The Invitation

This story is a simple response to a suggestion made on the livejournal community by bassdorflover13. It is the closest thing to a songfic I have done and will ever do. The song that inspired it is: Sometime Around Midnight by The Airborne Toxic Event. The song is in third person, which I am not quite used to, but I thought it was appropriate to keep that theme in the fic. Just a quicky, nothing special, but I hope you enjoy

The Invitation

9 PM

The Ten year anniversary ball of the fall of Voldemort and here you are, in a fancy suit, with a fancy date, (if she would ever shut up) and it's all just so. Fancy.

The lights are bright and the Firewhiskey is right but there is nowhere in this world you'd rather be less.

You still don't feel like yourself, around this lot. It's all such a glaring god damn lie. They know and you know, you didn't do a thing to help them. And yet every year, there you are on their guest list.

No one looks at you any differently than they ever have. Their eyes still say scorn, their mouths still say scum, but you know to not appear would be worse than having the 'audacity to show your face'. They whisper it just loud enough, every time.

Your life is a catch 22. You know this. You accepted it long ago. And so you smile as they glare.

You're an impostor here; this ball is masquerade and the only one wearing a mask is you.

"Dracoooo, baby," your date purrs in your ear, the firewhiskey on her breath hot on your neck. "Dance with meeee?"

She draws out Draco and me so that maybe somewhere in your head you will put the two together. Not in this lifetime. You'll curse your mother in the morning for yet another disastrous attempt at playing cupid. As if that woman knows a thing about love.

But you know you have to dance with her for appearances sake, because even now, here, ten years later at this celebration, where you still don't belong, you have to make an impression.

So you take her hand and lead her to the floor and act nonchalant as she pushes her breasts on you and rubs small, affectionate circles along the small of your back.
It's the affection that bothers you most, these days. How they all are so intimate, assuming, like you are already lovers. Like they can will it to be so.

10 PM

Blaise is arriving, fashionably late with his wife ( your ex ), none other than Pansy Parkinson. They are only here because they paid someone, you're sure. He greets you in that cocky way, making sure to pull Pansy tighter to him as he does so. You smirk, glaring at her with your eyes and the colour rises to her cheeks for the briefest of moments. She is a Slytherin, though; calm, composed, collected. She checks herself, smirking back saucily, daring you to say a word. You won't. Because then she's your problem again, and that is the very last thing in this world that you want.

You could have had her, had you wanted, and wouldn't mind telling the smug bastard so. But the guilt that you are so God damn familiar with had crept in, making promises for you.

Like that when you went public with the breakup, you'd say it was her idea. As she sobbed in your arms about prospects, no one else wanting her ever again, her never wanting anyone else, and you whispered, 'shh, okay, okay, it's okay. We'll just say it was you, you weren't happy. I'm scum, my name is worthless, they'll admire you for it, it's fine, it's okay, for the love of God just stop crying'.

She smirks because she knows you, unfortunately. And she knows under that cool posterior you are nothing but a bleeding heart. And puddles and puddles of guilt.

It was always supposed to be you and Pansy. You know that, she knows that, and your date probably knows that too, judging by the way she cowers under Pansy's spiteful appraisal. You wonder how on earth Blaise doesn't know. Whatever the reason, you're grateful.

"Draco, you seem a million miles away," your date says moments later as you're leading her away from Pansy's oncoming wrath. You know any moment she'll erupt, cut the girl down in a way that will leave her unsure of herself for the rest of her life. Just because she can. Pansy has always had that talent. You nod, pulling her closer reassuringly. You aren't sure why, but maybe you're lonely. Maybe you'll want company tonight.

"More Firewhiskey?' you ask, and she smiles.

"Of course."

11 PM

You're drunk and so is she. She's giggling inanely about nothing as you take in her unkempt appearance, such a contrast from just two hours ago. Her skin is flushed pink, contrasting oddly with her deep orange dressrobes that didn't really compliment her all that much to begin with.

Her black hair is too dark for her complexion, and it's everywhere. But not in a sexy careless way. In a drunk, sloppy way that makes you feel compelled to tuck it behind her ear at the very least, but you don't because you know she'll mistake it for an intimate gesture. You realise with relief that your mother must be running out of prospects.

....You're lying to yourself and you know it. You know Pansy would have never eyed her with such scorn if she weren't beautiful. But you don't see it. Not for the first time that night, or that week or that month or that year, you wonder why. Will you ever. You probably don't even care.

The room begins to tilt sideways and you close your eyes, squeeze them shut with all your might.

You open them with a jolt when you remember. When you see in the blinding white light behind your eyelids.

Beautiful.

12 AM

It's over before you see her. The crowd is waning, smiling, happy people saying their goodbyes. You're at the bar, where you have been for the last twenty minutes. The bright lights are like a slap in the face and you soak them in greedily. You need to sober up desperately. Your date, too drunk to stand, is at your table still, waiting for you to return. You chance a quick glance in her diraction, lift a brow in dry amusement to note Theo moving in, his attention rapt on your 'messy, drunken date'.

You don't really care.

When you look back in her direction, your eyes meet and the room stills. Or it spins. You can't tell anymore.

You are lonely. And so you let yourself remember the sweet scent of her skin. Your tongue tingles as it recalls the soft texture of her exposed neck, glowing golden in contrast to white robes trimmed in the faintest of silver.

It's a moment later that the last song of the night begins and she smiles at you, cocking her head playfully. It takes seventeen seconds for you to catch your breath, seventeen seconds for you to realise she is coming toward you. And once you do, she is there.

"Malfoy" she says softly, a hint of curiosity in her voice. "You all right?"

You open your mouth to speak, and remember that you are much more drunk than you should be for this.

It's been a year to the day and she is in front of you now and you miss her voice so much you can't find your own.

Clear your throat.

"Fine. Drunk. These things...." you trail off, and she nods.

You only went to the first three for her, and she knows just how reluctantly. She charmed your name on the list every year, just so you and she could be there, if not together then at least just at the same time. But then things fell apart and there was no more you and her at the same time. you-and-her-you-and-her-you-and-her. It is so prominent in your head, so very loud.

But every year you're still invited and every year you still attend. Because it would be so much worse for you not to see her then to have them all look at you the way that they do.

She leans in closer, a glass of what looks like white wine coming toward you.

"Well, cheers to ten years," she says warmly, her eyes soft and bright under the lights that a moment ago were guiding you toward sobriety. And now, you can see every freckle and feel more drunk than you ever have in your life and you decide you love these lights, with your whole heart, more than anything.

So when you say it, because when she gets that close to you something comes over you (has always come over you) and you recall kissing her passionately, ovewhelmed by her scent, you don't think about it. Until she tenses, stops, wine glass mid-air, and the moment is frozen. Her eyes are wide.

He jaw slack and she is shocked.

"You still smell like Vanilla and Books."

You can't help laughing then, at her dumbfounded expression. It's a rare thing to see Hermione Granger at a loss for words. Years ago, you would have kissed her for it.

And then the moment is broken. Your date stumbles toward you, colliding with your side as she coos unintelligible demands in your ear, just as a tall raven-haired man approaches her, his arm gliding easily around her slender waist.

"Malfoy, this is Trevor," she says absently, looking from you to him to you. You say something because you have to.

"How do you do...?"

She isn't with him. you know it by the way she looks at him. You have the way Hermione Granger looks at a man she is with memorized by heart.

But the faint blush of her cheeks is a confession that she has contemplated it, and the hungry look in the his eyes as he notes it as well sets you on edge. You make a show of clearing your throat, sitting your date down slowly on a stool as you extend your hand. He hesitates before he shakes it, a bit more roughly than called for, and then dismisses you, his full attention on Granger.

"I have a surprise for you," he says coyly, and she blushes. But her brow still holds the slight crease from your words moments before and you are slightly surprised to note she is still far more affected by them.

Interesting.

"Well perhaps we should get going then," she says lightly, her eyes darting toward you one last time with a nod. The man chuckles at her, clearly mistaking the blush you put on her face, and she smiles uncomfortably. You think he is an utter git. Thank God.

"Nice seeing you again, Draco." she says a bit breathless, her eyes conveying something.

Your heart stops. Skips a beat and then another. The whole god damn world stops. Because there is only one thing that ever made her say your name. You see it, the ackowldgment that she knows this wasn't lost on you.

At the realisation of her intent your blood rushes to your head and you feel compelled to reach for her. Your heart plummets as she is being walked backward by her date, her eyes not leaving yours.

Your date is pulling at your sleeve, and you look away from her eyes long enough to note that she is moments away from passing out. You wonder how you'll get her home and by the time you look back, she is gone.


1 AM

Theo offered to take the girl home, promised not to be a bastard, and you, not really caring either way, let him.

The streets are crowded, a Friday night in London like any other. The Pubs are still crawling with desperate lonely people just like yourself. You feel their eyes on you and your odd apparel. You can't care.

Her words are like gunshots, coming at you from every direction. You can't run fast enough. Where you are running to you don't know, you're just going.

"This isn't going anywhere."

"How can it ever be anything more than this? I will not live this way any longer."

You could have convinced her to stay, and that is what kills you. You knew it then but you hadn't the heart, the guts, the bravery.

Which is what she was trying to find so desperately in you. It wasn't there, and so she left.

It wasn't there, though you could have easily fooled her.

You hadn't the guts for that either. Just so much stinking guilt.

You know with a sharp clarity that she would still be yours.

She wanted to go public.
You didn't.
She thought you were ashamed of her.
God, no. You weren't.

You weren't.

You were ashamed for her.

What you told the world for Pansy, you told yourself that day. And you believed it, just as easily as they had.

You are scum. Your name is wothless. She wasn't happy.

And seven years later, here you are. Desperately in love with her with no hope of ever finding anything, anyone else that compares.

No, you won't. Ever. And you do care.

You care so much you are running full force down her street, up her stairs, to the door of her flat.

Because you have to see her.

You can not, will not, spend another year, month, week, day, hour, this way.

You have to know.

Your heart is shatterd, unglued, broken. And God dammit, if anyone will break it it will be her. Not you. Her. She's the only damn reason you have a heart, so knock.

Knock until the door breaks in half if you must. Just keep knocking.

You knock, but you don't have to keep knocking because she answers right away. Her hair is unkempt in that sexy careless way and she is flustered, surprise and confusion and heat emanating from her in waves. But only for a moment.

She is a smart girl, and she knows why you're here. Don't speak. Let her say it. Then you'll know.

She takes in the sight of you; expectant, breath uneven from running, standing and waiting to leap. Every muscle in your body tense, ready to stay, to go.

All in. hearts guts and bravery, you don't care.

"Draco..."

You rush toward her and by the time you get to her she reaches you halfway. Her lips are hot on yours, a strangled moan escaping as you walk her backward, into her flat, kicking the door behind you.

Tomorrow you will go public, but tonight you'll be alone. You and her. So right. So simple. And honestly, there is nowhere in this world you would rather be more.