Author's Note: I'm struggling a bit with Turncoat at the moment. I know where I want the story to go, but I can't seem to get it out of my head and onto the screen in a satisfactory form. I might be posting another two chapters soon, but after that I'm not sure. But I figured if I tried writing something else, it'd help me out a little.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Harry Potter.

Too Late

She stands across the extravagant ballroom, her face lit up with a radiant smile. He looks at her and feels like he's been punched in the gut.

She never smiled like that for him.

"What are we doing?"

He doesn't know how many times she's asked him this. Why does she still ask?

"You know very well what we're doing."

She sighs.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks.

Why does he still ask? He already knows the damn answer.

"No."

"Then stop questioning it."

She sits up, and his eyes roam over the smooth expanse of skin on her back.

"You don't understand," she says, shaking her head.

"I understand perfectly bloody well. You feel guilty. Sob, sob. What am I supposed to do about it?"

She turns her head to shoot him a venomous glare and shoves the silk covers off, turning to get out of bed. He grabs her wrist.

"What do you want?"

"It's still early. We've got time."

"For what, another round? I'm through with this," she says.

"Sure you are," he replies sarcastically, releasing her wrist to let her get dressed.

It doesn't matter what she says when she leaves.

She always comes back.

"Go to hell, Malfoy."

She always used to come back.

Never again.

She'd never said those two words, but he'd sensed them when she left his flat the last time.

He manages to take his eyes off her for a little while, taking a glass of wine from a servant who's passing by. It started like this, didn't it? Yes, in this very room.

"Granger, what are you doing here?"

She looks offended. "I work for the Ministry too, you know."

"That's not what I meant. I thought you were out of the country, doing more 'important' things."

She rolls her eyes and lifts the bottle in her hand to gulp down whatever liquid is inside.

"Important things, sure," she says. "I've been so busy that I haven't had a proper night's sleep for the past two years. But I suppose that's what I get for being the only person who cares to get all of her work done."

He wonders why she's talking to him about this.

"Everything all right, Granger?"

She looks at him in mock surprise. "Since when did you care whether or not everything was all right with little old me?"

He shakes his head and starts to walk away. "Never mind."

"Wait, wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, Malfoy the Mighty."

Her words sound slightly slurred, and he turns around to face her.

"Are you drunk?"

"No, of course not."

He pulls the bottle out of her hand and frowns at the label. It's an elven wine that his parents reserved for private dinner guests—it's very strong, so usually only one glass per person is served throughout the course of an entire meal. This bottle is already more than halfway gone. He looks at her, surprised that she's still standing.

"Where did you find this? This isn't for the guests."

"That's for me to know, and you to find out."

She loses balance and slumps against him, and he gestures for a servant to come over. The servant takes away the bottle of wine.

With his now-free hands, Draco grips her shoulders and starts to push her away from him.

She seems to have different plans, though. She grabs the lapels of his jacket—the clothing theme of this party, to go with the Malfoys-gone-good theme that his father favors so much these days, revolves around Muggle attire—and presses her nose into the base of his neck.

"Do you always smell this good?"

"You are far too smashed for your own good, Granger," he growls in her ear.

He pushes her away, holding her shoulders firmly so that they're a safe arm's length apart.

She laughs. "I think I'm just smashed enough, thank you very much."

How that makes sense he has no idea. But he does know that he has to get her into a room and put her to sleep before she hurts herself. There isn't really any way to recover from this wine, short of sleeping it off. He looks around the room, but Weasley and Potter are nowhere to be seen.

"Come on," he says, pulling her out of the room.

No one notices their departure—the room is crowded enough. He leads her up to one of the many guest rooms and deposits her on the bed.

But before he can leave the room, the door swings shut and bolts itself.

Sighing, he draws his wand to unlock the door, but it whizzes out of his hand before he has time to react.

"What the hell, Granger!" he says, turning around.

She's twirling his wand, smiling mischievously at him. "Come and get it, Malfoy."

Those words coming out of her mouth, coupled with that teasing expression on her face… suddenly the room feels ten times hotter.

He should just turn around and leave.

So he tries—he turns around and tries to unlock the door, but the knob won't turn.

Then her small hands graze his hips, and he jumps.

"Just one time, Malfoy," she murmurs. "Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like?"

He swallows hard and settles for a lie. "No."

"Not once? Don't tell me that there wasn't even one time when you wondered what it would be like to shag me until I couldn't think straight."

Holy fuck. He can't believe these words are coming out of her mouth. He feels himself hardening.

Her hands slide around to his front, gliding lower, and her voice lowers to a whisper.

"God knows I've thought about it more than once."

He shoves her hands away from him and turns around to face her with every intention of pushing her away, but she has such an uncharacteristically devious smirk on her face that he hesitates.

She starts falling backwards, and he instinctively takes a large step forward to catch her. She smiles widely and reaches behind her to the bed, where their wands are.

He realizes that she'd planned for him to stop her fall so that she'd be able to reach.

Fuck, even when she's smashed, she's smarter than he is.

One flick of their wands, and his jacket Vanishes.

"This isn't funny," he says, lifting her off the ground.

He drops her on the bed and reaches for his wand, but she waves their wands, and he's thrown back against the opposite wall.

"Knock it off, Granger. Trust me, you're going to regret this in the morning."

"Just one time," she says. "One time, that's all I'm asking. One quick fuck, and I'll let you leave."

This wild, uninhibited Granger has him unbelievably hard, and his mind automatically supplies him with a plethora of images… a sweaty, naked Granger writhing beneath him as he pounds into her from behind… her face as she screams his name, mouth open and eyes screwed shut…

Fuck.

"Just one time," she repeats for the third time that night.

He realizes that those words were whispered right in his ear, and his body takes over from there.

He tugs the straps of the small black cocktail dress off her shoulders and follows the material down along her curves before shoving it past her hips, letting it fall to the floor. Despite her inebriated state, she makes quick work of the buttons on his crisp oxford shirt.

He leans down to kiss her lips, but she avoids his head, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses on his collarbone. He lets his head fall back against the wall.

"No kissing," she whispers against his hypersensitive skin.

"Why?"

The question is a reflex—he doesn't really care why, and when she doesn't reply, he isn't troubled. He grips her tightly and spins them around, pressing her into the wall.

He caresses her breasts through the thin material of her bra, and she moans in approval. He places his lips by her ear and takes the lobe into his mouth. She pushes at his shirt, and he shrugs it off. She gently rakes her nails down his back, and he hisses into her ear.

The voice of reason awakens in his head, telling him that she's just doing this because of the large amount of wine she consumed—if he really goes through with this, she'll probably hex his bits off when she wakes up tomorrow morning.

"Granger—"

"Shut up. Just shut up."

She pushes him back a step and drops to her knees in front of him, reaching out for his belt buckle.

Oh, fuck.

"Draco?"

That's not the voice he wants to hear. Not even close.

"Draco, are you all right?"

He returns to reality and smiles. "Daphne, hello. Yes, I'm fine—sorry."

"It's so nice to see you again," she says.

"Yes, very nice. How is your family?"

These niceties will probably kill him, one day or another.

"Oh, my parents are just fine. They keep talking about marrying off Astoria, but she's ridiculously besotted with a Muggle she met last summer, and she won't have anyone else."

"Well, who would have thought?" Draco replies.

He can't find a shred of interest in what Daphne has to say.

Then he hears an amplified voice from the front of the room. He turns in that direction and sees Potter standing on a table so that everyone can see him.

Draco sighs. These tables were all very expensive, and hand-crafted, too. Why couldn't Potter just conjure himself a stage?

His former nemesis is proposing a toast. Daphne's smiling and listening to Potter's speech. Draco's eyes wander until they rest on her again. She laughs at something that Potter said, and Draco notes that the rest of the room seems to be laughing as well. He manages a smile and turns his attention to the Boy Who Lived.

"—oh wait, I forgot one thing. I must say, it's a relief that Draco—that is, Draco Malfoy, but you all know who he is already—decided to let us hold this celebration here. God knows there's no better place for a ball. So Draco, wherever you are, thank you."

He smiles but doesn't identify himself, and Daphne punches his arm playfully.

Then they're all raising their glasses.

The music starts up again, and Draco gets the attention of a servant so he can get rid of the empty glass.

"So," Daphne asks, "is there anyone special in your life, Draco?"

"No."

His eyes wander to Hermione for a moment before returning to Daphne.

"Well, that's perfect, isn't it?" she says. "Why don't you come over and say hi to Astoria for me?"

A low voice sounds from behind Draco. "Daph, didn't I tell you not to ask Draco?"

Draco grins and steps to the side to greet his friend. "Mate, I thought you weren't coming."

"Well, I had to save you, didn't I?" Blaise replies.

"Save him?" Daphne says. "Surely you don't hate your own sister-in-law that much."

Blaise laughs. "I'm not saving him from her, personally. I'm saving him from having to commit. Isn't that right, Draco?"

"There's nothing terrible about commitment. You appear to be enjoying it," Draco replies.

Blaise puts his arm around his wife. "Yeah, I can't live without this insufferable little witch."

"You can't ever just compliment me, can you? It always has to come with a jab," Daphne says, pouting at Blaise.

"I'll have a talk with Astoria sometime, in a more private setting," Draco tells them. "My parents are giving me pressure as well, and it'd be great to be brothers."

"Hell, yes. If you're really ready to settle down, I'm all for becoming family," Blaise says.

"See, I told you that this would be a fantastic idea," Daphne says.

Draco smiles and excuses himself from the happy couple, making up some excuse about checking on the servants. He prowls through the room slowly, getting stopped occasionally by familiar faces.

It wouldn't be terrible to marry Astoria—she's the type of girl that he should choose for a wife. At least, that's what he's been led to believe for his whole life. If the heavy weight in his chest is any indication of right or wrong in this case, marrying Astoria would be a mistake.

A tall, unfamiliar woman in bright red robes brushes past him, and the color brings to mind the color of the sheets in Hermione's bedroom—they only met there once.

"Oh dear God, Draco, don't stop. Please don't stop!"

His mouth is too occupied to respond verbally, so he reaches up and gently pinches her engorged bundle of nerves, eliciting something between a moan and a shriek from her.

He'd never thought she'd be such a vocal lover—this is the loudest he's heard from her yet.

He presses his tongue farther up inside her, flicking a spot that he knows is particularly sensitive, and she cries out, arching her back. Her hands fist in his hair, and her hips buck wildly as she grinds into his face, silently begging for release. He grips her hips to hold her still and continues his assault on her soaking pussy. He'll never get sick of this taste.

Then her insides clamp down around his tongue, and she's screaming her release, almost unintelligibly. He makes out several expletives surrounding his name.

He laps at her slit a few more times to catch any of her that he might have missed before slowly crawling back up her body, eyes fixed on her hungrily.

Her eyes meet his. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she asks breathlessly.

He smirks. "Only for you to get back to earth."

"Arrogant bastard."

He thrusts his hips forward hard, burying himself inside her, and they both groan.

"Fuck, Malfoy," she hisses.

"It's back to Malfoy now, is it?"

"Will you shut up?"

He bites her neck and starts licking and sucking, and she starts to push at his chest.

"Stop—stop it! Ron—"

He pulls out and slams into her again, and she moans loudly, interrupting her own protests. He lifts away from her neck and kisses the angry red mark he's made.

She starts squirming beneath him, trying to get him to move, and he grins. He rolls his hips against hers once.

"Get moving, Malfoy. I have to leave soon."

"Soon, hmm?"

He starts to pull out, but she grabs his arse and thrusts her hips up, sheathing him inside her again.

"Fuck!" he groans.

She shoves him to the side and rolls them over so that she's straddling him, their bodies still intimately connected. She starts gliding up and down his cock, loudly voicing her pleasure. He props himself up on his elbows and looks down at where their bodies are joined, watching as she pumps herself up and down furiously, trying frantically to get herself off.

He lets his torso fall flat against the bed again and thrusts upward into her, changing the angle just enough so that he hits that perfect spot inside her. Three more thrusts at this new angle, and she clamps down around his aching length, drawing him over the edge into mind-numbing bliss.

He steps back to let a cluster of four people move past him and spots her in a place not far from where she'd been standing before, talking to a small group of friends.

Everything had been so perfect between them before. It was everything a man could want. Good shagging and no obligations from either side. Perfect. But then it changed.

He remembers the exact moment when everything changed. Why the fuck did it have to change?

"You dumped him? Why on earth—"

"I caught him with Lavender."

"Brown?"

"Yes, Lavender Brown."

"Hmm."

"Aren't you going to say something?"

She does sound a bit distraught. But should he comfort her?

"What do you want me to say?" he asks.

"Well, I just lost my boyfriend of two years. Some sympathy would be nice," she says.

He pauses. Then, "I never liked that weasel, but you know that you're being pretty fucking hypocritical, don't you?"

She glares at him. "You know that this… that this doesn't mean anything. They were…"

He laughs. "What? What could they have been doing that's so much worse than what we've been doing?"

"Kissing, all right? They were kissing."

"So?"

"That means they actually have feelings for each other. You and me—"

"Hey, that was your rule, not mine. I've kissed plenty of girls without developing even an inkling of feelings for them."

She looks up at him, and he sees that her eyes are filled with tears. For a split second, he considers the possibility of trying to make her feel better. But that's such a daunting task—he's never been good with crying, upset women. So he decides to take the easy way out.

"Granger, I didn't fucking sign up to be your wet nurse. Why did you come here to cry? Go talk to Potter, or—"

She lunges up, grabs the back of his neck, and tugs his head down toward hers, lips claiming his in a searing kiss.

His mind blanks blissfully, and an uncontrollable fire blazes through his veins. All of his senses feel heightened. He pulls her up against him with a groan. Her fingers twist in his hair, trying to pull him impossibly closer. He slides his hands beneath her shirt, wanting to feel more of her. He breaks their kiss just long enough to tug her shirt over her head, and then she drags his lips to hers again.

He wonders why he didn't just force this on her ages ago—kissing Granger is different from kissing any other woman. His tongue explores her mouth, stroking and tasting, sampling this flavor that is uniquely Granger.

Warning sirens go off in his head, but he ignores them when her tongue twists with his, and he feels her fingers at work on his shirt…

It was never the same after that first kiss. Fuck, he should have listened to the voice in his head and gotten the hell out of there that night. He never should have let her back in. But she kept coming back, so he kept opening the door for her.

How was he supposed to know that Granger's kiss would be like poison? A deadly poison with no antidote, that's what she was—is—to him.

Then she looks in his direction. Fuck! Their eyes lock, and it's too late for him to pretend he didn't notice. He starts crossing the room, circling around the dance floor, to meet her.

"Do you ever feel regret?"

He laughs. "Regret? It's not an emotion that fits well with being a Malfoy."

"No, I'm serious," she says.

They're lying in his bed, facing each other, faces separated by about six or seven inches.

"You're feeling guilty again," he says.

"Just answer the question."

"Sure, I regret. How can I not? You know how my mother died."

"That wasn't your fault, though. You didn't know—"

"Of course I knew what would happen. I just didn't know it would happen so fast. I was so arrogant. I thought I'd be able to get to her before they did."

He doesn't know why he's telling her this. Sure, they've been talking more lately, and they're on friendlier terms, but he hasn't really talked to anyone about his mother's murder before.

"Still, it wasn't—"

"Don't argue with me on this," he interrupts. "If I'd chosen the right side from the beginning, she wouldn't have died. I just… I figured everything out too late."

She looks at him sympathetically. "It's never too late."

He shakes his head but doesn't feel like he has the energy to argue. He's suddenly extremely sleepy, and he stifles a yawn.

"You're not staying overnight, are you?" he asks.

"What? No, of course not. Ron's coming to my flat in the morning."

He feels like something bitter has just been shoved into his mouth.

She frowns. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He expects her to get up, but her head stays on the pillow, and their eyes meet.

"What are we doing?"

It's that same damned question.

"Why don't you ever answer anymore?" she asks.

"Because I don't want to fight. I'm tired."

"Tired of us?"

"There never was an 'us'."

She's looking at him as though there's an answer in his eyes or on his face, but he knows that all she's getting is a blank stare.

"Just be honest with me," she says. "Does this mean anything to you?"

He shrugs. "You started it. If you want to stop, I don't mind."

"So you don't care. Is that it?"

"Does it matter?"

"No."

She rolls around to face away from him and sits up, pushing the covers off to get out of bed. He watches her pick up her shirt and skirt from the ground.

"Where—"

"On the dresser," he says, jerking his head to the left.

Sure enough, her bra is on the dresser, and she walks over to put it on, followed by her shirt. She pulls her skirt on and zips it up before looking around for her underwear.

"I don't know where those ended up," he says with a shrug.

She shakes her head. "Doesn't matter. I'll be home in a minute anyway. Bye, Malfoy."

"Just one more thing," he says, hopping out of bed.

She turns around to face him, and he remembers how shy she always used to be whenever she saw him naked. He steps over to her, and she has an almost impatient expression on her face.

He lowers his head and presses his lips to hers, and she inhales sharply, surprised.

Then he pulls back. "Bye, Granger."

She blinks a few times and takes a step back, away from him.

"Bye."

He smiles. God, he never thought it would hurt him to smile.

"Congratulations, Granger," he says, nodding to her. His eyes shift to the man at her side. "Weasley."

"Malfoy," Weasley says. "Thanks for offering to host this."

Draco smirks. "Well, imagine how disastrous it would be to throw a party like this at the Burrow."

Weasley laughs good-naturedly. "Either way, I'm glad it's all in the past," he says, extending a hand toward Draco. "Friends?"

"I thought that was obvious," Draco replies, shaking his hand.

His eyes rest on Hermione for another moment, and then he turns away from them.

"Don't you dare try to blame this on me, Malfoy. Don't you dare. I asked if this meant anything to you ages ago. You said it didn't mean a thing to you."

"And it still doesn't."

"Then why are you so upset that I'm getting engaged to Ron, hmm? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have accepted his proposal."

He stares at her. She can't come up with any reasons on her own? Bloody hell, she's supposed to be a genius.

She starts speaking again. "He's funny, he's dedicated, he's faithful—"

He opens his mouth to protest, but she glares at him, and he knows better than to speak up when she gives him that look.

"—except for that one time, and we're way past that now. When you're not with me, you're off fucking bimbos. But most importantly, I matter to him. He offered to give me a home, a loving family… and stability. You won't give me any of that."

"He's not me."

They stare at each other for a long moment.

"No, he's not. And that's why he's perfect for me," she says.

There's a sharp note of finality in her voice that seems to strike him to the core.

"Just one reason. That's all I need."

She says that she's asking for one more reason, but it sounds like she's made up her mind already.

Her eyes, usually warm and brown, have somehow turned icy. He can't see how she managed that. Perhaps only he brings out this cold side of her.

"Goodbye, Malfoy."

She walks past him, picking up the cloak that she'd draped over the chair a few hours ago.

There's a click as the door shuts behind her.

He whispers his reply to an empty room.

"Because I love you."

He glances back to see Hermione listening to Potter and Weasley with an amused smile.

Then her eyes meet his, and for a second he thinks she sees and knows everything—that he'd stopped "fucking bimbos", as she so eloquently put it, three months before she accused him of it. That he'd fallen for her when their lips first met. That he'd been unable to stop thinking about her ever since she walked out of his flat.

That he loves her.

Her eyes soften, and she bites her lip, the smile fading from her features. He can see that she's trying to tell him something wordlessly. Then Ginny Weasley gives Hermione a gentle shove to get her attention, and the moment's over.

But he already knows what she wanted to say.

It's too late.

Author's Note: Yeah, I know this wasn't my strongest story, but I didn't think it through too much. I just wanted to write something. I'll try to find some more motivation to keep working on Turncoat, but in the meantime, I'll post up another chapter or two today—first day of a new month!

Anyway, thanks for reading! (: