Title: Sore Spots
Author: molly22
Rating: T, for language
Summary: "He was rather pleased to see her jaw drop, and even more pleased that his own did not follow suit." Post-series one-shot. AU since HBP.
A/N: Finally decided to post this. This is not (I repeat: NOT! NOT! NOT!) a Draco/Hermione romance fic. It shows the two characters interacting, but not at all in a romantic way. I shouldn't actually need to say this, but some people don't seem to understand that. Yes, I do realize that the title is awful.
Disclaimer: This was written solely to entertain me until HBP came out. In other words, all HP stuff belongs to JKR.
Sore Spots
"Another," Draco Malfoy said for the third time, snapping at the sallow-skinned man behind the counter and once again wondering why good help was so hard to find. His glass had been empty for seven minutes now, and Draco, an otherwise patient and understanding 20-year-old, was now considering just how to get this imbecilic cretin sacked.
At long last, the man turned to Draco and said in a placating tone, "I think you've had enough. You're drunk."
The corners of Draco's mouth curved downwards to form a befuddled frown. His face stayed frozen in this position for a long minute—and then, just like that, he began to laugh loudly, startling several patrons of The Banshee's Lair, a dilapidated old pub just off Knockturn Alley.
"Malfoys," he pronounced carefully, when he had finished laughing, "do not get drunk."
"Inebriated, pissed, rat-arsed—say it how you like," responded the bartender slowly, gripping Draco's glass loosely.
Draco rolled his stormy grey eyes (that was how his mother had always described them, anyway), and said, voice heavy with condescension, "Malfoys do not get drunk. It's in our blood. Now, I would like a refill."
After a moment too long under the bartender's scrutinizing gaze, Draco was provided with another glass, full to the brim of amber liquid. He sipped the drink with relish, smiling smugly to himself as the bartender was called away by another customer.
Some people, he thought idly, his finger tracing patterns on the olive green counter, just don't pay the proper respect. But it had been so since the end of the second war, since those bloody do-gooders prevailed. And dropping the Malfoy name no longer garnered what he considered the appropriate response (namely, an extremely gratifying combination of admiration and fear).
Draco downed the remainder of his drink in one large gulp, slamming the glass back onto the counter with unnecessary force. Someone behind him muttered sarcastically, "Shatter it, why don't you?" and Draco suspected it was that decrepit old woman with an ugly hat that resembled a vulture and a face that was even less attractive.
He whirled in his seat and caught the vulture woman's startled gaze. "You were saying something?"
The woman forced her fluorescent pink lips into a smile. "No, nothing."
Draco stood, taking a step toward her in what he thought was a rather menacing fashion and arched his blonde eyebrow. "That so?"
Her brow furrowed and she said, in a tone disappointingly lacking anxiety, "That's so."
Staring just long enough to unsettle her, he brushed past, headed for the bathroom. Because, although Malfoys might not get drunk, they still were cursed with the inconvenience of bladders.
There was a girl sitting in his stool when he'd returned from the loo.
She was gesticulating wildly as she spoke to the bartender, and all Draco could see of her was her arms—flailing around in a manner he supposed she thought was "demonstrative" —and her long hair, chestnut brown and bound in a remarkably thick braid.
He might've just sat in a different seat. He might've ignored her. He might've reacted in a remotely reasonable manner. But he was Draco Malfoy (goddammit), and he wanted his seat back.
"You," he called, his admittedly short stride taking him to her side in a few more seconds than he would have liked. "Move. Now."
"No need for monosyllabic orders," she said as she turned to face him.
He was rather pleased to see her jaw drop, and even more pleased that his own did not follow suit.
"Well, well, well," said Draco, adopting a tone his father would have taken in the same situation and a sneer his mother would be proud of. "Hermione Granger."
"Malfoy," she practically growled. "What a displeasure," she said haughtily, standing and moving down several seats, instantly resuming her conversation with the bartender.
Draco congratulated himself silently on frightening her away so quickly. His intimidation skills must've improved considerably since his Seventh Year.
And yet…What if she's just trying to throw me off guard? Surreptitiously, he glanced at the mudblood, watching her for a long time, as she sipped her drink and affectionately referred to the bartender as "Jacob." She looked the same as she had on the Hogwarts Express when she was eleven, except for the womanly bits. A few minutes of eavesdropping revealed that she was still an unbearable know-it-all, having corrected the bartender's (Draco couldn't bear to think of such a lowly person by his first name) grammar twice in the space of five minutes. It seemed she had developed a new tendency, however: everyone other minute or so, she would finger the corner of her left eye.
He lazily picked up the cool glass, slick with condensation, and swirled the liquor inside. Why was she fixated on her eye? There was something to it, he knew. Something painful. Something he could torture her with.
And then, just like that, he had it.
"Granger," he said, pausing expectantly and wondering how he could have forgotten.
She made no reply, her attention focused solely on the man behind the counter.
"Granger," he repeated, still with no result. "Oh, well. I s'pose you were just blindsided by me."
With no small amount of satisfaction, he saw her stiffen and freeze. And slowly, ever so slowly, she craned her neck around to face him, her lips tightened into a thin line.
"What's the matter, mudblood? Sore spot?" He offered her a trademark smirk as she rose from her seat, murmured a quick goodbye to the bartender, and made her way to the front door of The Banshee's Lair, an unmistakable slump of defeat in her shoulders. "Got a lot of those, don't you?" His voice cut through the air like a knife; he just couldn't resist kicking her when she was down.
She spun on her heel so quickly that he barely saw it. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded shrilly. He resisted the urge to flinch.
Retaining the façade of calmness, he said in an almost accusatory tone, "I'll wager you still have nightmares about it. Don't you?"
"I don't know what you mean," she said, but there was a definite waver to her voice.
"Surely I don't have to remind you? But, then again, it is so very amusing, I don't think I'll mind." Draco smiled cruelly, moving closer to the young witch. "It was the battle at the beginning of seventh year, on Hogwarts grounds, and chaos reigned. Or so I was told. I wasn't actually there. Previous engagement, you know. I had friends to witness the whole thing, however. Apparently students and professors were dropping like flies. Dumbledore was dead." At this, he laughed. "There was an overall feeling of despair, as spells and hexes flew this way and that. And then, from out of nowhere, Potter's mudblood flunkey gets hit in the left eye with a blinding curse. Those things are nasty, not to mention fantastically irreversible."
"Don't," Granger warned softly, her hand covering the left side of her face.
Now directly in front of her, he continued with a sneer, "It wasn't until after the smoke cleared that they realized the curse had inadvertently hit you. It was meant for a Death Eater. The wizard responsible—pay attention, this is the best part—was Harry Potter."
She snapped, "It was an accident, you malicious little boy. He didn't mean to hit me."
"I wonder if he even apologized," Draco said thoughtfully, nearly cackling with glee.
"Of course he—why am I even defending him to you? 'Previous engagement,' you say?" Her voice was getting alarmingly strong. "Was the engagement hiding in your bed with the sheets pulled over your head? Like a child afraid of the Boogeyman, only you were afraid of your great dark lord, Voldemort." Draco unwittingly twitched at the name, and Granger said, sounding rather pleased with herself, "And you say I'm touchy."
Draco narrowed his eyes at her. "Need I bring up your disgusting Muggle Mummy and Daddy?"
She sobered immediately, her face going ashen and her fingers beginning to tremble.
Draco, noticing these symptoms, wanted to shout "Ha!" but decided it would ruin the moment. Instead, he said, "What was it again? Oh, yes. Tortured to death on Christmas Eve. While you were out shopping for their presents." With the ghost of a smile on his lips, he said, "Mm. That's just good entertainment."
"You…" She was near tears now, he saw, and he couldn't have been happier. "You evil…" Granger looked down, her face in her hands as she struggled to control her emotions.
Draco sent a warning glance to the bartender, who seemed like he wanted to interrupt, and focused his attention back on the mudblood. "And then there's always Weaselby."
Her head snapped up to face him, her face suddenly completely white. That's it. She's bound to break down now. The thought made him incredibly cheerful—hell, it made him want to burst out in song.
"One of the many victims of the Killing Curse," he said, tut-tutting quietly. "I suppose he thought he'd die with a little glory, but Potter stole all that for himself. Nothing unusual there, of course. Bet Weasley's blood traitor parents didn't even notice he was gone, they've got so many filthy little children. I bet no one even remem—"
"Shut your fucking mouth, Malfoy," Granger shrieked (ironically sounding not so different from a banshee), withdrawing her wand and pointing it directly at his heart.
He, indeed, shut his fucking mouth.
Looking none too disturbed at her uncharacteristic use of language, Granger said, "Don't you dare mention Ron's name. Don't you ever even think about him. I have no qualms with performing Avada Kedavra on you."
He stared down at the wand, whimpering. This wasn't quite how he'd wanted her to break down. Draco attempted to back up, but for every step he took backwards, she took a step forward. And then, to his complete and utter relief, the bartender firmly gripped Granger's right arm, forcing her to lower it, the wand lowering as well. "I have to ask you to leave," he told her, voice barely audible.
She stared at Draco another moment before she turned to exit. He called to her as she left, "Don't go blaming me just because it was my father who killed him! That's called 'anger transference.' It's not very healthy." The bell above the door tinkled softly, heralding her departure.
He plopped down onto a stool, feeling quite triumphant. Had he glanced out the bar's large front window, he might've seen Hermione Granger lose control, bursting into tears as her knees gave out, striking the pavement with an earsplitting crack. Had he been someone other than Draco Malfoy, he might've even expressed a little remorse. He didn't and he wasn't, however, and instead he signaled to the bartender that he wanted another drink.
Fin.