Eyes Open by: orphan_account

XXXII. Come Back

August 29 th , 2004

He spends an hour just staring at the envelope, wondering if he will open it or not. He can't believe he's kept it as long as he had. If I had any sense at all, I would have thrown it out as soon as I realised I took it, he thinks to himself. If I had any sense at all, I would throw it away now.

But that's the last thing he wants to do, not now, when their previously friendly relationship has turned awkward and quiet. It's a link to a time when Hermione Granger was simply a mystery—the Gryffindor Princess, who, though she was so utterly imperfect in her blood, though she had invaded his world like a parasite simply by living and breathing beside him, was nearly flawless in all other ways.

He's spent many hours—maybe days, maybe weeks—sitting on his bed, or at his desk, staring at that stupid envelope and wondering at the contents. Wondering whether he would open it or not.

But for some reason, he never has. Not even when he mother passed away, and not even now, when his half-formed friendship with Hermione has faded into near-nothingness.

He studies it, though he's memorised its shape and appearance years ago. The envelope itself is thick, so that even when he holds it to the light in his kitchen, he can't see an outline of the contents. It's sealed with wax, though he can tell it's been broken once before and resealed. And the bundle inside is thick, as well. One centimetre, perhaps.

There's a knock on the door. Draco pulls open his desk drawer and shoves the envelope inside, closing it with a slam and rising from his chair.

When he drops the wards and opens the door, his throat catches hold of his breath and refuses to let it pass. It's her. She's standing there, fiddling with the buttons on her jacket (no cloak) and looking down the hall. And when she looks up to see him at the door, probably gaping with his mouth open like a dead fish, her eyes are unfocused and sort of... hazy.

"Granger?" he stammers.

"Hello there, Malfoy," she says, and her voice is... not quite right. Her words seem to float and drift into his ear, instead of dropping precisely into it. It's very un-Hermione-like, and it makes him uneasy.

"Can I come in?"

He stares at her for what must be fifteen seconds before he finally nods mutely, stepping inside and letting her walk through the door.

She's playing with her hair, now, running her fingers through the ends like a nervous teenager. He's only ever seen her touch her hair twice, and on those occasions she was pulling her fingers through it in extreme vexation.

"It smells nicer than when I was last here," she comments abstractedly. "I think I'm going to sit down." She sets herself down on the sofa in the living room, stumbling slightly when she seems to realise the cushion is farther down than she expected.

"Any reason for the visit?" he asks as he gathers his wits in one hand while pouring two glasses of water with the other.

"I was in the neighbourhood, you see, and I thought, you know, I bet Malfoy is really lonely."

A single pale eyebrow scales his forehead.

"You have this big, lovely flat and you're quite alone in here, with no company at all. So on my way back to my flat—I was at a pub, you see—I just thought visiting you would be a really splendid idea. You and I, we both need company today, I think."

Ah, the pub. That explains the haziness in her gaze, the vagueness in her voice. She's tipsy.

"You could have visited the Weasleys. Or Potter," Draco offers as he sets both glasses down on the coffee table and settles himself on the armchair. He wonders how long it will take for him to get her out of here.

She simply scoffs at him, though, reaching for her glass of water and taking it in her hands. "Ron and I had a... a falling out earlier. And Harry would just want to talk about it, at this point. And I don't want to talk about it. You won't talk about it with me, will you, Malfoy?" she asks him in a pleading sort of voice.

He considered it, when she first said "falling out". But she asked him not to now. He doesn't have the heart to ignore her wishes.

"Go home and get to bed, Granger," he advises. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

"But you're lonely, Draco."

Shock. It takes its heavy, hard fist and pitches it into the side of his head. For a second he can't even remember where he is. All he can think about is his name, flitting from between her lovely lips, and settling on his skin like a breeze.

She leans forward, like a toddler about to share a secret. "And I'm lonely, too."

"I thought you were happy with Weasley," he says, quickly building a wall between them made of brick and cemented with his desire to get her out of his flat.

She tears it down easily, perhaps sensing the glue is not as strong as it should be. Her eyes are bright and intense as she gazes at him, so intense that for a moment he doubts she was ever really drunk in the first place. "I am almost always happy with Ron," she says quietly. "But sometimes, I'm euphoric when I'm with you."

He swears his heart stops beating in that moment.

Six years of loathing the very sight of her.

Draco rises from the armchair and walks toward her, standing directly in front of her.

Two years of absolute confusion.

He offers her his hand and she takes it, her eyebrows meeting in the middle of her forehead to discuss their bewilderment.

Six years of trying to forget.

She stands in front of him and she smells of alcohol, vanilla, and cinnamon. Always cinnamon.

Five (fucking) months of falling in love with her.

He almost kisses her. He comes this close. He leaned down and closed his eyes, and perhaps she closed her eyes as well. But at the last second, when their lips were perhaps two centimetres away from each other, he sighed.

No.

She is tipsy, she is lonely, and she is still with Weasley.

This is not going to be their first kiss.

So instead he wraps his arms around her and simply draws her close, burying his face in her oh-so-soft curls. Breathing in her beautiful scent, despite its mask of alcohol. Trying to drill his thoughts into her pretty little head.

Take me. Choose me. I'm yours. All yours. Come back. Get sober. Leave him. Come back.

Come back.

Maybe she hears them. Maybe she doesn't. Hermione's arms cinch about his waist. Her breath nudges his chest.

Sixteen seconds.

He doesn't count, but he knows. Sixteen.

She leaves.

Come back.