A/N: I lied! This is not, in fact, the last chapter!
Part 3
"What exactly do you plan to do with that?" he asked, as he followed her out of the house. This was a side of Granger he had never seen before. It made him both excited and terrified. Granger had always been a sensible drinker, after all – a glass of wine on the weekends, never a sip more. She was a responsible adult. Behind her back, Draco and Potter both agreed that she was about eighty years old.
"Perform a bit of surgery, what do you think?" She rolled her eyes at him.
The clicks of her heels against the cement became almost deafening as they got further and further away from the noise of the house. He suddenly became very aware that in the Muggle world, it was bedtime. They passed a house and he jerked a little when an automated garage light came on. "Fucking Muggle contraptions," he said to himself.
"Granger. Granger, where the hell are we going?" he asked, as he grabbed her arm to slow her down. He was trying to get a good look at her face. He was positively unsure how to cope with this spontaneous version of Granger that he had always believed was mythical. Had she hit her head sometime in the past twenty minutes? Had her parents' anniversary dance triggered some kind of personality switch?
She twisted her arm away and kept walking, perfectly calm. Somehow that only made things worse for him. "Relax, Malfoy. It's not far. I used to go there all the time when I was younger.
"Where, exactly?" He wondered if it was a ditch that they both could go lay down and die in.
"You'll see in a bit, won't you? Blimey, all these questions. You swear it's like I'm leading you to get eaten alive by a pack of wolves or something." She paused, as if mulling that over. She looked around. "I wonder if we've still got wolves around here."
After a few more minutes of walking, they finally came to a locked gate. When he looked past the bars and shrubs, he could see a playground. There were a few trees, a couple of benches, and a set of swings. But it was completely deserted.
"Bollocks," Draco said, flatly. He jingled the padlock. "Looks like we're due to head back to the flat then, hm? No shenanigans tonight!"
She pushed him out of the way and drew out her wand. "Alohomora," she whispered, and the gate's lock gave a resounding click before it slowly creaked open. She stowed her wand back into her enchanted bag and slipped in. Draco followed in after her.
She paused to take off her shoes, leaving them on the grass, before heading over to the swings. Draco watched her, amused. Out of all the places he'd have expected Granger to lead him – a Muggle playground was among the places he would not have guessed, ever. Muggle playgrounds symbolized fun and free spiritedness, two traits that Granger simply did not understand.
"A playground. Very mature, Granger. Can we go now? Before the wolves descend? Literally?"
"Oh shut up, Malfoy. You were dying in that house. I could see it all over your face." She twisted open the cap on the bottle and leaned back, taking a hearty swig, before making a face. "Jesus, that burns." She shuddered.
He scowled at her, exasperated. "You don't honestly expect me to babysit you while you down that entire bottle in a children's playground."
"Of course not. I expect you to be a big-headed prat and loudly complain to me while I down this entire bottle – in a children's playground," she smirked. She gestured him over. "Come over here. Sit down, for God's sake. Don't be such a bloody prima donna."
He begrudgingly made his way over to the swing next to her, cautiously taking a seat. "If you wanted to get out of the sodding house, we could have left. We could have Apparated back to the flat."
She shook her head. "No, I just needed to get out of there for awhile. Then I remembered this place. When I was younger, nobody came here anymore after a newer playground was built a few blocks down, so I would come here to lay down on the grass under that tree," she said, pointing to a sad little tree adjacent from them, "and read. And nobody else ever came, so after awhile it felt like it belonged to me. This place."
He surveyed the playground. The grass was still healthy, and aside from the rust, it wasn't in complete shambles. It was outdated, true, but wasn't Granger that, too?
It was so quiet where they were that he could hear the creaking of the chains of her swing as she slowly swayed, and the breath that she forced through her teeth after she took another drink. He watched her curiously, not knowing which approach to take to Granger's sudden heavy-handedness with alcohol. "Slow down" or "Drink up"? As much as he'd love an opportunity to collect priceless mortifying moments with drunk Granger to blackmail her with in the future, he did not feel much like babysitting her for the rest of the night. Babysitting had always been Granger's forte, not his. Beautiful people simply did not babysit.
"Did you know," she started, again, "that when I was younger, before Hogwarts ever sent me that letter, I used to spend days here trying to master the art of extreme swinging?"
He stared at her. Why did all Muggle things sound so stupid?
"Extreme swinging?"
"You know, hopping on the swing and seeing how high you could possibly go. I wanted to see if it was possible to go so high that I could wrap myself around the top bar and come back around the other side."
"That," he said to her, "sounds like the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Ever."
"Now it does," she said, sighing wistfully. "But I used to think the little moment when you're at the highest you could possibly be and you almost feel like gravity's going to let you go – that it would be the closest I would ever get to flying."
Draco watched her on the swing. She'd dropped the bottle beneath her and watched her white knuckles gripping onto the chain, her body leaning back and then forwards as the movement became faster and faster. His confusion at her sudden chattiness about these dumb Muggle playthings was then coupled by how mesmerized he suddenly became at watching her expertly maneuver these primitive-looking rubber swing seats. He watched her hair as the wind swept through them, back, then forth, and her creamy, long legs as they extended out, then curled back in, in perfect synchronization. And then her face. Her eyes as they fluttered; her lips as they started to stretch across her face in a blissful grin.
"Come on, Malfoy! Try it, you big prat!"
"I think you can handle looking juvenile and mentally-stunted on your own, Granger."
"Suit yourself!" she said, before doing something incredibly jarring: she cackled. Happily.
"You're regressing, truly. Right before my very eyes."
"Regressing my arse!" she called out to him. "Malfoy, watch this!"
"No," he said. "Whatever it is, it's a bad idea and I'm not going to carry your broken body to your parents' house and explain that you died because of a swing."
But she simply ignored him and, taking a deep humming breath as the swing reached its highest point, Draco watched as she threw her body off of the swing and onto the grass beneath it. He could have sworn his heart had leapt to his throat, thinking for sure that Granger was going to bash her face in on the ground and it would all be pegged on him as some sort of sick plan for revenge, in which case he would then be both homeless and missing a few limbs, but there she was – as if by some trick of magic – standing, perfectly, on the grass, while the empty swing beside him was still moving, jerkily. She was smiling, and then, turning his way, she graciously bowed.
And then she fell backwards.
Without thinking, Draco jumped off of the swing, running to her. "Fuck!" He slid down on his knees, his eyes scanning her face. "Granger!" he breathed, sliding one hand under her head and slapping her cheek with his palm. "Granger, you stupid fucking idiot, wake up!"
And then her eyes fluttered open and she was smiling – no, laughing, actually. He sank back on his heels, releasing her and cursing her entire family.
"I got you, didn't I, Malfoy?" she wheezed, still laughing.
"Bloody hell, Granger," he exhaled, his heart still beating at a hundred miles per hour. He glared at her. "In what world was that supposed to be funny?"
"I didn't actually think you'd run over like you did," she said, still in a fit of laughter. "That you'd actually care, you know. If something happened to me."
"What? And have Potter and Weasley crucify me?" He sighed, watching as she fell into another fit of laughter, her hair fanned out underneath her on the grass. "You could at least pretend to be sorry, you nutter."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Not really, though. But I'll say it for your peace of mind. I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "I don't care what you say, Granger. I deserve a drink." And before she could protest, he was back on his feet and heading back to the swings. He plucked the bottle from the ground before walking back over. He sat down beside her on the grass. She started to quiet down but didn't move from where she was. She didn't say a single thing about the bottle. He wondered if he should check her for a concussion – and then realized he wouldn't even know where to begin. Her skull was still intact, for one. But what about the thing inside it? The slightly more important brainy part?
As he watched her, Draco silently wished she would at least shift her dress a little. He had to force himself to look away from her and the way her dress had ridden up a few very significant inches. He took a very generous gulp from her bottle.
"So this is how you are when you drink," he said. "You're mental. More mental than usual."
She rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Thought you'd say I was more fun."
"You? Fun?" he said. "There isn't enough vodka in the world, Granger."
She looked at him and smiled. He pulled his eyes away from her to take another drink. Heavens, what was happening to him? He was starting to feel anxious around her, and he wanted to drown those strange feelings in alcohol.
"I've been thinking about what you said about Harry, earlier. And – I know how it must look. But he's a decent man. The war took a lot from him, and I feel like this is his way of. . . recuperating."
"By shagging everything that moves? I thought that was my strategy. Bastard."
"I try to be understanding. I mean, it isn't like he's obligated to me. We're not romantically involved. I have no logical reason to be upset when he cancels."
The way she said it – he felt a faint twisting in his gut. Draco liked to think he knew a thing or two about denial. It had been a constant companion for him over these years. He knew it when he heard its pathetic tones slinking in – he knew its bloody signifiers.
"Yeah, that's convincing," Draco said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why do we always have to sodding talk about Potter? All the time, it's Potter, Potter, Potter. Like there wasn't anything worth talking about before he was born."
"Fine. Then we won't talk about Harry."
"Good. I'm bloody sick of it."
"Fine."
"Good."
They both lay there in silence, staring up at the sky. It was eerie, how dark it was, but the stars were out like little teasing winks and the moon was full. In the milky moonlight he could still make out Granger's face, her brow furrowed as she undoubtedly tried to think of some other dignity-leeching conversation topic. He took another drink, relishing the silence. For a minute, he saw her again, back in her parents' house. She'd closed her eyes for a few seconds during their dance and swayed along to the music. He wondered if she'd been imagining herself dancing with someone, too.
Who would have known Granger was as much of a sappy female as the rest of them?
Then, finally, she spoke. "Why?"
He blinked. "Is there a latter part to that question?"
"Why were you such a life-ruining, hallway-taunting, rude little arsehole when we were in school?" she said.
"Really, was that all I was?" he said, and she rolled her neck towards him and gave him her typical no-nonsense look. He sighed loudly. "What? What do you want to hear, Granger – that I was endlessly manipulated by my father, that I was flogged constantly, that I was brainwashed and controlled by my superiors?"
"Is that what happened?"
"What I'm saying," he said, "is that it doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. The past matters. You had a choice, Malfoy. Everyone did, and we all paid for it."
"Choice? Is that what it's called? Funny, because I never heard that word around the Manor. My father threw the word 'destiny' around a lot. A few years later I found out it was because he was sleeping with a prostitute named Destiny, but you can imagine it couldn't undo most of the damage it had already done."
He couldn't admit to the other stuff. How could he? To Granger? That he was a coward. That owning up to his faults meant that it hadn't all been bad upbringing and twisted morals. That, somewhere in between it all, it had been him. Purely him. Calling the shots, crossing the lines, seeing what he could possibly get away with. And – choice. What was choice? He remembered one hazy night when Dumbledore had called him into his office, and Snape had been there waiting for him. They'd said that word, too, and it was frustrating, really, how easy they made it seem. Make a choice, Draco, because you have a choice. The concept of choice had been new to him at that point in his life. And he had been eighteen. He had bloody well been eighteen.
It was as if one day they decided he was more than a tool, that he was an actual autonomous individual that could do great harm if he wasn't put on the reins like sodding reindeer, like they did Potter. They said, Just cut the strings your father has spent your entire life sewing into your bones, Draco, and fuck all. Come to us. Be a traitor, but at least you'll be a traitor for good. And that's bloody oceans different than being a traitor for evil.
So he made a choice. He stuck to the path of least resistance. And then fate, ever the meddling wench, corrected that. Now he was here, having to answer to someone like Granger. Every morning he came face-to-face with the reminder that his punishment was far from over.
"Do you regret it? Any of it?"
He had to think about that one. All of the tiny, blurred-out moments he'd had when he'd wondered whether there was more to it than what he'd been led to believe. And then the mental vanquishing of that thought when he realized that some people were born into the parts they were meant to play. But when he told Granger that, she only shook her head, her face hard, and told him that was rubbish.
She read into his subsequent silence. "How do you even live with yourself, Malfoy?"
Because I'm not a decent person. I loved taunting you and Potter and Weasley. I loved knowing I was one of the few that didn't fall at Potter's feet. I loved knowing I was different, and I knew that if I were to ever join you, I would become invisible.
And perhaps Draco Lucius Malfoy was very many things in life (the list of traits varied from person to person) – but invisible he most definitely was not.
"It's easy, really. Beauty like this isn't born every day. I owe it to the universe to keep existing."
She laughed, empty and hollow, her gaze still on the night sky. "Beauty? You think you know beauty? Just because you were born genetically flawless and you've got eyes the color of rain and you've got perfectly-sized hands?"
Draco felt an unexpected splash of warmth on his face, a little stunned. "What? You think I've got perfectly-sized hands?"
"You don't know jackshit about beauty," she only went on, as if she hadn't heard him. "I'll tell you what beauty is. Family. Friends. Watching your parents dance on their 25th wedding anniversary, knowing how rare that is and how amazing it is to love someone for that long. Swinging on that sodding swing, and not having a care in the world," she said. "And having that perfect moment that you wish you could hold forever, praying that things would never change. And if you had a heart, Malfoy – a real, working, human heart – you'd know all of that. You'd feel a little something for someone other than yourself for a change. You'd know that goodness is worth fighting for."
She was glaring at him with her shiny Granger eyes full of purpose and conviction, and he couldn't look away. Didn't even have a prayer. He felt physically and internally frozen. Somehow he'd gotten closer to her, and his eyes – unmistakably on their own volition – flickered down her face to her swollen, pink, vodka-glazed lips. His ears felt fuzzy, and all there was was a lone breeze that swept in between them, making a strand of hair fall across her cheek. And he didn't know what possessed him to do it, absolutely no idea – certainly nothing that had come from generations of strategic Malfoy breeding – but he raised his hand and captured it in between two fingers, gently moving it aside, brushing his thumb against her temple.
"Granger," he murmured. He was so close he could almost taste her breath. It reeked of cheap alcohol.
And that's what did it. He let go of her and moved back, his head suddenly spinning, awash with the throbbing realization of what he had been about to do. While Granger, still on the grass, stared at him with wide eyes.
Kiss her, his stupidly drunk head said. You were about to kiss her. And you really, really wanted to, you poor sod.
"Bloody hell," he said to himself, rubbing his face with his hand. He tried to slap himself sober. Or awake. Awake would be better, because that would mean this never ever happened. That this was just a dream. That in the morning there would be nothing to be embarrassed about.
"I think," Granger said, slowly getting up, "we should go." She swayed on her feet but steadied herself before Draco could help straighten her up. He hated the look she had in her eyes when she looked at him: careful, wary – and not in a good way that made him feel accomplished about himself, that usually entailed him knocking her down a few pegs on the Ladder of Self-Righteousness she and her little Gryffindor muppets were so keen on. But as if she didn't recognize him anymore.
He trailed after her, silently, as they left Granger's "private" Muggle playground.
Can you blame her?
Right now he hardly recognized himself.
ooo
Day 72
His head snapped up to Potter sitting across the table, his body leaned back and his arms crossed on his chest, his nationally hailed green eyes watching him from underneath his glasses.
"What?" Draco said, his voice hoarse. "Have I got something on my face?" He cleared his throat. "Aside from perfection, of course."
"You are aware," Harry said slowly, "that I've been calling your name for the past three minutes."
"You and all of the other women I've shagged, Potter," he scoffed. "Get in line."
"You're being strange this morning. And I don't think I like it."
"And you're not nearly as attractive as you think you are, but I resist the constant urge to tell you so, don't I?"
Harry appeared taken aback. He leaned in, lowering his voice, as if there was someone else in the house besides the pair of them. Potter could be so dramatic sometimes – Draco called it another symptom of the Hero Complex. "Are you okay? You're distant and grumpy. It's not like you. Truly, Malfoy. I'm concerned a little. Is Hermione not feeding you enough? I can have a talk with her if you'd like."
"Bugger off, Potter. I can fight my own battles."
Potter laughed. He actually laughed. "There are so many ways I could go with that statement, Draco, starting with your little stalemate with the Ministry – but I won't. Because I want to thank you for going to Hermione's parents' anniversary party with her. I'd hate it if she'd had to go alone. Her creepy neighbor's always at those things. I think his name is David? The first time I met him, I looked him in the eyes, and I got this very distinct feeling that he had no soul."
Draco scowled at him. As if he needed to be reminded about last night. He had spent the latter part of it in bed, trying to forget it ever happened. "I take it that you got to shag somebody's face off last night. Tell me, Potter, when did reaching orgasm inside a total stranger become more important than escorting your nerdy best friend to a boring Muggle party?"
Harry stared at him, quizzically. "See? This is what I mean! When did you get so. . . aggressive?" He slid his coffee aside. "Did she hex you last night for being yourself in public? And now you're angry with me? Honestly, Malfoy. You're almost starting to make me feel bad about myself."
Except that Draco knew perfectly well that the world would rather rotate backwards than have Harry Sodding Potter, Hero of the fucking free world, feel any sort of self-deprecating human emotion. And he hated it, too. Hated it that he was starting to feel bitter, hated all of thoughts he was beginning to think about him while Potter sat in front of him, genuinely concerned for Draco – which had been practically unheard of until recently. Whatever happened to just sitting back and enjoying the show, thanking the universe that he had enough sense never to get himself involved in anything that didn't properly worship him back? All of his life he'd worked so hard – perhaps the "so" was a bit excessive, but work he most certainly did – at maintaining the Malfoy legacy of thoroughly not giving a shit about others.
That was all he had now. The Manor had been temporarily and spitefully confiscated, along with his other belongings – aside from his fatal good looks, his standoffishness was one of the few things he had left going for him.
Draco put his head down on the table.
Leave it to the Muggle to shit all over that, too.
"I'll have a talk with her, don't you worry," Potter said, utterly clueless as usual. "I'm sure she's not doing it on purpose. All right, maybe a little. But she won't let it get too far." He paused. He stood up, taking his coffee with him. "I should probably go have that talk with her now."
o
In all of his time spent alone, he'd learned the general architecture of Granger's unimpressive flat building. In his explorations, he'd discovered that there was a rooftop nobody had access to – that is, until he enchanted it to remain unlocked, which turned out the best decision he'd ever made in his 72 days of being a homeless charity pot. Apparently he hadn't been its first visitor, because he'd found a few empty beer bottles and discarded lawn chairs. Draco, a sensible man, threw away the bottles and magically cleaned the chairs.
He hadn't seen Granger since last night. After the uncomfortable walk back to her parents' for her to say goodbye (he'd waited outside and contemplated bashing his head in on a creepy ceramic lawn gnome the Grangers had waiting beside the doorway), they'd Apparated back to the flat straight away. It was painful, the awareness of what happened and thus what could have happened, which compelled him to silently head straight into his bedroom and slam his door. He had meant it to be a symbolic gesture to the night. He wanted so many degrees of separation between him and that moment with Granger, which was hard to come by, knowing she was only a few walls away.
He made himself comfortable on the lawn chair, staring out into the darkening cityscape. What were the chances he could stay out here forever? Until he got the Manor back, of course. Then he would have as many degrees of separation between him and Granger that he could practically roll in it, if he wanted to.
He heard the creak of the door behind him.
"Imagine my surprise when Harry turns up at my office to ask me if I was feeding you properly," Granger said, in a fairly flimsy t-shirt and jeans, though her usual expression of annoyance was not entirely present. She set a covered plate at his feet, and he made sure to stay completely still, trying not to let on that her presence now unnerved him. Or rather, did things to him, like make him wish for two impossible things, simultaneously: to be closer to her and to be far, far away.
"I brought you dinner. Not that I'd expect you to be grateful, or anything."
Draco glanced at her. She looked a little flushed, tucking a part of her hair behind her ear, expectant.
"You're bloody welcome," she said.
"My silence was my way of showing gratitude. Have we not established our methods of communication yet?"
She rolled her eyes. "Leave it to me to forget that a moment without any of your venomous input is rare. Honestly, I don't even know why I bother. Talking to you is like screaming at a wall. A really mean, inconsiderate wall."
He looked at her. And then, taking a breath, with his ancestors surely stirring with dissatisfaction in their graves, he said it. "I'm sorry."
She blinked, stunned. "What did you say?"
"Don't draw it out, all right? I said I was sorry. Thank you for bringing me my dinner – although, might I point out, that was entirely your volition. And I didn't say a thing to Potter. He assumed all of that – came up with it entirely on his own. What that says about him, I'm not sure, but it's probably not good."
Her face relaxed a little. "And you didn't correct him."
Draco scowled. "I already said I was sorry. I'm not saying it again. It already gutted me the first time."
Granger just looked at him in a way he couldn't exactly read. It made him squirm. He sighed impatiently and told her to get on.
"Fine. I just wanted to thank you, for coming with me last night."
He snorted. "Like I had a choice."
"No, you didn't," she admitted. "But the night wasn't as terrible as I thought it'd be. My parents thought you were decent. Aloof, but tolerable. My mum even asked me if that was your real shade of blond."
He looked at her. Did she remember? She had to, otherwise the palpable tension and weirdness between them wouldn't be here and sitting on both their faces. Unless it was all him. Good god, was it all him? Were all of these feelings purely his imagination? That it was a possibility that she could be standing there, thinking him utterly weird, due to the fact that she had no recollection of last night? He stopped himself.
Bloody hell, I've become a woman, he lamented.
"Anyway," she said, taking a hesitant step back, seemingly puzzled by his silence. "I'll leave you to it. Whatever this is you're doing."
"I'm sitting," he told her. "On your rooftop."
It was hardly anything to be weirded out about.
Granger simply nodded at this and turned around, exiting the roof. He watched her go before turning back around in his chair, sighing and closing his eyes. He could feel his pulse in his ears, spelling out his doom.
He leaned his head back. "Why do you hate me?" he muttered to the sky. "Is it because I'm so beautiful? Because it's not my fault, you know. I shouldn't be punished for something I can't help."
He just couldn't believe his sodding luck.
ooo
Day 81
They were at a party – all of them, collectively, which was saying something. Even Weasley had come, who had made sure to show his dissatisfaction with the fact that they had dragged Draco along, with no attempt at discreetly whispering it behind his back like a proper human being. Then again, Draco had already known the unsophisticated manner in which the Weasleys conducted themselves. It was practically in their DNA.
"Is he really necessary?" Weasley grunted to both Granger and Potter.
"That's a good question," some irrelevant Gryffindor named Dean Thomas said.
"Necessary. Such a big word for such a small brain, isn't it, Weasley?" Draco drawled. He felt like they were at school again. Ah, the glory days when he'd still had a place to live and didn't have a crush on a girl infatuated with the two dullest things in the world: the color beige and everyone's favorite bedtime hero, Harry Potter.
"Honestly, you two. Play nice. Ron, what was I supposed to do? Leave him at home?" Granger said, exasperatedly. She grabbed a glass of wine from a server and took no time in chugging it down.
"For one, yes. He's public hazard," Weasley said. "Every time I look at him smirking that stupid smirk, my knuckles start to itch, like they're aching to beat his face in."
"Quite the intellectual, this one," Draco observed. "Couldn't even think of a different word for 'smirk.'"
"Shut up, Malfoy," Granger said. "Let's just try and be civil for one night. Everyone's here, so let's act like adults. Proper adults, all right? Is that so hard?"
Draco threw his hands up at the pointed look Granger gave him. "Why do I get the pointed look? He's the one who's admitted to wanting to physically harm me!"
"Somehow I found that totally reasonable. Do we need to set up a system? Fine, we'll do that. Malfoy, you're to be on the opposite side of the room from Ron at all times. If you two do so much as even breathe on each other, you're sleeping in the street, Malfoy."
"You know that threat's getting awfully old."
"I would do what she says," Potter advised, sneaking in-between them with a glass of champagne. "I live with Ron. I can tell you for a fact that I sometimes hear him muttering in his sleep about how lovely it would be to rip your throat out. With his bare hands."
He looked back at Granger, who was looking expectantly at him. She was looking nice today – a silky red blouse that showed off her shapely collarbone but was demure enough not to give any respectable male any dirty ideas. He hated to admit it, but he secretly relished the moments he could steal just to look at her. Especially in front of her nimrod friends.
"Let's have a drink over there, shall we?" Potter said, giving him a manly pat on the shoulder.
"One drink," Granger said sternly. "Savor it, Malfoy, because that's all you're getting tonight."
Draco called her a lewd name that hardly jostled her before he and Potter began heading towards the refreshments. Potter was chuckling to himself. "She's got your balls in a vice-grip, mate. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Better her than you," he muttered. "At least she knows the proper way to handle them."
Draco's one and only drink for the night spilled over when Potter's elbow jammed into his rib.
oo
The real star of the night – aside from Potter, of course, who was universally adored in any and every room, even when he wasn't present – was Quidditch Star Viktor Krum. It was, after all, a party in his honor. All of the Quidditch aficionados swarmed to him – even Weasley, from what he could see, melted a little in his masculine posture when Viktor approached him for a handshake.
"What a tosser," Draco grumbled under his breath, standing on the outer edges with Potter.
"He's all right. Not the brightest bulb in the bunch, but that's probably due to the record-breaking sixty-two concussions he's had in his Quidditch career. And counting."
Draco watched as Viktor Krum made his way over to Granger in the crowd and they exchanged a warm greeting. Meanwhile, he noticed a very pretty albeit uninvested brunette on his arm. He was aware of the history between Krum and Granger – after all, who could forget that fateful day Granger showed up to the Great Hall in the dress that stunned even him, the quickest mouth in the school, and then the utter disappointment when she spent the night on Viktor Hulking Krum's arm? It was such an unlikely, befuddling pair that even he was rendered speechless. Even now it perplexed him.
"What do you think Krum's saying to Granger?" Draco said.
"Probably introducing her to his new fiancée."
"Fiancée?" Draco echoed. He looked over to the girl on his arm, who offered Granger a handshake. In his five minutes of watching her, she had yet to change her facial expression. "Seems like a lively girl. Life of the party, isn't she?"
Potter nodded, chewing on a hors d'oeuvre. "Bulgarian, just like him. Nice girl. Barely speaks a lick of English, but seems to like him. What about you? Do you want to get married?"
Draco scoffed, still watching the interaction. "Not without a ring first, Potter. If you think I'd marry you without a large diamond on my finger, you're the daftest man on earth."
"I meant to a woman. A nice one. One that'll put up with you," he said, rolling his eyes. "If she even exists. Seems cruel to think some baby girl was born with a destiny that somehow involves having to fall in love with you. Though it's possible she might have committed genocide in a past life."
He couldn't help it – he watched Granger through the crowd, looking embarrassed as Viktor continued to talk to her and as his fiancée stoically looked on. He wondered what Krum was talking so enthusiastically to her for. Reminiscing about times passed, perhaps? God, he almost felt his food come back up. Hard to imagine those offensively large hands had been on her at one point or another.
"Now is hardly the time to get all mushy, Potter."
"I don't know what you're so worried about, Draco. You're a catch," Potter only grinned, slapping him on the back. "Any girl would be lucky to have you destroying her sense of self-esteem any day. Reducing her to tears right while in the middle of sex could be the new orgasm."
"Shut up, will you?" he finally said, turning to him. "For your information, I have made a woman shed tears during sex. She said it was so beautiful, like heaven. But with more shagging and screaming into oblivion."
Potter smirked, grabbing another glass of champagne. "By the way, Viktor challenged us to a game of pick-up Quidditch tomorrow. It's his team versus ours."
Draco's eyes narrowed. "Ours?"
"Of course. You're Seeker," said Potter. He patted Draco on the cheek. This wanker had to be drunk. "Please, no tears. It was my pleasure. You can send my fanmail to the usual address, knickers included. Not yours, though. That would be odd."
oo
They left the party at a decent hour for a Friday night. Potter left with some girl's poor heart in his back pocket, as usual, Weasley with an unsurprising gruff threat, and Granger being oddly quiet. He went into his room to have a cup of tea and to read, but then changed his mind and headed up to the roof instead.
When he came up, however, he found that somebody had already taken his seat.
"I'd apologize for stealing your spot, but seeing as how it was never yours in the first place because you don't actually live here, I hope you can understand why that apology is not exactly forthcoming," Granger said, as he sat down beside her. She had a mug of steaming tea beside her foot and a blanket wrapped around her.
He watched her face. "Tearful reunion with your ex-boyfriend and his mute fiancée?"
"Something like that," she said, faintly smiling. "And she's not mute, Malfoy. She just speaks very little English."
"As in none at all. Basically, mute."
"Still not exactly the correct use of the word." She glanced at him, giving him a look-over. "I take it you'd taken my advice and stayed away from Ron, seeing as how your face is still intact."
"I want to live to get my Manor back and give the Ministry hell," he said. "And if that means resisting the urge to rub Weasley's overall sad existence in his face, then so be it. I'll have plenty of time for that in the future."
Granger nodded passively. "I'm sure Ron will be ready for you."
Draco leaned back, watching the lights in the distance. Somebody must have left their flat window open because he could hear faint music playing.
"You're not sulking, are you?"
"What, and be you?" she scoffed. "Sit here and blame the world for all my problems?"
"I keep trying to tell you, Granger, that you're trying to hurt feelings that simply aren't there." He paused, watching her lack of a reaction. "Are you thinking about Viktor? That mountain of flesh and nonexistent brain activity?"
She said nothing.
"Don't mistake this as me comforting you – it's simply me stating a fact. You're missing nothing. Viktor Krum has been concussed so many times during Quidditch matches that not only has he no nerve endings left – making him a killing machine – he is not capable of anything resembling a deep thought."
She laughed. "I wasn't thinking about Viktor – at least, not in that way. I don't miss him nor do I regret anything that has to do with him."
"How mature of you," Draco said dryly. "But it still doesn't explain why you're up here."
"I don't need an explanation, Malfoy. This is my flat building." She shifted her blanket around her. "Besides, I know you. You can stop pretending to care. It's a bit much, actually."
"True as that may be, I have nothing better to do."
"That's hardly any consolation."
He shrugged. "It wasn't meant to be. What else are you going to do? Write it in your little diary? Write yourself a little memo so you can persuade yourself into thinking that talking to Potter about it tomorrow will make you feel better? Or what about Weasley, that vessel of pure human intellect? Face it, Granger. I'm the best one you've got."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't deny it. She spent a moment gnawing on her bottom lip, as if deep in thought, before finally speaking.
"Viktor was the first boy to ever tell me he loved me," she started, hesitantly. "We were young, of course, and hardly knew what that even meant. I suppose we all had ideas about it, but they're all just ideas. I remember Lavender and Parvati going on about it in the dorms, how special it's supposed to be, but when he told me. . . I was scared. I didn't love him, not like that, but it was also like it was such a big responsibility to accept his love. Like if I stood there and accepted it, it meant that I was making a promise not to hurt him." Her voice became quieter, her brown eyes shifting to his, steady. "Not that I was planning to hurt him, it's just that promises like those are meaningless. People hurt people. That's just the way things are, isn't it?"
He didn't know what to say. He just sat there, looking at her, with his perfect blond head full of questions. Things like, Why couldn't he just kiss her? Why would that be so bad? Why did she have to care about people that didn't deserve a single thought in her brain? Why had she come to the roof to be alone, a place she'd known that he could easily find her? Why was his heart beating so fast, and why were his palms sweating? And was she feeling any of this, like he was?
When he spoke, he endeavored hard at sounding nonchalant. "So what did you say back to the poor sod?"
"I said Thank you," she said, blushing. "And that I really liked him."
"That's what's keeping you up? Guilt over something that happened so long ago it shouldn't even be a blip on your memory radar?"
"I didn't say it was keeping me up, did I?" she said. "It was just a thought, and you insisted. Besides, what do you do up here, anyway? Just sit here and watch the building next door?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. It gives me a break from all the sodding beige."
She looked at him and threw her head back and laughed. "I can't tell you how much it pleases me that my choice in wall paint tortures you."
"There's nothing funny about bad taste, Granger."
"No, but you look utterly miserable," she said, quieting down from her fit of laughter, smiling. And for a moment they just sat there and looked at each other, not saying a word, before the music finally stopped and it seemed to jar the both of them back to life. Granger cleared her throat and shifted in her seat while Draco looked away, distractedly running one hand through his hair.
"I'm going to head to bed," she said, picking up her tea and keeping her blanket wrapped around her. "I'll see you in the morning, I suppose."
Draco only nodded. After she'd gone, he cursed at the sky. A minute later, the music started playing again. When he looked back at where she'd sat, his mother was there, having a cigarette. He sighed.
"My boy. You look a little worse for wear. What's troubling you?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just a bit tired from the party."
Narcissa chuckled to herself. "You can lie to everyone, Draco, but not to me. What is it, really? Is it that girl? The mousy one with all the books? The one that sat here and tried to talk to you about love?"
"No. What? I hardly even think about her."
"Nonsense. You haven't slept in days. She's all you think about, isn't she? I remember when your father and I were just starting to fall in love. It was intoxicating. He never left my mind. I was just a girl then, of course, but I'll never forget it."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, squinting his eyes shut. "Please, Mother. You don't know what you're talking about."
He was crazy. Clinically crazy. How else could he explain seeing his dead mother and having conversations with her every so often?
"Things are changing for you, Draco. I can feel it. Granted, I'm only an imaginary figure in your subconscious, but that only means I know you better than you know yourself. You like her. But you're scared to think she might like you back. Why is that? Everyone likes you, Draco. You're smart, you're fit, and you're offensively pretty for a boy. Everyone likes you."
"Not her," he said, frustrated. "She's different. When she looks at me, it feels like she's peeling back my skin." But when he looked at the chair beside him, expecting an explanation, his mother was gone. He sighed. "See you next time, Mum. As always, thanks for the stimulating chat."
ooo
Day 82
Potter was squinting at him, already glistening from their pre-game warm-up. Draco, meanwhile, was surveying the pathetic excuse of a team Potter had rallied together for this game of pick-up Quidditch against one of the most renowned international Quidditch teams in the world. He recognized all of them from school – a few from Hufflepuff, some from Ravenclaw, and the most from Gryffindor. There was one other from Slytherin, but he'd graduated long after they'd gone and thus didn't feel much need for a connection.
"How long has it been since you played?" Potter asked him, as Draco tightened his gloves.
"Don't you worry your lacey little knickers, Potter. I'll grab the snotty little Snitch for you. I could do it in my sleep."
Potter just smiled at him. "I take it this means you've improved since we've been in school."
"Sod off. Don't you have a team to boss around? We hardly have enough time for you to stand around flirting with me."
Weasley whizzed by, circling them before making a clean drop on the grass. "Flirting? Who's flirting?"
"Potter, as usual, is making unbecoming advances on me," he drawled. "Jealous?"
Weasley only scowled at him, before turning to Potter. "Was it really necessary to draft this wanker to play with us?"
"There you are with that word again, Weasley."
"I can't be both Captain and Seeker, Ron. Not if we want to stick it to Viktor and his team. I mean, we don't have a prayer, not really – but I'd like to make it a really close match just so I can escape today with just a little bit of my dignity intact. So shake hands, will you? Be teammates. Just for the next few hours."
Weasley continued to glare at him. "There's no way I'm shaking his hand. That's if he's even got hands. I've heard demons have hooves, not fingers."
Then, before Draco could get a good insult in, the always-impeccably-timed Granger popped her frizzy head into their little intimate huddle. It was a cold morning with a little bit of drizzle, and her nose and cheeks were a pleasant shade of pink. Her breath came out in wispy vapors. Draco was rattled just a little bit as he remembered last night.
"Well? How are you lot feeling?"
"Like we're going to lose terribly, but still going to give it all we've got," Potter grinned. He turned his head to watch Viktor's team in the distance, doing loops and dives on their brooms. "Merlin, look at them. They're all pure muscle, aren't they?" He chuckled lowly to himself, shaking his head as he wrapped up his hand. "We're all going to die."
"Our captain's quite the inspiration," Draco said.
"Well, good luck, anyway," Granger said, her worried look not much of a consolation. "Try not to hurt yourselves too badly."
"You going to say that to your old sweetie over there, too?" Weasley remarked. "Going to get another concussion today, is he?"
"Ron, you nearly pissed yourself shaking his hand just last night," Granger said. "I'll be in the stands. Just – please be careful, all of you." And as she said this, Draco could have sworn – though it happened so quickly he would have missed it if he'd done so much as blinked – that she'd met his eyes. He felt his stomach take a dive, and he silently watched her turn around and walk back towards the stands.
Weasley firmly bumped his shoulder as he walked past, growling under his breath. "She didn't mean you, tosser."
As they spent a little more time warming up and discussing the plays they planned to run, Draco noticed as the stands began to slowly fill. All of Viktor's friends, he presumed, and most of everyone that had hung around after Hogwarts – not to mention a reporter or two from the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly. As he mounted his broom and flew in the join the huddle, he could spot Granger clearly in the stands. She was sitting with Weasley's sister and the moonfaced blond girl from Ravenclaw.
After what he could only call a rusty, mediocre pep talk from their illustrious Captain Potter, they all flew into formation, waiting for the whistle to start the game. Draco relished the feeling of being on a broom again – granted, this was on loan from Potter and was miles away in quality from his own broom stashed away at the Manor, but it flew smooth and strong, which was all a lad could ask for in a game of Quidditch. The bludgers and the Snitch were released, therefore officially starting the game, and he felt an unmistakable rush in his veins as the crowd roared. Catching a glimpse of gold zing past him, he spun and dove after it.
Viktor's team led the first few points, of course – but their makeshift team captained by Potter soon began to catch up, much to the shock of literally everyone. Potter, his face already bloodstained, was transformed completely by the most distant possibility of winning an impossible game. He became ruthless. The further the game got, the more focused and synchronized their team became. Draco was dodging bludgers left and right and had already been smashed up against the wall by the other team's Seeker, a gruff Bulgarian with an unfortunate yet oddly threatening unibrow. He had surprising speed for someone so large and solid – but Draco was even faster.
Viktor's team was only leading by ten points, and Potter was on his neck for him to find the Snitch. He could feel the raw energy of the crowd as he strained his eyes looking for the little bugger. As he waited there, scanning the field, it began to lightly rain. And then there it was – a wet tinkle against metal, a flash of gold, right beside Weasley's ear. He dove in for the kill.
He missed Weasley by a hair – "That was a close one, you bastard!" – and predicted the Snitch's sharp turn to the right, towards the stands. The other Seeker was at his heels and Draco could see him inch up beside him from the corner of his eye. He tried to shove aside Draco to slow him down, but Draco either dodged him or sped up. The Snitch was in clear view in front of him. He reached out his arm – he could almost touch it with his fingers, if only he could go a little faster. . .
Then he had an idea. Keeping his speed, he hurled himself at the Snitch, letting go of his broom. He'd just enclosed his fingers around it and expected to land right back where he'd been on his broom when suddenly from his right came Viktor Krum, the Killing Machine, who bashed him up against the wall so hard that he felt his skull snap back. His vision blacked out instantly and before he knew it, before he could even think to say a prayer for his poor soul, he was unfettered and heading dead straight for the ground below.
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