A/N: This fic is highly censored for your virgin eyes but is STILL RATED R. There is bad language, slightly steamy scenes and highly glossed-over mentions of sexual encounters.

To read the uncensored version, go to Adult fanfiction (dot) net or copy/paste the address from my profile (as the damn things won't come up right here)

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and co. but I do own a cat that can beat the living hell out of your cat any day of the week.

Rating: R – bad language, mentions of sex

A/N: At least partly inspired by war talks with my awesome beta, bk. This is my response to the Quiet Ones Secret Santa Fic Exchange for Lara

Summary: She calls me Goliath and I wear the David mask. I'd like to believe we could reconcile the past. Resurrect those bridges with an ancient glance. But my old stone face can't seem to break her down. She remembers bridges and burns them to the ground.-Excerpts from 7Mary3 "Cumbersome"

Title: The Lions of December

By Gravidy

oooo

I like to think some things in life are meant to be. It's like the saying: 'All Roads Lead to Rome'–no matter which paths you choose, or what inexplicable obstacles fall in your way, you end up there eventually. Almost magically.

I saved Ginny Weasley's life twice. I saved her miraculously, during a moment of absolutely no hope, when by all rights and all laws of physics and nature, she should have died. Somehow I did it.

It was just meant to be. How else can you explain it?

The catch is that you can never tell what those 'meant to be' things are. Like by the time I had reached my fifth year and was made a prefect, I was pretty damn certain that I was meant to be Head Girl. But that never happened.

Yeah, Hermione Granger never became Head Girl. Shocking, I know.

It's always a surprise to see where life takes you. For instance, if you would've told me during my sixth year at Hogwarts that another seven years down the road would find me rooming with Blaise Zabini, in a fancy apartment overlooking a small Wizarding town outside Harlow, I'd have said that you had obviously been smoking your boomslang.

"I'm hoooome!"

I don't know why I do that. He never answers, not even when I happen to open the door, and he's standing right there in front of me, open milk carton held damningly in his hand, staring at me with his deer-in-headlights look, like I'm going to shoot him for drinking out the container.

I fumble inside, keys lodged in the lock, refusing to budge, purse crammed in my armpit, while I hop up and down on one foot, trying to peel off my black pumps. They hurt like hell. Inevitably, my purse tips and everything spills out. I crouch down, cursing under my breath, and stuff my hairbrush, wallet, two lipsticks, and a couple of Knuts back into my purse. Then I forget the keys are jammed and nearly yank my arm off when I try to pull them out.

I dump my shoes by the front door, a habit my housemate loathes, and pad stocking-footed into the kitchen, tossing my bag onto the counter. I can see Blaise, or rather the top of the back of his head, peaking over the armchair in the living room. He doesn't acknowledge me, but that's normal. We're both pretty private people. We can go days without any sort of interaction at all.

That's not to say he isn't a good friend of mine.

We'd both been out of Hogwarts for five years when we met up here, both looking at apartments, both looking for roommates. He suggested that we room together and save ourselves a lot of hassle, and I was so surprised that I said okay without thinking. I'm still not sure he didn't have ulterior motives at the time. I think he wanted to get in my pants, but when I didn't put the moves on him after the first couple of days, he let the notion pass with the attention span of a goldfish.

He's that laid back.

I've lived with him for two years now, while interning at the Ministry and being privately tutored by a specialist in Experimental Magicks. Blaise works for a private Wizarding association that studies forgotten spells, relics and practices. It's like archaeology for wizards. So we're well matched on the whole quiet, bookish thing.

I fumble a spoon from the cupboard drawer and duck into the fridge, grabbing a cup of yogurt. I have a business dinner to go to in about an hour, but I doubt I'll have much of an appetite while I'm there. Just the thought of it pretty much has my stomach locked up in a tight queasy knot. I'm half afraid I'll get there and just throw up, and dry heaves hurt worse, so I might as well eat something.

Blaise is a good housemate. He's quiet . . . he doesn't leave his sweaty shirts or dirty underwear lying over the furniture . . . he does housework on occasion, though if he had his way I'd do all his laundry . . . he eats my cooking without complaint but never steals my food . . . and he pays rent on time.

We do have separate bathrooms. I think we both knew from the word go that we'd need separate bathroom spaces to maintain harmony. We're both unrepentant bathroom hogs and tend to greedily use up the hot water whenever we can. I use his razors, and he hates my bath gels and aroma therapy candles, and likes to scatter my makeup all over the place in a passive aggressive frenzy when it gets in his way. I swear, it's like reverse menopause for guys or something; he gets these surges of testosterone in irregular, overwhelming bursts and has to go tearing around the apartment beating his chest. Then it wears off and he goes back to quiet, unassuming Blaise.

Maybe it's living with a girl that does it to him.

Or maybe it's being an archaeologist.

He's a bit of neat freak about the apartment, which is weird because I've seen his room, and there are clothes and magazines and crumpled pieces of paper strewn all over the floor, over his music equipment, his dresser, and his weight bench. He likes going out to see his friends but hates having company at the apartment. He's about as sentimental as a flobberworm, and so doesn't contribute much to the interior décor by way of photographs or knickknacks. I don't think I have ever seen a picture of his family.

He's also one of those people who likes lists. It doesn't matter what kind of list: grocery lists, lists of telephone numbers, to-do lists. And if there's no reason to make a list, he finds a reason.

I straighten up, spoonful of yogurt stuck in my mouth, and shut the refrigerator door to view the latest list where it flutters, pinned to the fridge by a lobster magnet.

-Jobs that Neville Longbottom wouldn't survive through the first day- is scrawled in his slanted, but neat, writing.

I pick up the marker and squiggle "Bomb disarmer" under Blaise's last entry of, "Lion/large animal trainer". He'll alphabetize it later, the freak.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask him curiously, wandering over to his side, popping another spoonful of yogurt in my mouth. Yum. Peachy. "Want to know something weird? Harry and Ron both owled me last night. Harry's saying he's going to be working over Christmas, and Ron's saying he's taking Luna to some kinda love-nest. They're not coming down to see me. Neither one of them. The ingrates."

I'm actually pretty surprised and hurt, even a little worried that maybe they don't want to see me, or something. They know I hate being alone on Christmas. Blaise will probably take off to visit family soon, and I don't want to stay here by myself. I know if I'm that desperate, I can always go to the Burrow. I'm always welcome, but I just can't bring myself to intrude on the family. Mrs. Weasley never did like me as much as she liked Harry and I'd feel too guilty anyway.

I glance a bit despondently around our apartment. It's only sparsely decorated for Christmas, a few sprigs of holly, a couple pine needle sashes along the shelves and draped over the T.V., and a snow-globe that continuously swirls tiny snowflakes sitting on the stand near the wall. I used to have a foot-tall Santa Claus doll that danced to "Holly Jolly Christmas" when you pushed his button, but he got spectacularly melted a few days ago.

Pretty pathetic.

I don't think I've gone all out for Christmas since Ginny and I were roommates. She always spent Christmas with her family, but we glutted our living space with decorations every year, and then we'd be trying to get tinsel out of the carpet and out of our hair until late February.

It would be nice to put up a few more things, not much more. I don't want to choke Blaise out of his natural habitat. I know him. He'll get all nervous and claustrophobic and stop coming home. But we should at least get a tree, just a small one, but that will have to wait until the weekend.

I lean my hip against the armchair and am about to run the idea by him when I finally notice what he's wearing and end up choking on my yogurt instead. That's why he was so quiet, he was waiting for me to notice. I cough and sputter and stare and he looks right back at me, daring me to comment.

It's a full-on, bright, red fur suit with white fur trim, black buttons down the front, a large black belt with a gold buckle holding up red fur pants, black gloves, and shiny black boots.

It's a Santa suit. It's about two sizes too big for him. The hat is in his lap.

My first stunned thought is that he doesn't really make a good Santa. He looks more like a pissed off elf. It's his ears. I've never had the heart to tell him, but they are kind of pointy.

"What happened?" I cough out, because there is no way he's in that thing voluntarily, "Why aren't you dressed for dinner?"

He nods his head towards the coffee table.

I follow his gaze, frowning when I spot the rectangular box. A present. It's about the size of a shoebox, a bit longer than it is tall, wrapped in dark red velvet with a crinkled gold tie cutting it in quarters, and tied in a bow up top.

Ah yes, my current problem.

The box appeared about four days ago, apparently out of thin air, along with a Christmas card that read "Merry Christmas, Frizz Head. Enjoy your present. Love, DM . . . P.S. I'll know if you don't open it." Cheery and solicitous, except for that last part, that was definitely a threat.

There was no way in hell that I was going to open it.

I wasn't even going to touch it, not after I found that if I stared at it long enough, my feet would start walking me towards it, which meant there was an Enticement on it. When Blaise got home and discovered me plastered against the far wall, staying as far away from it as I could, while still keeping an eye on it, he muttered something about Yule-tide terrorization from our favorite psycho and tried to destroy it. That's how my Santa got melted. Blaise's spell bounced right off the gift, ricocheted off the walls, smashed up a few things, then killed Santa. The present wasn't even singed.

"You touched it, didn't you?" I accuse, pissed because I told him a hundred times to just leave it the hell alone, but he's male so he's driven to 'fix' it.

He nods, unrepentant. "It blasted me across the room. Knocked me out cold. I woke up in the suit." He tugs at the outfit a little, and I almost smile at the pout on his face. "I think my hands are burned, they hurt pretty bad, but I can't get the gloves off."

And my smile disappears, unease stirring in my belly.

That's characteristic Draco Malfoy: like Halloween candy with needles inside, sweetly poisonous. The Santa suit is cute, even funny, but you don't see what's underneath, you can't tell that Blaise's hands are burned, probably red and blistered and weeping. It's insidious.

I set my yogurt down on a side cabinet and pull my wand out. "Want me to try to get you out of the suit?"

"No!" He's holding up his hands before I even complete the sentence, looking just slightly panicked. "No, thank you. I've been informed that he's spelled it to burst into flames if I try to get it off. I'm just going to wait a little while, thank you."

"He wouldn't!" That bastard's going to get a piece of my mind!

"He hates my guts. You bet he would."

"That stupid, son of a bitch. . ." I let out a string of curses and stomp my feet like a two-year-old, and Draco isn't here to yell at, so I yell at Blaise. "Did you have to touch it tonight? You can't wear that to dinner! You can't go with burnt hands!"

Blaise is my date. He puffed up and got all protective and demanded to go with me when he found out that I'd been delegated to go to a business meeting with Draco Malfoy. Harry and Ron can't stand Malfoy. I mean literally cannot be in the same room with him without seriously entertaining homicidal urges. But Harry needs Draco's political backing on a War-Crimes issue that's floating through the Ministry and Draco suggested a business dinner to hash over the details. I offered to go in place of one of them, to stave off what would most likely be a night of bloodshed.

It may yet be a night of bloodshed.

I stalk down the hallway to my room, disgusted. "You'll have to see a healer. Do you need to floo over to St. Mungo's?" I can't miss this meeting, the War-Crimes issue is vital. But that means I can't do anything for Blaise right away.

He scrambles after me and hovers in my doorway. "I don't want you to go alone!"

Blaise doesn't know exactly why I get the letters, the gifts, the flowers. He has never asked and I've never volunteered the information, but he picks up that it upsets me, and that angers him. I know that there have been times when he has gotten rid of the things Draco sent before I ever saw them. That's probably what happened here. Blaise tried to dump the box before I got home and the box fought back.

Blaise thinks Draco has an obsession for me—some kind of twisted stalker thing. It's not like that. It's all very cold-blooded. An old grudge. He won't let go of it, or maybe I'm not supposed to, so he sends me subtle digs and needling reminders wrapped up in pretty boxes, or phrased in lyrical prose, and sent with flowers every few months. Just to let me know he hasn't forgotten. Keeps me on my toes, so to speak.

I grab my evening gown from where I left it hanging over my computer chair and stalk into the bathroom. Blaise can't see in, so I leave the door open. "I won't be alone," I snap, grabbing my hairbrush to viciously attack my curls. "Dean will be there, and he'll most likely bring Lavender." Dean is my backup, just in case something exactly like this were to happen. When Draco's involved, the chances of things like this happening seem to rise exponentially.

"I'm going with you," he snaps back. Stubborn. It's kind of sweet. Usually he's a complete doormat.

"But there's a dress code." I toss my skirt and sweater out the door. They land crumpled on my bed.

"So I'll put on robes over it."

"You'll roast. Just forget it. We'll think of something." I shimmy into the dress and scowl at my reflection, annoyed that I don't have time for a shower. I feel gross, all sweaty makeup and scraggly hair. "Come here and lace me up."

He does so docilely. And I'm hard pressed not to tease him about it.

An hour later, we arrive at Le Fosse aux SerpentsTrust Draco to choose a place like this. It's an over-the-top classy joint, impossible to get a reservation unless you're rich or famous. I've even heard that they won't take reservations if your family is rumored to have too much Muggle blood.

It's a huge building, lots of windows that show whatever type of scenery or time of day you want. There are marble floors, fountains with live silverbell vines growing around them, little fairies floating around, and live music playing softly in the background. The maitre d' greets me like he has been waiting his whole life to meet me.

"Miss Granger!" he gushes. He takes my hand and gives a little bow as another young man takes my cloak. The kid turns to Blaise and looks at a complete loss. Blaise scowls at him, as the Maitre d' continues prattling on. "You look lovely this evening. We are so honored to have you here. Please, please, right this way!"

Now, I'm pretty famous in my own right, but not this famous. I just smile politely and follow. Someone has told the staff to treat me extra nice, apparently.

Draco has reserved a whole section of the restaurant for the dinner. It's a large, gorgeous room decorated mostly in dark emerald and subtle hints of glittering silver. He's such a prick.

Draco, himself, is already there, seated at the head of a moderately long table set with pale silver linen table cloth, dainty china, silverware that is actual silver, and rolled linen napkins. Draco is dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. His emerald robes are laid over the back of his chair. His pale hair is cut to the middle of his ears, shorter than the last time I saw him over a year ago.

He doesn't like it too long, says it reminds him of Lucius.

Dean and Lavender are there and seated as well. Dean in dark blue dress robes, Lavender in a cherry and pink oriental-style dress, her blond hair pinned up neatly with an artless style I never could quite emulate.

I go still in surprise when I see who else is there.

Dean is seated to Draco's right. To Draco's left are two Ministry officials. I recognize Larry Kroger and Joel Prosper, both older men. Kroger has salt-and-pepper hair and sagging jowls. Prosper's a bit younger with dark hair, graying temples and large glasses. Both Kroger and Prosper are pushing the War-Crimes issue that Harry opposes. I had no idea they were going to be here.

The two men give me strained, polite non-expressions, carefully masking their distaste, and I realize I'm staring at them, practically gaping.

This doesn't make sense. Why would they be here? Are they making a last minute bid for Draco's support? But why would he invite them to come tonight? I mean, I knew Draco had decided, in his mercurial derangement, to play hardball with us, but I honestly came here expecting to cut him some sort of deal. I had figured there was something he wanted. It never occurred to me that he might actually be seriously considering supporting the bill.

My mouth does this little twitchy thing that could be interpreted as a smile at the two officials and I tear my gaze from them, unable to help casting a disbelieving look at my host.

Draco's watching my reactions intently, eyes burning into me. It's a playfully mischievous, conspiratorial look. There's no malice in it at all, but there doesn't need to be. Anyone who knows him, knows that when Draco Malfoy says 'I know something you don't know', you'd better try like hell to figure out what 'something' is before it pops out and eats you alive.

My twitchy smile falters completely in the face of a sudden wash of paranoia. Because I'm perfectly aware, maybe more than anyone else, as to what kind of demented extremes Draco's sense of humor runs to.

And tonight, it's all for me. Oh joy.

The maitre d' clears his throat and talk abruptly halts as Blaise and I come to a stop near the table. The maitre d' bows and announces, "Miss Hermione Granger and . . . uh . . . her escort."

"The name's Santy Claus," Blaise snarls. I give him a subtle elbow in the ribs, and he gives a not so subtle, "Ow!" and gives me wounded eyes while rubbing his side. He's got a blue pillowcase thrown over his shoulder with Draco's gift inside. We had decided that it was safe to move it, but were careful not to touch it. We're just going to give the damn thing back to him.

I murmur warm hellos to Dean and Lavender and greet the two Ministry officials with sufficient amounts of aristocratic aloofness, ignoring Draco completely.

He apparently gets miffed when I don't pay any attention to him, because the first testy words out of his mouth are, "I chose this place specifically because they have a dress code," he drawls, eyes on his glass of wine as the waiter refills it, but his scorn all for Blaise.

My expression remains polite as I mentally remind myself that outright name-calling won't help my cause, so I take Blaise's arm and chirp. "I'm sure no one minds. Blaise just came from a charity function for children. He's so sweet."

"I'm so sweet. Come sit on Santa's lap, 'Mione." Blaise whispers in my ear, just to be mouthy, and I instantly bite my lip on a strained giggle, because Blaise is evil and will be delighted if I lose my composure. He once made me laugh so hard during a church sermon that I squirted soda out my nose. Don't ask.

"Hmm." Draco knows I'm lying, of course, but he only returns my smile with amusement and something calculating beneath. "In that case, I suppose we can overlook it. 'Tis the season." He toasts Blaise, who gives him a light scowl.

I push Blaise towards his seat while the maitre d' pulls my chair out for me. Blaise sits on my left next to Lavender. I sit at the other end of the table opposite Draco, trying not to watch him watch me.

"Now Mr. Malfoy," Kroger starts. "About the issue at hand . . ."

Ah, Kroger was already preaching before I arrived. I'm not worried, Dean is quite up to the task of fending the man off in my absence.

I don't understand why Draco is sitting on the fence with this one, even if it is only part of some convoluted ploy to get to some other goal. The measure will affect him if it passes. . . Unless he thinks he's got enough money to buy himself off the hook while the rest of us crash and burn.

Merlin, I hope that's not the case. I'll take him down with me. I swear I will.

To my surprise, Draco waves Kroger off disinterestedly without even looking at him. "Let's all enjoy dinner first, Miss Granger looks hungry."

Blaise looks at me suspiciously.

My eyes dart to Draco and the he smiles, pleased that he's finally got my attention. I stop trying to avoid his gaze and stare back. "I assure you, I'm perfectly well." I tell him tartly. "We can proceed with the discussion if everyone wishes."

I want it out in the open. Whatever it is, whatever game he's playing, whatever point he's trying to make or whatever he expects me to figure out, I want it out in the open. It's entirely possible that he's doing this on principle—pissing in Harry's pond because he's bored or because he can.

It's also entirely possible that he means us real harm.

Kroger opens his mouth, looking like he's about to agree but Draco cuts him off. "Let's save the unpleasantness for later and just enjoy each other's company for the moment, shall we?" And it's not a request or a suggestion.

He's neatly tied my hands with that one. He's obviously not ready to reveal himself and I can't really afford to piss him off yet. It's his show, and we'll all dance like his little puppets.

Kroger and Prosper look slightly putout but both mumble an agreement as the waiters, signaled by Malfoy, bring out the appetizers. There's quite a selection and I notice some of my favorites among them: French chocolate truffles, Gorgonzola stuffed dates and caviar and creme fraiche. I can't prove it yet, its subtle enough that I actually wonder for a moment if its my own paranoia kicking in, but I'm betting this is yet another nasty little dig.

I'm starting to get nervous.

Draco, instead of helping himself to the delicacies, blandly looks at Blaise and produces a candy cane, leisurely popping it into his mouth. My eyes narrow. Blaise makes a choked noise, and I quickly put my hand on his fur-suited arm and give him a sweet smile while my eyes warn him to keep silent.

"So, Mr. Prosper," Draco begins, sucking on his sweet and pointedly ignoring us. "How's your wife?"

Prosper balks, caviar covered round halfway to his mouth.

Joel Prosper is not married. I'd bet my last dime Draco knows this. I'd even bet that Prosper knows that Draco knows this, but Draco's only smiling at the man prettily, chin resting lightly on his knuckles, fingers interlaced loosely. Kroger has gone still as well, and I can almost hear him silently begging Prosper not to embarrass anyone.

"Er . . ." Prosper must have heard Kroger's telepathic squeal of warning because he clears his throat and answers gravely. "Fine. Very well, actually, thank you for asking."

Draco looks pleased.

I concentrate on the chocolate truffles, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands and groan.

"That is so nice," Draco says, positively beaming. "I'm glad. What about your sister, Edaberth? I heard she got that promotion she wanted."

Prosper's face lights up, happy to have actual information to work with. "Yes, yes, thank you. Head of her department. The family's very proud of her."

"Hmm." I could swear he just winked at me. "Congratulations. And speaking of congratulations," he rounds on Dean, "I hear congratulations are in order for you too, my friend."

Dean quickly swallows whatever was in his mouth, "Huh? Er, I'm sorry?"

Draco does a great impression of innocence—wide eyes, candid gaze. "For your wife's pregnancy, I mean. It was heartening to hear such wonderful news."

Blaise chokes on his dates and starts coughing. I've stopped chewing.

Dean looks thoroughly confused. "I'm afraid I'm not sure what you're talking about," he says slowly.

"Hmm?" Draco only smiles because Lavender's hand is clasped to her lips, eyes wide as dinner plates.

"Lavender and I haven't . . ." Dean freezes when he sees her expression. "Lavender?"

"Dean . . . um . . ." she begins weakly, scrunching her linen napkin in her hands. "I was going to tell you after dinner. I'm pregnant."

"Oops!" Draco puts a hand to his mouth. "Did I let the cat out of the bag?" He's not even trying to sound sincere anymore, and if that 'cat out of the bag' thing is a Gryffindor joke, I think I'm going to kill him.

"Lavender . . ." Dean looks stunned. "When . . . how. . . ?"

"Yes, how?" Draco echoes wickedly, face a study of polite interest.

I have to hand it to him, he's in rare form, really hamming it up tonight. It's a mixture of playfulness, of showing off for me, and outright viciousness. He's like a really fucked-up peacock.

Lavender wrings her hands. "I only found out this morning. I don't know how he found out!"

Draco cocks his head. "It was brought to my attention that you'd seen a Medi-witch, Lavender dear. I was worried that you weren't well. Imagine my surprise when I was informed what kind of medical attention you were requiring."

Lavender ignores him. "Dean? DEAN!"

Dean's apparently gone into shock. There's a 'vacant' sign flashing behind his eyes.

"Maybe he should lie down," Draco suggests tactfully.

Lavender starts shaking him. "Dean! Oh, Dean, say something!" She slaps him.

"That's a hate crime," Draco chirps.

Dean comes alive with a start. He blinks and stutters incoherently. "Me . . . I . . . uh . . . baby . . . I'm . . . daddy? Me?"

"Congratulations!" Prosper cries jovially, just glad that the heat is off him.

"Yes, it is wonderful news." Kroger toasts Dean with his wine flute.

"Way to go, Dean!" Blaise leans over behind Lavender to slap him on the back.

"I have cigars for the gentlemen but I think it would be best to wait until the young mother is not around to be bothered by the smoke." Draco gives her the most genteel smile he can manage while silently rejoicing at the trouble he's caused.

I know Lavender has to be freaked. Not only did Draco just spill the beans, but he made it pointedly clear that he's watching her, that he has access to her private information. And he's made it pointedly clear to me that Blaise isn't his only hostage.

Son of a bitch! He's boxing me in. That's why he hasn't cut to the chase yet, he's not done showing me his fangs. But why? Why hold their safety over my head like this? Why threaten me with Ministry workers? What in the world is he after?

My eyes flick down to the pillowcase at Blaise's feet containing Draco's velvet present. It can't be that simple, or that inane, can it? Or if it is, what in Merlin's name is in that box that is so important that he'll try and force me to open it?

Draco has never pushed me before. He's needled, he's harassed, he's tricked, but he's never pushed. He's never tried to corner me. That he would do so now, and that he would act so smug and pleased about it, is extremely alarming.

It means he's sure of his victory.

Dean finally gets a hold of himself. "Lavender!" He embraces her tightly, and she starts to cry. Kroger and Prosper applaud. Jolly time had by all. "Baby, are you okay? Do you need to rest? Is everything all right with the baby?" He's trying to feel her forehead, hug her, and feel her belly, all at the same time. "Come on, we should probably take you home."

"Dean, I'm pregnant, not stricken with the plague, nothing's going to happen for a good seven or eight months!" Lavender glances at me and back to Dean pointedly, her eyes trying to silently convey a message. "This is why I wanted to wait until after dinner to tell you," she says quietly.

"But baby, I just found out we're gonna have a baby! I gotta call my parents. I gotta call your parents. I gotta . . . come on. . . ." He pulls her to her feet, peppering her face with kisses. She giggles and gives in, leaning into him with a happy sigh. "I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Kroger, Mr. Prosper, Hermione." He looks at me, asking me silently to understand, and the bitch of it is, I do.

"Congratulations Dean-Lavender," I say, smiling and meaning it. I can't begrudge them this.

"Ohhh. . . ." Lavender, teary-eyed, flounces over to give me a perfume-scented hug and a kiss on the cheek. She gives Blaise a quick squeeze, startling him. And then she and Dean are walking hand-and-hand for the door.

"Goodnight! Thank you for coming," Draco calls, waving after them. He grins and crunches once on his candy cane before switching it to the other side of his mouth. Casting me a sly wink, he shows me four fingers and drops two.

And that right there is the name of the game. He has just relieved me of two of my supporters in one blow. I'm still not sure why. Did I slip up? Or did Dean do something wrong? Or did Draco simply get bored with waiting for me to do something and decide to take a shot at me?

Stupid fucker.

I take a shot back.

"What is it with you and young mothers, Malfoy?" I ask him lightly and that gleeful expression is instantly shocked from his face.

I'm viciously pleased.

I watch him struggle with himself for all of two seconds and then the corners of his mouth bend painfully upward and it's like watching a rusted iron gate creeeeeak open. The two-faced wretch then proceeds to ignore me and sits back with a happy sigh. "Well that was fun."

"Yes, you should definitely be more careful with that omniscience thing," Blaise says with veiled sarcasm. "Us mere mortals can't keep up."

Draco spears Blaise with a look and crunches on his candy cane once again, flashing teeth for an instant. "If you can't keep up, my dear mere mortal, why are you even here?"

"To look after 'Mione." Blaise shoots back casually. "Some sick asshole has been pushing their unwanted attention on her so I kind of stick around and make sure no one gives her trouble."

Draco's lips curl up, slow and insidious. "Sounds like you two are very good friends." His eyes catch mine, full of dark mirth. "Bosom companions. But certainly she can take care of herself. She was the brightest witch in our year. Why would she need you?" He started out politely inquiring and ended with a snarl.

Blaise's answering smile is positively dripping with smug, male egoism and I know I can't let him say whatever he's about to say because there is a ninety percent chance it's going to deal with the virtues of specific portions of his own anatomy.

"So rude, Malfoy, I'm surprised at you!" I cut in with feigned dignified shock, tone scolding as I flutter a hand to my heart. "Don't take it personally, Blaise, I'm sure Malfoy's just bitter because those on the receiving end of his help often wind up wishing they'd never been born." I turn innocently to the nervous Ministry workers, who have been sitting by silently, not daring to interrupt. "You see, there's this sweet little baby girl who. . ."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Hermione Granger." Draco's voice is deadly soft. "If you wish any of them to leave here alive, don't you dare speak another word." The warning is nastily intimate and I wonder, with brazen disregard for his threat, if he means it.

Everyone else has gone still, the Ministry officials looking rather pale, but my smile is twisted as I say lightly. "Oh, you're going to help us some more?"

His eyes are silver pools of rage. "That's why you're here, isn't it?" He raps out with the cold triumph of someone who knows they have the upper hand. "Did you forget that you came to me? Did you forget that you need my support, dear sweet girl?"

My smile disappears like it was shot clean off my face.

I did forget. I forgot and I deliberately provoked him. I'm suddenly cursing myself, horrified that I could be so careless.

He chuckles. "What a stupid thing for such a smart girl to do."

Kroger, deciding he has an advantage, and feeling woefully left out, appeals for the spotlight. "What else can you expect from a Muggle born, Mr. Malfoy? They aren't known for their common sense." And dreadfully miscalculates.

The dangerous, almost alien look of pure predatory malice Draco turns on him has him backtracking so fast, he can't make a coherent sentence.

"I . . . that is to say. . . I just meant. . . I, I, I . . ." He flushes red and stammers.

"Shut up, Kroger." Blaise mutters, taking a drink from his wine glass.

"No, Mr. Zabini." Draco says gently, face somewhat composed but eyes still feral. "Let the man speak. The only person who has no actual business here, is you."

The room goes silent. All attention quiet suddenly settled on Blaise. He's not in the least bothered. He ignores us all and makes a show of taking a long, slow swallow of wine, drawing it out for as long as possible. Then he makes a face, taps the half-full glass and sets it down, "Bleh. Shoddy stuff, Malfoy." And pulls a small tin bottle of whisky from his Santa outfit, pouring some into his drink.

I don't know whether to be mortified or utterly proud.

"Miss Granger," Mr. Kroger says quickly, apparently having had enough of the shocking display. "I'm afraid I'm not acquainted with your . . . ah . . . friend. Please tell us a little more about him."

I smile back just as saccharinely. "This is Blaise Zabini, a very good friend of mine." I rest my hand on Blaise's and smile like a besotted idiot at him, playing the part of the adoring girlfriend. Blaise laces his fingers with mine and smiles in a way that makes me kick him under the table for overdoing it. He snickers softly and my smile relaxes a little as I realize he did it just to make me feel better. "He's an AMWAY rep." AMWAY stands for Ancient Magical Wizardry Analysis in Yeovil, which is the area. "Veeeery intellectual," I add. "His work is sooo fascinating, especially when considering my own cutting-edge research. It's so amazing to see how our modern day breakthroughs sometimes mirror ancient magical ways. Whenever Blaise tells me about magic they've discovered that is ancient but somehow beyond anything we, as a modern society, have been able to accomplish, I wonder at how much of our magical heritage has been lost over the years."

I'm hoping my enthusiastic little speech will put them off the subject. If not, I can keep talking until it does.

Draco has calmed down enough to revert back to spoiled-little-rich-boy mode. He looks thoroughly bored and seems to be playing with his truffles. If he had a plastic spoon, he'd be flicking them at people. Kroger and Prosper are looking at me with polite expressions of pained interest.

"The two of you live together, or so I've heard," Kroger says, changing tactics slightly.

Uh huh, and I can already see where this is going.

"Dirty Muggle custom, don't you think, living together outside of wedlock? I suppose the Zabini family isn't pureblooded?" Prosper puts in his own two-cents, tone all apologetic curiosity, as if he's really very sorry that he's being a racist jackass but just can't seem to stop himself.

I know I should just ignore the shallow, half-assed jab. But I'm already on edge and spoiling for a fight and I start to bristle but Blaise sets a hand on mine calmly, not even batting an eyelash. It's true that his family doesn't exactly have pure lines. He's only three generations pure, which isn't much considering some of the other lines, but he could give half a damn either way.

"Nothing near as spotless and pristine as the Malfoy clan." He says coolly, sitting back. "But I don't much aspire to be like them." His tone is neither too casual nor too uptight, just an even, unconcerned drawl. It helps me calm down a little. "I like Muggle customs."

That at least is true. He loves Muggle television. More than one of Blaise's friends has been body-slammed in the living room and asked if they 'smelled what the Rock was cooking'. He loves Spongebob Squarepants and was terribly disappointed when he found out that Star Trek isn't real. He has also recently discovered computer technology and, much to my dismay, has an enthusiastic, and completely shameless, taste for internet porn.

"You are not concerned with preserving our way of life? I thought that is what you studied." Kroger looks affronted.

Draco takes a gulp of wine, watching but not intervening. I don't like that he's removed himself from the conversation and, therefore, our attention. I can't tell if he wants this to play out or if he's collecting his self-control and planning his next move. Knowing him, he's going to want to punish me for pissing him off.

"I'm concerned with living my life in the way that I choose as best for myself, and for Hermione."

That is apparently exactly what Kroger was waiting for. He snaps his trap closed, now not just twisting words but manipulating the conversation to go exactly where he wants it. "And is that why you are unconcerned with War criminals who have gone unpunished since-"

I open my mouth, probably to say something disastrously rude, but Draco beats me too it.

"Hold that thought gentlemen, it looks like dinner is about to be served." He cuts it in smoothly, as unruffled as if he didn't just threaten to kill us all moments ago, and the waiters enter with the main course. I didn't see him do anything, but I'm certain Malfoy must have signaled them somehow.

Lobster tail, baked salmon roulade, and lamb loin chops. I've had fancy dinners before but this seems a bit wasteful. There's no way five people will be able to finish it all, and the leftovers will probably be thrown out.

"This looks lovely," Prosper says appreciatively as Kroger clenches his jaw in the disappointment of being cut off again.

Yes, why is Draco avoiding the War Crimes issue? Why isn't he holding it over my head to get what he wants like he did a minute ago? It's his trump card. He should be using it to its fullest extent. I can only guess that he has something else planned.

"Should I tell him I'm a vegetarian?" Blaise whispers in my ear, distracting me, and I giggle despite myself. "Or maybe I should ask if they have roast ferret on the menu."

I cover my choked laughter with a hand and belatedly notice Draco's eyes on us, his lip curled. "Something amusing?" he asks softly. The tone is Quiet Menace à la Snape. He has pulled it off masterfully. Our Potions professor would be so proud.

"Private joke," I respond blandly. As in, none of your damn business.

"Of course."

Beside me, Blaise jerks and lets out a low hiss. I glance at him but he shakes his head. He's tense—really tense.

Draco sets his napkin in his lap, smoothing it out before slowly looking up with knowing eyes. "Something the matter, Mr. Zabini?"

Blaise's face is suddenly pale and tight. He doesn't answer. He hunches over on himself slightly.

"Blaise, what's wrong?" I whisper, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"My hands," he grits out between clenched teeth. "They really really hurt." He's shaking, sweat beading his forehead. He shudders and closes his eyes.

"Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, Blaise!" I don't know what to do.

"What's wrong?" Draco asks sharply.

I barely keep from screaming 'you know exactly what's wrong!' but instead, find myself babbling. "He hurt his hands earlier today, burned them. I think it's getting worse!" Blaise makes a small sound, holding his gloved hands out in front of him, curling around himself. My voice rises in panic. "He needs help. He needs medical help right now!"

Draco nods curtly and makes a gesture to the waiters standing at the edge of the room, "There's a healer on duty in the office next door. They can take him there."

I lurch to my feet, nearly upsetting my chair and cup Blaise's elbow to help him stand. He's breathing in deep, pained gasps. Two waiters are at our side, leading us away.

I start to follow Blaise but a thought strikes me, and I turn back to the table. Kroger and Prosper look positively gleeful. Draco looks back at me, unsmiling but serene, still seated, unconcerned.

I can leave now if I want. He's not trying to stop me.

Or is he simply certain that I'll choose to stay?

I realize as soon as I think it, that I won't leave. I can't. Not while Kroger and Prosper are here to steal Draco's support. If I choose to leave, he might give them what they want just to spite me.

I set my jaw, furious.

It takes talent to force someone to do what you want without having to say a word.

I hurry and catch up to Blaise. "Blaise, I have to stay."

"No!" he gasps. "Don't stay here alone with him."

"He won't do anything to me, Blaise. He doesn't have the power, or the balls, to pick a fight with me. You'll be fine. I'll catch up with you later."

"Hermione!"

I feel so terrible for deserting him after he stuck by my side for so long. I'll have to make it up to him, but this is more important right now. Lives are at stake. "Go on." To the waiters I say, "Take care of him, please."

The door shuts, and there is only silence behind me. I turn without looking at any of them and calmly walk back to my chair. The blue pillowcase is still under Blaise's chair, I make a note to remember it, to make sure I throw the contents in Draco's face before I leave.

I stop at my chair, not sitting. "You've overstepped the bounds tonight, Malfoy." I say, low and fierce, my hands clenching so hard my nails are digging into my palms because my fingers are just itching to go for my wand. I'm disgusted with myself for leaving Blaise, for not doing more to protect him, for putting him in this position in the first place. "I want you to know that no matter what you decide tonight, we will survive. We want your support but not at any cost. You're already on shaky ground with us and if you push the envelope, I swear to Merlin, I'll. . ."

"He's going to be fine." Draco interrupts impatiently.

"He'd better." I say, clipped and cold, my eyes promising vengeance. I sit down, ready to get a few things out in the open. "I know you did this to him."

A small smile, eyes demurely on the salmon he's cutting. "He shouldn't have gotten in my way."

"You mean like she did?" I hiss, words dripping with malice. "Be very careful, Malfoy."

His knife and fork falter, his smile freezing on his face and I can almost hear him kicking himself for walking right into that one. "It's petty of you to keep bringing up the same old tired history over and over again." He drawls, not looking at me. "You cheapen it."

"I cheapen it?" Now I'm pissed. "I cheapen it? You think a day goes by that I don't think of it, you think an hour goes by that I don't agonize over it, you think I don't see her face every time I look at you, and you have the gall, you detestable little parasite, to call it cheap?" my voice is shaking, my lips peeled back in a snarl of absolute hatred. "We all know what you do to people who get in your way, Mr. Malfoy, but really, you already owe us enough. . ."

"I don't owe a damn thing!" he shouts, surprising me into silence. "He got what he wanted in return! He got, piece for piece, an even exchange."

"Bullshit."

"Then what do you call it, Miss Granger?"

"Less than what you deserve." I rap out brutally. "Less then what you owe. Give me what I want out of your obligation to do so."

He stares at me in shock and then throws his head back and howls with laughter. "Now you are cheapening it, using that to get what you want out of this situation." He chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm so proud." He sobers, eyes still laughing and puts his chin in his hand as he says snidely. "But I'm afraid I'm a business man and not much prone to flights of emotional diarrhea so you can forget any pretty little notions you have in your head of using such tactics to change my mind."

"Of course not, having a sense of shame would make you human." I dismiss.

Kroger is pleased. This looks to him like a turn of events in his favor. "Perhaps now is a good time to discuss the War-Crimes issue?"

"Yes, a good time," Draco agrees. He sets his fork down with a heavy clink and looks at me. "Hermione dear, you haven't touched your wine."

Nor will I if you insist on a debate, you prick. I pick up the glass and pretend to take a sip, the amused glitter in his eyes says that he isn't fooled.

"Yes." Kroger seems a bit confused by that bit of byplay but lets it go. "You see, Mr. Malfoy, during the war there were criminals other than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers. There was a group of dangerous vigilantes who took advantage of the state of chaos our world was in to plunder and steal. They wreaked havoc on the Ministry and killed Aurors. They terrorized Hogwarts and the general public. But when the war ended, they were not punished or even brought to trial. We would like to look into the cases of these vigilantes, and we even believe that we know the names of some of them."

"You do?" Draco asks.

"One of them is Harry Potter," Prosper whispers the name with all the terror of a wizard saying 'Voldemort'.

The Old Guard in the Ministry has hated Harry for years. They know how popular he is with the public. They know that if the public had their way, he would already be Minister. And that scares the hell out of them. This War Crimes bill is the Ministry's best chance of legally purging the wizard government of Harry and his supporters. Harry they'll kill if they can manage it,. while Malfoy they'll keep around for his monetary support. They hope to use the bill to paint us all as war criminals, to turn the public against us and sentence us all to jail time in Azkaban. With those marks against us, it is unlikely that those of us who make it out with our minds intact will be able to retain our status in the Ministry.

"You are not fond of Mr. Potter, are you, Mr. Malfoy?" Kroger asks with a greasy smile.

"No, I can't say I am. But I am not surprised that he is a War criminal. Are you, Hermione?"

I can only stare at him in horror. Is that what this is, Draco's revenge on Harry?

"You must excuse Miss Granger." Draco laughs when I don't answer. "She is very very loyal to Mr. Potter. She'd do absolutely anything he asked of her without a second thought. Even throw away everything she's worked for her whole life and live as a dumpy little intern with no future."

My face goes alternately hot and cold, and I already know that I'm not going to be able to hold my temper. I don't even think I'll try. "You. . . you nasty little pissant, you-"

Prosper interrupts my rage, suddenly convulsed by a violent fit of coughing.

He doesn't stop.

"Joel?" Kroger's patting him on the back.

Prosper just starts hacking harder, his whole body wracked. His face crimson and strained, wrinkled up like a prune, eyes tearing. He flutters his napkin to his mouth, and it comes away flecked with frothy red.

"What's going on?" I ask, alarmed.

"It must be something he ate," Draco murmurs softly. "Perhaps he was allergic to something in the fish."

Prosper is choking now, unable to breathe.

"Do something!" Kroger demands.

Two more waiters are suddenly at Prosper's side and helping him up. They half-carry, half-drag him away with Kroger following behind asking frightened questions. Kroger stops at the door and looks back at me but Draco snarls. "Leave."

Kroger's mouth trembles. "But Mr. Malfoy-"

"Go!"

And another waiter is dragging him away. The door slams shut and then the room is empty except for the two of us. I go rigid in my chair as the reality of my situation hits me right in the gut. My eyes fly to Draco. He smiles a little, chin resting on his knuckles again.

I can't believe this.

I start to jerk to my feet only to find that I can't. I'm stuck to my chair. Draco's eyes gleam.

"What the hell. . . ?" I struggle, and I can still feel the lower half of my body, but I can't get my legs to obey me. "Malfoy!" My heart is slamming in my chest and I fight to calm my breathing, to calm the quickly rising panic. I hate being helpless. I hate it.

I grab my wand out, but he was waiting for that. "Accio wand!" Just like that, it's gone, like grasping at the wind.

"You bastard! Let me go!" My voice cracks a bit at the end. I'm ashamed of showing my fear like that, especially since we both know that its not him that I'm afraid of.

"Calm down," he soothes. "Relax."

The doors open, and several waiters burst into the room in a flurry of activity, clearing away the other plates, taking the wine away and replacing it with a different corked bottle, dimming the lights, setting candles on the table along with several vases of roses, setting another plate in front of me, dessert it looks like, a slice of chocolate cake with, I kid you not, gold leafing on the icing, and a small scoop of chocolate ice-cream sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with caramel.

Then we are alone again, and I'm gawking at him.

"That," he pronounces, picking up the new bottle and popping the cork in a splash of bubbles, "was much easier than I ever thought it would be. I'm very disappointed in you, Hermione. Champagne?"

I stare at him. "You insane son of a bitch. What are you doing?"

"I'm having a romantic candle-lit dinner with you." He stands and strolls over to me and pours champagne into my glass.

"What about the war bill-" I start but cut off when I realize just how dense I've been. "You were against it the whole time. You just put up a fight to get me here."

"Yep." He looks deeply satisfied with himself.

"Because I didn't open your gift. . . ." He must have known from the start that Harry would send me. Harry would have had to send me.

"That's right." He leans his hip against the table. "See, in the beginning, I had this large, convoluted plot to trap you at Moody's place until you opened my gift. That place is practically impenetrable." He glances down to where Blaise abandoned the blue pillowcase on the floor. "But then I realized if I was going to trap you somewhere, it would be nice to be there with you, have some good food, a nice atmosphere. . ."

"So this whole set-up is just a big waste of my time?" I spit out, furious and increasingly desperate. I need to get out of here. I need to get out!

"Hermione," he sing-songs. "You only have yourself to blame, if you had just opened my gift, I never would have had to go to all this trouble." He sits with a flourish in the heretofore unclaimed third chair on my right and selects a long-stemmed rose from the nearest vase. "Of course I never imagined you would make it this simple. Either you're getting sloppy in your old age or," he brushes the soft petals of the rose over my cheek, "you wanted to be caught."

"I came here tonight for the bill! Because it affects us all!"

He ignores me. "Two years ago, I never would have been able to pull this off so easily. You would have come here tonight knowing more about my plans then I did. What the hell happened to you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I grit out and his expression shutters, darkening. He opens his sneering mouth to retort, and I yell, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

He freezes, as if sensing he should tread carefully, the rose's dark dusky petals pausing against my jaw-line, my face twisted in fury and more then a little pain, and he relents, "Then forget I said anything," he says very gently, setting the rose down. "Eat your dessert and give me your proposal on the bill."

My throat is oddly choked and for a wild, irrational moment I wonder if he's poisoned me like he did Prosper, but I breathe until the knot loosens and I start talking, start rattling off my speech on the measure and what it means for all of us and all the fine, logical reasons I wrote out a week ago as to why he should support Harry. My brain is running blank and my mouth is running on auto and my fingers are icy where they're clenched at my thighs, squeezing and rubbing as if to return the strength to my legs.

I'm such a coward.

He just watches me calmly the whole time as if fascinated, as if he's interested in what I'm saying when we both know he's not. When I finish, when I've completed my speech, summarized my points, repeated a few things to stall for time and then simply run out of things to say, he asks quietly, "Do you feel better now?"

I give him my best calm, in-control face. "Harry would like an answer on where you stand on the measure as soon as humanly possible."

He takes my cold hand, unclenches it from my dress and kisses my knuckles lightly. "I'll tell you my stance after we've finished dessert and you've danced with me."

I snarl, wrenching my hand from his grasp, wiping it on my dress as if I've touched something nasty. "So you're going to hold your support for Harry hostage against my good behavior?"

Anger flashes across his face, tightly controlled. "If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, then yes. I'm a bad, bad, evil man, and I'm going to feed you chocolate and get you drunk on champagne. I'm going to steal a dance and a few kisses and you're going to sit back and enjoy it but only because I forced you and then tomorrow you're going to swear up and down to Potter that you hate me."

I laugh, bitter, sharp. "I don't hate you, Malfoy. You're not that important. I feel nothing for you. Absolutely nothing." And I'm pleased when he flinches.

His mouth tightens into a thin line and he rasps, "Then tonight you're going to pretend that you do. You're going to pretend that you've loved me for years and you're going to do it in exchange for my support against the War Crimes bill."

I glare at him in outrage and utter black hatred, but can't find any words to answer with that won't make this situation worse. Eyes challenging, he picks up my fork and daintily cuts a piece of spongy chocolate cake, bringing it to my lips. I regard him with contempt for a long moment but finally open my mouth.

It's not fair. It's really not fair. He knows I'll go along with his sick demands in exchange for his support against the War Crimes bill. Worse, he knows I'll do it even though we both know he won't side against Harry even if I say no and walk out right now. He knows I'll do it and hate myself later. He knows I won't be able to forgive him or myself.

Merlin, is that what he wants?

The cake is absolutely the most delicious thing I've ever tasted, thick and rich. The creamy icing sticks to the roof of my mouth. Draco watches me, brooding silently and brings another small bite of cake to my mouth. I accept it, and he scoops up another piece for himself, sucking the last bit of thick frosting off my fork before getting another fork-full for me. I know it's my imagination that I can taste him on that next bite.

He's not talking, and I wish he would say something because the feeling of being trapped is suffocating. It's sense memory. It's in my bones, crawling along my skin, waking up instincts and memories of things I haven't voluntarily thought of in years. I half wonder if that is part of his intentions. He never does anything halfway and he also never does anything without two or three purposes behind it.

He continues feeding me, occasionally taking a bite for himself and a drink of champagne from my glass. Then he holds the champagne flute to my lips, and I take a sip, feeling the bubbles fizz across my tongue, mixing with the taste of chocolate and Draco and I wonder if he wants to get me drunk. I'm half tempted to let it happen. Then none of it will be my fault. He gently swipes a bit of frosting off my lips with his thumb then dips into my mouth so I can suck the chocolate off. He brushes his wet thumb over my lower lip and when he leans in to kiss me, I let him.

It's only a light kiss, very soft and chaste. It lessens the drag of panic, quiets the voice of memory. It always has. When he pulls back, his eyes have darkened, and his face is almost harsh. I focus on that instead, on the color of his eyes and the many shades of gold and cream and silver and white gleaming off his hair in the candlelight. He switches to a spoon for the ice-cream and shares it with me, but, by now, I'm more focused on him than the frozen dessert. More champagne, and I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. When he kisses me again, his lips are cold and taste like cinnamon.

He sets the silver spoon down. "Dance with me now."

There is light music filtering in from somewhere in the background. I don't remember when it started, but now that I'm listening, the notes are distantly familiar though I can't place the song. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet. Whatever spell had held me down falls away easily.

He wraps my arms around his neck until I'm flush against him and runs his hands up and down my sides before settling them low on my back. I don't resist, and I half expect him to gloat about it or something, but he doesn't, proving that he has grown smarter with age. We just kind of sway to the music, silent but not lost in thought. Thought is dangerous right now. Thought is what will come later, along with guilt, recriminations and hatred and rage. I close my eyes and stop thinking. Eventually my head rests against his breast, tucked under his chin. He hums to the music softly. I can feel his breath in my hair.

It's safe here. And quiet.

I tilt my face up and let him kiss me, this time not so nice or sweet, just hard and hungry, just a little bit of everything that had been denied. Another kiss, the brush of his tongue against mine, the press of memories, taste and scent and touch but they drown under another kiss, softer now but deeper. Time seems to skip out on me and the next thing I know, I'm backed up against the wall, Draco's mouth dragging hot, wet kisses up the line of my throat, my head spinning in a drugged haze. I'm not drunk, not even a little, but that's what it feels like.

"Stay with me, Hermione," he begs thickly in my ear. "Please, stay with me tonight."

And just like that, my pretty little illusion is shattered. He knows it too. I feel him go rigid even before I do. The instant the words left his mouth in that impassioned plea, he knew he'd botched it.

I shove him away hard, suddenly cold, my eyes like hard glass and everything I've buried so deep rampaging through my brain. It's like the veil has been dropped from before my eyes, like a switch in my brain has been flipped. I'm suddenly thinking clearly, seeing everything I've done over the past week in a new light. I'm seeing every mistake I made, every single stupid thing I did wrong.

I should have had the apartment warded against Apparation and teleportation. It's illegal to do it in an apartment complex, but I could have done it in such a way that no one would have ever known. It was stupid to leave my home wide open to anyone who wished to enter or send things. It could very easily have been a Ministry official and not Draco who took advantage of my laxity.

I should have put up a ward around the gift box the moment it appeared. I should have dissected the outer layer of spells. I should have made damn sure it could, in no way, touch, enchant, or harm Blaise. If it had been from someone else, that little bit of carelessness could have killed us both. I should have destroyed it, plain and simple. If I had wanted to, I could have, Draco's powerful protection spells notwithstanding. It would have taken powerful dark magic, but I could have done it.

Worst of all, I never should have come here so blindly. Draco owns this place, I'd bet anything on it. I should have prepared Dean, Blaise and Lavender with suitable defenses. I should have checked all of Draco's movements over the past month. I should have known who was coming, who he had talked to. And I should definitely have swept the room for enchantments before sitting down.

Just because the war was over, didn't mean I was safe.

"Hermione!" Draco's voice is calling me. I realize I'm clutching at my head.

I hear the swish of cloth as he moves, and I counter instinctively, driving my shoulder into his sternum hard. The next instant, he's on the floor and I have both our wands in my hand. "Touch me again, you die." My voice is soft, glacial.

He laughs, coughing slightly, grinning and breathless, clutching at his chest. "There's my girl," he says with relish. "I was beginning to fear that bullshit act of yours was real."

"Shut up. Just shut up! You've had your fun. Now tell me where you stand on the War Crimes issue." I have to hear him say it before I leave. I have to bind him to his answer. A good soldier always completes the mission. The mission comes first, even over one's own life.

I back away as he sits up, hand still rubbing his chest. "No, not yet. You haven't opened your gift."

"I'm not playing, Malfoy." All allies are potential enemies. Enemies are dealt with swiftly.

He shakes his head, smiling with self-deprecation. "I can tell. You look like you're done pretending to be a brainless little fop."

"Shut the fuck up," and I should have stopped there but I can't help blurting, "I don't like this person." She's cold, and she's ruthless, and she hates so passionately and she wants him.

He looks at me calmly. "I know, but I like her and she likes me. I think you should give her a chance."

"Listen you son of a bitch. . . ."

"Speaking of which, you know, my mother asks about you, sometimes. She wonders why you never come see her. I don't have the heart to tell her you'd rather pretend she was dead."

"Fuck you."

The grin turns feral. "You seemed happy enough about the idea a few minutes ago. If I hadn't pissed you off, I could have had your panties down around your ankles and been fucking you from behind, in short order. You'd have loved it."

I tilt my head slightly, no expression on my face. "You're being obvious, Malfoy. Stop trying to make me angry and-"

"You're just mad because that's what you wanted. You wanted me to fuck you while you could pretend it was coerced. We can still do it, you know. Potter will never know. No one will ever know." He says fiercely, then spits. "Hell, it shouldn't matter if they do! Why do you insist on this misplaced loyalty? Why do you have to punish yourself just to please the Golden Boy? You fawn on him like a dog."

"Maligio!" I'm screaming the word before I even realize I've pointed my wand at him.

I've completely snapped.

Draco is catapulted off the floor and slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He's lucky his ribs didn't crack. He sticks there, unable to move. I'm pissed, and I'm doing things I never wanted to do again. "Invalesco!" My wand flares red and begins humming. "Iuguolo!"

I can feel the painful buzz, the bitter taste of copper in the back of my throat, the dull roar in my bones as I unleash a wave of extreme Dark Magic. It's a familiar pain, and it's almost sweet.

The pillowcase and velvet present inside explodes with a screaming squeal and melts into an oozing black, bubbling puddle like toxic waste. The table catches the tail end of the spell and half of it collapses, folding in like a crumpled soda can.

Draco has gone very still, his expression calm but his eyes excited. He's even still smiling a little. I stride over, grab him and Apparate, smashing right through the Apparation shield around the restaurant.

It's oddly windy outside Ottery St. Catchpole.

I shove Draco to the ground in the middle of a grassy field, clumps of snow scattered in some places, under the only tree-a white asphodel-in the vicinity. I'm still shaking with fury and hurt, bleeding a little inside that he would tear open so many old wounds just to get a rise out of me. He knew what he was saying.

He laughs a little from his position on hands and knees, on the ground. "I haven't seen you like this since the Cantarain mission. It's invigorating!"

"I told you to shut up! You want to talk about loyalty, asshole? This is where my loyalty lies. Not with Harry, not with Ron, not with you. Here, with Ginny!"

He sits up on his knees. "Then kill me, if it will make you feel better. I can lie here with her. Poetic justice." He makes an expansive gesture, and I flinch hard, raising my wand.

"Don't you dare touch her grave." My voice is thick, and I say it again like I still can't believe it. "You killed her."

Draco's sneer suddenly melts. That cruel, mocking grin fades into tired, even bitter, lines. He stands slowly, and I let him because he's not looking at me. He's looking down at the headstone. "I never meant for it to happen. If I could have . . . if there was another way, Hermione, I would have done something, anything, I swear."

I have to scrunch my eyes shut tight and look away from him. "I know." A pause and then the truth, something he's deserved to know for a long time. "I never blamed you. When Harry told me, I believed you did it, and I hated you for it, but I also knew. . .with every fiber of my being. . .that if you could have taken her place, you would have. I knew it was unavoidable however it happened. I never doubted you."

There's a strange expression on his face as he absorbs that and I refuse to look too closely. "But Harry did. And Ron. And you thought she did too." He whispers mutely.

"And that was enough for me," I finish without a single ounce of remorse, but oceans of regret. "I was loyal to her."

We've never talked about this. We've never. . . not once. I've never even thought about how it must be for him but I find myself wondering now what he must think, what me must believe that I think. I'm half tempted to ask him, but only half tempted. It's still too painful.

"You were loyal to me, too." His eyes on me, softer now. "There was never anyone but me, was there?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Denial is my best weapon. My rage has worn off to exhaustion, and I can feel the raw sting of all my old scars like fresh wounds. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"See, there it is again, right there. Malfoy. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. Not Draco, not anymore. So determined to pretend you're two different people, that you lived two different lives. It doesn't work like that, Hermione. It won't change who you are, and it certainly won't erase the past." He reaches for his wand and I let him take it. "Advenio." And a box appears in his hands, a gift box identical to the one I blasted into black goo at the restaurant. "Good thing I have a spare, huh? Merry Christmas."

I take it from him hesitantly with a frown, feeling the soft velvet under my fingers.

"Bury it here, baby. I think she'll understand." He turns and walks away, Apparating out a few feet away, leaving me alone with the silver moon and a million uncaring stars.

I stare at the box, wondering whether or not I want to open it, wondering whether I can go back to pretending. I can feel my safe, solid world trembling, ready to come crashing down anyway. Maybe it's inevitable now.

I sit down on the cold earth, under the tree next to Ginny Weasley's gravestone, with my legs tucked under me. I could give half a damn about the dress. I take the loose ends of the bow between my fingers and pull, watching the knot slip apart like it never was, aware of the symbolism in doing so. I untie the gold thread and slip my fingers over the velvet to find the seams, carefully prying the corners loose and unfolding it. The box underneath is glossy white and unmarked.

Carefully, I lift the lid.

Inside, on top of artistically folded white tissue paper, is a large clear crystal, diamond shaped. It's a communication recorder for relaying messages.

Cautiously, I set it on its little stand, moving the wrappings out of the way and tapping the top of it with my wand.

The crystal immediately flares, the edges glittering prism-like. And an image of Harry appears. I go still, so horrified I'm nauseous, because that means Harry knows.

"Oh Hermione," the Harry image says so heavily that I want to shrink in on myself and disappear. He must hate me. He's got to hate me. I hate myself so much. . .

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I had no idea."

What?

I blink and look up at the image.

"When Malfoy came to me, I didn't believe him. I mean, I never believe Malfoy. It's just a rule somewhere, you know, I . . . and you . . . I didn't know Hermione. You never told me. You never seemed interested in anyone, not anyone. I never realized there was someone that you . . . loved. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize what I was doing. You have to understand, Ginny's death . . . it nearly killed me. There were nights when I just didn't want to wake up in the morning. I was just too selfish to realize that there were nights like that for you too. Hermione, if I'm completely honest with myself, and you, I never blamed Malfoy for Ginny's death. He was a scapegoat, a convenient target. He was someone to hate for what had happened. There was no way in hell he could have predicted the mission going wrong and even if he had, he probably would have died trying to save her, and I'm glad he didn't. I'm so glad because I never want you to feel what I felt when they told me Ginny was gone. Hermione, I'm not coming down to see you this Christmas. I want you to go out and do whatever it is you need to do, and I want you to know that you have my blessing . . . and I love you." his voice cracks and it spears through my heart.

Harry's image fades and Ron appears. He smiles a little shakily.

"You absolute nutter, Hermione, falling for a Malfoy. I thought I taught you better. Well, I'm not like Harry. I do blame Malfoy, I blame him for a lot of things, and I think I'll hate him for the rest of my life. But I also know it could have been anyone else, any one of us, in charge of that mission. I know he did what he thought was best. I know he didn't do it on purpose. I know he didn't, and I'm sorry I said those things. I don't care that he took it to heart, but I'm sorry you did too. Hermione, he told us about . . . about you two . . . during the war, and I realized. . . I realized how it must have been for you. And then I realized why you came out of it okay. That's what. . .that's what he was to you, what he did for you, and none of us knew. I didn't know. Look, I know Ginny doesn't blame Malfoy. I know she loves you. I know she will always love you. I know she wants you to be happy, and I want you to be happy too. Merlin, Hermione, more than anything I want you to be happy. Please . . . be happy." He takes a shuddering breath, " I'm taking Luna up for a little retreat this Christmas. I want you to get this whole mess straightened out while I'm gone. And I love you."

The crystal flickers, and the light dies, and it's like all the strength just drains from my body. I literally collapse onto the ground and curl up on my side, for a long time not making a sound. I'm numb, shaking and just. . .numb.

The War was a bad time for all of us, for Harry and our friends, especially once we realized that we could not count on the adults. That we couldn't count on anyone but ourselves. Towards the end, we weren't just Voldemort's enemy. We were seen as vigilantes by the Ministry, and as dangerous loose cannons by the public.

We had to go into hiding in the first few months of our seventh year. We would have been kicked out or arrested or assassinated in our beds if we had stayed.

Half of the kids had either been pulled out of Hogwarts or left of their own accord by then anyway. Many of them came to Harry to fight. I ended up in charge of furthering their education. I taught them everything I could. I taught them the Dark Arts. I taught them how to fight, how to kill, how to survive.

That's who I really am, not the bumbling Ministry intern who studies experimental magick and goes home everyday to her dingy apartment in a college neighborhood. I'm a war veteran, a master of the Dark Arts, and I sold out on all of my ideals and dreams a long time ago. And it's so hard to just pretend to be normal, to pretend I don't still have nightmares, to pretend I haven't killed people, to pretend I've never cast Dark Magic, to pretend I don't wake up in the middle of the night aching for the man who killed my best friend.

Back then, I lived every day expecting to die. There was no thought of what life in the future would be like. There was no thought of a 'better tomorrow.' There was only 'today' and finding enough food, staying warm, finding clothes and shelter, providing for those under our care and burying the ones who had died. I never believed that I'd live through the war. I never once dared to imagine that my life now, living in a comfy home with a steady job, was possible. I never believed there was more in store for me then blood and death and darkness.

That was my lot in life and I accepted it. I had to.

We had all dealt with the stress and horror in our own ways. Harry became a chain-smoker. Ginny got pregnant early on. She had the baby, Lillian Jean, who is now five-and-a-half, before she died, making Harry a single father. Ron fought or fucked anything that moved. I'm fairly certain he even slept with Blaise once. Blaise was never a part of the war. He was a civilian, but he hinted once that he might have slept with Ron. I think he wanted to know if I felt weird about that. I flat out told him that I don't.

The boys did their thing. They just never knew that I was doing my own. I was fucking Draco Malfoy.

It wasn't a relationship, or, to call it a relationship would be greatly misleading. We hardly ever even spoke to each other really, except for that first time, afterwards when he'd held me pinned up against the wall, face hidden against my throat, pants around his ankles, still inside me, my body throbbing and I still wasn't sure what the hell had just happened. He had said, "Sorry. I'm sorry."

But I didn't care, and he never apologized again.

After missions, always after missions, other times I'd just go walking until I met him. We never had an appointed time or place. Hard, fast, somewhere no one would ever catch us, sometimes up against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, teeth clenched, head back while he took mouthfuls of my throat, sometimes shoved face-down on the floor with him on top of me, his breath harsh in his throat, sweat dripping down on my back, his fingers biting into my hips, pounding me into the ground. A few times, memorably, like lovers in my bed, completely naked and slower than usual but still no words, no feelings, nothing but release before we both got up and walked away.

That makes it sound cold and meaningless. That makes it sound like it was all about sex.

It wasn't.

It was ours.

It was something good that was just ours, something that we could count on and look forward to, something that wasn't about hate or pain. Best of all, it was something that made us both feel needed, that let us feel important to someone else, while at the same time giving us someone to need, to cling to when things became unbearable. It wasn't a relationship, it wasn't anything, it defied categorization, but it was more meaningful to me then most of the relationships I've had in my entire life.

I said there were no words, but there were no words because none were needed, he comforted me with his body, there were no feelings because we both knew we were going to die and I didn't want to cry for him anymore than I wanted him to cry for me, there was nothing but release because we were both so young, I don't think either of us knew how to deal with it beyond that.

But we needed it. Merlin, we needed it.

Ron and Harry never knew, not because I was trying to hide it—I wasn't—it just wasn't important enough to be mentioned.

Then the war had ended, and so had we. I had no idea what to do with myself those first few months of peace. I think we were all a little lost. And he and I just never looked back. I don't think I wanted to. It was like it had never happened, and I think in this reality, this place where I'm just a fresh-faced intern, it didn't.

We didn't see each other until two years later, and that was an accident. A lunch date. I had been there to see Mandy Brocklehurst, now Mandy Corner, and Michael Corner. Draco showed up with Millicent and Terry Boot. Neither of us had acknowledged the other. It had really been as though nothing had ever happened, as if we were complete strangers meeting for the first time. I enjoyed the lunch date, had a good time talking with everyone and when I rose to leave early for an appointment, bidding them all goodbye. He had slipped me a folded napkin with a note written in blue ink.

I want to see you again.

Somehow, I knew he didn't mean for a quick fuck up against a wall.

We met the next day at the same park bench and we just . . . we just spent the day together and did things like hold hands as we walked. And we talked about things no one else understood, and I sat wrapped in his arms when the sun set, and then we dressed up for no reason, and went to an expensive restaurant for dinner, and had salmon and truffles and Gorgonzola stuffed dates and when he dropped me off at my apartment afterwards . . . he kissed me goodbye, chastely. The kind of sweet, first-date kiss I'd never had from him, and it was better than perfect, sweet and warm and chocolaty from the dessert we shared at the restaurant. And I swear, my legs turned to jello and my heart did a little flip. He tried to flash me his most devastating smile as he left but it deteriorated into a ridiculous lop-sided grin, and I floated up the stairs with his promise to see me again the next day still ringing in my ears.

I was so high up there on Cloud Nine that when Harry called, I told him that I'd spent the day with Draco and giggled about it like a stupid smitten schoolgirl.

Harry had been pissed. Beyond pissed. He'd said things to me that I'm not sure I'll ever forgive him for, even knowing they came out of grief. And then he told me the truth about Ginny, something only Ron, Harry, and Draco knew and had kept to themselves to avoid dissension in the ranks. He told me how Ginny had died because of Malfoy, how it was his fault. He hadn't done his job as Squad Leader, and she'd paid the price. He even implied that if I had been around at the time, it might not have happened.

"If he's a traitor, Harry, why isn't he dead?" I had cried.

"We needed him." Was the simple, clipped reply.

"Do you want me to kill him?" I asked, completely serious. It didn't matter that I thought I was completely in love with him already. It didn't matter that I wanted to see him again so bad I ached.

"No, he's holding an important office."

"I won't ever see him again, Harry. I promise."

If that wasn't bad enough, only fifteen minutes later, Ron floo'd to my place in full battle mode, screaming at me for my stupidity. I ended up begging his forgiveness, begging Ginny's forgiveness. Ron ended by saying that if he ever caught me with Malfoy, then I was the traitor.

And that was it.

I never told them about my time with Draco during the war, and I never told them that he'd kept me sane, that he'd held me on the worst nights. I was ashamed of that. I knew they'd hate me if they ever found out, but that wasn't what stopped me. It was the thought that Ginny would hate me, that I was betraying Ginny-that stopped me.

I think that was the worst moment. The moment when I realized I still loved him. He'd murdered Ginny and I still loved him. I haven't been able to look Mrs. Weasley in the face since. On bad days, I can't even look myself in the face.

The next day, when Draco arrived with a dozen roses in hand and a smile on his face, I calmly told him that it was his fault that Ginny was dead and that I'd gladly fuck him up and kill him if Harry or Ron ever gave the word.

Draco hadn't taken it well, but at least he hadn't screamed at me. He just never let me forget, which was really all I wanted to do. I wanted to forget it all.

It was so ironic. I had saved Ginny's life twice. I had fought for her, cheated death to keep her alive and won. Afterwards she laughed and called me her guardian angel. Then two months later she was dead at the hands of one of our own. Why had I been able to save her if she was only meant to die? Was that meant to be? Was that fate saving her because she was destined to be killed by Draco?

My best friend and my lover both ripped from me in a single, nasty trick of fate.

And now to have it all forgiven. . . .

I don't think I can face Draco. I can't. Not after everything I did to him, how I treated him. That was a betrayal in and of itself. I'm not sure I can live with it, but I know I can't forget.

Maybe Draco is right. Maybe it is time to bury it.

Hollow-eyed, I slowly and meticulously pack the crystal back into the box, fold the velvet back around it and tie it closed. My fingers are cold but steady. I use my bare hands to dig a hole in the hard grave soil, tearing my fingernails and caking my skin with grave dirt. And I bury the box there. I bury my past. I bury all my stupid pretenses and the coward I seem to have become. I bury it all, and I say a prayer for Ginny. Afterwards, I clean myself off with a flick of my wand and Apparate home. A part of me is just kind of quietly glad that the whole ordeal is over.

It's over. It's finally over.

I appear in the entryway of my apartment and instantly take a jerky step backwards in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, I think I've misjudged and ended up somewhere other than my apartment.

But no, it's my place.

It's been transformed. Blinking, glittering, stuffed with Christmas decorations. The walls are hung with Christmas tapestries and wreaths. Poinsettias plants and little Christmas place mats sit on the counter. Candles and snowflake dishtowels decorated my kitchen. Christmas figurines and snowmen and reindeer cover every flat surface in the living room. There is a huge Christmas tree in the far corner of the living room, decorated with a myriad array of ornaments and gold and silver tinsel, a bright star on top and blinking lights, stacks of presents beneath it. The house smells of pine and cinnamon. A little miniature train chugs along a set of tiny tracks that loop around the room, and a fire burns cheerily in the hearth.

I take it all in wonderingly, circling the room slowly to examine every last detail until I realize I'm not alone.

I just about jump right out of my skin, giving an undignified squeal.

Draco is sitting in the armchair. I really should have expected him to be here, but I didn't, so I only stare at him, probably looking like a complete idiot. He just cocks an eyebrow at me coolly, lounging in the chair, completely relaxed, even in a place he's never been before, wearing dark cotton slacks, a green knit sweater, that looks a hell of a lot like a Weasley sweater, with a Christmas tree on the front, a new candy cane poking out of his mouth, and wire-rim glasses perched on his nose.

What in the hell?

"Hey sweetie," he says, really gently, probably because I look like I'm about to fall apart. My insides have just crumbled into weepy bits. "Home for the day?"

For a minute, I think I'm dreaming. I think I'm seeing what life would have been like if the war had never happened. Because this . . . this was never in the cards for me. I was supposed to die in the war. I was supposed to be a bookish intern and grow old alone. I was never supposed to get to keep Draco Malfoy.

But this is real.

I feel myself wobble as the blood drains from my face, and he rises in alarm to grab hold of me before I collapse.

"Whoa! Hey, Hermione, baby, are you okay?"

I haven't cried in years, not since Ginny's death, which is funny because I was such a crybaby as a little girl, but I just can't help it now. I curl into him and hold on for dear life and just sob. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," into his shoulder.

The only words I manage to choke out and they're meaningless. They don't come anywhere close to expressing what I really want to say, what I really feel. My throat is clogged with confessions, so many that they fill my chest and squeeze around my heart till I can't breath, and the same stupid words just keep pouring out of my mouth.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I am sorry. I'm sorry for trying to forget him. I'm sorry for telling him he was nothing to me. I'm sorry for abandoning him, for making him depend on me and then deserting him. I'm sorry for taking him in when we needed him and then kicking him out when we were through using him. I'm sorry he couldn't trust me enough to tell me about Ginny. I'm sorry that he was right not to tell me.

He's not the traitor. I am.

There's so much there and so much more and I want to tell him so badly but I'm crying to hard.

He holds me, sitting down in the armchair with me in his arms, and for the longest time, just strokes my hair, murmuring that everything is fine, everything is going to be okay. And it's so good because he feels and smells and sounds exactly the same and I never imagined I would ever have this again.

When I can control myself and not act like a stupid, hysterical female, I take several deep breaths and raise my head. He's looking at me so tenderly with those blue-gray eyes, dips forward to kiss the tip of my nose, my forehead. You wouldn't know that bully, braggart, egotistical fucked-up peacock Malfoy could be so gentle.

It's been two years since he's looked at me like that. I nearly break down again, force my shaking shoulders steady on a deep breath and touch his face. "I thought you wouldn't want me anymore. I . . . what I did . . . I'm sorry. You didn't deserve any of it."

But I had to. I want to add, but don't because that's a lie. I didn't have to do it. I did it because I was afraid.

I'm absolutely ashamed of the way I treated him. For two years I acted like he was some kind of sick, stalker freak. I flaunted my relationship with Blaise in his face, led him to believe Blaise and I were lovers. I cursed him and myself and wished I'd never met him and, worst of all, I forgot him. I did it because I would have gone crazy otherwise. Looking at him, wanting him, it would have driven me mad. So I hated him instead.

He smirks a little. "You wouldn't be my 'Mione if you weren't incurably stubborn. I mean, look what I had to go through today just to get you to open a little box."

I laugh, watery, weak, and then my smile fades as the reality of what he had to do to get those crystals sinks in and if I wasn't already sitting, I think I would have fallen.

"You went and saw Harry and Ron!" I gasp softly, my eyes huge with wonder and shaken with fear. "You told them everything."

He nods, face sober.

He went to Harry and Ron. He went, literally and figuratively, into the lion's den and told two men who would much rather murder him then speak to him that he'd been fucking me during the war, before and after he'd killed Ginny, and that he wanted to fuck me again.

I can't even begin to comprehend the courage it must have taken for him to do that. I certainly didn't have that courage. I lied to everyone, including myself, saying I wasn't hiding our relationship when all I did was treat him like a dirty secret, like our relationship wasn't as important to me as Harry and Ron's.

And this is the second time. This is the second time he's gone to them with a confession and put his life in their hands.

What had that first time been like for him? Coming back from the mission and having to tell Harry that he'd killed Ginny. Ginny who was Ron's sister, the mother of Harry's child and his own lover's best friend. And yet, that's exactly what he did. He didn't mince words. He'd gone in there and taken full responsibility.

He was lucky to come out alive that first time, and yet he'd gone back again. . .for me.

"They could have killed you! Merlin, Draco, how. . . how did you convince them to let you go? How did you convince them to let us. . ." I trail off, tracing his features with my fingers, savoring it because I could have very well lost him to their rage.

How did he convince them? I can imagine him tricking them into promising not to kill him beforehand, I can imagine him spinning fairy tales—telling elaborate lies. But I don't think he did. Not with this.

He rests his forehead against mine. "I just convinced them that if they killed me, you'd never forgive them."

I shudder because it's true and it's something I don't like to look at too closely, that in losing one I could have lost them all. I pull back slightly. "How can you forgive me so easily?"

He sighs softly. "I understand, Hermione. I understand why you did it. I even agreed with you a little. Didn't like it, but I agreed." And there's another flash of deep remorse. He regrets what happened to Ginny so badly but he had no one to help him or comfort him or forgive him. He fought beside us for years. But he was never really one of us, we never let him in. And then when we didn't need him anymore, we ditched him.

"I missed you." I hug him so tightly, just greedy for the feel of him.

"Yeah, I missed you too, real bad." He hugs me back. "Did you bury it?"

I rub my face against his shoulder. "I buried it all."

"Good . . . good."

I lean up to kiss him but pause because he pops the candy cane back in his mouth and smirks at me wickedly from behind his glasses, like the little piece of candy is going to deter me. I love that sweater-and-glasses look on him. It's boyish and harmless and perfectly at odds with the bastard he truly is.

I steal the candy cane from him, slipping it wetly from his lips to slide it between my own. It's warm from his mouth. It's one of the really sweet candy canes, not the regular flavor. I like these best, and I wonder if he knows that. I take a last lick and toss it onto the coffee table, not wanting to get candy cane in my carpet, and when I turn back around he wrenches me forward.

His lips are sticky, and his mouth is sweet. I suck the flavoring away, wanting to taste what's underneath, and it's better than chocolate, better than candy cane. He touches my face, undoes the tie in my hair so that it falls down around my shoulders, tangles his fingers in it. He has a thing for my hair. It's so bad it could be termed a fetish. I always thought he picked on my hair because he knew I was self-conscious about it. It took me a long time to realize he was just a sicko who liked running his hands through my hair while we did it.

He kisses me hard and aggressively and holds me tight, but his hands aren't moving, just clenching and unclenching in my dress and I know him-he's holding back. He's not going to push me any further than I want to go. It's sweet but I don't want him to be careful right now.

I turn in his arms, sliding my knee over his legs so that I'm straddling him, making my dress ride up. I'm probably wrinkling the hell out of it, but I don't care. He growls against my mouth and tightens his grip on me. His hands go to my hips, and he pulls me down on him harder.

I wiggle a little, and he makes a choked sound against my mouth and groans, "Slow it down."

"Shut up." He's such a blabbermouth. Likes to hear himself speak.

I'm shaking now at the feel of him, heat coiling in my belly, the ache that wakes me in the middle of the night from dreams of him. He slides a hand up and down over my back, over my bottom to tug my dress up. Then his hands slide over my panty-clad bottom. I have a brief flash of panic wondering what kind of underwear I had put on that morning, but his tongue in my mouth drives the thought away. Likes to be in control too, the bastard.

I bite his bottom lip, wrapping my arms around his neck, nipping kisses down his throat. I remember this taste, salty and sweet, and that warm scent that's pure Draco. He smells like expensive cologne and pine needles. I collapse against him with a whimper and suck on his pulse point.

I remember he stayed with me the whole night the day Ginny died. At the time I didn't know he was responsible for her death. We didn't talk about it. I cried a little. He didn't hold me or try to comfort me in any way, but he laid in my bed, lost in himself, his eyes far away seeing things that I'm glad I never saw, and I didn't comfort him even though it registered with me that he felt something. Whether it was grief, or responsibility, or sorrow, or just horror at what he'd done. He felt something for Ginny Weasley's passing.

My hands find their way up his shirt, and I giggle when I feel the button-down collar-shirt underneath the sweater, completing the 'harmless' look. I'd even bet that it's pastel. His skin is warm, winter-warm, the warm of body-heat trapped under a sweater, and I trace over his skin slowly, reverently, as I've done a million times before. I know every dip and curve and every place that makes the muscles underneath jump and twitch. I rake my fingernails over his nipples while leaving a bruising mark on his throat with my teeth, and he smacks my ass in retaliation.

I don't think I will ever know the details of Ginny's death. We don't really have details. All we have is Draco's perspective on what happened. A perception. One flawed perception. And he, more than anyone else, will always wonder at what point he went wrong, just when the mistake that sealed Ginny's fate was made. He'll wonder if it could have been avoided. If maybe if he'd slowed down or sped up if he could have missed fate's head-on collision. He'll wonder if she suffered, and if she hated him in her last moments.

And he'll always think 'It happened so fast'.

I've got to get his shirt off now or I'm going to go crazy. He lifts his arms and lets me peel the sweater off. The button-down is pale blue and sort of starchy. I glare at him because I know he'll want me to undo every single button and let him wear the shirt open. He thinks he looks sexy like that, pastel or no, but there's no way I have the patience right now. I simply grab it and muscle it up over his head, managing to get it off of him with a muffled yowl and minimal struggle, though the glasses are gone now, tangled up in the shirt on the floor

Draco Malfoy by firelight is a beautiful thing, that heavy-lidded smug look on his face says he knows it too. He's not a big, broad-shouldered He-man, but he's not one of those really skinny guys either. He's perfectly proportioned; his skin is soft at the surface, hard underneath, muscles clearly defined. I run my hands over his chest and he just sits there, still being passive, letting me play a little, kissing the top of my head as I lick the flesh over his heart. I trace his collarbone with my tongue, liking the purr that rises in his throat, and kiss my way down to scrape my teeth over his nipples, there are reddening scratch marks from my nails. I soothe them with kisses.

I remember the day his father died. How he fucked me in the shower with the water running down his face so I couldn't tell if there were tears. How he drove into me so hard that I couldn't tell whether he was breathing hard from exertion or emotion, whether the agonized look on his face was pain or pleasure. I remember I had kissed his face and tasted salt.

His hands have moved up to my waist, smoothing up under my dress. I start to casually twist out of his grasp, but he's having none of that. He pulls me upright and jerks my dress over my head. And that's it. He's done letting me have my way. My parking meter has officially expired. He kisses me again, distracting me, while he unclasps my bra. Most guys never figure that out, but Draco has it down to an art. Two flicks of his finger and he's pulling it off my shoulders, down my arms, tossing it across the room. I can't even do it that easily.

I expect him to touch my breasts, but his hands brush over my ribs, over my belly, and further down. He touches me and the muscles in my thighs quiver. His fingers trail wildfires, and I cry out, his name falling from my lips.

"Good girl." He murmurs against my lips. Damn, mother fucking conceited bastard. He peppers my face, my neck, with kisses, and I slump against him trembling. "Shh, it's okay."

He's lifting me up, still kissing me, carrying me in his arms to lay me down in front of the fire. There's something soft beneath me-a furry blanket, or rug, or something.

"This is kind of a cliché isn't it?" I ask, rubbing at the fur. It's white.

"Shut up." He kisses me. "I could have taken you to the dungeons in the Mansion, you know. This is nicer."

"Spoiled brat." I clench one hand in his hair. It's so silky. I envy him that. "I'd like to . . . ah . . . seeeeee you in . . . in chains." I groan when he bites my neck, leaving a mark only to soothe it with his tongue an instant later.

He raises his head to give me an impatient look, candy cane back between his lips. "My mansion. My dungeon. I say who gets . . . AHH!"

I snicker. He didn't see my hands moving south. I watch the play of expressions over his face. He's so beautiful when his face softens like this.

"Can I have you?" I whisper, not sure where that came from. "Can I keep you?"

His eyes open to give me a piercing look, "The world, baby. It's all yours if you want it, but you gotta come live with me. No more of this shacking up with that asshole Zabini. He's lucky I don't kill him."

I snort. "Oh please, Blaise is-"

He mashes his mouth over mine, cutting off my sentence, candy cane between our lips. I can taste it. "I don't want to hear about Blaise!" he growls and then there are no more words, no more memories, nothing and no one else exists. The world has narrowed down to here and now and this sweet rhythmic urgency and I love the look on his face, the fierce concentration, the way his brow crinkles or softens as he shudders with pleasure. I love the sounds he makes, the soft gasps, the heavy grunts, the whispers, feather-light against my skin, endearments, encouragements or dirty promises.

I hold him in the aftermath, caressing his sweat-slicked body, running my fingers through his soft hair, feeling his breath against my skin from where his head is cradled against my chest. I cry a little, just a few, silent tears.

I remember the last time, the very last time before the last battle, how tight he held me, face buried in my hair, a Latin hymn of protection whispered there. It was fierce and it was almost tender. He pulled back and looked at me, looked at my face so intensely, fingers tracing over my cheeks. It took me a moment to realize he was saying goodbye.

But maybe it wasn't a forever goodbye.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was one of those meant to be things after all. Maybe all my roads lead to Draco. I chuckle a little at the thought, and he stirs finally to press his lips to my cheek and whispers in my ear, "You'll move in with me?"

"Yes." Though it is unfair of him to ask me that while I'm basking in the afterglow. That could be called manipulation.

A moment of thoughtful silence, another kiss before he rests his cheek against my forehead. "Are you going to fight with me about the House-Elves?"

I'm startled into laughter. "I'll pick my battles, I promise."

"Hmm." Suddenly serious, looking down at me, stroking my face, he says, "I think . . . I think we need to talk about a few things. About the war. About some of the things we did. About some of the things that happened. I think we have some issues we need to work out, and maybe you'll feel better if we talk about it, all of us, Harry and Ron too. Maybe. . .maybe then it'll stop eating away at you inside. And. . ." He trails off quietly and I know, with a hushed sort of calm, what he's going to say next. "And I want to tell you about Ginny." He says softly, almost hoarsely and those blue-gray eyes have an expression of bleak desolation in them that I've never seen before.

I nod slowly but put my fingers to his lips, smiling a little. "Not yet." I whisper and draw him back down to me. "Not yet."

He clings to me, and I know he's more afraid of telling me then he ever was of telling Ron and Harry. But he can't run anymore. And neither can I.

I rock him in my arms, taking comfort as much as giving it. I'm terrified of what tomorrow will bring. Terrified of everything we will have to face. Our friends, our mistakes, our guilt, our past, our ghosts, ourselves. What if I can't forgive him when he tells me about that day?

What if I can't love him like I love him right now?

I lift his face with my fingertips and kiss him desperately, imprinting the feel of his soft, sweet mouth on mine firmly in my brain.

I don't know what's going to happen next. I don't know what's meant to be. I don't know what tomorrow will bring or where I'll be next week or next month or a year from now.

All I know is that, until then, until fate comes for me, until destiny drags me bodily away, until 'meant to be' is meant for someone else, I mean to be right here, with him.

-finis-

Requested by: Lara

Pairing: Draco/Hermione or Blaise/Hermione

Rating: R-NC-17

3-5 things to include:

1. Post-hogwarts

2. Blaise in a Santa suit

3. Draco in wire-rim glasses

4. Something naughty with candy canes

5. Present in a velvet box

Things not to include:

Nothing too depressing.