Nicest Thing

A/N: This is quite a long chapter. It was a ton of fun to write a character --> you'll figure her out when you read her. LOADS of fun!

The songs:
The Falmouth Falcon Party Entrance:
Kate Nash - Pumpkin Soup http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VH2yvdGM7YA
Their dance:
The Submarines - Brightest Hour http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Slb_wnqCPFw


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To say that people were shocked by the apparent revelation that Hermione Granger, war veteran and the brightest witch in Britain, was in a romantic relationship with none other than Draco Malfoy would be a complete understatement. She spent the better part of her Sunday answering letters from various Weasleys, Harry and Ginny, and including a very interesting Howler from a very angry Pansy Parkinson. Crookshanks seemed to be the only one enjoying the rough treatment Hermione endured over the last several hours as he sat curled up in a ball wheezing out mewing laughter whenever a howler exploded in her face after sending confetti spiraling into her face.

Not all of the letters she received were bad, however. Ginny wanted to get together for lunch to ‘discuss’ what was really happening as Harry had been on her case about it. Not to mention, Ron nearly exploded with anger when he was shown the paper for her playing tonsil hockey with his most notable enemy. Only Luna seemed indifferent about the situation. Her letter contained the usual drabble about Nargles and a small parcel of treats for Crooks. Hermione baited her cat after he discovered his weekly treats and seemed apologetic for chuckling at her expense in his cattish ways.

She hardly got any work done but didn’t mind it as she seriously needed a day to soak in her large tub and just relax. She ignored the rest of the owls that fluttered by and had half a mind to make her home unplottable – but she couldn’t do that. Her parents still relied on the use of owls to communicate with her. Why, she didn’t know. They had fallen into the wizarding world just as easily as she had, and they were mere Muggles. Her last visit concluded when her mother proclaiming how cute the owl she had gotten them was and named it some ridiculous name she didn’t remember.

Two tickets sat on her desk, obscured by several large files of parchment. Hermione tried to keep her eyes on her work, yet they constantly drifted over to those tickets. They shimmered in the light, almost begging her to touch them again. Touch them she did. Pushing her paperwork to the side, Hermione traced her finger over the elegant writing on the tickets and sniffed before shoving them into a desk. Yet, they still hummed with the annoying invisible sound of ‘look at me, you know you want to.’ Damn that Malfoy.

She hadn’t seen him since that afternoon when she discovered Rita Skeeter’s latest attempts to cash in on frivolous stories about the Golden Trio, namely Hermione. It wasn’t a secret that Skeeter despised the curly-haired witch. Apparently the whole incident during the Goblet of Fire was still a sore subject for the reporter, but in Hermione’s opinion she deserved it. What she should have done was taken her shoe off and smashed the disgusting insect that was Skeeter and wiped her guts from the sole of her shoe. But no, she was far too noble. Maybe she should’ve been sorted into Slytherin, which might have helped ease her normally good conscious and let her dabble in torturing the stupid pim.

It was nearly a month before she heard from him, outside of reading about him in the Prophet – mostly under crude titles such as: FAMED DEATH EATER BREAKS HEROINE’S HEART or MALFOY PLAYS COY, WHERE IS GRANGER? Pictures of him with other witches surfaced and it was automatically assumed that Hermione was nothing more than a shag bag for him. She often doubted their ‘relationship’ if that was what they had, but took to ignoring those thoughts in favor of her work.

Returning to the office was just as Hermione had expected. The large projection of the daily news seemed to be stuck on various reports of Hermione and Draco’s liaisons, which almost always resulted in her hiding her face once she appeared out of the Floo. Her co-workers wouldn’t leave her alone and she had to tack her door shut to keep owls from coming into her office. All letters were given to her newly appointed secretary, some bint named Gretel from Eastern Europe, who would shift through the junk, howlers and important documents before handing them to her.

The bottle-bottomed glassed girl wobbled into Hermione’s office, after fighting off a slew of flying paper airplanes that tried to sneak their way past the door nook. She huffed as she handed Hermione several thick envelops followed by a few parcels from her parents, Mrs. Weasley, and Luna. She had a feeling Luna’s contained the usual mound of dirt proclaiming that it would help her dandruff. Not that Hermione had any but Luna was weird to begin with. Mail was always fun to read, when she wanted something to occupy her mind.

Scanning through the usual things, Hermione did a double take at a relatively thin envelope that had loopy letters were printed on the top. She sat and scooted her chair closer to her desk, tearing the envelope up and dumping its contents onto the table. That was where the tickets came into play. They were for an after party the Falmouth Falcons were throwing to celebrate their wins and their chance to win the World Cup for the first time in seven years.

Scrawled at the flap of the envelope was a note written by Draco that read:

‘H.

Dress nice. I like that purple number in your closet. Yes, I went through your stuff when you slept. Blame boredom and your terrible snoring.

D.’

Hermione snorted but was unable to tear her eyes away from his written word. She went so far as to indulge in nostalgia and trace her fingers over the imprint, imagining how he wrote or when he did. Her mind wandered to whether he would be shirtless, pantless, maybe naked when he wrote. Dirty. Dirty. Hermione. Stop. Her mind scolded her for her little nasty thoughts, which caused her to grin and stifle a snort as she folded tickets back into the envelope and went back to her usual daily activities.

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She didn’t plan on responding to him. She didn’t plan on ever speaking to him again, but Draco Malfoy wouldn’t leave her the hell alone. It might flatter other women, who desperately sought rich handsome men to woo and court them; she was not swayed by his actions. If anything, they annoyed her and he knew it annoyed her. He didn’t come by the office after that week of a series of lunch dates, prior to their little Muggle excursion to her tiny harbor town, but he did send owls like no one’s business. Gretel was constantly shuffling in and out of her office to deposit letter after letter from the Slytherin. Sometimes the parchment would only have a word written on it, other times it was some crude doodle that reminded Hermione of how a three year old would draw if they had ink and parchment in front of them.

Sometimes, on the half blooded chance that Hermione would open a letter, he would actually write her. His words almost sweet yet still filled with crass remarks about her inability to respond to his owls, or how he kept finding Crookshank’s hair everywhere when he thought he cleaned his entire wardrobe. It was his fault for wanting to let Crooks sleep on his chest after their romp that night…well mid-day really. It was magnificent and he had her, at least six times before they left. She felt dirty but in a good way. Pleasantly sore for several days where nothing seemed to make her angry – even when Rita Skeeter printed another article out about their supposed elopement. Like that’d happen.

The night of the Falmouth Falcon’s celebratory commencement, Hermione had been sitting on her couch eating a pint of ice cream when the door bell rang. When she shuffled to the door, clad in thick wool pajama bottoms, a white tank top and fluffy white slippers, she opened it to see a very handsome and dashing Draco Malfoy. He looked down at her with a large spoon stuffed in her mouth, a pint of rocky road shoved between her arm and breast and what looked like remnants of a face mask under her chin.

“What are you doing there?” She asked with her spoon still shoved into her petite mouth.

Draco sneered and looked around. He was probably hoping that she was playing a joke on him, but it was soon evident that she wasn’t. He reached out and pulled the spoon from her mouth and grabbed – more like wrestled the pint of ice cream – from her grasp before pushing his way into the cottage.

“We have a date, Granger,” he said calmly, walking straight into the kitchen to place the ice cream into the freezer.

“No, we don’t.” Hermione replied, standing in the door way with her arms crossed, “You sent me tickets and basically told me I was going.”

“Exactly, now run along and get dressed,” he chirped from the kitchen, coming out with several kitty snacks for Crookshanks, who mewed happily as he fed the fat stuffed cat.

“I’m not going,” she said firmly, resting her hands on her hips, “I don’t do those sorts of things and you should know that.”

“Should I?” Draco asked with a quirked brow, nodding for her to go upstairs and change, “We’re going to be late, so I suggest you rush.”

“I’m not going. What part of ‘I’m not going’ do you not understand?” She was beginning to get angry when Draco couldn’t take a hint.

“Are you now?” He asked with that same damn quirked eyebrow, his cobalt blue eyes glittering in front of her.

“No, I’m not and there’s nothing you can do to make me go,” she felt triumphed and accomplished with her stern look but it soon faltered when he grinned and walked straight up to her, pushing the front door shut and trapping her between him and it.

“Really now?” He asked, for the millionth time quirking the fucking eyebrow. If she had her wand she’d hex it off.

“Stop being a git, and get off me.” She struggled against him, feeling her throat become increasingly dry, “I’m not going, end of story…”

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“I hate you.” Hermione muttered while in a large black carriage that was drawn on its own.

Draco sat beside her chuckling as his arm snaked around the back seat and rested against her shoulder. She grumbled and fixed a wrinkle in a maroon colored dress that was very silky and clung to her body nicely. Her hair was done up, a bit sloppily but it worked for her as she had placed several small Hermione roses into her hair.

“Yes, I know that,” He replied, nuzzling his nose into her neck where he inhaled her perfume. “You look bloody brilliant though. Told you the purple dress would look fantastic on you.”

“It’s maroon, not purple,” Hermione corrected frowning as they reached the same hall that Harry and Ginny married in.

“It still looks shaggable,” he grinned, wriggling his eyebrow.

“Good, why don’t I take it off and you can take it back to a hotel and have your merry way with it?” She said, quite annoyed as the door opened and Draco was the first to exit.

He held his hand out for her and pulled her to the ground, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Sod the dress. I’d rather see you without the gown.” He purred into her ear, causing her to snort and try not to laugh.

There were a few photographers…ok that was a lie…there were more photographers here then there were at Harry’s wedding and even then there was a maze of people trying to get a snap shot of the happy couple. Not she was quite certain it tripled in amount. After all, it wasn’t everyday that the Falmouth Falcons got to go to the Quidditch World Cup – let alone Draco to attend with some one and that some one being Hermione freaking Granger.

She had to shield her eyes from the bright flashes and felt her face turning red when questions about her and Draco’s sex life were blurted into her ears. Draco seemed at ease with the attention and merely maneuvered expertly through them, pulling Hermione along as if she were a scared pup or a lost child. She was probably both in a sense but right now she just hoped she could see by the night was through.

The hall looked completely different from the last time she had been there. It was tall and covered in black and white marble with handing tapestries of the Falmouth Falcon’s team logo and photographs of all the players. Of course, Draco’s photo of him on a broom holding the winning snitch that enabled them to go after the cup was the largest and in the center of the room.

Several witches and wizards looked completely in place with the room by their attire, others – which she assumed were the players – merely reminded her of Muggle frat boys. They shouted and sang lewdy songs while trying to ogle girls. Her nose crinkled when one approached them clearly drunk off his arse. He wrapped an arm around Draco and belted out a small tune before noticing Hermione

“Oi! Is this the one?” He pointed at her, his finger an inch from her nose.

Hermione had the right mind to snap it off with her teeth, but she didn’t want to spend all night picking grubby Quidditch player finger from her teeth. She looked to Draco, who had stiffen considerably under his team mate’s questioning.

“Miki, this is Hermione Granger,” Draco introduced her to the foul mouth – fit for that team that is – Quidditch player.

He stumbled over and just when he was about to greet her, he belched. Right in her face. Wisps of hair flew from her face from the sheer force of the burp and she felt ill. A combination of firewhiskey and cheese was not very appetizing. She coughed into her hand and gave a small fake smile.

“Hi.” Was all she managed to get out before the Quidditch player spotted another person and shouted after her, leaving her and Draco alone.

“He’s on the reserve,” Draco made a point of mentioning, “Most of the ones you see butt buffing the floor are on the reserve. Hoping they’ll get a chance to play.”

He nodded to several of the louder men who were currently on the floor grinding against it with their butts. Definitely ‘buffering the floor’ with their large portly bums. Hermione stifled a laugh when an older man with speckled gray hair approached. On his arm was a blond woman who reminded Hermione of a person who ran straight into a wall then fell on the ground. Her nose was pointed straight up and nostrils so wide that she could see the proverbial ‘gold in them there hills’ digging into her nose.

“Oh, is this the lovely Miss Granger we hear so much about?” the man said in almost a nasally tone, extending a hand to shake Draco’s.

“Yes,” Draco replied quickly, “Hermione, this is Theodore Malvini. He’s the owner of Falmouth Falcons and our coach as well.”

“Pleasure,” Hermione replied, glancing up at Draco as he clenched his jaw and unclenched it.

“Lovely lady indeed,” he purred – a poor attempt at trying to sound sexy by any means – but he shook her hand gingerly while leaning back, “My wife, Mimsy.”

Her mind reeled with laughter. Mimsy. It sounded like a House-Elf name but then again Hermione told herself that she shouldn’t judge. She had been judged her whole life because of her blood and to judge some one because of her name was something she should never do.

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione smiled, shaking Mimsy Malvini’s hand a little less formal than normal.

“Pleasure,” Mimisy mocked Hermione with an air of superiority, “Where is that lovely thing you were with last year? Pansy was it?”

Draco cleared his throat and glanced down at Hermione before answering, “Pansy and I do not speak any longer. Hermione is my…um…”

“Oh there you are!” A shrill high pitch laugh interrupted Draco’s sentence as another girl appeared.

She was large and very vibrate, wearing bright magenta robes with a hat that held a large peacock feather. It was askew on the top of her head, and her cheeks were flushed. She was obviously drunk as well.

“Mimsy, darling. You look ravishing,” She drawled, nearly toppling over onto the thin frail bird of a woman. She reeled around and spotted Hermione before letting out a loud squeal of delight. “Oh Ms. Granger! It’s such an honor to meet you. Don’t you look spot on! Doesn’t she Mimsy? She’s a good one, right there Draco. Much better than that cast off of a girl you brought last year. What was her name? Poppy? Poopy? Never mind. Dreadful thing. Looked like a pug went running straight into a wall if you asked me.”

“Hermione,” Draco said with a small sigh between his teeth, “I want you to meet Madam Nash. She’s…”

“The manager of the team darling. Played Quidditch meself with the Harpies back in oh…say seventy-seven,” Madam Nash drawled on with a hiccup, shaking Hermione’s hand again. “You look so much prettier than in the Daily Prophet. Doesn’t she Mimsy? I don’t buy into that stuff about what they say with you and Draco eloping. No. I expect a very fanciful wedding – Mr. Malfoy and Mrs. Malfoy wouldn’t want nothing but the best for his son. And what better thing than a war hero. Such a lovely – hic – thing you are. Draco, don’t let this girl get away. I might have to snatch her up for my son, Brutus.”

Hermione watched as Madam Nash thumbed over her shoulder at a towering, thick necked, man who was standing beside a thing man she recognized as the keeper on Draco’s team. He looked bored and down right scary. Madam Nash pinched Draco’s cheek and giggled.

“He’s such a catch,” Madam Nash whispered to Hermione – more like yelled into her ear, “He gets girls all the time but does he do anything with those tarts? Nope. Such a gentleman, unlike my no good for nothing son. BRUTUS! Come here! I want you to meet Miss Hermione Granger! Although, I don’t think it’d be Granger too much longer. A bright beautiful girl such as yourself out on the market. Better get a ring on that finger, Draco… BRUTUS!!!”

Madam Nash scurried away after her son, who was busy watching the reserve members tackle the keeper. He grunted when she reached him and attempted to pull him with her. Draco brought his hand to hers and pulled her with him, whispering.

“I think it’s best if we made our escape.” He nodded to the Malvini’s and departed quickly before Madam Nash had the opportunity to scout them down.

Hermione took a breath once they reached the other end of the room, which was enchanted to look similar to Paris. Draco pulled a chair out for her at a small white table – which she took with a heavy sigh. Draco sat beside her and leaned back chortling.

“We may be dangerous, egotistic maniacs on the pitch but most players are drunks and partiers,” Draco laughed, watching Hermione as she watched Madam Nash search around for them but eventually give up.

“Is Madam Nash always that…frilly?” Hermione asked, listening to Draco strain not to laugh.

“I’d say that’s a good day for her. Normally she’s screeching about something or another.”

Both laughed for quite some time before Draco grew quiet. He looked up at the dance floor and smirked, holding his hand out, “How about a dance, Ms. Granger?”

“Such formalities, Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione teased as she took his hand and was led to the dance floor.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and brought his hand to hers. It brought back memories of the first time they danced together, with the exception that she didn’t twist her ankle or run into his chest when he turned her. They swayed back and forth and the entire world around her seemed to melt away – leaving just them together. His breath caressed her face when she moved closer to him. Peppermint with a dash of cinnamon. She loved his natural scent. Nothing like the horrid amounts of cologne Ron had doused himself with when he wanted to impress Luna. Of course, Ron had learned that Luna liked as little cologne as possible and that probably saved him several galleons a month.

Draco’s hand traced down her back as pulled her closer to him. Their eyes locked and he smiled at her, as she did at him. He leaned in, so close to her lips, she could taste him at that moment and anticipated the feeling of warmth when their lips touched. A sudden bright flash ruined the entire moment, causing Hermione to see golden snitches swirling about her head.

“Aw, look at the lovely couple,” a faux sweet voice cooed from behind a photographer.

Hermione growled inwardly as she parted from Draco, her vision becoming clear. Rita Skeeter. Her short blond haired face appeared behind the photographer with her trusty quill scribbling on a floating pad of parchment behind her.

“Can I help you?” Draco asked, taking a firm step in front of Hermione, “What do you want to make up now? I have four heads? I sleep with stuffed animals?”

“Oh no, I would never make things up, Mr. Malfoy,” Skeeter cooed, wrapping her hand onto his tie and straightening it, more like making it crooked.

“I suggest you leave us,” Hermione snarled, feeling Draco’s hand on her back, “Or do you remember what happened all those years ago…”

Rita’s face drained almost completely at the memories but she sneered at Hermione, “Oh but darling. I was invited here to record the best party of the century. It’s been noted to have been far more formal that Harry Potter’s wedding…”

“You’re just jealous because you weren’t allowed in at all. What with all those bug traps set out and everything,” she replied in a deep growl.

“Well, I never.” Rita said lightly, “No wonder Mr. Malfoy has a wandering eye. Cold and frigid are not on the menu for handsome men like him. Isn’t that right, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco’s jaw clenched and unclenched and he stood an intimidating step toward her. Rita Skeeter must have realized the error in her words and started backing away. Her hands shot out in defense as she tried to pull her photographer back with her as a human shield.

“Well, have a nice evening. I think I see Madam Nash over there. Come Scotland,” She said briskly, turning quickly to make a haste exit.

Draco spun around and stared at Hermione, she looked back at him and his face looked…amused. She sighed with content as he grabbed her hand and pulled her back to their secluded area.

“Are you alright?” He asked, sounding concerned as Hermione glared at the back of Rita Skeeter – hoping that she’d fall of her fat arse.

She turned and looked at him, smiling softly, “I’m fine. Now. She’s just so…”

“Infuriating. I know. I’ve been getting letters from her for ages about a ‘proper interview,’ a bunch of rubbish in my opinion.” They both laughed and Hermione sighed happily, her hand tracing Draco’s tie with her index finger.

He leaned forward and reached out for her hand, “Hermione, there’s something I want to ask you before the night’s out.”

She turned and looked at him quizzically. What was he on about? Since when did he ask her things, more like told her but she’d indulge him. Smiling, Hermione nodded, “Alright. Spill.”

Draco cleared his throat and dug his hands into his robes but before he could pull whatever it was out – she had a feeling it was flash cards - they were interrupted.

“Hermione?”

Hermione looked up and nearly squealed with delight at the sight of Ginny. The red head looked beautiful in her emerald green dress, with Harry by her side.

“What are you doing here? Hello Harry!” Hermione gave Harry a hug and smiled brightly at them.

“I’m the Quidditch correspondent of course I’d be here. The question is, what are you here?” She eyed Malfoy with a small grin on her face – to which he stiffened up and stood.

“Malfoy,” Harry said with a firm hand shake.

“Potter.” Draco replied with a nod, his hand still in his pocket.

“I’m going to steal Hermione away for a little bit, m’kay?” Ginny said cheerfully, dragging Hermione by the crook of her arm to the other side.

“Ok, spill!” Ginny said eagerly, glancing around, “You came here with Draco, Draco Malfoy.”

“Against my will, yes,” Hermione sighed, looking past Ginny’s red hair to Harry and Draco – who looked deep into conversation about something. “I planned on staying in and eating ice cream until I puked.”

“Oh nonsense. If you really didn’t want to go, you wouldn’t have. Not even Hogwarts on fire could make you go somewhere you didn’t,” Ginny said with a laugh, her shoulders rolling back. “So, you and Malfoy eh? Can’t say I approve then again can’t say I disapprove.”

“We’re not a couple, Ginny,” Hermione was quick to say, covering her arms with her hands.

“Friends?” Ginny asked, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, according to the Daily Prophet.”

“Articles written by Rita Skeeter,” Hermione corrected with a sigh.

“Well yeah, I know all about that rubbish but that photo of you was the real thing. I saw that Muggle gnome I gave you for Christmas sitting in your yard. How many cottages have that?”

“It was just a kiss,” she explained, her mind laughing at that notion.

Just a kiss, yeah right. Just like shagging him is ‘just a shag.’ What a bleeding hypocrite you are ‘Mione. She wanted to claw her conscious out of her head at that moment, but she grinned and bared it.

“Do…do you love him?” Ginny asked quietly, leaning in.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer – not right then, right at that single moment. Her emotions were swirling around in her mind. She hadn’t been dating Draco long enough, not that they were dating. She wasn’t even sure if he was interested in her romantically – or if he thought her just to be some fun experiment or a nostalgic moment. He might have felt terrible for the way he treated her at Hogwarts and during the battle that this was the only way to make up for it.

Why would some one like him, rich, talented, handsome and very well endowed even bat so much as an eyelash in her direction if he thought otherwise?

Ginny sensed Hermione’s reluctance and asked in a more formal way, her hand lightly touching Hermione’s arm. “‘Mione, Are you in love with Draco?”

“What?” Hermione said loudly, trying to contain a laugh, “Oh heavens no. He doesn’t mean anything. I mean sure he’s attractive and we get along ok…sometimes I want to cut his tongue out or impale him on my wand for some of the stuff he does…but to answer your question…no I don’t love him.”

Liar.