The Pretense of Civility

Pairing: Dramione (Draco x Hermione)

Universe: muggle AU

Rating: M for sex

Summary: Olivie Advent cont'd.

Prompts: 1) a Gossip Girl AU; 2) that Gossip Girl episode with the peace treaty, where they exchange I hate yous; 3) a Dramione in college AU.

Gossip Girl here, back with a special holiday update. As of today, finals are at an end, which means your Manhattan elite are finally out to play—or are they? Climate change is no joke bbs, and this year's snowfall means there's no place like home for the holidays. Even the private jets of Columbia's finest can't take the chill, while the Brooklynites are bailing on their upstate meditation retreats to settle their angst with some cruelty-free vegan cocoa.

With our reigning Park Avenue Princess cozying up to the Chosen One this December, will there finally be—dare I say it—peace? Not if D and H have anything to say about it. As far as I'm concerned, this year's snowpocalypse means the real winter games are about to begin.

"Sign it," said Pansy flatly, sliding the page across the table to Draco.

"It would really mean a lot to us," added Harry, though he had the requisite sense to address that particularly useless remark to the only person in the room who would bother listening to him to begin with.

Draco cast a glance beside him to Hermione Granger, who for some godforsaken reason still hadn't disappeared. Her scholarship to Hogwarts High had been bad enough for the last four years, but Draco had been sure there would be no further reason to concern himself with her existence once he'd started at Columbia. She was supposed to be at NYU learning about Nietzsche or animal husbandry or something, totally forgotten as a single, troublesome blip on his social and academic radar, but then by some cruel twist of fate she wasn't. She was at his school. In his life. Again.

He adjusted his Maison Margiela sweater and turned disinterestedly away until Pansy snapped her fingers twice in his face, prompting him to a scowl.

"You will get along," she warned, threatening him with a glance. "We're all going to be together at the Christmas party tomorrow night, and I will not allow you two to ruin this for us—again," she added with a glare, echoing his precise thought. "Am I understood?"

Beneath the table, Hermione tapped her heinous winter boots and sighed.

"Fine," she conceded to Harry, pointedly ignoring Draco as she reached for the pen. "But only because it's you. And also because you'll owe me for the next hundred years."

"Understood," said Harry, obviously relieved.

Hermione swirled her name in script and handed the pen to Draco, who balked, glaring at her.

"Do it," Pansy said, "or I'll tell everyone what happened last year in Aspen."

"What happened last year in Aspen?" Harry asked, and Pansy pointedly arched a brow in Draco's direction, aiming it like a weapon. Hermione, still holding the pen, gave Draco a look like whatever, don't care, which was about as plebeian a lie as it could possibly be.

Naturally he'd rather die than have anyone find out, and Pansy knew it. Worse, she was certainly sadistic enough to call his bluff.

"Fine," Draco muttered, snatching the pen from Hermione's hand and scrawling his signature onto the page. "Let's just get this over with."

The contract, if one could call it that despite the fact that it would never hold up in any court as a result of being openly unconscionable and probably also extortion, was two parts: one, a peace treaty, and two, submission to one (1) day of forced togetherness so that tomorrow, at Pansy's parents' annual Christmas party that was the 'event of the season' (meaningless to Hermione, but so be it), the bourgeoisie of the Upper East Side could remain blissfully undisturbed. Why Hermione had to be part of it in any conceivable way was unclear, though Harry seemed to consider it a truce of sorts. "Pansy's just trying to be friends," he offered optimistically, though Hermione doubted it. It seemed more probable that this was all punishment from some atrocity she'd committed in a past life.

Hermione, thoughtfully winding her scarf around her neck, was fairly certain the only way she could survive a day with Draco (a favor she would perform for Harry and Harry alone) was to very deliberately keep from speaking. "We could see a movie," she suggested, annoyed that he was already eyeing her knitted scarf as if he'd rather she freeze to death than force him to be seen standing next to it. "There's a foreign film festival in—"

"Do not," snapped Draco, "say Brooklyn."

"It's in Harlem," Hermione informed him, irritated anew as she shoved the signed contract into her pocket, "but never mind, meaningless classism it is. Do you have any better ideas?"

"We're going to Barney's," Draco informed her, yanking the door open to wave her through it, while Hermione stared blankly after him.

"What?"

"I have shit to do, Granger. You can tag along like a good girl," he suggested with a snide expression of open challenge, "or we can tell Pansy you're the one who broke the contract."

God, he was the absolute worst. On the bright side, it was the worst possible time to be visiting a department store, so maybe he'd be trampled to death somewhere around the makeup counters.

"Fine," Hermione allowed, gritting her teeth. "I need new gloves anyway."

He slid a pursed glance to her current gloves, which had been knitted by her roommate. There were beets dangling from the fingertips, which weren't exactly useful or attractive, but she couldn't exactly say no. She hadn't meant to use them today, but they'd been right beside the door, and, well…

"You certainly do," Draco said with displeasure, letting the door fall shut just as she turned to follow him.

"Let me guess," she sighed, which was almost certainly the unpromising and intolerable commencement of yet another nonsensical rant. "You want me to try on one of these dresses under the pretext of needing one as a gift, when really, you're just going to subjugate me with the usual chauvinism of the male gaze, all because Pansy's got some sort of dirt about your recreational drug use or, I don't know, teen fight club that'll prevent your future appointment to the cabinet?"

It was just like her to be so self-righteous. It was the same whether the situation was the final round of Model U.N. or a simple fucking errand. Hermione Granger, Brooklyn-born and hippie-bred on a lifelong diet of wheatgrass and liberalism, didn't have a single opinion that wasn't militantly socialist and/or built on a fundamental misunderstanding of capitalism as a whole.

She didn't belong in his world, much less in his comparative literature course. Or in any of the three classes they had together outside of his introduction to finance course, which was the one she actually needed.

"First of all, I have no interest in gazing at you, male or otherwise," Draco informed her impatiently. "I'm supposed to have a gown sent for my mother, who's at least six inches taller than you, so as far as I'm concerned, you can sit quietly until I'm finished."

He turned, expecting her to do as he'd instructed, but of course she leapt forward and collided promptly with his heel. "For fuck's sake," he growled, fully trod upon by the heavy tread of her stupid boots, but she ignored him.

"What's the gown for?" she asked.

"The Christmas party," he snapped, "obviously."

"Isn't it a family party? I thought your family and Pansy's were close."

Questions, questions, questions. "Yes, Granger, they are." Just ask Page Six.

"But then why—"

"Tradition, Granger, is what separates us from the animals," sighed Draco, rounding on her in agitation. "If you were part of this world in any conceivable way, you'd understand."

"But that's the point—I can't be part of it, can I? And anyway, tradition is inherently fallacious," she said, expressionless. "Most of the world's current traditions came from the Victorians and were spread via imperialism."

Jesus Christ. "So?"

"So," she retorted, liberally emphatic, "doesn't it bother you that you're contributing to a stratified class system that not only ensures continued inequality, but celebrates it?"

"Oh, please," Draco scoffed, having had enough of this argument from their final round of debate senior year with McGonagall, another notorious left-wing nutjob. "If you want money, Granger, get a job. Start a business. Whatever. I can't help those who don't help themselves."

"Oh right, a business," Hermione echoed. "Do you mean the one your father inherited from his father that got bailed out by Congress, or the one his father got a million dollar loan from his father to start? So difficult to remember which is which," she added facetiously, "seeing as neither one pays taxes."

Draco, exasperated, plucked a slinky black dress off the rack and thrust it in her hands. "Put that on," he suggested, letting his eyes travel pointedly down the bulge of her probably-recycled shapeless puffer coat. "I might be able to stand you if I had something decent to look at."

Hermione scowled, silenced by fury, and Draco smiled to himself. At least he still knew how to shut her up.

Pansy and Harry had almost gotten together once before, but then Hermione and Draco had gotten into an argument so heated it had gotten them both suspended. One thing led to another and Harry had sided with Hermione, Pansy with Draco, and for months the line was drawn somewhere around the East Village. Now they were trying it again, only Hermione and Draco were still… Hermione and Draco.

Meaning: he was still a total asshole and she still hated every individual atom of his guts.

"Let's just go back to my place," Draco said. "It's big enough that we can avoid each other all afternoon."

"Great," spat Hermione, only with the weather so bad and getting worse every hour, they waited outside for a cab only for her to give up in teeth-chattering exasperation, dragging him to the nearest subway entrance. From there, every train car was packed and suffocating, and Draco, princess that he was, wouldn't stop complaining at length about the assault to his senses as if she had somehow craved the smell of urine, or getting dick pics air-dropped to every phone on the train. Eventually, Hermione couldn't stand him or the heat, letting the crowd shove her out the door at what turned out to be entirely the wrong stop.

"I want some coffee," she announced, registering her error with a mild flame of frustration. She could never admit it now; he'd lord it over her forever. Or at least until Pansy and Harry had the decent sense to break up.

"From here?" Draco asked, patently doubtful.

"Yes," she said, shoving into whatever nameless cafe was nearest to where they'd paused outside the turnstiles.

The coffee was watery and acidic, but at least it was hot. Draco, meanwhile, looked at his cup like it might come to life and eat him. "This is disgusting."

"It's cheap," said Hermione, forcing cheerfulness. "Enjoy it."

"Whatever," he said, shoving it listlessly away before adding, "You really shouldn't drink Sumatra."

"Why," she scoffed, "is Indonesia suddenly too plebeian for you?"

He tossed her a glare. "They intentionally burn the forests, Granger. Contaminates the air in all the nearby countries. Shouldn't you already know that? Since you're so concerned about world peace or whatever," he added blisteringly, and she felt an uprise of annoyance.

He had so many terrible versions and somehow, the very worst one was when he was even moderately close to right.

"That isn't 'world peace or whatever,' Malfoy," Hermione snapped.

She glanced at her cup, and Draco launched one leg out, kicking her foot.

"Sorry," he said insincerely.

This was going to be a long fucking day.

"Let's just get an Uber and go," growled Hermione.

"You do know Lyft has cleaner track record as far as data breaches and corporate policy," drawled Draco. "Or do you not care about #MeToo?"

She wanted to slam his head into the table, but managed to suppress it. Harry and Pansy are in love, she told herself for the fortieth time. Harry's in love, and also, I can't go to law school if I go to prison for murder first.

"Whatever," she said, tossing out her coffee half-drunk.

Surge pricing in this weather was so heinously exorbitant that there was no way she was even going to consider it. Draco could see the hesitation on her face, and the delight of offering her money only for her to self-righteously refuse was too delicious to resist.

"Need something?" he prompted, the portrait of innocence. As predicted, she shoved her phone back in her monstrosity of a coat.

"Let's get a drink," she said flatly, and he scoffed.

"Granger, it's four in the afternoon. Just admit you can't afford the Uber." She was so fruitlessly immovable he suspected she'd gladly die before asking him for help. He was no different, probably, but this wasn't about him.

"It's cold and I want a drink," she said, proving him right. "So are you coming with me, or is Pansy going to have to tell us what you did in Aspen?"

Ah. So she was curious, then.

"After you," he offered in the most lofty iteration of his voice, waving her onward.

She glared at him, but for once, comeuppance was particularly expeditious. She slipped immediately on slick ice, landing hard on her backside while he took a long, deliberate step, leaning pointedly over her.

"Don't suppose you need help getting up?" he mused aloud.

"Fuck off, Malfoy." She was effortlessly predictable.

"Language," he drawled, tugging at his leather gloves while she struggled to her feet. Thankfully she'd bought herself a new pair at Barney's, as her old ones were properly revolting. These still weren't leather—something about cows, though he reminded her vegan leather was plastic and therefore equally problematic—but were at least moderately less embarrassing to be seen with.

She led them to a nearby dive bar, which upon entry was revealed to be filled with what Draco's mother liked to call 'the elements'—drunks half-passed out on the bar, lunatics chattering to themselves, plus an entire group of men who smelled like smoke and a couple more who would have been vastly improved by the smell of smoke. He would have dubbed it disgusting and left on the spot had Hermione not been just as uncomfortable as he was and twice as unlikely to admit it.

"We could leave," he murmured in her ear, taunting her with the possibility of admitting defeat, and she shoved him brusquely away.

"It's fine," she said, lyingly. "It's character. These are real people, Malfoy, which of course you wouldn't know anything about."

It was consistently astounding just how ridiculous she could be. "Granger," he growled, "just admit my way of life is preferable and let me pay the surge fee, would you? This is getting stupid."

"Or," she countered, "we could get back on the train. I've got an Italian roast in my dorm," she offered melodically, "if that's more suitable to your product ethics."

The idea of what sort of communal anarchy he might find in her dorm room was enough to reduce him to shudders. "I'm not getting on that train again. It's sweltering, and anyway, the tracks are probably frozen by now—"

"Well, then I'm not leaving here," she informed him stubbornly, plunking down on a bar stool and shoving her coat forcefully from her shoulders. "So either you drink or you tell Pansy the contract is void."

He stared at her, wondering just how much he wanted to push the limits of his father's friendship with the District Attorney before finally pulling out the chair beside her.

"Fine," he said, flashing a bill between his fingers at the bartender. "Then we're drinking."

He was much too pretty for prison, and anyway, he could definitely use a drink.

She preferred him silent, ideally comatose, so naturally he opted for revoltingly chatty. Within an hour she was pretty sure she had enough information for nearly all his bank codes. His mother's birthday, the city his parents met, his first pet. (A turtle named Herbie, called Herb as it matured. Narcissa had allergies.) He still lived in the same penthouse where he was born, so the street he lived on was easy enough, though apparently he had a second house in the Hamptons and a third somewhere on the Riviera, which offset her calculations.

She, meanwhile, was starting to feel it by the bottom of her first drink, though any further feelings had the courtesy to blissfully depart by drink three or four. Apparently she was being funny or something, because Draco was laughing. At her, not with her, probably, but she was too cold and miserable to care.

"You know, I'll never like you," she informed him, possibly a bit slurred. "If today's convinced me of anything, it's that."

"Personally, I plan to hate you as long as I live," he told her, flagging the bartender down for shots. "You're repugnant."

"Why," she scoffed, "because I don't have a trust fund? Or because someone else had to pay for me to go to your school?"

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, Granger. It's your personality I can't stand," he assured her at a drawl, sliding the glass of tequila in her direction.

"Ugh. Tequila. You would." Secretly, she liked tequila shots more than most other forms of alcohol. The ritual of it was comforting: lick your hand, pour the salt, lick it off, toss back the shot, bite down on the lime. Fluid, comprehensible, beholden to scientific properties. She performed the ceremony with furtive relish, wincing as the alcohol burned down her throat and then shuddering around the citrus.

Beside her, Draco licked the sheen of alcohol from his lips. "You're the worst," he told her, reaching for the lime wedge between her fingers and sucking at what little remained.

Her fingers brushed his Adam's apple as he swallowed. Perturbed and disgusted, she waved the bartender for another round, tossing the discarded lime aside.

"You're paying for this," she informed him.

"Should've just let me pay for the Uber."

"Lyft."

"'kay," he said, obediently lifting his hand. She paused for half a second, then licked it, sprinkled the salt over it, and handed it back to him as the bartender refilled their glasses.

This time, Draco raised the tequila to his lips and held it there, tilting his head back and downing the shot in one swallow. Then he leaned forward, replacing the glass on the bar with his mouth. "Yikes," he said, eyes watering.

It occurred to her that maybe this was not her best idea. Still, the opportunity to watch him suffer was too pleasing to resist, so Hermione shoved his head back, squeezing drops of lime onto his tongue.

He licked his lips again, sparing her a glare. "Your turn."

"Fuck you," she said, and took another lick from his hand, smugly challenging him to stop her. In apparent reprisal, he held the glass up to her lips, tipping the liquid so forcefully between them she nearly choked on her swallow. "Lime," she coughed up, reaching for it, but he plucked it from the dish first.

He raised it to his own mouth, holding it between his teeth. "Let me order the Uber," he said around the rind, taunting her with it.

This was the problem. When it came down to it, it was this: everything with him was a taunt, a dare, a challenge. Everything was push and pull, hot and cold, and she always felt mystified by him, caught up in a burst of confusion.

Time to make things simple.

She rose to her feet, grasping his jaw stiffly with one hand, and leaned forward, loosening the lime from his lips with her tongue. He shuddered, and she, triumphant, sucked the lime's juices dry before tossing it aside.

"I hate you so much," she said, pursing her lips from the tartness, pure citrus.

"Finally, something we have in common." He picked up his phone with a sparkling laugh.

They fumbled into his foyer, him stripping the coat from her shoulders and tossing it blindly away. Beneath it, much to his astonishment, she had an actual shape. A good one. He wanted to frame it on his mantle, wrap it in silk. He wanted to fight with her about Reaganomics in the bath. Wanted to sip champagne from her navel while she lectured him about Iraq.

"Jesus," she said into his sweater, half-melting into it. "This feels like butter."

"It's cashmere, sweetheart," he told her, reveling in the growl that followed. "But don't worry, I wouldn't expect you to know your textiles."

"God, I hate you so much," she said again, and kissed him to prove it, biting hard on his lip.

He laughed, dizzy and day-drunk, and sat her on top of the foyer's untouched baby grand, removing her stupid boots one by one. They spent hundreds of dollars to tune it only for it to sit here and shine, useless. Her narrow heel could dig into a flawless middle C, finally something worth playing, and it would be fucking extravagance. A perfect fucking waste.

"You," he said to her mouth, "are exhausting. I hate you so much it burns." Or more accurately, it throbbed.

In answer, she withdrew the contract from her pocket, tearing it mindlessly to shreds as he pulled his sweater over his head, tossing it aside.

"It's off," she said, letting the pieces scatter to the floor. "We can't get along. Peace canceled."

She was looking at him like she'd happily stab him with his mother's good crystal, burying the shards somewhere in his ribs. She could watch him bleed or curl her palm around his cock, same thing. Her impassivity was incandescent.

"Good." He slid his tongue in her mouth, laughing again when he tasted tequila and surrender. "Besides," he murmured, "it really doesn't matter who the fuck Pansy tells."

Hermione dug her nails into his chest, red crescents blooming from her touch. "What'd you do in Aspen?"

"Got drunk," he said, sliding a hand into her jeans. He shoved aside what was definitely not La Perla with a desperate clench of his jaw, finding its contents to be decadent enough without it. The only thing more impossible than basic amicability was clearly going to be restraint.

She tugged his head back by his hair, prompting him to a groan. "And?" she prompted, one hand clawed around his neck. Her teeth scraped over her lips, bitten and red, slick with promise. Vindictive with it.

Finally. Someone who could keep up. He hated her most for that, or for making him wait. For making him suffer, which only she could do. All of the above.

He dove his fingers deeper, possessive, and caught her moan on his tongue.

"Told her," he murmured to her mouth, "that I wanted to fuck you." He peeled back the cup of her bra with his free hand, sliding his tongue over the bead of her nipple until she gasped. "But no one would ever believe that, would they?"

"Nope," she agreed, tugging at his zipper and drawing him between her legs. "Not in a million years."

Well, would you look at that. It might be cold outside, but baby, it's hot in here. The planet might be in crisis, but these polar icecaps melting? That's my kind of fun. XOXO—Gossip Girl.

a/n: Just saying, when a man sells his girlfriend for a hotel and repeatedly tries to convince her that her only value is his love, the only thing I ship him with is the bottom of the ocean. Cheers! XOXO, Olivie.