Disclaimer: "Tell me am I right to think that there could be nothing better . . ." . . . than owning Harry Potter? I'll go ask Jo and let you know.

A/N: Here it is . . . the long awaited Hermione edition of Nothing Better. Thanks for your patience, thanks for not getting too annoyed with the redundancy, thanks for letting me experiment, and thanks most of all . . . for reading! This story is now complete. Check out Boy Wants Girl on my profile page for some Lavender/Draco resolution in the Nothing Better universe. Once again, song inspiration from which some lines are taken: Nothing Better by the Postal Service.

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Nothing Better - Hermione

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Could you blame her? Honestly, could you? He was a fully fledged adult – passed the test, got the badge and everything – and was a rational, reasonable man with good sense, more or less, kind of, when the occasion calls for it. In theory, he should have known better – but in practice it appeared that he did not.

She jinxed him. What else was she supposed to do? Sit there and watch that tramp run her hands all over his (HER) body and run her lips all over his (HER) face without reacting like any other warm blooded female would when her territory (feminism be hanged for the moment) had been compromised?

So naturally, she jinxed him. She would have hexed her but she figured the way that skin tight skirt was digging into her hips and its unflattering violet tinge that made her look like an eggplant was punishment enough. Honestly, who dresses like that?

She thought maybe it was a fluke, an illusion, her eyes must be playing tricks on her, but when she showed up to double check and that trollop was touching HER man in places only SHE was allowed to touch, she knew her eyes did not deceive her. . . he did.

There was a time when she would have given him the benefit of the doubt, because she trusted him THAT much, and she would have sat at home, waited patiently, perhaps with a cup of tea, until he returned to her home (their home?) to explain. Of course, his explanation would be completely satisfactory and no conclusions would have been jumped to; they would've finished their tea with friendly conversation and then retire to the living room to watch the telly for a little bit before adjourning to the bedroom for other more interesting nocturnal activities . . .

Of course, that was then. This is now.

Now, not only did she jump to conclusions, she stole Harry's Firebolt and raced towards them with lightning speed. He did it . . . AGAIN!

Oh how she hated that floozy – she was always ruining things! In the beginning, she wrote it off as a juvenile relationship based off of lust, nothing substantial, not like what she and he have (had); it was just a high school fling!

But then she came back into their lives – his life; her life – like a hurricane, turning things upside down, destroying relationships, wreaking havoc on hearts; Lavender Brown is just a natural disaster!

Even then, two incidents couldn't exactly be classified as random but not necessarily related. In fact, Hermione felt pity for her – pity that in her desperation, Lavender felt the need to satisfy her own insecurities with a man that was unavailable and thus ruin what little equilibrium and happiness he (they) had at the moment. Hermione, though not without plenty of tears and a day to regroup, forgave him quite easily and even forgave her only under one condition, however:

He must never, ever, EVER see her again.

Scientists and skeptics would agree that an event occurring once is random, twice: possibly correlated but most likely not; thrice: fact.

And as they always say: third time's the charm . . .

She saw them in a lip-lock and her mind went reeling back in time to the first time she saw them kissing and oh how it hurt; the third time; the fourth time; the last time . . . and again, oh how it hurt!

This time there was hurt, yes there was hurt, but more so . . . anger. She was angry, furious, and irate even – at him, her, herself, the nagging doubt in the back of her mind . . . and least likely of all, Draco Malfoy.

Because right now (RIGHT NOW), in the midst of everything that had nothing to do with him (nothing?), she's thinking about him. Her traitorous, hypocritical mind is thinking of another man while she's breaking up with another.

But why would she be angry with Draco Malfoy, of all people? It's simple, really – the offer. The simple little offer that at the time of delivery didn't mean very much to her; she thought it was just a nice gesture, a friend trying to cheer up another friend, he didn't mean it. Then she realized just how much he really did mean it and she felt simply awful for not realizing before that he cared for her like that; never realizing he was in love with her.

Every (EVERY) time she and Ron had a fight, her mind would always bring up him – a simple, effective way out . . . a way to end it all. A cop out, an escape route, a plan B so to speak . . .

She hated him for it. She absolutely hated him for the fact that her own mind would betray her heart like that; to think of running off with another man just when things got difficult.

And she hated him right now (RIGHT NOW) that she could . . . she very well could run off with him right now (RIGHT NOW) and never have to think of that red headed boy who always got under her nerves, and into her nerves, who set off her nerves, who taught her nerves . . . it was just all so . . . unnerving!

So unnerving in fact that she didn't realize she had Apparated home; began packing her things (why packing? Something to do); sobbed on Ginny's shoulder; paced and muttered; muttered and paced. Her mind was completely on auto-pilot, she had no sense of what she was doing or saying or packing or who was even in the room with her.

That is until he showed up – banging on the door like a drunken oaf who'd locked himself out. The door was unlocked! He has a key!

Obviously, she wasn't the only one not thinking clearly.

He banged on the door relentlessly, yelling through the solid oak, not even caring about the neighbors, embarrassing himself as well as her . . .

She stood there calmly with her arms crossed waiting patiently for him to finish his tantrum.

"Hermione! Open the damn door! You're freaking overreacting!"

Overreacting? Overreacting! Hermione thought she was under-reacting considering the fact that she just caught her boyfriend of five years cheating on her with HER! And instead of hexing her to oblivion and ripping out his tongue and using it as a door stopper, she was pacing in her home, keeping her emotions in check (more or less, muttering excepted) so she wouldn't behave irrationally for when he did finally show up . . .

"Overreacting indeed," she whispered through the crack of the door.

SLAM!

And his possibly broken nose be damned . . .

She smiled darkly, feeling the same mild amusement and sense of accomplishment she felt the last time she resorted to physical violence – only, that time it was on a blond ferret not a ginger haired WEASEL!

Both are vermin, same difference.

She went back to packing when he finally entered like a civil, well mannered, English gentleman and not the dimwitted troglodyte he usually reverted back to under high emotional duress. You would think he would have learned by now that his temper gets him nowhere with her . . .

But Ron Weasley is not known as a man of thinking but as a man of action. Which is probably why, rather than calling Hermione's name to get her attention like a sensible person, he snorted. Perhaps he was amused by a joke he heard earlier or the ironic twist that his life had taken in the past two hours or more likely, the way Hermione's hair bounced around while she packed mechanically, whatever it was, it made him snort and that was not the best way to get her attention.

"Git," she said under her breath which caught in her throat when she heard him speak.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure." She replied honestly. Just why was she packing all her things anyways? She lived here technically; he did not, technically. Maybe it was because he still had dirty jumpers strewn about the place, or that his socks were hidden underneath the bed, or the Quidditch poster that hung inside the bathroom door, or the hundreds of other reminders of him in her apartment alongside the millions of memories she had of him (them) inside the apartment that would only haunt her if she continued to live in there. Maybe she just needed to get away and she was never known to pack light?

"Why not Ginny and Harry's?"

"Because you could show up any time." She didn't mean to snap and almost regretted it immediately, especially when she saw the pain flicker in his eyes. Almost.

"Your parents?"

"So they can criticize me and rub this whole situation in my face?"

Oh how she did NOT want to deal with her parents at this moment . . . He brought up a good point. She didn't have very many places to go . . . Really, the only other option was . . .

"Where are you going to go?"

. . . Draco's.

"I was thinking Draco's." Oops.

The door slammed again. Hermione winced.

"Wh-wh-why? Why would you go to him? Why?"

She knew it would get a rise out of him but she didn't mean to say it to harm him . . . Granted, that ridiculous feud from Hogwarts never left them, even after ALL they'd been through, and it was too much to ask Ron to be Draco's friend and it was too much to ask Draco to stop calling Ron poor and . . .

She didn't think saying his name would hurt him but she had to press on – you make a decision, you stick to it . . .

"Oh, you know. He's been after me for ages now and I've always turned him down, because, you know, I was with you and all –" she paused to realize speaking in the past tense was harder than she thought "– but now, I think I might take him up on his offer."

"So what? You're leaving me for Draco Malfoy?" He looked indignant, jealous, upset, hurt. But mostly jealous.

"Well, he's certainly better company than you!"

Being the amazing man of action that he is, Ron threw a nearby picture frame against the wall in his anger . . . Hermione glared at him. She really liked that picture. She whispered reparo under her breath and the frame fixed itself, unnoticed by the other occupants of the room.

"I can't accept that it's over."

His voice broke and its sincerity and fear pierced through her heart.

"Tell me what to do to make it right –"

"It's not that easy –" she whispered.

"– and I'll do my best to comply." His beautiful blue eyes begged her to keep listening.

She stood there with baited breath. Her heart was beating erratically, more so than it had earlier, all of her intuition fighting against her rationality. Something was building up, about to explode, but she couldn't quite . . .

"Tell me am I right to think that there could be nothing better than making you my bride and slowly growing old together?"

She made a gasping noise that sounded more like a choke. Had she been holding something, she surely would have dropped it. Her intuition had been right . . . her body knew he was going to say something like that, she could see it building inside of him. He said it.

He finally said it. She had been waiting . . . How long had she been waiting? Months, years, forever . . . it seemed. Her heart broke a little bit more.

"Tell me am I –" he began again, a little more hopeful.

"I feel I must interject here." She said, drowning the hope. "You're getting carried away feeling sorry for yourself. Can you not remember? These little gaps in history you so conveniently forget?"

She couldn't let him get to her. Not now. She had decided, hadn't she? Yes, yes she decided . . . what did she decide? She knew she had to leave, to get away . . . maybe to him, but maybe not . . . she didn't know. She hadn't decided that part . . . What did she decide? She decided she was angry, furious with him, with her, with everything. But then he spoke those words . . . those words . . . that she'd been waiting for . . . and suddenly everything she decided was irrelevant.

No. Yes. No. Yes. . . No . . . Yes. . . No. Yes. No. Yes.

Even as she stood before him, her hands on her hips defiantly, she still didn't know . . . was it too late? She definitely knew why she was angry . . . of course, that much was obvious . . . Could she do it? She had decided, hadn't she? She couldn't waiver on her previous words, could she? Could she?

(Yes.)

"In case you need a reminder, I can make you a graph or a chart to make it finally clear. I can prepare a lecture of why I have to leave."

"Hermione, tell me am I –"

"Please don't feed me lines about some idealistic future!" She screamed in frustration! He couldn't say that again! Not again, not while she was so unsure of herself. She had been so sure, so positive when she returned that this was it.

This was it!

This was supposed to be it . . .

It wasn't it anymore . . .

Was it?

(No.)

She needed to get away. She needed to think - without him here.

"Hermione, I admit I have made mistakes but I promise I'll never wrong you again."

And wasn't it so easy to forgive him the first time? She saw the remorse in his eyes so clearly then, just like now . . . But the first time she saw guilt, this time . . . she could only see sadness. Complete sadness, like he was watching the love of his life leave him and he couldn't do a thing to stop her - but he had to try . . . had to try because it was all wrong. . . all wrong, for some reason, all wrong.

Hermione sighed to herself – he was so persistent, always had been . . . cajoling her into giving in, whether it be homework, sneaking out, falling in love . . . she always gave in.

"Ron, please back away and let me go." She had tears in her eyes.

"I can't Hermione. I love you so." He remained steadfast. His red hair poked out in angles, his freckles heightened by the flush in his cheeks, his baby blues bright as the sky. He looked like a little boy at that moment.

He had allure she could not deny. She smiled sadly.

"You've had your chance so say goodbye." She pushed through the door, despising her resolve. She didn't know why he stepped aside. She didn't want him to.

Wait, did she?

The tears began streaming down her face; she never heard Ginny's shouts until she met her in the hall.

"Ginny," Hermione sighed, "not now."

"No wait! You have to listen to me."

Ginny grabbed her and forced her to listen. She could barely comprehend the words Ginny spoke or the words she whispered in response; the tears were coming down much too quickly and something caught in her throat made it hard to breathe. She didn't hear any of it, not a word . . . until he spoke.

"Hermione?"

He spoke so softly she almost missed it. Their eyes locked and she completely forgot about the other man, the other woman, the . . . others.

"Please?"

She stared into him, tears pouring freely on her face and his.

He spoke again, the frightened word barely above a whisper.

"Hermione . . ."

She stared into him.

He stared into her.

Not so much as a breath escaped their lips; both hearts pounded a tattoo against their ribs; neither moved.

Until she ran.

She ran right back to him.

She ran into him.

And on the floor, in each other's arms, they both knew there was nothing better.

Nothing better.

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Fin