Having drunk enough to make his head buzz slightly, Draco stood to leave, but his knee bumped the edge of the table loudly. For whatever reason, the sound was enough to warrant her to turn around and look his way. And finally, for the first time in thirty days, swirling grey eyes met molten brown ones. The second their gaze locked, Draco's heart froze in his chest, and he swallowed hard to try and chase away the lump that had risen in his throat. Oddly enough, her extraordinarily expressive eyes did not betray joy and contentment as Draco had assumed all night; rather, they were baseless, almost dull. She was not as happy as he had pegged her to be. Though the Slytherin in him wanted to be delighted by this knowledge, it only made his heart ache even harder than it already did. If both of them were miserable, why were they still apart? He knew he could make her happy, and that she had smiled a truly exuberant smile when she was with him. Damn it all, he wanted her back, not just for himself but for her as well. He wanted to see her happy—to truly feel happy—and he was determined to make it happen once more. His hand reached into the pocket of his robes to caress the box that was stowed there, since he had brought it along for some inexplicable reason. It took every ounce of Draco's courage to do what he did next.