In the Dog and Duck

Chapter Thirty-Four

Four Months Later

Draco stared morosely into his glass of beer. Really, this was just so unsupportable, he thought, meanly, as the conversation flourished around him. Sat here in a dingy muggle pub and nursing his flat pint of mild, he found himself pushed to his limits. And if the disgusting beer wasn't enough to push him over the edge … well … the imbecilic chitchat that was still going on most definitely would.

Draco forced out an exaggerated sigh.

"Merlin! Is he still whinging? Does his complaining know no bounds?"

Shooting the weasel a nasty glare, Draco chose to ignore Zabini's retort.

"Count yourselves lucky," Zabini said, nodding sagely. "This is nothing compared to the good old days. In the Slytherin common room, all you could hear for days on end … were his moans about you, Granger and Potter."

Weasley grunted into his pint, causing himself to snort up the bubbles.

"I bet," he finally managed to say, after his mild coughing fit had ended. "And I bet there were a few 'my father will hear about this' as well—"

Knowing he'd stepped out of line, Draco watched carefully as Weasley suddenly halted.

"Er, sorry … didn't mean anything by it, mate."

"Don't call me mate!" Draco snapped out, feeling all the more surly. Honestly, for a Weasley, the weasel wasn't too bad. However.… "Have you no sensitivity at all, Weasley?"

To give him his due, Weasley did have the grace to look guilty.

"Give him a break, Draco," Blaise interceded. "You know you're in a foul mood. Cut us some slack, and go and see Emily. Let us all have a breather, yeah?"

Draco scowled even more, which caused his handsome features to wrinkle in distaste.

Honestly, why bring this up yet again—would Zabini never let up? He and Emily were over. Finished. Caput. Never had really begun, if you thought about it. Draco looked over at George for backup—George, the smartest of the Weasley brood—only to be sorely disappointed.

"Don't give me that look, Malfoy," said George, standing up and shrugging a bright, green snakeskin jacket over his shoulders. "I'm with them lot. You should talk to Emily."

Quickly reversing his opinion, Draco scowled up at him.

"Thanks for nothing, ex-smartest Weasley," he drawled, informing all of his newly revised opinion. "I should have known not to trust someone dressed so hideously. Honestly, where did you get that clothing monstrosity?"

Ignoring his younger brother's snorts of laughter, George flipped a finger Draco's way. Then, smacking his sibling lightly on the arm, he pronounced decisively: "Berk!"

As neither Ron or Draco knew who he was addressing at this point, both shouted out their protests.

"Oi!"

"I resent that."

Undeterred, George carried on, scooping up a handful of soft peanuts as he stood.

"And, you" —he pointed a firm finger at a bemused looking Blaise—"Don't be late for my sister!"

"What—why?"

"Because," George broke into a toothsome grin, "because, my dearest Zabini, I am the messenger … and you know what they say about messengers, yeah?"

Pausing, George waited for answers. But, when none came and all he could see was three blank faces staring back at him, he took pity on them before continuing. "Well, they shoot the messenger, of course!"

"Ginny wouldn't shoot you—"

"And," George injected, "I have no wish to die so young…."

"She might give you a mean Bat-Bogey Hex, though." Ron seemed to find this greatly amusing and he chuckled away, contentedly into his pint.

"So, don't be late for the party. Eight sharp!" George finished, eyeing Zabini intently. "Be there, or face the Bat-Bogey fate yourself."

"I see no valid reason for all this," Blaise responded, looking slightly put out. "I would never be late for Ginevra…."

His proclamation was drowned out by laughter. Surrounded by their mirth, Zabini looked more sulky than ever. He tried to protest.

"But, I, I'm never.…"

"Ha ha! Yeah, right, you're never ever late, are you?" Ron asked, sarcastically.

"I resent your implication!"

"Look at him, getting all haughty like," smirking broadly, George tipped his brother a wink. "Would never guess he was a Slytherin, would ya?"

Draco watched them banter through bored eyes. Honestly, he'd be better off at home than sat here watching these idiots horseplay around. Normally, he had to admit, he rather enjoyed their repartee. Today, however, he was not feeling quite himself. Sighing discontentedly, he let their joviality wash over him.

It was all very well them joking about Emily; their trying to get him to talk to her; their constant harping on and all that. What they didn't understand, though, was … well … that it wasn't as easy as they all thought. They hadn't been there the many times that she had rejected him; when she had gazed back at him through blank eyes, not remembering.

Worse still, was that she still believed she was in love with Potter, despite the be-spectacled one's up and coming engagement to Loony Lovegood. That she didn't remember their time together anymore: that now (to her) he was the still the bully boy she'd known back at Hogwarts; that she thought that he was still the person she'd known when they were at school. They just didn't realise just how much it … hurt him.

To be knocked back, time and time again. It was unsupportable.

And now they wanted him to try again; to just turn up at her house tonight and offer to escort her to Potter's bloody stupid engagement party. No wonder he was feeling out of sorts —who in their right mind would expect that of him? Zabini, that was who. Zabini and his new Weasley chums.

I'll thwart him, though, Draco thought shrewdly. I'll thwart them all and their diabolical plans. I simply wont go through with it. No matter how much they bombard me with their jabs and jibes, I will not be beaten … no, I will not surrender to their wily ways.

Lost in thought, Draco didn't notice George sneaking up behind until he was nearly on top of him.

"No goodbye for me then?" George patted himself down, making sure he had everything that he needed and hadn't forgotten anything, before deadpanning. "Must say I'm devastated."

"I'm sure you'll live," Draco shot back, pulling himself out of his reveries. "I know it's hard being away from my witty self, but I assure you, Weasley, you'll survive my absence."

Shifting in his seat, Draco manoeuvred himself into a more comfortable position and eyed the not-so-smart-as-he'd-thought Weasley struggle for an appropriate retort. Apparently, though, or so Draco promptly assumed (knowing that this Weasley was more than up to the task), George decided not to bother with a clever response.

Instead, coming to the conclusion that he'd rather be on his way, the carrot-headed one embarked on the 'let's just ignore the Malfoy in the room' comeback. To be precise, Draco smarted, Weasley senior made up his mind to ignore him.

Wiggling his fingers at motley crew assembled round the table, George cheerfully waved them goodbye. Relaxed (and slightly inebriated) farewells followed him.

"Bye-bye," Blaise waved, languidly.

"See you later then, bruv…."

George weaved his way through numerous chairs (scattered higgledy-piggleldy, they tried their best to block his path) and, shoving past patrons in various stages of intoxication, he made his way to the hostelry's door.

Arriving at the threshold, George give them a final wave and tipped Draco a wink before mouthing, theatrically: "Talk to her!"

Choosing to ignore his dramatics, Draco turned his back and returned to sipping his warm pint. If anybody else so much as mentioned her name again, he swore that he'd hex them from kingdom come, with no mercy … he honestly would—was all the world against him?

"Wanna chaser?"

"What?" Tipping his head, Draco turned to stare blankly at Blaise. Just where was Zabini picking up these muggle terms—where on earth was he getting them from? Draco blinked in confusion and asked again: "What was that, Zabini?"

"Do you want a chaser?" Zabini stated, this time more clearly.

"He means a whiskey," Ron piped up, trying to clear matters up; and as he tore his gaze away from the foam coasting on the top of his beer, he added to the list: "Or a shot, or whatever it is the muggles call them…."

"A shot?" Draco questioned.

"Oh, never mind, Malfoy."

Ignoring his questions, Zabini ignored him and made his way up to the bar, flirting with every pretty, young thing that hovered on the edge his horizon.

"Ginny, wouldn't like that!"

"Wouldn't she?" Draco arched a sardonic eyebrow Ron's way.

Ron gave him a look. "Nah," he said. "She likes them faithful…."

"He's not being unfaithful," Draco replied, "he's just being a Slytherin."

Ron snorted, unbelievingly. "Yeah…?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, Weasley," Draco retorted disdainfully, "so don't get your knickers in a twist over it."

"Yeah, well, whatever—I know she'd hate it!"

"If you say so, Weasley …" he drawled. Not really feeling too concerned with this turn in the conservation, Draco decided to let Ron's comment pass. After all, you couldn't expect a mere Gryffindor to understand the subtle inner workings of the Slytherin mind.

Sighing, Draco wished he was anywhere but here right now—he just wanted to be back at home. A home that didn't exist anymore; a home that echoed through his addled brain … taunting him with images of everything he had lost.

One by one, thoughts raced through his mind: Emily being the most recent, quickly followed by Severus and his poor, deluded mother … not forgetting his father, who'd tried his very best to debilitate him. Draco's mind wandered and, returning to his past, he revisited his memories once again.

"Anything interesting going on in there?"

"Excuse me?" Draco snapped, feeling irked. Honestly, would the ginger-headed one never leave him be—it was really a most annoying character trait! Couldn't a man be let alone to sit and think, without being vexed with all these irritating questions?

"Only asking what you're thinking about," Ron persisted. "You know, it's called the art of conversation…."

"The art of—" How dare he? The trouble with Gryffindors mixing with Slytherins was … well, bloody Gryffindors taking on Slytherin traits! How dare he use the subtle art of derision?

"Conversation. You know, it's that thing that happens when you open your mouth and begin to communicate."

"Weasley," Draco warned. The only problem was, the Weasley in question decided to ignore the caution in his voice.

"I'm there if you need to share…."

This was too much. Discourse like this would even make a Hufflepuff blanch—was the weasel trying to wind him up? If so, (and Draco suspected this was the case—he'd seen the freckly one smirk at him) he had more than enough ammunition to throw back at him. For all their sarcasm, Draco had noticed, if you threw a sob story in the path of a true Gryffindor, they would always fall for it.

Actually," he drawled, making sure he made an impact. "I was thinking about my father, and all about whether I'd killed him or not ... you know, Weasley, simple thoughts like that."

Now that was what he called a conversation killer.

Draco watched the concerned Gryffindor bite down on his lip in concentration. Yes, he had him in the palm of his hands. Weasley couldn't handle the burden of this question. The only problem, though, was that he'd thought too soon.

"Was he always an evil git?"

Now what sort of question was that? Answer: a Gryffindor one.

"No, Weasley," Draco found himself replying. "Not always…."

"Okay, didn't mean to intrude … I'll shut up now."

The ginger terror, Draco noted, looked suitably ashamed. Shut up, though? Did he really want Ron to refrain from asking his questions? Draco found that, despite his misgivings, he actually wanted to talk about this—he sincerely wanted to give an honest answer. "Actually," he responded. "He was quite a good dad…."

"Yeah, right?"

Draco shot him a glare, daring him to continue. Ron's restrained sarcasm threw him. Where did he go from here? From the truth, that's where. Let the Gryffindor handle it.

"Yes," Draco continued, ignoring the feeling of bright, blue eyes condemning him. "Yeah, he was a pretty good father."

"Alright then."

Alright? Where did the weasel get off being so casual about things? Draco exhaled, expelling the air he'd just took in. "Why'd you want to know anyway?"

Ron looked at him, plaintively. "Just asking," he said.

Nonplussed by this, Draco felt thousands of appropriate answers rush through him. There was so much to say, though, too much to address. As a million voices challenged him, all he could do was answer them honestly, and say, "He loved me, before…."

"Yeah."

"Yes," Draco countered. "He did."

Both stayed silent, appreciating the pause…. Before Ron broke it, saying: "But, he tried to kill you—"

"True, but he'd changed."

"Why?"

"Because," Draco tired to shake the painful memories away. "Because, in the end, all he ever could be was an image of what he wished to be, but mere images were not enough—the Dark Lord made sure of that."

"But," Ron shook his head, "did he, really, want to—"

"Be his follower," Draco interrupted. "Be a Death Eater, you mean?"

"Well, yeah…."

"Of course he did, Weasley. He was no bloody saint now, was he?" Pausing to scoop up a handful of soggy peanuts gave him the courage to carry on with his story. "No one could ever say that of him. He was never like bloody saint Potter, so get that idea out of your head….

"No, my father always believed in the Dark Arts … believed in wizarding superiority—in the grandeur of being a pure-blood. He wanted the glory that being Voldemort's chief lieutenant could bring … the thought of all that enticing power … and what it could provide for him.

"No, Weasley," Draco temporary halted, pondering the best way to get his point across to him. "He was never what you'd call a good man, but he did love me … and he did try and do (what he thought was) the best for me, for us, mother and I. The only problem was, though…."

"He went insane and tried to kill you?"

"Well … yes," Draco sighed, suddenly not really wanting to talk—or even think—about these matters anymore. Let the past stay where it belonged, in the past. Draco finally found he'd had enough of lingering there.

Silently shaking his head, negatively, he indicated with a subtle hint of warning in his eyes that he had nothing further to say on the subject. Thankfully, the weasel took the hint fairly quickly, so Draco let his eyes drop to the table top and became engrossed in trailing his index finger through the patterns in the puddles of beer that sprawled over the table.

"Yeah, so … " Looking uncomfortable, Ron tried to search for another subject … and failed abysmally. "Er, we'll talk about something else—the weather's turned warm, hasn't it?"

"That's a terrible change of subject, Weasley," returning with three amber coloured drinks in hand, Zabini plonked them deftly down on the table. "Anyway, why are we changing the subject exactly?"

Choosing to ignore Zabini's nosiness, Draco decided to eye the deep, amber liquid suspiciously instead.

"We've decided against any more chat about Draco's father," Ron informed, bravely taking a sip of the dubious liquid before grimacing appreciatively. "The subject is officially closed—and this certainly hit's the spot..." Ron took another approving sip.

"I concur!"

"About the subject change, or the whiskey, Bambini?"

Blaise scowled at the use of his new nickname. "Both, actually," he snarled. "And stop calling me that!"

"I'm told that it's cute," Ron snorted, taking another sip of his drink. "Ginny says you look exactly like this muggle cartoon … all big eyed and innocent looking—"

"I do not!" Zabini spluttered out, indignantly. "Why does she insist on telling you everybloody thing? Honestly, do your family not understand the meaning of the wordprivacy?"

"Nope!" Ron grinned back. "Don't get so uptight about it, Zabini. I'm just messing with you."

Draco finally tore his eyes away from the offending drink in front of him, suddenly paying attention: "Has she said anything about how my father managed to blackmail him?" he asked shrewdly, his eyes narrowed with interest.

"Nah," Ron looked vaguely put out. "She hasn't said word about it, which is unlike our Ginny."

"Thank Merlin for that," Blaise looked relieved. "Good to know I can trust her on these matters…."

"She's a bloody Gryffindor, Zabini—what d'ya expect?" Draco interrupted with a smirk, before adding on smoothly. "They would never reveal your darkest and most deepest secrets. You can tell me, however…."

"No, and besides," Zabini said stubbornly. "I thought you didn't want to talk about your father?"

"Wrong, Zabini! I said, I didn't want any talk concerning father and I … I never mentioned a word about you. In fact, I'm very curious about you and father—how did you get involved with him exactly…. Can you tell me again, please? I'm so very interested."

"I've told you a thousand times already—"

"Why, Zabini?"

"Because…."

"Curiosity, I believe you said," Draco drawled out sarcastically. "Such brilliant reasoning, Zabini. Truly outstanding."

"There was more to it than that!"

"Pray do tell…?" In his element, Draco gave a royal sweep of his hand, motioning towards Ron, who was leaning back on his stool, looking extremely amused and interested at the same time. "As you can see," he continued, "we're all agog here."

"If you're going to be like that—"

"Like what … exactly?"

"Shut it, ferret! Stop with the teasing, will you," Ron broke in, frowning Draco's way. Then, turning to Blaise, he nodded his encouragement. "Go on, Zabini," I'll listen," he added, "I'm interested. I wouldn't mind hearing the whole tale from the horses mouth, so to speak."

Blaise seemed slightly placated. Scratching behind his ear and exuding an air of martyrdom, he studied his fingers with intense concentration.

"Zabini?" Ron encouraged. "I'm dead keen."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to tell you…."

Exasperated, Draco huffed out his irritation. Really, at this rate, they were going to be here all night. Flicking imaginary fluff from his cuffs, he made a distinct point of ignoring the hot glares he was receiving from his two drinking companions. "Would you just get on with it!" he snapped out, unable to help himself.

"Do you have to be so antagonistic, Malfoy?"

Draco rolled his eyes in way of a reply. Yes, Weasley, I do, he thought privately to himself—after all the time they'd known him, did no one understand him yet. Really? Draco sighed and folded his arms across his chest.

Was this the reason why the ministry gave him a pardon—was his true punishment actually to be surrounded by imbeciles and morons the rest of his adult life?

Judging by Zabini's narrowed eyes, Draco got the very vivid impression that Zabini was quite capable of reading his mind, even without legilimancy. Not budging an inch, though, he gave him is patent Malfoy glare, hoping that it would deter him from digging too deep.

Fortunately, for Draco, Blaise gave up on the unimpressive (and some would call stupid) staring contest that ensued, and decided to address Ron instead: "Do you honestly want to know, Weasley?" he questioned.

"Well"— was Ron's muffled answer, as he'd just stuffed the last of the inedible roasted peanuts in his mouth— "Yeah…."

Undeterred by Draco's disdainful snort of laughter and encouraged by Ron's muffled, yet positive grunts, Zabini decided to proceed with his story.

"I know it sounds unjustifiable," he began, shooting a warning look at Malfoy. "But, yes, it did begin with, um, my natural inquisitiveness."

"You don't say?"

Ignoring Draco's snide comment, Blaise tugged anxiously at the edge his sleeves and continued. "You see, I'd just arrived back in the country when he … Lucius, I mean … approached me. He was," he swallowed nervously, "very persuasive."

Unnerved by the attentive silence which surrounded the table, Blaise glanced quickly around. Upon seeing that even Draco looked fairly captivated, though, not to mention Weasley's open-mouthed gawk, he decided it was safe to carry on with his tale.

"You must remember … that I was eager for news and stuff. I'd been away for what seemed like forever and," Blaise eyed Draco meaningfully, "your father provided me with some answers.

"It wasn't all the Dark Lord business that interested me, though … I mean, I was never really into that side of things. I just wanted to know what'd been going on—I wanted to feel included." Blaise paused a moment and a tiny thoughtful frown marred his fine brow, before he went on with his confession.

"I found out too late, though," he licked his lips apprehensively, "that he was totally and utterly insane…."

"Of course you did." The lack of malice in Draco's voice seemed to give Zabini some small indication of hope. Concentrating hard on his face, Draco wondered, was he truly willing to listen to him this time? He had to admit, Zabini did seem genuinely regretful; however, his excuses still seemed to be slightly lacking to him. So he continued, drawling: "About the blackmail, though?"

"I tried to back out!" Blaise protested.

"I see…."

"But…"

"Ye-es?"

"Stop giving him a hard time, Malfoy…" Inserting himself in the role of peacekeeper, Ron decided it was high time for intervention. "Anyway," he said, staring obviously at his watch. "Didn't Gin say eight sharp?"

"So … are you going to spill the beans?"

Torn between the two of them, Blaise decided on the Slytherin approach. "Did you say it was … eight o'clock?"

"Quarter to eight, to be exact," Ron smiled ruefully, "but if you get going now…."

"What about the blackmail?" Despite everything, Draco desperately needed to know. "Zabini, you can't leave off there!"

"Another time," Zabini muttered, "Right now, I need to get home and shower, buy some flowers, and … Merlin! … she'll bloody kill me!"

"Zabini?"

Try as he might, though, Blaise ignored all of Draco's protests; because (apparently) The Weaslette provoked previously sane Slytherins to forget what really mattered. To say the least, Draco was feeling extremely irate.

"So, once again, you're not going you tell," he tried to probe, not giving up. "For fucks sake, Zabini!"

Flustered, Blaise tried to ignore him. "Another time, Malfoy … leave it, yeah, but I really have to…."

"Oh just fuck off then, Zabini," Draco snarled, letting his irritation show. "I don't honestly give a shit about your confession … I seriously don't really give a flying fuck—"

"Yeah you do, mate!"

Draco glared heatedly at Ron, realising that he had a valid point.

"No use avoiding it, Malfoy," Ron went on. "You're in knee deep, wading…."

"Wading in what?" Seriously what on earth was the ginger-headed one going on about? Draco suspected that Ron had had one drink too many. "And, how many times do I have to remind you—I'm not your mate!"

"Right then, I'm off, goodbye—" Taking advantage of the situation, Zabini was already halfway across the crowded before Draco noticed.

"Wait, Zabini!" Ignoring him totally, Draco saw the wily Slytherin pick up speed. Seriously, how'd let him escape so easily … and just when the conversation was getting good, as well. Draco was not too happy about this, to say the very least. Feeling incensed, he shouted out again, this time in his most commanding voice: "Zabini, halt and desist!"

"No," Blaise mouthed back to him. At the doorway now, he smirked and wagged his fingers in a snide wave. Then, pointing a determined finger at him, Zabini continued the familiar mantra. "Go to see Emily."

"No!" This time it was Draco's turn to sound churlish. No, he bloody well wouldn't—he was sick and tired of being told what to do! And keeping up with the spirit of things, he gave Zabini a farewell one-fingered salute.

"Nice one, mate."

"What?" Draco snapped, not taking his glare off Zabini.

"The hand sign, really smooth and sophisticated," Ron blithered on. "You're definitely king of the subtle art of hand gesturing…."

"Are you quite sober, Weasley?"

Ron just grinned beatifically at him, which caused his blood to boil. Honestly, was he really that much of an imbecile?

Draco turned his hot stare on to the weasel instead. Taking his eyes off Blaise for mere seconds, nearly cost him dearly, though. Luckily, however, his Slytherin instinct kicked in and, from the corner of his eye, he was able to catch a glimpse of that sly, little toe-rag, Zabini, stood in the doorway, mouthing instructions to Ron … just in time.

"Don't waste your breath, Weasley."

"What?" This time it was Ron's turn to look confused. Waving a friendly goodbye to Blaise, as he slipped astutely through the door, Ron turned his head and looked at Draco straight on. "Whatcha talking about, Ferret?"

"I know your game…." Draco nodded, wisely.

"What game?"

"Don't act innocent with me, Weasel, I know what you're up to. I saw Zabini giving you his orders."

"Are you having me on or something?"

"That's bit rich, isn't it?" Draco drawled derisively. "I mean, coming from you, Weasley, of all people…."

"I seriously haven't a clue—what you're going on about?" Ron looked meaningfully at Draco's still untouched drink before changing the subject. "You going to drink that, Malfoy?"

"That's highly doubtful…." Eyeing the offending liquid balefully, Draco tightened his grip on his glass. However, he'd be damned if he'd let Weasley polish it off—as he'd already had one too many, if you asked his opinion. No, like many other things, the alcoholic beverage was his and his alone … and he so disliked giving away his own things. Smirking meanly, Draco deadpanned: "How like a Weasley … always first inline for a freebie."

Ron, however, being the bigger and better man, decided to ignore this jibe and changed the subject. "So, you still staying with Tonks then?"

"Stop changing the subject," Draco ordered, feeling slightly put out from Ron's lack of comeback. He hated to admit it, he rather liked their banter, and he was definitely in the mood for some top-notch bickering.

"So, will you be helping to baby-sit Teddy tonight?" Ron asked, blatantly changing the subject yet again. "That's quite nice of you really, letting Remus and Tonks go to the party together … it'll be their first time out since Lupin's recovery, won't it?"

Draco barely suppressed a shudder. To be honest, Teddy, his rainbow topped, little wolf cub of a cousin, was actually quite a sweet, little boy. However, he could also be quite the young terror, too. Draco suspected this was his mother's direct influence.

And, to make matters worse, he would have to put up with his Aunt Andromeda's unpleasant stares and miserable sighs all night. Honestly, was it his fault that he looked so much like his father? No, it bloody well wasn't! Just the thought of the night's impending prospects made going to see Emily again seem like a good idea. Even attending Potter's engagement party seemed more appealing.

Merlin's hairy balls! The weasel actually did have some brains hidden away in there! His tricky manoeuvring was even cunning enough to make a Slytherin proud. Not this Slytherin, obviously. But … Draco had to admit … that Weasley had been remarkably crafty for a Gryffindor. Still, he wasn't going to change is mind, was he?

Draco changed his strategy. "Clever moves there, Weasley," he said, scowling fiercely at the thought of what was to come. "It doesn't, however, modify my opinion on this infernal nuisance of attending Potter's party."

"Is this really still about the Harry thing?"

Draco chose not to answer and simply glared hotly at the thought of Harry bloody Potter.

Ron tried another ploy: "So … it's the wand thing, then?"

Draco exploded. "NO! It's not the bloody wand thing, Weasley. I don't give a fuckity-fuck about Potter's wand!" Draco paused to calm himself down—it wouldn't do to get too heated right now. Then, when he felt suitably cooled down, he began in a more dignified manner. "If the truth is be told, I couldn't care less if Potter killed my father.

"I mean, think about it, Weasley, how would you feel?"

"I couldn't even imagine being put in that position."

"Well, yes," feeling slightly mollified by Ron's response, Draco continued. "Let's leave it there, shall we? Suffice to say, despite my feelings at the time … it's all come to be rather a relief, more than anything else."

Ron nodded, thoughtfully. "So … it's the Emily thing then?" he correctly guessed.

"She still bloody believes she's in love with fuckwit Potter!"

"Oy," Ron reminded him. "That's my best friend, remember."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Of course I bloody remember, Weasley. How could anyone forget The Golden Bloody Trio? Now, if we can keep things on track—what am I going to do about Emily?"

"Go and see her, you prat!"

"But—"

"Do I have to tell you a thousand times that she's over all that stuff now? Her memory is starting to come back, Malfoy. She honestly doesn't give a fig about Harry anymore, and that's straight from the horses mouth—"

"Were you not at Snape's funeral?" Draco interrupted. "Did you not see her bloody running away from me, Weasley? She couldn't escape fast enough … Merlin, she ran so fast that she knocked poor Boris Widdershins into his mother's open grave—and he's still recovering from it! Face it, will you, she doesn't want to be with me anymore…."

"That's because it was too soon—you scared her off, Malfoy." Ron said, trying his hardest to get him to understand. "Between then and the time at the OoM ceremony, all you've managed to do is alienate her. She feels threatened by you….

"As Ginny tells it, Emily's afraid that you're just scheming scumbag you used to be back at Hogwarts. Yes, things are slowly coming back to her, that's true … but when you go in all snark and no trousers, she's bound not to have a more positive reaction."

"How do you suppose I'm to act, when that's just who I am, Weasley?" Draco questioned, with a plaintive edge to his voice. "Emily knows what I'm like … she once told me that she didn't want me to change … that she liked me for who I am. She should have remembered that…."

"But, her memory is still scattered in bits and pieces," Ron chided softly, "and she's not properly herself yet … so how about trying the softly, softly approach, huh?"

"I have," Draco stated simply. "That didn't work too well either."

Despite what Ron thought, Draco had tried a more gentle means. In fact, on the night of the infamous Order of Merlin ceremony, he'd been unadulterated affability itself. No, he'd been more than that—he'd just been simply himself.

And, in one instance, he'd thought he'd seen her soften. Looking up at him with that pretty, wide-eyed way of hers, she had brushed her hand gently against his cheek as she'd struggled to remember.

It had been so close. Draco had seen it in her eyes. Memories dancing just underneath the surface sheen, momentarily flickering amid the soft light in her eyes. Then, as soon as they had came, they had faded, leaving him alone with the more familiar blank-eyed Emily he'd come to know.

He had lost her again … and again.

"Are you feeling okay, Malfoy?"

"What?

"Is something wrong?" Ron persisted.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Draco promptly came to a decision.

"Yes, there is something wrong, as you so nicely put it, Weasley," he stated firmly, finally downing his whiskey in one swift gulp. Then, somehow managing to suppress a surprise choking fit (really, muggle whiskey should be made illegal) and maintain his composure, Draco suddenly Disapparated right in front of a gob smacked Ron.

…

"Blimey," Ron muttered, finding himself unexpectedly alone. Blinking away his dumbfounded, Ron hastily gathered his thoughts. What had the silly bugger done—disapparating like that?

Thank Merlin the pub was busy, and no muggle had noticed. Well, expect the scrawny one in the corner, who looked exactly like how he felt. Ron surreptitiously took out his wand and preformed a hastily aimed obliviate the unknowing man's way.

Thankfully, the charm worked instantly. Ron watched as the young man's eyes glazed over in the way he'd begun to know so well. Yes, it had definitely worked, he reassured himself.

Merlin he needed a whiskey—Malfoy could drive even those who walk down the path of abstinence to drink. What he thought he was doing, he didn't know; however, Ron was going to murder him when he next laid eyes on him, he was quite certain of that.

Now, what was that muggle bon-bon that Harry liked? He could do with some of that. Ron made his way to the bar, trying to remember.

"What you having, mate?"

Ron stared blankly into the Australian bartender's face. What was it called again…?

"Don't mean to hurry you, sir, but we're quite busy—"

Bingo! It finally came to him. Ron grinned happily at the harassed barman. "Sorry bout that, guess I was just wool-gathering, mate," he apologised, "I've decided now, though, and I think I'll have Daniel Jacks, please…."

Ignoring the bartenders mumblings about 'stupid losers who always thought they were being funny and wasting his time', Ron took the drink that the irate barman slammed down in front of him and made his way to the nearest nearly empty table.

Sitting down, he took his first sip. Ah, now this was really magic, he thought to himself, smiling cheerfully. Nothing in the wizarding world tasted quite like a shot of good ole' Jock Daniels!