Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's notes: This story is dedicated to Altdeer, my beta. Go read her 'N Sync fic, "Beauty and the Beast," even if you hate 'N Sync. Beleive me, it's worth it!
The immobile figure of one Lucius Malfoy was sprawled across a green velvet settee. His white-blonde hair was spread in a quite unusual fashion over the armrest. A steady stream of spittle dribbled from his slightly parted lips, down his cheek, and came to pool on the collar of his fine, black robes. One perfectly manicured hand lay in stark contrast on his chest. The other dangled over the edge of the seat, his long, elegant fingers just barely grazing the overturned bottle on the floor.
The bottle lay on its side. The long neck fanned out to the body, the words, "Absolut Vodka" turned upright. The majority of the liquid within the bottle had spilt, and was currently seeping its way into the ornate rug that covered the coarse stone floor. A small amount was trapped within the confines of the bottle, and flickered gently in the firelight.
If one examined this fire, they would note nothing unusual. What once had been blazing brightly had now dwindled down to a faint glow in the confines of the monstrous fireplace. One would never know that a slight two hours before, an enraged man had tossed a letter into the fire, watching it burn like his fury in the flames. Even if one happened upon a charred piece of parchment lucky enough to escape the inferno, one would not be able to discern the words or purpose of said letter.
On the settee, the prone Lucius Malfoy turned his head slightly to the right. If he were conscious, and perhaps a bit less inebriated, he might have wondered exactly when his life fell apart.
**
(10 months prior…)
It was a warm June day. The sun was shining merrily down, and fluffy white clouds dotted the cerulean sky. Above the tree-line, one could just made out a very oddly-shaped bird making its flight across the country-side, soaring with extreme purpose, a package of some sort dangling from its leg. The air was sweet with the fragrance of grass and blooming flowers.
Beyond the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, there lay a clearing. Standing on the far side was a house, the most dilapidated house one might ever lay eyes upon. It seemed as if the house defied physics as its stories leaned away from the base, almost as if they were branches, twigs that may have snapped at any moment. The house seemed to stay intact as if held there by magic. Which, of course, it was.
"Now, dear, write us as soon as you arrive. I don't want to hear about you getting into any more trouble, young lady."
"Yes Mum," sighed Hermione Granger. She had been waiting all summer to escape to the Burrow, as life at home approached the unbearable.
"Goodbye now dear," her mother said, wrapping her in a tight hug. "Have a good year. You too, Ron, Harry." With that, Hermione's mother climbed back into the car, revved the engine, and disappeared into the distance.
Hermione stood for a moment, watching as the gray Ford Taurus faded from sight. She then turned, and followed her friends through the yard, and into the house.
The Burrow was, as always, warm and cozy, smelling distinctly of the roast pork Mrs. Weasley was preparing for dinner.
"Hermione, darling, how wonderful to see you! How was your trip? I do hope the drive wasn't too long. Of course, we wouldn't have minded if you had flooed in, not one bit, but if your mother wanted to drive, I was more than happy to give directions…"
Hermione kept a smile plastered on her face as Molly Weasley chattered away. Finally, Ron came to her rescue.
"Mum, Hermione needs to put her things up in Ginny's room. I'm sure she can tell us all about her summer at dinner."
"Oh, yes, dear, you run along now, I'm sure you three have plenty of catching up to do. Dinner will be ready as soon as Arthur gets home."
Hermione smiled graciously, and escaped up the stairs.
"Sorry about that, 'Mione, mum's been worried about you, she thinks you're not sending enough owls. Been spoiling Harry rotten as well, stuffing him full of food, complaining about those 'awful Muggles of his,'" Ron smiled. Hermione dropped her things in Ginny's room, then continued up the twisted staircase to Ron's room.
Harry, who had been uncharacteristically quiet this entire time, turned to face Hermione.
"So?"
"So what?" asked Hermione, looking rather confused.
"You know, how was your summer? You went to Bulgaria, didn't you?"
"Oh, that." Hermione had been trying to repress that recent memory, but she realized she couldn't keep it locked away forever. Eventually, she would have to tell the story. She hadn't been looking forward to that time. Unfortunately, it appeared that time had come.
"Oh that? Come on now Hermione, what's so bad that you couldn't mention it in a single letter? We know you went," Harry said.
Hermione sighed. Better to tell them now then later. "Well, it was…different."
Ron and Harry exchanged glances, then gave her identical looks imploring her to go on.
So she told them. She told them all about flooing from Diagon Alley, and falling out into Krum's magnificent fireplace.
"And there was no one in the room to greet me! I must have sat there for at least an hour, wondering if I should go look for him. I sent him an owl saying when I would be arriving, I just couldn't believe how rude he was, not even meeting me there. So I decided it was better to go find him than to sit there in that musty room another minute longer. So I went out to look for him…" She paused, flushing red right up to her hairline.
"And…" asked Ron, hanging on her every word.
"Well, Viktor lives in one of those cavernous places, so I start going around, opening doors, and getting completely lost."
"Did you find him?"
"Oh I found him all right. In the kitchen. He was…"
Ron and Harry waited.
"Well, let's just say, there was nudity and a frozen chicken involved." Hermione turned an even darker red than was thought humanly possible, as Harry and Ron burst out laughing.
"You're kidding right? Krum was…with a frozen chicken!?" Ron gasped between fits. He was starting to turn a rather unattractive shade of purple.
"What did you do?" implored Harry, taking a break from rolling around on the floor in mirth.
"What do you think I did?" snapped Hermione. I marched right back to the fireplace and flooed back to London. I had to make something up to tell my mum why I was back so soon. Stop laughing, both of you, it's NOT funny!"
"Oh, but it is Hermione, whoever thought Krum…" Ron may have continued, but was cut off by another burst of laughter. He was most definitely purple now, and was gasping for air. "Oh, this is it…I'm gonna die…laughing…Thank you Hermione…for making my…last…day…so…wonderful." Ron collapsed on the floor, his tongue lolling out, and started spastically twitching.
This just drove Harry to tears, while Hermione, stomped out, and back down the stairs to Ginny's room.
"Boys…"
**
Dinner with the Weasley family was always interesting to Hermione, who was an only child, and was used to quiet dinning with her parents. Although Charlie and Bill were not visiting, Percy was still at work, and Ginny was spending the week with a friend, the twins Fred and George made up for about ten people at the dinner table.
"So, Hermione, how was your summer?" inquired Mr. Weasley.
Harry and Ron both snorted, and Hermione turned an interesting shade of red. "Oh, it was alright. How was yours?"
Mr. Weasley started to answer, but was interrupted by Ron.
"Why don't you tell us about your trip to Bulgaria, Hermione. I heard it was as cold as a frozen chicken up there."
"Cold as a frozen chicken? Where do you get this stuff Ron? That didn't even make sense," said George.
Harry chose that moment to duck under the table to hide his laughter. Hermione smiled politely and kicked him hard in the ribs. "Oh, the trip was fine. I had to go home early, though. Pneumonia."
"That's too bad," answered Ron, "but what was it like while you were there? What are his parents like? Was the food good?"
"Yeah, Hermione," said Fred slyly, "did he let you ride his broomstick?" He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Hermione chose to ignore the innuendo. "No, Fred, we didn't play Quidditch, and we didn't play tonsil hockey either."
"Tonsil hockey?" exclaimed Mr. Weasley, suddenly alight with interest. "Is that a Muggle game? How is it played? What are the rules? I know that they can't use broomsticks, so do they move by ekltricity? How many balls are there?"
Hermione buried her face in her hands. A sound rather like that of a wounded dog rose from under the table. Mr. Weasley eagerly awaited her answers.
"May I be excused, please?" asked Hermione before making a quick exit. This week couldn't be over too soon.
**
The week went by painfully slow for Hermione. Between Harry and Ron's taunts, Mr. Weasley's insistence that she explain every Muggle thing from drinking fountains to tonsil hockey, and Fred and George's constant pranks, life at home with her rather detached parents was starting to seem preferable. It didn't help that ever since Mrs. Weasley found out about Hermione's "pneumonia", she was continually force-feeding her.
"You look a bit pale, dear, would you like some soup? We don't want that pneumonia coming back now, do we?"
That Thursday, the Weasleys prepared for their annual trek to Diagon Alley. Mrs. Weasley rounded up the children, handing out their respective shopping lists, while driving Hermione insane.
"Now, I know it's rather warm out, dear, but you bundle up, we don't want you having a relapse."
It was seventy-five degrees out. Not a single cloud in the sky. The sun beat down mercilessly on Hermione, who was sweating like a pig underneath her jeans, down coat, and orange wool hat. If she didn't shed some layers soon, she would be in more danger of heat stroke then pneumonia.
"We're off, then. You first, Ron." So the Weasleys, with Harry and Hermione in tow, flooed off to London.
After a trip to Gringotts, the group split up; Fred and George took off to meet up with Jordan Lee, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley pulled Ginny off to Madam Malkin's, and Ron, Harry, and Hermione set out to Flourish and Blotts.
"I've got to get out of this horrible coat, I'm dying in here!" exclaimed Hermione as she ripped off the bulky outerwear.
"Treating us to a striptease, Granger? I think I speak for everyone here when I say I'd rather hump a hippogriff than see you naked."
The three turned around to find themselves face to face with none other than Draco Malfoy. The blond boy's face was crumpled into a look of obvious dislike. His light blond hair was swept back from his face, and secured in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He had his chest thrown out to display a shiny silver badge pinned to the front of his robes. It read "Prefect".
Harry spoke first. "Sod off, Malfoy, no one wants to listen to you today."
"Oh, isn't that cute, Potter's standing up for his girlfriend's honor." Malfoy stepped forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Harry. "You can't protect your Mudblood bitch forever, Potter," he whispered, so only Harry could hear. "I haven't forgotten what you and your pathetic friends pulled on the train. You will pay. You can count on that."
Malfoy stepped away, raising his voice so Hermione and Ron could hear. "Well, it's been wonderful to see you three, but I really must be going. Important things to do, you know. Weasley, better ask Potter to share some of his blood money with you. I know how low your funds are, and Harry struck it rich when he murdered Cedric Diggory."
Ron made to go after Malfoy, but Harry caught the back of his robes.
"Don't bother, Ron," muttered Hermione. "He's not worth the trouble."
The three continued into the bookstore, but Hermione's thoughts stayed in the street. She had heard what Malfoy had told Harry in that hushed voice. He would pay. And although she was used to Malfoy's empty threats, she felt a twinge of fear in her stomach.
Come on now, Hermione, what could he possibly do, she thought. Draco was a good wizard, yes, but Harry could take him any day. He was a prefect, yes, but then again, so was she. Malfoy had a serious superiority complex, but why should that scare her? There was nothing he could do to them that they couldn't handle.
'Ah, but there is,' said that little voice in the back of her head. 'Maybe Draco can't hurt you, but his father certainly can.'
Shut up, you, she thought. Lucius Malfoy is an entirely different matter.
'Really? I consider them linked. Remember, Lucius Malfoy is right up there with You-Know-Who.'
I'm talking to myself, she realized. This is insane. Harry beat Voldemort once, he can do it again. Lucius Malfoy can't hurt us. He can't hurt me.
But the voice in the back of her mind couldn't be quieted. The twinge grew to an ache. Her stubborn, irrational fear was beginning to make her a bit queasy.
Just think of Malfoy humping a hippogriff. Just think of Malfoy humping a hippogriff. Hermione started to feel better, but she wasn't exactly sure why...
**
Draco watched the retreating backs of the three Gryffindors, his anger hardly quelled. It pooled in his stomach, burned up his throat, and transformed into a dull ache behind his eyes. The small crowd that had gathered, the rabble-rousers, slowly dispersed, leaving Draco standing solitary in the middle of the street. He was oblivious to the movement of the shoppers surrounding him, and he started as someone laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Draco, I believe you've been standing here staring long enough. I have much more important business today, so if you would please desist?"
The hand pulled gently on his shoulder, guiding him away from the spot where he had been rooted, transfixed. He was pushed along the cobblestone way, and led off onto a side street. The shops here were much more foreboding then anything displayed in the bright sunshine of Diagon Alley. A wooden sign creaked above the entryway of one particularly dingy-looking store, proclaiming, "Knock-Turn Alley Potions".
Draco turned to the owner of the hand. Cold gray eyes regarded him silently for a moment, before the thin, pale lips opened.
"How many times must I tell you, Draco; it is unwise to seem such a rival of the great, glorious Harry Potter. Threatening him in public, son? I thought I raised you better than to display your scorn so openly.
"The time will come for Potter to get his, just as his mother and father did. Until then, Draco, I expect you to have much more control over your emotions. Save your anger for a day when it will be useful."
Draco nodded, his expression solemn, even as his frustration burned within him. "Yes, Father."
Lucius, apparently satisfied, turned, and continued down the alleyway; his strides were an unspoken command for Draco to follow.
Yes, Father, I will follow you…. I will hunt you, I will stalk you, and the day Potter gets what is coming to him, you will get yours as well.
Draco glared at his father's back, then moved quickly forward to catch up. His face was one of calm reverence, but within, he seethed.
Speak all you want of hiding one's emotions, and biding one's time. You don't know me at all, Father. You don't know how I plot in silence, how I wait, ever so patiently...
I hate you.