A/n : Many thanks to HopeWithinDarkness and Elizabeth Blossom for their reviews.

Elizabeth pointed out a rather silly error I made with the dates in the previous chapter. I'm grateful to her. If any of the readers (however few they may be) find any fault with this chapter, leave a review or p.m. me.

Read and Review. Because a review is like a paycheck to me. And I would love to receive a satisfying salary (:

The half-blood barmaid (and a pint of rejection)

26th July, 1998

It's funny how war changes us, isn't it? It changes the way we look at things, it changes the way we handle things. While watching another die, there is this constant dread that you might be next. And even as a spell meant to kill, maim, or injure you is successfully averted, it takes forever to calm down the frantic pulsating of your heart against it's cage, your blood within it's veins.

I do realize, flipping pages, that I haven't written in this diary since 1995. That's three years. I'm not the least bit surprised, though. With a war looming over your head, it's difficult to keep track of your life, let alone it's romantic aspect.

I think that this journal is much better off returned to where I found it - at the bottom of my school trunk, hidden beneath piles of dirty socks and broken quills. I am exhausted. The war may have ended two months earlier, but it's effects still linger. As memories, as deaths, as sorrows.

My father was executed today, for committing grevious felony and for the murder of several innocents during the Second Wizarding War. At least they didn't use the Kiss. Can't say he didn't deserve it.

I haven't even changed my black funeral robes yet. Black seems to be all I wear, nowadays.

My mother hasn't moved from the couch for three hours.

31st December, 1998

It's too loud in here. I'm at The Leaky Cauldron, and I'm still wondering why I let Blaise drag me here to celebrate New Year's eve with his latest slag. Some long lost relative of one of his mother's many dead husbands.

I'm positive that he's shit-faced already, and it's just been an hour since we got here, during which he has managed to successfully (and most probably unintentionally) ignore me while getting into said slag's face.

I'm also wondering why I have this journal with me. Wasn't it just for my "conquests"? Whatever. I just felt like writing something to vent out some frustration. Pity I don't have access to writing for The Daily Prophet. I'd vent my frustration alright. And knowing me, it would probably be about how full of shit I thought Potter's speech was. About new beginnings and leaving behind the past and forgetting about the horrors of war and all that rubbish. If it wasn't for the very obviously fake smile plastered on the Trio's faces as they accepted another one of those Ministry accolades, I'd have almost believed their bullshit. Because Merlin knows they should have aced the art of speech-making by now. On every occassion, it's one of those war heroes, being socially obliged to make a speech and fake a smile.

I hardly see them together anymore. Maybe the sight of each other brings back nothing but horrific memories of the war.

And I don't -

31st December, 1998

The new owner of The Leaky is none other than Hufflepuff extraordinaire, Abbot. Had to stop making the earlier entry because a waitress dropped a firewhiskey on that page. She seemed absolutely mortified. She must have apologised a hundred million times before I reminded her that I was a wizard and was indeed competent enough to cast a simple drying and cleaning charm. If it were even possible, her face turned an even deeper shade of red, very much similar to the ketchup bottle on the table. And that was when Abbot cut in and apologized on behalf of her frazzled staff.

Tom, the previous caretaker of the pub, had to croak someday. He was too old to function anyway. But what I didn't know was that Hannah Abbot had bought the lodge. I wonder why.

Seems like all I do is wonder, these days.

I'm pretty surprised to see very few of the other students of my batch from Hogwarts. Of course, Potter and his colleagues have to be at The Three Broomsticks. He doesn't see much of his friends, nowadays. We would hang out there too, if Madame Rosemerta and I didn't have...history? Not history. More like deep ingrained hatred, all on her side, and all for me. I don't blame her, really. If someone had Imperioused me and made me deliver a potentially lethal, cursed necklace, I'd be holding a grudge to my grave.

And I just cannot stand the sight of Blaise sucking face anymore. I need some air. It's ten to twelve already. Just a few more minutes to the new year. Let's hope there isn't any excitement in 1999. I've had my fair share of it.

1st January, 1999

Well, there has been a surprising turn of events. When I went out to get some air, I saw Hannah leaning against one wall of the lodge, and puffing a muggle cigarette with an almost satisfied look on her face.

I was about to surreptitiously walk away, pretending I hadn't seen her, when she had noticed me and said, "Malfoy. Wanna join me?"

Ignoring her would have obviously be very rude. I didn't know what to say, so I had just nodded my head and leaned against the wall next to her. She'd sucked in a long puff of the cigarette and then handed it over to me. I had taken it hesitantly and brought it to my lips, praying to the Lords above that I didn't get hepatitis or some equally horrific communicable disease. I imitated her by sucking in a long puff, but instead of releasing an elegant cloud of smoke, I had choked on it, coughing on my spit and gasping for breath.

She had slapped my back and let out an un-ladylike snort.

"First time?" she'd asked.

"You think?" was all I managed before launching into another fit of coughs.

She had shrugged and taken the cigarette from my hand, resuming her routine. In, out. In, out.

That was when the countdown started. She had pressed the lit end of the remaining cigarette on the wall next to her and chucked it on the ground, stamping it for good measure.

10, 9,

She had looked at me with an unreadable expression on her painted face.

8, 7, 6,

She had cocked her head to the side and furrowed her eyebrows, as if solving a particularly difficult problem.

5, 4, 3,

She had shaken her head and muttered something which sounded a lot like "Fuck this."

2, 1,

She had brought her hands to my head, wound them in my hair, and brought my face to her's, crushing our lips together in a searing lock.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I was more than surprised for a moment, but when it clicked that a beautiful girl was kissing me, I had snuck an arm around her waist, bringing her body closer to mine, while tasting the foul medicinal taste of her cherry lipstick and the bitter taste of the cigar remaining on her tongue.

She had then pulled away suddenly, smirking a smirk good enough to rival mine, and had patted my cheek with the back of her hand.

"Don't think too much about it, Malfoy. Just a New Year's kiss. It's tradition and all."

I had briefly nodded, not being able to trust my tongue to speak coherently. However instantaneous and surprising that had been, it had been good. Very good. I didn't say anything as she had walked back into her pub when a waiter called her, complaining about a drunk brat who kept throwing up over every table. Neither had I said anything to stop Blaise when he had stumbled out with a blonde who was not the same girl he'd brought to the pub. He had walked past me without noticing me, despite my shocking platinum hair, just proving how drunk he really was. I hadn't even cared enough to check whether he had apparated home safely, without splinching himself.

I had just looked through the cheap, foggy window of the pub, when unable to make out anything other than the silhouettes of the people inside, I had apparated back home.

1st February, 1999

I really just cannot stop twisting and turning. Sleep has been evading me for the past month, and now even that bloody kiss refuses to become a faded, foggy memory. It's vivid, etched onto my brain like an engraving. Abbot should not have kissed me. I was a Death Eater for fucks sake. The Dark Mark had started to fade upon Voldemort's demise, but it hasn't vanished completely. I don't think it ever will.

I need to know. Didn't her toes curl (in fear and disgust) when she kissed the son of a notorious criminal, a criminal himself? Didn't she want to Scourgify herself a thousand times, when my hands snuck around her lithe body? And didn't she want to berate herself all her life, for being the one to initiate conversation, and the kiss we shared?

My brain will burst if my headache gets any worse. And then mother will complain about all the blood and brains on the expensive carpet. I need a potion to relieve myself. It feels like fifty Crabbes are dancing on my head.

26th February, 1999

I saw Abbot with Longbottom today. They were walking down Diagon Alley, hands clasped together, a picture of perfect love.

Longbottom has just secured the post of the Herbology professor at Hogwarts, or so The Prophet said. Abbot nodded her head in acknowledgement when she saw me. There was a hint of a smirk on a her face. And I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be sickeningly sweet. Ah well, exceptions to the rule are ever present. However, that does not justify the way I smacked into a dustbin because I was too busy watching them instead of where I was going. It was embarrassing, to say the least. And I didn't miss her lips curling into a smile when she witnessed my state of disarray.

3rd April, 1999

I am a complete and utter idiot. I've gone off the bend. Lost my marbles. I just happened to remember, as I was buying the tickets to this violinist's show, that Abbot had been really good at that particular instrument during school. It might seem unusual, but I am actually pretty observant when I want to be. It was always her in the orchestra, playing her violin and earning a pat on the back every time from Flitwick.

I had bought two tickets. And I had gone to the Leaky Cauldron. To ask Hannah Abbot if she wanted to accompany me to the show. Worst mistake of my life (of course, apart from joining Voldemort and his group of gullible idiots). I had just walked up to the bar, and pushed a ticket across to her.

"What's this," she'd asked, not stopping the vigorous wiping of the counter. She also had a thing for extreme cleanliness, apparently.

"Alejandro Ivanov is performing in London on Saturday. He's -"

"I know who he is," she'd interrupted, finally stopping the scrubbing. She'd taken a deep breath and then said, "I have a boyfriend."

"I'm not asking you out." I'd gotten defensive, and in my defense, I had good reason to be.

"You want me to accompany you as a friend?"

"I didn't even ask you to accompany me."

She had scoffed. "What? Why have you come here then, and why have you shoved a ticket up my face? Are you asking for my permission to go?"

"Look," I'd said frankly, "I happened to remember that you played the violin, and so I brought an extra ticket. If you want, you are more than welcome to join me."

"What makes you think I still enjoy playing? "

And then I told her to shove the ticket up her you-know-what if she didn't want to come. And then I walked out of her bar, banging the door behind me. So much for putting myself out there.

And I know she's taken. And it's not like I'm desperate to get her or something. But I just thought I'd do something nice for someone for a change. Look how that worked out. I think I'm going to go back to being a douche.

9th April, 1999

It was the concert tonight. She showed up. She was dressed in a black top, black jeans, black jacket. Too much black. Just like me.

Her excuse for coming was that she loved the musician, and had always wanted to attend his show. Besides, I had left the extra ticket with her.

She was oddly quiet all through the performance, and at the end, I saw her wiping at the corners of her eyes.

She'd forgotten how to play well, due to lack of practise during the war. She meant to take it up again. Just to get back to normal. We all seemed to be doing just that. I'd gotten back to gardening, on my mother's insistence. She claimed that it would do me 'good' to return to something I was familiar with. I always had a passion for gardening. It was a sort of Herbology. Now, I can barely resist the urge to uproot the bloody plants from the soil and throw them as far as I can.

I had bought her coffee afterwards. She wanted to pay for her share but I had insisted.

23rd May, 1999

I've started going to the Leaky more often than is necessary. And it's almost always during the morning, when she's free because there isn't much traffic for drinks. However, it is impossible for the pub to be empty at any given point of the day, so whoever passes by, just shoots me a scathing look and then goes about his or her way. I'm used to scathing looks by now.

She rolls her eyes whenever I walk in, but never ceases to engage in pleasant conversation. She works her ass off, as if she were a menial barmaid, and not the owner. Huffleluff traits had to surface after all.

The stereotypical Huffleluff is saccharine sweet, always ready to bow down first, more than happy to lick someone's ass. She isn't like that. When I showed up at the bar the day after the violin show, she looked me in the eye and promised to chop off my nuts and feed them to me if I tried any "dark magic shit" on her.

She's fiery, saucy, smart; she can hold her own in a conversation. She is bad-ass. Always ready to help others, and fiercely loyal to those she loves, she goes out of her way to befriend everyone. She knows the names of almost all her customers, and treats her staff the way one would treat family.

She also has a boyfriend (Longbottom), and I am thus, compelled to restrain myself from barfing publicly every time he walks into the bar and greets her with a loving kiss. Shouldn't a Hogwarts Professor know better than to suck face every possible instant? Merlin. It's disgusting. He kisses like a bloody dog. Sloppy and un-sexy is the vibe I get.

If I got a chance, I could show her what a kiss from a real man felt like, I could make her experience sensations -

No. Musn't think like that.

Note : shag someone to get Abbot out of your head.

31st July, 1999

Blaise has taken to calling Hannah the barmaid. The half-blood barmaid, to be precise. He also has some mad notion that I love her, which is impossible, considering it's me he's talking about. I don't really love people, unless they have given birth to me. Also, Blaise is an idiot.

I might be physically attracted to her, and maybe deep down, I do like her a bit (I finally admitted it and nothing has fallen on my head yet), but that is no indication of the fact that I love her.

I have decided to tune out Blaise for the rest of my life.

26th August, 1999

She's getting married to him. That sneaky bastard. I'm hyperventilating. I'm getting a stroke. I don't even know why it's affecting me so much. Maybe I'm just doomed to die young. However, that doesn't explain why I felt like projectile vomiting only after he stuck that plebian ring on her finger, encouraged by the applause that rang out. Did I mention that he proposed in front of a whole bunch of drunk idiots in the bar? Looks like he finally developed some spunk.

I feel like crushing his skull with an ink pot. Of course, not literally, since I don't especially fancy a stint in Azkaban.

13th September, 1999

It's a September wedding. It'll be held in a garden, surrounded by trees whose leaves will have turned a pretty orange colour by then. I just got an owl, with an official invite. Also, there was a personal note from Hannah, attached to the invitation, stating that she kind of missed me and asking why I hadn't bothered to show up at the bar for the past couple of weeks.

Of course I hadn't shown up at the bar. My heart clenched in a not-so pleasant way every time I thought about her impending marriage. And I would definitely not be going to her wedding.

Also, Blaise, the idiot that he is, went ahead and mentioned my apparently obvious romantic "a bit more than attraction" to Hannah in front of my mother. She is now pestering me with motivating letters, because I set up wards to keep her out. That was a smart decision I made.

I will make another smart decision by setting Hannah's wedding card on fire. I'll Incedio the shit out of that blingy card, with the cover picture of the couple laughing and holding hands.

29th September, 1999

I stopped by at The Leaky today. I'm here right now, as I write this. I knew she wouldn't be here; it is her wedding day after all. It is that same girl in charge, who had dropped the firewhiskey on this journal last New Year's eve. She handed me my regular, with a pitiful look on her face. I felt like smashing the pie kept on the counter on her face. Is it so blatantly obvious that I do not want this marriage to take place?

I remember that my father, however evil he was, always gave me one sound piece of advice every birthday. A Malfoy always gets what he wants. And if he doesn't, it's because he hasn't tried enough. If he doesn't, it's because he doesn't know what he's capable of, it's because he hasn't lived up to the expectations of his ancestors.

My mother, coincidentally, wrote me that exact same message today. Just those three lines. And the bar girl, as she handed me my drink, whispered to me that I would never know until I tried.

So I know what I have to do. And I need all the luck in the world to succeed.

30th September, 1999

I have a splitting headache. And the ache is spreading to the rest of my body. I am an unlucky sob. I'm pretty sure that fate has something against me.

I had apparated to where her wedding was being held. I had rushed part the guards manning the entry, because I had, like a moron, burnt the invite. I had run like a madman to the building overlooking the garden. I had opened every door in a frenzy, only to be left dejected by not finding her in any of them, until I reached the third door on the fourth floor.

She was breathtakingly beautiful; in a honey coloured gown that showed off just enough to leave a man's imagination running wild. With a wreath of flowers in her hair, and her hair in soft rings, she was the picture of perfection. She was facing the mirror in the room, still unsure of her beauty, surrounded by two other girls I couldn't recognize, but I faintly remembered seeing their faces fleetingly in the Great Hall during meals.

She had swung around as she heard the door open, and her perfectly coloured lips had parted to a little 'O' as she had seen who it was. And then she had smiled. A smile that was enough to make me realise that I loved her, and that I had always loved her, from the moment she had kissed me that night.

I registered her asking her companions to leave us alone for a bit. I registered said companions shutting the door behind them. But when she ran a hand over her dress and raised an eyebrow at me as if to ask how she looked, it finally sank in that if I didn't act fast, I would lose her forever.

And so before she could say a word, I strode over, and bent down to capture her lips in a loving kiss.

She didn't kiss me back. She just stood there, while I devoured her. But I was hungry. Hungry for more. I had put my being into kissing her as best I could. I had parted her lips forcefully, and shoved my tongue in her sweet mouth, hoping that she would respond. I had taken hold of her hands which had been at her sides, and I had placed them behind my head, hoping, that like last time, she would wound her fingers into them and give herself up to me.

But she hadn't. She had just stood there like a statue - lifeless, emotionless. And finally, I had pushed her away from me in anguish, because I was not able to handle her not kissing me back. I had looked her in the eye and asked her why. I had told her that I loved her; I had told her that I would do whatever it took to make her happy; that I would marry her then and there if that's what she wanted.

But she had just looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read, and she had put the back of her hand on my cheek, the same way she had after she had kissed me the first time. And she had said no. She had said that she loved Neville, and that if I wanted to make her happy, I would let her go. She had told me to go back home. And she had told me to forget about her, to not visit her again, and she had told me that that was what was best for everyone.

And I had left. I had not stayed for the wedding. I had walked back home, not trusting myself enough to apparate. I had always known, but I had still tried. And I had wanted to die. But I had known that that would disappoint her. So I had walked back home and gone to bed.

to be continued...

For 'The Three Loves Challenge' created by Elizabeth Blossom.