Well, here's chapter 2! I'm not super-happy with Draco. He's going through a lot of pain, but I don't want him to be too angsty. And I don't want readers to get the wrong idea. Oh well, I'll see how it pans out, and if necessary I'll go back and edit.
Thanks to all who reviewed. I knew I had reviews, but I couldn't see them for the longest time, and it was so frustrating! I'm glad they're finally there.
SadLittlePuppy: I hope I'll answer all your questions in future chapters.
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A/N: This chapter rated for objectionable language and a teeny little bit of naughtiness.
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CHAPTER 2
"Oh Gods, Ginny, I can't do this. Get me a drink!" Hermione had looked up from her dress comprised of Saran Wrap and Fortescue's Frozen Fire Floss – made with Ogden's Private Stock 300 Proof Fire Whiskey and spun sugar – to see Number One standing just a few inches in front of her staring at her belly-button. Before she could say anything – hello – what's your name – are you as embarrassed as I – he'd asked Ginny if it was OK to try out her tummy, and when Ginny said with a laugh 'If you think you can handle it', the next thing Hermione knew she could feel his teeth and lips ripping the pink floss from her front, and his tongue probing her through the plastic barrier.
Seeing him out cold virtually the next second was little comfort. He'd already had a lot to drink, by the looks of it.
In the next instant, Hermione wanted to sink through the floor, and not just from embarrassment. The games up to that moment had been fun and fairly innocent, and to be sure this one was more than a notch or two up on the racy scale, although she took a measure of solace from the fact that Ginny and Ruby had made her promise, in Benjamin's presence, that she would put herself completely in their hands for the evening. Ginny had reassured Ben with a laugh that she wouldn't make Hermione do anything truly mortifying, although it was with a wink because she knew full well that Bill and Charlie were planning his stag.
When Hermione was taken to the ladies' toilet, after drinking games, Truth or Dare, and a male stripper, she had obediently let herself be wrapped in clear plastic and gobbed with highly-alcoholic candy-floss (Surprise your friends, fool your babysitter – ONCE! The darker the pink, the quicker the floor comes up to meet you, the slogan said), and be led, dream-like and unresisting, to the stage. Even the alcohol hadn't made her feel too disoriented, maybe because the last eight months had all seemed like a dream. She'd already figured out the object of the game her friends had devised, and she was actually looking forward to it a little. She was proud of her body, and the idea of being unabashedly sexy and vulnerable in front of all those hunky males teased her senses pleasantly – and to do it all with permission and without repercussion… that kind of thing happens only once.
She'd had a moment of anxiety when she looked into the glazed brown eyes of Number One. She could see the lust on his face and even evidence of it through his tight jeans, and it frightened her a little. She panicked momentarily when, after tugging compulsively to free her hands, her two friends had laughed and tugged back, stretching her out like a bird on the wing. When Number One's head bent and she'd realised fully that she was an attractive young girl standing in a pub in her skivvies, wrapped in clear plastic and temptingly hidden by edible booze, she'd trembled. But it hadn't seemed so awful, until Number One had swallowed his treat and she'd looked up from him making a fool of himself on the floor.
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As the fellow with Number Two on his chest swaggered forward, Ginny handed her friend a glass of amber liquid, and Hermione looked at her gratefully while she gulped it down.
"'Mione… is something the matter? Did that cute puppy dog try to cop a feel?"
Hermione coughed and shook her head as the whiskey went down. "Merlin no. I just had a terrible shock, that's all. Look who's standing at the back of the room."
When Hermione nodded towards the blond spectre frowning as he leaned negligently on a column, Ginny's jaw dropped in surprise and she let out a nervous giggle. "Oh dear. Everybody's favourite Slytherin. NOT." Ginny grinned at her friend encouragingly, and her words were slurred a little as she spoke. "Ah well, fuck 'im. He'll probably leave as soon as he catches sight of you. And if he doesn't, I'll make sure Lavender doesn't slap a number on him and bring him up here for a laugh. Don't let him spoil your fun, Hermione."
Ginny nodded encouragingly to Number Two, a curly-haired blond who looked and acted like the hero of a Yank cops and robbers show. He chose a light pink tuft of candy on Hermione's shoulder, the lower alcohol content ensuring that he'd be back for a second round. Hermione sneezed as she inhaled the strong cologne the fellow was wearing, and murmured as he stepped away, "Yeah, I know, I know. It's just that he's always gotten so under my skin, and I've never forgiven him for getting away with being Lucius Malfoy's son. The knowledge that he's free to live his life when so many died is bad enough; just knowing he's here makes me feel dirty."
But that wasn't exactly true. As Hermione smiled invitingly at the queue and watched the floss covering her disappear into eager mouths, all the while forcing herself to ignore the face that made her so angry the emotion threatened to empty her stomach, she struggled with an absurd feeling of shame. What will he think of me, was the thought that repeated in her foggy brain; agonizing because she hated caring, and also because she could tell from his face that it wasn't anything good.
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She'd seen him.
When he saw that she'd recognised him, Draco instinctively fell back on his years of training as the Slytherin Crown Prince; instead of shrinking away into the shadows, he leaned farther back against the column and stretched his long legs out into a relaxed pose, manufacturing a derisive smirk for the benefit of the two ogling Gryffindor fillies.
Ah well, fuck 'er. Figuratively speaking, at least. Despite the obvious physical inducements, Draco muttered, he would grow foot-long hair on his palms and go blind before dipping his wick in that judgemental, sanctimonious, smug, self-satisfied do-goodnik. Attractive wrapping or no.
And the attractive wrapping was becoming more and more evident as the gobs of pink candy disappeared from Granger's torso and midriff. At least she was wearing knickers and a bra – thank Merlin for small favours – although the coverage of the flimsy fuchsia lace ensemble left much to be desired. Figuratively speaking, at least.
Draco found himself in an uncomfortable position, despite his outward mien. For one thing, he was discovering that it was difficult to keep up one's look of smug arrogance whilst grinding one's teeth; every mouth on Granger's body from every cocksure lout drove him further into a murderous rage. Why am I so angry? Because they're acting like fools, over a Mudblood slut. He watched as Granger flirted and posed, giggled and blushed, as hands rested on her hips and thighs to steady their drunken owners, and he couldn't decide which he wanted more: to hex every man in front of the stage, or to shake Granger 'til she rattled for behaving so disgracefully.
But his fury was almost a relief compared to the tightening in his groin at the exposure of her curves, and when her entire luscious front was exposed and she was turned around by her two handlers, he found the slow revelation of her back and bottom almost unbearably erotic.
Muttering insults under his breath wasn't helping. He should have been able to take comfort in the objectifying words: slut, cunt, skank, whore… after all, she was behaving like one. But the brief appearances of embarrassment and uncertainty on her face were enough to belie the labels.
Enjoy the view, old son. She's just another stupid, slutty Gryffindor bitch.
Tough words, but Draco was having trouble marshalling the inner asshole to bolster them up. As Weasley handed Granger another drink, he tried to tell himself to remember each and every moment of this night, because memories of the Gryffindor Princess's humiliation would be revenge enough to sweeten the rest of his days. What a story it would make! But… who to tell it to? Most of the old crowd were dead or scattered, and those who remained – well – fair-weather friends. They'd disappeared from his life along with…
Another one of those Gryffindor sluts was up on the stage shouting down the crowd. Draco made sure to freshen his scowl just in case anyone looked his way. Christ, it looked like they were declaring a winner. Number Two, that poufter hippie, had obviously managed to ingest the greatest amount of alcohol without passing out. Well bully for him. That unique achievement certainly deserved some sort of prize.
"Your attention everyone!" Stupid cow stood right in front of Hermione as she dragged the grinning fool of a wizard up on stage. "As you can see, we have a winner!" Merlin. Could you be any more irritating? Hurry up and announce the prize so that some of us can go get royally pissed. "And thank you to all you wonderful gentlemen for making our dear friend's last night as a singleton…" (singleton? What the hell's that?) "memorable." Weasley leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. "Although she's actually not getting married for four more days." Oh, nice save there, genius. Let's try you out for a job reading the news for the Wizarding Wireless. You'll have to take Weasley to work with you every day, unfortunately.
"As you can see, this lovely pink gift up here with me is beautifully wrapped!!" Granger grimaced and shut her eyes while her three torturers grinned. "And this lucky wizard, for his intestinal fortitrude…" Draco snorted, "will have the honour of un-wrapping her!!!" The stupid twit finished her little speech with a squeal, which was echoed by Weasley and the other one, over which Draco heard Granger's groan. He'd heard and seen enough, and he turned briskly and made his way to the bar, intending to get a head start on a royal hangover.
Oddly though, when he had the drink in front of him, "Ogden's, neat. Leave the bottle." He found he had no taste for it. His fury and unease had taken on a hollow, distant quality, and all of a sudden the idea of drinking his troubles away held little appeal. He forced down the shot that had been poured for him and left a couple of galleons for the barkeep before walking out.
Outside, the air was cooler. He looked at his watch and saw that it was after one. Late, even for him, although he had no appointments on the morrow. Gods, his head was spinning. Why did this have to happen? Of all the years since Hogwarts, why now? Just when he was getting back on his feet, finding a place for himself in the world? He tried to muster the anger he'd felt at the bar, but all that was there was a dull pain.
As he trudged gloomily through the city streets, only half-aware of where he was going, he wondered when it was ever going to end. When was he going to finally be free of people like Hermione Granger? Free to live out a quiet life somewhere, with a modicum of peace and pleasure, without the prejudice and judgement, without the fear and hatred in all those accusing eyes.
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Hours later, when the sun broke through the morning cloud to a bright dawn, Draco came to himself somewhere – he had no idea where he was. After a white night of putting one foot in front of the other, counting his steps, his breaths, the streetlamps in order not to think, he finally Apparated back to his pristine flat and fell into the blissful nothing of sleep.