Title: A Perfect Day
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be revealed later. ;)
Summary: - sums it up better than I can, and was (among other songs) inspirational for this chapter.
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - - It occasionally contains fic-related ramblings.
Draco's feet ached. The tread on the shoes Snape had bought for him – "Do I look like I care about bloody shoes? Here –" and he'd grabbed a truly pathetic-looking pair off the very bottom shelf "- how about these? So we're done here now, right?" – was wearing down unevenly, growing thin in a pattern that matched his sullen, slouching walk. On the left side he thought he could almost feel the texture of the stone through his equally pitiful socks. He also strongly suspected that the Corner Cobbler's Guaranteed Perfect Fit Charm was wearing off, as the left shoe pinched his toes and the right one was increasingly in danger of being left behind every time he took a step.
He couldn't recall ever having a pair of shoes that hadn't fit perfectly, maintained themselves in mint condition long past the time that he'd grown bored with them or outgrown them, and also moderated their own interior temperature. Cold, ill-fitting shoes forced onto cold, sore feet after a night of not sleeping was near the top of his growing list of things that made him wonder how in the hell Muggles – and poor Wizards – like the Weasleys, like Weasel-girl – managed to survive at all.
I am not asking that greasy useless git for new shoes. I won't give him the fucking satisfaction. Bugger that.
Somebody in this fucking place has got to know how to fix the charms on shoes.
Which would be useful if I wanted to admit to anybody that I've got defectively charmed shoes and thin useless socks and robes that shrank when the house elves washed them and when I told Bletchley that I was quitting the team he just said "alright then" and shrugged and added "Seeker" to the try-out roster and I was not that fucking bad at it, he could have at least asked why, he could have at least given a shit, they're all still flying around on the brooms that Father bought them, aren't they, the bloody ungrateful little bastards –
A flash of dark red hair caught his eye, down the corridor, appearing for a second and then disappearing behind some random Hufflepuff's shoulders.
"Hey Weasel-girl!" Draco shouted; several heads turned at his shout, the overall din of hallway conversation dropping to a low murmur. He saw a bug-eyed Ravenclaw girl elbow her friend in the side, whispering excitedly when the other girl turned to look. Look, it's him. That's the boy that almost killed Harry Potter. He almost got expelled, but he didn't, because Snape made this big speech about how he didn't want to be a Death Eater, though I'm not sure I believe that. I mean, it's Draco Malfoy, after all. Have you ever heard of a Malfoy who wasn't a Death Eater?
Have you ever heard of a Malfoy who wouldn't sell his soul for the right price? A department at the Ministry or a seat on the Hogwarts board or the Wizengamot – I heard Lucinda telling Evie that her father heard at work that before – you know – that his father was looking very good for a seat on the Wizengamot – of course that's just what I heard –
Fuck them. Fuck the lot of them.
"Weasel!" Draco shouted again, shoving awkwardly through a crowd too thin to really require shoving, if they hadn't all slowed to a snail's pace and clumped together in bunches, trying half-heartedly not to look like they were watching him. Red hair appeared again between the heads of a giggling, unabashedly staring throng of Gryffindors, then vanished, then reappeared alone on a staircase, going down.
He could see that her head was bent, hair obscuring her face, but it was definitely Ginny. She was walking very slowly, almost dreamily; she tripped and lurched forward, a pale freckled hand darting out to grab the railing. She crouched for a moment, skirt and robes riding up to show knobby knees between the railing posts, and retrieved some dropped object that Draco couldn't see. Then she continued on at the same unconcerned pace, fingers left dragging cautiously on the railing.
Draco broke into a run, ignoring the indignant squawks of the other students he elbowed out of his way. He'd gone about two steps when he felt his right shoe sliding off; he tried to jam his foot back into it, but succeeded only in tripping himself.
He landed sprawled out on the stone floor, the books he'd been carrying strapped behind him landing neatly in the center of his back and forcing the air from his lungs with an inelegant grunt. He heard his shoe also hitting the floor, bouncing a few steps, and then settling.
For a moment there was silence; then, a cautious tittering. It expanded into vaguely scandalized giggles, and then the whole hall just erupted into laughter.
This doesn't happen to me, I'm supposed to be the one laughing, they're not supposed to be laughing at me!
It's not my bloody fucking fault, and isn't this what you all fucking wanted? Isn't it? Condemn Voldemort, condemn your father and your name and your heritage and your whole fucking life and –
- and we'll laugh at you and stare at you and treat you like you're lower than a stinking heap of shit because we don't really fucking give a damn, because we don't really want you to be on our side, we like it much better when we can hate you, we like it much better when you're a Malfoy and we can all think we're better than you because you think you're better than us -
- and I did, I did think I was better, how many times did I do this to Longbottom or Granger or some other stupid Mudblood because . . because .
. . because it used to be funny. It used to just be funny.
"Fuck you!" Draco shouted, pulling himself stiffly to protesting knees. The laughter wavered. There was a circle of unoccupied stone around him, and another just a little ways back down the hall, around his traitorous shoe. "It's not bloody funny! Just fuck the whole fucking lot of you!"
The laughter died, and suddenly everyone in the hall found somewhere else to look and a reason they needed to be moving along – though not before someone kicked his shoe between the railings at the edge of the hall and sent it toppling downward toward the dungeons.
"Here, have the fucking other one too!" Draco hollered at the back of the snickering boy's head, ripping his left shoe off and hurling it away. The boy and his little group of friends all ducked, turned and gave Draco vaguely frightened looks, and scurried off. The shoe hit the bottom corner of a canvas, causing a crowd of painted nymphs to shriek and scatter. Then it dropped to the floor, teetered on one edge a moment, and settled right-side up.
The laces untied and loosened themselves, flopping neatly to each side, ready for it to be put on again – apparently that part of the charm still worked.
"Just fuck you!" Draco exclaimed to the near-empty hall, and he wasn't entirely certain if he was shouting at the retreating backs of the other students or at his patiently waiting shoe. He pulled himself to his stocking-clad feet, slung his books back over his shoulder, and stomped determinedly off down the stairs after Ginny Weasley, leaving the shoe behind.
"Maybe I should just wait here," Ron suggested uneasily to the back of Blaise's head, as she peered into the Slytherin common room.
"Don't be stupid," Blaise said, turning around and smiling brightly at him in a way that was clearly supposed to take the sting from her words. In Ron's opinion, it didn't quite work – he'd still been called stupid, but by a cheerfully smiling and very pretty girl, which just made him feel nervously queasy in addition to stupid. "All clear, come on." She disappeared through the stone doorway, and Ron followed along glumly with a sense of impending doom.
"Common room," Blaise announced with a shrug, striding briskly ahead of him, not turning to see if he followed. "It's not much, kinda gloomy looking, but everybody's mostly quiet so it's good for – hello, Kitty."
Ron blinked, and glanced around Blaise's head towards the doorway to the Slytherin girls' dormitories. Kitty was not an actual feline, but rather a stunned-looking girl, probably a first year.
"Hi," Kitty gulped, and blinked back at Ron, hurrying around the pair of them; she kept darting glances back at Ron that suggested he was at least as frightening as a dragon and twice as hideous, until she'd made her escape into the hallway.
"Damn it," Blaise swore in a disgruntled fashion, frowning after her younger housemate.
"Think she'll go get Snape?" Ron asked worriedly. I really should have just waited outside.
"Not likely," Blaise turned her frown on him, "It's Friday, he's got a double with Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw third years right now – Kitty's not the sharpest, but I don't think she's that dumb."
"Then who were we looking out for, if Snape's got a class?" Ron asked. She memorized Snape's schedule?
"Delacroix, mostly, as she's got a free period right now – well, all the fourth years do, but not all the fourth years seem so personally invested in hating your sister, and you, and by extension me," Blaise explained with a shrug. "Ought to avoid Jenna Page, too, which isn't hard if you're already avoiding Delacroix – if you ever want to scare yourself, imagine Page and Goyle reproducing." She giggled.
Does she memorize everyone's schedule? It struck him as very Slytherin sort of thing to do, and made him all the more uncomfortably aware that he was back in the Slytherin common room without benefit of Polyjuice, following the Slytherin girl who he had been – to his continued astonishment every time the situation crossed his mind – dating for nearly a month now.
Blaise was still hovering in the doorway to the girls' dorms, grin slipping. She looked suddenly unsure and vulnerable and, Ron thought, rather pretty. Hell, she'd look rather pretty covered in boils and wearing a burlap sack, which would be the one and only reason you're here, wouldn't it?
Not that she's not funny now and then, and I guess she's alright to be around, for a Slytherin . . she's really not so bad . .
So this is either wrong because she's a Slytherin and I'm consorting with the bloody enemy, or it's wrong because she's really not so bad and I really don't give a fig about her one way or the other 'cept to think she's nice to look at . . though I guess I wouldn't want her to get hurt or anything . . and bloody hell, I really should have just waited outside.
"Well, I thought it was funny," Blaise said with an uncomfortable shrug. "Maybe it's funnier if you've been forced to be around them more."
"Yeah, right," Ron agreed belated. "Scary." When she just stared at him oddly, he added, "I mean, it was funny. In a scary way. Do you know everybody's schedule?"
I didn't mean to say that. I'm an utter bleeding moron, I really am.
"You think I'm a freak," Blaise pronounced dejectedly.
"No, I mean, I was just wondering," Ron stammered, "it's just sort of an odd – I mean, not odd, interesting –"
"It's a perfectly rational thing to do," she interrupted, cutting off his rambling, for which Ron was silently grateful. Her tone was even and her voice very quiet, almost a whisper, and a rather defensive, hurt-sounding whisper at that. You know, I think I'd rather be screamed at. At least when Hermione's mad at you, you bloody well know it, and you don't feel all sick and awful and like you've just been stealing candy from babies and kicking puppies or something. "It comes in handy for avoiding people, and besides, it makes me useful for something. If you're not well-connected around here, then you'd best be useful for something."
"Yeah, that's – that makes a lot of sense," Ron agreed hastily. "That's really smart." She gave him a very disbelieving look. "Really!" he insisted. "I just never thought about it before."
She just watched him for a moment, and seemed to relax, slipping back into a vaguely self-deprecatory, lopsided grin. "I am such a freak," she shook her head. "Ignore me, it's just been crazy around here, and everybody's crying all the time and giving me nasty looks, and I think it's making me jumpy. Anyway, come on."
Blaise grabbed Ron's sleeve, and he found himself dragged down a spiraling set of stairs, past several doors, and into a cheerily lit room. She glanced back at him as he tripped over a pair of shoes coming in the door, and she was still smiling, but something about it looked a little .. disappointed?
Like she just figured something out that she didn't really want to figure out.
She's really not so bad, I guess . .
"Oh, sorry," Blaise said, shrugging awkwardly before hopping across the clutter-strewn floor with practiced ease, "it's a bit of a mess." She stopped at a desk and began rummaging through it, tossing scrolls and quills and books to the floor.
Hermione would have a fit, Ron thought, as 'A History of Interspecies Conflict in Medieval Bavaria' sailed towards one of the two beds. And how come they get only two to a room?
"Who do you room with?" Ron asked. There were enough shoes scattered about the room to outfit a small army, and nearly as many clothes. In the interest of not turning purple and humiliating himself, he was trying very hard not to look at the disorganized heap of various lacey things that was peaking halfway out from under one of the beds.
Is that her bed? Does she wear stuff like – like that stuff? One of the unavoidably eye-catching garments – so frail and tiny looking Ron couldn't even guess its purpose, and found his brain in danger of shutting down completely when he tried – was vividly red and black.
"Carietta Mayhew," Blaise answered, scrunching up her nose and glancing back at him. "What're you – oh, sorry," she flushed, and kicked the fascinating garment the rest of the way under the bed.
"Oh," Ron responded dumbly. You sound like a brain-damaged troll. He couldn't quite force himself to focus on words rather than the infinitely more interesting conundrum of exactly what part of Blaise's body that bit of red and black lace might almost cover.
Something under the bed squeaked.
"Oh, Pidge!" Blaise exclaimed, and promptly dove under the bed. A moment later she reappeared, dark hair tousled and hanging in her face, and thrust something black and wriggling into Ron's hands.
"That's Pidge," Blaise explained before turning back to the desk, and Ron grimaced down at what was quite possibly the ugliest bat he'd ever seen. It had enormous pointed ears, and a face that resembled a pug dog who'd run into a wall, fallen several stories and then been stepped on. It was tasting the air with a very worm-like pink tongue. Ron wasn't sure if it was as unimpressed with him as he was with it, or if it was just incapable of making a pleasant expression.
"He's – um –" Ron tried to think of something, anything complimentary to say about the creature. Why in the hell would you name a bat Pidge?
And she memorized Snape's schedule and that's just creepy, it really is.
"She," Blaise corrected.
"Oh, right," Ron agreed hastily, feeling very much on the verge of disaster ever time he opened his mouth. "She's – friendly," he finished lamely, as the bat had decided to stop struggling and was now just glaring up at him indignantly. Well, it's not biting me, anyway.
"She's a Virginia Big-Eared Bat," Blaise explained, still rummaging through the desk. "They're from America, very rare, hardly any left in the wild – I was thinking I ought to breed her, what do you think?"
"Uh," said Ron.
"Got it!" announced Blaise, brandishing a scroll. "You know, if I didn't do the homework ahead of time, I wouldn't lose it – but anyway, ready to go? Oh, you can just put her down anywhere, she gets loose all the time," she added, when she turned around and saw Ron still holding the bat rather gingerly. He promptly let it go, and with a few irritated chitters and a flutter of membranous wings, Pidge disappeared back under the bed.
"Weasel-girl!" Draco reached out to grab Ginny's shoulder, "are you bloody deaf? I've been –"
She spun, one hand clutching something tightly to her chest, the other jabbing her wand just under his chin. He skidded to a sudden halt, dropping his books and throwing his hands up. The books hit the floor with a thud that echoed in the empty dungeon hall; two floors above them, Draco could hear the distant buzz of voices, continuing on unconcerned. Her hand shook, and there was no recognition in her eyes.
"Right, no sudden touching," Draco swallowed loudly, past the lump in his throat. "Forgot that. Sorry." She just stared, and her eyes flickered ever so slightly, tiny movements like reading words in very small print, only she was looking at his face. She wouldn't actually do anything too . . permanent. She wouldn't –
- but if it's not her?
She blinked, and dropped her wand. It fell end over end, hit the floor with a hollow wooden ringing, rolled towards the inside wall and stopped. Ginny sucked in a breath as though she'd been underwater for hours.
"Don't do that," she admonished shakily, and bent to retrieve her wand. "That was very, very stupid. I could have – just don't do it, okay?"
"You weren't at breakfast," Draco said, not knowing how to respond. "I couldn't find you yesterday."
Ginny stood again, frowning as though his words had surprised her, tucking her wand away. Her left hand still cradled something to her chest; it looked like a small book. "Oh," she murmured, considering. Wand safely stowed in a pocket beside a roll of parchment and several quills, her right hand moved to join the left, two hands curling around the black-bound volume protectively. "I guess – I guess I didn't notice."
"I was looking for you, after that bitch Delacroix spilled her juice on you," he said. "I talked to dead girl for a bit."
She twitched, and one thumb stroked the leather of the book, a faint nervous movement as if seeking reassurance. It made Draco uneasy and faintly embarrassed, as if he were intruding, accidentally glimpsing something very private and vaguely obscene. But it's just a stupid book. Something about it tickled at the edges of his memory.
It looks familiar.
"She told me," Ginny answered, and then gave her head a little shake as if trying to clear it. "I mean, don't call her that."
"Why?" Draco shrugged and tried to sneer, but it felt wrong; he had the disturbing sensation of being on stage and having forgotten his lines. "She's a girl, and she's dead." Ginny still held the book pressed tightly against her, just under her breasts. She's not entirely titless after all, I guess. Guess she just wears cast-off old boys' clothes too much. Her thumb was still tracing the binding. And she's going to notice that you're staring at her chest very soon, but . . what the hell should I be remembering about that book?
She's being very strange . . why's she still clutching it like that, she put her wand away, she's not startled anymore . . she seemed to notice that his eyes were not on her face, and flushed, shoving the black-bound book into her pocket with the quill and parchment and crossing her arms over her chest.
"Because it would upset her," Ginny protested, spots of bright color still adorning her cheeks, eyes darting awkwardly between his face and the floor. Don't do that, he wanted to yell at her. Don't fucking do that, don't let me embarrass you, yell at me, tell me I'm a pervert, don't - don't let me do that to you. "And she's –" she stopped, and for a moment her eyes went distant again, unseeing.
"Weasel?" Draco inquired nervously, and she seemed to jerk back to the present, blinking and giving her head a determined shake. "She's my friend," Ginny pronounced firmly.
Draco felt rather as if something chittering and many-legged was crawling up and down his spine. She's worse. She's hardly here.
Should have found her sooner, shouldn't have fucking misplaced her for a whole day -
Found her and done what? Made fun of her friends and stared at her tits? What in the hell do you think you're doing?
Something, I'm fucking doing something, I don't care what, don't care, not going to just watch her bleed – not going to throw up on my slippers, get knocked out by a house elf on the train and don't – just don't go home.
She told me not to go home. Not to go home to my father, who broke her – who was going to fetch her –
"I have to get to class," Ginny said into the awkward silence, shaking her head again and frowning. "I guess - I guess I'll see you later." She turned to go.
"Hold on a minute!" Draco hurried after her; he almost reached out for her shoulder again, but checked himself before he actually touched her. "Where were you yesterday?"
She ignored him, except to pick up her pace.
"Hey Weasel, I'm talking to you," he insisted, wincing at the sharpness of the stone floor through threadbare socks.
"Go away," she returned shortly, her voice catching ever so slightly. "I have to go to class."
"I'd rather not, thanks," he answered sharply. "Something's wrong with you." She gave him a sidelong look. "Well, more wrong than yesterday, I mean."
"It's not more wrong," she argued, turning back away and frowning down at the floor in front of her. "It's - you're not wearing any shoes," she blurted out. "Why aren't you wearing shoes?"
"Bugger my shoes," Draco snapped, resisting the urge to curl his toes and try to pull his stocking feet under his robes. And then possibly just curl up and die of shame. Well, fuck that. Just fuck that. "What were you going to say before that?"
"I have to go to class," Ginny insisted, a little desperately, hurrying around a corner.
"Bugger your fucking class, too," he pressed. "What were you going to say? Weasel -"
"What happened to your shoes?" she retorted.
"Who the hell fucking cares about my shoes?" Draco snarled.
"Well, if you don't want to talk about it, then I don't either," Ginny returned neatly, turning sharply and ducking in the next doorway to the right.
"You can't just -" Draco started to protest, stomping determinedly through the doorway after her; he stopped just inside the door, nearly tripping over Cho Chang's carefully stacked books. She turned and gave him a reproving glare; at least a dozen more sets of eyes swiveled in his direction. Professor Rosenberg paused in the middle of demonstrating something that seemed to involve a broken chair leg; in the front row, Granger gave him an unreadable glance before looking quickly away, her spine suddenly ram-rod straight in her chair as she turned her back to him. Potter frowned at him in a puzzled, assessing sort of way; Weasley - the older, more annoying, not-Ginny Weasley - scowled. Blaise Zabini just gave him a quick, rather distracted sort of glance, smiled briefly at Ginny, and then proceeded to ignore them all in favor of doodling something on the edge of her parchment.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Ginny muttered, slipping into an empty seat towards the middle of the room, between Neville Longbottom and Colin Creevy, who was fidgeting with a dial on his ever-present camera.
"I just know you're not bothering my sister again, Malfoy," Ron Weasley said in a threatening tone. Zabini turned towards him, opening her mouth as if to say something, but instead just bit her lip and looked resigned.
"Yeah, what -" one of the Weasley twins began to add - Draco couldn't tell them apart, probably because he'd never really cared which was which. The other twin was on the verge of speaking, and Angelina Johnson was glowering at him.
"That's enough," Rosenberg interrupted, and both twins' mouths snapped shut, though they continued to glare. Johnson had her wand balanced between her fingers and was tapping either end on her desktop very pointedly. "Hello, Draco," Rosenberg went on. "We're in the middle of class. You'll need to take a seat, or leave."
Colin leaned over to whisper something to Ginny, and her eyes darted briefly back to Draco before settling again on a patch of floor to the front of her desk. She took out quill and parchment, the latter rustling loudly; she didn't, Draco noticed, take out the little leather-bound book. How in the hell, exactly, did I get into this? Things like this just do not fucking happen to me.
Things like this didn't happen to me before.
You don't laugh at a Malfoy.
Colin Creevy was still whispering determinedly to Ginny, but he seemed to be having no better luck in getting her to answer than Draco had. Creevy was short, skinny, and in Draco's opinion looked rather like a flat-chested girl, but he still managed to make Ginny look tiny and frail. Potter was saying something to Granger in hushed tones; she shook her head rapidly in the negative, sharp jerking motions from side to side. Whatever Granger had said that Draco hadn't heard, Ginny had - and it was making her shoulders hunch just a little more. Oversized hand-me-down robes draped sharply from the peaks of them. She looks like she could just fade away; like you could break her by looking at her wrong.
My father did that. Broke her. You don't laugh at a Malfoy, you don't raid Malfoy Manor and you don't put bills before the Wizengamot that might inconvenience a Malfoy, not if you'd like to keep the same number of children you presently have, not if you like them sane - of course, not that it really matters, if one of them happens to be useful -
- they deduced that the sacrifice of a witch or wizard would be necessary -
- because it wouldn't work with the Muggles, Granger's mum and dad, just Muggles, didn't have souls but then where does she get hers - how do Mudbloods ever even happen, doesn't make any sense, and it didn't matter, did it? Because they would have used my mother - used Weasel-girl, used Pansy - I used Pansy, I never really gave a shit about her and now she's just fucking dead, fucking dead, that's sorta funny -
- nothing's funny, nothing is fucking funny at all, nothing is ever going to be fucking funny ever again and somebody should pay -
"Draco?" Rosenberg prompted him, shooting a quelling glare around her quietly buzzing classroom as she did.
"This is that vampire-slaying class, isn't it?" Draco asked, watching Ginny push a strand of tomato-soup hair behind one pale, nearly translucent shell of an ear. Longbottom kicked Creevy in the shin under Ginny's desk. That earned Longbottom a puzzled glance from the younger Gryffindor, but Colin stopped pestering Ginny. Which is good, because I was going to have to hex something vital off of him if he didn't. Ginny's brothers - all three of them, plus Angelina - all seemed too busy staring daggers at Draco to have noticed. Cho gave an impatient sigh and smoothed out her parchment noisily; Roger Davies glanced backward at the clock, which said if you're not in class, you're late!
"Well, sort of," Professor Rosenberg answered, looking a little nervous at the Ravenclaws' impatience. "There's more to -"
"You teach how to kill evil things," Draco interrupted her. Cho began tapping her quill against the side of her inkpot. Ginny turned to frown worriedly back at him. "What are you doing?" her look seemed to ask, and it was - as so many of her looks seemed to be recently - a little frightened, with something watching and considering coldly just behind the fear.
All your fault, Father. Ginny with he-who-is-a-fucking-little-Mudblood-shit-his-own-fucking-self in her head, and dead Pansy who I slept with - and why do I think of it like that, why don't I just think I just fucked her, it's not like I cared - not like I cared and now she's dead, and my mother's dead, and I'm here and I'm alive and I haven't any stupid goddamned blood fucking shoes, and you need to pay for this, Father. You need to bleed for this. I'm going to come fetch you, Father, how's that? How'd you fucking like that, how'd you like to be on the other side of it - how'd you like this side of things -
- because this side bloody fucking sucks and it hurts and it pinches and I fucking hate it and I fucking hate you.
"Well, yes," Rosenberg agreed hesitantly.
"Good," Draco pronounced, dropping his books behind the desk next to Cho Chang, who jumped and nearly upset her inkpot at the sudden noise. Draco sat. "I think I'll stay, then, because I'm going to kill my father."
There was a sudden, utter silence, in which the sound of Granger's quill snapping in her clenched fist was very, very loud.
"What," Severus asked doubtfully, "is a guidance counselor?" His gaze was still on the parchment before him, brow furrowed, quill busily slashing away at what looked like the fourth years' assignment. In the dimness of a few sputtering candles, his hair obscured most of his face.
"I'm gonna take that as a no," Willow's shoulders slumped; her head felt ready to burst, the ache settling mostly behind her eyes and making her wonder just how much she'd miss them if she accidentally flattened them in an effort to push back against the pressure in her skull. Figuring she might miss them a lot, she kept her hands tucked into her robes and tried not to grimace too much at the pain - grimacing just made the ache extend down into her jaw.
"Well?" Severus pressed, his quill making a harsh, high scratching sound that seemed to be grating directly on her throbbing sinuses.
"Well what?" she frown, confused. Let's not ask for too much in the way of higher brain function now, 'cause, that just ain't happening.
"What is a guidance counselor?"
"Oh," she sighed. "It's just somebody for the students to talk to when they're confused or disturbed or can't fill out their college applications or, you know, are homicidal."
"I take it that Mr. Not-Malfoy's pronouncement disturbed you," Severus commented, tossing the marked essay away with a derisive sneer - as if he could intimidate the words on parchment - and tearing into the next, finding something deserving of a slash of bright red ink in the very first line. He keeps saying that .. Not-Malfoy. I think it might be better if he just called him Malfoy, rather than calling him Not-Malfoy, if he can't call him Draco, 'cause that's just like saying "see how I am grudgingly and yet wittily acknowledging your childish tantrums" every time he says his freakin' name.
Though, I suppose, it's sorta more appropriate than just calling him Draco, I think, because it's not like he lacks a last name, it's more like he wants to be the antithesis of his family name, so . . Not-Malfoy.
Huh. He's actually being respectful, while he sounds like he's being an ass.
But does it count as not being an ass if the object of his not-ass-like wit probably doesn't get it?
Well, maybe he does get it. Maybe I just don't get it. Except I did. Get it, just now. Sort of.
My head hurts.
"He said he was going to kill his father!" Willow exclaimed, exhausted and exasperated.
"Yes, well, you've never met the boy's father," Severus commented dryly.
"But he's human," Willow argued, then paused a beat. "He is human, isn't he? Draco's father."
"In the strictest sense of the word," Severus allowed. "That man has done things that -" he paused, gave the essay in front of him a particularly vicious scowl, and scratched a harsh, wet red line across the remainder of the text before flipping it unceremoniously over onto the already-marked pile, not even giving the ink a chance to dry.
"And what high crimes and misdemeanors did that essay commit?" Willow quipped, unable to resist. He shot her a rather nasty glare, to which she shrugged unaffectedly. "Sorry. Long day. Brain is mush."
"Something you have in common with the author of the aforementioned essay," Severus returned.
"They're just fourth years," Willow suggested. "You could, theoretically, give them a tiny bit of a break."
"Third, actually," Severus corrected.
"You're making my point," she argued.
"Only if I cared," he retorted, but one side of his mouth quirked upward as he said it, and his eyes sought out her face from under the curtain of his hair. Willow wound her way around his overburdened desk and perched herself on the arm of his chair.
"You care," Willow said, mockingly accusing, leaning back against his shoulder and letting her aching head fall to the back of the chair. "You're fooling nobody, buster."
"On the contrary, I'm fooling a great many people, and you are impeding my ability to write legibly and will shortly be cutting off the circulation to my arm," he said sourly.
"Deal with it," she snipped, smiling faintly. He grunted, shifted his arm slightly so that she fell into a dip just beneath his shoulder, and continued hacking away at his third year students' essays. "You'll talk to Draco?" she pressed, after a comfortably silent moment.
"I'll speak to him, but I doubt you'd approve the tone of the conversation," Severus responded.
"Something like 'yay for patricide, here's how to not get caught'?" Willow guessed.
"Something along those lines, yes," he responded, and though she couldn't see his face, she could clearly picture him grimacing, "though I do not believe it will involve the word 'yay'."
"Is 'yay' a word?" she asked.
"Improbable as this may seem, I've never really considered the question before," he said, tone dripping sarcasm.
"I really don't think I care if Draco does kill his father, so long as he doesn't get all emotionally damaged by it," Willow confessed. "Does that make me a really, really awful person?"
"I think it makes you astonishingly sane," Severus answered.
"I'm being serious," Willow insisted.
"So am I," he answered. "If there were ever a man alive who deserved to be killed, preferably in some ignominious and horribly painful manner, by his only begotten son and heir, dying with the knowledge that his progeny will never honor his -"
"You are getting way too into this description, and it's disturbing me," Willow interrupted, brow furrowing.
"You don't know the man," Severus repeated.
"I don't think you can kill your own father and not get messed up by it," Willow insisted worriedly. "I don't think you can even hate him enough to want to, and not be messed up by it. I'd like to think you could if he was a bad enough guy, and you really had to, like to save the world or something -" Severus gave a derisive snort, which Willow pointedly ignored - "but I don't think so."
"Have you considered the possibility that not being "messed up", as you so quaintly put it, is not one of Mr. Not-Malfoy's options?" he suggested.
"Yes," she sighed. "But that's just .. ugh."
"So much of life is," he agreed, and jotted some scathing, scarlet comment on the essay before him.
"My head hurts," she finally conceded, and his body shifted under her shoulders; she turned her head and found his eyes inches from hers, faintly frowning, the tip of his rather oversized nose nearly brushing her own.
"You should have said something before," he chastised. "Would you like a headache potion?"
"I'd like a day where I don't have to think about this stuff," she sighed again, leaning her head into the crook of his neck. "Also where there's nobody bleeding on my clothes. And nobody dying, or breaking up or going insane or otherwise not having a good time. And also where my head doesn't hurt, and I don't get any nosebleeds and there's no shakiness and . . and the house elves remember I don't like pumpkin juice and they make that really good pea soup," she finished whimsically. "That would be a perfect day."
"Perfection is an impossibility and thus a fool's daydream," Severus pronounced, but his arm had shrugged its way out from under her shoulder, tucking her against his chest and allowing his hand to reach up behind her and massage her temples.
"Nah," Willow insisted. "It's a good daydream. Unrealistic, but good." She tilted her head up, trying to look into his face, but was rewarded only with a spectacular view of his nostrils. She stifled a giggle, and lay her head back down. "What's your perfect day?"
"I've never bothered to waste my time contemplating it," he answered mulishly, though his thumb was playing idly with the wisps of hair just above her ear.
"So contemplate it," she pressed. He didn't respond. "Half a day?" she wheedled. "How about a morning?" When he still didn't answered, she sighed, and gave up. Oh well. Guess he wouldn't be much for "anywhere but here", either.
"I would wake up, early, at first light," he said after a long, softly quiet moment. "I would not be tired."
"Okay," Willow answered in a hushed tone, feeling on the verge of deep waters. I could drown in that voice. "Well, that's a good start."