title: The Least Wonderful Time of the Year

summary: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy are decidedly Not Good at Valentine's day.

notes: So this has been brewing for quite a while, but never quite got around to typing it up! Marco Prettia already has a quick mention in Baby It's Cold Outside, and appears even less popular here...

disclaimers: Draco's failed date comes from an episode of Frasier, the rest from JKR.

-o-

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day.

A day of romance. Of love. Of tenderness and adoration and all things sappy and sweet.

A day which sends chills of the utmost horror through the spine of ever living, breathing boyfriend. on the face of the planet.

Ronald Weasley was no different.

He could be romantic, alright? He could be sweet, he could be touching, he could even be damn chivalrous, thankyouverymuch. He'd braved spiders for Hermione. He'd defended her from Death Eaters, and enchanted fire, and Slytherins, and dammit the spiders oh God the spiders. So yeah. He was a pretty suave, charming, romantic kinda guy.

It was just a shame that none of that tended to come across during his Valentine's plans.

The red roses that had been infected with the Venemous Tentactula seeds and tried to eat her nose. The rather over-enthusiastic cherubs that had come in at the wrong moment and started firing their little arrows at her. The singing, serenading card that had tap-danced across her desk at work in extremely inventive but admittedly rather shrill harmony, just as she was being inspected for a promotion – yes, that had been a particularly bad one. Oh, but when he messed up Valentine's Day, he messed up in style.

But not today. Today was going to be good. He had it all planned out – a simple walk through the twilight parks of London, a quiet dinner back at home, a very pretty and very sparkly necklace hidden under her pillow (that most certainly had not been poisoned, cursed, or in any other way been tampered with. He'd checked. Twice). It was going to be a good Valentine's Day, it was not going to be stuffed up, and he was finally going to get the credit and awesome-boyfriend status that he deserved. Finally.

All he had to do was get through one last bit of shopping at Hogsmede without messing anything up.

How hard could that be?

"What do you think?" Hermione asked, holding up two identical towels imbued with Essence of Dragon Fire (guaranteed to dry your hair in seconds). "The topaz or the cobalt?"

He even managed to smile. Winningly. Without straining anything. "I'm no good at picking out that kind of thing, 'Mione. You choose."

No snarky comments and technically he hadn't even lied. Bonus points!

"Alright then. Oh, by the way, my parents want to know if we're still on for Saturday?"

"Sounds good."

Dinner with the insufferable parents that usually he'd have to be Imperiused into. He was on a roll!

"That's wonderful, Ron," Hermione shot him a smile, one of the special ones that always made him feel as if his bones were slowly melting. "And I was going to say, I really like your idea of Italy for the summer. I had a letter from Viktor the other day, he says it has some wonderful countryside. He went there for a Quidditch tournament, you know."

"That's grea – wait, what?"

His awesome-boyfriend material was diverse enough to cover her parents, her shopping habits, her books, even her ridiculous campaigns for house elves. It was not, repeat not enough to cover the unpleasant realisation that Hermione was still writing to Viktor bloody Krum.

"You're still writing to Krum?"

Hermione blinked, genuinely surprised. "Well, yes, just as a pen friend. Surely you knew about that?"

Well, truth be told, no. He'd not thought about it as such – whenever Hermione mentioned dear old Vikky he simply tuned out and amused himself by imagining that she was telling him about Krum's very unfortunate, very timely and very painful demise at the teeth of a rogue Manticore. Come to think of it, he might have missed out on some valuable information because of that.

"No! Of course not!" He scowled resentfully at a pack of Exploding Snap cards. "Didn't think you were still writing to him."

"I'm sure I mentioned it."

"I must have missed that."

Read: I must have tuned out while you were telling me.

Still, best not to mention that. Awesome-boyfriend routine and all that.

"Well, I'm sorry." She frowned gently, peered at him with those warm dark eyes. "If it makes you uncomfortable…"

Ha! That was it, all he needed! See, by employing the awesome-boyfriend technique he could just sit and wait and let Hermione agree to doing something without even having to ask. And here she was, saying she'd never write, speak, see or even think about Viktor sodding Krum ever again as long as they both would live…

"I'd like that."

"Well, alright. I'll tell you before I next write to him – and when he writes to me, of course. I promise, from now on I'll keep you in the loop."

Yes!

Wait.

No!

"No, I didn't mean that – I meant not ever again!"

"Beg pardon?"

"I meant, no speaking to Krum, no seeing Krum, no writing to Krum! I'm uncomfortable with all that!"

"Ron, surely – "

"No, no, I'm putting my foot down," he retorted sternly, speaking quickly simply because Hermione was tapping her foot and directing a look, that Look, the really narrowed one, his way, and maybe it was a good idea to get all his words out before he thought twice about how stupid this was. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be contacting Krum at all anymore."

Her lips twisted darkly. Uh oh. "A 'good idea'?"

"That's right!"

What was it George was always saying? 'Let your girlfriend know who's boss'. Then again, that was after Angelina had kicked him out to sleep on the sofa for the third night running…

Oh, what the hell. George knew more about women than he did! Then again he was pretty sure Kreacher the house elf knew more about women than he did. There was that particularly creepy attachment the creature had seemed to have with Sirius' mum…

He shook his head, mainly to stop his mind from going to deep and dark places of Wrongness and Madness and All Bad Things. "I don't want you speaking to Viktor Krum anymore! I forbid it!"

It was probably a good thing that at that precise moment the bell of Dervish and Banges' door burst into an unholy racket as Pig made his rather inopportune entrance, zooming through the door like a miniature – befeathered – bludger with wings. Rather than continue making eye-contact with Hermione, who could outstare a Basilisk even on a good day, he hastily grabbed the letter from the demented feathery git as he zoomed around the store and opened it.

Aw, bless, it was from Lavender. True, he'd found her annoying as hell when they were dating, but now that she was firmly engaged to Justin Finch-Fletchley (not a bad bloke, considering he was apparently one of the few guys in their year who hadn't stuck his tongue down his sister's throat) she wasn't too horrific anymore – and quite thankfully, no longer called him 'Won-Won'. He'd yet to ask Justin if she had dubbed him 'Jus-Jus' yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Anyway, it was nice that Lavender occasionally dropped him a line. It was the sort of thing girls did, he supposed. And she was an ex-classmate, after all.

"Lavender sends her best to you, 'Mione," he murmured absent-mindedly, eyes scanning the paper and therefore unable to see the expression of downright fury that crossed her face. "She and Justin are going camping in the Forest of Dean…hey, wasn't that where you and Harry – "

He heard the intake of breath mere seconds before the explosion.

"What did you just say to me!?"

Something somewhere had just gone horribly wrong.

"…Forest of Dean?"

"No," Hermione uttered through gritted teeth. "Lavender sent you that letter?"

"Well, yeah."

…He had the feeling that he ought to be feeling terribly guilty and grovelling on his knees like a witless worm; but for the life of him he couldn't work out what it was he was meant to be apologising for.

His girlfriend took in a deep, steady breath. This was something of a good sign, as it least while she was taking in a deep breath she couldn't yell at him, although Ron couldn't help notice that her eyes were starting to spark in that dangerous, Hermione way that they had. And was it just him, or had her hair, unruly at the best of times, started to look a little…cracklier?

As if lightening was beginning to spiral through it.

That image was just the tiniest bit unnerving.

"So…" she began, incredibly slowly. "Let me get this straight. You don't want me talking to Viktor…ever again, by the sounds of it; in fact, you 'forbid it' because he asked me out for an incredibly brief period of time in our fourth year. And yet…and yet…you find it perfectly acceptable to spend your time passing cosy little catch-up-notes," her voice was beginning to get dangerously shrill, "with a girl whose face you spent entire months trying to eat, you complete and utter hypocrite?!"

…Alright, so now the entire shop was staring at him.

"Well…" When she put it like that, it did sound a bit…wrong. Still, there was a world of difference between Lavender and Viktor bloody Krum. "Yeah. It's not really the same is it? Lavender and," cue the sneer, "Vicky. She's just a bit of an airhead, that's all. Krum's from Durmstrang! You know how many Dark wizards came out of that place?"

"Viktor's deeply opposed to the Dark Arts! His grandfather was killed by Grindlewald!"

"Doesn't make any difference, does it? He's still been exposed to it all in Durmstrang. And the first sign that you still like him and," he made a sudden, angry movement, "he'll be on you like a Niffler on goblin gold!"

And then he said something very, very stupid.

"And knowing you, because he's so brave, and so shy, and so sensitive, and so interested in books, you'll probably let him!"

…Possibly not the smartest move there.

For a moment, Hermione had frozen entirely still, so still that he was almost convinced something or someone had Petrified her. And then – her arm moved so fast that it was little more than a blur, so that he didn't even see her snatch up the nearest Sneakoscope from the shelf and pitch it at his head until it hit him straight between the eyes.

"Probably let him? Probably let him? You UNGRATEFUL PRAT, Ronald Weasley!"

Men are…always men. There are some things that they always say in these situations, regardless of the fact that they always know they'll go wrong. And Ronald Weasley was a good man, a hero in the eyes of many, co-founder of Dumbledore's Army, destroyer of horcruxes and former keeper for the Gryffidindor Quidditch team, thankyouverymuch, but – well, he was still a man. Not an entirely bright one either.

And the Sneakoscope flying towards his face had not put him in a good mood.

"Hermione, stop bloody overreacting!" he yelled hotly.

A novelty coffee mug, embossed with the design of a patterned Gobstones set, soared violently over his head and collided with the shop window.

"Overreacting? You call this overreacting?!"

At least her wand arm was shaking so hard that the jinx missed him by several feet.

"Mio – "

"Get out, you bloody bastard!"

"Alright, I'm goi – HERMIONE, PUT YOUR DAMN WAND DOWN! Oh bloody hell!"

Jeeze. Women. Still, he managed to consider even as he beat a hasty and undignified retreat from Dervish and Banges, shrieks and hexes and miscellaneous memorabilia being flung at his disappearing back, it could have gone a lot worse.

Very possibly.

-o-

Valentine's Day.

A day so overburdened with pressure, anxiety and expectations, many men decide simply not to cope with the stress. Or rather, many men's minds, their deepened subconscious, decide to spare the male the unbridled horror of the day, and simply banish the date to the deepest and darkest recesses of their minds. Leading many men to blissfully forget the day – until of course confronted with angered spouses and/or girlfriends, which of course adds to far more stress, horror, pressure and anxiety than their deepened subconscious ever believed possible.

Harry Potter's deepened subconscious had well and truly forgotten what date it was today.

He was sure today was something important – a birthday of a family member, maybe, or maybe just the rarity of Ginny being home for once – but it didn't matter, to be honest.

Because today was the day, The Day, Finally, the One and Only.

…Actually it was his fifth attempt this month alone, but he was being optimistic.

Today was going to be The Day he finally asked Ginny to give up the Quidditch playing.

Alright, not give up per say. Just maybe tone it down slightly, just slightly, because while of course he was awfully proud of her and loved her and was very very excited whenever the Holyhead Harpies won a match, but – well. He hadn't seen her properly in forever. Watching his girlfriend zoom about on the Sports page of the Daily Prophet didn't quite count, somehow. And he'd read books on the subject, read deeply and studiously and sensitively – alright, he'd glanced at the back cover of one of Fleur's relationship manuals – and apparently when two people were in a relationship it was important that they spoke to each other. On a relatively regular basis.

He certainly wasn't jealous of her talents.

Absolutely not.

The fact that some of the older wizards in the Ministry had taken to calling him 'The Boy Who Couldn't Quite Fly As Fast As His Girlfriend' – and then, when he'd pointed out that this moniker didn't exactly trip of the tongue, cut to the chase with 'The Forgotten One' – was completely irrelevant.

Walking back home from the Broken Wand with Ginny – a pub in which five guys, all taller than him, had asked for Ginny's autograph and he'd been mistaken twice for the wizard who ran the Quikspell articles in the Daily Prophet – he thought this over. Alright, so he missed her madly and alright, so the last time they'd played a bit of Quidditch one on one he'd, not to put too fine a point on it, had his arse handed to him, but this was her dream, wasn't it? Shouldn't he be supportive of her dream?

Five guys. Five guys. All of them, upon being introduced to them as her boyfriend, had suddenly born smirks that were distinctly resemblant of Draco Malfoy's. Hmph.

"Poor Hermione is trying to shoehorn Ron into having lunch with her parents soon," Ginny murmured, her eyes glinting in the starlight as they walked slowly back to her flat (They'd yet to find a place of their own, as 'with my training schedule it'd probably be really disruptive for you to share a flat with me'. Double hmph). "We'll be enduring a truckload of whinging from him over the next couple of days, you wait and see – "

"Ginny?"

"Yeah?"

He spoke at great length. He spoke with great eloquence. He spoke of the importance of togetherness, and communication, and of trust. He spoke of the importance of committing to a relationship. He spoke of the danger of thinking that you're going down the same road when actually you were travelling down two different ones. (He wasn't entirely sure about that one. But the back of Fleur's book had spoke about that at length, and it seemed important.)

He spoke about how all the great couples of the past had, at some point, made sacrifices for each other. Um. Probably. And even the ones that didn't really seem to have done, like his parents or, for example, her parents, he was sure they had done. At some point. Like Molly putting up with her dad's constant attempts to connect electricity to the Burrow, despite the fact that this had resulted in two major explosions, five small fires, and in one curious incident, connecting their new phone to a telephone box outside a New York drugstore in the 1940s. And, well, really, he'd seen his parents when they were young, and quite frankly it seemed as though his mum had made a pretty big sacrifice just to go out with his dad in the first place. So really, when she thought about it, neither of them wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for sacrifices of some kind or another.

He used the word commitment five times. He spoke until they had reached Ginny's front door. He spoke about love, and dedication, and care, and a bit more about love after that because he'd ran out of things to say. And hmm. And um. And, well. Please?

Ginny was looking at him quite oddly.

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"What exactly is it that you wanted?"

Ah.

"Your – um. Your Quidditching. Your Quidditch playing. Well I don't get to see you that much anymore and – well, the Harpies, and – you're always in the papers now, and – five guys tonight, and...well. Could you maybe...let it go? Just a little bit? Please?"

She looked at him. And looked at him. And looked at him some more.

"And then – you know. It can be, well. Just the two of us. Kind of. I mean."

"And it would be good. Um. Because, well, you know. I love you. Um."

"And, well. Settling. House. Together. Us. And maybe - well. Marriage? Possibly? Um. Yes. That."

It occurred to him that this was very much a one-sided conversation.

Ginny was still watching him through narrowed eyes. He shifted from one foot to the other, chewing on his lip and carrying an internal debate of how to make 'Um' sound at all debonair and romantic, because quite frankly it was the only thing he could think of to say. And when at last he'd given up all hope of ever speaking coherently again, Ginny cleared her throat.

"Harry, do you have anything planned tonight?"

This sounded promising.

"No-oo – but if you like, I can cancel what plans I don't have, and – "

"Or do you have anything for me?"

He blinked, and then leaned over to give her a kiss.

"I love you?"

Silence.

"...Not enough? I can make you a cup of tea when we get in if you like."

She folded her arms, leaning against her front door and gave him another curious look. "Are you sure you don't have anything you want to give me? Any little token or symbol, anything reminiscent of the romantic gesture, anything to do with the date today?"

"Umm. No."

Her eyes narrowed. "You do know what date it is today, right?"

Huh.

Anniversary…no.

Birthday…nooo.

Any major league or tournament date? He didn't think so.

Wasn't this maybe the day she'd first mastered the Bat Bogey Hex, aged only fourteen?

Wasn't that just a little bit petty to expect him to remember that?

"Well, honestly Ginny, I reckon you're expecting a lot to think I'll remember the date today…"

Ginny had gone very, very still.

Almost eerily still. Almost – and he wished he wasn't making the comparison quite so vividly – the way a Chimera was supposed to freeze the moment before it pounced on its hopeless, hapless victim, tearing it limb from miserable limb…

She couldn't be that proud of her Bat Bogey Hex, could she?

"You think – and do correct me if I've misunderstood – that I should settle down, give up my dream, and commit to this relationship. Commit to our relationship. And you don't know the date today."

Why did he get the feeling that the remaining seconds of his life were trickling out from beneath him, like the last sands in the hourglass?

"That sounds about right, yeah."

Ginny's eyes hadn't left his. They weren't blinking. Surely that sort of thing hurt, after a little while? And really, her level of stillness was amazing. She should really employ that on the Quidditch pitch.

"I'm…sorry?"

Maybe he shouldn't have suggested the give-up-Quidditch-forever-and-marry-him-thing. Just the marry-him-thing was the important part. Even if it did sort of bug him that he had a girlfriend that was possibly better at Quidditch than him. Possibly.

"Look, I'm not saying give up completely…"

"Right," his girlfriend voiced finally, snapping from her weird little spaced-out state, as if she hadn't even heard him. Her voice was still pretty creepily stiff. "Well, let me consider my response to that. I'm afraid you may have to give me a moment."

A moment!

Thinking!

Sure, her voice was a little odd, but this was progress!

Grinning, he nodded happily, already leaning in to claim a kiss from her lips when Ginny calmly stepped back into the flat, shutting the door in his face. He did a little jig in the hallway instead. Probably about to change into something less comfortable and more romantic. Probably about to officially accept his semi-proposal at long last. Who knew the legendary Potter charm had been so clearly passed on in the bloodline from father to son…

A piercing shriek echoed from somewhere behind the door.

"Bloody, unthinking, stupid, thoughtless BASTARD!"

…Then again, maybe not.

-o-

Valentine's Day.

A day forever linked with the most sappy, ridiculous, unbelievably corny displays. But also a day forever linked with the connotations of romance, and therefore a day where so many women were perfectly willing to spend intimate evenings with men who – well, let's just say, may not have as many scruples as they could.

Draco Malfoy was one such man happily unburdened from scruples.

As such, he suspected it was going to be a good night.

Let's start with the flat.

This flat was incredibly smart, stylish – cool, for wont of a better word. With enough Quidditch memorabilia and magical gadgets to stock a small shop, but nonetheless a smart flat, because this was his permanent residence and Draco was beginning to grudgingly realise that he couldn't live on his parents' wealth at the manor forever. At least not if he wanted to bring women back to the manor without his mother popping out from the shadows at...unfortunate moments. So the flat was kitted out entirely as he wanted, all dark green and embossed books on Dark hexes. Sure, it might have been a bit smaller and less costly than was to his tastes, but it was his own place, and besides, Malfoy Manor was brimming full of expensive kit. And while he loved his parents, it was a comfort to know it would all come to him in the fullness of time.

Of course, there were items dispersed around the flat that most certainly did not belong to him, but to someone far more detached from reality and good taste – not to mention all-round sanity – than him. Such as a t-shirt bearing the colours of the Falmouth Falcons stuffed under his pillow, make-up abandoned in the bathroom, and even a book entitled – shudder - Gadding with Ghouls. And therein lay the problem.

Astoria Greengrass. The bane of his existence.

…And, inexplicably, the girl he was shagging two or three times a week.

It wasn't his fault. He hadn't meant to start off this ridiculous fling, for want of a better word, but a drunken encounter at a Ministry party that had resulted in the pair of them waking in a tangle of arms and legs the following morning had changed his mind just a bit. And then one thing had led to another, and now the blasted woman was popping around every other day and kicking him whenever he said anything even vaguely prick-ish, and taking up his time and for the love of Merlin he could not stop thinking about her.

Impossible. Simply and completely impossible. It wasn't even as if he enjoyed her company, what with her complete disregard for rational behaviour and awful table manners and those horrific romance novels she insisted on reading. (Alright, so he'd flicked through one. One. It had been a deeply scarring experience.) And as for her desire to make jibes at every single thing he did or said…As if she could talk. Urgh. What about the articles she wrote in the Daily Prophet as a freelance journalist? Which were annoying and redundant and biased completely in favour with blood-traitors and muggle-borns and what was really exasperating was the fact that sometimes he could actually see her point. And she was loud and sarcastic and somehow cheerful and cynical at the same time and she couldn't even dance without making a fool of herself, and honestly, it wasn't even as though they were in a – pause for effect and a patented Malfoy Sneer – relationship.

It was just messing around.

Hence tonight.

Now, where the hell was that blasted bottle? He grimaced blackly as he knelt on the bed, head hanging down beneath it so he could scan most thoroughly for the elusive bottle of elf-made wine. It was bound to be in here somewhere…

He'd brought it up with his parents once, in a joking, sarcastic, ha-ha-how-ridiculous-would-this-be-and-really-why- would-anyone-want-to-date-Astoria-Greengrass sort of way. And Dad had spluttered, and Mum had fixed him with a very serious look and laid her perfectly manicured fingers against his shoulders and explained that, while Astoria was a perfectly darling girl who came from a very pure, wealthy and strategic family, hadn't he read that article she'd written in the Daily Prophet about the successes of co-operation between the magical and Muggle communities? Not to mention that six-thousand word sarcastic diatribe on the state of pure-blood families in the wizarding world today? (As a matter of fact, he had. Astoria had sat on his chest and wouldn't let him up until he'd read them. She'd used the phrase 'stuck-up, holier-than-thou inbreds' at least three times. He'd counted.) And really, Draco, allying with the Dark Lord had been a mistake, yes, but the family still had Standards. Not to mention Views. And maybe her sister Daphne might be a better choice, although the way that girl carries on no-one truly expects for her to settle down and start a family, have you seen the way she behaves at parties, and really, she might be a little shrill on the ears but how do you feel about getting in touch with Pansy again?

So that was that then.

Anyway, it didn't matter. Not tonight. Tonight the mere thought of Astoria Greengrass was getting ceremonially booted out of his head, because earlier this morning he had finally asked out the, quite frankly, gorgeous half-Veela who worked with Theo Nott at the Ministry, the one with the long blonde hair and legs up to her shoulders, whose robes never quite managed to button up over her chest. And approximately fifteen minutes ago she'd Floo'd over and was right now in the sitting room, waiting. In his flat. Alone. For him.

Oh. Hell. Yeah.

Ha! Found the little bugger, although Merlin knew how it had rolled so far down beneath his bed, next to a copy of Quidditch Through The Ages from when he was about seven. He dimly remembered beginning to share it with 'Tor a couple of weeks ago, but the cork had been difficult to lever off and then they'd gotten a bit…distracted…

It probably said something quite serious about his state of mind that he was planning to share a bottle of wine with a girl he'd just asked out that he had previously been going to share with a girl he was casually sleeping with.

…Nah.

Tucking the wine beneath his arm he very nearly skipped down the corridor, coming to a halt outside the living room and hastily adjusting his collar. All dressed in black, of course. Everything was perfect – the candlelight dim, the radio soft, and he could just about spot the delicate outline of a young woman eating the fruit he'd carefully laid out on an engraved silver platter.

"Put down that mango, my dear," he drawled lazily. "It's time you tasted the forbidden fruit."

Smooth. So smooth.

And just as he was congratulating himself on practically sealing the deal already the figure in the armchair sat back up to reveal not shimmering blond hair, but dark curls, slender features, and a particularly impish expression.

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!"

Astoria rose her eyebrows, reaching up with slender fingers to rub her ears in what was most likely meant to be an extremely comical gesture. "Hi, Draco. Nice line, by the way. Nearly as crap as the 'It would take more than a Memory Charm to make me forget you' one from fifth year."

Ah yes. That was the other annoying thing about Astoria. Other girls tended to love it when he was suave and charming. Pansy melted at it, the witches in the Ministry melted at it. But nooo, Astoria had to just to turn around and tell him he was being an arse. No wonder he was annoyed at seeing her here.

Oh, apart from the little matter where it was her in the flat instead of the sexiest woman on the face of the planet.

"Where's – where's – " He paused for a moment, and pretended he was simply overcome with indignation rather than admit the awkward truth that he couldn't actually remember the girl's name. "…Fion?"

If Astoria had cost him a night with that fantastic creature he would never forgive her. Never.

"Felicia, actually, Draco." Astoria was grinning a little too much for his liking. "Well, when I Floo'd by she was sitting around, probably freezing to death due to the fact that her clothes seemed incredibly flimsy for a February evening." She smirked at the anguished look on his face and continued. "And we had a little girl chat, just the two of us, and she told me to tell you that you're a lying, immoral, conniving piece of slime and she never wants to see you again as long as she lives."

Right.

Ok.

So.

Let's review.

Astoria had indeed cost him a night with the most gorgeous, sexy, magnificent woman he'd ever laid eyes on, and now she was smirking at him.

…There was a distinct chance he would have to kill someone.

He closed his eyes, teeth grinding against each other. "Astoria…"

"I offered to come back in five minutes once you were done!"

Make that the definite possibility he was going to kill someone.

When he said nothing, instead choosing to clench his jaw until he could feel a vein throbbing viciously in his neck, Astoria chose instead to let out another leisurely chuckle, flinging herself back onto the leather armchair as if she were the bloody queen of the flat. "She seemed interesting."

"She was half Veela," he snapped. Not that it really explained anything, but it was certainly one of the facts that was sticking in his head at the moment.

"Oh. Sad for you!"

Was there any way of making her death look like an accident?

Poison, maybe. After all it had nearly worked on Weasley, and he hadn't even been meaning to attack him

"I do hope I haven't upset you," Astoria remarked primly, in a way that suggested she was anything but.

"Upset?" he snapped. Bloody hell – forget poison, he was just going to wring her neck and have done with the whole sorry mess. Bloody, bloody Astoria. "Oh, why should I be upset? Just because you manage to stick your nose in when it's not wanted every single sodding time something starts to go right for me? I'd drive a stake through your heart but I doubt anything could kill you!"

Alright, maybe he was a little upset.

"Oh, well forgive me!" she retorted. For the first time since he'd entered the room and saw her sitting there with that damn little smirk on her lips there was a flash of something other than mischief in her eyes. "Considering I'm here every other day I assumed I'd be welcome tonight!"

"I would have dropped round afterwards," he muttered derisively.

Something told him that was the wrong thing to say.

"I beg your very dear pardon?"

"You know…" He folded his arms. "If the date hadn't gone according to plan."

Ok, definitely the wrong thing to say.

Silence. And the wrong kind of silence, the silence which Draco was pretty damn sure meant Curses, Hexes and Other Bad Things because yeah, let's be honest, this wasn't exactly the first time he'd pissed Astoria off before. Not that he intended to, really, at least not on a regular basis, but she was so easy to annoy, and Merlin, why was she being the one getting antsy when he was the one who had nearly slept with a Veela. Not a full blown Veela, obviously, just a half-Veela, but still, who the hell could lay claim to getting a half-Veela anyway? No-one that he knew. And he'd been so close, and she'd Ruined It. Ruined it, because that's what bloody Astoria bloody well did, what she always did, and he wasn't exactly a religious man, but he was starting to think that whatever Powers That Be might be floating around up there in the ether had shoved her back into his life for the one and only purpose of punishing him for every sodding thing he'd done wrong with the Death Eaters, back in the bad old days. It was the only reason he could think of that she was still here, well maybe not the only reason, but the only reason he was willing to credit. And he wanted her out, just out, because that way she wouldn't be here, looking at him like that and oh Merlin, but the way she was looking at him, it wasn't so much anger as god-knew-he-didn't-really-want-to-credit-it-but-ma ybe-possibly-actual-upset, and this Astoria thing that shouldn't even be a thing was driving him nuts. Let's be honest, she was driving him nuts. She was annoying and ridiculous, and hell, he didn't actually want to hurt her, but he was pretty sure that not screwing up as far as this went was pretty much impossible, and maybe he should just deliberately mess everything up and save himself the time and suspense, at least he'd get it over with quickly and everyone was expecting him to screw up anyway so at least she wouldn't be surprised -

"According to plan?"

Oh, good. Anger rather than upset. This, at least, he knew how to deal with.

"That's what I – "

"Merlin! You sodding little bastard, Malfoy! What am I, your back up? I was just sitting home with my cats and my knitting waiting for you to show up, was that the idea?"

"Wouldn't have surprised me."

He managed to wrench the platter out of arms reach before she chucked it at his head.

With an angry toss of the head she stormed into the kitchen. "I don't believe you – how do you fit your head through doorways these days? You utter, utter prick…I didn't mean getting together as a date, I'd rather be Crucio'd to within an inch of my life than be your date, I just damn well thought that this little 'arrangement' stretched further than 'days-when-Malfoy-isn't-trying-to-get-it-off-with- a-French-airhead'!"

"Well, if you thought that…" The clink and chink of moving crockery caught his ear. "Ooh, are you doing my washing up?"

There was a crash from within the kitchen. A very expensive crash.

"…Maybe not?"

He approached gingerly. Yes, there went his dishes, one after the other, all into the washing up bowl. The fact that there was no water, and Astoria was attempting to throw them in with all the vehemence of the Falmouth Falcons' leading Beater was not improving their cleanliness one bit.

"Come on," he snapped irritably. "You know full well my mother would never approve of something so ridiculous as – well, let's be honest – you!"

"What a mummy's boy! Does she still do your laundry for you, Draco?"

"Alright, now you're just being ridiculous – my mother has never cleaned anything in her life!"

Crash. There went the dragonglass goblets. "I know she was still buying your underwear for you until you moved out."

"Hey! I told you that in confidence!"

She was still fuming, in that way that suggested steam was going to start escaping from her ears at any time now. "And for your information, I have damn better things to do than hang around here with you! I actually have a date!"

Ha! Date! As if Astoria would actually have a - wait, what?

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me! With that Quidditch player, Marco Prettia! He asked me out tonight!"

Malfoy briefly entertained fleeting but most pleasing fantasies of taking aforementioned Prettia to London Zoo and feeding him to the sea lions.

"Him? You actually – him?"

"Well he had asked me if I wanted to go to dinner tonight!" Astoria yelled, flinging crockery into the washing-up at random until the sounds of smashing china greeted his ears. "To the Enchanted Grotto, actually, which happens to be a very nice restaurant, thankyou so very much! And I had cancelled because I thought I was spending the evening with you, but now I might not bother!"

"Fine!" He bellowed back, snatching a particularly well-crafted porcelain bowl from her hands before it met its end in a bowl of desecrated crockery. "And maybe I'll just find Fio –" cue a snort from Astoria, " - Felicia and bring her back here!"

"Oh, good luck with that!"

Draco snorted darkly. He could feel his face warp once more into the trademark Malfoy Sneer, allowed it to grace his features in all its malicious glory as he shook his head. "And good luck getting hold of Pretty tonight. I don't suppose he's holding out much hope for your owl – "

"For Merlin's sake – "

" – Or maybe international Quidditch stars frequently hold their schedule for girls who sleep around with their co-workers!"

Astoria's face was a brilliant shade of scarlet as one hand flung out to point at the door, narrowly missing his eye. "GET OUT!"

He was halfway to the door before he spun around. "I LIVE HERE!"

"Well – FINE!"

Well. That was her told. He'd really put his foot down and laid down the law there.

Didn't quite stop the mad bat from hurling a copy of Quidditch through the Ages at his face on the way out though.

-o-

To be continued...