Never Been Kissed Like That

NEVER BEEN KISSED LIKE THAT

Chapter Twelve

"The Way I Look at You"

Hermione looked at her upside-down reflection in the metal spoon. Her curls seemed to stay in place, tucked behind her head in the informal braid that Ginny had done.

"You must show your neck to let him know you're accessible. I saw it on a programme on Harry's TV," she had said, and Hermione had thought it certainly made sense if Draco were a hungry lion and she the innocent gazelle designed to become its prey. But that changed completely the sense of 'dinner date,' of course. "Besides, it's sexy," Ginny had continued, so Hermione had let her do her hair, and she must admit that she had done a good job, too. Leave it to Ginny to put the National Geographic documentaries to such use.

"Would you like something to drink, Miss?" The waiter woke Hermione from her musings, and she set the spoon down.

"No, thanks; I'm waiting for someone." She had been on time, for once in her life, at the Muggle restaurant where Draco had chosen to meet her. It had been a pleasant surprise, though, for she had taken his choice as a means of compensating for all those years of deprecation towards the non-magical realm. And he had good taste, too, for the place was magnificent.

She looked through the window; Malfoy had reserved the best table, from which she had a perfect view of the darkening sky and the glowing streetlamps. He was late, fashionably late she supposed, as he was just one for such effects.

*****

Look at her; she's checking out her reflection on a spoon. Useless; she's just as beautiful as one can be. She's put her hair up. I like it; it shows the flawless skin of her neck.

She's dressed up for dinner. She's dressed up to dine with me. She's dressed up for me. She's beautiful, and that's for me.

The waiter is asking her something; probably if she wants to order dinner. He's checking her out and she's not even noticing. He didn't even look her in the eyes, the pig. Good, he's gone now.

I look at her, too. That's what Potter said. Though Potter also says the Chudley Cannons are the best Quidditch team ever, and they haven't won the Cup in more than a hundred years. He says so only because the Weasel plays Keeper for them, so maybe he's just a fool.

Except that it was true; he did look at her. Draco stood hidden in the dark depths of an alley just in front of the restaurant he had chosen -a Muggle restaurant -where they couldn't be recognised if seen together. Stealthy business required privacy, after all.

He put a hand in his pocket and extracted a tiny bottle filled with a clear liquid. Veritaserum, freshly and illegally brewed. Snape would be proud of the skill of his second-best potions student. Draco lifted his eyes to the woman by the restaurant's window; she had always been the first.

A pair of feet across the street, inside that restaurant, sat at a table he himself had booked two days ago. Hermione Granger was waiting to be lied to, tricked into an illegal truth serum, and robbed of one of her greatest achievements by none other than Draco Malfoy. If he could only take the first step to get there.

He fingered the bottle nervously and looked back to the window. His breathing was shallow and his heartbeat accelerated.

Isabelle. Tomorrow, we will be officially engaged and start a new life together. Tomorrow, none of this will matter anymore.

It wouldn't count as cheating if he seduced Hermione. After all, it was a question of business, a last step to take towards the life he was destined for. He closed his eyes and invoked an image of the blonde girl that would soon become his wife. He pictured her French pouty lips and caramel-brown eyes. Only Isabelle didn't have brown eyes. Her image slipped in his mind like water between his fingers, to be replaced by that of a woman with soft curls bouncing down her back, her musical laughter echoing from a corner of his memory. The coldness of the transparent liquid across the glass surface of the bottle in his palm brought him back to reality. A wave of sickness invaded his stomach.

Tomorrow, Hermione will hate me. Forever.

He leaned onto the wall and rested his forehead on the red bricks; he could feel his blood pulsating through every vein in his head. His mouth was dry and his jaw clenched in anger.

I can't. I can't do this to her. I can't do this to me.

Draco laughed. It was not comical or amused, but scratchy and sad, as all revelations of defeat are. He couldn't hurt Hermione Granger, because he... he...

"Draco?"

Draco turned so quickly he almost broke his neck, his heart in his mouth, beating madly. Hermione stood in front of him in the obscured alley, her eyes angry and worried at the same time. He remained immobile, unable to utter a single word.

"Were you planning to come into the restaurant sometime?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again. He had no answer; he didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore.

Hermione furrowed her brow, perceiving something was wrong and troubled behind those stormy eyes. "Are you ok? Why are you looking at me like that?"

And Draco knew he had no need to ask how he was looking at her. He had known all along, even if he tried to deny it. His treacherous heart had long ago recognised the truth as it was, and there she stood in front of him, like a vision of an oasis in the desert for the lost and thirsty traveller. That's how he looked at her, so he dropped his gaze to his feet, unable to bear it any longer.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked softly.

"Your hair stands out like a firefly in a ball of moths, you know. I saw you from the window." She pointed where she had been sitting at the restaurant for the past half hour. "Shall we go in?" she asked, if only to break the apparent tension. He didn't answer back. Though it was a simple question, his brow was constricted, as in deep and painful thought. He was starting to freak her out, with his strange demeanour and the wild glint in his eyes. He looked like a desperate man.

"No," he said huskily.

"No? Well, let's talk here, then, I don't really care." She looked at the gloomy alleyway, packed with brown cardboard boxes and dirt. Probably not the best of places, but she had an unfinished conversation with Draco Malfoy, and she would have it, even if it was at hell's backdoor.

"Look, I don't want to talk right now." He looked at the street to his right; people were passing under the yellowish light of the streetlamps and the shops' bright neon signs. He wanted to run and hide among the mass of unknown passers-by and never look back.

"Oh, now you don't want to talk." Hermione glared at him. He was doing it again, making her go crazy with his indecision. "But I do want to talk, see, and you're going to listen," she said, her temper flaring.

"Go home, Hermione."

"What?" She looked at him, shocked.

"I said, go home." He said each word slowly, with a strange calmness that did not match his apparent anxiety. "Go home, work, find a boyfriend, and forget about me."

She stared at him open-mouthed. "What?" she asked again.

"You heard me."

"Yeah, what's next? Get thee to a nunnery? Marry a fool? What are you, the tormented prince of Denmark?" Her words were harsh and spiteful, rising into a loud, angry pitch.

"The Prince...?" Draco was thoroughly confused with her words. He just wanted her to stay away from him, free from his devious intentions. But send her to a nunnery? She must be mental.

"Oh, never mind!" Her arms up flew in exasperation. She took a deep breath and fought back the prickly feeling starting behind her eyes by blinking several times. "Why did you ask me out?" she said with a small voice.

"I..." He looked at her face. She was fighting back the tears, he could tell. He felt miserable, for he was the cause of her present state. "Never mind. I just... I thought it was a good idea, but I... changed my mind, see?" Each word was painful as a rock weighing down his chest, each lie making it more difficult for him to breathe. "You're a very nice woman, but I don't want you to think that there's something between us... Well, it's not you, it's me..."

His words died in her lips, for Hermione had taken him by the collar of his white shirt and slammed his mouth shut with hers in a passionate kiss. Shock, warmth, his heart beating, softness, guilt, remorse, Isabelle, Hermione.

Hermione.

A thousand thoughts flashed in Draco's mind before surrendering into her tight grasp and winding his hand through her braided hair. It was not a gentle kiss but needy, brutal, a release of long pent-up emotions. It was lips and teeth, tongue and moans that escaped into the other's mouth.

All caution and purpose thrown to the wind, he embraced her tightly with his free hand by the waist, melting into the sensation of completeness that rushed over him with her proximity. He felt something slipping down her cloak as he clung onto her with his fingers and heard the distinctive sound of glass breaking.

That did it. Draco opened his eyes with a start and pushed her away. The bottle of Veritaserum lay broken at her feet, like the unspoken truth of his defeat. She made no sign of having noticed the broken glass in the heat of their kiss but stood defiantly with her swollen chin up, the glint of passion still dark in her eyes. A surge of hatred invaded his veins, for her, for himself, and for the cursed life he was living.

"So," she said, breathless, "there's nothing between you and me, and everything was just a product of my imagination, hm?"

Draco stood silently as the watery concoction slowly slid along the floor, dirt swallowing the stupid plan he was too cowardly to follow. Numbly, he watched his carefully designed life slipping through his fingers.

"Lie to yourself as much as you want, Malfoy, but don't lie to me." She stressed his name with spiteful accusation.

"Don't you dare to tell me what to do! You know nothing, nothing!" he yelled back at her. "You stupid, filthy..." Draco closed his mouth and gritted his teeth together painfully.

"Mudblood? Is that it?" she said with a strangled voice. "Well, I guess some things never change, Malfoy." She turned on her heel and walked away from the alley and onto the street, out of his life.

He closed his eyes and leaned onto the wall for support with trembling hands.

Congratulations, he thought bitterly, mission accomplished. She hates me.

It took all his willpower not to go after her. Their paths were never meant to meet, and now it had happened, they must inevitably diverge. Watching her go felt as if one part of his life was leaving too; one important, irretrievable piece of his life.

Now he had to fight to maintain the rest of the falling pieces of his existence.