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Chapter 13: Drunk:
Draco Malfoy was always a stupid, selfish bastard. That was what everyone thought. Even he always thought so. He had been sitting in the study of Malfoy Manor, with a glass of scotch, for over two hours and he had concluded one thing: he hated himself. He hated everything about himself. He hated the way he looked. He hated the way he thought. He hated the way he talked. He hated Draco Malfoy with a passion.
How could he just leave Hermione during her bleakest, darkest, moment? After she had said she loved him, and after they had made love last night. He left her because everything was too much for him to handle. That was just too fucking sad, Draco, and too bad as well. He made himself another drink, (he had already had four) and he sat back down on the wingback chair in the corner of the massive room. He looked at all the books on the bookshelves, and all he could do was think of her, and how much she probably hated him, too.
He wondered what he could have done differently. He wondered what she thought about him now. He wondered so much that he had a headache. He also was royally pissed. He stumbled over to the couch, and he fell asleep.
When he woke up he had no idea what time of day it was, nor did he care. He rolled off the couch, and tried to stand up, but he fell back down. He lay on the floor, spread eagle, and stared up at the ceiling. Then, he had an epiphany, a genuine change your life forever, epiphany. God, he was a stupid git. That was not his epiphany; that was just a fact. His epiphany was that if Hermione Jean Granger loved him for what he was, then who was he to hate himself? She grew up with him. He tormented her for seven long years. His family even tired to kill her and her friends a few times. He was cruel, he called her the foulest names; in other words, he had always been a first class wanker. She loved him anyway. She loved him. He hated him, but she loved him. He loved her as well. What the hell was he doing on the middle of the floor at fucking Malfoy Manor? He should be with her. If she could love him after all these years; and she wouldn't love a bastard, git, wanker, bloody fool; then that means he really had changed after all. He had wanted to change for so long. He didn't know it had already happened. He had been waiting for it, and he thought he would have noticed the moment he changed right away. He thought when it had finally happened, perhaps people might start applauding when he walked by, but maybe his change had come about more gradual.
He had changed by God! Because Hermione Granger was a smart, loving, beautiful woman, she had excellent taste, and she would never love Draco Malfoy if he had not changed!
He crawled over to the couch, and pulled himself up. He decided not to apparate while under the influence. He went to the fireplace, and decided to floo. Draco didn't know if her parents' house was hooked up to the floo network, but he would soon find out if it was. He came stumbling out of her parents' fireplace in what he would assumed was the previously mentioned den. He had not been in this room before. He dusted himself off and went to find Hermione.
"Granger!" he demanded. Where had she gone?
"Honey, I'm home," he yelled. She came out of the kitchen, with red-rimmed eyes, and her hair very disheveled.
"You're drunk," she said, with her hands on her hips.
"No I'm not," he retorted. Then he swayed. Then he sat down, but he slid off the chair and landed on his backside on the floor. "Come to poppa," he said, patting his lap.
"Why are you drunk?" she demanded to know. "You have no right to get drunk."
"I didn't know getting drunk was a right. I always thought it was more of a privilege." He slurred his speech as he stood.
"Get out of my house," she told him. She walked back to the kitchen. She had cooked spaghetti and meat sauce. It smelled wonderful. It was close to dinnertime. He was hungry. He would stay for supper, he decided.
He came up behind her as she stood at the stove, and put his arms around her waist. "This isn't your house Hermione; it's your parents' house," he said in her ear. She had turned her head to tell him something, but he could tell she took one whiff of his alcohol-laced breath, and that was why she turned back around and faced the stove again.
She pushed him off her and said, "You have terrible breath. If you insist on staying, go upstairs, shower, put on some clothes that don't smell like you fell asleep in a whore house, and take some pepper-up potion that's in the medicine cabinet." She pointed toward the hall.
"Yes, Madame," he said, with a low bow. He almost fell again as he straightened to stand. He stumbled up the stairs. He really did almost fall twice. That was probably her evil plan. Have him fall down the stairs so he would knock himself out and she could have her way with him. He laughed at himself. He always thought he was witty.
He took the pepper-up potion first. It sobered him up quite a bit. He took his shower, and as he stood in the shower, he was aware of the foolish things he had said earlier, before he left. He would always be a git, even if she loved him. After his shower, he went into her bedroom, where his bag was, and changed his clothes. He sat on the bed to put on his shoes, and he remembered the piece of parchment he had put under the mattress earlier. He finished putting his shoes on, and reached under the mattress, and put the piece of paper in his jeans pocket. He walked down to the kitchen.
The food was on the table. She was already eating. At least she had set a place for him. "Thanks for waiting for me, Granger," he said rudely. As he filled his plate, he realized he was being a bastard again. He wasn't a bastard any longer. He would have to remember that, and that he loved her. In addition, she didn't deserve his smart remarks. She deserved an apology. "Listen Granger, I was a bloody bastard earlier, right, and I can't change the fact that I ran out on you, but it had nothing to do with you. It had nothing to do with what you told me. I was angry with myself, and I didn't know what to do to help you, so I left. It was wrong, and I'm sorry."
She put her fork down, and raised her eyebrows. What? She wanted more? Fine, he would tell her about his epiphany. "I came to what I am now referring to as my own little epiphany today. Do you want to know what that was, Granger?"
"If you wish to tell me, I can't close my ears, so speak," she said, less than amused.
"I was sitting at Malfoy Manor, DRINKING," he said that last word loudly, "and I realized how much I hated myself. I realized how much of a bastard I had been. I had been all my life. I was all through my childhood, and into my adulthood. I was spoiled, mean, and an around sodding git."
Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "That's not an epiphany Malfoy. That's just something called the truth."
"Just shut up and let me finish," he said as he took a big bite of spaghetti.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," she waned.
"Don't talk with that stick up your arse," he said back. Now she looked ready to hex him. He decided to go ahead and explain his epiphany to her.
"Well, as I was thinking about how much I hated myself, and what a foul person I had been all my life, but then I thought, I can't be that bad anymore. I mean, Hermione Granger said she loved me. She wouldn't love me if I was that bad, and I decided that I loved you too, so again, there must be something inside me that's not that bad. You wouldn't love a bad man, would you?" He took another bite of spaghetti.
Hermione stood up and took her plate over to the sink. She threw it in the sink and yelled, "Don't you ever, and I mean ever, throw a hissy fit like you did earlier today; throwing plants around and hitting doors. We have to stick together, if this relationship is to work. Do you understand?" She walked up to him and he turned around in his seat, and he was a big enough man to admit that he was a bit afraid of her. He put his knife up, for protection. She started poking him in the chest, "You hurt me. Almost as much as those men hurt me. I thought you were running out on me because you were ashamed of me, or didn't love me, or whatever. You won't do that again, do you understand me. And no more getting pissed." By this time, she had taken his knife and thrown it across the table.
He pulled her on his lap, and asked, "But, did you like my epiphany?"
"It had its merits," she answered with a sigh.
"You forgive me? Because, I swear to you, my leaving had nothing to do with you. It was because of me, and hopefully, I'll become a better person every day I'm with you, and that type of thing won't happen again, I promise. Maybe in a few years I'll even be as good as St. Potter," he said with a smile, and then he kissed her neck.
"I forgive you, and no one is as good as Harry," she laughed. She kissed his cheek. He reached around her and took another bite of food. "Do you like my cooking?" she asked.
"Yes, very much. Maybe I'll get a chance to enjoy more of your cooking," he laughed.
"Doubtful, this is the only thing I can make. Good thing you have house elves. By the way, are they free elves?" she asked.
He pushed her off his lap and got up to get more food, pretending he didn't hear her. Then, as he sat back down, and he pulled her back on his lap and said, "When you were in the middle of your little diatribe earlier, you weren't serious when you said I could never get pissed again, were you?" he asked, as he took his biggest bite yet.
"You may get pissed, but only in times of jubilation. Not times of sorrow. For instance, if we would ever say, celebrate some sort of wedding, or anniversary, or birth of a child, then you may get sloshed. If we have a fight, we lose our little finger in an accident, or I die, you may not get drunk. Understand?" she said.
He hugged her tight and said, "Why did you have to say the pinkie thing. Now I'll have nightmares. I love my pinkies. See how pretty they are?" He held up his hands.
"You're seriously worried about the finger part?" she asked sincerely.
"Well, I wasn't about to mention the part about you dieing, because that's never going to happen. I'll die way before you, and I give you permission to get royally drunk when that happens," he told her. He tried to keep the mood light, but why in the hell did she have to say that? He would never survive if she died.
He stood up, and even though his mood was no longer light and happy, he pretended that it was. "Go and grab a nap, Granger. I'll clean up." She started to protest, but he said, "Now, now, I know how much you love your dishes and your sink, but seriously, you cooked, I'll clean." He kissed her face tenderly. 'Don't die Granger', he thought. What a morbid thought.
He finished up in the kitchen, with the help of a little magic, and found her lounging on the couch, reading a book, much in the same position she had been in the first day they came to her parents' house. This time, he sat on the edge of the couch were her head was. He lifted her up, sat down, and put her back against his chest, with their legs over the remaining sofa cushions. "Oh, hey, I have something for you." He moved her up a bit, got the piece of parchment from his pocket, and tossed it to her. It landed on her lap. She didn't have to read it; she already knew what it said.
She smiled up at him, and he put his arms tighter around her, to envelope her in their warm embrace. "Do you mean what you wrote?" she asked. He nodded his head yes. She reached in her pocket and said, "Here," and handed him her note. "Do you want me to read it now?" he asked.
"Do you want to?" she asked back.
He didn't answer her. He opened the parchment, and she lay back in his arms, and watched looked up into his face as he read. He smiled broadly, and then said, "You wrote a line in reference to each line of my letter."
"Your letter? Don't you mean your poem?" she joked.
"Listen, Granger, I'm a manly man, and I don't write poetry. It was a letter," he scolded.
She sat up beside him, swung her legs over his, and said, "Yes, a letter that rhymed and was written in prose." She laughed at him. He loved her laugh. "Did you read the last part?" she asked.
"You wrote 'yes'." he smiled back at her.
"And what would that be in reference?" Hermione asked shyly, as she curled up in a ball on the opposite end of the couch.
"Hey, Granger," Draco said, as he pulled on her legs and forced her to come back and sit on his lap again. "If you seriously think a wife of mine is going to sit so far away from me when I'm on the couch, then you have another think coming," he said, as he tickled her ribs.
"So, you want me to be your wife?" she asked as she put her hands on the back of his head and she kissed his neck softly.
"Kiss me again, and I'll let you know," he said seductively.
She put her lips on his and kissed him passionately. When she pulled away, she said, "I didn't think I would have to work this hard for a wedding proposal." He grinned and kissed her back.
"It'll be a lot of work being married to me, Granger. You'd better get that in your bushy little head, right now."
"What are we going to do about the whole Mud Ones, Martini problem?" she asked him.
"We're not going to worry about it until the morning. That's what," he said. He had already decided what they would do. They would leave here. They would go somewhere so far away that no one would ever find them. She picked up her book from the coffee table, and nestled back into his arms. He had hoped this was what it would feel like. This love thing. He loved her. She loved him. He would keep her safe, or die trying.
(Coming up in Chapter 14, Draco tells Harry that the plan is ready to set into motion.)