The Hiltless Knife
Chapter 1(currently unnamed)
He would hate not being a wizard; but then, he wouldn't know that wizards existed. To live in a respectable house in the suburbs with parents who kissed him goodbye as he headed off to school each morning, and asked him how his day was at dinner each night. Maybe a sibling-perfectly ordinary parents wouldn't just produce an heir, because there would be no legacy to inherit. They would have children for the joy of watching them grow up.
But would he still be Draco Malfoy? Or instead a Muggle boy model student who would spend the rest of his days in the dreary existence of the rat race?
He didn't have the time to ponder this because just then a girl his own age, with wet brown hair and wearing a Two Towers! T-shirt with a disreputable-looking man on the front, walked into the room Draco was peering in at, which he took to be a kitchen. She was combing through her hair with difficulty. After a moment she gave up, not even bothering to remove the comb from the tangle she had created with it.
With a curious slow saunter, she walked up to the table in the middle of the airy room and delicately plucked an apple from a bowl of assorted fruit. Again, sauntering in a way that was half dancing, she rinsed the apple off in the sink. Glancing around suspiciously, as though she was about to commit a crime that simply could not be witnessed, she bit into the apple. A peculiar savoring look came over her face as she munched the fruit with her eyes closed. As soon as she finished that bite, her eyes popped open and she repeated the strange apple-eating ritual.
Weird little Mudblood, he thought, giving her a wary and incredulous look through the glass. Well, little in comparison to himself, or her friend Potter, and especially little in comparison to the giant Weasel, but not little when compared to most of the girls at school. It would have been better if she'd been short like the Ravenclaw seeker, or big boned like Millicent Bulstrode, because Draco couldn't stand girls like that, but often one had little say about the matter of one's arch-nemesis' best friend/girl friend. Not that Potter and she had displayed the slightest tendencies of love towards one another besides the strictly platonic kind. But Draco knew it was only a matter of time.
He blinked. Had he gotten lost in thought? Yes, he must have, because she was almost done with her apple. Bizarre. He never lost track of time just by thinking. Especially about such an idiotic subject. Had he sustained a concussion? He didn't remember passing out, but then, that was sort of the point. Didn't really matter, though. He had confirmation that this was the right house, and he could extract himself from this bush that seemed to be cultivated for the purpose of making him uncomfortable. Which he did immediately. Extract himself, not cultivate a bush, that is.
He stood in front of the door, wondering how to get her attention. A doorbell of some sort; she wouldn't be able to hear him if he just knocked. There was a little button on one side of the doorframe. It was as good a guess as any. He pressed it and heard someone yelling obscenities from inside. Her father? No, the doorbell.
He heard feet pounding through the house and then the door opened.
"Granger?" he croaked. Her expression was one of complete shock, then bemusement, and then, one that Draco would have found most amusing had he not been to busy wincing from the pain of talking with a split lip, concern.
"Malfoy? What are you- I mean, why-"Hermione Granger spluttered, completely flummoxed.
"Hi. Can I use your phone?" he asked, attempting to put up a cool front. "And maybe a first aid kit?"
"My goodness, of course!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. For once Draco was happy that she was a do-gooder. "Come in!"
She ushered him in and made him sit down on a dark green velvet couch. Slytherin colors, he thought. At least one of them, any way. Granger disappeared into another room briefly, and returned with a wet washcloth, ointment of some kind, and various bandages.
"Clean yourself up," she said, shoving the washcloth at him, "And then explain."
"Um-"Draco turned around, revealing a tear in his robes, about midway down his back, through which a long bloody scratch was visible. Unbeknownst to him, his hair was also stained with blood. Granger gasped.
"That bad?" he inquired, turning back around. The effort of talking made his face ache.
"Clean up what you can, at least," she instructed, biting her lip. "I'll do everything else."
Draco nodded his consent and took the washcloth from her. She left again, and Draco began to do his best with mending himself. A mirror hanging on the wall aided the cleanup of his face, and once he had scrubbed (gently!) all the dry blood off, he turned his attention to his back.
Or tried to, anyway.
Granger walked in just in time to see him perform a ridiculous half-hop monkey action. It was like that stop that no one could scratch! He scowled, then grimaced at the pain.
"Perhaps-do you think-I should help you," Granger stuttered. "
No?" he snarled at her, but instantly regretted it. She was being awfully obliging, even considering that she was a goody-two-shoes. To his relief, she didn't take any offense. He felt the wet cloth sponging at his head, and inquired crankily, "What's the matter th-"
The stinging made him gasp.
"You hit something, I think," she replied. "You've a lovely goose egg right there."
She touched the spot and he spluttered, "Stop tormenting me, Granger, for God's sake!"
Obliging indeed!
"Robe off," she ordered. He was too battered to even bother with making lewd jokes about her wanting his clothes off. He stood there shivering in his boxers as she cleaned him up in a jiffy, then he felt her applying the cream he'd seen earlier.
"What's that?" he demanded. He sounded paranoid, Draco decided. As in crazy. Another thing to put on his long list of eccentricities.
"Antibiotic ointment," she murmured. "Ah-the muggle form of a healing ointment. Slower, but just as effective."
Granger turned him around and began applying the stuff to his face. He felt like an effigy. He rather would be an effigy, doubtless much less painful. He would get to sleep...
He blinked slowly. Sleep. What he needed. Sleep, and food, and a bath, but sleep most of all. Granger laid a large towel on the green couch and pointed to it.
"Rest here."
That girl was just plain bossy. Still, he complied. Bossy, but observant. Too observant. She would want to know answers when he woke up. But that was when he woke up, hopefully, hours from now. Hours and eons.
His eyes closed.