A/N: Ta-da! First off, let me express how sorry I am that it took me four years (when, in reality, it took me about 2-3 days to write this – shameful!) to finally get this to you guys. It's no excuse, but it seriously took that long to get me inspired to finish this off. And I know it was a long wait, but I'm pretty confident about where this is going (and how it's going to end) that I can almost say it was worth it? Maybe? It's stunning how long I am willing to wait to finish a fic in the way that it deserves.
I know I said that this would be a 2-parter, but it's been 4 years, so disregard that. I'm pretty sure this is going to be a 3-parter. And no, it won't be another 4 year wait for the next installment. I'm writing it as we speak!
Part 2
Day 48
"I can't believe this is what you really do for fun," Draco grumbled to himself, swatting away large insects from his glistening face, and breathing heavily from the incline. He looked up in front of him. Potter was at the head, as usual, and Granger followed closely behind. As usual.
"Just shut up and enjoy nature, Malfoy," Potter said to him.
"I enjoy nature plenty in the confines of my room, staring out of a window, or watching two lizards have sex on the telly, thank you," he called out to him, swearing at the way the straps were cutting into his shoulders. He was convinced Granger had loaded gold bricks in his pack just for fun.
He was engaging in the very Muggle activity of wandering around a mountainside and pretending that it was sensually stimulating to be around the crotch bushes of nature. Potter and Granger called it hiking. He called it I'd Rather Be in My Room Pathetically Masturbating. He honestly hadn't known what he'd said yes to when Granger popped into his room this morning and asked him if he wanted to go for a hike. In fact, he had been more focused on what she'd been wearing – some terrifying brown boots, khaki shorts and a nice yellow tank top that showed a little bit of cleavage, shocking for such a prude like her – than what "hiking" actually was. And then she'd said, "Don't worry, Harry has a spare pair of hiking boots."
When she'd presented to him the ugliest pair of boots he'd ever seen, he knew he was in trouble. They were so hideous and beneath him that he swore his soul careened in his body at the mere sight of them. He was convinced that a demon of the most evil nature had inhabited him as he forced on those boots and stalked along after them.
They took a break on some rocks. He sat down, breathing hard and disgruntled with the amount of work he'd already done for today. Didn't they know he was just a pureblood, aristocratic prat that sat at home all day and drank tea? Didn't they know that just from looking at how pale he was? He wasn't born this way, you know. His lack of color was lovingly maintained by his wonderfully unadventurous lifestyle.
"Have a drink, Malfoy. You look like you're going to pass out." Granger said this with a little smirk on her lips, and he snatched the bottle from her, taking generous gulps.
"It's a Saturday morning, and you haul me out to the side of a mountain and force me to climb it with the weight of a chubby teenage girl on my back," he complained to them. "Even the Dark Lord wasn't this evil."
"Stop being so dramatic. You're fine," Potter said, waving him off, before venturing off on his own. Both he and Granger watched after him. He wondered when Potter's calves had become so sculpted and defined. He looked at his own calves, pasty white and only slightly so, and resentfully felt a little insecure.
Then he looked at Granger, sitting peacefully on a rock, her hair pulled up messily on top of her head. She was sweating, all right, but it was more like a gleam – he couldn't help but stare at where the sweat shone on her collarbone and across her chest when the sun hit it at precisely the right way through the trees. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were alive from activity.
"Is this what you do with Potter?" he asked her, feigning casualty. "Wander along the mountainside, eating nuts like overgrown squirrels and enjoying nature?"
"Yes," she said to him, matter-of-factly. "And we happen to enjoy hiking, although it's been considerably less enjoyable with you harping about a rock in your shoe or a mosquito hovering around your head every two minutes."
Draco stared at her thoughtfully. "I find it odd that, if you two like it so much, why you had to ask me. I'll bet my nonexistent Galleons that you, of all people, Granger, knew I would hate it."
She hesitated before she answered, and he knew right away. Honestly, he felt a little stung. Then he caught himself. Why should he be stung that Granger had only asked him because Potter suggested it? After all, wasn't that the sole reason he was living at her flat? Because she was madly in love with Potter and thus was helplessly under his control? God, it was pathetic. Granted, him being homeless and poor was pathetic, but she was pathetic on another level entirely.
"Harry thought it would be good for you to get out of the flat," she told him, replacing the cap on her water bottle. "And enjoy nature."
"I really don't see this nature that's so enjoyable that you keep talking about," he said, a little sharper than he'd intended it.
She frowned at him. "You know, you would be less vile if you learned how to act like a decent person," she said to him, standing up. "Then again, that would be like teaching a fish how to fly, wouldn't it?"
It was hard to believe that it was only yesterday that he had brought Granger a picnic lunch and they had sat outside of her office, eating their sandwiches with perfect civility. Now she was back to calling him the vilest person on the planet. He wanted to point this out to her, and had been fully intending to, but she had already huffingly turned on her heel and walked away. Scowling to himself, he picked up the pack and followed after them.
When they found Potter, it came as no surprise to Draco that he was with some long-legged brunette in cargo shorts, making her laugh with a joke that was probably only half as funny as she made it out to be. He knew Potter. Potter wasn't that funny.
He stopped beside Granger, who was watching them with a barely-hidden look of disgruntlement on her face. "Bloody hell. They're like moths to a flame, aren't they?" he remarked. He was half in awe at Potter's prowess at finding attractive women anywhere – including here, in the crotch bushes of nature – and only slightly envious. He wondered what it was about Potter that women found so beguiling, aside from the Hero Complex and the obvious fact that he had saved the wizarding world from a cruel, power-driven creature, and his decently tanned calves.
"And only half as smart, I bet," he heard Granger mutter under her breath, before Potter finally looked up and waved to them.
"Hermione! Malfoy! I want you to meet Leslie Hornbeak. She's going to be joining our hike today, if you lot don't mind."
Draco froze. The name rung a bell – and when names usually ring a bell, it usually meant that he had slept with the name-holder at one point or another in the last twelve months – and his suspicion was only confirmed when she turned around to smile at both him and Granger. When her smile slightly faltered when their eyes met and her cheeks flushed, he was sure. He had slept with this Leslie Hornbeak. Though he couldn't quite recall if she had been any good, which was perhaps the most vital thing you could remember about a girl like Leslie Hornbeak.
Granger greeted her with distant civility and he gave her a silent nod with the head. She and Potter ended up leading the group on another trail and Draco, for once, stayed quiet in observation. He suddenly felt as if he was a casual observer in the safari watching the lions. Not just between Potter and Leslie Hornbeak, but to the suddenly sullen girl trekking beside him. He caught Granger rolling her eyes every time she threw her head back and laughed at a joke that wasn't even remotely funny and he almost smiled to himself. There he was, Draco Malfoy, in the middle of it all. And he couldn't say that he wasn't enjoying himself.
"Hermione, right?" Leslie Hornbeak said to Granger as they took another one of their hiking breaks. Draco was on a log, squeezing the last bits of water from a bottle, reminding himself to lather on more sunscreen. "I used to have a picture of you three – the Golden Trio, as they put it – on my dresser mirror. I almost didn't recognize you without the hair and – well, the teeth." And then, to be cruel, flashed her own perfectly straight pearly whites.
"You look soooo much better now!" she exclaimed.
Draco watched as Granger only nodded, no doubt in awe of her stupidity, and told Harry that she would be leading the hike from now on, thank you very much, before heading off. Leslie Hornbeak shrugged at Harry before he helped her up, and Draco watched all of this with an unsettling feeling of. . . could it really be? Dissatisfaction at the situation at hand? And he was really starting to hate this Leslie Hornbeak and her incredibly long legs. She was attractive, it was true, but Merlin he doubted there was anything made of matter in her skull.
Which concerned him, greatly. Because since when had real common sense mattered to him when it came to a pretty girl? He lamented to himself. He had been sober far too long.
"And you – I've read in the papers about you," Leslie said to Draco, as they hiked along. "Recently. Something about you being homeless."
It was only a few short moments afterwards that Leslie Hornbeak found herself clumsily falling to the ground, scraping her knees and hands on the tiny little rocks in their path. Potter pissed all over himself to help her up while Draco and Granger just stood there. Innocent bystanders. Nothing else.
"Oh no," Draco said, flatly. "She's fallen. What a shame."
"Sorry," Leslie Hornbeak said, clearly embarrassed. "I must have tripped over a rock. I should watch where I'm going!" she said, giggling.
As they turned around to head on, he caught the look Granger shot him from the corner of his eye. She was smiling.
"Thanks," she whispered to him.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Granger," he said. "Accidents happen."
She ducked her head down to stifle a laugh.
ooo
They finished their hike without another incident, during which Potter ditched them to "grab a bite" with Leslie (without extending an invitation to either Draco or Granger, which he was quite upset about, as he, too, was bloody famished after being dragged on a stupid nature hike and being eaten alive by bugs large enough to be horrific) and Granger and Draco wordlessly retired to the flat, exhausted. Draco hardly had enough energy to pry off those sodding hiking boots – proof of everything that was wrong with the world, in his opinion – except that he was hellbent on making a statement with them, which he did by tossing them out of his room and into the hallway with great enthusiasm.
"Fuck hiking," he groaned to himself as he crawled into bed. "Fuck nature."
It was dark out when he finally woke. He glanced at the clock and realized he had been asleep for approximately five hours. His skin felt warm all over and he sighed, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He spent a good minute pitying himself before he got up and headed out of his room, making his way to the kitchen. On the counter he found his dinner – a plate of pasta Granger had saved for him, still steaming from a heat enchantment. He grabbed a fork from the drawer, took the plate, and followed the noise.
He found Granger on the sofa, sniffling to herself. She was watching something on the telly. He snuck up on her quietly.
He was chewing on a mouthful of pasta. "Are you really crying over a Muggle movie?" he finally said.
She wiped her tears away quickly with the back of her hand. "No. Shut up. Go away."
He sat down next to her and, with great amusement, realized what she was holding between her hands. Not to mention the damage she'd apparently done to it, all by herself – it was already half empty. "A carton of ice cream. Crying over a sad, unrealistic depiction of exaggerated romantic love. Granger," he said, shocked, "I believe you've just become a female cliché."
She glared at him with her red-brimmed eyes. "You need to be invited to sit on this couch. And I didn't hear an invitation."
"I thought I was doing you a favor. You looked so sad and pathetic sitting by yourself," he said, shoveling more pasta into his mouth.
She scowled. "Well, you're not."
"That's okay. I wasn't very good at doing people favors anyway. That would entail actually giving a shit about others, which clearly isn't in my genetic make-up. The first Malfoys traded that trait in for ridiculously beautiful hair, and I can't say we've missed it since."
She just shook her head at him. "You're a real piece of work, Malfoy."
He shifted around on her lumpy, uncomfortable sofa, trying to find a comfortable position yet fully knowing that he wouldn't. Not ever. "What Muggle film are we watching?"
"The movie that I am watching is When Harry Met Sally. The movie that you are watching is the movie of your face going back to your room, shutting the door, and making as little noise as possible."
"Ouch," he said, wincing. "Just kidding. I don't have feelings. But if I did, that smart little comment might have hurt them. Maybe."
She didn't say anything. She was now doing what she did best: ignoring him. She usually succeeded until he opened his mouth again.
"Answer me this, Granger: if you and every living Muggle female knows exactly how every one of these movies end, why do you still feel the need to sit through every single one of them? Repeatedly?"
"Because, Malfoy," she sighed. "For the same reason people reread their favorite books."
"Moving pictures containing women perpetuating codependent feminine self-worth on their possession of a boyfriend hardly compares to great literature," he said dryly.
For a minute, she almost looked impressed – that is, before she remembered just how annoying he was. He prided himself in the fact that she was irritated by the fact that he had a point.
"It's mindless. It's a distraction. A nice, occasional escape from reality. Happy now?" She grabbed the remote – a rectangular piece of plastic full of senseless buttons – and turned up the volume, probably in hopes of drowning him out. On the screen he saw a man and a woman, both not very attractive, and speaking very quickly.
"And what exactly would you, Hermione Granger, have to escape your beige-infested reality for?" Aside from all the beige, he wanted to add, but couldn't, due to a generous bite of delicious pasta.
"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Perhaps from the fact that I have a rather annoying, very blond flatmate who will go to no end to ruin both my sanity and my day. Who, by the way, doesn't even pay rent and drinks all my tea and throws hiking shoes around with no utter regard for anyone around him."
Draco loudly sucked the inside of his cheek. "Eh. I don't think that's what it is."
"That," she said to him pointedly, "is exactly what it is."
He stopped chewing and looked at her. Really looked at her.
"Stop it," she said, without even glancing at him.
"Stop what?"
"Stop staring at me with those stupid little eyes of yours. I can feel them boring into my skull. Watch the movie or leave. Frankly, I'd rather have the latter but we all know you couldn't give less a shit even if you died and went to Valhalla."
Honestly. Granger was being testier than usual today, although was that much of a surprise after Potter's little stunt at the hiking trail? Ugh. Hiking. Fuck hiking. Fuck nature.
"Admit it, Granger. You don't hate me."
"You're quite mistaken. I hate you. And I'm not just being modest."
"Fine," he said. "Just checking."
They lapsed into silence. Draco finished his plate of pasta, set it on the coffee table, and attempted watching this sappy Muggle film about God-Knows-What. From the disturbing lack of explosions and curse words, he knew instantly that this would not be a Muggle film he would get very keen on. Then again, Granger was not exactly an explosions-and-curse words kind of girl. She was a pine-over-your-best-friend-while-he-shags-every-available-woman-in-the-wizarding-world-and-decorate-your-flat-with-every-horrific-beige-item-in-the-universe kind of girl.
"It's not hard," she muttered.
"Sorry?"
"It's not hard to hate you," she said, speaking up, still not looking at him. "You make it real easy, Malfoy. You make it so easy even the idea of liking you seems unfathomable. My brain can hardly calculate it, it's so ludicrous."
"I apologize if my main goal in life isn't to be liked," he drawled. In fact, he detested people who went around making sure they were liked. He was pretty certain they had no soul.
"Would that be so bad, though?" she asked. "To have a few people like you. Hell, even just one."
"Potter likes me."
"Harry's generous," she said, rolling her eyes. "He's a saint for liking you. I'll never understand why he does the things that he does for you."
"It's because he believes every human being is inherently good." It started with the colossal mistake of Draco saving his life, really. He hadn't even meant to. It sort of just happened, like all catastrophic events. A complete and total fluke that Potter would never let him live down.
"He obviously doesn't know you very well."
"That's what I've been telling him. Since day one." He paused for a moment, absentmindedly staring at the television. "Look at it this way, Granger: when people start liking you, they start having expectations about you. The way you act, what you say, what you do. The minute you do something that doesn't abide by this phony idea of you they've created, you disappoint them. Then people get angry and things get complicated."
"I've never heard somebody rationalize being generally unliked by every single person he's met," she said, in awe.
"What can I say, Granger?" he smirked. "It's a talent. And I'm one of a kind."
She rolled her eyes at him, but didn't say anything else. He figured this was the part they'd stop talking and he'd pretend to be interested in this stupid Muggle film without explosions or people's limbs flying at the camera. He started thinking about how it was hardly worth the effort without someone even getting so much as a bloody nose or a skinned knee.
"But don't you ever get sad, thinking about the future?" she asked. "Dying alone and everything."
He thought about it for a second. "I was born alone, so I'll die alone. There's a certain poetic parallel to it. Honestly, Granger. You spend too much of your life thinking about what other people think, it'll ruin you. And," he said, "sadness is a crutch for the weak-willed. I don't get sad. I get angry and I sulk and then I plan my revenge. That's not sad."
She looked at him, then. He could almost see the pity she felt for him in those sad brown eyes of hers. How infuriating. "I almost buy it, you know. This act of yours. Lone ranger, riding off into the sunset, alone."
He chortled. He actually chortled. "Granger, it's hardly an act."
"Yeah. Sure," she said, monotonously. "Just you wait and see, Malfoy. One day you'll wake up and see with startling clarity how empty your life is. Maybe you'll meet someone, and that's what'll trigger it. You'll realize how alone you are, and how sad you are – the kind of sadness that goes deep in your bones, that doesn't disappear when you finish a bottle of vodka all by yourself. Then you'll want to change that. And you won't look back. You won't even miss how things used to be."
He looked at her, then, one brow raised in surprise. He wanted to ask her if this was something she'd known from experience. But from the distant look in her eyes, the frown pressed up against her lips, he knew it would have been bad form. And for some unexplainable reason he didn't feel like pressing that button tonight. He did, however, make a mental note of this moment in case he ever needed it to keep her in line in the future.
I may choose to be alone, Granger, he thought to himself. But what about you?
"There no explosions in this one, by the way. There's no maiming, no excessive use of swear words, and no blood spurts. No violence whatsoever."
"What?" he sighed. "But those are all the main ingredients for the only Muggle films that deserve proper watching." But he didn't move to get up, although he did consider it. Something was making him stay. He knew better than to wonder what it was.
"The ice cream, Granger. Are you going to hoard it all for yourself or are you going to be decent and share?"
She sighed unhappily but passed it to him. He Accio'd a spoon and – though he'd never admit it – they shared the last half of the ice cream in that carton that night.
ooo
Day 49
"I heard," Harry James Potter was saying from his doorway, as Draco was slowly being dragged out of his peaceful slumber, "that you and our little Hermione shared a carton of ice cream last night."
"Bloody hell," Draco groaned. For a minute he was confused. "Wait. Were you there?"
"I was not there. I was out on a date with Leslie, remember?" he said, smirking. "You were talking about it in your sleep. It was quite adorable, Draco."
"Please," he said. "Don't call me adorable. It's too early for any of that. I prefer 'panty-wettingly handsome' and 'Grecian God divine.'"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Get up, Draco. Shower, get dressed, and have some breakfast. You and I have a fieldtrip today."
Draco perked up, his grogginess washed away by a tide of excitement and anticipation. "Bar?"
"No, better," Harry grinned. "The Ministry."
Draco cursed under his breath but got out of bed. He had to face the bastards sometime, and boy, was he prepared to give them a piece of his mind. In the shower, he practiced the intense verbal whipping he planned to give to them that he'd rehearsed countless times before. He also made sure to shave so that they would have no mistake when it came to him sneering in their face and promising to end their lineage.
"No, really. What happened last night?" Potter asked, once he'd gotten all dressed and headed out to the kitchen for breakfast. Granger, as usual, was at work. She'd left a half-pot of steaming coffee for him, which he usually drank all in one sitting. Sometimes he didn't even use a mug, which he intended to reveal in the future – preferably at a crucial moment in which he really wanted to piss her off.
"If you must know, we invited a few friends over and had a night-long orgy. Don't worry, you'll be invited to the next one."
Harry almost looked green in the face. "Please don't."
"Relax, Potter. We watched a movie and ate ice cream. I practically grew a vagina last night, in case you were wondering. We almost braided each other's hair."
Harry stared at him. "This movie. Were there explosions in it?"
"No. Zero. And there were too many women with actual clothes on."
"Then I apologize for such a traumatic experience," he said. Then he stopped, as if thinking of something. He narrowed his eyes at him. Draco, taken aback, glanced behind him, confused. "You didn't sleep with her, did you?"
"Bloody hell," Draco said.
"Did you try anything? Answer me, Draco."
"Of course not!" he exclaimed. "Although why you'd think I'd tell you even if I did is beyond me. You really don't get how this man friendship works, do you, Potter?" Harry's eyes only narrowed even more. "Look, I didn't. Not that I would. I mean, Granger? Come the fuck on. Unless you think I would, which is the only reason you would be asking. Oh my god, would I?"
He grabbed the Daily Prophet off the table. "I officially," Harry said, "regret ever asking this question."
"I don't know, Potter," Draco was still saying, once they'd Apparated to the entrance of the Ministry. "You might have just opened me up to an entirely new realm of possibilities."
"Please," Harry said. "If you value anything I'm doing for you, keep them to yourself."
They walked into the ominous, bustling building. Draco Malfoy hated the Ministry of Magic. It was infested with heartless bureaucrats – which, usually, would be just fine, but they all hated him. This fact was confirmed to him by the numerous sneers and gruff "Malfoy"s the employees greeted him with. And he'd thought Granger's flat had been a hostile environment. The Ministry topped even Bed, Bath and Beyond's seventh circle of neutral-colored hell.
They were referred to a cramped hallway filled with many doors that each opened to a tiny, cramped office. Potter stopped at a door labeled Trevor Wolfhurtz, Ministry-Seized Wizardry Possessions and knocked before being summoned in by a man engulfed by paperwork. Everywhere around him there were papers flying by, diving into filing cabinets, or whizzing out of a tiny slit on an adjacent wall that said, Seize and Evict Letters. Draco wished he could have a moment alone with that hole. He would hex that tiny hole into next week.
"Afternoon, Trevor," Potter said, ever the believer in empty social niceties.
Trevor was a stodgy man sweating under a cheap suit. He looked up at him and Potter with a plastic smile. "Ah, Potter. Malfoy. Take a seat."
They both took a seat, taking great care to dodge the flying envelopes. Draco swatted a few out of the way.
"We're here about the Malfoy Estate," Potter said.
"My estate," Draco corrected. "As I am its sole possessor and heir. Because I am Draco Malfoy. Did I mention that I am its sole possessor and heir?"
"Thank you for enlightening me with facts I did not currently have," Trevor said dryly, and Draco scowled at him. "Unfortunately, Mr. Malfoy, even with Potter's connections here at the Ministry, it'll still take a few weeks to reassess your situation with the WIRS. Then we'll be able to release your estate back to you after you've paid off your debt."
"Weeks?" Draco echoed in horror.
"Or months," Trevor said, having not looked up from his papers once since they'd come in. "This department is completely backlogged. As you know, this has only since been rebuilt after the Death Eaters destroyed this wing. We used to think it was a mistake that came completely out of the left field, but upon further investigation we've discovered that a fair amount of the Dark Lord's army never paid their taxes. And by a fair amount, we mean all. Including your father, Lucius."
The ever-illustrious Lucius Malfoy, his half-namesake. Late father to one living son, cowering simp to the Dark Lord, indiscreet Death Eater, and now, a non-tax payer. Could there be a finer legacy for a father to leave behind? He had to think hard about that one.
"Can you give us a more approximate timeline of when you'll have an answer?" Potter asked, infuriatingly measured and calm about it all. Draco, in the meantime, was fantasizing about bashing Trevor's head into his desk and giving him a few papercuts in his eyelids.
"Even with the acceleration of his documents, it'll still take weeks for our approximators to sweep through his manor and calculate the monetary worth of all his family's possessions."
Draco sighed, leaning against the back of his chair. "It's true. The Manor is indeed ripe with mountains of meaningless shit. It's amazing, really, how difficult my father has succeeded in making my life even long after he's dead. I'm almost convinced he deserves a medal."
Trevor Wolfhurtz was so coldhearted he didn't even have the facial capacity to pretend to look sorry for him. Draco was almost impressed. He deducted that in his twilight years, Trevor must have been in Slytherin. "We'll be sure to send you an owl when we have a more definite answer," Trevor said.
"Sure," Draco said, sullenly. "Just make sure you send it to the place home décor goes to die."
Potter quickly got to his feet. "We'll be going now," said Harry.
ooo
Hermione Granger did not look happy to see them on her doorstep, although Draco had called this fact long before they'd ever ended up here, when they entered the bar. It was absurd he'd even considered her feelings while he stood the chance of getting a real alcoholic drink, but he'd said it before he'd even decided to: "Granger's not going to like this." And then, without hesitation, he'd said, "Let's do it."
And now she was looking at the both of them like two dirty dogs she'd found in an alley.
"Sorry, Hermione," Harry said, once she opened the door for them. "It's been a long day."
Draco had lost any and all control of his motor capabilities. Wait, that wasn't true. There. His foot just twitched.
"You took a recovering alcoholic to a bar," she deadpanned, watching as Potter dragged Draco to the couch. Ah, this couch. It wasn't so bad, when he was drunk. It was actually almost comfortable. In fact, right now, he could marry this couch. Yes, he could.
"Should I just hand you the Common Sense Award or wait for them to owl it to you so you can act shocked?"
"It wasn't like that, originally," Harry said. "I took him out to ice cream first. You should have seen him, Hermione. He was like a miserable seal pup. You would have done the same."
"I seriously doubt that."
Harry sighed. "Listen. He's already all puked out. He's asleep. Just let him sleep it off on the couch. Yell at me in the morning if you're still angry. It was my idea."
She sounded like she couldn't quite believe it. "You're drunk too, aren't you?"
"Just a little bit," Harry answered. "Have a good night! Take care of him. I'll see you in the morning. Love you. Okay. Whoa, that was a stair. Aaaand there's another one. Blimey, have there always been this many stairs?"
Draco heard the slam of the door and Granger's feet shuffle against the carpet. She was sighing obnoxiously loud and muttering things under her breath, but he couldn't quite understand them because he was seriously drunk and all he wanted to do was sleep. So he slept.
ooo
He woke up a few hours later – still drunk, no less – but he turned his head to see Granger sitting down in front of her bookshelf. Half of the gigantic thing has been emptied out and she has towering piles of books around her like she was Godzilla and she's built her own mini-city to destroy. Or possibly organize in a more convenient manner.
"You're insane," he said. His groggy voice was muffled by a couch cushion, but she heard him anyway.
"I organize when I can't sleep," she said.
"Somehow I'm not even remotely surprised by that."
"Then I guess we're in the business of not surprising each other," she said, her voice a little sharp. He could hear a lecture coming, and that alone made his head hurt. Why had he ever opened his mouth? "For instance, am I surprised that Harry, after initially ditching you at my place like it's some sort of hostel, has taken you out to get drunk only to drop you back off on my couch?"
"Are you really asking me or is this a rhinoceros question?" Draco blinked. "Wait. Rhinoceros? I meant rhetorical."
She shook her head, ignoring him. Her voice was so soft that he had to strain his ears to hear her, which he had to point out that they did on their own. He was far too drunk to do anything like that on purpose. "Sometimes I don't even know what I'm doing."
"Nonsense. You're Hermione sodding Granger. You always know what you're doing. That's who you are. That's what you do. You just know. Everything. You're like – like a Knowing Machine."
To him, everything that came out of his mouth made perfect sense. Once, at a bar, he swore he started speaking Tagalog. It was only the morning after that they told him that what he had actually been doing was singing the American National Anthem. Very badly.
"That's what everybody thinks of me, isn't it?"
He tried to shrug, but this proved to be a struggle when he was laying face-down on the sofa, so he gave up very quickly. "I can't say. I'm not everybody. Thank God, you know? I'd hate to be only moderately good-looking." He practically broke out in hives just thinking of it. To be average! Thank heavens that was a bullet he dodged just by being born.
She appeared to be amused with him. "Sometimes I really do wonder what goes on in that head of yours. To be the star of the ongoing Draco Malfoy show, where vanity gets you good ratings and good deeds mean absolutely nothing."
"Granger," he said, closing his eyes. The room was spinning. How was it doing that? And whoa, his body. Did he even have a body anymore? Why couldn't he feel it? "Adonde esta la biblioteca?"
"Apparently," Granger said, surprised, "when you're drunk, you know Spanish."
"Ou-est la librarie? Je dois étudier!" He began to snore.
"All right. Bonne nuit, Malfoy," Granger said, stifling a laugh. "You strange, strange man."
ooo
Day 54
Granger punished Draco for approximately three days for having violated her rules, and Potter for approximately five for "being an irresponsible man-child" (her exact words, which tickled Draco so much he found a piece of paper, wrote it down, and taped it next to his door). She refused to speak to any of them. Draco, frankly, would have thought he'd just died and gone to heaven if not for the fact that he was still trapped in her puke-colored flat.
"Why do you even care if she's not speaking to you?" Draco asked, as Potter finally concluded whining over Granger's continued icy, nonverbal reception to him. Draco envied him. Granger had ended her Ice Queen period with him, but that did not mean the things she had to say were any bits of sunshine. "Think about it. Right now, you are the luckiest man alive. Aside from the men who have the good fortune never to meet Granger, anyway."
"You don't get it. You don't have any friends," Potter said sourly.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
He sighed. "Hermione giving the silent treatment is even worse than the scolding and the lecturing." He began to mutter under his breath. "She never used to do this, until Ginny taught her how."
"I told you the Weasleys were the red-headed horsemen of the Apocalypse," Draco pointed out, drinking his coffee out of the pot. "I swear on Merlin's beard, I once saw the Weaselette talking to someone, and in mid-conversation, sucked his soul right out. And then she picked her teeth with her fingers."
Harry stared at him in awe. "How do you even come up with such terrible thoughts about people?" Then he shook his head, getting up from the kitchen table. "That is exactly why you aren't allowed within thirty meters of my flat. Hermione was right about you. Your heart is a rotten piece of – something. Something awful. Totally unspeakable."
Draco stopped sipping from the coffee pot. "What? Now you're going to stop speaking to me, too?"
"Yes," Potter said. "That is exactly what I am going to do. For as long as Hermione doesn't speak to me, I'm not going to speak to you. Because you are a horrible human being and I can't think of any reason why you exist aside from punishing decent people."
He was actually a little hurt. That sounded like something Granger would say. Merlin's crack pipe, what if everybody was going to turn into Granger? "Special edition, actually."
"Shut up, Malfoy."
Draco watched Potter leave Granger's flat, slamming the door behind him. He couldn't believe it. Granger was right. Potter was an irresponsible man-child.
ooo
Day 70
Draco had been standing there for about four minutes, and for exactly four of those minutes, Granger had not looked up once from her cup of tea. She had her chin on her right palm, looking awfully somber and faraway. He took this as a moment to study her in her natural state, which was, sadly: alone. He wondered what she was thinking, and then realizing that he actually wanted to know, he took that back. He loudly cleared his throat.
"No wonder you were so terrible at Divination," he said, when her head snapped up. "I've been standing here for four minutes watching you try to read your tea leaves."
She scowled at him. "I was not reading my tea leaves. And I was only terrible at it because Divination is rubbish, and being good at it would mean I actually put stock in its legitimacy. And stop sneaking up on me like that."
"I can't help it if I'm light-footed."
While she rolled her eyes at him and muttered numerous complaints under her breath, he poured himself a little bit of her tea to bring back to his room, which he eventually did. As he was, however, settling back into his bed to read – something he'd picked off of her bookshelf, so it probably wasn't going to be very good – he looked up to find Granger leaning against his doorway, biting her bottom lip.
"What are you doing tonight?"
He stared at her. "Granger. Is this a trick question?"
"Shut up, Malfoy. I mean, are you going out with Harry? Or are you just going to go through all of my books and write inappropriate comments in the margins?"
He closed the book, waiting for her proposition. Finally, she sighed. Whatever she was about to ask, it looked like she was about to swallow a frog, which he was enjoying immensely. This had to be good. "You have two hours to get showered, get dressed, and look presentable."
"Look presentable?" he said. Dear God! "We both know I look better on my worst days than any of you look on your best days, so I'm just going to assume you said that to hurt my feelings, which might have worked – had I any actual feelings."
"Two hours, Malfoy," she repeated, before she turned and closed the door behind her.
o
"I am officially," Draco was muttering, "a prisoner."
"Like you had anything better to do," she snapped at him. "Let's go over the ground rules, shall we? There will be no insulting anyone, no making smart remarks, no comments revolving anything Muggle, no eye-rolls, no sneers, no scowls, no being unpleasant – basically," she sighed, studying him with her eyes, which frankly made him squirm a little, "try to resist any impulse of being yourself."
"But I'm Draco bloody Malfoy," he said back.
"Also, there will be no drinking," she said, ignoring him. "For you."
"Wait 'til Potter hears about this," he muttered under his breath, as they walked side by side on the street. It was dark and the quaint little street lamps were all lit up, barely illuminating the humble little Muggle homes across from them. Through the windows he could see people – Muggles – carrying on, watching the telly, cursing their spouses, hating their middle-class lives. He loathed every moment of it. He could almost feel the mediocrity sinking into his pores.
"Yeah, when that happens, you can thank him," she said in what he guessed to be a bitter tone. "He's the one who canceled."
He looked at her. She walked underneath a lamp post and he got a clear look at her – all made-up, with a determined look on her face. He'd never admit so out loud, but Granger looked. . . quite nice. Still, those were insignificant details in the face of the one very important message he'd gotten from her little comment: that he was just a stand-in for Potter. Potter had canceled on this stupid Muggle party with Granger – most certainly to bang someone as spectacularly stupid as Leslie Hornbeak – and now he was the one who had to suffer the backdraft, as usual. He felt a small chip on his ego, which annoyed him, because when had any of that mattered? Once he got back his Manor when the Ministry finally decided to stop flogging him, he would be free from all of the murky, sadistic politics of this so-called "friendship of the decade." He would never have to think about this again.
"You're punishing me because Potter is an incompetent planner? Or because he thinks it's more important to shag every woman than to go to your parents' anniversary party?"
Granger stopped in her step, frozen. Then she slowly turned around, her eyes hard and dark.
"Don't you ever," she seethed, "say that again."
He laughed, the noise coming from his throat empty and harsh. "Why not? It's true, isn't it? He's the hero of the fucking world and he can't keep one lousy date with you. Frankly, I don't even know why you bother, Granger. I thought you were smarter than this. At least that you had a little bit more self-respect."
In the back of his mind, Draco had no idea where all of this was coming from. He hadn't even been aware that he cared about any of it. He told himself that he did it just to make her feel bad for using him as a stand-in, that she deserved it. He forced himself to keep looking at her when all she did was stand there, silent, with an unmistakable flash of both surprise and hurt in her eyes. Those eyes. Those stupid Granger eyes.
Remember all of those times you called her a Mudblood? This is hardly any worse than that. For you, this is tame. These are playground insults.
He expected her to whip out her wand, just like the olden days, and threaten to hex his face into his arsehole. But she didn't. She just stood there, and after a few moments, she composed herself, and she said, "My parents' house is just a few houses down. We're supposed to walk in together because you're my guest, but I'll tell them you dropped your wallet on the street and that's why you're late."
And then she turned on her heel and walked on, leaving him behind. He stared after her, feeling an odd chill in his chest.
"What the fuck is a wallet?" he called out at her back.
He almost wished she'd hexed him instead.
oo
Granger's Muggle home was exactly how he expected her Muggle home to look like. Tacky, plain furniture with entirely too many flowers, not nearly enough leg room, not enough mirrors, not a square of velvet anywhere, no mahogany – he could go on for days about the ways in which the Granger family home violated the standard book of home décor. At least he got a break from all the beige – which, unfortunately, the longer he was here, the more he was starting to miss.
He noticed all of this with one generous visual sweep of the Granger abode, albeit being jostled by the many – apparently buzzed – almost-senior-citizens that had shown up to the party. There was music playing, it was immensely crowded, and he'd already had two older women grab his arse since he'd walked in through the door. He'd heard one mutter, "Looks like the party's just arrived, ladies" before winking at him in such a way that made him want to spend the entire night scraping out his eyes with forks.
"Hello young man," another woman slurred to him, wearing a skirt entirely too short for someone her age. "Who are you?"
"I'm Draco Malfoy," he answered, still looking for Granger in the crowd. "I'm here with Granger – Hermione. Have you seen her?"
She – and the flock of women that had somehow suspiciously formed behind her – looked surprised. "Hermione? Our little blossom? You're here with her?"
"Yes," he said, annoyed. "Do you know where she is?"
She waved down the hallway. "She's in the kitchen." Draco catapulted himself across the room. "Oh, but you will come back to us later, won't you?" he heard her call out. He shuddered.
It took a little maneuvering, but he finally got to the kitchen. Thankfully, it was a little less crowded there, and he finally found Granger, talking to a couple.
"Granger—" he said, before he stopped. He stared at her. "Did you change or something?"
"No," she said, before laughing nervously. "I just took off my coat. Why haven't you?"
Because I was too busy being molested by every single tit-sagging female in this house, he wanted to say. But it was as if she'd read his mind, because then she'd quickly said, "Never mind, we'll get you sorted out later. Draco, these are my parents. Tom and Jennifer Granger."
It took him a bit of effort to tear his eyes off of her dress, and a brief flashback to their Fourth Year Yule Ball made his head spin a little, but he finally did look up to the couple she was gesturing to. The man – a tall, tanned man with amazing teeth - shook his hand firmly, while the woman, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Granger – also with amazing teeth – pulled him in. He froze, switching his eyes to Granger. Was this – was this actually a hug?
"It's lovely to meet you," Mrs. Granger said as she pulled back, smiling with her perfect veneers. "I thought we'd met every one of Hermione's friends, but apparently not."
"Which house did you say you were in again?" Mr. Granger asked.
"He didn't," Granger suddenly said, grabbing his arm. "Not that it matters now, anyway. We're going to go take care of his coat. We'll see you in a bit."
"All right, cheers, darling!" her mum called out to them, as she dragged him out of the kitchen. "You two have fun now!"
Granger took him up the stairs, during which he had the pleasure of glimpsing a few family photos on the walls. He made a mental note of a few of a young Granger wearing various costumes and smiling with big buckteeth and terrible hair.
"Where are we going, exactly?" he asked. "Do you have a dungeon too?"
She opened the door to a bedroom with pale yellow walls. He let his eyes wander. There was a bookshelf in the corner, impeccably organized, a few pictures in some frames, not to mention some tasteless child art. On her made bed he spotted a little pink stuffed bunny holding. . . He narrowed his eyes at it. "Bloody hell, is that bunny holding a tooth?"
"My parents are dentists," she explained. Then she sighed. "You can leave your coat in here. Nobody will touch it."
He silently shrugged off his coat, gently tossing it on her bed.
"So this is your room," he said, still scanning his surroundings. "In your Muggle house."
"I'm surprised you haven't lapsed into an allergic shock," she said dryly. "I was sure after my mum hugged you that you'd drop to the floor and start foaming at the mouth. That's why I requested that she hug you. I told her you were a big fan, and that you didn't nearly get hugged enough as a child."
When he turned to her, she was sitting on her desk chair, smirking at him. "Don't look so brokenhearted, Granger. It makes you look constipated."
She shrugged, grabbing something off her desk. It was a glass dome filled with water, with figurines inside. When she shook it, tiny bits of glitter started floating around. "I'm not stupid, Malfoy. I know it takes more than that to incapacitate pure evil."
For a moment he tried to imagine what it must have been like. To grow up in this room, with Granger's Muggle parents, in this badly-decorated Muggle home in a very unexciting Muggle neighborhood – to be Granger. He understood why finding out she had magical capabilities could mean so much to her. But did he really? He saw all of the pictures of her and her family scattered around the house. Underneath the posed smiles and bad fashion, he could clearly sense something there. In this house, beneath the tackiness and faded throw pillows. Was it love?
"We'd better head down to the party," she finally said, getting to her feet. He watched her hands smooth down the creases in her navy dress. "Don't want them thinking we're doing anything suspicious up here."
He could tell she hadn't meant to say it when he caught sight of her face – her cheeks all inflamed, clearly wincing from her conversational faux-pas.
"Don't make me gag, Granger," he said. He hoped she didn't notice he put in only half the enthusiasm he usually injected in his insults for her.
They joined the tipsy, boisterous party. Draco, only realizing how famished he was, piled his plate with many strange Muggle confections. However, when he tried to sneak a bit of alcohol in his drink, Granger was suddenly beside him, snatching his cup away and replacing it with something he could only describe as disappointingly virgin. "You get the little kids' punch, Malfoy. Don't think I won't be watching you."
And then he watched, scowling, as she took a generous sip from his drink. She immediately began to cough.
"Bloody hell, this is pure alcohol," she said, wiping her mouth with her wrist. He relished the little tears that began to pool up in the corner of her eyes.
"Maybe you should get the little kids' punch, Granger," he said to her, scowling at his plastic cup of punch. "Sodding lightweight."
She narrowed her eyes at him, pointing her finger in his face. "You have a single sip of liquor tonight, and you're sleeping in the backyard. Do you hear me?"
"Shut up, Granger. I already know the rules. You've practically scored them into the walls of my skull."
"Harry isn't here to be your scapegoat, Malfoy. I mean it."
"Scapegoat? He's the one who gets to shag tonight and I'm at this party, sober no less, and he's the one that gets to be called the scapegoat?" He took a sip of his punch. "Hero of the fucking world that Potter, all right."
She almost looked like she pitied him. "Just try and be pleasant, all right? These are my parents' friends and a few relatives. Look at how happy everyone is," she said, gesturing to the dancing drunks around them.
"Look at how drunk everyone is," he said. "You'd be surprised at how easier it is to be happy when you're drunk, Granger. Then the world is all good and right. That's what you've stolen from me. You and your sodding prohibition."
She smiled at him. Really smiled. He hated her for it. "I bet, if you really resisted the urge to be yourself, you'd actually find you could have a bit of fun without a drink in your hand."
And then, with that stupid smile of hers, she began to walk away in her stupid blue dress. "Granger! Where the hell do you think you're going!" he called. His voice was lost in the cacophony of conversation and the music. She heard him anyway.
"Going to say hi to a few family friends! Stay there and try to enjoy yourself!"
He watched her disappear in the crowd. He leaned against the wall, sighing. "Not bloody likely," he muttered to himself.
He must have spent twenty minutes there, alone, eating their little Muggle finger-foods – which were, admittedly, sort of delicious and not as gag-inducing as he'd thought – and dodging conversation with anyone that tried to make any sort of eye-contact, which was mostly middle-aged women somehow thinking they were twenty years younger than they actually were. When he looked around for Granger, he managed to pour a bit of vodka in his punch. Rules shmules, he thought to himself, feeling the glorious burn in his throat as he tossed it back. He finished off his cup before he refilled it with punch, finally peeling himself off the wall to look for her.
He found her in the kitchen talking enthusiastically to someone he'd never seen before. He felt a little rush of annoyance when he saw her, honestly, chatting it up with some bloke after she'd ditched him to be eaten alive by her grope-happy Muggle acquaintances.
"Granger," he said, tersely, interrupting their conversation.
The expression on her face – of surprise and realization, as if she'd truly forgotten she'd dragged him to this party in the first place – irritated him even more. "Malfoy. You're here. This is David. He's a neighbor – well, used to be, until he moved out of his parents' house a few years ago."
"Nice to meet you," Muggle David said. Draco often prided himself in his ability to read people, and he could clearly tell that underneath Muggle David's decent grooming skills and polite tones that he had no soul. Clearly he was just an empty vessel, like a seashell tossed on the shore. Pretty but useless. "Did you go to school with Hermione?"
Draco ignored him and turned to Granger. "Can I talk to you? Like now."
"Sure," she was saying, running one hand through her hair. He noticed how flushed she was, and how glassy her eyes had gotten. "I'll see you later, David, okay?"
Empty Vessel Muggle David nodded good-naturedly, before leaving them alone. Granger looked up at Draco. "What? What is it now?"
"You tell me, Granger. First, you drag me to this party and tell me to resist any impulse to be myself, and furthermore, that I can't drink—"
"Both rules you've already broken," she pointed out.
"—and then you ditch me to talk to Seashell Boy!"
She looked confused. "Who the hell is Seashell Boy?"
Draco opened his mouth to continue on with his verbal whipping – that is, until he caught a whiff of her breath. He drew back, staring at her. Glassy eyes, flushed face. "Bloody hell," he said, stunned. "You're drunk."
"Rubbish," she said. "I've only had one drink. Your drink. The one you made."
"Which was," he said, slowly, "pure alcohol."
"Was it? Funny, tasted like water." She rolled her eyes. "I diluted it, you prat."
He watched her, carefully. Perhaps she wasn't drunk, but she was well on her way. "I think we should leave," he said.
"Thanks for the suggestion, but I'm the one that gets to decide when we leave, and the night is not nearly done. Now, if you excuse me, my parents are about to have their dance."
She brushed past him, and, cursing the fates, he followed after her. The music stopped as they traveled through the hallway and people stopped bustling about. In the living room, people had left room for Mr. and Mrs. Granger – a nice, moderately-sized circle. He watched them smiling at everyone underneath a banner that loudly exclaimed Happy 25th Anniversary Jennifer and Tom!
Mrs. Granger quieted the crowd as she and Mr. Granger announced thanks for everyone that could make it. They pointed out their loving daughter, Granger, in front of him, who he was sure turned as red as a summer tomato. And then, with a melodic strum of a guitar, the music started back on.
Everybody watched, motionless, as Mr. and Mrs. Granger latched hands and began to dance with each other in the designated circle. He hated to admit it, but as bizarre as it was… it wasn't the worst thing about this party. He hadn't noticed himself moving up the crowd until he found himself side by side with Granger, who was raptly watching her parents, one hand holding her drink close to her chest. He glanced back at the Grangers before looking back at Granger, and it was odd, what happened then. Or rather, not what happened – but what he felt. Or what he felt about what she was clearly feeling, because it was obvious. It was written all over her face. And suddenly he found it more interesting to watch Granger than what everybody else had their eyes on in the room.
It was ridiculous, but it was astounding how much she appeared to be feeling over something as simple as her parents dancing together on their 25th wedding anniversary. She seemed so lost in it that she didn't notice him curiously watching her, nor did she notice anything else in the room – the slow movement as other couples began to join them. And he couldn't really explain what it was, either, about her at that specific moment. It wasn't just the dress he'd never seen her wear before – let alone guess that she'd ever have – or that she'd fixed up her hair and that, yes, he secretly understood why Muggle David had swooped in to talk to her when he did. In all of the shocking, barely-digestible prettiness of Granger, he could see something sad. The longing, the want, the hope to someday attain what they were all watching – except him, of course – in the room. It was so sappy, so heavy, that it was hard to swallow any of it down.
And suddenly, in the middle of it all, he pitied Potter. Even with the knowledge that he was probably bringing some strange girl to climax at this very moment, he actually pitied him. Because he wasn't here. He wasn't here to see her.
And then it dawned on him that Granger had probably bought this dress with every intention of wearing it on Potter's arm. And that he, Draco Malfoy, was just a stand-in. A last resort. An accidental guest to this very moment transpiring in front of him, and to the overwhelming tide of disturbing emotions that seemed to be crashing in on him, with no precedent.
He was torn in between regretting he'd ever drank that vodka and pushing everyone out of the way to get to the bottle and drink it all.
He began making his way to the kitchen before the dance was over, managing to swallow down an entire plastic cup of alcohol before Granger suddenly came through the door. He froze in dread, thinking he was in it for sure. She was going to bite his head off, but not before making his ears bleed with her over-the-top lectures. He was done for.
But it didn't even seem as if she'd noticed him, as she went into a lower cupboard and pulled out a large bottle of alcohol. Draco was still watching her, silent, as she began heading back out of the kitchen. Then she stopped and turned to look at him.
"Well?" she said, expectantly. "Are you coming or not?"
Note: The song that Hermione's parents dance to in this chapter is "One Day" by Sharon Van Etten. I basically had it on repeat while I wrote this chapter, so check it out if you're interested! It's pretty relatable to the situation Draco and Hermione find themselves in this fic (call it a theme song, maybe?). Thanks for reading and feel free to drop me a line about what you thought about this chapter!
