My Magzillasaurus beta'ed this chapter for you, which for I'm grateful.
Chapter Five
Cocooned in her living room, legs crossed under her bum, she sat in her favourite spot on the couch, munching on her freshly made fruit salad, and went over her list of yesterday's speed dating candidates.
It consisted of two lists, several full pages - typical for her of course - where she wrote down every thought that came up while talking. Some in such weird writing that she had trouble identifying the word in question; others double underlined so she wouldn't forget, if this were even possible.
The boldly underlined arguments were unmistakably present in her no-list, many sheets long. Words such as sex-maniac, full of himself, too dumb and smart arse were repeated over the whole length.
That one wizard told her she couldn't guess of which material his jumper was made of. Fooly enough she asked, "And?" to receive his smart arse answer, "Of boyfriend material." Hence the first of many to follow.
Her worst sex-maniac informed her that a witches' body counts two-hundred and six bones, and asked her, "Do you want to add another one?" It was as worse as Blaise's line 'top or bottom', luckily one she had been spared of.
The leader of the list 'full of himself' earned the title thanks to his smooth start, "Excuse me, darling. My friend wants to know your Floo address, so he knows where he can get ahold of me in the morning." He was lucky there was a curtain between us. What did he think she was? Some bint?
Between her chuckles, she picked the mango pieces out of her salad. It was her favourite kind of fruit, but she was happy for the use of magic to deal with the annoying job of cutting one into pieces. Hermione bit in her lip, searching for the last cut; why she always did, this was a riddle. Fruit salad without mango was soulless, and yet, she did it every time, thought Hermione with a sigh.
Admitting her weakness, she focussed on her yes-list. The majority were a maybe, reading books was not a favourite hobby, but their answers had charmed her to a certain point. The adorable way one of them gave his description according to his friends, reminded her of Neville, though the information didn't fit him.
But eighty-four was off limits.
Spoke politely, she read, noticing the double-underlined 'reads Jane Austin!' followed by: expresses regret about the way he treated someone in the past; sounds truthful by the my-friends-description, also mentions his bad qualities, not only the better ones.
Hermione thought of her own words, 'a simple apology, when genuine…"
"Wait a minute."
She sat upright, fork in the air, speaking aloud, "Ah, Malfoy!"
Eyes wide open in panic, "Didn't he say 'a genuine apology'? It can't be him. He and politeness? Puh. Malfoy and reliable? No, in which century, in Merlin's name?" She read her entries, "Hothead? Fits the man, but he's much worse, Malfoy's like a damn wanker volcano, Mount Vesuvius in person: when it starts erupting, it's only crap that comes out of it."
She shook her head, scowling because she reached the last of her fruit salad - she really needed to make the bowl bigger. "What else did eighty-four say about himself? Mean? In Malfoy-glish: a bullseye." Her memories were filled with Mean-Malfoy moments: he was the first one who called her the M-word, wished she was the next basilisk victim, so many to recall...
"It's not because Malfoy is the poster boy for a evil man, that he could be eighty-four. Not in this lifetime." Yet, he did apologise, not forgetting to mention how cruel he had been to her...no, it's not Malfoy. He doesn't read books, not literate enough.
She tried to convince herself, the will was there. The intent, however, wasn't; in its place, sheer panic.
-oOo-
It was snake night at Pansy's today, her turn this week.
On the table, a variety of finger food, courtesy of Tibby, Draco's elf. Pansy and cooking was a recipe for disaster, the first time they were forced to move their night-out to The Leaky, so they could escape the smell of burnt food.
On everyone's lips today only one subject: the first round yesterday, an issue that occupied everyone's mind.
Blaise spoke, between two chicken wings, "I don't understand why the witches are so offended when I ask for their sexual preferences."
Theo shrugged, scornful, "Like it's so difficult to figure out, Blaise. You simply don't ask such a thing of a lady the first time you meet." He swung the chicken bone around, meat neatly eaten.
Draco added, "I prefer to find it out in a more exciting environment, Blaise. Like when the witch in question, is pleasing you."
"Be my guest blokes, do go on, don't mind us." Pansy waved it away. "Honestly, if you asked me that on a first date, I would make sure you couldn't sit down for a week after I was done giving your bullocks my special treatment."
Blaise winced, "No need to get violent, Pans."
Daphne spelt it out, "You. Don't. Ask. Such. Things," raising her hands in the air. "It's called being a gentleman instead of a tosser."
"Aren't sexual preferences important for you, ladies?"
Tracey deadpanned, "No."
Pansy rolled her eyes, "Apart from a shag to ease an itch, such things are better discussed inside a bedroom, with mutual consent. Using it as a conversation opener, it's for me like a red flag flashing big, meaning: wanker alarm, stay away!"
"Preach, Pansy!" Daphne cheered loud, Theo and Draco gesturing to Blaise that he got his answer right there.
Theo asked, glass against his lips, "Are you going to share your number with us?"
Draco joined in, ever the sweet-talker, "We are your best friends, aren't we, ladies?"
"You are my best friend, Draco, and I love you with my whole heart. But this time, you're not getting away so easily."
"Pans, we know each other through and through, I know I picked you out. It's alright, keep it a secret and tell me later if you, too, have noticed me. I'm certain that you were number ninety, so certain that I bet five Galleons." The other men rustled through their own entries, to check where number ninety was on their parchment. Greg and Theo blushed and refrain from comment, apparently written on their no-list.
"Oh, Draco, pass the money, darling. You just lost." She caught him by his chin and shook his head; she knew he hated it, but Pansy loved to rile him up. The grey in his eyes warned her not to take it too far.
The other wizards released a relieved sigh and compared each other's pages. Ninety was on no-ones yes-side.
Draco faced Pansy and spoke low, "Do you know everyone's numbers?"
She shook her head, "Not all of them."
"But if I asked you one precisely, would you tell me?" Somehow, they were having this private conversation, the rest lost in a battle about witty pickup lines, Daphne laughing out loud with one Tracey described.
"Who, Draco? And more important, why?"
He sighed, checked out suddenly if someone was listening, and whispered, "Granger."
"I know her number, but I'm not telling you." She raised a muffliato around them, discretely, "Now tell me the reason, Draco."
"You know...mudbloods, Potter's sidekick and so on…"
"When you're done with your blah blah blah, I'm all ears. You haven't called her that in ages, I've noticed."
He attempted it once again, whining, "It's true."
"You're lying your arse off. I know, for instance, that she spoke on your behalf, something you did appreciate, though you're acting stupid by not thanking her decently. Second, Yule ball and your lack of attention to me when she arrived. Third, you don't give a shite anymore about blood." She sipped her tea, before snarling further, "And fourth, it goes against the idea of no preconceptions." Her eyes spit fire.
"We would kill each other in the first minute."
"Are you really that scared?" Her try-again face volumes. "Or do I sense long harboured feelings?"
"Are you daft, woman?" He huffed, "Me? Feelings for the swot? When hell freezes over. Not in this lifetime or the next."
Her fingers itched to mess with his chin again, but she refrained, from that and from commenting on his visible panic. He denied it a little too fast to be believable. I'll be damned.
-oOo-
The fruit salad bowl was shining bright, but the manual cleaning work didn't satisfy her nerves, and she caved in, searching for that Hershey's chocolate bar she brought on her last trip to the Muggle supermarket.
Happy with her discovery, she broke a chunk and then a second, Nothing better to calm your system than a good piece of brown goodness.
Her Floo warned her of an incoming call, "Hermione?"
"Hi, Ron! Do you want something?"
"Could I pop by? I need to talk."
"Of course you can. How come you always pay me a visit when I'm eating chocolate?"
"My talented nose? Why the chocolate? Are you in need of some, how do you call it? Emo…"
She saw him step out of the Floo, dusting away the thin layer of cinder. "Emo-food, Ron, you silly." They hugged, "You are right, though, I'm overthinking things as usual."
"I'm the silly, eh?" He brought her to her couch, stealing a chunk during the passage, "How bad could it be? You ending with Malfoy and me with pugface Parkinson?
"Hehe. Foolish me, right?" Her shoulders shook with her laughter. "Did you only come here to eat my sweets?"
"No, I need advice."
Her full mouth prevented her from answering, so she motioned him to continue.
"'Mione, you have this girl. I mean...there's this girl, and her friends describe her as trustworthy and determined, but she can't cook, likes to dress up - a lot I think, her friends say she's a fashionota."
"Fashionista, Ron."
"Well, that's what I said, Hermione, fashionota." Goofy face, "She stood out."
"Alright, you have another session to confirm your gut-feeling."
"But something worries me. Remember yesterday evening? When we were fraternising with our enemies?"
"Ronnn, new leaf, remember Harry's words?"
"Can't help it, the snakes give me the shivers. It will never change."
"Whatever, what about yesterday evening?"
"When I said that my girl couldn't cook and that I would send her to my mother to learn, remember that?" She nodded, "I saw Parkinson's death stare."
"So?"
"What if it's Parkinson? I can't marry pugface, she'll eat me alive!" Hermione roared, "It's not funny, I'm allergic to snakes, makes me feel murderous."
"You feel murderous? She'll eat you alive?" He nodded at each question, "You gotta chose what's good? Or she kills you, or you murder her. What's the right answer?"
He scratched on the top of his head, "Either way, we kill each other. Possibly, I die first."
She donated the last piece of the milk goody to him, he needed it more than she did. "I believe that there are more Pureblood witches who can't cook, it could be anyone. Plus the fashionista comment applies to any of them as well, right?" He nodded, munching. "My guess is that she got angry because you said you would send the witch to your mother to learn. It could be a trigger. Don't worry."
"But…"
"No preconceptions, remember? Means that we learn our other half through what really matters, not lead by masks or assumptions based on the physical appearance, but by the heart and our gut feeling."
"Still not reassuring, 'Mione."
"Suppose it is Pansy. Let's try that one for a moment."
He looked like a hurt puppy, "Yes?"
"Have we ever had a conversation with her without name calling, peacefully, where we saw the woman behind the bitch-mask?"
"No?"
"Exactly." It didn't sound like a one-way lecture anymore, Hermione felt as she was reasoning with herself. "You don't know her in the same way, roughly speaking, like Zabini or Nott know her, true?"
"I guess…"
"It's a fresh start for all of us, clean slate. We get to know them without the face which angers us to no limits."
"I have the feeling you're talking about yourself?"
"No, no, silly Ron." She bit her nail, "Oh, bloody hell. I might."
"I'm afraid to say this...Malfoy?" Hermione started on a new finger. "Hear me out, if it comes to that, we hit each other on the head hard enough to force reason back into them, also we ask Kingsley to find us a more suitable match."
Her answer wasn't truthful, but she doubted if Ron heard the difference. "Ok. Hit on the head, forget about it. Right. Good idea." Did she have a second chocolate bar?