The Bodyguard
(Rated PG-13 for coarse language, sexual references and mature themes)
Disclaimer: While I have no proper one, I'll give it a shot ... The characters Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy and all other people, things, etc affiliated with the world of Harry Potter do not belong to me, but to J.K. Rowling. I am making no profits from this story. Shows like Hack and other entertainment programs, films, etc do not belong to me either, but to their creators, etc. Do not sue me. I own nothing (except for Tammy Harding - she's mine).
Summary: She was the successful, intelligent and hard-working Ministry official. He was the partying, rich and gorgeous playboy. But when Hermione Granger is unwittingly hired a bodyguard in the form of Draco Malfoy, the people who believe that opposites attract even say that they themselves are wrong ...
Right?
NOTE: This chapter contains swearing (just a little word) and some violence, plus some dodgy writing.
THE BODYGUARD
Chapter 11 – A House on the Sand
Hermione was depressed.
And when Hermione Granger was depressed, she usually buried herself in work of any form.
As a child growing up, Hermione was always pressured to grow up, achieve good grades and become the dentist daughter of dentist parents. Then she would marry an eligible dentist bachelor and then have another daughter who would become a dentist.
Naturally.
And so it was with this strict condition that Hermione gradually grew to resent her parents and their tight restriction. When she was younger she would entertain her parents, even daring to dress up in a dentist's coat once in a while and pretending that she was checking out the teeth of her dolls (despite the fact that her dolls didn't smile with their jelly-textured lips open).
But as she entered Hogwarts and entered into the daring realm of adventures that Harry and Ron had in store for her, she realised that she didn't have to be a dentist – she could be anything she wished.
This realisation was both a blessing and a burden – a blessing in the way that she had the freedom to become whoever she pleased, and a burden in a way that she had just figured that out when she entered Hogwarts, after all those intelligent years in a normal Muggle school.
And whilst Harry and Ron were her best friends in the entire world and she could talk about almost everything with them, she also realised after quite some time that they were actually quite thick-headed.
Sure, she could talk about almost all with them, but that didn't necessarily mean that they would reply … or understand.
So, in true girl-consolation style, Hermione turned to her one and only saviour:
Chocolate ice-cream.
In summer when she was about to melt from the heat, she often exploited the side of her which didn't mind Dobby doing his job down in the kitchens (she always mentally bashed herself up for her lack of morals afterwards), and asked for a bowl of chocolate ice-cream.
In winter when she was about to freeze over from the cold, she (once again) exploited the side of her which didn't mind Dobby doing his job down in the kitchens, and asked for a hot fudge sundae.
Yes, it seemed that ice cream was a pivotal part of Hermione Granger's life.
But now it seemed almost impossible to duck out of the office in order to get some.
Despite the fact that it had been raining previously in the week, it was now sizzling hot, which was quite unusual for London weather. Though it was a landmark known throughout the world, London had a penchant for raining.
A lot.
So it was quite odd when Hermione realized she needed ice cream. Not only to wallow in her own self-pity and the perpetual feeling of guilt, but to also cool down. The cooling charms cast on the office were doing their job pretty well, but Hermione was always used to the feeling of fifteen degrees and below - typical London weather (A/N: I wouldn't know … I'm just thinking it's that temperature all the time).
"Malfoy!" she snapped. Draco was standing behind her, trying to look down at her shirt again. He too was succumbing to the heat and was now playing mindless games to keep him from melting into a gooey puddle behind Hermione's desk.
"What?"
"Get me some ice cream." She ordered. The heat was making her irritable.
"Only if you say the magic word," Draco smirked.
"I know a variety of magic words, any of which I am not going to say." Hermione said, dropping some folders onto the spot directly in front of her on her desk. "Go and get me my ice cream."
"I am not your slave, Granger," Draco drawled. He was peering at his nails. "Go and get it yourself."
"And I am not patient." Hermione said, primly folding her arms after buttoning up her top. It may be hot but she wasn't going to expose herself to Draco under any circumstances.
"Now, come on, you surely can't be so cold that you're buttoning up your shirt but craving ice cream?" Draco asked, folding his arms too.
Before Hermione could object (and cause a major verbal war), Tammy bustled in, carrying a tray which was supporting two bowls of vanilla ice cream.
"Ice cream?" she asked as she placed the tray onto the filing Hermione had just put onto her desk.
"Yes, thank you," Hermione grinned and grabbed a plate.
"Geez, Hermione, are you trying to suffocate yourself or something?" Tammy undid the top button of her blouse.
"No, just trying to avoid a sexual harassment suit," Hermione smirked in return and dipped a silver spoon into the smooth, white substance. Tammy gave her a weird look, but ended up taking a plate of ice cream as well. She approached Draco with it.
"Want some?" she asked, dipping the spoon slowly into the ice cream.
"Well, if you insist," Draco had a rogue-ish look to him. He leaned down and Tammy shoved the spoon into his mouth. Hermione tried ignoring him by looking at her now wilting pot plant.
"Enjoying it?" Tammy asked Draco, returning the spoon to the ice cream.
"Yes; actually. I was feeling a bit hot before …" Draco gave Tammy a half-smile. "In fact, I'm feeling a little hot now."
"Really?" Tammy giggled. Hermione picked up her wand, and, resisting the urge to stun Tammy – directed a spell at the pot plant, which soon turned fabulously green and healthy.
"Really, really," Draco winked. Hermione cleared her throat and desperately tried to push away all images of Tammy and Draco snogging.
"Tammy," she blurted out, without actually thinking about what she would say after she called out her friend's name.
"Hrm?" Tammy giggled, feeding herself some ice cream.
"Tammy," Hermione persisted, realizing that Tammy wasn't actually paying any attention to her.
"What?" Tammy lowered the ice cream bowl and looked at Hermione.
"Don't you have work to do?" she asked in what she hoped was not a rude way.
"Oh, right, yes," Tammy blushed and went back to facing Draco. "I'll see you later."
"Thanks for the ice cream," he replied. Tammy turned a deep shade of scarlet and then walked back out.
"Having fun with her?" Hermione asked; finishing her ice cream and setting the bowl back down onto the tray.
"Yes, in fact, I am." Draco replied primly, licking off the remnants of ice cream Tammy had left around his mouth. Hermione tried not to look.
'Think of Tom. Tom is hot. Tom is good. Tom is smart. Tom is funny.' She tried distracting herself.
'Tom looks exactly like Draco.' The evil voice said.
"You talk about her as if she were your little chew toy," Hermione remarked, picking up her quill and moving the ice cream tray off of her filing.
"You're the one who brought it up," Draco said, resuming his position behind the desk. "In fact, you were the one who made her sound like a chew toy."
'He has a point there, you know,' the second voice in Hermione's head piped up.
'Shut up,' she replied.
"Fine, don't reply, then," Draco smirked smugly. Hermione was sure that even if she were blind she would have thought that that annoyingly smug, smirking face was there all the time. "Speaking of chew toys; where's Potter?"
Hermione cleared her throat once more. "Harry is at home."
"And what did he do to get a day off of work? Shag the boss?" Draco smirked again.
"Harry wasn't feeling well; something I wish you would experience once in a while," Hermione replied, ignoring the now-melting ice cream.
"Well, I could feel slightly faint … though I must say, I would require you to cure me," Draco casually arched an eyebrow at nothing. It was one of his odd little habits.
"I'd rather you die in the gutter than me administer medicine to you," she snapped back.
"Touchy, touchy, touchy …" Draco shook his head slightly. He moved forward. "Want any help loosening up those muscles?" he placed his hands on the spots between her shoulders and her neck and squeezed.
"Despite the fact that you just said I was touchy, it does not give you permission to touch –" Hermione stopped. She had to admit that he had a way with massages.
'Where did he learn that?' she thought as he massaged a particularly tense muscle. 'Actually, I don't want to know the answer to that question.'
"Now, doesn't that feel better?" Not only did it feel better from the previously taught muscle, Hermione was also resisting the urge to merely flop backward from Draco's relaxing ministrations.
'Tom!' she thought desperately.
'Looks like Draco.' The second voice provided.
There was an odd hot feeling spreading from her spine all the way up to her face. She knew that she was blushing as red as the fountain pen she was holding; it didn't help her to know that fact at all. Her hair was getting bushier from all the friction caused by Draco's arm rubbing against it so much because of the massage. The ruby red fountain pen she was supposed to be holding was on a rickety ride.
Draco was laughing inwardly. Playing around with Hermione was simply much more fun than playing around with Tammy.
When Hermione assumed (quite rightly so) that Tammy was just his little chew toy, Draco subconsciously made it his own personal mission to make it known that he was the one in charge. He was the boss. And he could do anything he wanted to her – whether it be screwing around with her head to just screwing around the signs he was giving her. The massage was a prime example.
Mentality: Draco hates Hermione.
Draco's Fun: Draco wants Hermione.
Normal Sign: He wants to look down her shirt to piss her off.
Mixed Sign: He wants her, he doesn't want her, he likes her shoulders, he likes her, he wants to mess with her head, he doesn't really want to mess with her head, he wants to look down her shirt, he doesn't want to, etc.
As he massaged further on, he knew that these mixed signs were strokes of genius. He had done them for ages with all those lurid girls bearing names resembling sweets (Draco chuckled silently to himself as he remembered a girl whose name was actually Sweets) and other sugar-filled edibles. Not that they were supposed to hold an intended purpose. No, Draco did it because he was bored.
After all, Draco was a rich, handsome, 20-something playboy who spent his entire amount of adult years so far bedding beautiful girls who he had made think themselves of special. And he was doing the same to Hermione.
Practically.
He wasn't going to sleep with her (he was repulsed at the idea …?) he just wanted to confuse her. Then he was going to make her think that was something else; special. Then set up a situation where somebody else that she knew (hopefully Potter) would screw everything up and make her think that she was ordinary. The bit after that was a little scruffy; maybe something interesting (perhaps even dangerous) could happen and, finally, he would step in and make himself out to be the hero – bodyguard, comforter, misunderstood soul, and lover.
And then there was the little fun part of shattering that dream and ruining Hermione Granger beyond mental repair.
He really did marvel at his own genius sometimes.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, I do wonder how you get so clenched up sometimes, Granger," he whispered into her hair. Draco saw the pen in her hand resume its steady position and knew that she was coming off of it.
"Go away." Hermione said as she tried shrugging off his hands. She succeeded in only receiving a harder squeeze on her shoulders.
"Oh, c'mon," Draco rolled his eyes and squeezed forcefully once more. "Surely, surely, you would want to relieve this … tension between us?" There was almost a halo over his head from his innocent tone.
"There isn't any tension between us at all, thank you," the fountain pen began running across the paper, artfully ejected red ink on the way.
"Well there was some in your shoulders."
"Wow – an almost friendly comment," the pen was laid down on the page, and it former holder turned to face Draco with an almost cynical look. "If I didn't know you, I would think that you actually had a soul."
"Whoops, then?" Draco offered.
"Hrm," Hermione raised an eyebrow with an unraised mouth and then resumed working.
Lunch time rolled around, and Hermione was relaxing in her comfy chair. Draco was back behind her again, attempting to look strong and intimidating.
In the time that had passed between the beginning of lunch and the 'ice cream saga', Tammy had visited a total six times; covering up her obvious attempts of conversation and flirting with Draco with thinly disguised dialogue such as 'I've run out of paperclips' and 'I can't remember where the bathroom is'.
Hermione had tiredly supplied Tammy with paperclips and directed her to the bathroom she had attended every working day of the year previously. All this interruption was not helping her finish her work.
On the eighth visit of the day, Tammy swaggered in and flirted with Draco (that man was simply running out of French to sprout) before hurriedly remembering to tell Hermione that Harry had just sent a message over.
Hermione had been kicking back and trying to absorb the calm silence of the office – aside from Draco's breathing, which she wished he would stop doing – when Tammy walked in.
If the woman's top had been any more unbuttoned (in contrast to Hermione's nun-like ensemble, which she had done up all the buttons), Hermione was sure that it would resemble a semi-transparent bathrobe which didn't have any ties.
Hermione tried blocking out the coy little voices beside her as she thought of Tom. Tom and his nice attitude. Tom and his intelligence. Tom and his respectable job. Tom and his great sense of humour.
"Oh, Hermione!" Tammy stopped just short of the door, and headed back for Hermione's desk.
"What?" she asked in a daze, opening her eyes.
"Harry left a message for you," Tammy said. She leant in closer. Obviously, she could practically be naked in front of Draco and not care, but she didn't want to divulge information about Harry within his earshot.
"Oh, really?" Hermione was pleased. She had been waiting to hear from him all day. "Is he alright?"
"He seemed alright; not supremely drunk or drugged up, heaven forbid." Tammy said. "He just wants to see if you can visit him in your lunch break; which is technically now."
"Alright, then." Hermione got out of her chair and put on her blazer. Draco walked over to her.
"Do I have to visit Potty's hell hole?" Draco asked in a bored tone. Tammy blanched slightly.
"Well, no, actually," Hermione gave him a toothy smile. "Harry is one of my best friends, and I would rather you not be there."
"Tough luck, Granger," Draco argued. "I'm the bodyguard. I guard your body. Which means that I go wherever your body goes."
"I don't care; you're not coming with me," Hermione said defiantly. She leant in closer so that only he could hear. "It seems to me that you haven't finished with your chew toy yet."
Draco scowled – nobody patronised Draco Malfoy and got away with it.
"Well, see you soon," Hermione nodded to both Tammy and Draco before Apparating to Harry's apartment.
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Hermione hadn't really visited Harry's apartment that much before. Sure, she had been a frequent visitor at Grimmauld Place, but Harry's current dwelling wasn't frequented that much.
After she had Apparated, Hermione took a look around from the spot at which she was standing. The living room was a mess; books, clothes, towels, everything was strewn everywhere. The corridors had sideways tipped paintings (the subjects were snoring in their awkward positions) and the dining table at the centre of the room was covered in food which even looked like they had been half-heartedly consumed.
The bathroom was revealed to be a wet tiled and soggily depressing place; towels being littered everywhere and toothpaste being randomly uncovered amongst the debris.
And the balcony, which Hermione had found herself at at least once when she was treated to a private lunch with Harry – one of the few times she had come over to his house. If she had not been there at that exact moment, she would have remembered the balcony as a cosy little place which was perfect for watching the world go by. Two exotic, Asian-looking plants were in opposite corners, and fairy lights (which would be magically lit up as soon as six o'clock came) decorated two of the four poles supporting the ceiling above the balcony.
All in all, it had looked like a quant little place in the apartment. A place where even when it was hailing, you wouldn't mind being at.
But now, Hermione found it difficult to just look at the place. The pebbled floor was covered in beer bottles – some broken – and suspicious looking liquid was currently flooding one corner. The magical fairy lights were no longer tied up in an orderly fashion; they were now only attached to one pole, hanging loose. The Asian plants were wilting.
Hermione painfully surveyed the scene. This would explain the state of Harry's apartment; combined with Olivia's break-up. It looked like an explosion had gone off in the vicinity of Harry's apartment and instead of a mushroom cloud of smoke; there had been a mushroom cloud of beer bottles, weird substances and dirty clothes.
"Who's there?" Hermione heard a faint raspy voice coming from the bedroom. It sounded threatening but depressed at the same time.
"It's me, Harry," Hermione called. She stepped away from the balcony and attempted to dodge some dirty towels.
"Olivia?" Immediately, Harry's voice sounded lit up. Hermione felt terrible with her response.
"No, sorry, Harry,"
"Oh." The voice had died back down. "Then who is it?"
"It's Hermione," She started heading for the bedroom.
"Hermione?" Harry repeated almost incredulously. "What are you doing here?"
"You asked me to come here," Hermione answered. She found him lying on the dark oak king sized bed, atop of the deep red bedspread which had gold trimming.
"I did?" Harry asked, in a sure yet confused tone. "Oh, yeah, I did." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "At least, I think I did. These days, I don't remember anything I've done. Just the important stuff."
"You asked me to come here, Harry." Hermione replied in the same tone as Harry's, except hers was not confused. She had found it slightly crushing to realise that Harry did not prioritise her as 'important stuff'. She found a seat next to his head. "What's wrong?"
"What do you think is wrong?" Harry groaned, slowly getting up. "Olivia's left me, my life is worthless. I may have all this … crap, but it doesn't mean anything." He gestured to all his material possessions.
"Do you remember what I said, Harry?" Hermione asked, helping him get up. "You're a fantastic person! You don't need Olivia to complete your life – you complete your own life by yourself."
"'I complete my life by myself?'" Harry sounded slightly incredulous. "That means I'm doomed for a life of living single, aren't I?" Hermione gave an inward groan.
"Harry, I think that you're taking everything too seriously." She said, finding his limp hand and squeezing it.
"Too seriously?" Harry didn't squeeze back. "Oh, that's a bit rich coming from you, Miss I'm-In-Control-Of-Everything. You've never had one moment of your entire life where you have not been serious." Hermione could smell the alcohol in his breath, but she had been offended none the less.
"Excuse me?" Hermione was shocked at the fact that Harry was biting the hand that was (and by the looks of it, will always be) feeding him, even if he was a little drunk.
"You're excused," Harry grumbled. His hand left hers. "The fact is, Hermione, you can't teach somebody to do something you've never done yourself."
"Oh, really?" Hermione looked at him apprehensively – she hoped that he wouldn't know that, though.
"Really, really," For somebody who was drunk and giving a lecture on how dead being serious was, Harry really was surprising her.
"Well I think that you're forgetting the fact that books are quite readily available to teach you on a wide variety of subjects that you may have never had practical experience in, but you can teach." Even Hermione knew that she had sounded too serious.
"See? There you are, at it again – serious Hermione with her patronising tone." Harry's eyes drooped. The drunken side of him seemed to be returning.
"Harry –"
"Don't 'Harry' me, Hermione!" Harry snapped. "Have you realised that practically every single sentence you have spoken to me ever since you came to my house has had the word 'Harry' in it?"
"I don't see –"
"I'm not in a daze, Hermione!" he seemed to be on random topics now. "I don't need to be constantly reminded who I am, and I don't need to be patronised by your serious little voice."
Hermione sat, arms crossed, shocked. How long had this unreleased anger been bottled up within her best friend? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?
All those things he had said made her realise that she was not in fact the nice little boss who everybody admired and adored. She was just another authoritive, patronising boss who was probably viewed from a long distance behind the prongs of a fork. Just what she'd look like in prison. (A/N: If I have to tell you where this reference is from, you are obviously not British. Then again, neither am I, but let's ignore that for a second).
She got up.
"If you asked me here to insult me, then I think that my leave is long overdue." She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, a mixture of dampening and low emotions rolling around inside her.
Hermione had previously felt it when she had learnt that the family's rabbit, Flopsy, had died, and her parents had introduced her to the concept that everybody knew was the only thing guaranteed ever to happen.
She had felt it when it had dawned on her that she had no real friends halfway through first year of Hogwarts.
And she felt it just then – the depressive dawning, she liked to call it. Because in every sense of those words, it was a depressive dawning; when you come to realise that everything you've theorised has been dumped onto the ground with a crash and that the complete opposite happens.
Hermione was about to Apparate back to the office to wallow once again in self-pity and sadness with her beloved colleague ice cream, before Harry got up from his position on the bed.
"Hermione, wait!" Harry was staggering towards her, gripping his head. Some of the sun which leaked through his blinds hit his face and the stubble he had developed cast its own shadow across his face.
"What?" she asked.
"Look, I'm sorry," Harry said, slurring his speech a little. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
Hermione stood still, her arms folded. "Go on."
"Can't you tell? I'm kinda drunk." At this remark, he chuckled slightly and gave her a green eyed puppy dog look.
"Yeah, I can tell." Hermione replied wryly, looking around at the white paint of Harry's walls.
"I didn't mean to take everything out on you," he said, putting an arm heavily on Hermione's shoulder. She nearly fell down from the unintentional weight of it. "It's just that I miss Olivia so much. She kept me from binge drinking and skipping work."
Hermione couldn't help but feel slightly hurt. After all, she was the best friend. She had been there for the majority of his life – not some cheap little gold-digger he had met at some random place. And apparently the cheap little gold-digger had been the one to make him feel like life was worth living.
'Who in your life does that for you?' she suddenly asked herself. There wasn't an accurate answer.
"And she was so pretty and nice, and she said that I was the best person to have ever asked her out … she made me feel good about myself, Hermies." Harry continued on, not even realising that Hermione was having a life analysation.
'Who makes you feel about yourself?' she asked herself again.
"Anyway, she was practically my life line," Harry said, almost sobbing now. "She kept me sane, Hermione! She was the one who picked up pieces …"
'Who keeps you sane? Who picks up your pieces?' she thought.
"But now she's gone!" Harry flung back his head and cried. "She left me, Hermione! I need her!"
'Who needs you, Hermione?'
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"Hermione?" Harry was shaking her shoulder. "Hermione!"
She blinked and found herself back in Harry's apartment. She really had forgotten that she was still there.
"Yeah?" Hermione asked in a slight daze.
"Did you hear me?" Harry asked.
"Yes, of course I did." She didn't really, but Hermione knew that unless she wanted an encore of what almost guaranteed itself to be a sob story; she had to say that she heard him.
There was a few moments silence.
"You would never leave me, would you?" Harry asked. His grip on her shoulder had tightened slightly. "Because I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here, Hermione,"
"Needless to say, I will, Harry." Hermione said.
"Please tell me you'll stay for me." Harry pleaded, his eyes taking on a puppy like demeanor once more.
"I'm not going to leave you, Harry." Hermione reassured.
"You're like Olivia, Hermione, but you're not. You're better. You're smarter, funnier, more successful and more talented. You might even be prettier than Olivia." An odd glint went across Harry's eye. "You're better than Olivia."
Hermione laughed uneasily. "Oh, well –"
"If you're better than her, then you must be the one for me!" Harry said. She laughed, as though he were joking. Hermione stopped. She saw his face.
"Oh, Harry …" Hermione stuttered.
"No, you really are!" Harry's arm was progressing from her shoulder to around her neck. "I need you, Hermione." His hand went down her neck.
"Harry –" she was getting worried now. He pulled his arm toward him, and she came with it.
"You said you wouldn't leave me; you said that you'd stay with me …" Harry said in an almost whiney tone.
"Yes, but –"
"Then why don't you want to kiss me?" Harry asked. His voice was now bordering on child-like.
"Because I'm –"
"Because you don't like me, do you?" he suddenly roared. Hermione's heart was pounding – she was really scared now.
"No, I –"
"Then kiss me!" Harry yelled. Her eyes were tearing now, and the grip from behind her neck was becoming tighter.
"Please, Harry, don't –"
"Don't what?" Harry asked. He had pulled her so close her face was only centimetres away from his. His voice became calm. "Just once, Hermione. Please? You'll enjoy it, I swear …"
"No, Harry –"
"Just one little kiss … There's no harm in that. Nobody will ever know."
"I don't want –"
"One. Once." He asked. A number of things were running through Hermione's head.
One: Harry is drunk, and therefore cannot comprehend what he is doing.
Two: Harry could actually hurt me, because he is drunk and cannot comprehend what he is doing.
Three: I better do what he says. It's only once, anyway …
"OK." She agreed awkwardly. Harry smiled quaintly.
"Yes, just one,"
He pulled her against himself and pressed his lips against hers. The grip he had on her was joined by his other arm, pulling her closer. He moved his mouth hungrily, as if he were trying to devour her.
Being drunk no inhibitions.
Harry's breathing become more frequent and wispy as he pulled away.
"Harry, I need to get back to the office," Hermione said. She hoped that he didn't see the prickling water at the corner of her eyes.
"But I need you Hermione," Harry smiled serenly. Hermione was beyond scared now. "Won't you stay?"
"That's really nice of you to offer, but I think I'll …" Hermione managed to wrench herself away from Harry. He managed to; however, maintain a death grip on her arm. Damn Quidditch reflexes.
"I've tried to be nice, Hermione," Harry said. His voice was now extremely calm.
If there is one thing in the world that is scarier than insanity, it is calmness.
"If you don't stay, I'm afraid I'll have to use force." He squeezed her arm in proof.
"Harry, you're scaring me," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I'll snatch you out of your little cradle, if I'll have to," Harry said, ignoring Hermione.
Suddenly, Hermione's face turned from fear to shock. She looked behind Harry with puffy, red, saucer-plate eyes. Her mouth was slightly open and her eyebrows rose in a form of scared but relieved shock. Hermione's mouth moved to form one word.
"Ron?"
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Hermione found herself alone in her office huddled in a little corner, next to her healthy pot plant.
"Stupid lucky plant," she grumbled as her breath shook its leaves slightly. "It doesn't have to worry about stupid drunk best friends who try to force you to kiss them."
Hermione looked around her office. It was the first time in a while that she had noticed how big her office actually was. Usually she was in the centre, in her faithful squishy armchair, filing using her faithful pen. And being perved on by Draco. Not exactly faithful; no. He was more like something that you eat and can enjoy when you feel like it. Like oysters.
Hermione stopped her trail of thought. Since when had she thought of Draco as something you eat? And oysters, none the less – a known aphrodisiac. It sounded … well … like she fancied him. She immediately pulled a face, maybe purely for the sake of Tom's dignity.
Then again, Tom wasn't there. Maybe it was Tom's spirit dignity …? Hermione reminded herself never to over-analyse anything ever again. She spied her nice three-seater sofa near her majestic windows and decided to go and seat herself over there.
Harry surely didn't want to hurt her, she thought. He was surely intoxicated; she had smelt the alcohol in his breath. He was surely not insane. Right?
Hermione wasn't quite sure.
And Ron – she felt a stab of something inside of her. She would have loved for him to appear out of nowhere and become the beloved white knight who saved her from her drunken best friend.
Alas; reality is one of the harshest thing anybody can ever face – she definitely knew that. She slipped her hands beneath her face. Ron obviously hadn't been there. When she had called his name, Harry had almost instantly let go of her arm and turn around, expecting his best friend. Of course he wasn't there. Of course Hermione would really act when she needed it. Of course she had Apparated as soon as he had let go.
And then she found herself squatting in the corner of the office, feeling resentful of her pot plant.
Fab.
The lunch break slowly ticked past; Hermione spending the rest of it on the sofa, ignoring the protests of her growling stomach. She stared out the window inanely.
Harry was drunk. Not crazy.
Harry was drunk. Not crazy.
Harry was drunk. Not crazy.
Hermione repeated that to herself over and over and over again, until she was certain that Harry was drunk and not crazy. Self-hypnosis had been known to be quite effective, after all.
The office door slammed shut and Hermione tensed up in her sofa. She suddenly feared if it were Harry, and didn't move, except for a slow movement. Her arm reached into her robes and pulled out her wand; just like she had done at Hogwarts when she had heard a foreign noise during prefect patrolling; or when she had gone on her adventures with Harry and Ron.
She directed her wand to a position on the floor and was about to mutter a spell before a voice interrupted her.
"Watching the world pass in a supposedly philosophical manner?" Draco's voice rang out around the office. Hermione tensed when she realised that he was speaking to her. "Or maybe you're reciting some meaningful poetry to go with the scene of you being enigmatic?"
She closed her eyes. Now was certainly not the time to be faced with stupid Draco and his little comments. Him, and work, was probably the last thing on Earth that she needed, aside from Harry. Hermione wondered if there was anyway of getting Draco to not question her again later that evening and get out of the office at the same time.
The obvious answer was to Apparate, but he would ask her later on. So she got up.
'You only live once,' she thought as she mentally planned to tell Draco everything.
'And you only die once,' another voice chimed in her head.
Draco crossed his arms at the sight of Hermione's puffy and teary red eyes. "Maybe that poetry was a song detailing on how you are fortune's foe?" he asked uncomfortably. He did not like girls who leaked more than waterfalls, let alone the person who employed him.
Hermione Granger was his employer. Draco felt physically sick admitting it.
Hermione didn't say anything in response. She took a step forward.
"Nice get-up there, Granger," Draco said, crooking his head to the side. "What did you do, look in the mirror or something?" (A/N: Pardon the lame comment – it's 12.22am, for goodness' sake!)
Tom! Hermione's brain suddenly leapt into action. Of course! He was her boyfriend; she should have gone to him. He would understand.
And just as Draco was about to shoot her another snide comment, Hermione Apparated out of the office, leaving Draco with an empty space and a useless comment.
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The atmosphere inside Flourish and Blotts was buzzing. Random witches and wizards were browsing around during their lunch time; some in important and regal looking purple robes, others simply housewives who needed to get out of the house. Hermione noticed that a few young witches and wizards (those of around the age of six and below) were admiring the newly stocked Complimenting books (guaranteed to make you feel better!), amongst some adults.
Hermione smiled slightly at the crowd around the Complimenting books. Even though she loved her parents and was thankful that they loved her, she sometimes wished that she had had grown up in a wizarding community, like Ron. Hermione had always wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a magical environment; maybe when she had found out it wouldn't have been such as a shock to her.
Maybe she could have been one of those little witch children crowding around Flourish and Blotts.
Cutting her way through the card, Hermione headed for the door marked 'Staff Only' and hoped to catch a glimpse of Tom. There was certainly a platinum blonde head behind the door, but the face was facing away from Hermione. It bobbed up and down occasionally; Tom was eating a sandwich.
Making a frustrated noise, Hermione looked around before tapping lightly on the glass with a fingernail. The head stopped bobbing and turned around. Tom's eyes lit up when he saw her, even though there were a few alfalfa sprouts hanging out of his mouth.
Normally if she had seen it on practically anybody else, she would have been staring at the sprouts all day, not bothering to tell its owner. But on Tom, she found it cute. He looked a little confused but happy at the same time.
She felt good, knowing that she had the power to make somebody feel good at seeing her. It had been a while since that had happened, as far as she was concerned.
"Hey," Tom said, opening the door. Hermione smiled at him.
"Hello," she grinned, and stepped forward. "You've got something –" she said, instantly regretting it; she had found the alfalfa sprouts dangling out of his mouth rather charming, as if he were a contented cat which had just managed to eat a canary.
"Where?" Tom asked, clueless. He reached up and touched the other clean side of his mouth.
"No, not there … there," she said pointedly, as if he could tell where it was from her voice. He resumed looking as confused as ever.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione grinned before closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss to the corner of his lip. She felt him smile against her lips and found him re-directing his head over so that her lips landed squarely in the middle of his. He wrapped his arms around her waist.
"You taste like alfalfa sprouts," she said as she rested her head against his chest. He smelled like cologne.
"Is that good?" he asked, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her waist.
"I think so; rather rabbit-like, but still good," she laughed when he twitched his nose like a rabbit. They stayed like that for a few minutes.
Truth be told, Hermione quite liked to have stood there all afternoon, her eyes closed as he leant against Tom, whilst he drew absent little shapes with his thumbs. But then she remembered why she had paid that visit in the first place.
"We need to talk," she said, clearing her throat. Tom's thumb stopped (A/N: Hehe – Tom Thumb!).
"What do you mean?" he asked. Hermione noticed that he had stiffened up. She could hear his heart beating a little faster.
"Can we talk sitting down?" Hermione asked, pulling her head from him. Nodding mutely, Tom pulled her into the staff room and gestured for her to sit in the seat opposite his.
"So," Tom started. He didn't really finish his sentence.
"I don't know how to say this …" Hermione fiddled with the rounded corner of the table.
"You might as well, Hermione." Tom felt an impending sense of gloom welling up inside of him.
"I'm … I'm having some trouble." Hermione stammered. Her push against the corner was stronger.
"Trouble?" Tom looked up at her. Hermione swallowed. She didn't really think that it was fair she (of all people) got to go out with somebody who was intelligent, thoughtful and extremely good-looking.
'Not that that matters,' she thought hastily, and then stopped when she realised that nobody would realise what she was thinking.
"Trouble," Hermione repeated.
"What kind of trouble?" Tom asked.
"Harry trouble," Hermione said. Tom blanched.
"Harry trouble?" he looked confused. "What?"
"I'm having trouble … with Harry." Hermione stated weakly. That didn't seem to make much sense.
Toms face shifted, as though something had suddenly dawned on him. He frowned and then just looked disappointed.
"I see." He said, pursing his lips together.
"You do?" Hermione's hand drooped down.
"You're with Harry," Tom face crinkled into a bitter half-smile.
"What?" Hermione asked; her face confused now.
"You're with Harry," Tom repeated. "Unless … Unless you're not."
"I'm not." Hermione said. How could he think that she would get involved with Harry? He was like a brother, a sibling … Well, not now after what he had done.
"Are you sure?" Tom's face lit up. Hermione leaned over the table and her hands clasped Tom's.
"I'm sure." She said, barely in a whisper. She smiled. Tom smiled back. They leaned there, smiling at each other, for quite a time, until Tom leaned forward even more and kissed her. She giggled.
"Now, what's wrong? What's this Harry business?" Tom asked. He was sitting back in his chair; as was Hermione.
As soon as he mentioned Harry's name, Hermione's face had fallen. She was playing with the rounded corner again. She felt her eyes prickling, her nose growing hotter. A strange, heated sensation was travelling up her spine. Her view of the rounded corner was blurring slightly, the picture becoming stretched and obscured.
"Hermione?" Tom suddenly became concerned. Was this normal female behaviour? Where they suddenly happy one second and then depressed the next? Was this what men couldn't understand?
"He forced me to kiss him and I didn't want to, and he was drunk, and he wouldn't let me leave and I really just didn't want to …" Hermione's voice was high-pitched. Her words were slightly muddled and they were slurred. Fat, heavy tears dripped out of her eyes and onto her lap; some even onto the finger she had previously used to play with the corner. She looked at it uselessly.
Hermione had often noticed that when some people cried, they let out all their pent-up emotions. These were the people who suppressed every negative emotion up inside of them, giving the exterior of being strong and the one who could be the one that you confided in. And that usually worked; and to great advantage.
It was only when the emotions decided that they would implode within their body that suddenly all the walls they would have constructed cracked, and fell to pieces. Like it was badly stuck together. Metaphorically; that person would have been a supposedly strong building with a dodgy foundation.
A classic example of building your house on the sand; not the soil.
And it was through noticing all of this, that Hermione finally realised something when she was looking idly at her finger, noticing a few splashes of water; she was one of those people.
And that sucked.
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After a few minutes of strong coffee, conjured jam tarts and a good hug (not to mention snogging) from Tom did Hermione recover. Her boyfriend's lunch break was nearing its end, and Hermione did not want to get him in trouble; she had met his boss before.
"Well, I'd better go," Hermione said, draining her cup. She was going to get over this.
"Why?" Tom asked, getting up.
"Because your lunch break is nearly over and I don't you in any more spats with your boss." Hermione looked around conspiratorially before adding, "He's actually rather insane." Tom laughed.
"You don't think I know that?" he asked. They both stood there for a few seconds.
"I guess I'd be going now …" Hermione wiped at a crumb at the side of her face.
"Are you sure you're OK?" Tom asked. He was so kind, so concerned for her … Hermione smiled.
"Yes, I'm fine."
"I'll stay over at your house if you want to," he offered. Hermione blushed.
"I don't know if we're ready to –"
"I mean to protect you," Tom finished his sentence. Hermione turned even more red. "And get your mind out of the gutter, young lady."
"Well the way you –"
"So would you like me to come over?" Tom asked. He knew that she didn't want to finish her sentence. "We never spend anymore time together, anyway."
"It's OK, Tom, I do have a bodyguard." Hermione said. "A pretty lousy one, but still a bodyguard in some form,"
"Oh." Tom's face drooped down again. He reminded Hermione of a sad puppy. "It's just that we don't go out that much. I really like you, Hermione, and I want to go out and have fun with you."
"I would like to as well, but I can't …" Hermione was getting uncomfortable. "I don't think I'll be able to drag myself out of the house after what happened …"
"You're right, I shouldn't have pushed you," Tom said quickly. His face seemed apologetic, but Hermione couldn't help but notice a strange, sickly gleam in his eye. It had never been witnessed at all previously by Hermione. It made his face look glassy, as though Tom had just thought of something. "We'll find another way to be together," he said in an odd voice that wasn't as kind and gentle as his own. He cleared his throat.
"Well, goodbye for now, then," Hermione said.
Tom smiled, the glassiness gone.
'Maybe I was just hallucinating,' Hermione grasped desperately.
He captured her lips with his and smiled. She tasted like pastry, coffee and jam. Just like he was kissing brunch.
She tasted so much better than brunch, he thought, as he felt her smile.
After what seemed like an age, they broke apart and he planted small kisses along her lips.
"You taste like jam," he said, resting his forehead against Hermione's.
"Now whose mind is in the gutter?" she asked, laughing. Being thoroughly kissed was always the best solution, if it were by somebody that you liked.
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That night at dinner, Hermione had a microwave TV dinner. Draco had an apple.
"How come I don't get any proper food?" Draco asked, scowling at the red fruit before him.
"That is proper food," Hermione said, cutting up what seemed to be coloured rubber in the form of a steak.
"No it's not. It's an apple," Draco continued to scowl at its shiny exterior.
"Which is proper food," Hermione said. She looked down at her plastic plate and attempted to swallow the rubber. "Unlike this, which tastes like paper."
"It's a snack." Draco said. He bit into the apple, and it made a satisfying crunch. He started chewing. "Isn't there any other food in the house?"
"I'd like to see what you can do with oats, a pear and some chicken powder." Hermione said, flicking on the television. Hopefully something decent would be on.
"I can do plenty," Draco said snootily.
"Really now?" Hermione rolled her eyes. The show she was watching was set in America, in some place called 'Orange County'. Everybody seemed to be beautiful, stylish, rich … She frowned when the episode began with a recap, which in turn began with a girl with honey-coloured hair kissing a guy with honey-coloured hair.
"I can make oats with pear," Draco started. "And also chicken powder oats; and pear just by itself …"
"An apple not quite good enough for you?" Hermione asked, changing the channel.
"No, I found an apple is actually rather common. Found all over the place; more common than pears. There's not much an apple can actually do, you see. Just sits there." Draco took another bite of his fruit. "All you can do is make apple juice, apple pie and just eat your apple."
"And what about a pear? It just does nothing even more; sitting there, all being high and mighty. Believing it's better than the apple. Just because the apple is more common than the pear, it doesn't mean that it's less special." Hermione argued; the metaphorical terms between them quickly disappearing. "The pear is dying out, but pears manage to do more damage than apples. Well let me you this – apples are better than pears, but for the sake of equality, we'll just say that they're both of the same status."
"With pears you can make pear juice, pear preserve, fried pear on toast … the list goes on." Draco continued. He had not noticed that they were both standing up and arguing with each other face to face. "Pears are much more versatile. They're more flexible than the apple. The apple is a wannabe pear – look at its shape. Fat all around. The pear has a more unique shape. It's original."
"Apples taste better." Hermione said simply.
"Pears do." Draco replied.
"Apples,"
"Pears,"
"Apples,"
"Pears,"
"Apples,"
"Let's find out, shall we?" Draco asked gruffly, shoving Hermione against a wall and claiming her lips. Her mouth was dry from arguing so long without a drink; her lips were soft. He had figured that she used lip balm at the least – he had gone through her medicine cupboard, after all.
Hermione made an odd noise; and Draco wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.
The crying theory was being put into motion, but not in the way that Hermione would have expected. Pent up emotions were certainly being released; as if a dam had suddenly surged forward. The badly constructed wall with a poor foundation had cracked and was washed away. No crying, though.
Draco now had abandoned her lips and was now heading for her jaw line, her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead, her neck … He convinced himself that this was merely for the purpose of ruining Hermione Granger; that he was doing it to break her.
He found himself promising that this would be the last kiss; on her eyelid, on her nose … And each time after he finished he promised that the next one would be the last, and then the next one, and then the next one …
Draco repeated in his head as he trailed kisses around Hermione's neck that he had self-control; he could stop when he thought it was necessary. It was only when he was nibbling her earlobe that he realised he didn't have self-control. He had always thought that he could just stop and smirk and saunter away. And he certainly didn't think that he would enjoy carrying out these plans.
And then, there was that niggling thought in his mind – that he knew he would be wrong.
And wrong he was.
Hermione made the odd noise again. Draco's grip around her waist tightened. Now, however, the noises didn't stop. Dimly, Draco realised that Hermione was struggling against him. And soon, she had pushed him out of the way and was running for her room, slamming the door behind him.
Draco faintly tasted salt. She had been crying?
Surely he wasn't that bad a kisser …
"Granger," he drawled lazily when he reached her door. "Don't hide in there, come outside."
The bedroom door opened quite suddenly and Hermione was standing there strongly. Her eyes were red, her hair was messy.
"Now, didn't that feel –"
SMACK!
Draco fell backward and tottered around. Hermione had just punched him! Hermione had punched him! This was certainly not right …
Finally, Draco regained balance by holding onto the couch arm.
"Bloody, sodding Hell, Granger!" Draco called; a death grip on his cheek. "What the heck did you do that for!"
A few stalking footsteps later, Hermione appeared in his view. She looked angry, triumphant and sad at the same time.
"I am your boss. You are my worker. I have a boyfriend. You have a girlfriend. Every single time you have a time alone with me you seem to think that that gives you permission to force yourself on me!" Hermione was yelling at him. Her bushy hair was swaying around slightly. "I don't need this, Malfoy! My life is already screwed up. My boyfriend and I never spend time with each other; I am stuck in a dead-end job that sees me doing paperwork most of the time; my best girlfriend is going out with you, one of my other best friends is missing and it's probably my fucking fault and my only other best friend who I thought of as a brother forced himself on me today and wouldn't let me leave his apartment until I kissed him."
Draco took this all in slowly, his pain now down to a dull throb. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape, and his cheek red. Hermione Granger had just told her life story – and life woes – to a person that she perfectly hated.
At least, she assumed that she hated him …
"I –" Draco started.
"Don't you dare, Draco Malfoy!" Hermione cried. A tear slid down a cheek and landed onto the armrest. "You have fucking ruined my life! You've screwed up the total balance I had! You know how screwed up I am now – I am not the boring, smart witch everyone thought I was. I have problems too, you know. Just because I graduated at the top of my class does not mean that I don't have PROBLEMS!"
Another door slam.
Draco slowly got up from his scared position on the armrest. Hermione had just practically sold her soul to him – she had exposed all the things that would crumble walls to him.
Another house on the sand.
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Hermione didn't know how long she had spent on her bed, her vision blurred. (A/N: I promise the chapter will finish soon!) It had just dawned on her that everything wrong in her life had been exposed. Utterly, utterly exposed.
'So this is what it's like to be a celebrity,' she thought wryly to herself.
Hermione let herself crumple down onto the bed. Her life was depressing. She was depressing. And it seemed that everything else in the world was not depressing. That just made things even more depressing.
Her digital alarm clock had just flashed 20:00 when there was a tapping at the window. Hermione got up and opened the window, only not to find the owl she had been expecting. As she opened the window, however, a small envelope fell onto her windowsill. It must have been one of those 'ghost' owls – Hermione had seen them in Zonko's joke shop once when she had been Hogsmeade.
She opened the letter.
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"Why?" Draco asked. He knew he shouldn't be trying to invoke another argument with Hermione, but he couldn't help his tone.
"Because I said so," Hermione replied, a little shrilly.
"That's not an excuse," he said cautiously. Hopefully she wouldn't explode.
"Just … just listen to me, OK?" Hermione said. "You sleep in the armchair, alright? I'll be in the bed. If you need to go to the bathroom, then go to the bathroom. But listen – you have to really become my bodyguard." Even Hermione thought that that sounded weak.
"Wait a minute; you just had a giant argument with me, and now you want me to sleep in your room?" Draco asked incredulously. "I'm sorry, Granger, but even I think that's a bit far-fetched."
"Do you want to make up for being a jerkass, or not?" Hermione asked strongly. "Because if you don't, then you can just get out of my apartment,"
Draco became even more pale at the prospect of being confronted by his mother when she found out that he had been fired. And by a muggleborn, none the less.
"Fine," he said roughly. Draco sat himself down in a cream coloured arm chair – which, oddly enough, suited his skin colour – and watched as Hermione brushed her teeth, put her hair in a bun, and then crawl into bed.
"Remind me why I'm doing this." Draco drawled, leaning back into the chair.
"You might as well try to be a good bodyguard. Because we all have to admit that you pretty much suck at it." Hermione replied simply. Her arm reached for her lamp. "Good night, Malfoy."
He watched her for the entire night; wondering why on earth it was now of all time, to suddenly become interested in the prospect of him actually becoming something he was hired to be. The moonlight was hitting her nose.
He smirked as he remembered kissing it.
Things weren't making sense, Draco thought as he stared at her sleeping form. And then he saw it.
It was poking out from underneath a stack of dirty clothes. A corner of what looked like an envelope.
Careful not to make a noise, Draco got up and walked toward it. He slowly, but steadily, managed to slide the envelope from within the clothes. It was already opened.
He sat back down in his arm chair. So that's why Granger suddenly needed his help.
You can't stay in your little world forever.
I'll take you somewhere else, but I guarantee that you won't like it.
I'm coming for you.
More houses on the sand.
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A/N: Before I begin my (extensive and apologetic) author's note, I'd like to thank my best friend Emily – for lending me the name of her toy rabbit Flopsy (even though technically I didn't ask her … I just took it). Check out her stories under her username little-kity. Not kitty, kity.
For the attentive (and speedy) reader who recognises an extremely subtle and blink-or-you'll miss it character similarity in her story Fallen with the brand-smacking new Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I will reward with several hundred imaginary Swiss chocolate balls. Mmm ... chocolate!
Well, now that I've babbled endlessly …
APOLOGIES! Unfortunately, I have neglected you dear, faithful readers for such a long time – I must admit that the guilt is creeping up on me quite steadily now; and I am thankful that finally the main plot line has started, even though I know that that does not compensate for my absence – even though the chapter, not including this Author's Note, was 27 pages long!
Now: hurrah for the people for reviewing my story – it is you that I write for, even though the writers' block monster was particularly rampant, as well as the newly thriving high school monster. I also didn't manage to write what I was going to send to all for a gift for reviewing (I must say, I was quite hurried in publishing the chapter I kind of neglected it …).
So as a special treat, the people who reviewed from the time from last update till this one will receive two gifts: An imaginary Pygmy Puff of any colour (read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince for further reference) and an imaginary huge, huge, huge block of milk chocolate filled with caramel – or any flavouring you would like. Collect your imaginary puff and chocolate if you're:
Divine Cruelty, butterscotchwarrior, kerry, SmilinStar, Sunflower18, Lady-Delphinea (who gets two of each!) , April, Black Aliss, NitenGale, penguin of death, foxeran, xOxOkIsSmYaSsXoXo, Eliot Z. Wheatherbee, BIGHARRYFAN, marc, HGDM lova, blonde-brain, Abel Fyre, lotrhpchick15, HgBookworm, Nubia, Lipglossnblack, Red and Gold, Christi-Lynn (who gets two of each!), alien726, marauderbabe289, .Aurorablu., princess-amelia (who gets three of each!), pinkstar146, Bix, ashira-BoOkLoVeR, Narwhal Girl, Fiona McKinnon, d-iirrty, blondestbrunnette, Nathifa Femi, rani singala, phoenixtamer150, kawaiitie, finally-defeated, EmilyEB, mea (who gets two of each!), natyslacks, DCMMFAN, Chantal J, xXWitchXx, AnonymousHatred, GHG and OphidiaHerba (awww, that's sweet of you to say!).
For reviewing Chapter 11, you will all receive 10kg of Swiss chocolate, as well as some strawberries and some other fruits, plus fondue (of the cheese or chocolate variety) to dip your fruit in it.
If any of you have any suggestions on what I should give out next, please feel free to tell me in your reviews – goodness knows that I'm running out of treats to give you all …
Some thanks for the following people:
Sophie Ellis Bexter for her Flip N Fill Remix of her song Music Gets the Best of Me – it helped me write the chapter.
Whoever the heck it is at the board of education who gives us kiddies two weeks off to get fat and watch daytime TV (and they're wondering why child obesity is rising …).
Rupert Grint and his ridiculous hair for making me laugh so much that it put me in a good mood to write. Apologies to the Rupert fans!
My magical muse J.K. Rowling for writing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Whenever she writes/publishes a new book, I get an urge to write as well. Her style of polished and professional writing inspires me to try and write the way she does; her plot lines, her wording, everything (though I must say what you read was not J.K. writing; you smart cookies would have all figured out that nobody could imitate her)! I must say that without J.K. Rowling you wouldn't be reading this chapter.
Daniel Radcliffe – despite the fact that when I found out he was only in the state below mine it caused me to stop writing for a week at the very least, I still would like to thank him – just because I feel like it. And besides … everybody needs to obsess over something in their lives. I think I've found mine …
Apples and pears – I swear to you all that I made the entire argument about apples and pears up as I wrote it all. I soon realised all the differences and similarities, and found out how discriminatory you can be against fruit, not to mention how much of a fruit I was for analysing it for so long.