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Fic Request #75
FIC REQUEST #75:



Title: Waiting for Tomorrow
Summary: One night that you'll always remember, not because it was especially memorable, but because it was yours.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine.

WAITING FOR TOMORROW



It's finally over.

Your bags are packed, your dorm cleaned out, your diploma of completion framed and sent home, where a mask and a mark awaits you, as well as a father with high expectations for greatness and a low tolerance for failure.

It's finally over, and now your life can really begin.

There will be no more Quidditch matches for you. No more House rivalries. No more breakfasts in the Great Hall, or cutting Herbology class to lie under the shade by the lake, or late nights spent in the common room next to the fire, book and notes on your lap and warmth on your skin. No more duels with Potter, or nasty verbal matches with Weasley, or unspoken competitions with Granger.

There will be no more Hogwarts.

And there will be no more Potions class, but you'll still see Snape. And Crabbe and Goyle, and probably Pansy. And you will definitely see Potter and Weasley and Granger again, but you know that, when it does happen, the circumstances of that inevitable meeting will be drastically different than those at Hogwarts.

But you don't think about these things.

This is your Leaving Ball, and the life behind you is over, and the life ahead is waiting for tomorrow, already mapped out in front of you-it has been for years-a lifetime-yours-so what is tonight? A chasm between this lifetime and the next? The one and only night for you, Draco Malfoy, the one who is untarnished by a ruined family name and unplanned by a father's dirty ambition?

And what is that, anyway, a night to be who you truly are? A night to yourself. One night that you'll always remember, not because it was especially memorable, but because it was yours.

Is that everything? Or is it nothing?

You can't be sure, so you take another sip from your cup of Butterbeer and politely decline Millicent's offer to dance. You slouch in your chair despite what you've always been taught and watch all of your fellow graduating seventh years dance awkwardly to dreadful music.

There is a group of Hufflepuffs in the corner, snapping photos and crying on each other's shoulders, making promises that they'll die keeping. The Ravenclaws are dispersed among the dance floor, where they all dance the same two-step and wear the same expression of Goodbye. The Gryffindors are making all of the noise, gathered together in the center of the dance floor, and they're all a blur, white smiles and flushed cheeks and horrendous scarlets and golds.

You sit with a few Slytherins at the white linen cloth dinner tables to the side, trying to block them out as they use up the last of their stash of firewhiskey to get drunk. The rest of your House has probably found a dark corner someplace, or retreated to the Astronomy Tower.

You straighten your perfectly straightened robes and watch the Gryffindors as they dance together, and try to force yourself out of eighteen years worth of prejudice, to look at them as wizards having a good time. The boys all wear gold, shimmering robes, even Weasley, who hasn't had any trouble finding ways to spend his share of the money his father makes as the new Minister of Magic. The girls coordinate in red dresses of different styles, some short and sleeveless, some long and scoop necked. They don't dance in pairs, save for Ginny and Seamus, who are connected at their gold and scarlet hips, but in one big group, like a body of water that needs every drop of saltwater to bring in the tide, reds crisscrossed and striped and polka dotted with golds. They spin and sway and smile, and it's all so… brassy. The bright colors and bright faces and bright futures. It's all brass. Does that make you rust?

You could think this over, but suddenly you're dizzy, because that's what brightness does to you when it spins and spins. It makes you sick.

Greg asks if you're all right, and you tell him you're fine, but he knows you're lying, because Greg isn't so dumb anymore. He offers to take you for some air, but you're already up and pushing through the sticky cobwebs of gold and scarlet by the time he's stopped talking. He isn't dumb, Greg, just slow.

You make your way to the balcony with tempered ease. You only had to pause twice, once to again decline Millicent's offer to dance, and then again to push Blaise and Harry, tangled in a kiss that smelt like firewhiskey from five feet back, away from the door.

The night air is cool and still and fresh, and it's-it's-completely ruined, completely red and backless and floor length.

"Don't you have an orgy to attend?" you ask harshly, slamming the balcony door shut behind you. "Or are orgies forbidden in Gryffindor Tower?"

The red dress turns and it's Granger, and you're surprised, but then again you're not. Somehow, somewhen, in between the bickering and competing and evil glares, you got to know this girl, and you're really not surprised to come across her here, standing alone on a balcony as the final Hogwarts function of her life comes to an end with every cup of Butterbeer that's refilled and every song that fades away.

But what is surprising is that you're here as well.

"You're forbidden in Gryffindor Tower," she says, and then turns away without another word.

You follow her example and go stand at the opposite side of the balcony, facing the opposite side of the horizon, the Forbidden Forest. The tips of the trees are white with moonlight, and the branches are lost in darkness. The only light comes from the moon, half hidden behind thin black clouds, and from within the ballroom, shining through the glass doors that lead to the balcony. The glow is faintly orange, so you suspect that the band must be playing a fast song at the moment, because the lighting should always match the song.

Or so you've always been told.

The balcony door creaks open slowly, and you turn to see Millicent standing there, her large frame blocking most of the orange glow.

"Would you like to dance, Draco?" Millicent asks, for what must be the twentieth time tonight.

"No," you say shortly, and Millicent nods lowly before closing the glass doors softly behind her.

Granger catches your eye as you turn back to your half of the horizon, and there's a look on her face that should tell you something, but you don't take the time to decipher what it might be. You try to block everything out, but you can still feel Granger's eyes on you, burning twin holes into your expensive robes.

"What?" you snap, glancing in Granger's direction.

"You should have danced with her," she says without falter. "She's liked you since third year."

You stare at her. "And I care because…?"

She shakes her head, which is crowned with hair that this is slick and shiny and arranged into an updo of careful curls, and you wonder where her real hair has gone to.

"I just thought you might like to have one moment of decency in your life," she murmurs, and her words hurt more than they should.

"There are more important things than decency," you say.

The moonlight disappears as the moon is overtaken by the clouds, and the only light comes from the ballroom, a soft purple that matches the tempo of a slow song perfectly, like the final phase of twilight right before the night.

She scoffs. "Like what? Money? Power? Pure blood?"

Her shoulders are set and her head is held high, as though by doing this she can prove to you that there's no such thing as pure blood, or dirty blood, or Mudblood.

"Family. Tradition. Pride."

"Pride is a sin," she spits out, taking a step forward.

"To you."

"It ruins people," she states, as though this is obvious.

"People ruin themselves," you say, moving away from your side of the balcony towards hers.

She shakes her head fervently, stepping forward, and one of her tightly spiraled curls comes loose. It falls gently on the slope of her neck and rests there, brushing against skin that looks so soft in the faint light.

"People ruin themselves for the sake of pride. If you didn't glorify pride the way that you do, you wouldn't be running off tomorrow to-"

She stops herself, eyes wide, and it's the first time you've ever seen an emotion on Granger's face that isn't contempt or open dislike. It's almost pity. In the silence you can hear the song that plays in the ballroom. The beat is slow, and the melody is soft.

"What?" you ask, lips forming a smirk that you couldn't keep away, even if you wanted to. "Become a Death Eater?"

She takes another step and now you're inches apart, so close you can feel the heat from her skin. She smells like dewdrops and fog and Muggle body lotion.

"You don't have to- to-"

She looks at you pleadingly, as though she's trying to read your mind to see if you understand her or not. She's wearing a necklace that catches the light, something thin and dangly and most likely gold.

"Choose the wrong side?"

She doesn't say anything, but her eyes, looking so much like glass at that moment, say enough.

You look away.

Her dress is red, and you've never really liked the color-you've always been partial to green-but it isn't so bad once you consider it. It suits her in a way, for tonight. Granger is a classic black kind of girl, and yet here she stands, in a dress like blood and passion and hate and all those other characteristics that Gryffindors usually leave to the Slytherins.

It's wrong, but then again so is this scene, changed and distorted so much from the way it began.

"I know," you say, and she knows what you mean.

You smile at her reassuringly, because tonight is the night for odd occurrences, because this night marks the dividing line between who you were and who you will be remembered as, because Hermione Granger is wearing a red dress and she's never looked as beautiful as she does tonight.

You don't know why, but you have enough reasons to last you the lifetime that ends tonight.

You bring her hand to your lips and place a gentle kiss on the back of her hand. She blinks rapidly, and you wish you had the time to count every one of those dark lashes, but the night is dying, and the moon has returned from behind the clouds, and the song has changed.

You straighten and take a step back, and she releases a breath that sounds something like a sigh. You tell her goodnight and head towards the glass doors when she stops you.

"Where are you going?" she asks, the chain around her neck glittering in the red light shining from the ballroom.

"I owe Millicent a dance," you say, smiling, and she smiles back, and the moment is different, but still good, and you're tempted to stay.

She comes up to you and puts her hand on your shoulder and whispers into your ear. Her breath is warm and tickles the hairs at the base of your neck, and the sweet-musk smell of dewdrops, fog, and body lotion cloud your senses. And then she pulls back and looks into your eyes, an unspoken Goodbye in her smile.

"Goodbye, Hermione," you say. You leave through the glass doors, shutting them gently behind you.


Finis

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I never will forget the way you look tonight
The lady in red
My lady in red
-Chris de Burgh

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The following fic is in response to Fic Request #75 which stated the following conditions:

Rating(s) of the Fic: PG-13 to NC-17

3-5 Things to Include in the Fic:
1. Draco and Hermione in their 7th year or older
2. No over the top fluff
3. Hermione and Draco have to say the word: 'forbidden' at least twice
4. Pairings on the side: Seamus/Ginny or Girl!Blaise/Harry
5. The lyrics to "Lady in Red" by Chris deBurgh used

What Not to Include in the Fic:
slash, incest/twincest, house elves/someone, Draco and Hermione don't die, beauty queen!Hermione

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