Near midnight Draco yanks his front door open, wand in hand, suspicion etched all over his face.
Hermione stands on the top step, a rather sorry cupcake melting in her hand. “You didn’t come.”
She’s zipped into a little black dress with crisscross straps all along the sides and a swooping neckline he spends a breath too long gawking at.
“You never said it was mandatory.”
She wobbles on the edge of her heel, but when Draco reaches for her, she pulls back, scowling.
“Happy birthday.” She hands him the sorry cupcake.
He stares at the sticky mushy thing and notices a goopy swirl that might be a blazing comet on a bed of Slytherin green. “What’s that?”
“A Snitch. They ate the rest at the surprise party you didn’t show up to.”
His heart sinks. “I didn’t know.”
“Rather the point of a surprise party.”
“Who was there?”
He can’t imagine anyone showing up except for maybe Potter because she’s got some kind of magnetic pull over him. Draco suspects he’s suffering from a similar syndrome. Because, say, if Granger had insisted he show up tonight, Draco would have. He almost asks why she didn’t demand it of him.
“Everyone. My friends. Yours.”
“You spoke to my friends?” he asks, jarred.
“They were amused when we thought you were late. Then they all seemed sorry for me. Thought I was delusional for misinterpreting our relationship.”
“…our… relationship…” It’s not what she means. Of course, it isn’t.
‘Our’ pangs in his brain until it becomes rhythmic. A marching band beat of our, our, our.
His eyes wander. Her outfits are never so short, though they ought to be because Granger’s thighs are magnificent. He envisions dragging icing over them and running his tongue—
His face flames. “I’m sorry, Granger. I just wanted to spend my birthday alone.”
“Why? You love to be pampered.”
True. He grins. “Were you going to pamper me?”
A curl falls over her face as she lowers her chin, and he feels the burning need to tuck it behind her ear. But as the rest tumble forward, he realises she’s hiding. His chest tightens. He feels awful for making her feel small. She’s a mammoth in his mind. All five foot two of her. All the time.
“I don’t know why I came. See you on Monday.”
He feels like an arse. A tongue-tied, idiot arse who doesn’t know what to say to her and instead blurts out: “I didn’t want to spend my birthday watching every bloke at your party try to take you home. It’s bad enough at work. But when there’s liquor and strappy dresses and your thighs… I just needed a day off.”
“A day off from me.”
“From the side-effects of spending time with you.”
“Side-effects? Like I’m some sort of disease?”
“Probably!”
“Wow, Draco.” She glowers. “Just wow.”
“Nobody makes me feel this way. My palms are always sweaty. My stomach is in knots. I can’t speak properly around you half the time. It takes ages to focus because I’ll spot a lipstick stain on your stupid S.P.E.W mug and my mind launches into space. Like this fucking comet.”
“It’s a Snitch.” She steps forward, cat-like. Close enough to smell the perfume on her neck. His trousers are suddenly too tight. And that’s before she swirls her finger through the comet-Snitch icing and draws it to her mouth. “Butterscotch.”
He gulps. His favourite.
She drags her finger through it again, offering it to him. “Want some?”
His lips part and holy shit Hermione’s finger is in his mouth and he’s seconds away from coming in his fucking pants.
He tears back.
She steps forward.
“Granger,” he snipes like a spooked animal.
“Don’t be rude, Draco. I baked them just for you.”
Oh Gods.
She dunks her finger into the cupcake again. “Just a little more.”
“Stop.”
“Be that way.” She drags her finger between her lips and makes a moaning noise that joins ‘our’ in sounds he’ll never get out of his head.
“Ask me.” She’s looking up at him with her career confidence. Mouth wet.
He shakes his head, dazed. “What?”
“You said you didn’t want to see other blokes trying to take me home. Well, here I am at your doorstep and you haven’t even asked if I’d like to come inside.”
“Would you like to come inside?” he manages roughly, wondering if he’s hallucinating.
Hermione snatches the smeared cupcake from his hand and waves at the door. “It’s still your birthday for seven minutes. Think we can make them count?”
Oh, they make them count.
(768 words, prompt: you didn’t come)
