He glances at Granger and wonders if she can see his eyes pleading, begging her not to easily walk away. All it would take is for her to announce that she's had enough dancing and then he will be stuck for the remainder of the evening fending off unwanted advances.

"Astoria, is it?" Draco looks at the Head Girl in question, wondering what she's about to say. "Draco was just saying how happy he was to see you dancing with Nott. A 'beautiful couple' I believe was the phrase he used. And I must say, you did look quite fetching together." The smile she gives would melt in the rain.

"I… thank you, Miss Granger. But Theo and I-"

"Yes, I know… 'just friends' he was saying. It must be hard for poor Theo, relegated to friendship when he's obviously so enamoured with you. You'd think you were the only woman in the room."

Astoria cocks her head. "Really? You think he's… interested?"

"That is, I hardly know you both, of course, but it just seemed like I could feel the tension from here. You're so pretty and, I don't know, I can't imagine he was looking at you like that without a lot of attraction behind it."

Draco is doing an awful lot to keep from snickering and blowing the whole thing. He is more than aware that Theo Nott has very little interest in Astoria Greengrass. He probably only danced with her as a favour to her sister Daphne (with whom he is rather close). As far as he knows, Astoria has no affection for him either, but she does love to be wanted.

"Another dance, Draco?" Granger looks up at him, big brown eyes innocent and blinking.

"You'll wear me out, witch," he grins back, laying it on thick for Astoria but rather enjoying the pink that suffuses Hermione's cheeks.

"It's far too early in the evening for that," she muses, "but let's see how much you have left in you."

He offers his arm and she takes his elbow, familiar and comfortable, like they've been doing this literally and physical dance for ages, rather than only an hour or so. He's nearly forgotten Astoria by the time they turn away.

"Thank you," he says quietly when they reach a more open and less populated part of the dance floor.

"Thank you," she counters. "Ron was watching the whole thing. I think if she took you away at that moment, he might have come over and made a scene. He won't approach as long as I'm with you though."

He lifts a brow at her. "Because he's aware I would hand him his own arse if he tried anything?"

She laughs freely and it's a very appealing sound. His experience with witches, mostly from Slytherin house, is that they snicker. They sneer. They giggle when they want something. They guffaw when caught off guard. Hermione Granger is joyful, and she looks beautiful with her eyes crinkling and her head thrown back.

"I'm fairly certain he could take you actually," she finally says with a wide smile. "But I'm not sure he knows that. It's middle child syndrome. He wants to be good enough but believes he never will be. I shouldn't laugh, I suppose. It's actually rather sad and I think it holds him back."

"Well," he says loftily, "as an only child, I simply know I am the best and expect nothing less."

She snorts. It's less enthralling than her laugh but damned if it isn't adorable in its own right. "Even if I didn't know you had no siblings, I could tell. You have all the psychological signs."

"Oh? And those would be?"

"Confident, demanding, organized… takes one to know one, of course."

He hadn't thought about it, but of course she's an only child as well. How many things have they had in common? Aspects he'd never realized that are adding up to a picture of a witch he might be quite enamoured with by the end of the evening.

Taking her hand back in his and splaying the other against her back to hold her close, Draco leads them back into a dance. The band is back to fast paced music, but he doesn't care. He likes to feel her against him. Draco speeds their steps to match the beat as much as possible, throwing a bit more 'hip' than Madame Alexandra might have called appropriate.

"Let's just tally, shall we? You are an only child, studied dance as a child, dislike what most of the sheep consider to be good music, recognize fine food, and, apparently, have an appreciation for dupioni silk? You might just be the most perfect witch in the room."

She blushes and he expects she might look away, play the coquette. Instead, she meets his gaze and says, "Shantung."

It throws him, her response. He answers back with a rather inelegant, "What?"

"The gown. It's shantung, not dupioni. Here, feel."

He swallows hard as Granger takes his hand that lays at her waist and guides him to feel up and down her side, pressing his fingertips into the fabric at her lower back. "Feel the texture? Too subtle for dupioni. But excellent guess. I won't mark it against you."

"Against me?"

"Right. I won't mark you down for it. So, to recap, you are also an only child, can both lead and follow in dance, have an eye for detail, and have surprisingly soft hands, given the time you spend on a broom. I wouldn't go as far as to say you're perfect," she teases, "but definitely a wizard of quality."

"Who knew we had so much in common?"

"I did," she replies, almost too quiet to hear. "I mean, not all of it, of course. I didn't expect the hands, hence the surprise."

"But the rest," he prompts, waiting.

It's the most uncomfortable she's been all night, but she answers anyway. Brave in the face of her own discomfort, she's a credit to her house. "The rest I was fairly aware of. Only child, like me. Well-read, cultured… my family isn't as wealthy as yours, of course, but I get the impression we had some similar aspects to our childhood. I attended a private school before Hogwarts. I studied dance, piano, painting, and I joined an adult book club with my mother when I was only ten.

"My governess discussed a book a week with me from the time that I was seven until eleven," he answers by way of reply.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Draco leans closer, breath held in anticipation. He can't imagine what she might reveal, but his heart is pounding at the possibilities. He tucks his chin over her shoulder so her lips can reach his ear. He swears he can feel her brush against him, but it's so feather-light, it might simply be her breath against his skin. "What is it?" he breathes into her shoulder, hand holding more firm at her waist.

"I've always," she begins, then pauses, the little tease. He closes his eyes tight.

"Yes?"

"Loved…"

Sweet fucking Morgana, what has she always loved?

"...the color green."

He exhales and it turns into a laugh as he pulls away and finds her grinning. "That's it?! That's your big reveal?"

"I'm also fond of Quidditch leathers. Guess which team I like to watch?"

His smile is slow, but then he's grinning like a fool. She's flirting with him. Flirting back, perhaps he should say, since he definitely started it at the very least with his little declaration. Probably before that, when he casually mentioned that he was holding her in his embrace. He thinks to say something particularly suave at this moment. Something enticing and irresistable. Unfortunately, all he can think to say, in a rare and unwelcome attack of pure honesty, is to blurt out, "Fuck, you're fun, Granger. I think I quite like you."

He winces the moment it's out, thinking he just blew the whole evening, but she only smiles back and pulls his head back to her shoulder.

He hopes for a declaration, imagining it, so sweet, whispered into his ear. Where could this go? The year is almost over, but the world is still his oyster, slightly battered though he might be. Could he not follow her into it? Or invite her into his? Lucius certainly is in no position to say anything about his choices.

Draco thinks he might steal a kiss next. He's just waiting for her confirmation that she feels this too. Whatever this is.

"I can tell," she says.

It's not at all what he hoped for, but he can feel the smile on her face, resting against his neck. He'll take it. It certainly isn't a 'no'.

"What would you say to ducking out early?"

Brain function becomes a little inhibited then, and Draco's feet stop moving, all pretense of dance coming to an end. "Huh?"

Nice job, Draco. Regular Casanova tonight…

"This music really is dreadful. And I've had quite enough of Ronald's glares."

Draco cocks his head in question. He'd forgotten all about the tosser. He'd actually forgotten about nearly everything except his complete surprise at how taken he is with Hermione Granger.

"Do you have anywhere in particular you want to go?" He is waiting for her to say 'to get some air' or 'a stroll by the lake'.

"I suppose the most obvious would be one of our rooms."

"Right. Rooms. Sure." He thinks his brain just broke. Is she propositioning him? Draco has only been with one witch before. He's not sure he's ready for… for that. Before even a proper date? What would his mother say?

"Could we, maybe… get some air?"

Granger gives him a lopsided smile. "I'd love that. I didn't expect you'd be the type, but I suppose I should expect it by now, all our commonalities we have."

They walk the lake for some time, and Draco is happy that it is unseasonably warm, though still enough of a chill in the air that allows him to pull her close, an arm around her shoulders when he sees her shiver. They put the night to rest and welcome the day, watching the sky turn from deepest navy to a warm pink. They are sitting side by side in the grass by the shore, Draco's jacket transfigured to a blanket.

"It's dewy," he'd said. "I hate to see water stains on your silk."

She'd rewarded him with a peck on the cheek.

They'd talked for the duration of the hours, racking up all the ways they are alike, and enjoying the differences in the way they are not. Draco never outright apologized for before the war, but he hoped he'd done so in more subtle ways, complimenting her hair and her intelligence and lamenting his years wasted being hateful and bitter.

"It's a bit tragic we could never do this before," she says as the sun breaks over the horizon. Her pale skin is bathed in orange light.

"A lot of tragic things happened the last few years," he agrees, "but this is something I never knew I needed to miss."

He kisses her before the sun is fully in the sky. She tilts her head to meet his and slides one small hand onto his neck, her fingers playing with the fringe of his hair. "It's a Hogsmeade weekend," he reminds her. "Maybe, we could go sleep a few hours and I could take you to lunch?"

"I'd like that." She seals it with one more soft kiss at the corner of his lips.

"And dinner too, maybe?" He's probably pushing his luck, but Draco doesn't want to let this opportunity go.

"Dinner also sounds lovely." He gets another kiss for that. Might as well go for three.

"And breakfast tomorrow?" He wriggles his eyebrows with a lot more suggestive confidence then he might be able to pull off. She sees through him and giggles. Not in that put on way of Slytherin girls, but a completely endearing sound of bashful surprise.

One more kiss to his lips, and she answers, "Let's see if we're up to it in the morning. I might prefer we stay in."

She meets him at every turn, and he's positive he's picking up on an implication that they will be staying in together.

Draco walks her back to her room, saying a quiet goodbye at her door. He kisses her again, this time taking control and pushing the limits to a new height. He licks at the seam of her mouth, and she responds by parting her lips for him. Draco buries his hands into her curls, completely destroying the gorgeous chignon. She doesn't seem to mind when they pull away and she just favours him with an elated grin. "Lunch," she says and disappears into her room, keeping a lock on his gaze until the door is closed.

Draco whistles to his door, and thanks you not to judge him for it. That was, without a doubt, the best night of his life. And, if things go as planned, he has another whole day to keep the momentum. To make them into something real. He's disinclined to let her go now.

He opens his door and stops dead in his tracks.

"Well, you're back earlier than we thought."

"What the bloody fuck?! Theo?! What are… Astoria?! Holy Merlin's tits, are you serious?"

A sleepy Astoria buries herself back into the blanks while Theo just looks at Draco in challenge. "I figured you would just stay in Granger's room. You're never up this early. Plus, you owe me." He lowers his voice to almost inaudible, Draco struggling to read his lips as Draco gestures emphatically to the witch beside him. "Do you know what Daphne is going to do to me? I expect you to come to my defense since you sent her to seduce me."

"I did no such thing!" he whisper-screams back. "It was Granger! And all she did was say you were an attractive pair." Alright, yes, not exactly all she said, but, hey, she's his witch now. He's not going to throw her under the proverbial Night Bus.

"Whatever," Nott grins back. A feral, cheshire grin. "I'm not complaining. But I'm also not leaving this bed yet, so kindly fuck off."

Draco watches, perplexed and a little incredulous, as Theo nestles into Draco's very expensive, very high thread count sheets, spooning Astoria with a sigh of contentment.

He tears himself out of the room, grumbling down the hall and nearly pounding on Granger's door, hoping to beg a place on her sofa.

When she opens the door, he's ready with the excuse, the reason for trying to barge in when they agreed to meet back later. He's ready to apologize for disturbing her and hoping she wasn't already asleep. But as soon as the door opens, she grabs him by his tie and pulls him into her room, a muttered, "Thank Merlin," on her lips before she seals her mouth over his.

They don't leave her room the rest of the day. His room, in fact, he rarely sees in the coming weeks until school comes to an end. Let Theo have it. Draco is still exploring everything there is to love about Hermione Granger, and is perfectly content to put in as much time as it takes.

By her birthday, they are playfully arguing over which wine to open with dinner. That's the night they christen the kitchen in their flat. It's the last room on the list.

He'd told her at the ball, after all, that she's just about fucking perfect. Malfoys settle for nothing less.

Thank you for joining me on another fluffy one shot! Sometimes it's nice to palate cleanse after I've finished a long story (like Looking Glass most recently). I have some fests I've roped myself into coming up, so stay tuned for some fluffy... and some seriously NOT so fluffy... shorter pieces next month!