seemed still and contained. Very contained.
Seemingly satisfied, Pansy finally wandered off and Draco was left alone.
Oh dear. Hermione scanned the crowd, hoping, praying that someone else would step forward to talk to him; to occupy him.
No one approached. It was his fault for being so God damned unapproachable. She challenged herself to keep looking, to act normally, convinced that he'd somehow know it if she chose to look away the moment he spotted her.
It happened. Draco was looking right at her. It was like being mentally slammed up against a wall. That all-knowing, penetrating gaze all too easily obliterated her already eroded barrier against panic. The sounds of the ballroom faded into the distance until it was just this low, rumbling people-hum. Those fey, grey eyes regarded her with great intensity.
All the other emotions that she put so much time and energy into nurturing - anger, bitterness and pain - were momentarily pushed aside leaving nothing but stark and grim revelation.
Hermione realized that Draco Malfoy still had the ability to make her forget how to breathe.
"Here we go," she vaguely heard Ginny say.
He was walking straight toward her, Harry and Ginny. I know that walk, Hermione thought, unable to stop herself. She had trailed behind him enough times in their torrid two weeks together for that purposeful long-strided gait to be imprinted on her memory. Draco had never quite perfected the art of walking aimlessly. He was always very obviously walking to something.
He was walking to her.
Or maybe not?
He went right past them. Close enough for Hermione to smell subtly spicy aftershave. He kept going until he disappeared around the canapes table.
"Um, ok" Harry said, "that went well."
Stupid tears began to well up. They were not stupid and irrational tears, though. It was completely rational for her to be upset, but she still felt foolish.
Hermione eyed the wall of French doors that opened onto the balcony and inner courtyard.
"Excuse me," she said to Harry and Ginny. "I' m going outside for some fresh air."
To their credit, neither Harry not Ginny asked any questions. Nor did they remind her that it was close to freezing outside. They too, seemed a little frazzled by the almost-encounter.
"Take your time," Ginny urged. "I'll tell Nick you're occupied."
**
Nicholas Winter was not a troll. Draco had been surreptitiously watching the man and decided it was best he resign himself to this fact.
But he was, effectively, an accountant. That at least counted for something in the I'm-going-to-dislike-you-for-the- pettiest-reasons-imaginable stakes.
From what he was able to surmise from those who knew him, Winter, who looked to be in his mid thirties, was well-educated, well-mannered, well-dressed, amiable and did not have any crazy, homicidal relatives that anyone knew about.
And really, what poor excuse for a wizard didn't have at least one family oddity lurking about in his family tree?
Nick Winter also happened to be Muggleborn. Yet another thing he and Granger had in common. He had the kind of face that
Correction, he had a kind face. Here was a man who did not know cruelty to ever be able to inflict it.
He wasn't as tall as Draco, which was another something.
All this did nothing to lessen Draco' s savage mood that evening. Pansy had some nerve to invite the git. She had gone to great and annoying lengths to explain to Draco that Hermione would not accept her own invitation unless it was on Nick Winter's fucking arm.
Draco had been doing a good job of lurking in the foyer until avoiding his own party no longer became an option. So he walked in and found a somewhat secluded spot beside the hideous dragon ice sculpture Pansy had flown in from Romania for the occasion.
Pansy spotted Draco and hurried over to speak to him. He heard 'I can't believe you're late' and 'where did you get those horrid shoes from' before he tuned out.
It was hard to pay attention. His mind was on Winter and Granger.
Together. At his bloody party! Potter was speaking to the man. Then Winter walked off, leaving Hermione to her own devices. She was probably going to notice him soon enough.
He felt his heart rate pick up.
'Ideal' was what your mind told you it was. She was it, as far as he was concerned. After so long, his imagination had painted some fanciful pictures of Hermione Granger. It said something that reality more than exceeded his expectations.
Hermione's quiet allure called to him as it had before. The dark red dress she was wearing turned