o0o

Wednesday, September 16th 1992

"Nobody else's mum sends them treats every week, Draco," Gregory said as he reached for a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

"Think I'm a toff, do you?" Draco sneered and tossed a Cauldron cake to Vincent.

"No, just lucky," Gregory replied and opened a package of Peppermint Toads. "These are my favorite."

"Can I have another Cockroach Cluster?" Vincent asked His brown eyes pleading.

"Naturally, I think Mother only sends them for you anyhow. Greg and I despise them," Draco stated and pushed the pile towards Vincent.

"I wish my mum would send me treats," Vincent said sadly.

"Me too," Gregory added wistfully. "And I wish my dad would buy me a new broom too."

"Well lads, there is only one great mother in the world, and she rightfully belongs to me. Sorry for the bad luck." Draco smirked triumphantly. "There's only one chocolate frog left, Greg; you should take it, but I may want the card." Draco looked down his nose at Gregory and Vincent in a perfect imitation of Lucius.

o0o

Wednesday, December 21st 2005

"Up." The command was there in her imperial voice. As if he was a trained chimp. Granger was standing akimbo above him, her heavy burgundy cloak wrapped around her.

"My choice is No." He opened one eye to glare at her and then nuzzled his face back into the pillow.

"We need wood for the fire, Draco, and today, you are going to earn your warmth." She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently.

"Before breakfast?" he moaned.

"No, silly. There is toast, bacon and eggs on the stove. Also, on the table are some clothes that will make your task easier than if you were wearing a cloak."

"I don't want to do anything today, Granger. So sod off."

"Fine. Freeze then." She pivoted. "But you should rise and help me outdoors. I think it will be good for you."

"Circe, you are worse than a wife. Nag, nag, nag." He complained while he sat up and stretched. Deciding that the lumpy couch was really more comfortable than it appeared.

And Granger laughed. At him undoubtedly. A warm and rich, mezzo-soprano in the angel choirs. That is, if Draco knew what an angel's song sounded like. He didn't really.

"The trouble with you, Draco, is that you are used to passive aggressive demands. So you think a suggestion is a demand. I don't nag, I suggest. It leaves you with all the freedom to resist without having to worry about the withdrawal of compassion."

"How many times do you suggest?" He did not want to deal with her or her sodding compassion today.

"Until you do what you are supposed to do" –she laughed again—"or until you tell me to shut it."

"Which you will do?"

"Which I will do."

"So…"

"Eat and dress, I will be outside waiting for you. You have fifteen minutes." She smiled sweetly at him.

"Shut it." He scowled and moved to the stove, preparing to serve himself.

"The door? But of course." Her voice was sing-song and she did shut the door. Quite soundly.

He decided that she was bossy. A bossy woman. And he understood why; it was not a judgment. Not at all. And if Hospers ever came around to inquire exactly how Draco came to that conclusion, he would simply dare the philosopher to spend an entire day under the condescendent of Hermione Granger. Lucky for Johnny boy, he had perished long ago.

As he hurriedly ate his breakfast, glad that it was still warm, he deduced that Granger must've been up a while before him, for the one room cottage seemed rather tidy and warm. She was even considerate enough to wake him directly after she cooked his meal. Thinking he might appreciate her more than he ever intended, he forked a fried egg into his mouth and his eyes found the work clothes that she'd left for him.

There were leather work gloves, a pair of white, long underwear. A charcoal, long-sleeved cotton shirt, black, steel-toed boots, and camel, suspender overalls. Of course the only reason he knew this was because she left numbered notes on each one describing their purpose in neat detail and in what order he should put them on.

Draco decided that he would wear the blasted clothes and do her sodding bidding. She did suggest that it would be good for him. So he was sure that her agenda for the day consisted of menial labor for him to perform as part of his psychotherapy. Truth was, he thought it was brilliant, but he would never let her know just how much.

Once he followed the directions written on the parchment though, he cursed her and any progeny that she would undoubtedly produce. He looked…absurd. The long underwear and cotton shirt were constricting against his body and the overalls hindered his movements. The boots were cumbersome and well, the gloves itched his palms. Nonetheless his contestation was 'Chin Up' as he exited the shack with a grim disposition. His brow was creased together, eyes like steel and narrowed, and his mouth set in a firm grimace, jaw tightened. He clenched his fist best he could as he marched purposefully to where he saw her working.

However, upon closing the distance between them, he found she was stacking wood in a strategic pile next to a large stump with a well-honed maul in it.

Her head jerked up and she grinned brightly at him. "Oh, Draco, don't you look handsome!" Mirth glittered in her topaz eyes and she was doing a piss-poor job at hiding her amusement.

"Shut it," he said, but noticed the way she studied him and realized instantly that she did, in fact, find him handsome. And if the way she bit her lip and grinned was any indication, she found him incredibly attractive.

He smirked arrogantly and told himself the only reason he wasn't running for his life was because his boots were just simply too heavy and not because he actually liked her admiration.

o0o

Wednesday, November 12th 2003

His arm was on fire. It burned. It burned. It burned.

Make it stop.

Sweat glistened his forehead, giving his already pale skin an iridescent sheen. His teeth ached from clenching, and eyes burned with fury.

Every time the blazing pain pulsed, he gagged and his stomach lurched.

But oh, the cool porcelain felt so very soothing against his skin. He rubbed his flushed cheek against it, not caring to think how absurd he looked or what nasties may lie on the surface.

The Dark Lord wanted him.

The Dark Lord was angry.

Because Draco had failed.

He had tried to explain himself to Lucius. He really did. But the fact was he had been unable to execute the curse on the muggle couple. The want was simply not there.

Draco did not know why. He hated them. He knew he was supposed to torture them. It was supposed to be easy-- an easy task.

But he could not do it. And he had tried repeatedly.

Now he would be punished for his ineptitude.

"Draco?" His mother's anxious accent carried through the door. "What's wrong?"

"Go away!" he screamed, trepidation weakening his vocal cords.

"I will not. Let me in." Stern, stubborn.

He meant to sneer at the door, a pointless exercise, but the Mark throbbed excruciatingly once more.

Narcissa began to urgently insist that he grant her entrance. The oak door shook and rumbled with her forceful and unrelenting administrations.

He raised his hand feebly and motioned faintly towards the knob.

The door sprung open and his mother gracelessly faltered into the lavatory. "Oh, gods, darling, is he calling for you?" She moved to the sink and ran a cloth under the cold water.

He half-nodded, fully-winced.

She knelt before him and began to wipe his face, her azure eyes panicked and searching. "Choose not to go. Please choose not to go," she pleaded.

"Mother, if you are against him, why do you stay?" It was a juvenile question for which he had always wanted an answer.

Narcissa offered a sad smile. "Because I love your father unconditionally. And when you love someone, you follow them anywhere."

o0o

Wednesday, December 21st 2005

They had been at it for three hours. Or more accurately, Draco had been at it for three hours. If you didn't count the hour they broke for lunch.

He managed to splinter the bark, miss it, and fall six times. But never once was he able to correctly split the round in half.

She had said that the maul weighed nearly three kilograms giving it a faster swing and velocity, which was more essential than mass in producing results. He thoroughly believed she was a skilled liar. And a sadist.

Because she was beaming with comedic delight and obviously finding immense pleasure in his pain and humiliation.

He raised the maul above his head and slammed it down with all his strength.

"You missed again."

He glared at her.

"Because you won't listen to me and do it right," she said sardonically, her face blank and she was standing really close to him, making him uncomfortable.

"If you are such a master of this art, Oh Mighty One, then let me see you do it." Draco stepped away, his anger flashing.

To his chagrin, she shrugged and began to remove her cloak. "Hold this and sit over there." She motioned to the fence she had been perched on. "And watch closely."

He did move to the fence, dropping her cloak along the rail, but leaned casually against the post and watched her with malicious glee.

Hermione positioned herself slightly uphill front the round to be split, her feet shoulder-width apart. She held the maul at near waist level, elbows comfortably bent. Her left hand was settled at the base of the handle, her palm facing her and her right hand was at the neck, thumb next to the maul head, and palm facing opposite of her.

Her topaz eyes fixed intently on the round. Then quickly she flexed her knees and bent slightly at her waist. Abruptly the maul raised overhead, her arms raised high, back straight, knees similar as she rose up on her toes. Her right hand slid down the handle to meet the other. With no delay, she began a forceful downswing, bending at the waist and knees again. At the very last instant she pulled the mall back toward her very slightly using her abdomen and legs.

With great accuracy, the maul split easily through the round, creating two equal parts, ready to be burned.

Draco's jaw was touching his kneecaps and his eyes were wider than he ever thought possible. Finally he found his voice and asked her, "How did you do that?"

There it was, the eye-roll and he wanted to spit in her face. "I told you already, a hundred times today."

"Nag," he said, and then smirked. "Oi, I've just found my happy thought."

"Oh?" she asked brightly, setting up another round.

"Yes, you bound tightly to a chair, a delightful green gag shoved between your pretty lips to keep your fat mouth shut." He was too caught up in his imagery to notice that he complimented her.

Luckily for him, she was too tactful to mention it, instead she giggled and handed him the maul. "Be realistic, Draco, a simple Petrificus Totalus would suffice brilliantly." Her tone was playful.

"Where's the fun in that? At least with binds and a gag I get the pleasure of watching you struggle." He laughed then. A real laugh as if they were third years telling jokes over dinner. Clear and melodious, it was, shocking even himself. "Besides, you are quite fetching when you are angry." He adopted a stance similar to hers.

"Wow, two compliments in a day? Are you feeling alright, Draco?" She smiled widely at him. Showcasing a row of perfect white teeth.

He scowled at her. "I did no such thing; you must be off your rocker. Now tell me how to do it again."

She giggled. "Okay. Listen closely. Do not allow your vision to wander from the striking point during the swing. Focus your attention on striking all the way through the piece to the very bottom. Strike toward where you want the blow to finish. Visualize the maul head penetrating the piece completely and visualize the pieces falling away. Know that the wood will not resist the blow. Anticipate success." Her voice was wistful, mesmerizing.

He did envisage and anticipate.

And he succeeded.

o0o

Wednesday, July 13th 2005

According to the Goblin he had met with in secret, he had 2,371,581 Galleons in an account. And five Knuts. If the wee creature was to be believed, Draco was the beneficiary of an unknown person's wealth upon their demise.

The only clue Draco had to this person's real identity was that he was a wizard and was known at Gringott's as Mr. X.

Nonetheless, Mr. X's will clearly defined that his entire estate with the exception of a tiny home somewhere in the North, could only be procured by none other than Draco Malfoy.

He was tremendously confused, but decided to leave the account untouched.

Until a rainy day of course.

But what really perplexed him was why the home in the North had been inherited by Hermione Granger.