Three

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. This is all for fun.

Chapter 3

Draco woke up one morning and felt it again, that strange burning inside his heart, and he knew, before the sunlight struck his face, that he would jump that day. He got out of bed, quickly threw on some clothes and, without even pausing for a quick bite of breakfast, grabbed his broom and went directly to the edge of the cliff.

He stood there for a while, watching the waves crash against the rocks. He thought about Hermione. She had not returned to poke through his books, as she had said she would, nor once since then. All she gave by way of explanation was a brief note sent by owl that Monday morning stating she was busy and would not be coming over. She had not rescheduled.

On the one occasion he had seen her, at a birthday party for one of the Weasleys, she put distance between them in everything she did. When they were alone in the kitchen for a few brief moments, things between them did not feel the same. There was a strange, electrical tension in the air that he sensed she felt as well. As soon as she could, Hermione left the room.

It both annoyed and relieved Draco.

He was annoyed because she was behaving as if absolutely nothing had happened. They had spent a few weeks where they were more than just two people who were friends with Harry Potter, but it seemed that was to be all. Just a few weeks. Exactly what they had been didn't even have a name. He wondered if you could be considered simply an acquaintance with someone you had known almost ten years, someone who had held your hand when your mother died, who had fought by your side and fended off Death Eaters with you, and who had spent time in your house, going through your things and sharing conversation. He doubted it, but they had not progressed to real friendship, leaving them somewhere in between. Their brief relationship, or whatever it had been, remained unnamable.

The fact still remained that it was gone, and it was not his fault. He couldn't think of anything at all that he had done wrong no matter how hard he tried. She behaved exactly the same toward him as she had during the War: friendly but distant, making it clear in silent but obvious ways that she did not want him to be a part of her life.

At the birthday party she had laughed and carried on around him, but never with him, not in that easy, casual way you have with friends. If it even looked like they might be nearing that level of intimacy, she was sure to clam up and within minutes she was out of the room, leaving him silently seething.

Draco kicked a rock and watched it sail out over the edge of the cliff and drop towards the water far below.

He stared down at the rocks below as the sun slowly made its way higher in the sky. He took a deep breath, then another, then another. The world seemed to still around him again. He closed his eyes for a brief second, and his mother's face flashed in his memory. When he opened his eyes, he waited one second and then jumped, broom in hand.

Draco counted two full seconds before pulling his broom underneath him. Two full seconds of free fall, of increasing speed, plummeting toward the sharp rocks below. He had fallen for two full seconds. The force of gravity continued pulling him down for a fraction of a second even after he had straddled the broom. He frowned, knowing he would have to examine his fall in more detail and adjust his calculations. Of course he would not stop falling as soon as the broom was beneath him, which he should have anticipated. Timing was crucial to his plan; he couldn't afford to be off even by a fraction of a second.

He repeated the jump a few times and then stayed on his broom to think about this unexpected twist. The idea of jumping off the cliff was scary enough already, knowing that if he messed up even slightly, he could wind up sliced into pieces, food for the sharks. He would have to work out exactly how long it took the broom to catch him and whether that time changed depending on how far he fell before he called it.

Finally deciding to think about the new development another day, he flew to the surface of the water and floated lazily, allowing the gentle waves to lap at the hand he let dangle in the water.

His thoughts returned to Hermione. It wasn't as if he had asked to be part of her life or begged for her to grant him the honor of her presence, and he didn't know why she acted as though the time they had spent together never happened. They had gotten along splendidly, better than he ever would have imagined. Perhaps she had never told Harry and Ron of her visits, and so when they were together, she acted as she had before it all started. But still there remained the fact that she had stopped coming over. He had not once asked her to come over, invited her to come back, or encouraged her to keep coming. Perhaps that was the issue. She might have felt she was putting more effort into the ... whatever it was than he, and then finally, after the visit when she had asked about his mother, she decided he wasn't worth the effort.

Maybe she thought he didn't want her there anymore or felt bad for asking about Narcissa. But had she honestly expected that he would open up to her simply because she asked, simply because they had a few things in common? Had she been offended that he didn't break down and cry about his mother's death?

The one time she had seen him emotional had been completely unintentional: she had been the one who chose to see what the letter he had received was about and found him in his room, rocking back and forth on his bed. She chose to stay with him and comfort him. But after that, he refused to show any sort of emotion, especially around her. One thing he had learned from his youth was that broadcasting his emotions could give others the means by which to hurt him.

But Hermione ... she was different. She fell between the two extremes, neither hot nor cold. She showed emotion as was appropriate for the occasion or circumstances, such that he had always been genuinely touched when, during the war, she turned some of her feelings toward him. Those moments had only been in the interest of furthering the cause, but they still had meant something to him, whether he wished to accept that fact or not.

He had lost the tentative friendship he had begun with her. The one real opportunity he had to open up and let her in, he hadn't even recognized until too late. He couldn't help but wonder why she had made plans to return.

Draco scowled. The last thing he wanted to do was ask her about it.

When it came right down to it, Hermione's rejection of his company without so much as an explanation or a row made him feel as though he was unworthy of her friendship, at least in her eyes. As though he wasn't good enough for her. He did not generally enjoy thinking about "good enoughs," because he already knew he really wasn't good enough, especially for someone like her. He would spend the rest of his life with blood on his hands, unable to get it off, while she would remain perfectly clean. Not perfect, not at all...he wasn't deluded. But not like him, not even close.

At the same time, however, he was also relieved. He was back to knowing where they were. More specifically, he knew where he was – in that void where only his mother's words and not Hermione's non-friendship attention could screw with his head. Now there was nothing, the way that really, there had always been nothing. It was clear as crystal once again that they were on opposite sides of a line and that was where they would stay.

Knowing this for certain was a relief. Draco did not have to bother trying to deny anything; there was nothing to deny.

He spent a great deal of time not denying it.

Somewhere to his right, Draco heard a splash. He looked and saw nothing, but jumped into the water for a brief swim, leaving his broom to float in the air until he needed it. The water was cool, perfect for the warmth that was already beginning to permeate the day.

After his swim, Draco felt refreshed. He went into his house, and the first thing he noticed was the stark whiteness of the walls.

Draco had never followed through with picking out paint colours for the rest of his house. Two weeks after Hermione stopped spending time with him, Ginny and Harry came on a Saturday, and together they chose the remaining colours. It had felt strange having them in his house now, after it had been suffused with Hermione's essence for so long. Perhaps it had something to do with the change in company. Harry was a good friend, but Hermione's presence in his home had been different. It had made him feel something he had never felt before: she made his home feel full, though he had no idea what that really meant.

They chose Light Wicker for the dining room, Peaceful for his book room and Pale Lupin for his study. With careful thought and a few trips upstairs, Draco chose Morning for his bedroom. Ginny was actually impressed that he had managed to choose a colour all on his own, and with a little conviction behind it. He didn't tell her that he had chosen it to complement Hermione's painting. They left him with five colour samples, two from the previous time and three from that day, and instructed him to purchase one gallon of paint in each.

The walls were unlike everything outside of his house. The sea was blue and green and grey and black, depending on its mood. The grass and trees were a dozen different shades of green, his garden was greens with bursts of other colors: reds, yellows, oranges, purples. Life was meant to be lived in color, and six weeks after choosing paint colors, Draco was finally tired of the white walls. They reminded him of Hermione's visits, and perhaps if he changed them, the memories would fade. He decided to buy the paint that day, as soon as he had eaten something.

He showered first, and as he dressed for the day, he saw, as he did every day, the painting she had given him. The stars were so incredible they twinkled even in the full sunlight.

Every time he saw it, his mind wandered to the question he had been unable to answer: why had she done that for him? It plagued him, especially now that she had apparently deemed him less than worthy of her friendship. At one point, he might have been able to argue that the painting symbolized the beginning of something between them, a kind of white flag from her to him, surrendering her earlier reluctance to get to know him better.

Now, though .... Did she regret painting it or giving it to him? Did she want it back? He had thought briefly about taking it down, but decided it really was too beautiful to put away. Leaving the painting up ensured that he thought of her a little bit every day, and he didn't want that to change. If he didn't think about her often enough, she would be able to sneak up on him unawares when he had let his guard down enough to really think about her, in ways that he wasn't prepared to deal with. Anyway, she'd done it for him, and it would stay. Until it drove him mad, quite likely.

But what did it mean?

She had cared enough to paint him something that incredible and personal, but now she could not stand to be in the same room. It didn't make much sense, and he was forced to once again consider what he might have done to upset or offend her. He could not think of anything.

Draco turned away from the painting and fastened a set of cuff links. With a brief nod at his reflection in the mirror, he left his bedroom. He ate a leisurely breakfast before heading to his office in London.

In his professional life, the last two months had afforded him considerably more free time. Now that Malfoy Enterprises was running the way he wanted it to and he had assembled a staff he trusted, Draco had begun delegating some of the day-to-day work, freeing him of the tedium of endless meetings and minor decision-making. He focused his attentions on rebuilding the corporate image and exploring new opportunities, rather than the mechanics of management, which kept him busy, but on a very flexible timetable. He went to the office a few times a week, as needed, and brought reports and contracts that he needed to review back to the cliff house.

Once settled comfortably in his dragon leather office chair, he checked his schedule and had his secretary reschedule his few appointments. As he read his daily mail, sipping on a cup of coffee, it occurred to him that he had no idea where to find paint. He called his secretary into his office.

"Paint?" she asked, frowning slightly. "Why do you want paint?"

Draco shrugged. "My friend says it's better than the magical way."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Are you redecorating the Manor?"

"No, my home actually. A ... friend who has been helping me recommends paint."

"I see. I know very little about it, and not at all where one might procure it. However, I will find out, sir."

He thanked her, and in half an hour he had a list of shops and addresses.

"This one is closest to Diagon Alley and carries the paint you're looking for. I would start at the Leaky Cauldron and go from there," she said.

"They don't sell paint in Diagon Alley?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Malfoy. Witches and wizards generally just use their wands. You'll have to go into Muggle London for it."

"The Muggle world?" Draco repeated with some trepidation, scolding himself for not realizing it earlier. He had never, not once, ventured through the Leaky Cauldron's less obvious portal into Muggle London.

His secretary smiled patiently. "Yes, sir."

"All right," he said grumpily. "Thank you."

Draco finished his mail and resignedly Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. Once inside, he ordered a butterbeer with a firewhisky chaser. He had to prepare himself for the task of finding the paint store. He saw Muggle London every time he went to his office, but he never imagined having to navigate his way through it. Only once since the end of the war had he been required to venture out, and he had allowed Harry to Side-Along Apparate him directly to the restaurant where they were having dinner. He downed his drink and then looked at the door to the bar. He glared at the door, as though angry that it had no answers for him.

He put the glass down and, leaving a few Sickles on the bar, moved to the door. He peered through the grimy glass, trying to see what he was getting himself into, but could barely make anything out at all. All he could see was a lamppost. Well, that seemed normal enough. He pushed the door open and stepped into Muggle London.

It was nothing like Diagon Alley, and he felt like kicking himself for not getting specific directions from his secretary. There were buildings everywhere, and shops, but it was huge. He stared around him, willing the scenery to give him a sign as to which way he should go. After walking for half an hour, he found no sign of the paint store and concluded that he was quite hopelessly lost. He stood on a street corner and, to his chagrin, recognized the run down, dingy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron down one side street. He groaned and went into the nearest shop he saw: a post delivery office.

Draco walked purposefully to the counter where a plump, cheerful woman asked if she could help him.

"I hope so. I'm looking for this address."

The woman gave him a wide smile and then pointed out the window. "Stay on Charing Cross Road and a few streets down you'll come to Shaftesbury Avenue. Turn right. Then three streets on the right, and it's after that. You can't miss it. Called Leyland SDM."

Draco stared at her. "Would you mind writing that down?"

She nodded enthusiastically and did as he asked.

Armed with a piece of paper and a general idea of what he was supposed to do, Draco left the post office.

Another half an hour later, after somehow making a wrong turn and asking an old man to help him, Draco found himself in front of the shop. There was stuff all over the pavement, and he couldn't help but be fascinated. He spent five minutes outside, poking through the bins that contained all kinds of gadgets he knew nothing about. Signs were posted for each bin: roller brushes, paint trays, blotter brushes, buckets and more. There were even a few tall wooden contraptions with two parallel planks connected by shorter, smaller wooden bars. He looked through each bin, wondering at the uses of some of the items with a childlike expression on his face.

When he had gone through all the bins, he went into the actual store. Row after row of gadgets filled his field of view, including a large section of what were called 'power tools.' He looked around and saw a sign that said, 'Paint,' and made his way toward it, stopping to look at anything that grabbed his eye.

When he arrived at the paint counter, he saw there was someone already there. He stood and paid no attention to the petite woman in line in front of him until she spoke. Then the bushy brown curls and posture...standing with her weight on her right leg and her knee cocked out slightly...started screaming at him. He tilted his head to focus on the sound of her voice.

"Granger?"

She spun around, hair flying out behind her. It was obvious from the expression on her face that he was the last person she expected to meet in the paint section of a Muggle paint shop somewhere in the middle of London.

She recovered quickly. "Malfoy? What are you doing here?"

He gave her his best 'isn't it obvious; are you really that thick?' look and held up the paint samples he had brought with him. But his voice was momentarily stolen from him at the complete surprise of running into her.

"Finally decided to paint?" she asked, a smug-ish expression on her face.

He nodded and took a deep breath, hoping his vocal cords would vibrate as they were supposed to. "You?" he asked.

"I'm painting my bedroom."

He glanced at the paint sample in her hand and knew that when he dreamt next, it would be of her lying in bed in a room with pale yellow walls.

"Here you are, miss." The man behind the counter set a large can of what he assumed must be paint on the counter, and Hermione turned around to inspect it.

"Thank you," she said, taking the paint can from him.

"You're welcome," he said. Hermione stepped away and the man looked at Draco. "May I help you?"

He stepped up to the counter. Hermione was watching him, a patient, amused expression on her face. "Yes. I need paint."

"Well, this is the right place."

Hermione sniggered.

Draco set the paint samples on the counter. "I need these six colors."

"How much?"

"One Galleon each."

"You mean gallon," the man corrected.

"Yes," said Draco.

The man examined each sample, then said, "Which finish?"

Draco racked his brain trying to remember if Ginny has said anything about 'finish.' He started to panic but Hermione moved beside him.

"Eggshell, I should think."

The man looked at Draco, who nodded, having no choice but to rely on Hermione's help.

"Right. Be about thirty minutes."

Draco blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah. Just got the one machine, mate."

"Okay."

"He'll just wait in the shop," chimed Hermione. The man nodded and started to prepare the paint.

Draco watched as the man took a container of paint from a shelf and pried the lid off. Then he set the open container inside a metal box and, using the paint sample Draco had given him, put information into a computer. Draco had only seen a computer once, when he and Harry had stopped into a Muggle shop in order for Harry to purchase something for Ginny. He had been fascinated and had asked Harry questions nonstop for the next half an hour, trying his best to understand everything he could. He hadn't had much success.

Then Draco saw a few streams of liquid pour from the contraption into the paint container. The man then took out the container, put the lid back on, and put it all back into the contraption. He hit a button, and the whole thing began to shake noisily.

He looked at Hermione, who was still watching him in amusement. "Would you ... explain it to me?" he asked.

She smiled. "Sure. Basically, in each of those containers is white paint. Each paint color is made up of a combination of a few basic colors, which are added in small, carefully measured amounts to the white paint, and mixed in that machine. The result is the color on the card."

He nodded, watching the machine vibrate. "Thanks."

A few moments passed between them in silence. Then, "I honestly thought you'd get someone to help you with this. Ginny or Harry, or ... Ron," she finished lamely.

He sniffed. "I am capable of doing things on my own, thank you."

"I know," she said with a patient smile. "But we're in the Muggle world. Are you sure you didn't just follow me here?"

He scoffed. "I don't even know where 'here' is. I've been wandering through this bloody city for over an hour looking for a shop that sells paint." He said it as if he was bragging, but quickly realized he was admitting to her that he had been lost and was essentially still lost. He didn't think he could find the Leaky Cauldron again if his life depended on it. Not that it mattered to a wizard, of course; he could always get himself home.

Hermione giggled. "Really? You could have asked for help."

"I did. In Diagon Alley, and at the post office, and some random old man on the street. Maybe I just didn't need your help. Or Ginny's or Ron's."

"Maybe," she said, regarding him and crossing her arms. "All right, if you don't need any help at all, tell me how you're paying."

Bugger. He only had wizard money on him. It must have shown in his face.

She laughed again. "Don't worry, I'll get it. You can owe me."

Draco scowled. He didn't like owing people money. "How much?"

"It'll be about 150 pounds."

He blinked. "Is that a lot?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, a bit."

"Oh. How much in Galleons?"

"Thirty."

He raised his eyes. "Really? I wouldn't have expected it to be so much."

Hermione smiled. "I reckon not, as you've had no experience buying paint or much of anything Muggle. But really, you can afford it."

"Of course," he said with a scoff. "That is beside the point! I could just color the walls by magic and save myself the effort."

"Shh!" she hissed, pushing him into an aisle and out of sight of other patrons. "We are surrounded by Muggles. Watch what you say." She paused. Then, "If you really don't want to paint the Muggle way, you should tell the bloke mixing the paint."

Draco waved dismissively, looking around him, his attention completely elsewhere. "No, I'll do it," he said distractedly. They ended up in an aisle he had not yet perused, and he had just found a display of oddly shaped metal pointy things. He thought the looked like small, twisty knives, but they had no shafts.

"What are all of these?" he asked.

She blinked and followed his line of sight to the wares in question. "Drill bits," she said.

"What's a drill bit?"

She hesitated a moment, then said, "It goes in a drill. You can make holes with drills, or insert screws ..." A smile slowly formed on her face at his blank expression. "Want to know what a drill is?"

He nodded and spent the time remaining until the paint was ready listening to Hermione answer all of his questions about things in the store, especially the power tools. When the paint was ready, she paid for it, and even bought Draco a drill bit. Together they carried their seven cans of paint outside, and Draco shrank the cans to fit into their pockets. He handed hers to her.

"Thanks," she said, taking it from him.

He shrugged and handed her thirty-one Galleons. "Thanks. I guess it was a good thing I ran into you."

She smiled. "Reckon so."

They stood looking at each other for what seemed to Draco like forever. It felt awkward, but it also felt ... almost natural. It was the first time that they had been alone together in almost two months, and Hermione had perpetuated it. She could have left him there in the paint section, but she hadn't. He wasn't sure quite what to make of it.

She smiled again and they both began to speak. She got her sentence out first.

"Are you hungry?"

He resisted the urge to gape at her. In two months, she had not made an ounce of effort to spend time with him, and now, when he had run into her quite accidentally, she had not only stayed in the shop and guided him through the paint purchasing process, but was seeking to extend her afternoon with him. Between his mother and Pansy, he had long ago given up all attempts to understand women, and so he did not even try to figure out why Hermione had asked if he was hungry. Even though he desperately wanted to know.

Then he had to think about her question. He hadn't had lunch, and a glance at his watch told him it was past two, meaning he should be hungry. There was definitely some kind of feeling in his stomach, but he couldn't say for sure it was hunger.

"Yes," he said finally, cautiously.

"Want to grab something?"

One part of him, the prideful, spiteful, vengeful part, wanted to say no. She had ended their relationship without so much as a by your leave, and he should just let her know in no uncertain terms that he preferred the new arrangement. He was also a little scared, deep down inside, because he knew it wouldn't last. They might have lunch, but she was only being polite. Tomorrow, things would return to normal.

Another part, however, had missed her laugh, her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she was passionate about something, and wanted to say yes. This was the part that had said, "Yes," every time she had asked if she could come to his house. He had taken to calling it The Traitor because it encouraged the kinds of thoughts that could only lead to his heart being crushed.

However, his prideful part was soft-spoken when compared to The Traitor, who yelled and screamed and begged. "Sure."

Hermione let out a breath. "Okay. I live near here, so I know a lot of good places. What do you want to eat?"

"You live here?"

She blinked. "Yes ..."

"In Muggle London."

"Yes ..."

It made sense, but he had never really thought about where she lived. He looked around him and down the busy avenue.

"You live near here?" he asked, seeing only businesses and theatres lining the streets.

"A few streets over, right on Soho Square. It's a bit pricey, but I love it."

Draco knew nothing about Soho Square and so could only nod. "Oh," he said, looking back at her. "Er ... Something nice."

Hermione nodded and looked up and down the street. "Will French food do? You've had a rough morning," she said with a playful smile. "And I know how much you enjoy eating food that's hard to pronounce. It's a bit pricey, but the food is worth it."

"French sounds perfect," he said.

She grinned. "Good. Follow me; it's just up the street a bit."

He nodded and fell in step slightly behind her and to her left.

After a moment, she turned around. "I didn't mean you had to literally follow me; you could walk beside me."

"Right," he said, slightly embarrassed, and he sped up to match her stride, feeling increasingly antsy and fidgety. When had it suddenly become normal to invite him to eat with her? The silence lengthened as they walked back toward Charing Cross, and he wanted to say something, anything, to relieve it.

"So, you live here." He could have hit himself. They had been through that already.

"Yes. A few blocks that way," she said, stopping and pointing. "If you turn right on Charing Cross and take the second street on the left, then it's just a short walk to the square."

"Why here? In Muggle London, I mean."

She shrugged. "I like it. I feel so at peace here. Muggles are always rushing about, and it's fun to watch. Helps remind me to appreciate what I have, what I worked for and the peace we live in now." They walked past Stacey St and Hermione stopped. "Here we are."

Draco followed her eyes and saw a sign that read 'Incognico.' He gave her a sideways look.

"Trust me, the food is amazing. Come on." She pulled him into the restaurant where the maitre'd led them to a small, two-person table in a corner beside a small set of steps.

Draco was thankful for the experience he had gained dining in Muggle restaurants with Harry and Ron when they'd been on missions during the war...small, somewhat unclean places though they had been...and that one time since.

Their waiter approached after they had been sitting for a few minutes and explained the specials, then left to give them time to look at the menu. The prices were all in pounds, but after the experience at the paint shop, he was able to roughly guess at the cost of each plate. He glanced at Hermione, wondering again what she meant by asking him to eat in such a nice restaurant.

When the waiter returned, Hermione ordered the Roast Sea Bass with Braised Endive and Sauce Vierge and a glass of Pinot Grigio. Draco chose the Honey Roasted Breast of Duck with Pomme Fondant and ordered a glass of Chateau Sergant Bordeaux.

Despite a few moments of napkin-fiddling and awkward glances early on, once the food arrived, not a moment of the meal passed uncomfortably. They ate and talked as though they were friends who hadn't seen each other in a while and were making up for lost time. They had never talked like that before, as though they mattered to each other, even on their most open evenings in his kitchen, though they had come close, that one night when she had not gone up to the book room at all. As he realized it, a small lump formed in the pit of his stomach because he knew how that had ended and did not want to think about it too much.

Draco couldn't believe how easy it was to talk to her. She listened as though she really cared about what he said, making intelligent, thoughtful remarks and asking probing questions. They didn't discuss anything profound or life-changing, but the whole thing was life-changing in that small, ripple-effect sort of way. It made just a tiny splash, but the long-term repercussions would be huge. He could feel it.

And they laughed. He couldn't remember ever laughing so hard, or so often, and most definitely not all in one sitting. Something inside him swelled impossibly at the idea, the knowledge, that he could make her laugh like that. The traitorous part of his mind had long ago silenced the prideful part, and his thoughts wandered with little inhibition around the idea of her. With him. Them.

They continued talking even after they were finished eating and ordered dessert: Vanilla Pannacotta with Poached Rhubarb and a scoop of vanilla ice cream, which they shared. When they had finished eating and just a few puddles of melted ice cream remained on the plate, Draco felt completely at ease. Then he began to get worried, a tiny worm niggling in his gut, because he did not ever want to stop. He had never felt so sure of the world than when she was smiling at him, sipping gracefully from her glass of wine, her eyes sparkling.

It was a false sense of intimacy, however, and Draco should have paid more attention to the paths his thoughts were taking. He realized that he still very much wanted to know what had happened two months previously that caused her to stop coming over.

He almost stopped himself in time, his conscious mind almost caught up to the stream of thoughts racing beside it, but realization came a moment too late. Draco opened his mouth and asked her the seemingly harmless question he had not been able to get out of his brain.

"Why didn't you come back?"

Hermione's smile faded.

As soon as the words were out of Draco's mouth, he wanted to impale himself on his dinner knife. His mind raced in circles, trying to answer the question he was internally screaming: Why had he done that?

But he had done it, and it couldn't be undone, because everything flew back into place. The prideful part of his mind trounced The Traitor, reclaiming its place at the front of Draco's consciousness, its claws sunk deep.

"Oh, well, uhm, actually ..." she stuttered, looking around at anything but him, clutching at the napkin in her lap. "It's ... a long story ..."

At that moment, their waiter came by with the check and politely reminded them that the restaurant closed at three...now ten minutes past...to prepare for dinner.

Hermione looked as though she would rather do anything than answer him. Then something started beeping, and Hermione jumped. She reached into her bag and rummaged around for a moment before looking at him sheepishly. "Alarm. I ... I've got to meet Ron." She stood, quickly. "I'm sorry, I really am."

Draco's mirth had evaporated when her smile froze and the light dancing in her eyes faded. He wanted to be as far away from her as possible at that moment.

"No problem," he said, reaching for the check, then paused. "I would get this ... I'll pay you back."

Hermione reached into her purse, counted out the required amount for the bill and handed it to Draco.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching for his moneybag.

"Don't worry about it," she said, looking toward the door. "We can settle up some other time."

"Oh. All right. Go on, I'll take care of the rest." Leave, already, his mind shouted.

She stood and gathered her jumper and purse. She took three steps, then turned back to him and said in a rush, "Let us know when you paint. We'll come help."

He nodded and muttered and then she was gone.

ooo

It was three weeks before he saw her again.

Knock, knock, knock.

It was a Sunday, sometime after lunch. He had been reading a few reports, preparing himself for the start of the workweek and he scowled at the interruption. There was another, more forceful knock. Draco sighed as he slowly made his way to the door and looked through the peephole. All he saw was an eye. He jumped back in surprise. Then he shook his head and slowly opened the door.

Fred Weasley was pressed against the door, his face very close to the peephole. When he saw Draco, he grinned. Ginny looked at him as well, an inquisitive and expectant expression on her face. He opened the door wider and saw that Fred and Ginny were not alone. Also standing on his front stoop, and on the grass below, were George, Harry, Ron, Neville, Hermione, Molly and Arthur.

Eyes wide, he looked back at Ginny, who seemed to be leading the group. "May I help you?"

"Well, Malfoy, Hermione told us weeks ago that you bought paint. I waited, expecting to hear from you within the week, two at the most. It's been three, and I finally realized you had no intention of asking for help. So ... we're here to offer our assistance."

"With all ten of us, we'll knock this job out in no time," said Fred, grinning.

"Er ... sure, okay," Draco replied. All six Weasleys plus Harry, Neville and Hermione paraded past him, carrying long wooden poles like the ones that Draco remembered seeing at the paint shop.

Ginny led the group into the sitting room and started handing out assignments. "Fred, George." She held out a few rolls of what looked like large, blue Spellotape. "Go tape off all the rooms...windows, moldings, the door...then move and cover all the furniture with a Repellant Spell. And remember those rags we brought? Transfigure them into drop cloths to cover the floors and be sure to tape them to the baseboards. Once you're done, you two will paint the book room."

"Right-o," said George pleasantly. Fred accepted the blue roll, and they ascended the stairs to begin their task.

"Mum, Dad, once they've finished the taping, you'll take the kitchen. Ron, Neville, the small study area. Harry, you and I will paint this room. Hermione, Malfoy..." She looked at him. "Your room." As she spoke, the pairs moved off toward their designated room, and finally Draco and Hermione were alone with Harry and Ginny.

"Ginny," said Hermione under her breath. The other woman looked at her pointedly, and they seemed to carry on a complete conversation without opening their mouths. Finally, Hermione gave a small huff and said, "Fine."

"All right, well then. Where's the paint?" Ginny asked.

He blinked, still amazed that all of a sudden, his house was full and about to be forever altered. In a way, he felt slightly relieved with the pressure of trying to decide when to paint, how to go about it, and who to ask completely lifted. "It's all in the book room," he said.

Ginny nodded to Harry, who took off up the stairs. Then she picked up two of the wooden poles; only now he saw that each had a fuzzy tube on one end which he also recognized from the paint store. She handed one to Hermione and one to him. "Any questions?" she asked.

Draco opened his mouth, not sure which one he should ask first, but Hermione spoke first.

"We can handle it. I've done this before."

Ginny nodded and picked up a stack of trays. "I'm going to put one of these in each room. Have fun!" she said and left the room.

Hermione sent him a small smile and turned to go upstairs. He followed after she disappeared, passing Harry on the stairs.

"I've put your paint can in your room," he said quickly.

Draco mumbled something and continued toward his room.

He paused outside his bedroom and only then thought to wonder why he had been paired with Hermione. Most of the others made sense, but it would have been equally acceptable to pair him with Neville and Hermione with Ron. He didn't want to think about it too much as it could only lead to trouble.

"Going in?" said Ginny, handing him a tray.

Draco nodded and, as he approached his bedroom, met Fred and George as they left it, tossing the roll of tape between them as they went to the book room. He sighed and entered, his head full of lead, to find Hermione opening the can of paint.

She looked up and motioned for him to approach her. "I need the tray," she said. He handed it to her and she poured in some of the paint. When she finished, she looked up at him. Their eyes locked for a brief instant, then he looked away, and his eyes landed on her fuzzy tube pole, currently lying on the floor.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing. "I saw them at the paint shop but never found out what they do."

She picked it up. "It's a roller brush. See?" She spun the fuzzy tube. "Watch." She put the roller brush in the tray and coated the fuzzy part with paint. Then she went to the wall and started painting. She instructed him to make a "W" pattern over and over with the brush, all over the walls, be careful not to get too much paint on the brush as it would leave clumps, and to use an actual brush in the corners.

"What about the painting?" Draco asked. "Will it get in the way?"

Hermione froze and looked around the room until she saw it. She went to it and reached out as though to touch it, but pulled back. "Yes," she said finally.

Draco carefully took the painting off the wall, set it in his bathroom and shut the door so there would be no chance for anything to happen to it. Then he dipped his roller in the paint tray and started painting. He worked on the wall opposite Hermione, and they both moved clockwise. Draco was surprised at how quickly it went. After twenty minutes, they were done.

"Great!" he said, tossing the brush down and happy to note that not a drop got on his floor.

Hermione looked at him and smirked. "We're not done."

He frowned. "Why not? Walls are painted, aren't they?"

"The walls need more than one coat of paint."

"Why?"

"To make sure to cover all the spots. You'll see. Now we'll cast drying spells on the walls to get the paint dry, then do it all again."

"And then we'll be done?" he asked hopefully.

"Nope, it'll probably take one more coat."

"Three?" he asked, feeling panic well inside him. He was stuck in his room for three coats of paint with Hermione. After the way she had run out of the restaurant the moment he had attempted to discuss their non-relationship, he was extremely reluctant to start anything again.

She nodded. "Come on. Help me dry." Drying the paint took another ten minutes.

About halfway through painting the second coat, Hermione spoke. "I really like this color."

Draco nearly dropped his roller. He was certain he would never understand her, even if they lived a thousand years together. Why would she avoid him for a month, and then tell him she liked the color, as though nothing that had happened between them had meant anything? Why couldn't she just paint like she was supposed to and then leave?

"Oh, er ... thanks," he muttered.

"What made you choose it?"

He looked at her to find that she was looking directly at him. Hmph.

"Complements my eyes," he lied, straight-faced.

She cocked her head. "Come on, seriously. Ginny said you were quite adamant about this one and, as I remember, you could not have cared less about the other rooms we chose."

He shrugged and looked away.

"Fine. Don't tell me."

Why should I? he wanted to yell at her. They weren't in a place where he could tell her such a thing; they weren't friends. Once again, two parts of him battled for supremacy, one telling him that she didn't deserve an answer, not after the way she had left him, and the other urging him to tell her in order to see her reaction. He had chosen the icy blue because of her painting. The color would look perfect behind the silver-framed, midnight blue painting with diamonds in the sky. If he told her, she might think about it too much and draw a few conclusions of her own.

They finished the second coat and the subsequent drying in silence and started the third and final coat.

Somehow, about halfway through, they ended up next to each other. As Draco painted, he felt something wet on his hand and looked to find small blue dots on the outside of his left hand and arm, the side on which Hermione stood.

"Hey, watch it," he said crossly, wiping the paint to get it off his hand only to smear it.

"I didn't do it on purpose," she said. "Sometimes paint splatters, Malfoy."

"Yeah, well, try not to let it happen again," he said.

"Oh, okay," she said sarcastically.

A moment later, Draco felt more paint on his arm, but when he looked at it, he saw a single, large drop. He looked at Hermione, who was trying to hide a smile, a small, pleased-with-herself, guilty kind of smile. She wasn't trying very hard. He blinked and turned back to the wall, an idea bursting into his mind. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt, and she did deserve it, really. He ran his finger over the fuzzy tube, coating it in blue paint.

He paused; the prideful part of him quietly registered its objection to engaging Hermione more than was strictly necessary. The objection only lasted a brief moment, however, as his traitorous side shouted its encouragement. After all, Draco had something of a competitive nature. He liked to win at whatever challenge was presented. He had been taught that winning was almost as important as breathing, though he had made a conscious effort to curb his inclinations, or at least reserve them for the business arena. But Hermione had started it, and he would not be outdone.

Very casually, he reached over and drew a blue line from her shoulder to her elbow with the paint-coated finger.

"Hey!" she cried, jerking her arm away.

"What?" he asked, daring her to complain. Thinking they were now even, he returned to painting and failed to notice the look of mischief that crossed Hermione's face. In a few short moments, during which she dipped a finger in the paint which she flicked at him, then wiped the finger clean on his shirt, he realized that she had declared a paint war, and in about ten minutes there was paint everywhere, quite a lot of it on them.

Finally, Draco saw an advantage, and backed Hermione into one of the wet walls, getting paint on her clothes and messing up the coat they had just put on the wall as he smeared paint on her forehead. Then he held her lightly but firmly against the wall so she couldn't retaliate. She was smiling at him, blue paint on her nose, right cheek, and in her hair. Draco's heart skipped a few beats as he smiled back at her, getting lost in the depths of her eyes, both of them breathing hard from their battle. He was intensely aware of just how close they were, close enough to see the hesitation in her eyes, close enough to catch a faint hint of her scent through the odour of paint that permeated the room. She smelled wonderful.

He saw Hermione suck in her breath and glance at his mouth. His throat went dry, and he did the safest thing he could to do. If he wasn't careful, he would do something for which he would forever beat his head against the wall. Like kiss her. And he really, really wanted to kiss her. But he did not want to face the aftermath of kissing her, and so he took a tiny step backwards.

He smirked. "Looks like I win."

She pushed him off, still smiling, but it was slightly different now. "Just because you're stronger. Not because you're better."

"So? I still win." He retrieved his roller brush and resumed his chore, keeping an eye on Hermione as she cleaned the paint from her clothes and face and then went to work repairing the damage to the paint on the wall behind her.

When they were finished, Draco set his brush down and stooped to pour the remaining paint back into the can from the tray. Suddenly, he felt pressure on his head. He barely had time to wonder what it could be when the pressure started to move and he realized what was happening. Hermione was using her roller brush on his head.

She giggled as she drew the brush from the crown of his head to his neck.

Draco made no comment or sound, but carefully picked up the tray and, quick as lightning, stood, turned around, and poured its remaining contents on her head.

She squealed and wiped paint out of her eyes, but they were still shining, still mischievous. She refused to give him the final word and picked up the paint can, half-full.

Draco's eyes widened. "No," he said, taking a cautious step back.

She was grinning maniacally. "Oh, yes, I think so."

"No," he repeated. They were circling. He couldn't help but smile.

"Too bad. It's going to happen. There's not a thing you can do."

"You're bluffing. You want me to say that you win."

She shook her head. "I do win, Malfoy."

"Don't do it, Granger. I'm warning you. Bad things..." Will happen. He would have said a lot more, too, that she won and he would pay homage to her as queen of paint, but he didn't get to say anything, because she did it – she doused him.

A large, heavy, wet, thick glop of paint hit him in the chest, splashing up into his face and then dripping all the way down his body. He closed his eyes just in time and silently praised the phenomenon that was reflex. Then he stood there, eyes closed, listening to her cackle. He was trying desperately to will the paint away, but to no avail. Then he wiped his eyes and looked menacingly at Hermione. She shrieked. He growled.

"Oh, you're going to get it."

"Really?" she teased. "I don't think so, because, you see, there's no paint left."

He paused. "That's a good point. I've decided we should call a truce."

She cackled again. "Of course, now that you're covered in paint! Looks like I win after all."

He shook his head and smiled genuinely at her. "You are right, you know. I think you deserve a great..." he stepped toward her "...big..." another step "...hug!" He ran after her. She shrieked and ran away from him, running around furniture to get away. She was laughing the entire time, a beautiful, melodious sound.

Draco was faster than she, and he caught her arm and spun her toward him, causing her to almost trip. He wrapped an arm around her waist to both steady her and pulled her tight against him. She struggled, her face buried in his chest, trying to push him off.

Still laughing.

He was too strong though, and she eventually fell still. They stood for a few seconds, wrapped tightly in an unexpected embrace. His heart was pounding so furiously he knew she could feel it. She was breathing heavily, and he felt one of her hands clench around his shirt.

Then he let her go and said roughly, "I win." He tried to appear calm, but his head was spinning.

She crossed her arms, staring at him with wide eyes. Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity and he thought she might be angry, but she finally smiled. Then screamed in frustration.

"Argh! That was so unfair! Why should you get to win?"

"Well," he said, a swagger in his tone that he didn't feel, still trying to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. "I am faster, stronger, and smarter. Plus, being devious, underhanded and sneaky are things I excel at."

Just then another voice sounded.

"What happened here?"

It was Ginny; she had come to examine their progress.

"We're done," said Draco casually. "Just have a little clean-up to do."

Hermione laughed.

Ginny stared at them open-mouthed. "A little? You're both covered! How...no, never mind, I don't think I want to know. Everyone else is finished painting. Would you like to see your place, Malfoy?"

He blinked ,and the point of all of them coming to his house hit him in the gut, hard. His entire house was now painted in bright, vivid colours. Most of him thought that no, he did not want to see the rest of his house. Not until everyone was safely away from him, in case he didn't like something. He really couldn't be held responsible for what happened.

"We'll be right down," said Hermione.

He looked at her, but said nothing. Ginny left after a sideways glance at Hermione.

"We will be right down? Why did you say that?"

"Because we can clean this up quicker if we work together. And in case you haven't noticed, we're covered in paint. We can't go walking through your house like this."

"Oh. Well ... right. Let's get to it then."

She smiled at him. It was a really nice smile.

"What?" he asked, trying to sound really annoyed.

"Nothing. Only, blue looks good on you. When it's all over you, that is."

He smirked. "Nice, Granger. Look in a mirror lately? It's all over you too."

"You should have seen your face when you realized what I was going to do!" she giggled. "Wish I'd had a camera!"

He shook his head, the picture of her face as she held the paint can burned into his mind's eye. "I didn't actually think you would do it, though. You're crazy."

"You didn't?" she said, her eyes shining. "Hmm ... I'll have to remember that."

They cleaned up the room, getting all the paint off the surfaces where it wasn't supposed to be, including their clothes and their hair. They were about to go downstairs when Draco noticed a little bit of blue left on Hermione's cheek. Without thinking, he reached up and tried to wipe it off; it had dried, so he gently used his fingernail to scratch it off.

"There," he said, drawing away from her. The look in her eyes was incredible and indescribable.

"Thank you," she whispered. She looked at him, right in his eyes. It was more than a casual glance; it was as though she were looking for something. Her eyes were brilliant and shining and radiating their own light.

Whether she found what she sought or not, he didn't know. It had been only a few seconds really, though it had seemed an age. But he felt that it had meant something, if only she would tell him what.

Hermione gave a small sigh and a tiny smile and then left him to mull in a sea of confusion and the crackling of hope and desire.

Which he would promptly do his best to quash.

ooo

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and for reading! Oodles of thanks to my betas, Z, eilonwy, and Buzzy. Without you ... well, this story would still be sitting on my jump drive, waiting patiently for me to do something with it. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you! BETAS ROCK!

As always, the beautiful banner was made by the lovely moonjameskitten!