Friday Night Secrets - Part One

After the war, Hermione and Draco meet at a Muggle pub, and it’s the start of something unexpected for both. Then, what good are expectations anyway?

Friday Night Secrets (Part 1/3)

The Muggle pub, two blocks away from Hermione Granger’s London flat, was dark and smoky. Loud music pumped, invading every nook and cranny, wrapping around the men and women involved in secret conversations, and making the vodka water in Hermione’s glass vibrate in time to the beat.

Hermione liked it here. Every Friday, regular as clockwork, she came here, sitting in her usual table in the back corner. She liked to watch them, like to see without being seen (and there were ways). They fascinated her, the Muggles. Not a one of them knew the names Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, or Hermione Granger. Not a one of them had felt the Cruciatus Curse sear its way through their bodies, not a one of them knew of a war that could have annihilated them, had it been lost. It was strange and freeing to be surrounded by people who didn’t know what she’d given up to protect any of their children born with the same gifts she had, or the suffering she’d endured for having once been one of them. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like to have stayed in the Muggle world, but it was a fleeting thought, one she only ever entertained here.

Hermione Granger was a witch, and that was all there was to it. Every Friday night, she sat alone and had a drink with ghosts, to the ghosts, and for the ghosts. She remembered and she mourned the faces she’d never see again, people laid to rest for people who had no idea.

But tonight, this Friday, Hermione wasn’t watching the people. More accurately, she was watching just one person.

When she’d spotted him three weeks ago, it had been a shock. She’d wanted to haul him out of here, wanted to tell him to try something nefarious and evil, merely so she could hex him silly. He had defected just in time during the war, and resentment was a strangely lingering thing, even if most of the hatred she’d once felt was gone.

Thus far, he hadn’t been exactly evil. What he had been was varying degrees of drunk, and absolutely hell-bent on finding a willing Muggle woman—and they were willing, the women. Objectively speaking, he was good looking when he wasn’t sneering and, even here in clothes that were tailored in another world entirely, he looked like money. Here with people who were and weren’t hers, he looked fast, dangerous, and powerful—a deadly combination to these Muggle women who didn’t know.

One thought kept her at her table, then and now, away from him. If the Muggles didn’t know the names Potter, Weasley, and Granger, they certainly didn’t know the name Malfoy. Who was Hermione to deny him an escape, if that was what he was after? This place was her secret, where she could come without being someone. This place was his secret too. It was not their secret together.

So she sat back, Friday after Friday, and sipped her drink; watched as he murmured charming nothings to a Muggle with jet black hair and a promising smile.

**

By day, Saturday to Thursday, Hermione Granger was something else entirely, and that someone was far too busy for an evening for herself. She was the on again off again girlfriend of Ron Weasley (off currently because she was not Molly, not Ginny, and because she had a Friday night secret—a Friday night lover, according to Ron). For the Ministry, she worked tirelessly on rehabilitative magic—they were all veterans, and there was work to be done.

Incidentally, even here she was not entirely free of Draco Malfoy. He worked nearby, two corridors over specifically, on potions, which occasionally involved liaising with her department. He was neither liked nor accepted, not really, but he was tolerated for his talent. As mired as the Malfoy name was, it still had clout—Hermione suspected he was also valued for his pocketbook.

Even now, he was in her office—figuratively, at least—smirking up at her from the front page of Tuesday’s Daily Prophet. “MALFOY HEIR DONATES TO NEW WING OF ST. MUNGO’S”, blasted the headline (“PR at its finest,” snickered Hermione). On his arm in the photo stood a coolly beautiful woman, a true Narcissa knock off if Hermione had ever seen one. This was Astoria Greengrass, his wife-to-be come July. Hermione did not remember Astoria from Hogwarts, although she did recall Daphne with some distaste.

Astoria’s smile, coming and going in the photo, was pretty and empty. Hermione wondered what she knew of sultry Muggle girls and Friday night lies.

**

This Friday, the third Friday of March, Draco Malfoy was absent. Hermione scoured the pub with her gaze, but he was hard to miss with that shock of light hair and that I’m-someone-important presence; he was nowhere to be found. Inexplicably annoyed, Hermione sloshed her drink in her glass and frowned. Her secret, his secret, not their secret, but it felt odd to be here alone after so many weeks of being here not together. Had he tired of whatever he was playing at? Had Astoria found out?

Sighing to herself, Hermione debated the logistics of telling Harry and Ron for the millionth time. She had never been sure what kept her mum—surely they’d understand—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She made a point of going about her daily business calm and composed, and if she wanted to mingle with Muggles and brood then—

Something hard and pointed pressed into her side. This was the Muggle world and Hermione wasn’t expecting it, but she knew the feel of the business end of a wand. And she knew she had been wrong earlier about Malfoy’s absence.

“Who are you?” he hissed, voice low and serious. “I am not one of them. I can feel your magic.”

Chagrined at being found out but not stupid enough to keep antagonizing a former Death Eater in a Muggle pub, Hermione took a cautious look around before whispering the words to end her concealment charm. She knew a brief moment of satisfaction when surprise flitted across Malfoy’s face; then his expression hardened with distaste and the scowl he never showed the Muggle women blackened his features.

Not to be outdone, Hermione scowled right back. “What were you going to do? Hex me in front of all these people? What a nightmare that would be.”

Malfoy shrugged, narrowing his eyes. No plan then. He asked, “Are you spying on me?”

“Hardly,” huffed Hermione. “I came here first.”

He removed his wand from her side, pocketing it before it could be noticed. After a surreptitious glance around, Draco Malfoy surprised her yet again; he slid smoothly into the seat across from hers, and crossed his arms on the table, sending her a look that was all business.

“Why?” he demanded. There was no drink in his hands tonight, and his icy eyes were deadly sober.

“Why do you?” she returned. Her world felt off-kilter, sitting alone in a Muggle pub with him, of all people. She wanted to tell him to leave, even as punch drunk courage swelled inside of her. She’d always been rather foolhardy, or that was how he would see it. Steadily, she added, “Does Astoria know?”

“Does Weasley?” he snapped right back.

Four questions in a row and no answers, Hermione observed, feeling a familiar annoyance settle over her. Glowering across the table, she noticed something else, noticed that something was rather off about him, up close and in her world. He looked defensive and threatened—he looked uncomfortable. In fact, what he looked was ashamed. She stared hard at his face, at the tiny scar below his right eye, at the hard line of his mouth. He was still pointy and sharp, but she had been right earlier: to the casual viewer, he was not unattractive.

Hermione’s honest answer surprised even her. “I’m not with Ron at the moment, not that that’s your concern, but no. I never told him.”

She was expecting a scathing retort, but her honesty seemed to take the wind from his sails. Drumming his fingers edgily on the scarred tabletop, he stared right back at her. Hermione found his gaze, too alert and too all seeing, unsettling.

“Astoria doesn’t care,” he replied in a tone that said this is how these things go. Off her look, he was quick to add, “I’m careful and discreet, as requested. Naturally, she’ll be free to do as she pleases with whom she pleases once we have a son. I do hope you weren’t harbouring strange delusions about love, Granger.”

He sounded like he was reading from a contract. This is how these things go, thought Hermione. On edge, she tried to stifle her curiosity, but it overwhelmed her within moments—a fault, she knew it.

“What then?” she blurted. “Why the women? Trying to stick it to Daddy?”

Anger flashed in Malfoy’s eyes, and a heady fear twisted her stomach. He looked mad, strange and possessed. Beautifully honest, whispered an awful voice. Hermione wondered if she’d gone too far.

Abruptly, he leaned forward. “Have you ever done it, Granger? They’re so incredibly stupid, so bloody clueless.” The anger was gone as fast as it appeared; she thought he was unstable when he flashed her a rueful grin. “I quite like them for it.”

He was only going to take so much, Hermione knew. Still, she reached across the table, catching his arm in her hand. It had been ages since she’d touched him willingly—third year, in fact—and his skin, beneath her palm, was cold.

“How do you explain this, when they ask?” she asked, not looking down at the ugly disfigured skin under her fingers. They both knew what she meant.

“I never have to,” said Malfoy, tone low. "It's nothing to them."

He didn’t jerk away, not like she’d expected, and so she was the one who dropped his arm. Imagination, of course, but her palm felt tingly, and she had to resist the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt. The look in his eyes was too much, as if he knew everything in the world about Friday night secrets, like the intimacy of sharing it had made him sit and kept him here still.

“Do I have to apologize for you to keep this quiet? You won’t believe me if I do anyway.” His tone was positively biting now, but he was ever the Slytherin—he expected blackmail. “I’d take it back if I could, all of it, but I can’t, can I? I was what I was, and you were what you were. Back then, back at the beginning, you have to know that me choosing any other path would have been like you choosing to be a Death Eater.”

Hermione dropped her gaze, but the tension in her stomach didn’t ease and she could feel his eyes on her without looking. She didn’t really want to hear it. “I’ve known for weeks, Malfoy. Your secret is safe.”

That seemed to surprise him too because the next words from his mouth were, “Why didn’t you come say hello?”

Hermione made a noise caught between a scoff and a laugh. “Why on earth would I have done that?”

“Seems like basic manners,” he retorted, seeming genuinely affronted. “We’ve known each other for years. We practically work beside each other. I had a meeting with you yesterday morning.”

There was nothing really to say to that so she shrugged. Objectively speaking, he was most likely right. Still, she found it hard to believe that he would have said hello to her… only she didn’t, not really. Malfoy would have said hello to upset things, just like he was upsetting things now by sitting with her.

Abruptly, he tired of his line of questioning, dismissing it with an elegant wave of his hand. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my previous question: have you ever done it?”

The fiendish glint in Malfoy’s eyes put Hermione off. Cautiously, she asked, “Done what?”

“A Muggle,” he clarified with a dramatic eye roll. “Although there was something strangely off-putting about you with that concealment charm, so that would have been a challenge. Tell me, was it insurmountable?”

“Oh, you noticed! I did it on purpose. A mild alteration really. You see, I don’t want their attention. I just like to watch them, to try to figure them out, you know? And so I merely made a few modifications, and made myself mildly repulsive to passers-by.” She smiled, pleased with her smart self.

“That must have been very challenging for you,” he said dryly.

“I don’t want to shag them,” she clarified in her loftiest tone.

Malfoy rolled his eyes again with rather less aplomb and slouched back in his seat, watching her. Talking to Malfoy had never been part of Hermione’s Friday night plan. Still, it was odd because he seemed to get it, in his own way. It was wrong that he did, but Hermione hadn’t encountered that in years, and it was strangely freeing. She never would have thought that Malfoy of all people would understand. A rather sick thrill shot through her; she felt like giggling.

“They don’t have to think about the things we do,” she continued, just to say something. The feeling in her stomach was unusual and heavy, inspired in part by the light in his eyes. Bloody hell, he really was attractive.

We was a strange thing to say, but Malfoy surprised her by smiling. Then, using air quotes with his fingers, he ruined it all.

"Want to stick it to my father, Granger?" he asked, smirking the smirk she'd seen him direct at Muggle girls. "That would really take the cake, wouldn't it?"

Hermione had had only one lover, and that had been Ron. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever even so much as entertained the thought of knowing Malfoy in that manner. Thusly, she pulled a face, ignoring the pull in her belly, the strange tension in the air.

"I would rather kill myself," she told him primly, "than shag you."

Malfoy crooked her a smile. "We'll see about that, Granger. We'll see." Then, he turned in his seat, flagged down a waitress, and ordered them both another round of drinks.

**

Despite her rather bold statement, they ended up at her flat, Apparating side-by-side in a tangle of limbs. Feeling quite outside of herself and still high on that odd feeling of kinship, Hermione ordered Malfoy to stay in her living room, before disappearing to the bathroom.

There was a certain appeal in sticking it to Lucius Malfoy, Hermione figured, and an even greater appeal in sticking it to his son. She wished she was drunker--or drunk at all. But then, she figured, she was in her twenties, and didn't young people do this? Normal people who hadn't almost been killed more times than they could count? Malfoy was good looking, and didn't she deserve a little fun for herself? Completely harmless fun. She just wouldn't think about it; that was all. Forcing a smile, Hermione, feeling rather deranged, beamed at herself in the mirror.

After Ron, Hermione had done the classy thing and given up on shaving her legs, having decided to show her distaste with the opposite sex by embracing her inner natural woman. For Malfoy--sick thought--that wouldn't do. Being naked in front of him was an unsettling and humiliating notion. Why should he even bother with being nice to her? If anyone was going to notice the bit of post-war weight that had gone right to her stomach, it was going to be Malfoy. Trying to suppress the flutter of nerves in her belly, she stripped down to her knickers, frowning at the mess that was her legs.

Alone in her bathroom, Hermione took stock of the situation, and decided she'd gone mad. By the time she was done with her legs, she'd done the smart thing: she'd talked herself back to reason, and entirely out of this insane idea born of her once enemy. Shag him, indeed.

Unfortunately, Malfoy never listened to her, and the bathroom door banged open. He had a foreign look on his face, and her stomach flip-flopped traitorously. She opened her mouth to tell him to leave, but he spoke first.

"Bugger that," he said, gesturing at her legs. "I don't give a fuck."

Leave, she thought, but he was in front of her in an instant, lifting her up and depositing her with surprising gentleness onto the bathroom counter. She watched with dispassionate desire as he undid his pants, turning to her and moving between her legs. With a wave of his wand, her knickers were gone, leaving her entirely bare before him. She felt her cheeks flush, but she couldn’t stop staring at him as he took her in, at the heady light in his eyes, and at the set of his mouth.

This was wrong, of course, but it did indeed take the cake. Years of animosity rushed over her, and it was strange because it made her want this again, for reasons she didn't want to dwell on. But then, she didn't want to dwell on anything outside of the silver glint darkening his eyes. If the Muggles girls could do it, why couldn't she?

"You can tell me no," he murmured, a slight catch in his voice. A funny thing passed through his gaze, simultaneously lighting a fire in her stomach and making up her mind.

As he made his way through a contraceptive spell, Hermione thought of Ron. She thought of how disappointed he would be with her, how disgusted. She thought of how he was always careful and nice, considerate in and out of the bedroom. He would never have contemplated doing it with her in the bathroom with the lights on, when the countertop bit at her thighs and the mirror was cold against her back. She wasn't comfortable, and that never would have flied with Ron. For Merlin's sake, she still had a bit of soap down by her ankle.

But Malfoy wasn't Ron, and if he thought about it at all it didn't seem to matter. A moment passed, and then he was pressing against her, breath hot and choppy against her cheek. Hermione told him nothing, but her hands found his back, and she pressed her nails as hard as she could into his shirt. Ready and waiting, or whatever.

"See, Hermione," he said, "this is life."

Thinking that was rather melodramatic, she noticed her first name with a start, but then Malfoy moved and it was too late to think anything. Opening her legs further, she gripped his back with one hand and the counter with the other. He was more into this than she was, that much was obvious, and she realized for the first time that she hadn't questioned his motives--she wasn't a random Muggle girl, and this wasn't his normal M.O. They were tangled up with history. How strange--

"Stop thinking," he ordered, grabbing a hold of her chin and making her look at him.

And look she did, for a full ten seconds of awkwardly intense eye contact before Malfoy leaned in and found her mouth with his. She let him kiss her, feeling rather clinical, and she let him undo her shirt and banish her bra to some forgotten corner of the bathroom. When he touched her breasts, it wasn’t awful; there was something intriguing about the look on his face as he gazed at her.

All that aside, however, and all the reasons that were so clearly doing it for Malfoy were absolutely not doing it for her. She felt guilty and uncertain, both things she never liked to feel; nothing could make her forget who she was, and who he was. Truthfully, she didn’t know why she’d gone along with it in the first place, but it was a little late to worry much about that.

Honestly, she wished her brain would just sod off, because Malfoy was rather easy on the eyes, and he wasn’t terrible at this either. There was something quite nice about how much he seemed to want her--and where had that come from?

“I’ve wanted to fuck you for years,” he grunted, too in-tune with her thoughts.

Well, I haven’t, she thought. But if it was true and he had, wasn’t it her duty to at least attempt to be good at all of this? It couldn’t be very appealing to shag someone who was staring at you with confusion and distaste, now could it? She yanked on his shoulders until he leaned forward, pleased when she couldn’t see his strange eyes, and buried her face in his neck, hiding her nerves behind wet kisses. Dragging her hands down his back, she dug her fingers into his bum and moaned herself, rather caught up in her own little show.

“Yes, Malfoy,” she murmured, thinking she was about the sexiest thing ever. “Show me how you wanted to do it.”

“Naughty little minx,” he replied, and the low tenor of his voice was enough to show her it was working.

Closing her eyes, she squeezed his hips with her thighs and let herself be carried away on a wave of dislike and his lust for her. It didn’t take long—things had always been too much with them—for her breathing to pick up in earnest, for her hands on his bum to become more than a show. When his thrusts became erratic and graceless, she was not quite there with him but that was all right. Power rippled over her, intense and intoxicating, as he gave in, as he gave up the control.

This was what it meant to be a woman, she decided, high on her own allure. When he leaned forward, resting his forehead on her breasts, she was smiling over his shoulder, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

**

Afterwards, he stayed. Hermione hadn't been expecting that, and she certainly hadn't been expecting him to strip down without a care in the world and go to her bed as if he belonged there. Put out, annoyed with herself, and embarrassed, she searched for her pyjamas, trying to ignore his smug laughter.

Merlin, she didn't like him. She couldn't believe, not for one minute, that she'd shagged him in her bathroom not half an hour ago. Harry and Ron would die, Harry and Ron would kill her. Across the room, even Crookshanks looked accusing. Guilt rippled through her, and she felt rather sick.

"Don't be so embarrassed," he ordered, sounding languid and amused. Sounding satisfied. Merlin. Hermione bit back a rather hysterical urge to giggle. "A little late for it, don't you think?"

Hermione didn't think that, actually. Settling on her bra and knickers, she climbed in beside him, trying not to touch him. Her space felt invaded, and she did so hate to sleep with a bra on. Attempting not to be obvious, she wiggled around, trying in vain to dislodge the under wire from her left breast.

"Do you spend the night with all your Muggle girls?" she snapped, closing her eyes so as not to see him. Still, she could hear him breathing and she could see his smug half-smile in her mind.

"No," he replied, simple as that.

"I will kill you if you breathe a word of this to anyone," she promised, meaning it.

He chuckled and said, "Naturally" before rolling on top of her. Hermione struggled for a moment, all for show, before giving in. After all, what was a second time when the first had already been so taboo, so forbidden? At least if she was busy, she wouldn't have to think about it.

“I’m not going to let you not enjoy it this time,” he vowed. "You're a really shitty actress."

This time, he was gentle and slow, and she knew without asking that that was as strange as spending the night.

"Taking the cake," she snorted, giggling nervously as his lips traced a secret trail up her inner thigh. "Honestly, I'm never letting you take the cake again."

"Best enjoy it while I can then, eh," he returned, his breath tickling her in all the right places.

"Oh, stop talking," she insisted, biting her lip on a sigh. "I've never been able to stand you when you talk."

For once in their lives, Malfoy actually, and without comment, obliged. She closed her eyes against his wicked smile, gripped her sheets, and obliged as well—she stopped thinking, and gave into the feel of his sinful mouth in places it should never have been.

**

He was gone when she awoke, slipping out quietly sometime before dawn. He'd even smoothed out the blankets on his side of the bed. Blinking, Hermione ran her hand over her face, regret coursing over her. She was sore and too tired, and this was just all so uncharacteristic and awful.

She made it all the way to the bathroom before Astoria crossed her mind; immediately, she felt sick. What had she done? In the mirror, her cheeks pinked unnaturally, and the world tilted on its axis. She was Hermione Granger, and she was good and moral. It didn't matter if Malfoy carried on as if he was single, the truth of the matter was that he wasn't, strange marriage arrangements be damned, and she had just... she had just...

He had called her Mudblood in school. Ages ago, yes, but once he'd hated her, and not only had she kissed him, she'd--

A delicate shudder rippled over her, followed by a rush of absolute self-loathing. She still wasn't even sure why she'd done it, why she'd wanted to experience something so pointless. Friday nights had gotten entirely out of control. It didn’t matter who shared her secret. Nothing mattered outside of the depraved thing she’d done.

Trying not to cry, Hermione turned on her shower. She wished she could tell someone, wanted to Floo Ginny, but the absolute truth of the matter was that this could never be spoken of. She knew--absolutely knew without really knowing why--that Malfoy was going to keep his mouth shut, and the most brutal torture would never open hers.

Merlin, she hoped he'd been telling the truth about being careful; hoped too that he was good at contraceptive charms. Why hadn't she cast it herself? Sticking out her stomach, she thought about bearing his love child and almost threw up.

Friday nights were a mistake, and that was as simple as that. It was time to stop watching Muggles, time to stop sharing some dingy pub with him. The war was over and she wasn't a Muggle. She was Hermione Granger, witch extraordinaire, and it was time she remembered that.

**

Monday morning, Hermione stormed into Malfoy's office without knocking. He looked up, surprised, before a strange smile she couldn't decipher appeared on his face.

"I am never doing that again," she blurted, before he had time to speak.

He raised an eyebrow before gesturing rather placidly at the door. "Morning, Granger. You might have knocked."

"The other night was a mistake," she reiterated, crossing her arms and glaring at him with all the strength she could muster. Accidentally, she pictured him naked, and had to look away with a flush.

His stupid smile didn't even falter. "If you say so."

"I'm not going there anymore," she continued. "Don't bother looking for me."

"As you wish."

Something about his tone bothered her, but Hermione couldn't say what it was. Nerves feeling rather frazzled, she started to do a very non-Gryffindor thing--she started to flee. Only she wasn't finished, and she was determined to see this through.

Tipping her chin and fighting for pride, she forced herself to say, "Really, you are careful?"

Malfoy's eye twitched, but then his expression returned to that irritating docile calm. "For God's sake, Granger, I haven't slept with that many girls. And yes. Muggles have this thing. A... a..." He made a lewd gesture with his hand.

"Condom," she sniffed prudishly.

"Yes that. Bloody inconvenience."

"Yes. No." Whatever. Shaking her head, she turned her back on him, only to pause again by the door. Lowering her voice and not looking back, she murmured, "Don't you think you could ever love Astoria?"

"No." His tone brooked no argument. "She's with Zabini, if that makes you feel less guilty."

Hermione didn't know why Malfoy would care about the existence of any guilt she might be feeling, and she didn't know why he'd confide in her either. Shoulders sagging, she said, "Oh" and slipped from his office.

**

In the spirit of remembering whom she was, Hermione spent Thursday night at the Potters, listening to Harry yell about Quidditch from the other room while James squirmed in her arms and made all sorts of baby noises.

"See how he loves his auntie Hermione," Ginny was saying, making them tea in the kitchen. "You're going to be his absolute favourite."

Hermione forced a smile and hoped it didn't look like a grimace. It wasn't that she didn't like babies exactly, and it certainly wasn't that she was afraid of them because she wasn't afraid of anything. She preferred children, that much was true, but James was sweet, in a way. She rubbed one chubby cheek with her finger, tracing the lines of his mouth until she chased a smile out of him. That was satisfying. She could do this.

"He's lovely," she agreed, hoping he wasn't going to spit up on her robes. She shouldn't have come straight from work; she should have changed.

Ginny's smile was full of blind adoration when she passed Hermione her tea. Seeing an out, Hermione exchanged the baby for her cup, finding she liked him more in Ginny's arms. Reaching across the table, she rubbed at the fine red hair on top of his head, which made his face screw up. Alarmed, she pulled her hand back.

"He can almost hold his head up," Ginny announced, sounding for all the world as proud as if he'd done something like make Head Boy.

"Well, he is Harry Potter's son," Hermione said quite evenly. "And yours."

"That he is," Ginny agreed, bouncing him a little. Then, with a sort of sheepish smile, she added, "I'm boring you. How's life? I don't do anything other than change diapers. Tell me stories, Hermione! I need to live vicariously."

I secretly go to this Muggle pub and, funny thing, I slept with Draco Malfoy. "Work's been busy lately. Not much to tell you!" Her laugh sounded nervous. "Sorry to be boring."

Ginny waved a hand, and leaned in closer. "I've something to tell you." She lowered her voice, although in the other room, Harry sounded distracted. "Ron asked about you the other day."

Hermione's heart leapt to her throat. She'd known he would, known they'd probably end up together, known someday that she'd probably hold a red headed baby while gushing about how he slept through the night and was such a good child.

She couldn't explain why the next thing she felt was a cloying sense of being smothered, of having a pre-determined path. She wanted to dig in her heels without knowing why; it wasn't as though she had anything or wanted anything else.

"Ginny," she started.

But Ginny looked away, smile hard and determined. "You'll forgive him eventually, Hermione, and he'll come round. Why make him suffer?"

Staring at her tea, Hermione tried hard to find her smile. After all, Ron hadn’t really done anything to forgive. All he’d wanted was what Harry had, a normal happy life, and it was Hermione who was messed up and protesting. Across the table, James made a contented noise; Ginny cooed down at him. Someday, Hermione would be in her shoes and Ron would be yelling about Quidditch.

Deep breaths. She wasn't scared. She wasn't scared of anything.

**

By Friday afternoon, Hermione knew herself to be a liar. Watching the minutes tick by on her desk clock, she told herself resolutely that she wasn’t going to go, that she didn’t need time or anything else for herself. What she should do was Floo Ron, and beg for forgiveness. She should promise to be a sweet biddable wife, and just marry him already. Merlin, even Malfoy was getting married. If it felt wrong with Ron, it probably wouldn’t feel wrong forever. These were just nerves and—

A knock on her open office door made her glance up; there he was, lounging in the entrance way with a cool smile on his face.

And Hermione knew--knew--that she wouldn’t be Flooing Ron tonight.

“See what I just did there?” asked Malfoy, gesturing at the door. “I knocked before entering. Pretty simple stuff, yeah?”

Frowning, she folded her hands on top of her paperwork and tried to look like she was going to protest whatever came out of his mouth next. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Other than you right now on top of that desk?”

Hermione hadn’t been expecting that. Blanching, she tried to see over his shoulder, hoping no one had overheard him, hoping that no one was about to start spreading rumours.

He laughed, surprisingly hearty. “Oh, relax! I’m kidding. You said you don’t want to do that again, and I think you’re mad, but I’m hardly going to force you, now am I?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” she sniffed.

With a roll of his eyes, he continued with, “Just thought I’d swing by and see if you really were going to give tonight up. You know I’m going and I suspect you are too, and now it seems ridiculous to pretend we’re not both there. How about I pop by your place around nine?”

That sounded surprisingly date-like, but he was right about everything else. Feeling like she was about to make a huge mistake, Hermione sighed and said, “I’ll meet you at the pub at nine thirty.”

“The doors?”

“Works for me. Don’t be late.”

**

Eight o’clock found Hermione browsing through the Prophet in a knee length skirt, practical flats, and the frumpiest sweater she owned, nary a trace of make-up on her face. Her hair was frizzled just so, and the frown on her face was as McGonagall-esque as she could make it. She felt unappealing and perfect.

Nine fifteen found Hermione in a bit of a panic, trying to squeeze into black trousers the war had rendered two sizes too small while simultaneously attempting to charm the wrinkles out of a short sleeved blouse, tight across the breasts and wonderfully loose in the waist, which hung outside of her closet. Her hair was a bit of a lost cause, but that didn’t mean the rest of her had to be. She was not trying to look good for Draco Malfoy; she was trying to look good for Muggle London.

“Bugger,” she swore, trying to find her other boot, hopping around on a precarious heel, and cursing her vain little self. On the way out the door, she even stopped for lipstick.

She arrived without noise in the alley at nine twenty eight, pocketed her wand, and marched, chin up, the rest of the way to the pub.

Malfoy, the prat, was already there. He gave her an appraising look, one eyebrow raised, and when he spoke, his tone contradicted the alarming thing she’d seen pass through his eyes.

“You look lovely,” was what he said, and if it sounded dismissive, Hermione suspected with a touch of panic that his tone was a lie.

“You look exactly the same,” she replied, wishing he’d gained two trouser sizes too. She took in his outfit, which consisted of a black sweater, and black trousers. The effect, combined with that unusually light hair, was striking, not that she’d admit it aloud.

She thought that she didn’t have to say it aloud; Malfoy’s smile, weird and genuine, looked all-knowing. Shaking his head, he held the door for her and in they went.

**

As the night progressed, Hermione found two things equally alarming. Firstly, it was very different being here without her concealment charm, truly being one of them. Secondly, Malfoy, outside of the expectations of the Wizarding world, was distressingly easy to talk to, being both clever and disturbingly insightful, at times.

“And so then Harry and Ginny had James, and that’s that,” Hermione finished, wrapping up What Harry Has Been Up to Since the War with a sheepish smile. Malfoy, of course, had to know all of this; everyone knew all of this, unless they were living under a rock.

“Fascinating,” drawled Malfoy, taking a sip of his drink.

Hermione sloshed hers in her glass as she was wont to do when nervous and fidgety, smiled, and said, “Not really.” Changing the subject, she asked, “And what of Pansy? If you don’t mind me saying so, I rather thought you’d end up with her.”

“Yes, well, after the Dumbledore fiasco, she was rather less than interested,” he informed her, keeping his voice level.

Hermione stilled her hands on her glass, and looked down. It was impossible to forget that they’d started on very different sides, no matter how many years had passed. She reminded herself with some difficultly that she didn’t hate him, not anymore, that she could maybe even see how he’d ended up where he had, that she acknowledged what he’d said last week as truth.

“Because you didn’t kill him or because you considered killing him?” she asked, lowering her voice.

Malfoy gave her a sardonic look. “Which do you think, Granger?”

“But Astoria doesn’t care?” she pressed.

“Astoria cares for very little outside of my money and my family’s name,” he stated harshly.

“What else is there to care for?” she asked, but she made sure her smile was teasing. She couldn’t say why exactly, but she felt certain that Astoria’s indifference bothered Malfoy very much. Women’s intuition or something, although she thought that was all a load of rubbish. “If it bothers you, why marry her?”

“It doesn’t bother me at all,” he snapped. “I don’t understand your morbid fascination with her.”

“Trust me, there is no morbid fascination. I’m merely interested in what attracts you to a woman who looks just like your mother.”

“Well, I’m merely interested in what happened with you and Weasley. Why don’t we talk about that?”

“Who is morbidly fascinated now?” she snarked.

Malfoy smiled again, and said, “Touché. How about a trade?”

“A trade?” she asked, surprised that she was considering it. “You mean, I’ll tell you why I’m not with Ron and you’ll tell me why you are with Astoria?”

He nodded, and Hermione bit at her lip. Something secret and intimate lurked in his eyes, and she found herself drawn to it like a moth to the flame. She couldn’t believe that she’d slept with him; she absolutely could believe it at the same time. More importantly, she couldn’t believe she was here now, as if they were some sort of friends.

“Ron wants to marry me,” she said, thinking about how lame that sounded. Poor little Hermione with the man who wanted to marry her.

Malfoy made a small noise of understanding, took a deep breath, and said, “I can’t let my parents down again.”

“Expectations,” she breathed.

And this was weird, sitting in the dark sharing secrets with Malfoy. It was stranger than sitting with someone she didn’t like and had slept with anyway. She expected scathing remarks, but wasn’t getting any; she sensed that he’d been expecting them too. Hanging out with him wasn’t awful, horrible truth.

Abruptly, she wondered what it would have been like years ago if so much animosity hadn’t kept them from getting to know one another. Might she have been at his house, watching Quidditch games? Was it possible that they might have even come to be mates? She’d always admired his intelligence, however begrudgingly, and when he wasn’t being too terribly cruel, he showed excellent wit.

But that was then, and this was now. She wasn’t sure what this was; at its most innocent, it was a casual meeting between two people who had gone to school together. A catch-up.

“So are you still fighting for the rights of house elves everywhere, or are you too caught up in healing us veterans?” Malfoy asked, swivelling his straw in his drink and playing the catch-up game quite well.

Hermione, for the life of her, couldn’t decide whether he was mocking her. There was no maliciousness lurking in his gaze; then, there was nothing at all lurking there. He looked uncharacteristically flat.

“It’s hard to champion a cause that not one single person cares about,” she replied cagily.

“But you are Hermione Granger. That is what you do,” he drawled. “I always thought they were terribly misunderstood creatures.”

“Did you?” As if.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Malfoy looked away.

Hermione remembered how he’d looked during the war, how his eyes had seemed sunken and stress bright, how thin he’d been; how pale. She also remembered how he’d looked last Friday, cheeks flushed and skin warm. Hermione, he’d called her, and her stomach tightened again at the memory. He was such a strange man, so broken and so not. And Hermione knew too that she would do it again if not for the multitudes of reasons not to because there was an appeal there. It was a sick appeal, that was true, but it was an appeal all the same.

Resolutely, she vowed to never think of it again.

“It’s late,” she announced, managing to sound just the right amount of regretful. “I’m off, but feel free to stay. I always did leave before you.”

Only Malfoy just shrugged and turned around to flag their waitress. Trying not to think about it, she let him pay the tab, and then they were outside, meandering the short walk in complete silence.

Outside of her building, an overwhelming sense of awkwardness nearly rendered Hermione speechless. This wasn’t exactly on, and she hated it more than a little.

Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m not inviting you up. I meant what I said about it being a mistake last week.”

Up went a perfectly light eyebrow. “I never expected it.”

That annoyed her, although she couldn’t precisely say why—that annoyed her too. Sticking up her chin, she added, “I’m not sure I had fun.” No sense lying, not to him, not when he deserved the harshest of her truths for all the years she’d received the harshest of his.

Malfoy’s smile was cool. “Nor I,” he clarified.

Right. Nodding, she turned her back on him and dug her keys from her purse, where they’d naturally sunk to the bottom and had snagged on her wallet. Hermione heard more than saw the rush of movement, and then Malfoy’s hand was closing around her wrist, stilling her departure.

Hermione’s stomach bottomed out.

Then he was too close, much too close, as an eerie desperation lit his eyes. She found herself looking at his mouth; knew, as heat churned her belly, that all she had to do was tilt herself upwards, knew he’d kiss her back, and knew what would happen next.

“Next Friday then?” he asked, breath warming her cheeks.

Hermione, still watching his lips, was momentarily flustered. Then, surprised by the conviction in her voice, she said, “Yes.”

Malfoy smiled that guileless smile she couldn’t read before lifting his other hand to touch her cheek. She froze and bit at her own lip, desperate to forget the feel of his. Lazily, his fingers wandered into her hairline.

This is fucked up, she wanted to say, but Malfoy spoke first, and all he said was, “Good.” Then he dropped her wrist and stole his fingers back. Abruptly, he was gone without a sound. Hugging herself, Hermione opened the door and went inside, feeling more alone and confused than she had in an age.

**

For Hermione, it was a week of obsession.

Monday was wasted. In between doing actual work, Hermione worked out exactly how she had gotten where she was, distracted at all points by the memory of his hands on her hips, fingers strong against her bones, and his wicked mouth on hers, hot and needy.

Tuesday was a day for shame. Astoria Greengrass, philanthropist in the making, smiled up at her from the paper, and it was hard to hold her coffee down.

Wednesday, she almost confessed the whole thing to Ginny.

Thursday, she had it mostly figured out. Conversation with Malfoy had been natural, and she knew it was only shared secrets and a shared feeling of being stuck that did it for them. She knew she’d never be able to speak to him as easily in the Wizarding world, and that was all fine and dandy.

Friday went by in a blur, and then she was outside the pub, taking him in as he waited for her—early again. If all they had was secrets, it was still something—no one would have understood her need to be here, and, while it was sickening that Malfoy did, such was life.

This wasn’t an affair--nothing sexual was going to happen again. This was a burgeoning friendship, and it beat sitting by herself in dark corners.

“Age before beauty,” he said, opening the door with his trademark smirk.

Hermione Granger, the fool, went inside.

Notes: I do not own the Harry Potter universe; I just like to play! Please feel free to let me know what you think. :)