Time and Time Again
Chapter 7: Drake and Cherries Jubilee
Draco found himself staring, once again, into his dorm room mirror, unbroken comb in hand. Pansy waltzed up and greeted him with the usual singsong voice.
"Yes, yes. Dracito. Very clever. Pansy, I have a headache," he murmured, prying her arms off his waist.
"Oh," Pansy stepped back a respectful distance, "Do you need anything? I can take you to the infirmary."
"No. Just leave."
A little bewildered at his sudden coldness, Pansy crept away, pale with worry. Draco watched her reflection leave, closing the door softly behind her. With a disgusted snort, he threw his comb down and fell backwards on the bed, head swimming with a fatigue that should have disappeared at seven.
His nose felt better, he noticed, fingering his pointy proboscis tenderly, but several hours in an enclosed space with Granger had worn on his nerves. Prison, he thought, would not be half as bad if it were not for the mind-numbing boredom and barely liveable compartments.
Granger had been a joy, of course. After the initial confrontation, during which she sent an unwarranted blow to his noble face, they spent the time in a heavy silence. Draco memorized a questionable stain on the roof. It looked like some sort of grape juice, but what it was doing on the roof, or much less, in a prison cell, was beyond him.
However, about two hours into Draco's attempt to count to infinity, McGonagall showed up, a thunderstorm in tow. After bailing them out, she glowered at them both, face wrinkled and puckered, and unleashed the lightning.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS! Mr. Malfoy, I more-or-less expected this of you, but MISS GRANGER! YOU! IN PRISON! What are you two doing together, anyway? Is that blood, Mr. Malfoy? THIS IS AN ABSOLUTE DISGRACE! Now, I want both of you to march, single file, out of this jail. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? MARCH!"
She crackled and fizzled with rage, pointing a quivering wand at Draco, as though she was positive he had corrupted her favorite student. Granger burst into tears, which Draco knew were not fake, and skulked out of prison. He followed.
Outside, Snape stood with his eyebrow arched at its most extreme.
"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger," he snarled as they approached, "I assume you've already gathered your time at Hogwarts has ended."
At this, Granger bawled and wailed with increasing ferocity. "Shut up, Girl," Snape snapped, but to no avail. Granger continued squalling like a baby.
"Don't be an idiot, Granger," Draco hissed, but the girl was senseless.
When they arrived at Hogwarts, a considerable crowd gathered. Snape and McGonagall, both grim, cleared a path for the condemned. By that time, Granger had stopped crying but she sniffed a lot. Draco attempted to maintain some amount of dignity, which was difficult next to Miss Puffy-Red-Eyes. Though, he could not help but smirk when he spotted Potter and Weasley in the crowd, with sublime expressions of befuddlement. He gave them a wink as he passed.
Granger started afresh once they got to Dumbledore's office. Really, that girl could have fueled Niagra Falls with her tears. The headmaster scolded, was disappointed, and punished — two months' worth of detention with Filch (Draco felt significantly relieved that he would not have to serve that.). As Dumbledore wrote a note to Filch confirming this, Draco wondered vaguely what the punishment would be if Potter were sitting in his chair. A light slap on the wrist perhaps? Probably some sort of reward, he scoffed.
Seven struck, ending the fiasco.
Now, Draco Malfoy sprawled out on the bed, pondering the ceiling.
He wasn't thinking big enough. Really, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and here he was frittering it away on gambling. He had set out with a vague notion of finding Hogsmeade's red light district, but either it didn't have one or it had some sort of spell to hide it from minors. Damned unfair, really.
So, after a few hours of wondering about, making advances toward every attractive female he passed, he wound up in that greasy tavern.
In truth, he wasn't exploiting the situation to its full potential. Now, he had to think. He needed to do something big. Something that he would never do — whether because his parents wouldn't let him, or he just would never dream of it . . . .
If Draco had known about light bulbs, one would have clicked on above his head.
Though Hermione was firmly against vulgar language, she believed there were situations that called for them. These situations were ones of supreme frustration, rage, or hatred.
Smothered in pudding for the umpteenth time? Check.
Stuck in a time loop with the physical embodiment of malice and arrogance? Check.
Perpetual time loop with no end in sight? Check.
Yes, these definitely fit the criteria.
Damn Draco Malfoy. Damn him to Hell.
Shoving a glob of pudding from her hair into Seamus's face, Hermione grabbed her books and stalked to the library. Harry followed.
"Hermione! Wait up!"
Pointedly ignoring him, she tromped up the stairs, fuming storm clouds and static electricity in a manner not unlike McGonagall. Harry, however, ignored the warning signs and kept after her. Reaching out and grasping her hand, he pulled her to a halt. Hermione turned and fixed him in a stare so chilly it would have sent polar bears running for the electric blanket.
This has got to be said for Harry: he was in Gryffindor for a reason. He faced her feminine wrath undaunted.
"Hermione, I know something's up. Is it Seamus? He said he was sorry and he meant it."
Had she been eleven still, or had she not just endured Malfoy's stench for several hours, Hermione's knees might have buckled as she gazed into the depths of his green eyes. If she had not spent half the day in prison, she might have let her anger cool beneath thoughts of her girlish fancies for Harry, which had long ago faded into a platonic feeling but still kept The Boy Who Lived in one of the softer places of Hermione's heart. If it would have made a difference once the time looped, she might have let go of every ounce of her rage.
"I'm busy. Leave me be." Wrenching her arm from Harry's grip, she set back on her course for the library.
"Hermione— "
"HARRY! Go away!"
She had wasted enough time looking for help from Malfoy, that self-serving, egotistical, pampered, undeserving— Argh!— So-and-so! (She had sworn enough for one day.) She would proceed without him, solve the time loop and end the endless Tuesday. If Malfoy benefitted from all her hard work and research, so be it! Consoling herself that some sort of revenge would visit Malfoy later, she trudged into the library, slammed her books on her table, and found the section on time.
Hermione ran her finger over the spines, searching for a relevant title, but felt her heart sink under nothing but volumes about time turners and their dangers. When she had settled herself back at her table with the few books she could find, she pulled the first from the stack, The Advanced Laws of Time and Space and Their Plausible Applications in the Wizarding World, and cracked it open to the first page.
There are many debates, Hermione read, as to the actual shape of time. Some contend that it is a straight line, stretching into eternity. Some feel it might take the form of a circle, while others believe it might actually look more like an elaborate pretzel . . .
As hard as Hermione tried to pay attention, she found her thoughts unwillingly drifting to her conversation with Malfoy last time loop. It played back in her mind: hitting him, the blood, the brawl beforehand, and the reasons why he wasn't ready for the time loop to end just yet.
. . . Time travel further contorts the shape. If a person (A) went back twenty years in time, would A have not already gone back in time, or actually create an entire new "thread" in time by his or her action . . .
He had talked of it as an opportunity to do whatever they pleased. Though she disapproved of his morals, she had to admit he was right. If she chose to approach McGonagall today, she knew her favorite teacher would only greet her with smiles, not a single recollection of the jail scenario lingering in her memory.
. . . It might be possible that thousands upon thousands of time lines exist, splintering from the main one every time a choice is made. The possibilities are endless . . .
The possibilities were endless. Furrowing her brow, she pushed the book away and sunk back into her chair as she adjusted to the uncomfortable feeling of Malfoy being right. The time loop erased everything. Unlike a time turner, where time simply folded over on itself, each new loop erased the blackboard of the universe and started anew.
She was firmly against vulgar language . . . . She didn't use foul words on the principle that pasting them in her vocabulary demeaned her intelligence and impeccable character. However — and her heart beat fiercely as she felt herself drawing closer and closer to the line — perhaps, given the situation, her impeccable character would not be tarnished with a little healthy venting — especially if the indiscretion became void in seven hours.
She opened her mouth, a mere slit, wide enough for a whisper, but courage filled her breast and she opened it wider.
"DRACO MALFOY IS A BASTARD!"she screamed, lips burning, pulse racing.
A startled gasp escaped the librarian as her head jerked up to fix Hermione in a severally shocked and scandalized stare. But by then, flying high on wings of the brazen transgression, no sour-faced old woman could have stopped her shaking a rush of adrenaline. She could do anything.
She stood and walked out of the door, with each step the scales tipping further and further in favor of cutting loose. Just this once. I won't get a chance like this again. I just . . . I just want to see what it's like.
After a fair amount of struggling, Draco managed a snug fit into his new leather robes. He had tapped into his savings in order to buy the extremely expensive outfit and Father was sure to turn a color red to rival the tomato when he found out, but that was the beauty of the entire affair. If he did find out, it wouldn't matter. Stage one complete; now, stage two of his several stage plan involved a great sacrifice.
Inspecting himself in the full length in the dank clothing boutique, he decided he rather liked the effect the shiny black leather had against his pale skin. Still, if he was to truly slip into his anti-Draco character, he needed more than a change in wardrobe.
He turned to the seamstress, who sat organizing her other leather samples, and coughed. She looked up.
"Excuse me, do you know of a hair salon around here?"
Like any girl Hermione's age, she did spend a little time fussing over her weight ---- obviously less time then sum. She followed the food pyramid as faithfully as she could, eating starchy foods in very small amounts and not very often. While pacing in the halls in a ill-working attempt to tame her pulse and figure out exactly what she was to do with her new found daring, it occurred to Hermione that the last "sweet" she had eaten was a pumpkin pasty aboard the Hogwarts Express.
Powered by that thought, she tickled the picture of the pear and stepped into the kitchen, knowing full well that she was also flouting a few principles as far as the enslavement of elves went, but trying really hard not to care.
Naturally, the elves looked askance as she stepped through the portrait hole, S.P.E.W. still fresh in their memory, and made a move to flee in order to avoid being clothed. In an effort to make peace, Hermione spread her arms to display that the only clothes she had brought were the ones she was wearing. This soothed them, and Dobby approached with the usual cheerful smile.
"How can Dobby help?" he bobbed, wringing his socked hands in anticipation.
Hermione tried to mask her surprise at finding the elf using a pink, lacy bra as a fashionable hat. However, after failing to conceal her laughter, Dobby blinked, obviously confused, which did nothing to make his appearance less hilarious.
"I'm sorry, Dobby," she said after catching her breath, rosy cheeked, "I just came down to ask, if it's all right, if you and your friends can make cherries jubilee?"
Dobby blinked again, scratching his forehead just beneath the frilly cup. He knew Hermione well enough to find the request unwonted.
Nevertheless, another elf overheard her request and skirted forward, bouncing with glee.
"Yes, ma'am, yes! We make cherries jubilee! We make it good! You want some, yes?" He grasped her hand and shook it up and down.
"Um, yes, if it's not too much trouble," she answered.
"Then we make for lady! You sit! Sit, sit!" And, after almost pushing her into a stool, the elf dashed away.
It seemed that Hermione barely had time to put her bottom on the offered wooden stool when three house elves skipped toward her, hoisting a flaming desert upon their shoulders. Stomach growling with desire, her eyes could only feast on the smouldering dish, served over melting vanilla ice cream. Her stomach gave another angry rumble when her nose filled with the scent of sweet cherries. They set it on the small table before her, spooning the fiery mixture onto a separate plate and weaving a charm to douse the blaze.
She had not had cherries jubilee since her childhood, where she received it at a grandmother's birthday party. Though obscured by time, she had fond memories of this particular desert. Dobby slipped a silver spoon into her hand, while an audience of elves held their breaths. An ironic smile playing across her lips, Hermione considered what cherries jubilee symbolized. By taking a bite, she waved goodbye— at least for a day— to "Little Miss Perfect," as Malfoy called her. This action, this spoonful of cherry-goodness, represented a dive off the deep end, a casting away of self: the psychological equivalent of dyeing her hair green and joining a cult that sacrificed cats to pagan gods.
. . . And no one would remember.
Hermione plunged in her spoon---the elves squirmed---and slid the delectable desert between her lips.
Time faded fast and the seconds dwindled closer to seven o'clock. Draco slipped back into Hogwarts, buzzing with a strange feeling of universal oneness. Anti-Draco, or Drake, as he had fondly called him, had been a fantastic success. Shedding off his old persona, like a snake, Draco embraced a darker, more dangerous side of his nature that had hitherto been buried under heaps and heaps of aristocratic breeding.
He had "slummed it"! He had talked with a man name Gooseliver, who, due to some sort of magical miscalculation, had developed a third eye and a voice like a little girl's. He drank fire whiskey and smoked cigarettes! A transvestite goblin hit on him! Leather robes still squeaking, hair still reeking of gel, and chest still smarting, Draco walked down the corridor, eager to reveal "Drake" to the Hogwarts student body. Life vibrated around him, how exhilarating the day was!
As he rounded a corner, he spied the unused girls' lavatory. Pansy had said it was haunted by a rather annoying ghost, and thus left vacant. Checking the halls (empty), Draco pushed open the door. He wished to make sure Drake looked presentable before his rendezvous in the Great Hall. The door creaked ominously, and a horrible stink made him gag. Undaunted, he stepped in and walked steadily toward the mirrors, his footsteps echoing and leather creaking in the emptiness. Until—
"EUUGHHH!"
"This is a lesson to you, you know. An entire cherries jubilee? Tsk. That was bad enough, but then you had to follow it up with all those cookies and ice cream. Not to mention the cheese cake, cupcakes, and fudge! Wow. You're a pig. You'll be fat now. Some of those pounds will stay with you forever."
The voices came from one of the stalls, and immediately Draco recognized the smell. Vomit: lots of it. Crouching low, he peered under the stalls and spied the legs of one girl, in the action of kneeling before the porcelain throne, and a pair of ghostly feet hovering in the air. Another unflattering sound, and the ghost giggled.
"I'll call you Up-Chuck-Mione."
"Be quiet, won't you?" murmured the girl.
Oh, God. Draco bolted up and made a move for the door, only to trip over his new boots. He plunged, face first, into the ground.
"What was that?" Granger's voice asked, shock temporarily reviving her from nausea.
Moaning Myrtle, as Pansy had refereed to the ghost, stuck her head out of the stall door. One look at the boy sprawled out on the floor and her pale face broke into an enormous grin. Sailing over to his side, she inspected him: spending a great deal of time smirking at his bared chest, and burst into a riotous fit of laughter.
"Myrtle? Myrtle, what is it?" She stumbled to her feet as Myrtle continued to hoot.
Oh, God. No, no, no. Why isn't she in the library? The one person who can remember this! Oh, shit. Why, why, why did it have to be her?
A gasp. Draco flinched and quickly made attempts to right himself for the benefit of his pride. Struggling to his feet, he futilely batted away Myrtle's pointing finger.
"Look at him! Look at all that leather!" Myrtle screeched, spectral tears streaming down her face. He brought himself to face Granger.
Face pale, hair disheveled, and robes rumpled and unkempt, Granger's mouth was wide enough to march an elephant through. She gaped at him in horror. Draco could only stare back, painfully aware of all the steps he had taken to prepare Drake. He now knew it was physically impossible to die of embarrassment, for no situation had better called for it.
Myrtle howled again, and proclaimed "I've got to go tell Peeves!" before taking off, leaving them alone.
Floor? Suck me in. Right now. If you have any mercy at all, you will swallow me whole.
"You— are you— is that—" such were Hermione Granger's first attempts at speech.
Floor, I mean it! Do it now! Gods of karma? I really think this is unnecessary.
"Is that a tattoo!?"
Ah, so the tattoo was the first thing she noticed. He didn't blame her, as the large ink dragon filled the majority of his upper torso. Following her eyes, which were directed right at his pectorals, Draco watched as his new tattoo blew black fire that writhed and squirmed across his chest.
"And your hair! It's red! And it's in a Mohawk!"
Two observation points for Granger.
"You're wearing nothing but leather! Your ears are pierced! And your nose! Is that a fish?"
The girl had an amazing talent. As Granger subsided back into speechless bewilderment, eyes still fixed upon his moving tattoo, Draco seized the opportunity to belittle her appearance.
"You've got vomit on your shirt," he said with a superior turn to his mouth, feeling control of the situation back in his clutches. That one remark was all it took to turn Granger as red as cherry.
"Oh, no! Um . . ." She wiped frantically at an orangish stain, while giving him a pleading look to proceed no further. But Draco had never been known for being merciful.
"It smells God awful in here, Granger. I expect you've regurgitated your entire stomach by now," he chuckled. He really had her; she was like a mouse squirming under a lion's paw. Normally, this was the part that Weasley came out and jumped him. Feeling slightly giddy, he decided to milk the situation for all that it was worth.
"Really, Granger, I'd have thought you had more sense," Draco said airily, feeling the mistake the minute Granger's head jerked up.
Embarrassment vanished like a vapor, replaced by steel. Looking fierce and bothered, her hands seized her hips and her eyebrows clashed together. He realized he had seen her like this before, but usually Weasley was on the receiving end.
"Sense? Sense? You have the nerve to lecture me on sense?" Draco tried very hard not to feel intimidated. "You! You, who prance in here looking like some sort of—Of HOOLIGAN!"
"'Hooligan'? What are you, eighty?" he carped, but she ignored him.
"Just look at you! For goodness sake, that entire robe is made out of leather! Do you realize how stupid that is? Not only was it ridiculously expensive, I assume, but you look like someone out of the '50s! And your hair! It looks like you ran it through the lawn mower----"
"—What?"
"And don't think I can't smell the alcohol on your breath, because I can and it's pungent!"
"So, I had a few fire whiskies. It's not any of your business— "
"Then you get a monstrous tattoo (and I haven't even started on the fish) and you have the nerve to call me senseless?" Granger's tirade ended; she stood panting.
Draco felt the deep wounds dealt to Drake. His vanity had suffered, as well as his dignity, all because of some jumped-up little Mudblood! Finger raised and mouth opened, he prepared to refute every ounce of the lies she had just told. But no words came, and he remained silent. Well, all right, they weren't lies. Draco had to admit he looked a little bizarre, but that had been the entire point of the experiment! If Granger lacked the intelligence to grasp that, then it was not his fault.
He opened his mouth again to tell her this, but was cut off by a sudden greenish color that had taken hold of Granger's face. Swaying and clasping her stomach, she lurched back to the toilet. Once the gagging sounds began, Draco took them as his cue to depart the lavatory quietly.
Seven struck.
What's this? An update? Forsooth! Please insert usual reasons for lack of updates here, and I promise I won't make you wait near as long for the next chapter.
So, things advance nicely in the story. As I did file this under "romance," I've been trying to sneak more and more Draco/Hermione action in, but I've been desperately trying to keep their interaction realistic. Therefore, no actual lovey-dovey stuff for awhile, but you can wait, can't you?
Also, I now have a livejournal! If you'd like to check it out (and maybe friend me ) click on the link in my profile.
Please review with your comments and criticisms! Did you know every time you review an angel gets its wings?
Frith