DraMione
Disclaimer: I don't own the Potterverse, nor do I claim Robert Frost's poem.
A/N: I'd rather not write this, but it's a mark of how much I love your skinny ass that I'm doing it anyway. Happy Saucy/Spicy/Sweet Sixteen, babe, best friend, fellow ex-Hatsumomophile, bountifully talented half breed, and most importantly, Athena.
Too sappy? Screw you. Dee and I miss you so much, it hurts—hah, the new sms advert—and the rest is in our e-mails. This is from both of us.
To the other, less loved readers, I'd like to remind you that even though you're not as important as she is, as smart as she is, as warm and kind as she is (overkill, I'll stop now) your concrit is still welcome. Especially for this because I've never written these two before. F course, fanon is never meant to be canon, but I do like my Malfoys sassy rather than sweet.
Draco went hiking in trousers and button-ups and loafers because he kicks ass that way.
-stares- that's a longer ass note than I intended. Moving on.
Edit: So people can't tell, but when Hermione goes, "So, I'm attractive?" at the pool, she's referring to when Draco said her tone wouldn't get her any favors in his bed no matter how attractive she was. I thought it'd make a nice joke...but apparently not...T.T
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Draco Malfoy was totally not lost.
That's because Malfoys never get lost. Getting lost is for less godlike creatures. Getting lost is for Potters and Weasleys and mudbloods. Wizards from ancient wizarding families did not get lost.
Also, they never went on hiking trips without wands, no matter what a Zabini or a Parkinson told them. No sirree, not the Malfoys.
So what was Draco doing not lost in a strange and creepy forest, with a wand and food and shelter and company?
Dude, the hell do I know, let's find out.
"Stupid…fire…sticks…rubbing…not…working…need…flint!"
Loosely translated, that goes something like: "Goddamn these stupid twigs that were the only ones I could find in a half mile radius that bore any semblance to relative dryness but obstinately refuse to combust and so provide warmth for my seductive body that even Adonis would gladly leap at the chance to possess!"
I added the Adonis bit. Clever of me, yes?
Draco stopped—gave up—his futile attempts to create a flame and looked around not nervously. The woods were lovely, dark and deep, but Draco had promises to keep. He'd promised himself he'd be home for Thanksgiving, watching his compatriots give thanks to the unnamed god that a Malfoy graced their lives. Right now, sitting in this stupid, damp clearing surrounded by these stupid, damp trees, with the stupid, damp sky gathering darkly over his platinum blond head, that promise didn't look like it would be fulfilled.
Draco started to not heave great wailing sobs of despair.
"Curse you cretins to hell!" he didn't shout at a family of squirrels, "I hope you choke on a walnut!" he failed to add tearfully.
The papa squirrel cocked its head, greedy eyes shining. It scampered over to Draco's lap and pulled on his stained gray trousers. Squeaking, it pointed a sharp little dewclaw in a western direction—Draco could tell by the last glimmers of twilight—and squeaked louder.
Draco batted it away. "Don't touch me, you mongrel. Do you have an appointment? I think not."
The squirrel rolled its eyes (strange, Draco didn't know small woodland creatures were capable of such gestures) and darted away. It chattered fiercely to the rest of its brood, and they shot off into the undergrowth.
Draco's eyes didn't fog up with tears, and he didn't begin to sniffle. "I'm too pretty to die," he didn't tell himself, and definitely did not curl up into a pathetic ball of lost loneliness before drifting into slumber.
Later, he did wake up to a sound. Sounds never ceased in the forest, so it wasn't just a sound; it was a new sound. A noise he'd heard when he was walking, when twigs were breaking under his steps and his heartbeat was loud in his ears.
Something was approaching.
No, something—a brown topped something—was here, bursting through a bush shrieking. Draco didn't shriek back and didn't fall on his bum and declined to piss himself when a pair of limbs wrapped around his neck. Relief didn't blossom in the pit of his stomach when he found out he was being hugged (rather viciously, but what the hell) by a human because there was no fear for the hypothetical relief to banish when the human—a female with bushy curls as long as her waist—began to cry. "Malfoy, oh thank god I've found you, thank god thank god thank god…!"
He recognized the voice (and the hair, belatedly) as Granger's, and I will emphatically deny that he hugged her tighter and smelled her hair and kissed her ears in what was certainly not excitement or euphoria at being rescued. I will emphatically deny all that, just as a rock star's manager denies to the media that her charge is under the influence while the teen sensation teeter totters around in the backdrop mumbling that the samurai lemurs need to come back tomorrow, and can someone please find the unicorns a hooker.
Hermione, to her credit, found the will to draw away from our pale skinned protagonist. "Why is the crotch of your pants wet?"
Draco totally did not blush.
"Malfoy, you're disgusting."
"Your fault for scaring me," the grey eyed aristocrat muttered, but you will pretend he said something witheringly superior instead.
"I'm going to kill Harry and Ron for letting me try to find my way back alone, incidentally. I was in these bloody woods for two days without a single newspaper or a decent cup of tea, living off berries—I thought I was going to die! But I've found you!"
"Its true then, misery loves company?"
"Don't be ridiculous, you'll rescue me."
Draco raised an eyebrow and gestured to his soiled self. "Take a close look, Granger. If I was capable of rescuing anyone, I'd choose myself over you."
Hermione gawked. "You mean you're lost as well?"
"As lost as a man in a lingerie store."
Hermione cleared her throat meaningfully.
"As lost as a straight man in a lingerie store," Draco amended.
She was horrified. "This is awful! They'll find our corpses and assume we were in love!"
"That's what you're worrying about? That's what I should be worrying about! You should be worried about…about…dinner, or something!"
His chestnut haired ex-classmate glared at him. "You're still a misogynistic bastard, aren't you? You deplorable creature, nine years out of school and you still can't find some respect for women!"
Draco, who'd merely said the first thing that struck his mind—presently governed by his starving stomach—bristled at the comment. "And you're still the unbearable, insufferable know-it-all bitch of a friendless loser!"
She laughed, not nicely. "I'm friendless? My friends let me go back—taking care to make sure I had a wand—because I hated their stupid camping trip so much. My friends are probably tearing up the country looking for me. How'd you stray from your friends, Draco?"
Never strike a lady, never strike a lady…
"Or did they make a clever plan to get rid of you for good?"
No, screw it, she was the exception. Draco's palm connected sharply with her cheek, and he stood up, furious.
"You don't know anything about my friends, you stupid thing," he bellowed, "So you'll keep your mudblood mouth shut!"
Hermione stared in shock—and a little bit of awe, not that she'd ever tell his king-sized ego that—and to his extreme irritation, her eyes went soft with regret. "I'm sorry," she said, "You're right. I was just…frustrated, I suppose. And more than a bit scared. I don't fancy dying out here."
The Malfoy struggled with the Draco, and I won't say who won, but someone with a hair full of blond hair sat down next to her and mumbled his own apology, and it wasn't that boy in the cologne advert. "So, you mentioned a wand?" a man that looked suspiciously like a model but I refuse to admit is a Malfoy said to Hermione conciliatorily.
Her expression turned sheepish. "I fell asleep, and something ran off with it."
Draco groaned. "That is so bloody brilliant," he griped, "This is no way for someone like me to go out—I need glory! I need fame! I need recognition goddamit!"
Hermione sniggered. He glared. "What?" he hissed.
"That's what Ron's imitation of you sounds like."
The Death Eater's son blinked and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Your friends are petty, petty people, Granger."
She shrugged an eh-who-am-I-to-argue-with-the-truth shrug, and he found it cute for some unfathomable reason.
Wait, no. I didn't write that; you didn't read it. Draco found it intolerably indicative of low intelligence, and he didn't grin at her, nor did he say, "So, do you want to go get some berries? I'm hungry, I saw bushes of the stuff back there," he waved to his right, "But I wasn't sure that they were edible."
Hermione was interested. "What did they look like?"
"There were types," he recalled, "I remember violet. Deep violet clumps."
"Those are blackberries, I bet!" she cried.
"I love those!" Draco exclaimed, "I use the preserve on my toast every morning! Except Sundays, of course. On Sundays, Blaise, Pans and I do brunch in the Lily Room."
But she'd already started off in the direction he'd pointed out.
"So, what do you and Blaise and Pans eat there?" she asked cunningly when he caught up to her confident stride. She'd put just enough emphasis on 'Pans' so that he would be curious, but couldn't take offense.
Crafty little minx, he thought, Malfoys can't be out-cunning-ed!
Or, um, something slightly smarter.
"Oh, you know," Draco drawled, "Whatever we happen to fancy. Do you and Potter and Weasley not do the same, meet up once a week?" Haha. Let's see how she liked that clever ruse.
Hermione paused. "We live together," she told him with a slight frown, as though he was being stupid on purpose.
Not that a Malfoy is ever stupid, on purpose or otherwise.
Draco's jaw didn't drop open in astonishment and I might add that he absolutely did not gasp, "What, all three of you—together?"
She shot him a disparaging look. "Don't be a doofus, of course not together. I mean together, like roomies."
He relaxed visibly at that, and Hermione bent over the bushes they'd reached. "Take off your shirt," she called lightly. He raised his eyebrows. "I might if you ask nicely, Granger, but that tone won't earn you any favors in my bed no matter how attractive you are."
The crown of russet curls straightened, and scathing eyes burnt a hole in his. "I meant," she said with exaggerated dignity, "To hold the berries in, so that we can continue to walk without worrying about food, you total ass."
Draco smirked at little, shucked off his filthy linen button-up and stretched it between his arms. Hermione moved among the bushes and threw back dark purple clusters of fruit. He realized suddenly that the branches must be scratching her limbs something awful—she was clad in short shorts and a scruffy white tank top, see through with her sweat. It was nothing provocative to a Malfoy of course—in fact it was overly decent compared to what Pansy donned most days—but the blond man was surprised to feel a twinge of unhappiness for her discomfort.
"Granger, come here and hold this shirt. I'll pick the berries."
"Don't be ridiculous Malfoy, you'll probably end up plucking nightshade. Out of all the ways I'd rather not die, poisoned by a moron's ineptitude at botany ranks higher than you'd think."
In the silence that followed, a hundred years of dead ancestors clamored in Draco's head for him to flare up in self-defense. Instead of telling you what really happened, I'll tell you that he justified their outrage, yelled at her, felt better, and stomped off to be rescued by beautiful woman who were more than happy to succumb to his charms. But while the ancestors nod their heads in approval, here's what really went down:
"Hermione," he said in an authoritative voice, "You will come over here and you will hold this shirt while I pick whatever the hell you ask me to pick. Now."
"Chivalry's dead, Draco. Don't waste your time."
Stupid mudblood immunity to Malfoy charms, he thought angrily, and who the hell gave her permission to switch to his first name? Fine then. If inherited talents wouldn't do the trick, inherent talents would be deployed. He set down the shirt, stalked over to where she was bent, and picked her up—goddamn, weren't women supposed to be light? Ignoring her indignant squeals, he dropped her next to the shirt, hovered threateningly for a minute as if to see if she'd question his right to manhandle—woman handle?—her and went back to where she'd been when no protest came forth.
"I'm just trying to help," he informed her over his shoulder, "Hermione…"
Her eyes widened comically as she leapt to her feet, lunging for him. "Draco wait, don't—!"
There was a sickening crunch as his loafered foot drove into a low lying wasp's nest. An angry buzzing built up in the air like a supercharged thunderstorm waiting to break loose.
Malfoys don't scream. But as Hermione grabbed his hand and made a bolt for it, that's precisely what the latest in the line proceeded to do, and in such a piercingly high tone that his ancestors retreated to whatever corner of hell they called home, hands clamped over their ears.
A pong loomed before our duo, its murky water offering a quantum of solace from the stings of the vengeful drones chasing them. Together they jumped into it, submerging themselves for a good minute or so. They broke the surface gasping for air and scrambling to hold each other.
"Mud," Hermione choked out, "For the stings!"
He followed her as she flopped her way to the edge and scooped up great gobbets of the rich brown stuff, rubbing it all over her and sighing with relief. Draco didn't even think twice before following her example; the soothing touch of the muck on his scarlet stings made up for whatever dignity he'd lost.
The sky above them rumbled, and the trees around them moaned and hissed as rain spurted through their leaves to the forest floor. Draco and Hermione looked away from each other, and then looked back. Even covered in mud, there was something in her stance that hinted at elegance. Draco smiled to himself, and she smiled too.
"So, I'm attractive, hmmm?"
The Malfoy groaned. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"
"Not for a long time," she promised him. They grinned, but something dark crossed over the atmosphere, not just a cloud—a thought.
"This is the first we've met since graduation," he realized.
"Our paths don't cross," she admitted, "What are you up to these days?"
"Looking for a bride," Draco said stupidly, "I've got to produce an heir—um."
Hermione took in stride with a brisk nod. "Of course, that's how it is in wizarding families, isn't it? The pressure is on Ron, too. Once his family found out I wasn't interested, they kept trying to force some girl or the other onto him. Poor Ron."
"Poor girls."
"That's what George said," she laughed. An irritation surprised him at the way she said it. "So what've you got going on in your life then?" he probed quickly.
"Hmmm, a job. I'm a chef."
"What?" Draco was flabbergasted, he'd seen her at the prow of SPEW, pitchfork in hand and finger pointed at evil elf-owners.
"Is that so hard to believe?" there was a twinkle in her eyes, she was teasing him.
"Yes it is," he said honestly, "I thought you wanted to do something meaningful."
"You remember." She was pleased. "I didn't know you even knew."
"Please," he scoffed, "The Golden Trio's every whim was passed down the grape vine in that bloody school. You were gods. And goddess," he added hastily.
"A goddess?" Hermione seemed to find the idea amusing, "You were a deity in your own right too. Slytherins worshipped you."
"Well of course they did. I'm me."
"You're a Malfoy." There was a touch of wry wistfulness in her tone now. He shivered in the water, in the rain, and moved closer to her. "A problem?" he asked.
"No," she said ponderously, "Not a problem."
"Well then…" he thought he had an idea of what he was going to do—where he wanted his lips to go—but he refused to think about it.
Hermione caught him in a heart stopping glare. "I punched you in the third year."
"And you're angry about it because it didn't break my nose?" he guessed peevishly. What a moment to interrupt, those downy lips of hers were suddenly too far away. He wasn't sure when the urge was born, but it was there, and he wanted it sated.
"I want to apologize," she said sternly.
"You've got the tone all wrong," he whispered. And then Draco did something so un-Malfoy-like, I will just give up editing his behavior. He leaned in (and you can't imagine what a relief it is to just say it) and kissed a mudblood.
"Idiot," she said softly, breathlessly, when he pulled away for a gulp of air.
"Now the words are wrong," he snickered, "But the tone's a lot closer."
"Let's try again," Hermione suggested. He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, and moved back, uncertain.
"Did you…?" he began.
"Hear that…?" she asked him.
"I did," they breathed together.
"Draco!"
"Hermione!"
"I hate their timing," he groaned. She stood up, and stuck out a hand to help him. Draco opened his mouth to object, but she glowered balefully at him. "I'm going to help you up and you're going to accept that, you misogynistic bastard," she hissed.
"Touchy little thing, aren't you?" he criticized. Each of their groups had spotted them, and warm Patronuses were snuggling them. Ron's terrier, Harry's stag, Pansy's bull and Blaise's cheetah rubbed against them indiscriminately and Draco took the opportunity to mutter, "I'll call you," into her ear.
"I'll find you," she nodded at the same time.
And then their friends fell upon them.
x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x
Eh, I realize my desire to do an exceptional job—it's a gift, after all—might've negated my natural ability to do a decent job, but you know what?
Chicken butt.
Athena, I've been sixteen for a month! Hug me!