Disclaimer: The following is based on actual events. Only the names, locations, and events have been changed. And completely thieved from Jo Rowling. So I called people to call her people and her peoples people told my people's people that I had her informal permission to borrow them. And I totally put hints of RHPS and I stol a name from Hedwig and the Angry Inch, can you find them? Please forgive any blatant thievery.
Warnings: EWE. Excessively AU, sort of when it came to DH, I picked and chose what worked with my story. This story is sometimes funny, sometimes angsty, and sometimes heartwarming/wrenching. But always amusing. Sexy sex, sex, sex. Here it goes into your brain.
Part II
The olive-green Oxford Chesterfield was settled in the center of the sitting room on the edge of the Turkish rug facing the fireplace with a large oak coffee table in between. It was a standard two-seater, with well-stuffed cushions. A piece of furniture handsomely crafted for sharing a spot of tea with company or cuddling under a throw blanket with the opposite sex.
In other words, Draco Malfoy's long, recumbent frame dangled and gangled.
Comfort whilst slumbering was clearly a defaming of the Chesterfield's purpose for existing. While it tolerated cat-naps or moderate lounging, it did not appreciate the desecration of being mistaken as a plebian and insipid mattress. The horror of such indignation caused the Chesterfield to protest its misuse every time its subject stirred and stretched. Awkwardly the Chesterfield's first language is very similar to flatulence and therefore did disturb its subject successfully, albeit momentarily.
However, when a large Australian Masked Owl swooped in and made its perch on the Chesterfield's arm, there was little it could do to shake the infernal animal away. And when the unsolicited bird decided to release the contents of it's bowels on the carefully tanned leather, the Chesterfield felt insult added to injury and pushed at one of its cushions, causing the slumbering blond to fall ungracefully to the stiff Turkish rug.
The Chesterfield nearly swelled with relief.
Draco Malfoy cursed with the skill of the Queen's Navy.
The Australian Masked Owl blinked his large black eyes at the wizard with exasperation.
"Hansel," Draco said through gritted teeth. The arrival of Harry Potter's owl only meant further irritation and undesirable news. "Get off the sofa before you ruin it," Draco ordered roughly and threw a pillow at the animal. After all, that was what the pillow was designed to do, considering it was a throw pillow.
Hansel did not acquiesce, but merely fluttered his feathers and stuck out his talon with the rolled parchment.
Draco stood and accepted the missive before shooing Hansel away because even if he had owl treats, Hansel didn't deserve them after ruining Draco's beloved sofa with his talons and … "What's this? You shat on my sofa!"
Hansel knew when to take his leave posthaste.
Before opening the epistle, Draco moved to his antique Carlton House Desk and took a few moments to admire the pretty painted ladies dancing on the surface before he removed a three foot parchment entitled "Ways to Torture Potter" from the center drawer. He flicked his wrist so it would unroll and just under item 634, Draco scribbled, send professional furniture cleaning bill in a box with every one of Hansel's feathers.
Draco smirked as the cogs in his brain began to turn and fantasize about the bespectacled wizard's crestfallen visage after opening his parcel. However, the imagination is never as sensational as reality when it comes to insulting pseudo-enemies and he moved on to break the wax seal on the new dispatch.
Instantly his temporary good mood was shattered as he read the contents.
It would seem that Hermione had decide to host a party and Draco wasn't invited. The theme of said party was box-packing and heavy lifting. Or would have been, if they'd been Muggles. In actuality, it would be a lot of trying to duck out of the way of flying objects.
He was thoroughly affronted and considerably disheartened because of her staggering nerve and the fact that she was apparently determined to carry out her threats. He bull-headedly decided that he would be glued to the Chesterfield for the duration of the day.
He had always been fantastic at gate-crashing.
The letter coldly and formally told him that Hermione and company would be arriving promptly at ten. Being that it was Saturday, Draco normally slept in, warm and cozy twisted around his pretty girlfriend—
Ex-girlfriend, actually. He needed to try and commit her new label to memory.
However, the mind is a very complex and strange entity. It forgets important events and dates, remembers nonsensical factoids and moments, and when it is ordered not to ponder certain witches with long tangled brunette hair and her insane behavior, it does precisely the opposite. Much to the chagrin of the thinker.
He attempted to examine the previous day's Prophet, to check his investments once more, but the numbers became obtuse, intelligible glyphs that he suddenly forgot how to understand. Even when he flipped to the sports section and read for the forty-second time the article describing how despite his crass attitude, he was a real asset to Puddlemere United, he could not find the will to be smug or proud. It all did not seem to matter anymore.
If he was honest, which at that moment there was no reason not to be, he hadn't really expected her to leave. They rowed often. They threw empty threats and hollow emotions around like it was water. They would end up soaked in a fresh relief that they could dry out in the scorching heat of their passion for each other. They always made up. It was their way.
But the prior night's argument had been different. In his opinion, it had been trite, fersure. Yet, there was longing in her words, her eyes, her heart and soul. He supposed she wanted to leave because she had wanted something more from him. If only he knew why she felt so unhappy, he could save their mutual friends from such a boring and cumbersome gathering.
Their communal confreres that they'd have to somehow share through custody agreements of alternating weekends and holidays. The good mates who were visibly coming through the gate and up the walk at that precise moment and had no idea how to behave.
It was a very un-interesting story, the way they all came together to be a united front in the aftermath of a war-divided society. It had merely happened and Draco often supposed it was because they had experienced enough animosity in their childhoods and had grown weary of fighting inexplicably. They had begun as drinking chums and grown into a very elite clique that rarely allowed outsiders to penetrate the circle. Even the Prophet had dubbed them the Sensational Septet and gave each of them defining identities.
Hermione was the Bluestocking for her love of books and ever expanding knowledge.
Pansy the Socialite for her need to attend every soiree and her penchant for the latest fashions.
Blaise the Debaucher for it covered all manner of his sins; gambling, drinking, womanizing, etcetera.
Ginny the Madonna for her overwhelming urge to mother the group and her status as Harry's wife.
Harry the Hero because he simply was exactly that.
Ron the Jester for his dry sense of humor and ability to lighten any situation.
And Draco. The Malfoy, for he was deemed a stain on humanity and his acceptance into the group was seen as either charity or by proxy through Pansy and Blaise. It was true that he had been the last to accept the awesome friendship proffered from the Gryffindor alumni. He was reluctant because he felt repentant towards Hermione for standing by whilst she suffered at his aunt's hand, and he felt ashamed of his cowardice in the face of Ron and especially Harry. Besides, he was still sore, figuratively, over that stellar punch Ron had doled him. He was sure that it was Hermione and her compassion and his affection for her that allowed him to accept the olive branch.
But labels didn't matter to him. Or them. They were a family, chosen because they could learn from and rely on each other. They had clung to the unwavering companionship when the world had let them down. Their bond was deep and rooted.
As the six remaining members trailed in solemnly, coming to pause in front of him, Draco prayed that his terminated relationship with Hermione wouldn't destroy the group.
He gulped.
After all, he was wizard enough to admit he needed them. A little bit.
All right, loads.
Hermione was staring at him as if he had grown another head, a striking anger flashing in her bottomless brown eyes. "Ignore the vagabond; he doesn't deserve your pity."
Six heads turned to her incredulously. Five slack-jawed, Draco a sneer.
"Ginny, start in the kitchen, pack everything except the dry goods in the cupboard and the chipped brown mug. There are boxes in the cellar. Pansy, the bedroom; take all my clothes, shoes, etcetera, leave the linens. Ronald, get my toiletries from the washroom, and you have my permission to snoop. Harry, Blaise, follow me, I will show you what furniture to take along." Hermione ordered from a long list unrolled in front of her whilst she perpetrated reading from it.
Draco knew she had it memorized.
"All right go." She turned to Draco then, flipped her hair ostentatiously and about faced, but not before he caught her stern visage. Eyes daring and mouth set firmly.
His sneer melted into a smirk as he watched her retreating form. He really did live to aggravate her.
He slowly turned his head back to the group and his brow darkened at their cumulative sympathy.
"Hansel piddled on your sofa." Harry pointed at the chalky grey excrement on the arm and his mouth lifted in gratified amusement.
"No, that idiotic creature fucking violated my Chesterfield," Draco corrected as his palm caressed over the cushion soothingly, "And may remind you to refrain from using such words as 'piddled' in my house?"
Pansy rolled her eyes and stomped off towards the bedroom; he could hear Hermione's muffled instructions to Ginny in the kitchen.
Harry ruffled his hair and grinned, "How's this for appropriate language in the Malfoy slash Granger --"
Draco's lip curled with irritation. "It's simply the Malfoy Cottage now, thanks."
"Ah, I hadn't forgotten." Harry's eyebrows rose deprecatingly. "And I was just going to say that --"
"Who in the sodding hell uses the word 'piddled'?" Blaise asked as he slumped tiredly into the adjacent chair and yawned.
"A little slow on the uptake, aren't you?" Draco grinned.
"I blame ever indelible champagne and lecherous Swedish twins." Blaise shrugged nonchalantly, "Discombobulates one's thinking for many days afterward."
"Ah, yes. I'm sure it does." Draco deadpanned, never really empathizing with Blaise's copulatory imperative.
"Ginny wouldn't say 'piddled'. At least not with a straight face." Ron pondered, tapping his chin as if to recall an instance when Ginny might have used such a word, a light, sarcastic smile curling his face. "Where did you learn that Harry? Big D?"
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off once more by Hermione yelling for he and Blaise. He threw his hands in the air, defeated.
Concurrently, Hermione strode into the room, her long ponytail flopping against her back, cheeks flushed and eyes annoyed. To Draco, she looked amazing. It only aggravated him.
"Honestly, the quicker everyone attends to their assigned duties, the faster we can leave." She allowed herself a peek at Draco, "I don't want to be here any longer than necessary." She knew she was being untruthful, and her forefinger worried at her thumb frantically, but it was hard to see him so nonchalant, so handsomely disheveled and know that he no longer belonged to her. She wanted to punch him in the nose just because he was so effortlessly bothersome. Plus, it would make her feel loads better.
He knew his presence would make leaving even more painful for her, ergo, his reason for staying.
Taking a deep breath, she inwardly reminded herself that she could do this; she was a big girl, and NO TEARS!
Because really, the worst thing she could do was let him see her cry.
She inhaled to reboot herself and pointed to the kitchen. "The hutch, sideboard, and harvest table all go. Then when you've finished that, you can start in here." Then she glanced at Ron. "Get to the washroom, now!" With a staunch pivot, she marched into the kitchen.
Harry hurried after her, reluctant to infuriate her more.
Blaise frowned apologetically to Draco and stood before lumbering in Harry's wake.
Ron skulked to the washroom.
And Draco held a constant vigil with the Chesterfield, watching the parade of boxes and furniture as they were levitated out the door, out of his life and into Arthur Weasley's enchanted lorry.
He tried to remain unaffected, aloof, and even considerably amused. But with each item that was removed, he felt as if a piece of his soul was being ripped away. Shred by shred. He couldn't understand it and it made him uncomfortable.
It had been a long thirty minutes when Harry and Blaise returned to the sitting room with Hermione. She was dutifully ignoring Draco whilst she instructed them on what furniture stayed and what went.
Draco's mouth went dry and he squinted at the fireplace. She ordered the telly gone and he had been particularly fond of it. He'd have to invest in his own, and maybe one of those gaming consoles that Harry had.
Then he heard it, the one phrase she could utter that would cause him to abort his plan of indifferent observation on the Chesterfield. "After I sort the contents, you can take the desk."
That was his Carlton House desk. Not hers. She could stake claim on all the books, everything else, but not that. He leapt from the Chesterfield. "You aren't taking the Carlton."
She merely blinked at him. "It's mine."
"No, we bought it together." He strode toward her.
"It was billed to my account." She raised her nose at him haughtily.
"And that absurd telly was billed to my account, but out the door it went."
She bit the corner of her mouth and inhaled deeply, "Fine, the telly stays, but the desk goes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Where are you going to put it? As I recall Potter's place is cluttered and stuffed with shit," Draco stated, ignoring Ginny's insulted gasp.
"I'm not staying with Harry and Ginny," Hermione said. She was incredibly matter of fact, as if her statement was common knowledge.
"Oh," Draco breathed, taken aback, his rage instantly quelling.
"I'm staying with Ron." She turned back to the desk and opened a drawer.
"No. You are not." Draco slammed the drawer shut.
"Yes I am." She yanked on the knob forcefully.
"You. Aren't. He's been salivating after your knickers for a decade." Draco shuffled his feet in an attempt to guard the desk from her.
"I have not!" Ron protested, seemingly appearing out of thin air and dropping to the sofa.
"Weasley, get your freckled arse off of my Chesterfield!" Draco's voice boomed. His eyes were narrow slits, and his sneer was dangerous.
"Blimey, calm down," Ron said and stood again, waving his hands in surrender.
"She's not moving in with you." Because it would be too much and Draco wasn't sure if he could handle the seething jealousy or the tormenting worry that would come with it.
'Who are you to tell me with whom I can or cannot live with?" she screamed at him, her control slipping rapidly away from her, despite her promise to keep it tautly moored.
Draco raised his finger, opened his mouth wide and began to tell her exactly who he was when Harry cut him off. "Let's go for a walk, mate, cool down, yeah?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't try to fix this with your whole 'I'm Harry Potter, world's favorite hero, come with me and thy pain shall be healed' shit."
Harry grinned and gestured to himself, "Are you coming on to me? Because you should know, you are lacking my two favorite assets. Tits and pussy." He grinned shamelessly, proud to have finally had the opportunity to use filthy vocabulary.
Ginny chastised Harry for his language because really, it was unattractive and rude.
Pansy snorted with mirth and covered her mouth with her hand, realizing this was not the moment to give herself over to laughter.
Blaise grunted amusedly and made himself comfortable on the floor, because fuck! He just needed a few more hours sleep to soothe his colossal katzenjammer.
Ron didn't say a word. He knew Draco would have a list of dreadful deeds to destroy Ron. He was not looking forward to it.
And Hermione was a ball of fury, staring at Draco like she was a hungry manticore hell-bent on devouring his brain.
"The desk stays," she hissed through her teeth. Honestly, he perpetrated as if he owned her. As if she was just another piece of furniture that he collected. It was unfair and wounding and the lump in her larynx threatened an overflow of tears. Blind hurt and terrible fury screeched to be released.
Why couldn't he just say that he loved her? Just once. Then she would leave all of her belongings and stay. Why didn't he understand that? Why did he insist on being a Class A Prat?
Draco watched Hermione and suddenly everything blurred away. Their friends, their surroundings. He was hurting her. But he didn't care. Because she was hurting him too. And she was trying to take away his dignity. He refused. He wouldn't let her demean him ever again.
"I'm out of here," he said and Disapparated. He hated himself for being so ridiculous.
Hermione exhaled and looked around, "Let's finish," she murmured and once everyone had left the room, she allowed herself a few tears.
She was going to miss the Carlton House desk desperately.
I'd like to thank my beta's: moxicrimefightr, floorcoaster, and spadul. Each of you is amazing, wacky and everything a narcissistic writer such as me could wish for. I am totally and completely the luckiest kid ever because I have the most brilliant team to help me achieve this goal. Thank you for indulging me.