Fools Rush In

She slammed the car door, walking so quickly down the sunny side street that her skirts swirled around her ankles. The leather sandals slapped the pavement with a rapid flap-flap that communicated her impatience to everyone else on the street. The trees encased in their small iron gates were thickly greened with summer leaves that dappled the sun overhead. Contrary to most anecdotes about London, the day hadn’t had a hint of rain; indeed, most of August had been mild and rain-free. Subsequently, the air was heavy with the gathering moisture. It was in this languid environment that the woman moved with a fevered pace.

She ambulated determinedly to the opposite end of the block. The few West Enders that braved the stifling heat shuffled quickly out of her path. She was slick with sweat and the lenses of her sunglasses were fogged slightly with her moist breath. Finally reaching the end, she quickly whipped around the corner, seemingly out of sight.

The hidden door was visible only to those who knew where to look. The townhouse sat in a slightly different dimension and so was inaccessible to non-Magical folk. The woman pulled what appeared to be a longish chopstick from her messy brown bun and tapped the blue painted door twice with great authority.

A rush of feet pounded down a staircase and the door was flung open to reveal him, along with a rush of deliciously cooled air from the darkened interior. His blond head tilted to the side in surprise. She certainly was the last person he expected to see here – especially after their last conversation. It struck him now that she would have seen it as a challenge. And here she was, rising to that challenge. Brava.

She eyed him with disdain. He looked as cool as a cucumber, neat and pressed in the uniform of the jet-set – crisp white shirt, immaculately tailored grey khaki pants and car shoes. Not a hair on that platinum crop was out of place. It took a bit of the wind from her sails to imagine what she must look like in the face of such exquisiteness.

He looked at her, standing there in an Amazonian glow. Her gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses were
perched above tightened pink lips and framed rosy cheeks that shimmered with the heat of the late August weather. His gaze moved lower down. She wore the gold necklace he’d given her two weeks earlier. The pendant was at an odd angle, adhered to skin rendered sticky by perspiration. The white cotton vest also clung to her thin frame, revealing to him that she’d neglected to wear a bra. Delightful. Below that she wore a thick leather belt fastened with a large silver and turquoise buckle. A long paisley skirt swirled around her slender ankles. She looked at once tough and bohemian and he wanted to strip the clothing from her and lick the salt from her skin.
She raised her hands unexpectedly and shoved him back into the foyer of the house. He stumbled with surprise as she slammed the door behind them and whipped the sunglasses from her angry face.

“How dare you presume to leave me? Me! Who the devil do you think you are?”

“I told you. It was merely a waste of our time. We’d never make a good fit, and you’d know it.”

“Bullshit,” she spat derisively. “You’re just running scared precisely because you know.”

“Are you calling me a chicken?”

“Yes.”

His shoulders sagged in defeat. “I suppose you’re right about that. What would everyone say?”

“Who cares? Tell them to piss off.”

“What about your husband?”

She opened her large leather purse and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “My divorce decree. Talk about a wrong fit.” Her lips quirked ruefully. “Like chalk and cheese. We just didn’t mix.”

“And your children?”

“What about your son?” she shot back, irritated.

“Scorpius will adjust.”

“As will Rose and Hugo.” A thought occurred to her. “Does she know about us?”

“No. She was gone long before we happened. She just hadn’t made it legal.”

She looked at the thinning strands of platinum blonde, now beginning to mingle with steely grey threads not unlike her own. She thought back to that afternoon when she’d seen him again, standing on the train platform sending his son off to Hogwarts. The wife had been there then. Apparently, having done her duty, she no longer was. The thought cheered her inordinately.

“Then why did you leave it off with us?”

“Too much history, Hermione.” His voice was soft and sad. She’d never heard it like that.

“But I love you despite that.”

He looked at her sharply. “Don’t say that.”

“I love you.” The conviction in her voice melted something inside him. Still…

“We can’t do this 24 hours a day, 365 a year.”

“Why not?” Her voice was soft, challenging.

“You honestly left him for me?”

“Of course.”

“But I thought he was the love of your life.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” her mouth quirked ruefully.

Another bit softened and began to pool. He could almost believe her.

She cocked her head to the side, considering him in the still, coolness of the house. “Draco, do you love me?”

“Yes.” No shambling, no dissembling. For once, a straightforward answer.

“Then why should a little history come between us?”

“The manor?” he asked baldly.

She paled slightly at the memories. “I will love it – for you.”

“My parents?”

She drew in a deep breath before answering. “I will love them – for you.”

“And this?” He rolled up his shirtsleeve to reveal a faded Death Eater brand, the snake and skull just barely visible beneath the epidermis.
She did the impossible then. She walked over and pressed her lips to the mark. Her lips left a warm imprint on the cool skin, tongue tracing over the slightly raised roughness of the pattern.

“For you.”

The place that splintered under the sunshine of her love finally cracked and fell apart. Draco had a sense of tossing his cap over the windmill. Fools rush in…he thought almost giddily.
Who would’ve guessed that at the age of 41 that he would be on the receiving end of this astonishing emotion – and able to reciprocate in kind? He pulled her in close, feeling his heart pattering and hers doing the same.

“I secretly hoped you’d come for me.”

“Haven’t I always done?”

“Yes, you have,” he said, remembering her rescue of him and his hapless accomplices from that raging inferno.

And with that, he swooped down to give her a deep kiss. It thrilled her to her toes in a way that Ron’s kisses had never done. The sense of rightness, of completion was more than each could bear. They surfaced, their slightly lined faces rosy with kisses.

“Be mine?” Draco asked, a wide grin on his face.

“I thought you’d never ask.”