It Began With a Book—Chapter 3 by crystalpen

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters. They belong to J.K. Rowling. :O

Author's Note: Haha, okay, this is a rather pathetic chapter. :\ I've been having writer's block for a while, so I have absolutely no idea how to continue after this chapter or where I'm headed with it. Anyway, NaNoWriMo starts in less than a week, so there probably won't be an update until December…unless I write a DMHG fanfic for that, of course. ;) So…enough rambling; enjoy!

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"Sir," a house elf whispered quietly in his ear.

"Sir!" the house elf whispered louder.

"Wh-wha-" Draco awoke with a start, attempting to swat whatever had the nerve to disturb him from his nap (yes, Malfoys take naps. How else could they achieve such perfection during the remaining hours of day? …And night, for that matter).

"Begging your pardon, sir, but there's a visitor in the parlour," the house elf stammered.

"Well, who the hell is it?" he snapped.

"I-I didn't ask, sir," the house elf's eyes grew wide with fear.

Draco muttered, "Do I have to do everything by myself in this house?"

He pushed the house elf aside. "Forget it," he groaned angrily, "I'll find out myself. And I'll deal with you later."

"My apologies, sir! My apologies!" the house elf cried sorrowfully even after Draco had slammed his bedroom door shut.

He briskly, but casually, of course, paced his way toward the parlour. A Malfoy is not known to—and should never be known to—give a damn about anyone. As he reached the parlour doors, he systematically adjusted his tie and smoothed out his shirt. A Malfoy must still look presentable, after all, even if he was just attending to some damned visitor at this hour of the night. He inhaled deeply and pushed open the doors. His eyes fell upon—guess who.

"Draco, dear!" a feminine voice gushed from the veiled figure gracing his parlour.

"Mother?" Draco raised his voice, clearly surprised (Hah, guessed wrong, did you not?).

Narcissa shushed him. "Dear, do be quiet! I can't have anyone knowing I'm back."

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "There's no one here but the house elves and me, Mother."

She looked around suspiciously. "You'd never know…" she whispered, her voice trailing off. "Anyway how have you been doing, Draco?"

"Just fine, Mother," Draco rolled his eyes. "Just fine. How's Father, by the way?"

"Oh, yes. Fine, as well," she murmured, still glancing around the room. "How have you been holding up, Dear? Finally have a girlfriend yet? You must be getting much too old, aren't you? Hurry or all the suitable girls will be taken. A Malfoy doesn't associate himself with those of inferiority. Haven't we told you that, Dear?"

"Yes, yes, of course, Mother," Draco sighed impatiently. "The problem is that there weren't any suitable girls to begin with."

"Nonsense, Draco. Nonsense. I'm sure you'll be able to find a perfectly nice girl. After all, you have such handsome qualities," she sighed softly. "Just like your father." Draco could see her full-teethed grin even behind her dark veil. "Well, I'll be off now, Dear! Do try to find a girlfriend, will you?"

"Yes, Mother," Draco answered mechanically.

She waved her fingers in a short goodbye. Draco waved back and slumped into his armchair as she closed the parlour doors behind her.

"Do try to find a girlfriend, will you, Draco dear?" a sickly sweet mocking voice forced Draco up from his chair.

"What do you want, Granger?" he snarled as the bushy-haired Gryffindor entered his parlour.

"I think you know perfectly well what I want, Malfoy," she replied saucily.

He grabbed the base of her chin with his right hand and grinned suggestively. "Couldn't keep away from my irresistible good looks, charm, and wit, could you, Granger?"

She slapped his hand away with the back of her palm. "As if," she spat, her voice faltering uncharacteristically. "I'd just like my book back, thank-you-very-much."

"Mmm…I don't think so," Draco mock-contemplated, "though I may consider it if you invite me to breakfast tomorrow morning. Say…nine o'clock?"

"Malfoy?" Hermione asked, astonished. "Are you—God forbid—flirting with me?"

"Flirting?" Draco sneered, "with Granger the Mudblood? You wish your arse off I was!"

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Draco paused, almost at a loss for words. Almost. "Well," he continued much too casually, "I guess it's in my nature, then."

She rolled her eyes. "So you'll give me my book back in return for breakfast?"

"Perhaps," Draco smirked triumphantly, "And Granger, refer to it with its proper name, why don't you? 'Diary' is much more appropriate for this so-called 'book' of yours."

This time it was Hermione who was at a loss for words as Draco shoved her out the door.

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Hermione had her arms folded and impatiently tapped her foot as she checked her watch for the twenty-second time. Where the hell is he? She scowled angrily. I've been waiting for over an hour! He probably ditched this breakfast just to spite me. God damn bastard. She grew angrier with each passing moment.

Something struck the side of her head.

"F—" she clenched her teeth and turned around. Furiously rubbing the mass of hair surrounding the location of her injury, Hermione glared up at the blonde smirking gleefully (as gleefully as he could manage, anyway) down at her.

"Thought you needed a proper punishment," Draco declared. "I received that owl two hours ago, Granger! You expect me to be able to get ready and find this cheap excuse for a restaurant in such an amount of time?"

Hermione continued clenching her teeth. "You're a wizard! (Though a horrible one at that.) How long does it take you to find a fucking café?!"

"Must you swear every time we meet?" Draco tutted. "It's rather ugly on you, Granger. Not that everything else isn't."

She rolled her eyes. "Let's just get this over with, shall we?" Hermione stepped into the café, leaving Draco just outside the door and wondering if he was actually insane enough to follow the Mudblood into some questionable Muggle café.

He shrugged. The Malfoy reputation wasn't going anywhere anyway. His father was in hiding and his mother—well, Draco himself had no idea how to describe her. Halfway between a potential St. Mungo's patient and, well, God knows what. Draco sighed. The Malfoy name isn't going to be getting much worse.

And he stepped into the café.