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June 5, 2002
He's clad in a charcoal shirt and plum tie, a colour she never would have associated with Draco Malfoy.
And it's impossible to miss the fact that he's miserable.
He's been nursing the same half glass of ale by himself for the better part of an hour, and if anyone else has noticed, they haven't said anything. The thought makes Hermione cringe as the heat in the small pub only creeps up as the hours pass, more people cramming their way into the packed tables around him.
It's a sad excuse for a birthday party, and not even Malfoy can deny the truth of that.
She doesn't think it's anything so formal—aside from the fact that he's vaguely there with a few friends and she simply happens to be there with a few friends. It isn't as if she's made any effort to attend Draco Malfoy's birthday party.
The thought is laughable.
It's the Firewhisky—three doubles in two hours, on the rocks—that makes her do it as she pushes her way to the front of the mob, purchases a fresh glass of ale, and plants it on the bar's surface in front of him.
Malfoy's cool grey eyes slide to meet hers, a juxtaposition with the way her skin heats up at his indolent assessment.
"Happy birthday," she says, nudging the glass closer still. As if he doesn't understand her intent well enough.
To make matters altogether worse, she slides into the empty seat next to him, the upholstery sticky beneath her legs.
What must be a full minute follows in utter silence, Malfoy staring at her as though she's grown a second head while she stares back, waiting for him to acknowledge the drink. The least he could do is thank her.
Releasing an arduous sigh, as though she's inconvenienced him in the worst way, he sets down his partial glass and swaps it for the new one, the glass sweating with icy condensation. He takes a swig, then wipes his wet hand on his trouser leg.
"Thank you, Granger," he drawls, lifting the glass once more in a salute that looks more mocking than genuine.
It's the whisky. Surely, it's the whisky. Because she flashes him a grin—one part truth, one part sarcasm—and clinks his glass with her own.
Then she slides with some effort from the sticky seat, announces, "You look miserable," and walks across the pub without waiting for a response.
Sept 19, 2002
It doesn't take long for him to notice her, surrounded by friends, well-wishers, admirers, and the occasional stranger seeking to garner favour.
Granger's wearing a dress in a pretty shade of purple, and Draco can't help but notice the way it doesn't even reach her knees.
Neither can he miss the fact that her birthday party is infinitely nicer than his own was—which can hardly even be termed as such considering he sat at the bar all night struggling his way through the same two glasses of ale, and went home sober but with a headache all the same.
He certainly didn't invite himself to this party. But given Theo's recent attachment to one Harry Potter, Draco found himself dragged along all the same.
Tonight he's swapped out ale for Firewhisky—an amateur mistake given the way he skipped dinner. He can feel the hot liquor pickling his brain as he drifts through the room, having been abandoned by Theo in favour of a certain wizarding world saviour minutes after they arrived.
So much for coming along to play wingman.
He doesn't even see Granger's escaped her group of adoring fans until she's next to him, leaning on the wall, a little off balance. He can see the liquor-induced haze glazing her eyes as she simply stares at him for a long moment.
For a flickering instant, he thinks she'll ask him to leave, and he prepares a half-arsed excuse.
Theo made me come along—
"You look less miserable tonight," she says, a bit of a smile playing about her lips. "And it's not even your birthday."
"Maybe I'm less miserable because it's not my birthday," he retorts, tossing back the last of his drink. And it must be the whisky, because he says, "Let me buy you a drink."
The idea of owing her anything hasn't sat well since she bought him a drink at his own birthday. But he certainly didn't intend to offer at hers, where he's surely the last person to whom she wants to give any of her precious minutes.
Granger drops her head into a bit of a tilt, as though she's trying to read him but he's in a different language.
He knows the feeling well.
"Sure," she says. "Thank you."
Then she loops her elbow through his, bringing them altogether too close as he leads her to the bar and orders two fresh drinks. "You look nice," he says, a cursory statement, despite that he does like her dress. "I like that colour."
"It's plum. It's a good colour," she agrees. "I stole it from your tie, but don't tell anyone."
He blinks dumbly at her.
Turning to face him, one drink in her hand, she flashes him a pretty smile. "Thank you, Malfoy. Cheers."
"Cheers." He fumbles for the second cup, pressing it against hers, and falls, only for a moment, into the warmth of her eyes. "Happy birthday, Granger."
She shoots him a wink before she slips back into the crowd.
June 5, 2003
"You know," Hermione says as she slips up alongside Malfoy, "your party is inside. And after Theo's gone to all this effort." She presses a tumbler of whisky into his empty hand, brandishing her own.
He snickers, a haughty sound under his breath. "Believe it or not, I did know. I'm just getting some fresh air. What about you?"
"Fresh air," she agrees with a nod. Her head's been spinning for the better part of an hour, and it's definitely from the whisky. "Happy birthday, Malfoy."
"Thank you." He lowers his chin in a nod as they clink their glasses, and the act feels almost obligatory.
"You look less miserable," she observes, "even though it's your birthday. Twenty-three treating you well so far?"
"For the handful of hours I've been twenty-three," he drawls, "sure. We'll call it that."
She peers closer, reaching towards the silk of his tie to smooth her fingers along the fabric. "The colour of the year? What would you call this?"
The action draws her closer towards him than she anticipated, and she stumbles a little under the combined influence of her high heels and the several glasses of whisky she's already consumed.
"Don't know," he says. "Chartreuse."
"That isn't chartreuse," she says, clicking her tongue as she takes a mouthful of her drink. "It's more like... pear."
"Pear." He lifts a single brow. "Fine, then. Will you be wearing a pear-coloured dress in September?"
There's a hint of teasing beneath the words, and Hermione lets out a long-suffering sigh. "I suppose I'll have to, won't I?"
"Absolutely."
It takes several long moments for her to realise her fingers are still wrapped around his tie, and his grey eyes sparkle with amusement when she wrenches herself back a step. He reaches for her elbow, steadying her before she can stumble backwards, and Hermione's cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.
"Be careful," he murmurs, mouth twitching.
"Damn whisky," she breathes.
"It'll get you," he says with a sip, "every time."
"Cheers, Malfoy," she says, pressing her glass against his. "Happy birthday."
His eyes land on hers, gleaming with dim lighting and something like a secret. "Thank you, Granger. Again."
She's already wished him a happy birthday. Blast it all—it's absolutely the whisky.
Before she can stop herself, she slips one arm awkwardly around his back, bringing herself flush against him. She gives a little squeeze, a sort of embrace that she instantly wishes she could take back, but Malfoy only stares blankly at her when they separate.
Her cheeks flame as she walks away without another word.
Sept 19, 2003
"I've been waiting three months to see the pear dress," Draco says, sidling up alongside Granger with two glasses of whisky. He makes a show of observing her head to toe, blows out a low whistle, and shakes his head. "You've done the colour justice, Granger, I'll admit it."
She fixes him with a scowl, taking the second drink. "I'll have you know it was difficult to find a dress in this exact shade. Perhaps you'll let me in on next year's colour in advance."
"Not a chance," he quips. "Where's the fun in that?"
She elbows him in the middle, leaving her arm pressed against him a little longer than necessary. His head spins a little from the whisky, and he has to convince himself in stern mental tones that it isn't a good idea to hold her there.
"Fine," she says, drawing the syllable out overlong. "Are you having a nice time?"
"Of course," he says with a sip of whisky. "But it shouldn't matter how my night is going. Are you having fun?"
"I am," she says with a bright smile. "I think Theo and Harry are trying to outdo themselves even more with each birthday party they throw."
Draco peers around the room at the excessive amount of decorations and party games. "I think you may be right."
"Walk with me." Granger grabs hold of his hand before he can react, tugging him away from the party to the patio beyond. She doesn't let go of his hand once they're outside, and Draco wonders if she realises what she's doing.
Idly, he wonders what she might say if he entwines their fingers together—but it's definitely the whisky talking.
"Sometimes it's a lot," she says quietly, gazing upwards at the sky. They're just far enough outside of London that he can see a smattering of stars dotting the night sky. As it always does, his gaze roves the stars to find his namesake constellation.
"What is?" he asks, a little belatedly.
"There are a lot of people here."
He takes a swig of whisky, still holding her hand. "You always have a lot of people around you."
Her gaze falls to land on his, a bit of a sigh releasing the tension free of her shoulders. "Like I said—sometimes it's a lot."
"Oh." He isn't certain what to say to that, when surely she's more used to people flocking towards her than he is. After the war, she and her friends were celebrated—while his family barely escaped Azkaban with a gross sum of reparations.
"It's fine," she says quietly, "don't get me wrong. But... is it weird I was looking forward to our usual shared whisky?"
It isn't weird at all because he's been counting down the days to this party.
"I suppose we do usually share a whisky," he says with a smirk. Granger rolls her eyes, and he softens. "No, it isn't weird."
He almost loses control of his brain function. Almost suggests they share a whisky another time, rather than waiting until his next birthday in June. But there's something about doing this on their birthdays that doesn't make sense the rest of the year.
So he proffers his drink and says, "Happy birthday, Granger. Many happy returns."
The smile that crosses her face makes him want to kiss her. "Thank you, Malfoy." She takes a sip of her drink.
He wonders whether she's going to hug him again. But she only extracts her hand from his at last, and makes to walk away.
Draco bites down on an almost overwhelming urge to say something more. To ask her to stay with him. To confess some part of him better left hidden away. Because there's no reason for the two of them to see each other more often than this.
Before she vanishes from view she turns back; in the moment her eyes search out his, Draco's heart begins to race.
And it doesn't stop until he makes his excuses and goes home.
June 5, 2004
Exhilaration flares in her blood from the moment she spots him, and Hermione spends altogether too much time waiting for the moment to approach.
As soon as Malfoy is alone, she stops at the bar to pick up two glasses of whisky before slipping in at his side.
"Hi," he says, tossing back the last of his drink to make room in his hand for another. "I was wondering when you would come find me."
For good measure, Hermione slings an arm around his shoulders in a brief embrace—made a little less brief when his arms come around her, too.
"You've been busy," she says, the words muffled in his shirt as she sinks into him. As his hands find her spine—one lower, one closer to her neck—and he holds her against him. A little awkwardly, she holds both drinks steady lest she pour them down his back.
Hermione doesn't want to ever walk away. But finally he draws back, hands on her shoulders to take her in.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," he says, taking one of the drinks from her at last. "It's been too long."
"We saw each other at Harry and Theo's Christmas party," she reminds him, though the defence feels feeble when even that was almost six months ago.
When she's had to stop herself from owling him at least a dozen times since her last birthday.
"Exactly," he muses, "too long."
Her cheeks heat with perusal, and she reaches for the fabric of his tie. "This is very pink."
His eyes sparkle. "And if I wanted to see you in pink?" He glances down, following her gaze. "I thought we would go with watermelon for this year's fruit-colour-scheme."
"Watermelon is a bad name choice, given it's ambiguous," she retorts, sipping from her whisky. Merlin, she's indulged in maybe a little too much liquid courage tonight. "Most of the time if someone said watermelon, I would assume green."
"I foresaw you making that exact counterpoint," he drawls, "but I stand by this colour as watermelon."
"Interior watermelon, then," she agrees. "I will see what I can find before September."
Sipping his drink, he gazes at her until his mouth twitches with a secretive smirk. "I can't wait."
Her pulse quickens at their closeness, at the look in his eye, and she can only blame the whisky for how she has to refrain from touching him. She lifts her drink towards his and says, "Happy Birthday, Malfoy. I hope it's been a good one so far."
"All the better now," he says, clinking the glasses together. He lowers his voice. "It's always better for the fact that I get to see you."
Her insides twist up with heat, with something between longing and desire.
She needs to walk away before she says or does something inappropriate—something she won't be able to take back. They hardly know each other outside of this strange bi-annual tradition they've somehow formed where they both drink a little too much at each other's birthday party.
Merlin, she doesn't even know the man sober.
She's almost able to pull herself away, to return to her friends and allow him back to his party. But something about the heat in his eyes catches her up.
She leans in close to his ear with a quiet, "You could see me more often if you liked," and can't help the way her gaze snags on his before she wrenches herself away without waiting for a response, horror and mortification sluicing through her as one.
Every so often for the rest of the night, Hermione feels his focus on her—but she can't find the courage to approach him again.
Sept 19, 2004
The last three and a half months have been the longest of Draco's life.
And that's saying something, considering he lived through a war where he thought he might be put out of his misery every damn day.
Now, the misery has been deciding whether or not to owl Hermione Granger.
And every day, he comes out with not.
For as much as he wants to see her, he can't say whether the offer to spend time together was genuine or simply whisky-fueled as most of their interactions have historically been. The last thing he needs is to make her uncomfortable if she regrets saying it.
Despite that Theo and Potter have been together for a couple of years now, their groups don't combine as often as Draco would like—and he doesn't know Potter well enough to ask after Granger. Nor would he, when Potter could very well decide to knock him out.
So he's waited for the fateful day of her birthday, wondering whether this might finally be the party when he gathers the nerve to ask her out.
Even now, he doesn't know.
As soon as Draco arrives at the facility, he searches her out—and all at once, something feels different. For one, she's forgone the watermelon pink colour scheme in favour of a green dress with polka dots instead.
It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter—except it does.
She's already in conversation with a handful of people, some of whom Draco recognises and others he doesn't. His gaze lingers a moment too long—long enough for her to feel his attention and look up. And when her gaze meets his, something within his gut sinks.
The smile she offers is brief, obligatory—a thin press of the lips. Acknowledgement more than genuine interest. For an immature moment, he considers going home. It will be a long night surrounded by Granger's friends and admirers if he can't even look forward to their usual birthday tradition.
Instead he settles at a table with Theo and Potter, clutching a glass of ice water in one hand. The last thing he needs is to drink himself stupid before he can even get a chance to see her.
Draco doesn't catch Granger on her own until late in the night, after some of those gathered have already begun to trickle home.
He's exhausted and discouraged, nearly ready to resign himself to the thought that he might not see her until another round of birthdays is upon them—when he catches her gaze across the room.
Steeling his feeble, sober courage, he approaches her, offering a hand. "Come on," he says quietly, grateful when she takes his hand without question.
She walks with him outside, despite that the night has become cold, and Draco turns to cast a warming charm on them both. And freezes.
From up close, he can see that her dress isn't patterned with polka dots after all—the surface is spotted with small watermelons. Most of them are whole, but every so often in the pattern is a sliced watermelon with a bright pink centre.
Extending their joined hands away from him so he can take her in fully, Draco smirks. "Nice dress. You really took the theme and ran with it."
"You gave me no choice," she says, her voice a little breathy. "I mean, calling that shade of pink watermelon—you were asking for it to be contested."
"I suppose I was," he admits. "I'll have to come up with something more definitive next year."
"Absolutely."
She gives a sort of titter, and though she doesn't extract her hand from his, the air between them falls awkward. Draco wonders if she had been hoping he wouldn't seek her out at all.
"Look, Granger," he says at last, raking a hand through his hair. He's painfully aware that he hasn't brought his usual whisky offering in a glass. "About the last time we saw each other—"
"It's fine," she breathes, forcing a smile he would be an idiot to believe. "I didn't really expect you to reach out."
Draco hesitates, weighing his words. "You were... I thought you were drunk."
Her expression falters, sadness drawing at her brow. "I was. That's why I didn't expect anything. I mean... this thing we do is just drunken nonsense at birthday parties, so—"
It's at that moment that he notices he hasn't seen her holding a drink all night.
He wants to tell her it doesn't have to be. That this thing they do can be so much more.
"I mean..." He fumbles in his pocket, drawing a shrunken bottle. "I'm not drinking tonight, but I didn't want to miss out on your gift so—"
Granger gapes at the bottle when he enlarges it to its full size. "Malfoy, this is—" She peers closer, her eyes bulging. "This is way too much."
If he happened to select the most expensive bottle of Firewhisky he could find, there's nothing for it. "Take it. Enjoy it whenever you feel like."
"I've not been drinking tonight either," she says softly. "I didn't... to be honest, it didn't sit well with me either. After your birthday. I thought I must have put you in an uncomfortable spot and—"
"You didn't." He presses the bottle into her hand, and her fingers curl around the neck almost unwittingly. "I almost owled you a dozen times. But I didn't know if you meant it."
Draco can't rationalise where his courage is coming from, when he's traditionally relied on whisky to get through a conversation with her in the past. But he forces himself to search her gaze, desperate to understand what exactly this is. And whether he's the only one who feels it.
"I meant it," she breathes, clutching the bottle to her chest. "I just didn't think it was well received."
A quiet huff of disbelief slides from his lips at the thought that she might doubt his interest. He gives her hand a squeeze, relief flooding through him when she laces their fingers together.
"To be clear," he says softly, "I don't want to wait until next June to see you again. And this current arrangement where we only see each other twice a year—that doesn't work so well for me either."
Granger sucks in a quiet breath. "What did you have in mind?"
He tugs her a little closer. "Next weekend?"
"I'm free," she breathes. "And I unexpectedly have a bottle of posh whisky to drink."
He grins, allowing her to pull their joined hands around the back of his neck. "I could help you with it if you really wanted—but just so you know, I have a closet full of fruit-coloured ties and infrequent occasions to wear them."
"Then I have to ask," she says, "do you prefer to match with your date or for there to be a slight delay of several months in matching colour schemes? Because I have an assortment of coloured dresses and that could work nicely."
A laugh escapes him as he stares down at her, desperate to lose himself in the warmth of her eyes. "I'm genuinely fine with it either way."
"This could be fun," she whispers, her fingers teasing the hairs at the nape of his neck.
Merlin, he's dreamt of how fun.
"To confirm," he breathes, leaning close and brushing his temple to hers, "you aren't drunk."
"Not drunk." Her nose nudges his. "No need to question my motives."
"Also not drunk," he says, giving her hip a squeeze with his free hand. "And to be abundantly clear, I'm going to kiss you—"
Her mouth is on his before he can finish the sentence, soft and sweet—and then again harder, her lips pressing against his own, fingers tugging at his hair as her tongue meets his. Draco draws her closer, bringing her body flush against his own, basking in the moan that slides from her lips.
He longs to lose himself in her at last, and the thought is enough to slow him down, to pry the exorbitant bottle of whisky from her fingers before it falls and shatters on the ground.
A smile drifts across her mouth as she looks up, eyes sparkling with delight as she presses up on her toes and plants another kiss to his mouth.
"Did you know," she breathes, fingers winding around his collar, "I find I'm really not all that tired yet."
His heart leaps into his suddenly dry throat. "It's your birthday. What do you want to do?" He kisses her cheek, her jaw, tilting her head so he can find the sensitive skin of her throat.
She hums as though the thought hasn't occurred to her, and Draco flashes her a smirk.
"Here's the thing," she murmurs, raking her fingers through his hair, "there's a certain someone I've wanted in bed for over a year now. And since it's my birthday—"
He can't Apparate them away fast enough.
Sept 20, 2004
The moment they land in his flat is little more than a blur of emboldened touches and fumbling kisses, both of them eager to lose themselves in the other. Draco wants to learn the memory of her kisses, the softness of her skin, the way she gasps his name in the throes of passion.
He wants to peel the blasted watermelon dress from every one of her curves. To taste the sweetness of her skin beneath.
"I'm crazy for you," he manages in between kisses, her eyes on him heated with lust. "In case that isn't clear."
"I've wanted you since you called your tie chartreuse," she gasps out, reaching for his belt buckle.
"It was more chartreuse than pear."
Granger sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening as they both freeze. "It wasn't bright enough to be chartreuse."
He assesses her for a long moment, biting back a response. Instead, he reaches for the strap of her dress, pressing a kiss to her shoulder as he says, "I'll let you have this one."
She slips the knot of his tie, reaching for the buttons of his shirt as he eases the zipper of her dress down along her spine, allowing the fabric to slide to the floor.
And freezes.
Her bra and knickers are a matching shade of pink. A huff of incredulous laughter slides from his lips as he grazes the lace of her bra with his knuckles. "Granger," he breathes, "your underwear is interior watermelon."
"You did say you wanted to see me in pink," she whispers, and a teasing smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
He gapes at her, entirely lost for words for a long moment, before a grin spreads across his face. "For the record, I am incredibly impressed with your commitment to this year's theme."
"I'm glad," she says, entirely serious. "Because everyone knows a watermelon is green on the outside—"
He's kissing her again before she can say anything more, drawing her close, intoxicating himself on the taste of her. His heart swells in his chest at the thought that she's wanted this too, maybe even as much as he has.
He tugs her towards the bedroom, the pair of them stumbling over each other, spilling clothes to the floor as they go. Settling her atop the bed, he hitches her leg up against his hip, palming her arse and bringing her hips to his.
Each breath falls heavily from his lips, mingling with hers, and her eyes meet his in the darkness as his fingers graze the lace of her knickers.
He touches her through the fabric, watching her eyelids flutter, feeling her sigh against his mouth. He brushes a kiss to her jaw. "You're sure?"
"Yes," she gasps, rolling her hips towards his hand. "If you are."
Searching out her gaze again, he says, "I've never been more sure of something in my life."
Her expression softens, a gentle smile crossing her face as she takes his cheeks in her palms and kisses him like, just maybe, she feels the same way.
Granger reaches for his trousers, pushing the last vestiges of fabric from his hips as she reaches for him.
And as he slides the knickers down her legs—as he buries himself within her and feels his blood eclipsed by the heat he's longed to indulge, he loses himself in her. Until she's falling apart beneath him, and he gives himself over to her entirely.
Sept 19, 2005
"Are you ready to go?" Draco peers through the bedroom door, brows high as he finds Hermione still in the closet.
"Counter-offer," she says, brandishing an open bottle of whisky. "We could just stay home."
"And deprive Theo of the chance to throw you a party?" He cocks a brow. "He'll never forgive you, I'm afraid."
She grins, handing him the bottle. Draco takes a swig for good measure before setting the bottle on the dresser. "You're right." She softens, turning to face him, and says, "I can't believe it's been a year."
"Neither can I." He winds his arms around her back, drawing her close. "I can't believe you still want to spend time with me a year later."
Hermione snickers under her breath. "I can't believe you want me to wear orange."
"It's the year of cantaloupe, technically." He gives her arse a squeeze. "And you look beautiful in orange."
With a wave of one hand, he summons two glasses from the kitchen, pouring a measure of whisky into each. Handing her one, he holds the other aloft until she clinks it with hers.
"I love you," he says, offering her a smile. "Happy birthday, Granger."