"Some say our national pastime is baseball. Not me. It's gossip." – Erma Bombeck
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
In which Draco has shampoo problems and Narcissa is highly insensitive to his needs…
September 28, 2003The day was doomed from the start.
First, Draco woke up three hours earlier than he'd intended, partly due to the sun rising in his eyes but mostly due to the owl who'd arrived three hours earlier than it was supposed to with a bundle of mail, only part of which was actually addressed to him. Most of it was addressed to his mother, who was always receiving thank you notes from various charities and legislative offices that she didn't really care about.
He took the bundle and used it to forcibly swat the poor little owl out of his room. "Aiyeeeeeee" it said.
Once that had been taken care of he noticed two things: a) that he was obscenely tired and b) that there was a red, heart-shaped package situated among his letters. He snatched the heart-box away from the other, far less eye-catching mail and smiled at the shiny gold lettering. "Honeydukes," he mouthed, all sound blocked by an impromptu build-up of excitement in the back of his throat.
He tore off the crinkly spellophane wrapping and threw it aside, the prospect of sugar driving his fingers to expose neat rows of identical chocolates stacked in delicious perfection.
He licked his lips in anticipation, then reached into the box with one eager hand and pulled out a perfectly round piece of paradise.
The anticipation was palpable.
He pressed the truffle through his lips and smiled like a spoiled two-year-old (or a spoiled twenty-three-year-old, for that matter).
Mmm… chocolate…
He bit down on the truffle and gagged, spitting it out so fast and hard that it hit the window across the room.
He sent the chocolates over and onto the ground with one swift and well-placed kick. Splat!
Who in the world would send him an entire box of chocolates filled with that most vile of substances: coconut cream! (dun dun dun)
He sat in sullen silence for a while, pouting distastefully down at the smashed chocolates.
Some people could be so cruel.
When pouting became a bore, he found himself in the bathtub, watching fluffy pink bubbles float by his nose and playing with a little, yellow rubber duckling that Hermione had bought him in muggle London. It didn't do anything but float on the surface and he found its unwavering smile a bit disturbing, but it amused him nonetheless. Honestly, the things muggles came up with to pass the time.
He turned a tap for shampoo and a torrent of white foam ran out into his hands.
He ran the foam through his hair, lathering it into a Mohawk. He ran his fingers up and down through his shampoo Mohawk, providing himself with a nice little fantasy about replacing Myron Wagtail as the lead singer of the Weird Sisters.
"People… People do-o-o-o-on't cha-a-ange…" he sang the first line of 'Cheat the Cheaters', imitating Wagtail's voice, which Witch Weekly had once compared to "a helium balloon being deflated in a gravel mixer."
"Times just go-o-o stra-ange, pains just de-era-a-ange… double in exchange for your mum's electric ra-a-ange."
He rinsed his hands under the soapy water.
"She's done it befo-ore but she's not thro-o-ough…"
He took a deep breath and dunked his head under. True, it might have been easier to simply wash the shampoo out with water from the tap, but then what would there be to complain about?
He came up and started turning towards the mirror to check that all of the shampoo was out.
"Cheat the cheater before the cheater cheats—" He froze and slowly turned back around. Something was wrong with the mirror and it was disturbing him quite a bit. He took a deep breath. Something was very wrong… with the mirror, of course. He turned around to face the mirror again. Yes… something was definitely wrong with the mirror. He crawled over to the tap he'd taken the shampoo from. He saw the SHA, but no MPOO. Where the MPOO should have been was a deep, accusing V-O-MATIC HAIR REMOVER.
"SHIT!" he swore. "Shit shit shit." He turned around to confirm his fears. "Shit."
There he was, reflected in the mirrors, bald as a bludger.
He pushed himself up and moved to the edge of the tub, where his foot was quick to find a puddle and slip on it. His feet had never been very good at dealing with puddles.
To Draco, the descent occurred in slow motion. He saw his right foot kick up and the ceiling falling away as he slipped backwards, his head going for black marble as his feet headed for the sky.
Oh, Merlin. Not again, he thought.
He felt his toes hit the towel rack, saw one soft green towel snapping off from the others and wrapping itself around his ankle. He saw the ceiling stop moving, felt his left toes gripping the edge of the tub as the towel strained under the weight of his right leg and the body attached to it. He was suspended in the air, his head suspended over the floor and the little-towel-that-could holding on for dear life.
There was only one person to call. "Mummy!"
It was a long moment and then, yelling through the halls: "One minute, dearest. I'm doing my make-up!"
"Mummy! I'm going to die!"
Another moment: "I said just a minute!"
"Mummy! The towel won't last much longer!"
Narcissa burst through the door. Her bath towels needed her. "Where's this— Oh god, Draco! "
"I know mum, I—"
She cut him off. "Put some pants on! I—"
"Mum!"
"Oh my god! What did you do to your beautiful hair?!"
"Welcome to Les Decouper Ivres." The woman said. Her hair was verybleached and her lipstick was the wrong shade. Draco could not see what she was smiling about. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No." Narcissa said. "But I don't need one. It's a bit of an emergency."
"Of course , Mrs. Malfoy. It's simply a formality," the woman said. "Now what were you wanting to do today?"
They were standing in the lobby of a very chic salon in a very chic part of Diagon Alley. Very chic men and very chic women were sitting in very chic chairs and eating very chic finger sandwiches while drinking very chic bobo tea and waiting for very chic hair cuts from their very chic stylists. Draco felt like a loser wearing a beanie and sunglasses. Narcissa had insisted that he not go out without a hat, and the beanie was the only one he could wear without causing pain to his scalp. The sunglasses were his attempt at making up for the beanie. He hoped he looked like a celebrity in hiding.
"Oh," Narcissa pretended to think. "Nothing too complicated. We'll say, a manipedi for both of us, facials, and two cut and colors. A day treatment, if you will."
Draco was feeling much better by the time he got to getting his hair (or lack thereof) done. The entire chocolate incident was forgotten, he was getting new hair, and he had nice, shiny new nails and a pretty face to make him happy.
A very chic woman with angular brown hair and tight black clothes sat him in leather chair, which she leaned back so that his head was resting in a deep black sink. "Zis might stink a bit," she said. He resigned himself to a stinky haircut and closed his eyes. Let the chic have their way with his hair, he needed sleep.
He never did get to sleep, though. No sooner had he closed his eyes then she was rubbing something that that sizzled and burned into his bald scalp. It did stink, too. It stunk like burning hair. He banished the thought and decided rather to distract himself with what the hairdressers were talking about.
"Did you read the Prophet today?" asked one of them.
"No. I vas so busy vith Ivan zis morning," his stylist said.
"Oh, yeah, I know how that is."
"Vat vas I supposed to 'ave read?"
"Well on the back there was another article about that Granger girl…"
Draco groaned inwardly. Gossip was one thing, overhearing gossip about yourself was quite another.
"Yeah?"
"Apparently she's gotten back together with that Weasel guy."
"What?" Draco and his stylist said it in unison.
"Vat do you want bald boy?" his stylist was saying, but Draco didn't hear her.
"What about Hermione!" His voice sounded a long way off.
"Yeah, she's gone back to live with her ex. Apparently her fiancé and her had a spat and she left. She's back together with that Rob guy. They had a picture of them kissing and everything."
"Huh?" Draco's throat was suddenly very dry. He forgot about being bald and his scalp being in pain and that he was still wearing a terribly unchic black smock. He had to get out.
He tripped through the chic double-doors and stumbled to a newsstand across the street. He snatched a copy of the Daily Prophet and flipped it open to the back. It took a moment for his eyes to focus. It took another moment for him to comprehend what he was seeing.
The world reeled as he fell to his knees and some kind of sick pain bubbled up from his stomach. He could see the darkness creeping in at the corners of his vision. No… he was not going to pass out.
Hermione had left him.
That was unexpected.
Only one thought managed to get in before the darkness took him completely
Wow… Those are really hideous shoes…When Draco woke up, he had a very bad headache, a full head of hair, and an overwhelming urge to see Hermione. Unfortunately, his mother was poised at the foot of his bed and he could see no way of flying out of the window to go confront his traitorous fiancé. Besides, that wouldn't be very Slytherin of him.
"Here," Narcissa reached behind her and handed him a broom. "Go. Show that tart what a Malfoy's made of."
Can you see me? Draco wanted to ask, but knew he wouldn't, floating specter-like above her head as she lay in bed, pretending to be asleep.She opened her eyes and rolled over to look through him and at the ceiling. He wondered who had caused such deep thoughts. Thinking about everything that you didn't do… he thought bitterly, that'd be why she was there, trying to re-live the past. She rolled back onto her side. Moonlight caught a glint of silver and emerald at her neck. No… she'd not broken his heart… yet. He was stronger than that. He was stronger than her.
Clearly, saying I love you had nothing to do with meaning it. He couldn't stop the angry noise in his throat, didn't think to stop her hand reaching up to grab solid air and pull down, hard, on the cloak, like liquid silver flowing from his back and onto her lap.
"You pervert!" she scoffed, but he knew she was laughing at him. She reached out to pull him down to her level, but he twitched his hips and the broom glided away from her grasp. "What is it?" she asked, suddenly frightened. It was touching, really.
"I don't trust you," he stated simply.
She didn't reply. He knew she was trying to read his expression; she couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He locked his features against her gaze. Hermione, however, left her face free to be read. Know-it-all Granger was confused. But then, so was he, though Draco'd never admit it, even to himself.
"Draco… what…" she started, but he didn't let her finish.
"'Their intentions are unclear,'" he quoted the article, "but from the ring Granger is sporting on her left hand it appears as though they'll be newlyweds any day now."
"Oh, god, Draco, I—"
He gave her such a fierce look that she simply stopped mid-sentence, her jaw frozen halfway to "I can't believe you'd read that crap."
"A hairdresser, Granger! I got told by a hairdresser!" he hissed. There was no need to yell when a sharp whisper could do the same job admirably, and with less mess. "Do you remember any of it? I remember it very well!" He took a shaky breath. "I gave you a year of my life! I gave you a year for your doubts! Doubts! What other lover of yours has ever done that? What other man is going to give you a year they could have spent shagging Pansy Parkinson and…"
"You actually think—"
"Think! Think?" he snapped, "I used to think you were the one!" Now, he was simply sick of thinking anything at all. He felt ill.
"Draco!" She looked ready to yell. He decided to wrap it up and get out.
"No need to apologize," he drawled, almost-but-not-quite-calmly retrieving his invisibility cloak from her lap. "You aren't ever coming back to me, and while that's not how it was supposed to be…" Heartache covered heartache as his voice shook with nothing he could say or do. "In any case, I've called to let you know I'm through with you. No hard feelings, or anything. I've just decided that my father was right and muggles aren't worth the time of day. Goodnight. Sweet dreams and all that. Don't forget to bugger off." He didn't mean it, how could he? He didn't believe it, but that wouldn't matter at all if she did.
He was gone in a burst of cool air and a rustling of curtains, leaving her to stare at the place where he'd been and feel the cold weight of a huge emerald necklace unhooking itself and sliding down her chest.
FYI: The owl was shaken, but not hurt. No animals were injured in the writing of this fanfic.
A/N: Thanks for reading.