I Love(d) You (Once)

Chapter Twenty-one: Put Me in the Story

When times got too sad for Draco to bear upon his set of shoulders, he counted the small victories to make peace of a terrible situation befallen to him.

He had held it together. That was a good thing.

He also managed to deliver one of the best parting lines he could remember. That was another one good thing.

However, even this mental technique could not overcome the big bad that occurred subsequently. For better or for worse, he had always been in the attention of the public eye. Though he had felt relative anonymity in the States, Draco Malfoy was always one to be conscious the media had its eyes on him. He supposed that it was only right. The world would just be too unfair to endow him with fame, fortune, beauty and a reasonable expectation of privacy entitled to a member of the general public. To have all those things would swing too greatly the Scales of Fairness and Lady Justice herself would be blind.

Recognition of these facts, however, did not preclude in Draco cursing: "What made you like this?" He'd picked up the paper left on his doorstep on the way into his flat, and he waved his fists in the air as he entered. "Half an hour, a damned half an hour."

Half an hour was all it took for the press to begin publishing their stories. If there was nothing which infuriated Draco more, it was the lack of journalistic integrity that plagued Daily Prophet. The stories were as accurate as prophesies. Drained from the emotional ordeal, curiosity got the best of Draco. Sprawled across his settee in the lounge, he grimaced and skimmed the headline in the article featuring himself.

The headline read:

ASTORIA IN TEARS: THIS IS THE END!

From the set of pictures accompanying the article—featuring Astoria in all favourable angles and looks, and Draco (goodness, did they somehow take a photo of him after his two-week stakeout assignment last year?) with his stern countenance—the media had already set the narrative.

"So I'm the villain in this story," he said. The paper rustled as he rolled it into a tight log, and he flung it sideways. The paper-log twirled across the room, rebounded off the mantelpiece and ricocheted into the fireplace. Draco Malfoy, in heartache, sank into his couch and stared at his ceiling, mulling over the demise of his relationship. He closed his eyes and pressed his hands against his face, trying to stop the strange ringing that was fast becoming a petulance in his ears.

(Hermione, in a tent, somewhere scenic)

Of course, by way of magical post, the stories in the magical community spread faster than Fiendfyre. In the same nature as the curse, sensational pieces of vitriol—follow-up pieces from other media outlets soon came after—fanned its own flames and chased the subject matter until they were smothered and consumed an inferno of poor journalism. She was lucky that with her Golden Girl privileges she had worked out, some years before, an understanding which ensured the media left her alone for the everyday ups-and-downs of her life. Hermione knew it had a little to do with the fact she did not invite the media upon herself—and had receded in a backstage role for the better half of the decade—she could not imagine how she would have felt if strangers lambasted her breakup with Ron…

With disgust, especially since she knew the truth of what happened behind Draco and Astoria's breakup, Hermione tore the newspaper into very tiny pieces before incinerating it. Dusting her hands off the charred pieces, Hermione hunted for her butcher knife.

She placed it on her table top before kneeling towards her fridge, rummaging through the cold box to find an assortment of vegetables and one whole raw chicken. She had been saving it for a special day. She brandished her knife and chopped the carcass in half. The table shook, and she caught the rolling onion away in one hand. Although she had learnt, courtesy of Molly to make food with magic, she still preferred to do things manually.

There was nothing quite as stress-reducing as dismantling all the meat from a skeleton…

Draco usually liked being the reserved, stoic type. It just took too much energy to be dramatic! all the time like Pansy Parkinson. However, he did realise years of internalised emotions and repressing any outburst probably meant he couldn't deal with emotions very well.

Probably.

He didn't want to meet with Blaise (Blaise would somehow always induce him to imbibe medically ill-advised amounts of alcohol). More importantly, Blaise was too understanding, too empathetic for Draco to tolerate. He could not have someone pity him. His damned pride would not allow it.

Adrian was always sympathetic and was close, but not close-close with him. Draco couldn't imagine going to him for any comfort. Furthermore, he was so detached from all that was happening in Britain—he was too busy making improvements to the world to care about stories churned from the rumour mills. It meant that Draco would have to explain to him, what happened between himself and Astoria… and he just couldn't make himself tell people how Astoria had cheated on him.

Yes it was his personal pride that got him again.

His pride was a hefty thing which buoyed him against the slander and hate directed towards him, but what a price he had to pay. Although his petty, vindictive self would have wanted nothing better than to ruin Astoria's reputation by shouting her misdeeds to the whole world, it also meant the whole world would know he, Draco, had been usurped.

So no.

Adrian, for various reasons, was not a viable option.

Pansy Parkinson. It occurred to Draco that she knew before him, of Astoria's infidelity. In hindsight it was obvious, she was insistent that he meet with Astoria and break up with her. He wouldn't need to explain anything to her, but he was so-so tired. He didn't think he could deal with such a high-strung character right now.

Draco sighed, his head lolling to the side and his arms reached to the rug on the floor. He played with its tasseled edges. Maybe I should get a cat or dog or something, he mused. Though with his current lifestyle, taking care of a pet seemed an irresponsible thing to do… there was too much work.

And speaking of work, he remembered there was someone whose company he enjoyed, and who in turn, found it just fine to stay and to have nothing to stay with each other.

But they were workmates. And to invite her over just to hang out? Impossible. That being said, he could get a semblance of company if he called her… about work. Feeling terribly dumb and numb from the constraints of the character he set himself, he sighed and closed his eyes again, hoping to get through the night by himself.

The more Hermione thought about it, the more outraged she felt about the situation.

How unfair was it really, that Draco was being painted a villain in this manner! Sure, he could be a bit mean, unreasonable and petty at times, just like that time when they had their major tiff. But weren't those the same words used to describe her personality often? He didn't deserve to be defamed as "a scoundrel who played with dear and darling Greengrass' heart."

Hermione, always the champion of righteousness, was so miffed with the article described a friend who was quite decent, reverted to basic instinct as she was preparing her ingredients.

She cooked for two.

Now before a delicious ensemble of root vegetables, skins roasted to a perfect, delicate crisp; chicken tenderly cooked and succulent, piping hot out of the oven laid a dilemma.

She obviously couldn't eat all of the dish. There was way too much. While she could leave it for leftovers, this dish—the pinnacle of her culinary skills—was a rare sight and seemed too much a waste to be eaten unshared.

She could have shared it with her friends—except everyone had gone to the Weasley Sunday Brunch. Of course, she had been invited, but Hermione had promised Mrs Weasley she would attend the next one (I promise I will be there next time, Molly). Which left…

Who was in particular need of attention, and the source of her distraction in the first place?

Brrrinnngg brriinnnggg bringgg…

"Draco Malfoy?" she asked herself, when she saw whose name showed up on the caller ID.

"Granger," his voice sounded tinny in her receiver. "I'm not sure if you read the Daily Prophet. I plan to work at home at least on Monday to avoid the kerfuffle. Could you please bring my files from the office some time before then?"

Hermione frowned as she continued to listen to him ramble on about the status of the projects and made herself comfortable on the couch as he enquired about the progress of her projects, what Artie was doing… and the status of each file on Floor 3. As if he didn't know himself.

"So yeah, the blue files on the side of my desk—"

That was the third time he had talked about the blue files. "Ah, Draco," she said, interrupting him mid-sentence.

There was silence. Then. "Oh I'm sorry, I should have realised it's the weekend. You must be busy doing your own things… I'll talk to you some other time then."

"No wait!" Hermione said, standing up from her couch. She thought fast. "Chicken!"

"What?"

Hermione buried her face in her hands. It was a little weird, she had to admit. But here was Draco who probably was alone, and his stubborn self subconsciously crying for company.

"Yes!" she said and she took a deep breath. "How do you feel about chicken? Eating them, not raising them, I mean. I made a dish and it turned out so perfectly it would be a tragedy not to share it with anyone… what I'm asking is, would you like some... now?"

There was a long pause on the phone and through the speaker, Hermione heard rustling as though Draco had suddenly stood up. "Uh. Sure?" There was rustling again, and this time, Draco's voice, distracted: "I have a bottle of red wine that also needs finishing."

As she suspected, she had made the right call.

"I'll be there in ten."

"See you in a bit, Granger."

"I realised this would be the first time I've visited your home," Hermione said, trying to lampshade the obvious. She motioned around her, the room was more cluttered with daily objects than she expected—somehow in her mind she expected to his living quarters to have… less warmth.

Instead, sunlight flooded the entire living area. A large coffee table stood in the middle of the room, with stacks and stacks of books and old magazine editions spilling from its bottom shelf. A tattered settee accompanied the table, and an assortment of cushions of shapes and sizes were strewn across it. A book faced open downwards perched on top of a bundle of blankets which, Hermione had no doubt, had been kicked into a small-ish lump. She raised an eyebrow. Surprisingly homely.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, noticing her eyes on the less-than-sterile state of his house. He wondered if he should have cleaned it better. He didn't think it was messy, but oh Merlin, did it smell?

Would you rather eat there, or there?" He gestured to the coffee table and the dining table.

Hermione spied several placemats in the bottom shelf the coffee table, wedged between two almost toppling piles of books. It appeared, the dining table was more for traditional décor than anything.

"Coffee table, please." She placed her dish onto the coffee table.

"Right," Draco said. He grabbed a set of wine glasses with one hand, and an opened wine bottle with the other and placed it onto the table. He settled himself on the floor. Resting his back on the front of the chair, he tucked one leg in and let the other straight. Hermione sat crossed-legged on the other side of the table, reaching to her dish and began serving up the plates. Draco poured two glasses of wine and shifted one of the cups to her side.

Hermione nodded her thanks and settled down on the floor as well, preferring to sit cross-legged. As she served the dishes, Draco kept silent and stared out of the window, he had in the few minutes of her arrival, expended all his energy in entertaining her. Hermione knew how that felt. She had wanted company (not to be alone), but didn't have enough energy to interact with people right after she broke up with Ron.

"How do you feel about watching TV while eating dinner?" she suggested to him.

"I've never done that before," he admitted. "But I am not adverse to trying." Draco frowned as though he'd never heard of this concept before. "Is that… a normal practice in a Muggle household?"

Hermione nodded and picked up the remote lying on top of the stash of books. She flicked through the channels, scouring for a show.

An hour and a glass of wine later, Draco wrinkled his nose. "What a lamentable mess," he said, referring to the stupid heroine tripping over a rock. "Honestly, who would like her if she's too stupid to walk!"

Hermione nodded and snorted at the glowing screen. "A disgrace to the human race."

Draco picked up the ceramic pan Hermione had brought the dish in and scraped the last bits of food onto his plate. He licked his fork clean and said: "Granger, you know this tastes quite good."

"I believe in Draco-speech it means "thank you for a wonderful meal"," she said with a flattered smile. Draco lifted both his eyebrows and gave them a good waggle to Hermione.

They didn't talk for a while after that, but that was all right. Munching filled the silence and they glued their eyes to the TV, watching the horrible dinnertime soap opera. They exchanged glances at each other in particular moments of disbelief, both at the show they were watching and the situation they were in now.

If someone had told them seven years ago they would be sharing a meal and watching television together, Hermione would have scoffed and Draco would have sneered and then asked what a television was.

The wind howled outside like a wolf high on the full moon and the shutters on Draco's windows rattled like a xylophone of bones on a skeleton. Rain drummed its tiny beat on the glass panes and thunder rumbled across the skies. Despite nature's noisy affair, the couple inside remained silent, staring at the screen.

Sometime between the second and third glass of wine, they both shifted up onto the couch. They sat at opposite corners of the couch and the blanket spread between their laps. Hermione watched the soap opera with disgust, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "Why would even one, not to mention two people chase after the heroine? Look at her!" She threw her arms up in the air and pointed an accusing finger at the television.

"You tell me," Draco replied. "This sets up a dangerous precedent for people to act like that. Honestly, people like her should just launch themselves off a cliff."

And they were silent once again.

The chilly tendril of winter tried its best to creep, sink and pucker into the narrow gaps of Draco's apartment, but they remained cosy on the couch. Soon, the night became pitch-black and only the streetlamps gave light to the shadowy apartment. Hermione's eyes lolled to the back of her head as she tried to fight off sleep. Her head rested on the pillow-like side of the armchair. "I'm just going to close my eyes for a bit. I think I'm going blind from her stupidity."

Draco made a low grunt. "Do as you please. I might do the same." There was something cathartic and sleep-inducing in the way one could lie on the couch after a hot meal, watching the telly while wind and rain rapped against a residence. "We'll have to soak the dish or it'll be ridiculous to clean."

Hermione pressed her forehead against the chair, almost catatonic. She didn't even care when Draco stretched his long legs and invaded her side of the couch. Seeing as he didn't seem to particularly mind her presence, she straightened her legs so it reached over to his side as well.

Draco snored lightly in response. She let out a faint giggle before surrendering herself to sleep, the last thought of the night being: she was sleeping next to Draco and it didn't feel out of place.

He dreamed. He dreamed of the woman beside him in an unbroken sleep, she laughed and spun away. Then came the dark flashes.

"Imperio!"

Draco saw himself blink twice slowly, sitting in his chair. Saw a black dot in front of his face. It slowly came into focus. A wand. Black ochre with a snake head as its hand grip. His father's wand.

"Draco….must…. never…"

His mother appeared in front of him with a tight-lipped expression. "You understand… only… way…"

Then he wished he never saw it. His father closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and he mouthed three words to his wife.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light exploded from his mother's wand and she smiled as she lowered it. Lucius Malfoy fell backwards. His eyes remained closed and his long hair splayed as the force of the spell knocked him backwards and he fell on his back, thudding twice on the ground before resting there and forever more. His mother faced him and pointed her wand to him, with a sickness growing within her eyes. "A bird in one hand is worth two in the bush."

Then everything went black again.

Draco gasped he jolted back into reality, feeling like he had been a piece of forlorn gum scrapped off a shoe. That dream again, his mind played tricks on him. Some nights, they would show him what the Boggart showed, or like last night, it would be this dream—he didn't know which one was real. He rubbed his puffy eyes (he hadn't been crying!) and started.

In the morning, before his coffee, sometimes things weren't very coherent. But never had he hallucinated like this before. Draco struggled to place what happened the night before. He sat up.

"Nnnn." A sound came from the floor. Judging from the groan, whoever was down there was NOT having a good time either.

"GAH!"

Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. That was the one name which through his head for the next few moments, and each time he called her name, he passed through different stages of emotion. First: shock (what was she doing here?), acceptance (right, she came over for dinner last night), exasperation (why hadn't she left?), worry (nothing happened, right?). He checked his pants. They were thankfully on. He was fully clothed. So was she. With this finding, Draco relaxed and sank back down onto the couch.

"What time is it?"

He craned his neck and squinted at the timepiece on his mantle. "6.30am."

"Then let me sleep more."

"Granger," he said delicately. It was possible she had no idea where she was. He nudged her head lightly with his foot.

"Oi!" she said, slapping away at him. She sat up, looking around, trying to collect her bearings and slurped. Then, she wiped her mouth and the floor in quick successive motions.

"Granger. Did you just slurp?"

"No."

"And did you wipe the floor with your sleeve?"

She looked away, her face turning red. Covering her face with both hands, she stood up and sat on one side of the couch again. "I'm sorry. I totally drooled." She flicked her mane of curly hair behind her head and protruded her bottom lip. "Sorry."

Draco shook his head, a rush of generosity and graciousness he hadn't felt so intensely before pervading his consciousness. "Don't worry about it."

"I believe I overstayed my welcome," she said.

"No, I'm glad you were there," he said quickly. It was hard to explain why he was glad. Except that he was. Perhaps it was the totally mundane and normal night Hermione had presented to him. Perhaps it was the kind of comfort she gave. She was just there, spending time with him. He would not have been able to handle anything resembling pity. "I needed to take my mind off things after I made a tactical retreat."

"Oh." She nodded, wondering if she should be so bad mannered as to ask him for the specific details—the truth of what happened.

"I wrote myself out of the story where I was cast the second male lead," he offered. He could feel her curiosity, but rather than feeling irritated at the inquisition into his life, he felt the touch of warm concern which had literally come visiting. He wanted to share. It didn't matter if the rest of the world had gotten it all wrong. In Hermione's narrative, he wanted it right.

"I see," she said.

He waited for a peal of laughter, pity, or anything. Either she was proficient at hiding these emotions because she knew he would not bear being thought of less, or she really didn't feel that way, she merely shrugged her shoulders.

"I had one of the best parting lines of the century," he said. He was grateful for her (lack of) reaction.

When Draco pushed himself up, he found the irritating, hammering in his head and numbness around his head had cleared during the night. For a night right after a breakup, he was doing incredibly well. Only his neck was sore from falling asleep in a funny angle. "I was very impressed with it, especially given the time and context," he said.

"I'm sure you were," she said. She rubbed her eyes and yawned again. Draco kicked his blanket to the end of the couch and got up, heading towards the kitchen.

"Want some coffee?"

Sometimes you just need a friend to be there and do nothing with you. :)