I heard what you said about me
The flicker of the firelight dances across his features as he faces the warmth, welcoming it as one might a dear friend or reluctant enemy. She watches him at a distance, waiting, studying, considering her approach and the possible outcomes. Everyone they both know has already gone home, leaving just the two of them in the night—them and the pub staff and bar regulars, all people who keep their own counsel and understand that whatever happens here stays here. There’s an unspoken solidarity in the quiet communion of alcohol. It welcomes the sip and savor, the clinking of ice against glass. It abhors chatter and the outpouring of vocal emotion.
And that is what Hermione wants at this very moment. She sips and savors the sight of him with his pale hair, those features that cut through shadows and soak in the light of the fire—parched, bottomless. Her eyes trace his form, formidable in stature, built to destroy but also create.
Somehow, he notices her presence, turning to catch her eye and tilting his chin up as if to say, “Join me. There’s plenty of room to share.” And so she does join him, so quickly it’s as if she apparates into place—but there’s no noise, no telling crack in the air. One moment she stands in the corner staring, and the next she’s here, bathing in the light of the fireplace as if she’s been here the whole time.
“I heard what you said about me.”
She’s shocked by the sound of her own voice. Of all the imagined scenarios, this was not one of them.
“And what, pray tell, did you hear?” His voice is so low, the murmur is nearly lost to the crackling wood.
Hermione isn’t sure whether to blame the alcohol or her own desperate heart, but she chooses to lean in to him before responding. One step to the left and she’s there, head tilted to rest on his shoulder, arms pressed against one another sharing warmth.
“My answer is yes.”
And here comes his arm, a slight shifting of his shoulder as he wraps fingers around her waist to tug her even closer. A soft weight drops across the top of her head, and she knows white blonde hairs now tangle with curly brown.
She knows Draco knows what she means. She knows they want the same thing. She knows, and he knows, and now the quiet crowd around them knows.
3 hours earlier
“So when in the bloody hell are you going to ask her out?”
“That’s none of your business, mate.”
“Because if you don’t ask, I’m gonna ask. I’m tired of waiting for your slow arse.”
“You fucking wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“I don’t even know if she’d be interested in me like that. What do I have to offer that she can’t get better elsewhere?”
“Ah, yes, I agree, my cock IS bigger than yours—”
“Fuck OFF, Theo—”
“If you insist…”
“I will ask her when I bloody well feel like, when the moment feels right.”
“Theo Nott allllways feels right.”
“THEO. Shut the fuck up.”