Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Author's Note: This story will be eventually DMHG! I'm writing this because the kind people at changed the genre of this fanfic from 'Romance' to 'Drama'. While this fanfic is very dramatic :), I'm after all a faithful DMHG shipper.
Also, I'm adding this because so many people seem to know not what 'Parody' is… sigh OF COURSE Draco would never cry in canon, OF COURSE Hermione would never be so neurotically-obsessed with her Oriental rug in canon, and the characters are SO OOC that it's ridiculous… because that's the point! This fic is supposed to be totally and humongously exaggerated – shouldn't EVERYTHING clue you in on that?
(Methinks I should move this fic from Humor to Parody).
Prologue: Where Draco Loses His Magical Hair Gel For Blonds (with Extra Strength!) and billowing black robes and Hermione Worries About Her Dear Oriental Rug
Draco paced the room fretfully. Why him?
Have the gods be so cruel?
He shook his fist at the ceiling- decked with green ribbons and silver bows.
In agony, Draco slumped to the carpeted floor (with ornate designs of silver dragons worked on a green background) and asked the world: What have I done to deserve this?
He thought about that for a while.
There was the time he was the son of the right-hand man of the Dark Lord. Not to mention the times he made the Boy Who Lived to Annoy Him, his faithful sidekick/ secret lover and ... that other person ... that bushy-haired know-it-all - what'shername - Granger - of course!- live to regret hearing the name Malfoy. And that time where he enslaved Crabbe and Goyle into becoming his personal bodyguards/ minions of his dark deeds. And that time where he stole Pansy's shampoo.
Well. It seems that the gods probably not much in favor of his wellbeing.
But, this ... this went beyond all his nefarious plans to take over Voldemort's body and torture Potter in a chamber with whips and chains and black lace. Oh yes, this went far far beyond that.
They were repaying his Bloody Bastardness with Pure Malicious Evil.
Draco sulked. No fair.
Someone was going to pay, and it wouldn't be him.
He stalked off morosely towards the direction of Granger's room - they were Head Prefects and shared a common room.
"I love Orlando Bloom," he scowled at that portrait. Fool Granger and her Fool Password! Anyone who was freaking nearby was going to think him freaking gay. Not that he had problems with homosexuals, but he rather not have another fan club of boys solely devoted to him. He didn't mind the attention and the blushing crowds, but he drew the line at statues of him made out of Butterbeer bottles.
Merlin, can this day get any worse?
The portrait, an old woman – anyone remotely above nineteen was old to him – giggled, "A little more enthusiasm, please!"
"I love Orlando Bloom!" and bared his teeth in an imitation of a smile. The portrait giggled again –for Merlin's sake, that woman was old! And she was a bloody portrait! – and swung open into Granger's sickeningly red-and-gold room.
"Argh! Merlin!" Granger jumped in fright, "Put on some clothes!" And she threw him a robe, a brown robe – do all Gryfinddors have no sense of taste? - and refused to look at him.
Draco looked at himself. He was wearing his favourite boxers - red with pink hearts - and nothing else.
"I have no time for your prudish ways, woman. More important matters here!" he snapped.
Granger looked at him over her shoulder, eyeing him warily.
He was rather insulted. It was as if he was some potential rapist who burst into her room without knocking - not the valiant, handsome Head Boy as he was.
"What do you want?" her eyes narrowed at his general direction.
He will be controlled. He will not beg. "Someone stole my Magical Hair Gel For Blonds (with Extra Strength!) and my black robes! The black robes were specially made so that they would bellow in with every turn I take! I'm not beautiful anymore! I don't look like the forbidden Bad Boy whom everyone secretly has a crush on anymore!"
It came out in a high shrill. So he was not in control of his emotions. After all, who wouldn't be if they woke up and found that their two most important things in the world went missing?
Even Miss-Oh-So-Perfect Granger would have done exactly the same thing.
"That's all?" she yelled back, "And who in their right mind has a crush on you?" She huffed.
He couldn't take it anymore. Today, things decided not to go his way.
He cried.
Hermione watched a wailing and incoherent Draco in his red boxers (with pink hearts!) with interest. He looked pitiful, he looked upset, but mostly, he looked like the opposite of the sexy Slytherin Prince that every girl painted him out to be - well, not really, he was still topless with rippling muscles.
She peered at him. Hermione was intrigued with the politics of Draco's body. Every midnight girl talk she had with The Hopeless Romantics– Parvati, Lavender, sometimes Ginny, always ended up in giggles over guys - Harry, Ron or Draco.
She often had tried to correct their perceptions of Harry's or Ron's bodies, saying that it wasn't gloriously buff, nor was it tanned from many a summer day out at the beach, nor was it ever glistening (more like 'oozing in sweat') after a hard day's workout (since when they ever "worked out" anyway?) – before being labeled as "practical" and "un-romantic" and "unimaginative". Or sometimes – "lesbian". After many a heated debate, she … just… Gave Up.
Hermione was sure where her opinion on Harry and Ron stood – she knew them too well to have strange daydreams and idealistic fantasies. However, Draco… Draco…. When he became Head Boy, the Hopeless Romantics sighed dreamily, predicting for her a future with Draco: initially their conversations would start off with snarky comments laced with sexual tension, then after much much angst and a convenient towel-dropping incident in their shared bathroom, they would snog, and have a secret relationship where Hermione would change Draco for the better, and Ron and/or Harry would get flaming mad, and they both would defy their parents, and elope to America where they would live happily ever after, and have many many babies.
Hermione's interest was rather captured; she wondered when the towel dropping incident would happen.
Yet it never worked that way – Draco lost his malicious streak after sixth year, and stopped being exciting for Hermione. Things were only interesting for her when they were either 1. problematic 2. mysterious 3. unpredictable. Draco ceased being all three – he was no longer a mystery – and just became … well… another Hogwarts student.
(And though they shared a common room, they had their own bathrooms, thank you very much, she said in response to Hopeless Romantic's inquiries.)
But here was her chance up close, up front with Draco Malfoy! She peered at his skin. They weren't silky smooth or covered in rippling muscles that intertwined in a rich symphony playing gloriously under his skin – or so Parvati would have put it. In fact, if she didn't know better, they were pretty much … normal. Much like Harry or Ron.
Draco was still rocking back and forth. "Why me? What have I done?" he wailed to an unseen audience.
Fine. It seems that she was cool with the topless-ness thing after all. But she was getting a little worried.
After all, this was Draco Malfoy, and he was sobbing on her new and very dear Oriental rug - the red and gold colours might 'leak' from the wool. Once she attempted to wash it - and all her other clothes turned red and gold.
"Malfoy? Er. Are you okay?" she kneeled gently beside him. Hermione was very concerned. It cost a hundred quid! It was her present from her parents for becoming Head Girl! It complimented her room in a very … perfect way – A Girl's Guide to Interior Decorating said that oval rugs are more delicate than plain square ones. And rugs must always match the colours of bedsheets – which had red and gold hearts. Since her Oriental rug was oval, hence it was delicate, hence it was suitable for a girl of her delicate nature.
When he didn't respond (after all, he was wallowing in his share of teenage angst), she attempted to nudge him a little. Just a little. Nudge.
He fell over in surprise, looking at the person who shoved him unceremoniously off the soft wool rug. "Whaattt?" was all he got out before she smiled at him benignly.
"Your Magical Hair Gel For Blonds (with Extra Strength!) and billowing black robes might miraculously appear if you sit there, away from the rug," she showed him a line of sparkling white teeth. "Or, you know, sitting over there might be better for the world. Karma. Yin and Yang. World Peace. You know." And she fluttered her eyes at him.
He looked at her suspiciously. But no one could be suspicious of Perfect-Granger-With-An-Innocent-Smile-And-Fluttering-Eyelashes for long. Not to mention … what was that… citrus? Or a blend of jasmine and roses? He leaned into her to get a better smell.
He still couldn't make up his mind when she hurled him away.
"Are you … smelling me?" she gaped, her jaw dropped upon.
He rubbed his shoulder. It hurt. She was one violent person. And deranged too. Who wouldn't want me, sexy Slytherin Prince, in close proximity? He huffed. He was insulted. If she was some other girl (some boys, even), the only violence would be from their part - no one could get their hands off him for long. Perhaps she had issues with her parents. Some repressed experience, a remnant from her childhood, no doubt. Freud might know.
"Erm, no? I don't smell mudbloods?" He flashed his perfectly straight rows of teeth (no coffee stains, Hermione thought instinctively after living for twelve years in close proximity with her parents) which temporarily blinded Hermione and forced her to take refuge at the other side of the room. A dimple nestled itself adorably in a corner. His eyes twinkled.
Since when did he start smiling at her anyway? For that matter, since when did he even smile at anyone? And why was there a godforbidden twinkle in his godforbidden eye? He had a smirk, goddamnit! And cold gray eyes! He was the unattainable-hence-extremely-desirable and cold-as-ice Uber Bad Boy of Slytherin. Of Hogwarts, even. He can't smile! He … Must … Smirk.
Bunching up his face, he tried to compose his features to form a smirk – and failed gloriously.
Hermione backed away slowly, which was not really possible because she was already as far from him as possible. "Constipation?" she ventured at the sight of his wrinkled face, her back against the wall.
He traced the lines of his cheekbones tentatively, sweeping the surface with his index finger, which triggered a set of blushes and sighs from Hermione (who, when she was twelve, secretly swore to never fall in love with Bad Boys). Oh yes, something was definitely wrong here. And he wasn't talking about that pimple that marred his perfect sculptured Grecian cheekbones.
Sometime last night, he had miraculously developed muscles - for smiling.
Draco fainted dead away on Hermione's Oriental rug.