Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

AN: I'm beginning to run out of creative ways to say thanks to my beta. Thus: thank you, nelpher, for being awesome, and for providing such a giggle-worthy line: "...privates dangling over the countryside..." Hee! :)

Chapter Six: Loser, Loser, Double Loser

"As I'm sure you're all aware, next Monday will be the first of May—May Day—thus, on Saturday, I am pleased to announce that the staff of Bewitched will be conducting their very own May Day festivities!"

Silence.

We all stare mutely at Petunia Palmer—dubbed Perky Petty, and rightly so. If there is anyone who can see the bright side to anything, it's Petunia. Her perpetual optimism is so amazing that instead of being annoyed, one can only stare at her in silent and wide-eyed wonder.

Assistant to the head of Human Resources, Petunia is determined to ensure workplace harmony and safety. She does most (if not all) of the grunt work, whilst her boss, Terry Holiday, lazes his days away in his office. She has the energy of a roadrunner and the multitasking ability of a person with eight hands. And despite her slavish hours of work, her ungrateful boss, and the tendency of a few of the staff to take advantage of her people-pleasing inclinations, she still remains vibrant and upbeat,

"Come on!" she cheers, clapping her hands together to stir up enthusiasm. "It'll be fun, everybody! It's all in an effort to promote teamwork. I've already organised everything. I just need signed agreement of participation right here!" She produces a clipboard and points at the rows of blank slots waiting to be filled with reluctant signatures.

"No can do! I've a date!"

"Sorry, Petunia, it's my son's Quidditch match that day."

"But I've already paid fifty galleons for my naked sky diving lessons!"

"Hey! Which one of you wankers ate my tuna sandwich?"

However, despite Petunia's seemingly sweet exterior, there is a side of her that isn't oft seen, but when it rears its head one is forced to stare, yet again, in silent and wide-eyed amazement. Maybe she suffers from some mental disorder, maybe the tiny thread that holds her sanity intact sometimes frays itself thin from stress, but what I do know is that Petunia is a modern day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Various negative outcries and blatant lies can be heard before—

Crack!

Petunia slams the clipboard down on Meredith's desk, causing the poor woman to jump back in her seat in shock.

"Silence!"

Her face contorted in a horrific mask of fury, Petunia glares about the room.

Dumbstruck silence.

"Good," she breathes deep before reaffixing a cheery smile on her face. "Now, Carolyn, I'm sorry, you'll have to cancel your date as I have you down for the drinks station. Is that alright?"

"Er…sure…"

"Olson, you do not have a son, you have daughter. I've put you down with Barry and Winston for the choir. Sounds good?"

"I-I suppose…"

"Matthew, I'm sure the Wizarding community will thank me for preventing them from suffering the sight of your privates dangling over the countryside. You'll be with Jennifer on the games station. Perfect?"

"O-of course!"

"And Phillip, it was I who threw away your tuna sandwich. It had begun to smell. Is there a problem?"

"Er…'course not, Petty, dear!"

There's a marked tension in the room as everyone stares unblinkingly at Petunia as she scribbles away on her clipboard. Even I, who have faced Voldemort and Death Eaters, am a bit terrified. Draco is the only one who appears mildly amused.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"What say you about being the May Queen7"

"Absolutely!"

"Great!" exclaims Petunia, grinning now. "Thanks for your willing cooperation, everybody! Remember to come and sign by the end of the day! I'll be waiting."

"Got to appreciate the irony, eh, Granger?"

This is Malfoy as he leans his forearms on the top of my cubicle wall.

I exhale resignedly, forced to look away from the red, suede Christian Louboutin stilettos on my laptop screen.

"Why, Malfoy?"

"Well, the chosen May Queen is supposed to be at least marginally attractive. And, well…you know…" he trails off and gives me a disdainful once-over.

In bored tones, I respond: "Malfoy, your insults on my attractiveness are as tired and redundant as your smirks. Besides," I adopt a smug smile, "I didn't hear you complaining yesterday in the kitchen."

He fakes a long-suffering sigh. "Desperate times, desperate measures."

My smugness dissolves into ire. "That's a load of shite, Malfoy."

"Granger, your colourful language never ceases to amaze me. Typical of one with your kind of upbringing, I suppose. You really need to get your mouth cleansed. No need to let the world know about your shameful origins."

"And you really need to get your brain checked, because a few of your screws are missing!" I retaliate. "It can only explain your absurd behaviour of late."

"No, no. Credit any uncharacteristic actions on my part to yourself, Granger. There's something incredibly toxic about you. When one is in your presence, one tends to lower one's self in inexplicable ways. Must be your demon hair at work…"

"Likewise, Malfoy!" I reply hotly, properly riled now. "Because I don't know why I'd ever…I'd ever…"

"Why you'd ever, what?"

Kiss you. Hold you. Want you.

The swiftness in which these words unearth themselves from the depths of my mind, and the silent agreement and acceptance of them disturbs me. I want to kiss Malfoy, I want to hold Malfoy, I want to want Malfoy. And, sometimes, it seems as though he wants the same things too, but I can never be quite sure. Especially in moments like these when he sets out to be unfriendly and irritating.

"Malfoy, why do you do this?" I say, determined to unbalance him as he has done me.

"You'll have to be clearer, Granger. Yes, I know: it probably surprises you that someone as impressive and as skilled as I cannot read minds."

I am tempted to add my two sarcasm-laced Knuts on that statement, but I opt to overlook it.

"Why is it that one moment you're trying to see how far down my throat your tongue can go, and the next, you're insulting me? You say you don't like playing games, yet you're the one horsing around!"

He sneers. "I don't like playing games, but I hate losing even worse. I'm not the one who started this Granger, and I intend to win."

"'Started this?' What do you mean by that? I haven't started anything!"

He leans further over the cubicle wall, bringing his face closer to mine. "Is that so? Then explain to me what your article is all about, Granger? The one about finding and fucking and whatever?"

I stare at him in open-mouthed shock before I fight to reply hastily: "My article isn't about you. It's about…umm…someone else!"

He straightens to stare down superciliously at me. "Granger, your lying is as awful as your wardrobe. Not to mention I was standing right behind you when you typed my name into your article. Still maintaining that you're not playing games, princess?"

I am speechless.

"I thought so."

He turns away from my cubicle and heads off to his own desk.

I don't see much of Malfoy for the remainder of the week—which is just fine by me because I don't want to face him either. I don't know why, but I feel mortified that he has learnt of my intentions. Part of me has even begun to feel that all those intimate moments between us had been a ruse. That it had all been a pretence on Malfoy's part because, to him, it was a 'game' he 'intended to win.'

And this disappoints me.

And it disappoints me that it disappoints me, because why should I feel disappointed? How could I have been so naïve to have believed that Malfoy could ever be genuinely interested in me? That he'd want me? I should have been suspicious from the word go. Alas, my attraction for him had blinded me; had warped my usual perceptiveness. And I suppose my horniness had played a part too.

As usual, it had all been some sort of amusing pastime for that git. If his ultimate goal had been to see how many of my buttons he could push and how well he could mess with my mind, then he'd already succeeded in that regard. He'd already won. And this irks me to no end, because I have lost without even knowing I'd been playing in the first place.

But, I suppose what irritates me even more is that, despite knowing Malfoy's advances hadn't been borne of real attraction for me, a part of me still believes that it hadn't been all an act.

On Saturday, Bewitched's May Day festivities are held in Hogsmeade Park. It's an especially dull affair as the sky is overcast and filled with fat, ominous-looking clouds, and there's a bite to wind that discourages gaiety. Even though we were encouraged to bring along family, hardly anyone follows through on that suggestion, and so, there are only a smattering of people in attendance.

A few elderly passers-by survey Olson, Barry and Winston with mild interest as they sing in fairly off-key notes, a gang of adolescent boys laugh uproariously at Phillip and Ned's cringe-worthy attempt at Morris dancing, and a pair of audacious girls wander by, sneering as they commented, "Aren't you a bit old to be the May Queen?"

By one in the afternoon, despite Petunia's best efforts to inspire enthusiasm, we call it quits. I am aiding in the packing away of things, when I catch sight of Malfoy looking very chummy with Petunia. They are standing close and laughing about something, and, for no good reason, this annoys me immensely. My concentration occupied with glaring daggers at Malfoy, the cry of "Hermione, get out of the way!" comes far too late.

I turn my head in the direction of the call, and have only begun to say, "Wha—" when something hard connects painfully with my left temple.

I immediately fall to unconsciousness.

When I'm next awake, I am surprised to find myself in my own bed.

There's a dull ache at my left temple, and when I touch it, there's a soft lump there that I hope will disappear very soon, purely for vain reasons. Climbing out of my bed, I realise I'm no longer dressed in my white May Queen's dress, but only my prized pink shirt with the picture of a smirking Garfield on its front, and my knickers.

Not only has someone taken the liberty to bring me home, but they have undressed and redressed me as well. But who can it be? Nobody has access to my flat…well except Lavender and Ginny, as they are the only ones who know where I hide my spare key…

But once again, it is Saturday, and Lavender will be at work. Ginny, too.

So, who—

The unmistakable sound of someone rattling around in my kitchen is heard, followed by the sound of an expletive. The voice is male.

I stiffen with trepidation. Who is this intruder? Is he the one who brazenly undressed me? What is he doing in my kitchen? Has he intentions of hurting me? The sound of more things falling and more swearwords uttered is heard, and, my heart beginning to race, I pick up the closest thing to hand: my bottle of body cream.

Surely, the weightiness would serve as an effective clobbering instrument…

Advancing with great stealth, I sidle past my open bedroom door and peer cautiously around the corner into my kitchen area. My lower cupboards are all wide open, and there's some bloke shoulder deep inside one, scrounging around for Merlin knows what. Seeing an opportunity, I scuttle over, wield the cream bottle high over my head, and with a shriek of "Heee-yah!" I bring the bottle down hard on the intruder's back.

The reaction is as expected. Surprised by my sneak attack, the intruder's body is jerked upwards and he smacks his head up against the roof of my cupboard.

"Fuck!"

I continue hitting him as hard as I can with the bottle. At one point, it occurs to me that I am a skilled witch and that, instead of a useless bottle of cream, I should've tried looking for my wand. But it's too far gone now; there's no stopping. I need to injure this intruder significantly—although, there doesn't seem to be much injury occurring except the bottle spewing its fragrant contents.

"Get." Whack! "Out!" Whack! "You." Whack! "Bastard!"

"Ow…Granger…shit…stop it! Granger! Stop!"

Wait. That voice.

I pause mid-whack. "Malfoy?"

"Yes, it's me, you twit!" he says angrily as he pulls himself out of the cupboard and sits glaring up at me from my kitchen floor.

"Why are you in my flat?" I demand.

"Because I brought you home, you ungrateful wench. Though I'm starting to wish I'd left you to rot."

"Oh…oh! Someone hit me!"

"Not someone, something. A plate, to be more specific. And yet," he pushes himself to his feet, towering over me easily, "instead of receiving the thanks I deserve for wasting my time and energy lugging you all the way here and healing you, I get abused."

And then, he runs his gaze over me and I suddenly realise that I'm only in a shirt and a plain pair of cotton knickers.

Smirking, he continues: "Unless, of course, you have some other form of appreciation in mind, Granger?"

"Absolutely not!" I reply huffily. "You are the one who undressed me—"

He steps forwards. "And I can do it again. Will do it again."

I step backwards. "Stay away from me, Malfoy! I'm sick and tired of this. You need to stop it. You've won, Malfoy! You've won!"

A tense quiet follows where we stare each other down. We don't move, we don't blink, we don't make a sound. I'm even sure that time has stopped, that we have somehow managed to freeze ourselves with the intensity of our emotions.

His face is a mask of seriousness. There's not a hint of a smile or lifted eyebrow. He's just staring at me with unnerving directness. His hands are free at his sides, and there's a bit of cream splattered along the side of his neck and the shoulders of his dark-green shirt. There's a strong urge to go to him. To reach my hands up and smooth the cream into his skin. To press myself close and relish his scent.

Then he says quietly: "Not yet. I haven't won just yet. But I'd like to believe I'm close."

"Awfully confident, aren't we? What if you don't win?"

"Then, I suppose I'll just have to keep trying until I do."

AN: Tsk, tsk. Draco, sore losers are très unattractive.