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After being ditched at the Yule Ball, a drunk Draco Malfoy stumbles upon Hermione Granger alone and crying. Commiserating over wounded pride, the enemies form a fragile, reluctant truce. Just for one night.
Until one night turns into something more. Until things begin to spiral out of control.
Enemies till nightfall. Rumors by morning. The Malfoy heir with Potter's Golden Girl? Even Rita Skeeter couldn't invent a scandal more delicious.
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He had a jovial sort of manner about him, an easiness as though talking to strangers came naturally. “They’re alright, petunias,” he said.
“You think so?” she asked. She couldn’t help the question.
“Well, yeah,” he said. “At least, I like them. They remind me of home. And I always know when it’s spring, because there’ll be petunias in the front garden.”
“My name’s Petunia.” She wasn’t sure why she said that.
The boy paused for a moment. “You’re lucky, then. It’s a beautiful flower. And a beautiful name.”
