Remain Nameless

Chapter 31

She should still have some strawberry ice cream in her freezer and more than a few bottles of wine to choose from at home. But when Hermione stepped out of her Floo, all thoughts of drowning her sorrows in dessert and alcohol were summarily dashed.

Had she not been experiencing a complete emotional breakdown the entire evening, the sight that greeted her in her kitchen would have made her laugh until her sides split. Draco and Crookshanks each occupied a chair at her kitchen table, a stack of parchment in between, looking to all the world like two men having a very serious and sophisticated discussion about the state of global economics.

"But what your argument fails to consider, my good man, is the impact this legislation would have on the export relationship with China."

"No, no, see, you must understand the boost this would give the home market. It's quite simple, really."

Both pairs of eyes flicked to Hermione as she appeared in the entryway, pulling her from her ludicrous reverie.

Draco got uncertainly to his feet. "Hello," he said softly.

"Hi," she replied weakly, immediately self-conscious of her bedraggled appearance. Her hair was likely a rat's nest, her clothes still rumpled from the Floo, and she didn't even want to know the state of her barely dry eyes. Yet there Draco stood, with his perfectly crisp navy suit and not a lock of his platinum hair out of place, frustrating Hermione on several levels. Not something she'd normally complain about, but the man's enduring attractiveness was a most unfair advantage when she looked like a half-drowned kneazle.

"How was dinner with your mother?" It came out more bitterly than she intended, but Draco merely shrugged at her question.

"I wouldn't know, I left shortly after you did."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "Have you been here all this time?"

Draco shrugged again. "I think I missed you by about two minutes."

"But then that means you've... you've been here for hours!" She exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the wall clock. Draco didn't respond, just fixed her with that penetrating gray stare. The naked emotion in his eyes overwhelmed her, and she turned away.

"Would you like tea? I could use some myself." She bustled by him to fiddle with the kettle on the stove, doing everything she could to distract herself and avoid looking at him.

"No, thank you. Perhaps we could sit and talk?"

His too polite, too calm demeanor disrupted both Hermione's preconceived behavioral expectations as well as her conviction to lose herself in the mundane social ritual of preparing a pot of tea. Why wasn't he upset with her? Why wasn't he shouting and demanding to know where she'd been? She looked a right mess and yet he had the audacity to appear perfectly put together?

Hermione flicked her wand to heat the kettle. "Fine," she said tersely, and walked by him to the couch and sat down primly. She knew it wasn't fair, but the lack of emotional response from Draco started to irritate her. He should be the one itching to fly off the handle, not her.

An annoyingly and unusually placid Draco settled into the armchair facing her. No escaping his heated looks now, to turn her head away would be admitting defeat.

"Did you really follow right after me?" she asked, disbelievingly.

"I did."

"And what did your mother have to say about my presence in your home?"

"Nothing of importance." Draco leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "My priority was you tonight."

Hermione felt tears prick at her eyes and redirected her fury inwards, finding herself so unprepared to deal with his quiet sincerity that she completely lost control of her tear ducts again. He'd put her first tonight and what did she do? She'd run away like a child, hiding from her problems. The first sign of trouble and she'd bolted, while Draco stayed behind, waiting for her to recover from her fit of immaturity. How had this happened? When did she let herself become so weak?