"So Ron thought that it would be a great-Malfoy!" Granger gasped in horror. "He's here! No! No way!"
"What? Who? Who's here?" Draco demanded urgently, swivelling in his chair, expecting to see the Dark Lord in all his wicked glory, terrorizing this poor Muggle establishment with perverse exaltation; but instead, his eyes were met with the quaint interior of an eatery, simple and neat, and completely devoid of bald, noseless villains.
"Blaise Zabini. He's here! And I'm hideous! Ah, I should have worn makeup today! Quick, how do I look? How's my hair?" she soliloquised, almost hysterically; a comical sight to behold, she was; peering intently at her knife to examine her reflection, her deft fingers combing through her unruly tresses in a futile attempt to tame the wild locks.
"Only two quills and a bird this time," he replied in an undertone of peevish displeasure, feeling a tad foolish about having panicked earlier. Finally, he sighted the cause of Granger's deep discomposure; a dark-skinned man-who time and time again sent calm and poised Granger into such hysteria, gazing thoughtfully at the overhead menu. Blaise. Sodding. Zabini. His mood plummeted.
"Malfoy! He's looking here!" she choked, when Zabini turned to their direction. He didn't appear to have seen them, for he remained where he was; or perhaps he had spotted them, but was feigning obliviousness; either way, Draco was glad. Now that he had Granger all to himself, he didn't particularly want anyone, especially Blaise sodding Zabini, to steal even a fraction of his precious time with the Muggle-born.
Why was the wanker here anyway? In this particular Muggle coffee shop, no less. Weren't there jillions of restaurants lining the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley that would gratify his expensive palate? As if enduring Granger swooning over him back at the brewery wasn't bad enough, now he'd have to tolerate having her attention commandeered by that sod here too. Draco wanted to hex the bedevilling man where he stood, and then pee in his takeaway lunch.
What did Granger see in him anyway? Draco threw a cursory, scornful glance at Zabini, and grudgingly and resentfully acknowledged that he was a handsome man; lean and tall; with high, well-defined cheekbones and dark cocoa skin that contrasted starkly with his white, immaculate teeth. Did..did he just poetically describe Blaise sodding Zabini? Merlin's saggy balls, he did! He'd have to Obliviate himself.
But Draco was-forgive him-more attractive than the average wizard too! What exactly did Zabini have that he didn't? He grounded his teeth. Perhaps it was the hint of lilting Italian accent that bedazzled Granger. Yes, yes, that was it. He decided he needed an exotic accent. He would get one right away; as soon as he learned how to employ this 'Enternet' thing Granger had once educated him about.
Granger had resumed her narration of the redheaded buffoon's latest escapade; she was affecting elaborate blitheness-casually slicing up her steak, sipping her lemonade; but her mind proved to be distracted, as she intermittently stole furtive glances at Zabini. Draco loosened his grip on his fork, for he was under a strong temptation to hurl the eating utensil at the object of Granger's infatuation. She would undoubtedly be furious with the horrid display of childish behaviour and would with considerable certainty turn the cold shoulder on him. Since he'd much rather suffer the anguish of jealousy than the anguish of separation, he distracted himself from the smouldering flame by indulging in a fantasy in which Granger's lips were slowly and sensually trailing sweet kisses down his-
Granger's heavy sigh of relief immediately arrested his attention; Zabini was leaving, and that greatly uplifted his spirits. Good riddance! Granger slumped into her chair, a melancholic look depicted on her countenance.
"Disappointed?" Draco teased with a mouth full of lettuce, his mood elevated by Zabini's leaving.
"No!" she exclaimed loudly. "No, I just don't want to offend his beautiful eyes with my ghastly appearance."
Draco wanted very much to contradict her, to tell her she looked lovely, with her storm of rebellious whorls she was so dissatisfied with; but instead, he quipped, "And you're fine with offending mine?"
"Perfectly," she smirked and leaning forward with unconscious eagerness, she asked, "So anyway, what's he like? You never got round to telling me."
"Who?" he feigned ignorance. He superimposed Zabini's visage on a tomato and speared it with grim satisfaction, and added it to the growing pile of disgusting edibles at the rim of his plate.
"Don't play dumb with me, Malfoy," she admonished, shaking an exemplary fork at him.
"Oh, you mean Blaise"-sodding-"Zabini?" he said innocently. He paused thoughtfully. "Hmmm, he has a horrible sense of humour. Not really big on hygiene, that boy. His snores, they could wake the Dark Lord from his grave."
"I asked about Blaise, not a description of you," she interposed with a good-natured frown. He grimaced back. "Weren't you guys friends?"
Friends! They were friends as much as the Dark Lord and Saint Potter were passionate lovers. The image of the red-eyed albino tyrant and his black haired archrival entwined in a loving embrace came unbidden into his mind and he gagged, hastily shoving the awful visualisation, along with the unpleasant memory of walking in on Crabbe masturbating, to the back of his brain where they would hopefully never see the light of day again.
Zabini's contentment with being mere Housemates was not forgotten by Draco, who had been grossly scandalised by his scornful dismissal of his offer at friendship. This affront to the Malfoy youngster, which to this day remained unpardoned, was allayed when it became apparent to him that Zabini was very much a maverick, a lone wolf. Zabini might have shared Draco's old prejudice against Muggles, Muggleborns and blood traitors but he did not hold Death Eaters in high regard, and had made no attempt to conceal his disdain. There was no arrogance or hauteur about him now; like Draco, he had abandoned the attitude and bigotry after the second wizarding war. His reformation was evident in his brief exchanges with the man; no longer did Zabini speak with contemptuous amusement, not a slightest trace of viperish arrogance could be detected in his tone. In fact, Zabini had been friendly to him as of late. But until Granger stopped fancying the Slytherin, he would continue to imprecate curses on his name.
"I think the more accurate term would be acquaintances," he informed. "We never interacted much, he kept to himself a lot. Didn't like Death Eaters."
"Mmm, yes, he looks…reserved," she agreed distantly and then dreamily sighed, "That just adds to his allure. Tall, dark, handsome and mysterious."
Jealousy tightened its unrelenting grip upon him; its steel fingers firm and unyielding.
"Please, your Weasley's more attractive and he looks like a troll," Draco snorted derisively.
An outright lie, but he'd kiss the Dark Lord himself before he'd admit aloud that Blaise sodding Zabini was attractive.
"Careful there, you almost sound jealous," she mocked playfully.
"Yes, I'm so very jealous of him being a bossy, bushy haired know-it-all's crush," he snapped with involuntary scathing effect. He immediately regretted his indiscreet words, mentally cudgelling his brain when he caught a glimmer of hurt in Granger's eyes but before he could splutter a sincere apology for his utter arse-ness and thoughtlessness, she grinned broadly.
"Who doesn't want to be my crush? I am, after all, Merlin's gift to wizards, witches and Muggles alike," she pontificated with mock loftiness, scooping and dumping her heap of cherry tomatoes into his plate, invoking a cry of outrage from her companion.
The pair finished their lunch, making no allusion to Draco's regrettable slip and departed unhurriedly, exchanging friendly insults, as they leisurely made their way back to the Ministry. They worked on their potion, bowed over a simmering cauldron; their heads, dark and fair, close and almost touching, oblivious to the time.
"Hermione?" A deep voice lilted. Draco stiffened instantly.
Hermione? Hermione?
"Za-Zabini! Hello!" gasped a startled Granger. She whirled around; the quick motion sent tiny vials crashing to the floor in a cacophony of shattering glass. With a wave of her wand, the spreading puddles of bright liquid soared back into the vials that pieced themselves together.
"Wh-what brings you here?" she stuttered nervously, a burning blush staining her cheeks. She wanted desperately to pat down her hair, to tuck the stubborn, stray curls behind her ears, Draco could tell. He gritted his teeth. What the hell was Blaise sodding Zabini doing all the way here, at the brewery?
"Malfoy," Zabini nodded in his direction. Draco had caught the look of surprise on his face before it melted into a pleasant countenance; it seemed Zabini hadn't expected Draco to be here.
"Well, I need your help. To show me around Muggle London during the weekend," answered Zabini. At Granger's astounded look, he hastily explained, "It's my assignment, you see. I've got to familiarise myself with where I'll be posted at."
"Granger's busy," Draco interjected hurriedly. "The potion's deadline is next week." He pulled an apologetic face, not feeling the least bit sorry at all. "Why don't you ask Finch-Fletchley?"
"Finch-Fletchley? He's out of the country at the moment."
"Scattergood?"
"He's in St Mungo's."
"Choate?"
"Paternity leave."
Bloody hell. Draco couldn't offer any more Muggle-borns.
"I'll help you, Blaise," volunteered Granger, with a kind smile.
Alas, Granger, the ever benevolent Gryffindor, was pertinaciously solicitous and from the lines of sympathy etched on her face, he knew she would provide assistance to the best of her ability. Oh, why did she have to be charitable and helpful and so…so Gryffindor? Gah!
"You will?" Zabini asked in astonishment.
"Yes. I'm free only after six thirty, is that alright?"
Zabini's delighted grin was answer enough.
The exchange between Zabini and Granger went unheard by Draco; whose veins now seared with white-hot jealousy. Fierce, unreasoning rage smouldered in him, threatening to flare forth and singe them. His fingers clenched until his nails bit into his palms, willing the storm of emotions that raged in him to subside.
"Malfoy, are you alright? You look sick."
He nodded his head, twisting his numb lips into a crooked, bitter smile, afraid that if he were to speak, he would either lash out in cold, vicious anger, which she was undeserving of, or blunder out in an ignominious manner: like beg. His eyes darted up to her face, and his rage abated almost immediately at her beatific smile. He hadn't noticed that Zabini had left.
"I'm fine," he forced out. "Go to Zabini, Granger, I'll close."
"Oh, alright. Thanks, Malfoy!" she beamed and bounced out of the brewery.
He watched Granger's retreating back with a constricting pain in his chest.
Well, let me know what you think and thank you for reading.