Chapter Text
Hermione blows on her coffee as she sits on her living room couch, then slowly tests the temperature with the tip of her lips, daring to sip the brew bit by bit when it only burns her tongue a little. She is only starting to enjoy her quiet night when the handle of her supposedly locked front door turns.
She’s been living alone for the past few months, but the sound of the door opening doesn’t surprise her. She merely sighs and sets her cup down on the coffee table in front of her, mentally admonishing herself for arrogantly thinking she would not be needing coasters that night.
She heads to her front door—not to greet him, really, it’s never to greet him—because he never remembers to lock the door again. She gets there to see messy platinum-blonde hair (and Hermione would deny it if asked, but she clenches her fist when she hypothesizes that the mess might be because of hands that are not his own) crouching over his shoes, trying hard to take them off, and failing.
Hermione doesn’t help him. She locks her front door, again, then stands in front of the intruder, hands on her hips. “I explicitly told Harry I’ll confiscate his emergency key if he lends it to you again.”
“Stole it,” Draco grumbles his answer as he finally manages to take off both of his shoes, “He had no idea.”
She rolls her eyes at the fact that he doesn’t bother to give her a realistic albeit long-winded lie anymore. Stole a key from the Head Trainer of the country’s best private security contractor? No. Her best friend has a soft spot for her former boyfriend.
Draco tries to get himself up and wobbles, and she grabs his arm and places it around her shoulders to help him walk to her couch—not because she’s afraid of him falling, really, it’s never for him—for her genuine worry that he’s going to break one of her dearest flower vases.
The moment the couch is within his sight, Draco skips several steps, tumbling to the couch and taking her with him, her head landing on his chest. “Ouch,” Hermione complains, not actually hurt, just wanting to make it known to him that it is an inconvenience to be stuck in his embrace. She tries to sit up, but his arm, suddenly strong enough for people to assume he’s sober, keeps her shoulder and head in place.
He tilts his head back to lie on the headrest, his eyes closed. Hermione knows he’s not asleep, and not planning to. “Done for the night with the model?” She quips.
He laughs and replies to her with another question, “Word travels fast?” It frustrates her so much when he does that.
“Tabloids travel fast,” she corrects as she gets comfortable in his arms—she knows there’s no going anywhere once he makes up his mind. Draco merely snickers to her correction. “But you know that, don’t you? It’s not your first night of fame. Desperate for me to see your new conquest, Malfoy?”
“Very antifeminist of you, calling women ‘conquests’.” His words antagonize her, but his thumb slowly strokes her shoulder.
“You know, I’ve always been curious,” she ignores his quip, “are girls with brown curly hair just your type then? Or are you intentionally bedding girls that look like your ex?”
Draco stills for a moment, as if he does not expect her to go in for the kill, then answers with his own jab. “Are green dresses that show off your thighs just your style now? Or are you intentionally wearing what turns on your ex the most?”
Hermione laughs, genuinely amused. “Thank you for noticing! When we were dating I thought I couldn’t get you to notice even if I were to jump off a building.”
She can feel him stop himself from balling his hand into a fist. “So it is me, the ex you were trying to impress?” He finally opens his eyes and looks at her.
She looks back at him. “So you are turned on by my green dresses?”
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “Very much so.”
She looks away at his confession, choosing to tilt her head back and lie on his left arm instead. “You should buy the same ones for your brown haired models then.”
Draco does not take his gaze off her, his left hand starts playing with her brown curls. “It doesn’t work,” he whispers, “it only works with you.”
She gulps. She knows where this is going—this never ending dance between them. “Good.”
He takes a handful of her hair and forces her to look at him as he leans in—his eyes, with obvious remnants of alcohol, stares at her lips as if it’s physically drawing him in. It’s fine, she argues. She’ll change her lock and forget about him tomorrow.
She surges to meet his lips, her hands immediately grabbing his platinum-blonde hair, making a mess.
Tomorrow, she promises.