Dear readers (cough) finally I have written a chaptered story that is actually finished! Hurrah! Do Please review, I haven't done this genre before. Parental guidance for under 10s just to be safe as managed to spook myself out writing parts of this (live in very large creaky house myself). This is set in Malfoy Manor in the aftermath of Lucius' arrest -I'd say in the final year at Hogwarts.
Disclaimer (applying to the whole sorry story): I do not own Hermione, Draco, Narcissa or indeed Malfoy Manor. I did manage to get creative and think up the interior and a few other characters. Other sources not belonging to me are various works of poetry and prose quoted throughout, and the 'Acaste' which A Level French students will recognise from 'Le Misanthrope' by Moliere. Thankyou.
Deceptive Beauty.
A Short Story by SkinnyRita.
Part one: Intelligent Conversation.
Draco Malfoy sat in the only bar in Knockturn Alley.
The only serviceable bar that he could bear to be accidentally seen in, should the tragedy arise. In truth there were many bars, but these were dumps haunted by goblins and banshees. As he tapped out a depressed rhythm against the short, wide glass the three white-gold rings on his right hand made a steady clink, clink, clink. The burly old warlock who was serving tonight ground his teeth at the thought of repairing hundreds of tiny chips in his crystal-ware.
He was sitting alone. Mercifully at the bar, but that wouldn't always guarantee a chat with anyone. Not that it mattered. Most of the Knockturn locals weren't famed for their intellectual capacity in any case. But tonight, he had to admit, he'd been in the mood for a little of that –intelligent conversation. That was hard to find.
He'd taken to frequenting the bars occasionally since he was sixteen –after his father had been dragged kicking and cursing off to Azkaban, and he, Draco, was a laughing stock. Now that he was of age and I.D had become less of an issue, the stool hopping had become more frequent. There wasn't exactly anyone at home who was in the state to miss him right now. He snorted at the bitter thoughts circulating his brain and ordered another drink to bury his head in. He was so lost that he didn't notice anyone sit next to him until they spoke.
"Malfoy?"
Draco blinked and looked sideways. After staring blankly for a minute he raised his hand and lit a cigar. One of his father's not so private stash. Nearly all gone. Very expensive. He inhaled on it for a moment, then said, "Granger, what the bloody Hell are you doing in here?"
"I have a life."
"Which involves Knockturn Alley? I didn't take you for a hooker."
"Piss off Malfoy …I came to buy a book. And now I'm having a drink. What are you doing here anyway? Get that smoke out of my face."
Draco eyed her, then leaned over and paid for her drink. She didn't thank him, which for some reason pleased him. Five minutes passed in silence as they concentrated on the general hubbub of the bar and the clinking of glasses.
"Where are you going?"
Hermione glanced up. She'd slid down off the bar stool and was shrugging on her coat again. She downed the rest of her drink and said, "The Leaky Cauldron. Dodgy place, Knockturn Alley, don't want people making the same mistake as you –hooker-wise."
Draco looked at the stump of his cigar and stubbed it out. Making a split-second decision, he leapt to his feet and grabbed the retreating girl by the arm. "I'll walk you, Granger. Can't have a lady being accosted down here."
"Malfoy what are you doing?"
"Unfortunately for myself, and perhaps for yourself, I find it hard to believe at present that I will likely be able to find a more intelligent conversationalist at this hour. I am rather drunk, to say the very least, and fancy a natter on the dubious subject of cross-curricular Potions and Transfiguration. I believe you may be proficient in both."
By the time Hermione had digested this, Malfoy had begun pulling her after him with the certainty of the very, very drunk, and they had stepped out into the night.
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Draco cautiously opened his eyes. He had an absolutely blinding hangover. Hermione was sprawled next to him, using way over half the bed in a tangle of limbs and curly hair. Draco frowned. 'Uh-oh,' he thought, then registered that they were both still wearing their clothes of the previous night, which were luckily not too badly rumpled. 'Aha,' he thought, triumphantly, 'I didn't sleep with her then. Good.'
He peered over the edge of the bed. It was littered with oddly shaped vials containing half-made potions, one of which was smoking dangerously. Clearly they had tried to make something, but Draco couldn't remember what. He chuckled quietly to himself –making potions was always something he got up to when drunk –inexplicably. There was a firewhiskey bottle with just over a measure left in it. He swigged from it and made a face. Beside him he felt Hermione jolt awake.
"Huh? Huh? Oh my God, what did we do?" she exclaimed.
"I'd say, got drunk, tried to invent a super-potion, then passed out," he drawled, swinging his legs over the bed and trying to stand more or less upright. "Now, where's my bloody coat...?" He began to stumble around, searching, stepping over the scattered potions and the ruined cauldron they had obviously tried to make them in. "Aha," he muttered, as he came across the garment crumpled up on a chair and began to shake the offending creases out of it.
"Are you going? Oh, my head."
Draco paused and turned back. Hermione was lying on the bed with her hands clamped over her eyes. He was a bit stuck for what to say, the only conversation he'd had with her being whilst drunk. "Afraid so, Granger. Much as I'd simply love to entertain you more with my charms, I should get back."
"You're a nasty little ferret who gets girls drunk," said Hermione, surprisingly matter-of-fact. Draco narrowed his eyes and put his coat on.
"We didn't do anything, Granger."
"Good!" she said, more forcefully.
"Fine. I was going to ask if you needed any assistance. Me! A Pureblood giving help to filth like you! See you at school."
By the time Hermione had recovered her wits and sat up to retort, the boy had gone.
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