Chapter Two – I Will Survive
Draco was going to kill his father as soon as summer ended.
For someone so clever, cunning, and respected, Lucius sure had overlooked a lot of details in his little project. Either that, or he was purposely trying to kill his only son and the heir to the Malfoy fortune.
When presented with options like this, Draco tended to pick "Lucius is a sadistic killer" over "Lucius is a stupid prat."
This time, he felt strongly tempted to go with the latter. Just thinking it sent waves of resentful guilt into his body, as if Lucius were reading his every thought. Draco shuddered and returned to sulking.
Firstly, Lucius had sent Draco to a house whose occupants were on some kind of diet or hunger strike. Draco had scrounged every kitchen cabinet for food, but so far, all he could find were jars of spices, cans of soup and other preserved foods, boxes of cereal, and several bunches of fruit. What kind of stupid people would eat only fruit and whole-wheat cereal three times a day? If he ever doubted that Muggles weren't human beings, he certainly didn't now.
Secondly, Lucius had sent him into Muggle London with a pouch of Galleons, Knuts, and Sickles. So even if Draco wanted to buy food and supplies, he couldn't. His first idea had been to use some of the Muggle family's money but they apparently kept it all in a safe. If Draco had his wand, he could've blasted it open in a minute, or maybe even transfigured the wizard's money into the muggle currency. Unfortunately, Lucius, the quasi-stupid sadist, had prevented that.
He thought it couldn't get much worse when he remembered that he didn't know how to cook on a wizard's stove, much less on a Muggle one. He'd fiddled with a few of the knobs, but all that came out was a strange hissing noise accompanied by a sickly sweet odor.
"Bollocks," he muttered to himself, regretting not paying attention to Narcissa, who'd offered to teach him basic cooking skills for years. Even Blaise Zabini had encouraged him to take up cooking, claiming that women found chefs attractive, but noooo, Draco had to rely on the stupid house-elves and the flick of the wand to conjure roasted turkey, bottles of champagne, and cream-filled puddings....
His stomach growled at the thought. It'd been several hours since his last meal, and his energy was slowly waning from the disorientation and the crapped-out encounter he'd had with Granger earlier that day. Draco chuckled cynically at the thought of Narcissa's reaction if she knew her beloved "dragon cub's" (Draco shuddered again) state of living.
He was left with two options: A, He could experiment with the muggle objects some more and see if anything would happen, or B, he could take his father's advice, apologize to Granger, and beg her to help him.
Riiighht. As if he'd ever be that desperate. Scowling, Draco picked up a shiny box-like object and turned it upside down.
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BAM. CLANK. Ffffffffffttttt.
Third time today, Hermione thought to herself, chuckling silently over the pages of Far From the Madding Crowd. It was only a matter of time before something exploded.
Her mother adopted more concern toward the small pandemonium sounding from the house next door. "Hermione," Mrs. Granger said anxiously, pulling aside the kitchen curtain. "Is something going on at the Carters'?"
"Not that I know of," Hermione said absentmindedly, not looking up from her book.
"They don't normally throw parties," Mrs. Granger continued, peering out the window. "And there've been funny noises coming from their house the whole day...do you think they're all right?"
"Oh, I'm sure they're just doing a bit of summer cleaning," Hermione replied. "You know, clearing things out for a garage sale."
"And I'm sure rummaging through the broom closet involves explosive devices," Mrs. Granger said worriedly. "Really, Hermione, I think we should go over and check on them. Something's not right in there."
"Oh, Mum," Hermione sighed, hiding a smile as another loud clang issued from inside the house. "I'm sure you're just imagining things."
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"GAHHHH!!!"
Draco yelled in shock and disgust as mushy bits of bananas and apples came flying at him and splattered all over his face.
Smearing the gunk out of his eyes, Draco frantically pushed several buttons on the whizzing, spluttering machine.
Crap.
"ARRGH!" He yelled again, shielding his eyes from bits of orange pulp and peach slime. Perhaps pressing buttons marked "puree", "liquidize", and "toss" at the same time wasn't the brightest of ideas.
Finally, Draco smashed the thing with a rolling pin right on its smarmy Blendmaster 2000 insignia. He laughed gleefully, watching the machine sputter and die. "Hahahaha!"
His stomach rumbled again. Perhaps knocking the fruit-filled container onto the ground wasn't the brightest of moves either. He could've at least had fruit guts for dinner.
Dinner. If his father had been thinking sanely, Draco would have been back at Malfoy Manor feasting on world-class cuisine at his own welcome home dinner banquet. Honey-roasted chicken marinated in honey....freshly-baked rolls that melted on the tongue....creamy, tangy lemon meringue pies....Pansy Parkinson cuddling his arm and attempting to feed him stuffed mushrooms....
....Then again, maybe he didn't feel so hungry after all.
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"Mum," said Hermione, putting down her book for the first time in two hours. "Could you do something for me?"
"Why of course, dear," Mrs. Granger replied. "As long as it's reasonable."
"Well," Hermione began, looking as if she'd been rehearsing. "It's my second night home from school, and as much as I liked Hogwarts' meals, I really missed your cooking. Do you...do you think you could make something nice for me tonight?"
"Oh, Hermione!" Mrs. Granger squealed, looking delighted. "Of COURSE I'll cook something special for you! It's been too long since I've fed my only child!"
"Good," Hermione said, licking her lips slightly. "Now, if it's not too much work for you, do you think you could make pork chops soaked in barbeque sauce? With breaded chicken strips, spicy buttered potatoes, and collared greens?"
"Sounds good to me," Mrs. Granger said, whipping out cookbooks and various cooking utensils. "What would you like for dessert?"
"I'm actually craving fudge brownies a la mode," said Hermione, and she quickly added, "though I can bake those myself to save you some work."
"Your father will be delighted. The house will smell heavenly when he comes home."
"Oh yes it will," Hermione said with a twinkle in her eye.
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"Caution," Draco read aloud, examining the warnings on the side of the microwave. "Use only for edible objects, do not stick live animals inside, beware of blah blah blah blah blah." He smirked and took a step back.
"Stupid Muggles need so many instructions," Draco remarked to no one in particular. "So many instructions that Draco Malfoy does not need."
He had to admit he was getting rather good at the whole Muggle thing. The box he'd seen earlier was obviously some kind of heating device for food. Now, if he could only find something to heat up....
Draco rummaged around in the cabinet and pulled out a can of pork and beans. It was crude fare, yes, but even Lucius would admit that it was better than pulverized pears.
Draco extracted the sharpest-looking knife from the knife rack and tore a sizable hole into the can. He stirred the contents with a fork and took a whiff. "Euurgh," he groaned to himself. It smelled like his old house-elf's pillowcase.
Grimacing, he put the can into the microwave, shut the door, and timed it for fifteen minutes. Draco watched with prideful satisfaction as his first cooked meal, can, fork and all rotated slowly on the carousel.
Pop. Draco listened with interest as his food began to cook. Take THAT, Granger! He gloated to himself. 'You won't survive three days here, Malfoy....' Ha! He'd do anything to have the presumptuous little bint see him now!
Pop. Pop. Pop. Sizzle....
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DING!
"Hermione, I think your brownies are done," called Mrs. Granger, sprinkling pepper into her cream of mushroom soup.
"I'll be right there," Hermione called back, continuing to stare out the window at the Carters' house, or rather, Malfoy's new summer palace. "I'm just, er, watching for Dad to come home."
It wasn't a total lie. She did miss seeing her father's cozy Honda Accord pull up the driveway, but in the meantime, staring at the house next door served as an adequate pastime.
In truth, she was waiting expectantly for Malfoy's screams of anguish, or for the house to burst into flames, or even for one of the walls to collapse. Judging from Malfoy's experiences with Muggles (next to none) and his knowledge of the Muggle world (once again, next to none), and his stubborn idiocy (like Lockhart, but without the looks, charm, and fame), an explosion or a minor catastrophe was practically inevitable.
As usual, Hermione Granger was right.
KABOOM!
"ARRRGHHHHHHHH!"
Hermione winced as a bright yellow light flashed from the house, briefly illuminating Draco's silhouette against the thick curtains.
"Hermione!" Mrs. Granger rushed toward the window and threw open the curtains all the way. "Did you see that? Did you hear that?"
Hermione continued to stare out the window and watched as smoke outpoured from her neighbor's now-open window. Coughing violently, Draco leaned out the window and gasped for air.
"Hermione," her mother said again. "Who – who is that?"
"I don't know, maybe I should ask," she said, and threw open the window, letting in the cool (and somewhat smoky) summer air and letting out the warm scent of her mother's home cooking. "You all right there?" she called out, opening the window a little wider. "Keep breathing – fresh air is good for irritated lungs!"
She couldn't help but grin as Draco lifted his blond, disgruntled head and glared at her with utmost loathing. "DAMN YOU, GRANGER!"
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Well, how was he supposed to know that metallic objects weren't supposed to be microwaved?
Granger sure seemed to think it was common sense.
"If you'd only read the instructions carefully, Malfoy," she scolded, "you would've known that only food and certain kinds of containers are microwaveable. You see, the waves tend to react with – "
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, save it for someone who cares," Draco muttered bitterly.
"You really could've hurt yourself, you know," Hermione continued, wiping down the microwave with an old hand towel. "Doing that was very dangerous. "
"Look, Granger, listening to you is the last thing I want to do right now, so will you just shut up and get out of here? I can take care of myself," Draco snarled.
Hermione snorted quietly and muttered something under her breath.
"What's that, Granger?" Draco sneered, taking a step closer. "Making fun of me, are you?"
Hermione rinsed the towel and rung it over the sink. She closed her eyes and took slow breaths.
"You think you're so great, Granger, with all your sodding Muggle knowledge and microwhatevers and home-cooked dinners and – "
"Actually," Hermione said sharply, not turning around. "I was praying for you rather hard, as you're definitely going to need the gods on your side to make it another week."
"Aww," Draco said mockingly, "Granger is worried about me! Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't need your charity."
"Will you just shut up for once and take a look around?" Hermione snapped, facing him. "Look at the floor! Look at the counter! Look at the microwave and blender! You've only been here twelve hours and already this place is a disaster zone!"
"And what do you intend to do about it?" Draco yawned, leaning against the counter.
"I could help you," she suggested softly.
"What?" Draco smirked again, but this time more dramatically. "Help me? Why Granger, I'm touched! What do you think, mudblood? No, thanks!"
"Fine then," Hermione replied brusquely. "I'll leave you to your own devices and won't bother you again. And you'd better be glad my father wasn't home to hear what you yelled to me a while ago."
Without saying another word, she strode out the door and down the street to her own house. She really didn't know why she'd offered to help Malfoy out in the first place. For heaven's sake, he was her long-time nemesis! The spoiled, bratty Slytherin prince! The son of a reputed Death Eater!
Perhaps she felt a bit guilty for letting the aroma of her mother's cooking waft out the window and into his face as he hacked and coughed in the smoke. But then again, he totally deserved it. First he'd let his father cast an illegal curse on innocent Muggles. Then he'd arrogantly refused her help. Either way, she wouldn't waste any more random acts of kindness on him.
"Hermione?" her mother called, as soon as she walked in the door. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mum," Hermione answered cheerily. "Dad home yet?"
"Yes, he's in the garage," Mrs. Granger replied. "Hermione....what happened over there? Who was that?"
"Oh, just someone from school who's borrowing the Carters' place for awhile," she said. "He had a little accident with the microwave."
"Oh dear," Mrs. Granger said, concerned once more. "Was he all right? Are you sure I shouldn't call an ambulance or something?"
"He's fine," Hermione answered irritably. "Besides, he was very rude to me awhile ago. He doesn't deserve our help."
"Hermione!" her mother exclaimed. "I'll admit that his language was quite unnecessary, but that wasn't very nice!"
"Well, neither is he," Hermione said curtly. "Now let's forget about him and eat our dinner."
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The next two days were pretty uneventful.
At least they were for Hermione Granger, who spent her time reading classic literature, cutting patterns for house-elf clothing, and potting gardenias in the front yard. There was also the occasional soap opera thrown in, but she didn't like admitting to watching those.
Meanwhile, Draco gave up cooking and took up a vegan diet. For breakfast that morning, he had two bananas and half of a tangerine. For lunch, he gorged down three crabapples and another banana.
Hunger wasn't the only thing bothering him. The fact that there was nothing to do bugged the hell out of him.
Draco ventured to the Muggle bookshelf and pulled out something called Bridget Jones' Diary. He read the first page, then skimmed through the rest of the chapters.
Whoever this Bridget Jones was needed some serious cheering charms, or maybe even a brain transplant. He'd never read anything so girlishly trivial in his life.
The next book he pulled out, The Shining, actually spooked him a bit. This Stephen King guy wasn't a bad writer, for a muggle.
In the middle of the seventh chapter, the doorbell rang, making Draco jump. Bloody hell, couldn't Granger just leave him alone? He didn't ask her to show up the night before, and he was sure he'd made it clear that she should stay out of his sight.
The doorbell rang twice more. "Fine, fine, fine," Draco muttered under his breath. He opened the door to and was surprised to find a pimply-faced, uniformed teenager standing on the porch. "Yes?" Draco asked.
"I'm here to pick up Mrs. Carter's dry cleaning, sir," The nerdy young man said, holding up a black flannel bag.
"Er, what?" Draco asked. What in the name of Mordred was dry cleaning?
The man looked confused. He pulled out a dog-eared piece of paper from his back pocket. "It says here that I'm supposed to pick up her stuff today, like how Max did every other Tuesday until he got sacked."
"Er, well, go on then," Draco stammered, opening the door a little wider.
Pimple Boy looked even more confused. "Ehh, so where are her clothes?"
Draco felt a flood of relief wash over him. So that's what he wanted! Clothes! "Oh, um, I'll be right back," he said, and rushed over to the master bedroom. He pulled out some random pieces of clothing from the wardrobe and dumped them in Pimple Boy's arms. "There you go!"
Merlin, was the dry cleaning fellow's face permanently fixated into a confused look? "Er," he said again. "Are you sure this is right? We don't normally dry-clean plastic raincoats or cotton T-shirts."
"Well the Carters obviously aren't normal people then," Draco quickly replied, slamming the door in Pimple Boy's face.
"Well, that was a first," Draco said to himself.
And it wasn't the last, either.
Ding-dong!
A greasy-skinned, burly man stood in the doorway carrying a large briefcase and several tools. "So," he said gruffly. "I hear there's something wrong with your computer's performance."
"Er...what?" Draco asked. He was feeling stupider by the hour.
"Your computer's performance, sir," The man replied. "We got a call from you saying that you'd accidentally downloaded a virus and it'd destroyed your system and deleted your files. Now, the good news is, I don't need to install a whole new hard drive, but we might need to reinstall Windows and set you up with a more secure connection. May I come inside?"
Draco thought quickly. Now, what would Salazar Slytherin do in a situation like this?
"Uh, wrong house! Better re-check your map!" Draco stammered, quickly shutting the door. To hell with his usually smooth, Slytherin ways. He was in Muggle London!
Merlin, this was crazy.
Ding-dong!
Oh, bloody hell!
Draco wouldn't have answered the door if the nosy visitor hadn't stuck his face against the window. "Hellooo, there! I can see you!" The man chirped.
Sighing resignedly, Draco unlocked the door. "May I do something for you?" he asked.
His visitor wore a crinkle-free earth-colored suit and carried what appeared to be a large stack of tracts under his elbow. "Good day, sir," he began, smoothing down his stiff, parted-down-the-middle chestnut hair. "It's a lovely day, isn't it?"
"I guess," Draco replied dismissively. "This is kind of a bad time, sir, so can you make it quick?"
"My good man," The bloke chuckled, shuffling the tracts. "The little time you have now is so small when compared to your future eternity. Do you know where you'll be spending it?"
"Why does it matter to you?" Draco asked impertinently. "Are you a friend of the Carter's? What do you want?"
"It matters to me because you matter to me," The man continued airily. "And I can be your friend, because we are all friends in the Brotherhood of Men. Now, I know you must be confused, scared, and lonely at this point in your life. But I can help you find a way out of this prison. I can help you see the truth! I can lead you to the light, if you will just let me."
"No thanks, I'm fine," Draco replied. There was something very queer about this man.
"With the Brotherhood of Man, you can be fulfilled!" The man continued excitedly. "And best of all, your soul will have peace and security! We are led by a wise guru who has been given visions from above! And he has gladly decided to share these visions with us!"
"Good for you," Draco snapped. "Now leave! I've had a long day."
"Join the Brotherhood!" cried the man. "We are not a cult! We are a brotherhood! And if you decide to come," he said eagerly, stuffing a tract into Draco's unwilling hands, "make sure you bring fifteen pounds with you to support our beloved leader!"
For the third time that day, Draco slammed the door in a visitor's face.
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Hermione had just finished patting down the organic fertilizer when she heard what sounded suspiciously like a triumphant yell from behind her.
"Ha-HA!"
She cocked an eyebrow at Draco, who was punching the air and brandishing a....toaster?
"Am I just hallucinating, Malfoy, or have you finally cracked?" she called over the fence.
"Don't be stupid, mudblood," Draco cackled. "Oh, wait, that's impossible. As I was demonstrating, I've figured out how to use a...a...."
"Toaster?" Hermione suggested. Well, what do you know, Malfoy wasn't a total imbecile after all....
Just kidding.
"....I've cooked bread!" he announced pompously, flaunting what strongly resembled a brick of charcoal.
"You don't cook bread, you toast it!" Hermione snickered. "Geez, Malfoy, you're supposed to be making toast! You know, breakfast food?"
"Of course I know what toast is," Draco replied, biting into his newest creation. "And it's quite tasty, if I do say so myself."
Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "I'm not that daft, Malfoy. Now spit that out before it gives you indigestion." She spun around and went back inside through the back door.
Draco spat the "toast" onto the grass and ground it underfoot. He hated it when Granger was right.
Although, now that he'd seen her in shorts, she did have nice legs.
Did I just think that? Draco asked himself in horror. He gazed at the burnt toast and tossed the rest of it into the bushes. Maybe he was suffering from indigestion.
A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed last time! This chapter was a heckload harder to write than the last one, for some reason. If you've gotten this far, please review! You guys motivate me!
To answer your questions, yes, they are still in Hogwarts, and if I could, I would sew Draco plushies and mail them to you all. Maybe I should give up writing, take up sewing, and start my own Draco Plushie business...ponders
And my apologies for all the Americanisms in this fic.
Next time: Draco's dilemma, patching up the holes, and if all goes as expected, an angry encounter with Lucius.