I Love(d) You (Once)
Chapter Four: Feelings Lie
(Two days later)
Snow covered the sidewalks in dirty sludge and made everyone's shoes wet, but most people out on Christmas didn't care or even notice this sort of thing. They were too busy being in love.
The infamous red-head, whom he referred as The Weasel, Hermione's steady boyfriend (not that Draco had anything to say in the matter… that'd be weird) had his arms wrapped around a pretty blonde. She styled her hair in soft ringlets, and had a perfect figure for a magazine.
Ron Weasley, that pathetic bastard, thought Draco. How could you cheat on Hermione? AND ON CHRISTMAS NO LESS!
The couple walked into a hotel and Draco almost lost them at the revolving doors. He caught a glimpse of red and he ducked behind the counter, ignoring the faint and concerned gasp of the receptionist.
"Hello, sir," the receptionist said in his best customer voice. Drunk people at six already? Well, it was Christmas after all.
Draco pressed his head against the mahogany table top and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. In a few moments he planned to expose that LYING SONUVA Draco always knew he was. "Sh," Draco silenced him, "I'm on a mission right now."
"Draco Malfoy," the receptionist breathed.
"Yup." He shifted his body so he remained hidden behind the counter. Any moment now, he was going to catch Ron red-handed. Draco peeked out from behind the desk and saw the red head and the blondeholding hands. Their hands never left each other, even when they ate. Draco made a face at the inefficiency of their consumption methods. The blonde giggled when the man kissed her hand. "In plain view too. To put it on your words, you're somewhat famous you know. Have some shame!"
He stomped over to the couple and prepared to rip Ron the-bastard-Draco-always-knew-he-was Weasley into the next century.
"Zho's this?" the blonde woman said, a worry line creasing her angelic—almost too beautiful to be human—face. But with more important things to do than stare at this exquisite piece of femininity, Draco skidded into place and slammed both of his palms onto the couple's table for dramatic effect, Interrogation-Room Style.
"Weasley, you—"
"Hm?" The red head turned and Draco's jaw-dropped.
"Bill Weasley?"
"That's me," the man replied with a wolfish grin.
Of course. He should have realized. There was no way Ron could snag such a babe anyway. The flaming red hair was a family trait and Ron had what, five brothers or something? Their family had bred like rodents. They called their home "The Burrow" for crying out loud.
"And you're Fleur Delacour," he said.
"Wealsey, not Delacour."
"Ha-ha-ha!" Draco laughed. "What a happy coincidence. I came over because I thought…" Draco started, thinking quick on his feet. He looked at the food on the table. "Your steak was too raw!"
And it was. The slab of steak swam in bloody juice and dyed the potatoes into a pastel pink colour.
"That's unacceptable," he continued on. "You should send it back."
Billy laughed and seemed to accept the explanation. "Thanks mate, but I ordered it like this on purpose."
"After a werewolf scratched zim," Fleur said, "ze likes his meat a little zit raw."
"That's, er… wonderful," said Draco, retreating. "Enjoy your meal then."
Bill and Fleur nodded at him, the latter still wondering why he had approached their table.
"Merry Christmas!"
"Bye!"
Bah humbug.
That was the last time, Draco promised to himself, he would embarrass himself like that. There was no way Ron would cheat on Hermione. Even he wasn't stupid enough to risk his relationship in such a way. Draco headed towards the Floo, ignoring the obvious stares from restaurant goers and the receptionist. "Never again," he vowed. "Never again."
The Christmas lights lit the buildings which surrounded them in a cheery glow. Ron kept his body close to Hermione's, and kept his best to keep them warm as they trudged through the streets of Paris.
Hermione stopped to admire the view around her, and although she had to admit sometimes wizards had no idea how to operate Muggle technology, the floating lanterns and fairy lights strung across the trees complemented each other.
That was more than she could say about how Molly used washing machines. Not that she had the right to complain. She ought to be grateful, Hermione chided herself.
The Weasleys had built them a temporary (but not so temporary because Ron had been living there for five years and two for her) extension next to The Burrow. The Weasley family referred to the property fondly as the The (Love) Nest.
But one day she had come home to find their small apartment flooded. And she just loved the fact Ron had given Molly a spare key without consulting her first.
If there was one thing Hermione loved, it was having her privacy invaded. Ha, ha, ha!
But at least, she consoled herself, the laundry's getting done. When they decided to move in together, Hermione had anticipated that Ron would be a slob. She didn't realise she'd be a slob too. One would think charming the laundry and dishes to do their own dirty work (haha) would be a piece of cake, but somehow Hermione and Ron never got round to waving their wands and chanting three syllables.
"What are you thinking of?" Ron asked, his warm breath dancing on the planes of her cheek.
"We need to do our dishes when we get back."
"Hermione! We are in one of the most romantic places on earth and you're thinking about the dishes back home?" exclaimed Ron, slapping the back of his hand on his forehead like a damsel in distress. He picked her off her feet and whirled her around. She screamed in delight as powdered snow swished around them. Ron placed her down on the ground again, this time facing the Eiffel Tower. It glowed in the distance; its light blurred by the fog and snow.
Ron pointed at the Tower. "Paris! Love! Romance! And Ginny's yelling at me for not having a single romantic bone in my body—"
Hermione shoved a handful of snow into his mouth. It soaked her mittens and she laughed at his expression.
"Hermione!" He planted a trail of kisses and Hermione giggled and sighed in his embrace.
"I don't think it'll ever get better than this," he murmured in his ears, tightening his hold on her. Hermione's scrunched her face and hugged Ron even tighter, her heart pounding in her chest.
(1900 London)
Draco opened the door to his modest apartment, hoping to nurse his public mortification with a gallon of ice-cream and some sappy Muggle film on the telly designed for single fools like him. Maybe some silly soap opera with a tragic storyline and childhood love would air tonight. Draco snorted. Not that he wanted to get back with his childhood love. After the period of insanity he deemed as his "teenage years" passed, Pansy and he discovered the best thing they could do was to stay out of each other's pants (or skirt) and be friends.
"Ah, Draco-boy, you're home!" His sometimes-worse-enemy sat on his couch and welcomed him home with open arms. "You look like you're heading for the gallows. Let me guess, you saw a certain brunette today."
"No." He scowled and shoved Blaise's legs off one side of the couch, making room for himself. "And it would be nice if you left me alone for tonight."
"What kind of friend would I be if I left you in such a state?"
"A compassionate one."
A knowing leer flared up Blaise's face. "Ah, so it is about her."
Draco sighed and felt a rush of deja vu, knowing from previous times in the last few years exactly how this conversation would end. There was nothing to be done but to give in, and being Draco's best mate since he could count, Blaise had witness him do unbearably worse things. Blaise wouldn't judge him for what he did today. He would find it hilarious. "I saw a certain red-head with a leggy blonde today."
"What? But you said the Weasel and Granger's relationship was perfect. What kind of sick kid cheats on their girlfriend on during the Christmas season?"
Draco sighed and sank into the couch, wishing it would swallow him up. "So I followed them."
"Bet you did. I told you you'd have a thing for her when you told me you were working together—"
"To see Fleur Weasley."
"Oh, with his brother's wife? Double nasty—"
"And Bill Weasley."
Blaise snorted and erupted cackles. "You are hopeless! I can't believe you fancy someone you bullied in Hogwarts and is happily in a long-term relationship with Ronald Weasley." He put a hand on his friend's shoulder and lowered his voice, hoping what he was about to say next would not only reach Draco's brain — for he had no doubt the blond knew this fact long ago — but his heart. "For all his red-hair, freckles and stupidity, he would never cheat on her."
Draco tried to suffocate himself with a pillow, still scarred from the event. "I don't like her now," grumbled Draco. "I've thought long and hard about it—"
"Proves that you've been thinking a lot about Granger—"
"I just admire all the qualities she has. While I would want someone like her, it doesn't mean that I want her."
"Yeah, yeah. You've told me this all before. And remember? The first time you told me, I determined that a lie. If you were that Pinocchio guy, your nose would reach up to the moon."
Draco sighed. "Okay, maybe I liked her a little bit—"
"Yeah, if you count three years as 'a little bit'."
"I don't even like her."
"And you haven't had a proper girlfriend since, what? Pansy?"
"Being a death eater and having been accused of murdering your father isn't a great quality to have in a potential boyfriend."
"Some people dig the bad boys. I'm living proof of the fact." Blaise watched his friend cross his arms and sulk and sensed Draco was in one of his stubborn moods and decided to give up… for now. He got up from the couch and reached into the fridge. "But you didn't even get convicted. The courts found you innocent. Want anything?"
"But to everyone, I'm the slippery eel that managed to get away." Draco didn't reject the glass of firewhiskey Blaise placed in his hand when he came back from the kitchen.
"Mate, you can't live like this; pining only after a girl who is unavailable, and not looking out for other prospects."
"I'm not doing that. I'm… what?" he asked when he saw Blaise's mouth stretch into a Cheshire-cat grin. Draco blinked a few times, and the firewhiskey had left a strange acrid taste in his mouth.
"We're going out to Parkinson's," said Blaise, beaming. "What's a party without us?"
Draco groaned. "I've told you I didn't want to go. Leave me to my telly and ice-cream."
"Do you think I would allow you to spend the whole night sulking?" said Blaise, taking the glass from Draco's hands. "I thought you just said you were going to look for someone else."
Draco shook his head. "I did. But I have a feeling, and it's screaming at me to stay at home."
"Well, I have 'a feeling' too."
"And?
"It's telling me those feelings often lie. C'mon!"
TBC