Alright

There is a distinct eeriness in the air, Hermione thinks, as she loads the dishwasher. She can't put her finger on it, but something about the evening is making her very uneasy. She closes the dishwasher, and pours herself a glass of wine.

Muggle cleaning. So very therapeutic. Harry and Ron mock her for it, say she's mental to bother when there are a million and one charms she could use instead. But somehow, doing chores by hand honestly relaxes her. Granted, when she's tired she'll scourigify like there's no tomorrow, but generally, she likes to clean up the muggle way.

She regards her kitchen with a critical eye. It's not too bad. Especially now the dishwasher's done. Just superficial mess she can deal with in the morning.

The dinner party was nice, she thinks. It was good catching up with everyone. Harry is doing well, and she's grateful for that. That deadened, haunted look in his eyes hasn't completely vanished yet, but Ginny's working on it. And Hermione is relieved to see she's doing a good job of it. Harry looks happy, hell he must be happy if he's thinking of proposing, as he confided in Ron and herself earlier that evening.

Ron's happy too. Hermione can tell. He clearly adores his job, and he seems to be besotted with Luna. He couldn't take her eyes of the blonde this evening, and she cant help predicting a joint wedding next summer.

All in all, Hermione thinks it has been a very pleasant evening. She loves entertaining, she likes it when her small cosy flat is filled with people she loves. So she is utterly bewildered as to why she is feeling so edgy.

Outside, lightening flashes.

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He's been walking for bloody ages. Murphy's law would have it that it is now pissing it down with rain, as he trudges up the High Street. There's not a lot of people out, even though he's pretty sure it's a Friday night. Draco assumes it must be very, very late.

He turns up into her road, the rain soaking through his shirt, and shivers violently. This is stupid, he thinks. Stupid and ridiculous. She will open the door, give me one of those looks, and laugh.

However, as he trundles...no, trudges, Malfoy's don't trundle, up the road, barely able to see now thanks to the rain, he finds he doesn't effing care. So what if she curses him, or decides to slap him (again). He simply wants to see her. He wonders how worried for his sanity she will be if he voices these thoughts out loud. "I would like to look at you. Yes, that's right, just watch you. Not do anything else. I haven't seen you in two years, I'd just like to watch you."

Knowing her, she'd probably make a cutting remark about "not always getting what you want Draco." Or something sarcastic like "Well, if a Malfoy wants to look at me, I should be honoured really shouldn't I?"

She was always entirely too sarcastic.

Draco appreciates the irony of this.

Draco can't quite believe it's been that long since the war ended. He can remember everything so clearly. Everything.

He wonders whether she will even recognise him. He cannot resist an slightly bitter smirk.

Tiny voices, Draco muses, are not normal. He supposes he is slightly unhinged. He also supposes he is very much in love.

He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is completely, irrevocably buggered.

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She surveys herself in the mirror, still wearing her outfit from the party. She thinks she looks rather nice. None of Luna's ethereal grace, or Ginny's girl-next- door good looks, but still, not entirely unattractive. The peach colour of the dress definitely compliments her colouring... it makes her hair's honey tones look more prominent, and her eyes seem very, very brown indeed.

Her legs look nice and tanned, but her stomach still does not look as flat as she would like it to. Maybe she should have gone with that wonderful, universally slimming colour, black.

She sighs.

Switching off the bathroom light, she goes back into her bedroom. The storm outside is in full swing, and she can't help feeling a little pensive that she's on her own.

Not pitying, never self pitying. It's not her style. But there is something wonderfully appealing about cuddling up with someone while a storm rages outside. She shakes herself out of these unnecessarily depressing thoughts, and glances at the clock.

It is very late. If she doesn't go to sleep now, she will not wake up until lunchtime tomorrow, and her day will be half wasted.

Just as she lifts her pillow to retrieve her pyjamas, the doorbell rings.

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He cannot believe, that after two years, she is going to see him for the first time, looking like this.

Although he isn't sure if that's possible as he's always thought ferrets could swim.

Draco ponders for a moment what it would be like if he was a ferret. Not a transformed one, that was horrible, he could still feel some human in him. But to be an actual ferret. What would that be like?

He wonders if ferrets fall in love, and if they get annoyed when caught in thunderstorms, and then he realizes that by thinking about ferrets for so long he is proving his theory that he is deranged, and then it doesn't matter because the door opens.

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It takes Hermione precisely three seconds to register who it is standing on her doorstep. She suspects it would have taken her even less time if it was not dark and bucketing it down.

He looks soaked.

Dripping from head to toe, in a plain white shirt that is sticking uncomfortably to his chest, and a pair of jeans that look like they've been through a shredder.

And he looks absolutely wonderful.

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Drowning, incompetent ferret- man.

Through this incessant babble, he manages to register what she looks like. He doesn't think there is a word in the English language that can even come close to describing how amazing she looks, with her stupid, stupid hair, and her dark eyes wide and disbelieving, and being Draco Malfoy, he attempts to tell her this in a typically suave, smooth way.

"Neurgh."

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She realizes she is staring at him a lot more than is considered acceptable in polite society. She also thinks it's not really considered acceptable in polite society for him to turn up at her doorstep in the middle of the night and make odd noises at her.

She cannot believe she is applying social etiquette to this situation. She decides the best course of action is to shut her brain down, and stand back so he can come in out of the rain.

After all, it's only polite.

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I really should say something, he thinks, as she steps back. He walks over the threshold, and she closes the door behind him, just as there is an ominous roll of thunder. I really, really should say something. Something sensible This is shockingly impolite of me. She must think I'm an absolute twat . His brain is not really processing anything sensible, and so he decided the best course of action is to let her speak first.

Then something utterly ridiculous happens. He begins to speak.

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"It's raining," he drawls. He is relieved that despite everything, he still has his drawl. "Utterly pissing it down... I'm dripping on your carpet. Sorry about that. I don't have my wand or I'd dry it for you."

"I don't suppose you've got any coffee? I'm a tad cold... walked a fair bit to get here you see. Sorry about your carpet."

She does not have a bloody clue why in the name of arse he is talking to her about her carpet, and so she decided the best thing to do is say something placating because he is clearly a little nervous.

"It's alright," she says.

She hears the words, and is stunned to realize that they are, in fact, true.

For maybe the first time in two years, things are alright.

"Oh, fuck this,"

He seizes her by the arms, pulls her forward, and crushes his lips against hers, drinking her in, pouring two years of lost emotion into the contact.