Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter Universe. My good pal JoRow does. Also I do know own any of the lyrics used in this story. They belong to their respective authors. ( Daydream Believer ~ John Stewart. This Magic Moment ~ Doc Pomus; Mort Shuman. Touch Me~ Robby Krieger. Wouldn't It Be Nice ~ The Beach Boys. Viva Las Vegas ~ Doc Pomus; Mort Shuman.) Story is inspired by Dane Cook's skit "The Nothing Fights" and the song "Cruel to be Kind" which was written by Nick Lowe.
Warnings: Read with caution. It's a satire.
- - -Cheer up, sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean, to a daydream believer and a homecoming Queen? - - -
Draco Malfoy was being dutifully ignored by Hermione Granger, a skill she at which she excelled. It was no surprise really, because she excelled at ieverything./i However, Draco absolutely despised being ignored. It was boring to be unaccounted for, and when he became too idle, his thoughts wandered, and the world wobbled in anticipation of extreme terror.
He grinned sardonically, his pale lips thinning as he twiddled his long thumbs. "Do you know that Dumbledore charged his candy habit to Hogwarts' account?"
The plum-colored quill in her hand paused in its race across the parchment as she raised her chin, her large brown eyes blinking at the platinum blonde wizard lounging in the adjacent chair. "He did not." She was certainly insulted that Draco Malfoy would make such a ludicrous accusation against her dearly departed Headmaster. But not shocked. Never that. She already knew he had absolutely no respect for the living or the dead.
Draco Malfoy leered at her, mirth pulsing from his being, screaming that he was feeling particularly ornery, so she'd better watch out!
She sniffed and her eyes fixed on him warily with constant vigilance.
"He surely did. I know for a fact." He made a show of brushing lint off of his trousers.
"You don't know," she said scathingly, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"I saw the documents with my own eyes," he replied while he idly examined his manicure. "That eccentric old loon couldn't afford it on his salary, so he found another way to support his habit."
She gasped, immediately affronted, and slammed down her quill. "Albus Dumbledore was not an 'eccentric old loon,' and I thank you to never mutter those words in association with him again!"
Draco mentally high-fived his inner genius. The little bugger really did know just how to bristle those crazy curls. He shook his head as he tsked her. "Granger, we aren't debating Dumbledore's sanity, we are discussing his embezzlement. Do keep up."
She pursed her lips and glared at him. She was really good at that too, glaring; it was more of an art than a skill, in his opinion. "He was a good wizard, unlike some." She eyed him derisively. "He would never steal from Hogwarts or anyone-slash-thing."
"Says you." He gazed levelly at her, a daring glint in his eyes.
She bared her teeth at him. "Says I."
Draco shrugged. "As I said." He nonchalantly withdrew a roll of parchment and tapped her desk with it. "I've seen the statement." He was lying, something at which he surpassed most others, but he didn't consider it a talent. It was merely a pathological impulse. See, written on the vellum was nothing more than his monthly vault statement from Gringotts. However, the moment Hermione's eyes flashed with apprehension and alarm, he knew she believed his tale.
She was watching the missive as he waved it around. She swallowed thickly and held out her palm. "Give it to me now."
"Sorry, no can do." He returned the scroll to his robes. "Confidential, understand."
Hermione growled—or at least he thought it was a growl. It was something between a gargle and a huff. Either way, he hadn't expected it and peered at her curiously. "What's that?" He cupped his ear and his pink tongue flickered out to wet his lips. "I'm not fluent in Gryffindor."
"You are unbelievable and your argument is pointless!" She hissed vehemently. It was clearly a hiss, too; he couldn't mistake that if he tried. "I can't believe you are accusing Dumbledore of purloining. He was a great wizard!"
"Do great wizards misappropriate funds?" he asked seriously, leaning forward in his seat and entwining his fingers. "Do they say they are paying house-elf wages when they are really feeding their sugar tooth? I think not!"
Whenever the words 'House' and 'elf' are combined, it leads to a truly spectacular and amazing response in Hermione Granger. She becomes passionate and wild, and Draco is certain that her hair crackles with electricity. He loves it.
She rose from her chair swiftly, sending it soaring across the floor. Her eyes were sepia with indignation, and her cheeks were stained scarlet, but her mouth was thinned into a line so white that it matched the knuckles of her balled fists. His favorite part, though, was how her chest strained against her white oxford with every livid breath she took.
He was sort of scared.
"He would never do that!" she spat.
"Oh, but he did." He felt a constriction in his chest, excited sparks of intrigue on his spine and unbridled giddiness in his gut. This was what he wanted from her; this was what he needed to see.
"Didn't." She jutted her nose up and out, the perfect picture of obstinacy.
"Did."
"Didn't."
"He absolutely did."
"Prove it," she said through a locked jaw, obviously desperate to keep her anger in check.
He sneered. And the world stopped. Because nobody else on the planet could sneer as menacingly as Draco Malfoy. "I don't have to prove anything to you."
Then—she sprung at him. She literally rose into the air from the balls of her feet in those sensible black flats onto her desk, knocking over a mug of quills, and sending inkpots to the floor in outrageous crashes. Vellum and folders, newspapers, and unopened post slid around in disarray as she scrambled over them in her modest pencil skirt. It all happened very quickly, and soon she was on his lap, clawing hectically at his robes, muttering unintelligibly.
She had gone mad. Undoubtedly.
An accomplished grin spread across his face as he half-heartedly defended her advances. As he saw it, this was afternoon delight; his least lewd fantasy (he had other, more tawdry ideals of what he'd like to do with Hermione Granger in her office, to be sure) turned into reality.
She was spewing insults at him, such as 'toff,' 'imbecile,' and 'deluded prig.' He bit back at her with 'nutter,' 'sociopath,' and 'tetchy cow.'
It was all a game to him. This was nothing more than show of courtship, playful banter and flirtatious wrestling.
Then she found the scroll, and he gave up the struggle and let her read it. Her eyes scanned over it quickly while her lips moved along with the figures and letters. When she realized that he had been goading her the whole time, she whacked him upside his temple with it, causing his perfectly slicked hair to stick straight out to the side. She decided she wouldn't tell him, the right git; he deserved the humiliation.
Hermione fully intended to berate him for his dishonesty, for his conniving trickery, but the sheepish look upon his face deterred her, and all she could do was rub her flushed face with her fingers, pulling her face in a gesture of her annoyance. "What are you even doing here? You don't even work!" She searched his argentous gaze for the truth.
He shrugged and puffed out his bottom lip before he answered. "I stopped in to see if you wanted to meet me for cocktails after your day here."
Suddenly Hermione stiffened as she became very aware of where she was. She was straddling Draco, and his hands were supporting her back, creating a sense of warmth, security, and marvel.
Biting her lip, she narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. She decided she quite liked his lap and the way his chest felt against her palms. Besides, he smelled really nice too, like outdoors and leather.
She reached up and smoothed down his hair as she smiled. "I'd love to."
Draco Malfoy couldn't be more thrilled that Hermione Granger reciprocated his fancy. It was the best day in all of the days he had ever lived.
- - - Sweeter than wine, softer than a summer's kiss. Everything I want I have, when I hold you tight.- - -
They were walking along the promenade quietly, fingers entwined and palms sweaty, but neither eager to let go. They had barely spoken since they had left the theater, mostly exchanging a word or two and then lapsing back into a stagnant silence. Both felt very conflicted. Comfortable and nervous, anxious and patient. Satisfied and unfulfilled. Ponderous.
Draco peeked side-long at her and found, through the insane cloud of curls blowing in Hermione's face, a subtle smile pulling at her lips, and soon his visage was mirroring hers.
They strolled farther; the only sounds between them were the gravel crunching under their shoes, and the echoing cadences of their heartbeats.
It was an ideal moment, one of cinematic proportions, and Draco could hardly stand it. It was all too fluffy and warm for him. He wasn't accustomed to the fluttering in his stomach, the fuzzies on his spine, and the mushiness of his brain.
"What are you thinking?" Hermione asked softly, the inflection of her sweet voice complimenting the crescendo of the breeze through the autumn branches.
His bliss curved into an ornery smirk. "They're brown."
"What is brown?" She paused, and while smiling quite coquettishly, wrapped her arms around his waist. It became apparent that she was assuming that he was referring to something about her. An honest mistake, really, because there were a lot of things about Hermione Granger that were brown.
"Potter's spectacles," he murmured as he pushed a lock of her blowing hair out of her pretty face. He really did like looking at her, especially her terrific cervine irises. He found them decidedly brown.
"They are not." The space between her brows pinched together with immense righteousness. Because if Hermione was anything, she was a connoisseur of all things Potter. "They have always been black."
"Always? How predictable." In all the years Draco had known him, Potter hadn't changed at all. The bloke truly needed an overhaul. "But, you're wrong, Granger, they have always been brown."
Instantly her spine stiffened, and when she shifted away from him, her body settled into akimbo, giving her spectacular glower more bang. "Black."
One of his brows rose superciliously. "Brown."
"Black," she gritted through teeth clenched in supreme discomfiture.
Then it became a torrid volley of colors. Brown. Black. Brown. Black. BROWN. BLACK. Until at last they were both breathing erratically, and Draco shouted most unbecomingly, "Burnt Sienna!"
She reared back, her face scrunching cynically because she wasn't ready for his curve ball, and it momentarily threw her off kilter. But she was a quick-witted witch, and soon recovered. "Are you serious?"
"I've never been more serious in my entire life. Look at this face." He pointed wildly at himself. "It's handsome and seriously my serious face." Which it was. He wasn't even smirking anymore; his features were completely stoic. "Harry Potter wears spectacles with frames the color of burnt sienna because it enhances his eye color. He told me so himself." And with that fact, Draco folded his arms across his chest to emphasize his premature victory.
"He did not." Hermione was indignant. Not only was that totally ridiculous, but she knew Harry wasn't such a ponce that he worried about complimenting natural features with color.
"Did too."
"You aren't his friend." She sniffed her challenge, and Draco wondered whether if she wasn't such a classy lady if she would have thumbed her nose at him.
"Obviously," he drawled.
"You are lying," she accused.
"Am not." He was.
"Why would he tell you something so personal?" She cocked her head haughtily.
"Because he was clearly flirting with me." It was below the belt, he was aware, but Draco knew the quickest way to snap the thin twine that was her moored irritation was to insult her very best good friend.
"He's not gay!" she shouted, her hands coming up near her face and her fingers aquiline with aggravation.
"He is!" He took an involuntary step closer to her because she looked too darn cute.
"Not!" She took a step forward too, because she had the overwhelming urge to claw his sodding mouth off his face.
"Is." Another step.
"Not!" She huffed and glowered some more.
"Is." He was now towering over her, trying not to stare down his nose.
Then she bared her teeth at him in one last effort to defend the Saintly Hero. "He. Is. Not."
It was the sexiest thing he had ever seen in his life. She looked ferocious and hungry, and he wanted her to devour him. "I'm going to kiss you," he threatened. There was nothing in that moment that he wanted more than to snog her senseless.
"Bully for you," she snapped.
"Right now."
"It's about bloody time. I've only been waiting all night and three dates."
So he did. He pulled her form against his and plundered her mouth with all the skill and severity of a seventeen year-old kid. He was sloppy and unadulterated. He felt on fire, on the top of the world. In the magic of her sweet kiss, mountains moved and the seas calmed and there was world peace. He felt invincible, ready to take on everything and anything. A meteor could fall from the heavens and squash him flat and he wouldn't mind. Because the taste of Hermione Granger's mouth was all Draco Malfoy would ever need to sustain him on this planet.
- - -Come on, come on, come on, now touch me, babe. Can't you see that I'm not afraid? - - -
Draco was leaning against the faded painted wall beside the door to Hermione's flat. His hands were fisted in his trousers pockets, but his shoulders were slumped and he was leaning toward her, listening intently as she talked, her pretty, tiny hands gesturing animatedly.
It was then that he realized exactly what was happening. He was making moony-eyes at her. He was suddenly aware that his eyes were twinkling and he had a humongous, unnatural grin of pleasure stretching across his face. As if he was smitten. Which he was, entirely, but he hadn't quite acknowledged that, not even to himself. Of course, when he became aware of his foolish expression, he had no other choice but to concede that he was indeed, irrevocably in like.
She was telling him that she didn't care what anyone thought of her, that she in no way cared what others might say about her, she did not regret her disfavor of Severus Snape. While she thought his role in the Order of Phoenix was quite courageous, he was still a slimy git to his students. He'd been completely unfair and had favored his Slytherins over the rest of the student body. She called it a twisted form of cronyism, complete with air quotes.
He nodded along, unable to get a word in edgewise, but not really wanting too anyway. But then she ended rather lamely, blushing innocently and dropping her chin to her chest as she fiddled with her hands.
It was so incredibly adorable, so tremendously alluring that he wanted to take her in his arms and run his fingers along her spine, or twirl her hair while he hung from the words coming from her plump, pink lips. At the very least, anyway.
He used the sole of his very expensive loafer to kick the threadbare carpet. "Isn't it weird though, that he didn't wear any underpants?"
Hermione's jaw dropped open and she quite literally gaped at him in disbelief. Sometimes, she just wasn't sure where his train of thought was chugging along to. "What do underpants have to do with favoritism?"
He chuckled capriciously. "Oh, Granger. Underpants have a lot to do with all sorts of things."
"I doubt that very much." As she pursed her lips disdainfully, she tossed her hair, and he let his eyes follow the movement as if it happened in slow motion. It made his mouth dry.
He wanted an instant replay. "I don't joke about underpants, Granger."
She scowled. "They have nothing to do with favoritism"
Draco sneered as he pulled himself off the wall. "Underpants have everything to do with favoritism. Snape never wore them, and he was always in the dungeon, and so his bollocks were always cold and shriveled. Not only did he know that we Slytherins could empathize, but it also made him spiteful towards the other houses."
Her face was impassive, and she just looked at him as if he had told her down was up and up was down and there was no such thing as north, south, east and west. "That is the most outlandish reasoning I have ever heard."
"Well…"
"I'm sure that since Snape's parents had such ties to Muggles, they raised him to wear underpants." Hermione raised her nose into the air, as if that gesture alone proved her point. It was haughty and endearing.
He shrugged and smoothed down his hair. "A logical theory, perhaps, but merely a theory. No basis in fact."
She snorted adorably. "And you know for sure?"
"I do."
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms under her chest. It was meant to be completely innocuous, but she was wearing a low-cut shirt that already revealed a bit of cleavage, and the action gave him an ample peek at her perfect décolletage. He was very obliged indeed, and took a gratuitous glance.
"What is your proof?" she asked primly, her eyes daring him as they scanned his fit body studiously in a mimicry of searching for fault in his logic. Really, she simply appreciated his lanky angles.
"My father sent him a pair of black silk shorts every year for Christmas, and he always ungraciously returned them." It sounded like utter rubbish, but then, most of his arguments did. Who needed cold, hard facts when they didn't elicit steamy, passionate retorts from Granger? Not Draco, so he did without them.
A humored grin slid across her face, and her agitated form relaxed subtly. "Draco, why would your father be sending Professor Snape underpants for Christmas?" There was an insinuation in her timbre; a very obvious accusation.
He didn't appreciate it. His mother was not a beard for some sick convoluted affair. So Draco said the first thing that came to mind. "For recruitment purposes!"
She frowned at him, and her brows creased with confusion. "Recruitment for what?"
Draco panicked. She was subverting his covert plan with her keen analysis! "The Society for Dastardly and Influential Wizards. It was a very secret group. You wouldn't have heard of it."
"Right. More secretive than the Death Eaters? Was there a handshake too?" Hermione rolled her eyes and waved him off flippantly. "Still, it is more likely that he wore underpants, especially if he spent the majority of his time in dungeons. Although I still think that it's more probable that his Muggle connections influenced his wearing of underpants."
"You're wrong," he challenged.
"Am not."
He really adored the way her indignation instantly pinked the apple of her cheeks.
"Yes." He nodded his head to drive home the point.
"No." She shook hers.
Draco couldn't restrain a smirk and using his toe he nudged her foot. "So all Muggles wear underpants?"
"Well, it is the proper thing to do … but not all of them," she said carefully as her bottom lip puffed out and she eyed him suspiciously. She was really starting to know him absolutely too well. He kind of liked it.
"And you're muggle-born…." He prompted slowly.
"Yes…." She was wary. That was a good thing. He was about to prove his logic wasn't quite as faulty as she'd previously thought.
"Well, do you wear underpants all the time?" He took her hand and rubbed it gently with his thumb. Only because he couldn't stand not touching her anymore. Draco really liked the feel of her soft skin.
A mischievous glint flashed in her great brown eyes and she demurely bit her lip and grinned. "Why don't you come in and find out, Draco."
The invitation was undeniable and sudden, and it made his heart leap into his throat and struggle to beat. They'd been dating for two months, and as he had spent many splendorous hours snogging her perfect lips, he had been all too eager to hear such a question pass over them. His eyes were wide with awe, and all speech fled from him. After all, this would change everything.
However, Draco Malfoy was not fool enough to let her get away, and pulling her to him, he kissed her ravenously. Leaning his head against hers, he told her his acquiescence. "For recruitment purposes only."
Hermione Granger's laughter followed them into her flat where she showed him just how un-proper she could really be.
- - -And wouldn't it be nice if we could live together in a world where we both belong?- - -
Hermione Granger's flat was atrocious; it was small and cluttered with books. Draco hated it. Besides, she had a bushy beast living with her, and for once, he wasn't referring to her hair.
She was cooking for him while he had a staring contest with the beast. It was their favorite past-time. Of course Crookshanks—or Crackstank, as he preferred to call him—always won. That … thing never blinked. Ever.
"Stop it, Malfoy. If he scratches you again, I'm not healing you," Hermione chastised as she set a mug of wine in front of Draco. He tried to convince her that a witch of her stature and elegance really deserved a few crystal goblets. She reminded him that she didn't need such frivolities.
He knew this. She had a delightful contraption that he adored almost as much as he loved her. It was called a telly and it showed brilliant images, only her set was small and had terrible reception. He didn't like the interference when watching Blackadder. "I'm going to buy you a new telly."
"This one is perfectly suitable."
He grunted and turned his attention to the show. Soon he was chuckling and guffawing at the appropriate moments, and only then realized that his left side was completely cool. His girlfriend of nearly a year was not cuddling him as she should be. Instead, her nose was spine-deep in a book.
Draco was incredibly affronted, so he stared at her as she twirled a lock of hair around her forefinger.
"May I help you, Malfoy?" She didn't even look at him. The bint really had some gall.
"Blackadder is the best show I've ever seen," he told her in his most authoritative voice. He was fully aware of what he was doing and he didn't care. He was prepared for war because for once, he actually believed in what he was saying, as in his opinion, it was the complete truth.
Instantly, her demeanor changed, in exactly the way he had hoped. She laid down her book on her lap and dropped her curl, and then she scooted around to face him, her wonderfully knobby knees bumping against his hip. "Says you."
"It's far better than that rubbish you prefer to watch." There it was; he had put out the bait, and he couldn't wait for her to take it. He was nearly giddy. Nearly, because a Malfoy could never be totally giddy.
Her face flushed as her mouth thinned, and he knew she was rearing for a retort. He withheld a satisfied smile. He got her, hook, line and sinker.
"Monty Python is the most brilliant sketch comedy ever broadcast. It's intellectual and well executed, but most of all, it's comic genius. Much more entertaining than Blackadder." She was so vehement that her body seemed to vibrate with the intensity. She really did love that show.
"Oh, ho. No." He shook his head deprecatingly as a smirk bloomed on his mouth. "Blackadder is more hilarious. It is straightforward and sarcastic. See, Monty Python is quite pretentious, and that takes away from the comedy. You sometimes have to take time to think about the joke."
"Honestly!" She threw up her hands. "I've seen both, and Monty Python is just as straightforward as Blackadder."
"That's blatant dragondung, Granger!" He turned his torso towards her and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers accidentally tangling in her frizz. "Monty Python is always confusing because you never know who is who, and everything is always changing."
"It's supposed to!" Her hands jerked erratically, articulating her exclamation. "It's a sketch comedy!"
"Blackadder is still better." He lifted his shoulders dismissively.
"Because he's always Blackadder, and he is always getting the short end of the stick?" She sneered at him derisively. He lifted a brow because it was suddenly obviously that she was getting too good at sneering—especially derisively.
"Because it is a historical satire and completely informative." Also, he loved a cunning plan, no matter how trivial.
"It's not accurate!" she argued.
"That doesn't matter to me!" He then pointed to himself rather proudly. "I am a wizard." He turned up his nose and stared side-long at her. "I couldn't care less about muggle historical accuracy."
"Then your point is moot." Hermione's sneer melted into a smug smirk, and she settled her finger on her chin.
"Nope." It would be moot, if he didn't have an ulterior motive. And a cunning plan. Which he completely did and his inner evil mastermind was laughing maniacally.
"Yes." She chuckled at him, like he was a ridiculous and insipid Weasley. She raised her finger into the air as if it marked finality. "Monty Python is just as educational as Blackadder, and also," she tapped his nose with her finger. "There is no way you can convince me that you watch it for that reason."
"I don't watch it because it's educational, Granger." He yanked his hand out of her hair. "Only you watch that rubbish because your brain is ever-expanding and you have a compulsive need to fill it up."
"At least I have ambition." Hermione flashed her eyebrows at him. It was suggestive. In his most favorite way. She sure was a tricky witch. The action temporarily stunted Draco's thought process, and he swallowed loudly.
He shook his head to get it together. He couldn't fall for her womanly wiles. Not yet anyway. "We aren't talking about ambition. We are talking about Blackadder being the best show ever."
"Well then, why don't you get yourself a sodding flat and put your own telly in it, and then you can watch Blackadder all you want!" She crossed her arms and leaned away from him, her lips were pursed and eyebrows reaching for her hairline. She looked so snotty, he just wanted to kiss her.
"Fine. I will," he replied as he scooted closer to her. Lining up his aim for the best shot for his conniving plan to manifest at last.
"Fine." A shoulder quirked, and her eyes glittered beautifully. If she was honest with herself, she was having trouble not laughing.
"And you will move there too and have your own telly to watch Monty Python." There it was. He had put it out there. He had demanded his wants. And he had never been more nervous in his entire life.
"Draco Malfoy, did you just ask me to move in with you?" She licked her lips and tried to withhold a very amused grin.
"I didn't ask, Granger. I ordered," he told her forcefully. After all, he was the man, and he laid down the law.
"Well." She was grinning fully at him as her body unfolded. "We won't need two tellys."
"Why not?"
"Because." Hermione shifted closer to him, her demeanor completely playful. It was incredibly alluring, and it took all of Draco's willpower not to tackle her and have his sly way with her on that wretched sofa. "I like sitting beside you and watching our favorite shows."
"Naturally." She was suddenly frowning, so he added, "You do keep me pretty warm. And you usually smell really nice." He peered at her, thoughtfully. "Will you still cook for me?"
"Of course." She couldn't let him starve, anyway. It wouldn't attribute to her humanitarianism. "Can I bring all of my books?" Because they were her life blood, and she couldn't live anywhere without all three thousand of them.
"I guess." He sighed as if he was conceding to buying her a mansion. Which he totally would do, if he thought she'd allow such luxury. "But that bloody beast Crackstan—"
"Crookshanks."
"He can't come." There was no way he was letting that tyrant of evil invade his abode. He wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully.
"Then I won't go," Hermione huffed and feigned stubbornness by folding her arms in that way that caused his eyes to drop from her pretty face. It was his second favorite body part to ogle.
"He can visit on weekends." Draco thought it was a generous compromise. Especially since he was sure that she liked him more than that devil animal.
However, Hermione was very clever, and automatically her bottom lip began to wobble, and her eyes became large and pleading, and Draco absolutely could not withstand her begging face. It undid him every time. He could literally feel his heart grow.
"All right!" He threw up his hands in defeat. "He can come too. Just stop looking at me like that."
That gigantic smile that he adored so very much spread across her face and she hugged him. "So we are really doing this?" she whispered into his ear.
He shivered with anticipated fervor. The witch had that kind of effect on him. He relished it. "You can't back out now. I bought the flat earlier this week."
"And the telly?" Her lush mouth began to press happy kisses against his neck, obviously asking for him to ravish her.
"Well I was hoping you'd agree that Blackladder was the best show and we'd only need one, but I'll let you read while I watch it as long as you scratch my neck instead of twirling your hair." Draco told her as he rubbed his jaw against the softness of her cheek.
"Like this?" She pulled away and used her nails to lightly tickle his nape, a knowing smile gracing her entire face, making it glow.
He closed his eyes and hummed approvingly. "Just like that."
And he kissed her, quickly followed by a thorough ravishing of her svelte body on the ugly sofa while Crookshanks toddled off, for he had no wish to watch the mating rituals of humans.
- - -All you need is a strong heart and a nerve of steel. Viva, viva, Las Vegas.- - -
The early morning sunshine burst through the open shades of their bedroom window. Draco Malfoy had purposefully left them wide open so the entire galaxy could watch as he conquered the beautiful splendor that was Hermione Granger. All night long.
They were taking a respite to regain some energy before round forty-two (really, it was only round two, but Draco liked to exaggerate.) He was dutifully trying to untangle her hair and straighten each curl individually—unsuccessfully, because her hair was almost as stubborn as she was. He knew, too, that it calmed her, and she was drifting in and out of somnolence.
Draco enjoyed mornings with Hermione more than anything, even when they argued—especially then. That, of course, was his second favorite adventure.
"Mrs. Norris was an animagus," he told her lightly, as if he was informing her of the weather.
"That wretched animal was not. She was merely a cat," she murmured against his chest.
"No, she was a witch, one that Filch was desperately in love with, but she was so ugly that she stayed in feline form." His voice was whimsical, as if he was telling a fairytale. Which he was.
Hermione sat up, exposing her naked torso. It was glorious, in Draco's opinion. "You're being silly. Mrs. Norris was just a cat, maybe with a bit of kneazle mixed in."
"You're silly, Granger." He pinched her side. "Just because your sycophant of evil deeds is part kneazle doesn't mean every cat in the wizarding universe is."
She slapped his hand away. "Crooks isn't evil! You just treat him atrociously, and he doesn't tolerate it. And!" She placed her hand over his mouth to impede his retort because she knew exactly what he was going to say. "I don't think every cat is a mixed breed."
It was his turn to glower and glare her. Mocking her talent, this only incensed her because he was better at it than her now. He stuck out his tongue and licked her palm.
"Eww." She wasn't really grossed out, see, and so she giggled as she wiped his saliva on his nose.
He scrunched his face and wiped it off. "You liked it."
"Oh sure." But Hermione Granger failed at sarcasm by leaning into him and kissing his jaw.
However, Draco saw the token of affection as a gesture of her concession. "Since you agree that Mrs. Norris was in fact an animagus, you obviously have to recognize that at some point Crackstank probably tried to mate with McGonagall," he told her seriously.
The change in Hermione was instantaneous. Her playful demeanor melted into indignation and disgust. "You are twisted, Malfoy. Crookshanks is clever enough to recognize the difference between an animagus and another feline." She shuddered visibly. "You should be ashamed of talking about Professor McGonagall that way!"
He grinned because he thought it was really cute how she still referred to all her teachers by their professional title. "But I'm not, Granger. I'm completely serious.
"I'm serious too!" She exclaimed passionately. "Mrs. Norris is not an animagus, and further more, to insinuate that Professor McGonagall would allow herself to be violated by an animal is not only disrespectful, it's downright cruel, and I'd appreciate it if you'd take it back."
"Sorry. No," he said passively.
She growled her outrage. "You are impossible."
"You are unbelievable." His smile became wolfish as he reached for her. "Unbelievably sexy."
Reactively, she reared back, and he followed, maneuvering himself between her legs and pressing his weight into her. "Get off of me you demented lummox," she screamed while pummeling his chest half-heartedly and totally futilely.
"Surrender to me, my delightful thorn bush." He nuzzled her neck.
"Never." But she sighed so he knew her will was weakening, and he began to lave the tender spot just behind her earlobe. "Your ideas and behavior are atrocious."
"But it's obvious you still adore them." He knew, because she was pliant beneath his caressing hands and reacting to his lascivious kisses.
"What is obvious is that you are a menace to Wizarding society." Her tone was tremendously accusing, and yet her fingers scored his spine and she arched into him. "And far too dangerous to be on the loose."
"Mmm, yeah?" He nipped gingerly at her collar bone. "What are you going to do about it?" He hissed as she rocked her pelvis against him. His witch was lucky that the sheet was tangled protectively between them, or he'd rock her into space.
"The only solution would be to keep you for myself," she whispered against his ear. "For the good of society."
It was in that moment that Draco Malfoy was able to transcend his sexual desire for his favorite female and tell her with sincerity, "I have a portkey scheduled for Las Vegas in an hour." He stared at her, revealing all of his vulnerability.
Hermione's eyes glistened, and her pretty mouth curved into a joyous smile. "Are you asking me to elope, Malfoy?"
"I am." His drawl was solemn. He had never been more afraid of an answer in his entire life albeit her entire being screamed her answer.
The thing was, Hermione really loved Draco, and she knew that even though he never told her outright, he loved her completely too. It was true blue love. Once in a lifetime and it never needed to be told, because it always was. There in their touch, in their eyes, but most importantly, in their fights about nothing. That was their custom. It was unique, special, and their own, and neither wanted it any other way.
Of course she eloped with him.
The papers gossiped, their friends were shocked, and their family disappointed in their brash decision. But no worries; they all soon came around and it was revealed that Dumbledore did charge his candy addiction to Hogwart's account, although he still paid house-elves their wages. Harry Potter had two pairs of glasses, one with black frames and one with brown, and Snape only wore underpants in his youth, but then later decided he preferred going commando. The Society for Dastardly and Influential Wizards eventually dissolved because no one could get the handshake right. Unfortunately, there was never a compromise on which was the best show ever, and poor Professor McGonagall still has nightmares about the evening she was nearly assaulted by Mrs. Norris (who, unbeknownst to all but Filch and McGonagall, was actually a he, not a she.)
Yet none of that mattered to Draco and Hermione Malfoy. They had other trifling matters to dispute, and they lived happily ever after, tormenting each other for the rest of their days.
The end.
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Notes: Thanks to all my good pals. Laura, Julia, Sonia and even Z, but most importantly Jen who without your contributions and hand holding this story would not be possible. To iceheart161, I know this isn't what you had in mind with the song prompt "Cruel to be Kind" performed by Letter's to Cleo, but I really hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I sure did have a good time writing it.