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 III
Purgatory was the place where souls went to be purified before they ascended into heaven. Limbo was said to be where souls gathered after dying of original sin. Draco Malfoy had many sins and the majority of them were rather unusual and innovative, so he was sure that he would spend eternity in Limbo. If, of course, he believed such dogma. Thankfully, he did not. When his body perished, his soul would imprint itself on Potter's sofa to ceaselessly torment him. That was item number 275 on his cherished list.
However his current state of mind could only be described as Limbo. Only because there was no way to purify his blackened heart with purgatory.
He found the cottage stoic and empty upon his return and in the weeks that followed. A vast hole in which he would begin to spiral downward into a yawning abyss. Even the comfort of the Chesterfield couldn't keep the haunts away.
Yet, at the Manor, his parents' fractious pathos only twirled him into endless nothingness with ghostly echoes of "I told you so," and, "How dare she leave my handsome prince?"
It would seem that his place on earth was suddenly doomed to Hell and all its scathing demons.
So he hovered somewhere in between. Visiting his parents when the darkness became too lonely and hiding in the Cottage when Lucius' continuous patronizing and Narcissa's exuberant molly-coddling began to suffocate.
But one afternoon, while wallowing in his excessive ennui, he unexpectedly agreed to throw himself into the deepest circle of Hell.
He agreed to dinner out with his parents and the Zabinis.
He put on a smile for Mother Dear, finding comfort in the fact that at least Blaise would be there to keep him company. However, once he arrived, escorting his mother dutifully into Bacharach's Supper Club, he found himself sitting at an intimate square table with only Lucius, Narcissa and Blaise's mother.
Decorum dictated that he be seated opposite his parents. The assumption was an order of male-female across from female-male would make conversation flow fluidly. How unlucky was his lottery to be begat by pureblood aristocrats who thrived on ancient table propriety.
Mrs. Neravedova Zabini was astonishingly beautiful and adored Blaise, money and younger men. Or so was the rumor. Draco had never really witnessed any young "Uncles" or "Family Friends" accompanying Mrs. Zabini, but then again, after he had become involved with Hermione, any and all females and their probable sex lives became uninteresting to him. It was some strange curse his witch had cast on him and he was sure she had forgotten or more probably, forgone the act of lifting it.
However, after refreshments and appetizers were placed upon the table, he felt a long manicured fingernail graze the outside of his thigh.
He gulped, his smile faltered, and he missed the punch line to Lucius's joke. Draco prayed that his mind was playing tricks on him. Yet as Narcissa dove into a banal diatribe about her visit to Tel Aviv, Draco felt the sharp toe of a very expensive Italian shoe rub circles against his calf.
He desperately crossed his ankles and stared daggers at the far wall, cursing Mrs. Zabini silently for her unprovoked flirtations.
"Draco, dahling," Mrs. Zabini purred huskily, "Do tell me, how are you?"
"I-I'm well, Mrs. Zabini," he stammered and offered her a tight grin without any eye contact.
"Please," she chuckled from deep in her throat, "Call me Nera." And her hand moved a caressing trail from his kneecap to his---
Draco jumped and everyone at the table looked at him. "My foot fell asleep," he said by way of explanation.
Under the cloak of the table linen, he grabbed her searching hand and placed it on her own lap. Out of his periphery, he saw her smirk and realized then it was going to be the longest five course dinner of his life.
During the soup du jour, Mrs. Zabini—correction, Nera— became even more brash and purposefully placed her palm strategically on the inside of Draco's thigh, and in between spoonfuls would scratch her nails softly at his inseam.
Draco began to perspire and didn't dare chance spooning liquid into his mouth. Instead, he forced conversation with her, figuring that since she was Italian, she would undoubtedly use her hands to emphasize her words, right? "Mrs. Zab—Nera, where is Blaise tonight? I was under the impression that he would be attending."
"Oh, no, no, no, Blaise already had a prior engagement," she explained, but by the way her brow rose suggestively, Draco reckoned that Blaise had never even been invited.
Which was just fucking fantastic and somehow, Draco felt that perhaps he was being set up. If the sly dimple flashing in his father's cheek and the mirthfulness in his eyes were any indication, this dinner was more than a friendly gathering.
His grey eyes narrowed at his father in order to study the elder wizard's expression. "Pity, I was looking forward to visiting with him." And he took a deep draught from his wineglass.
Now, when a cumbersome unease was paired with the confinement of proper manners and polite responsibility, the result was often heavy consumption of alcohol. At least, that is how Draco justified his uncouth guzzling of a very expensive Welsh Cabernet Sauvignon.
Universal agreement is that wine delivers an entirely different intoxication than that of general liquor. The buzz it creates is significantly more subtle and exceedingly more pleasant. Even more strangely was that the imbiber could be quite aware that he had become rather inebriated, the symptoms were noticeably subdued. In other words, it was rare for a wino to slur, stagger, or feel dizzy.
In fact, the drunkenness came to the imbiber as an epiphany of sorts. A wonderful, blissful revelation.
When the entrée was delivered, Draco acknowledged that he was unequivocally, thoroughly, and most contently sloshed.
If anyone inquired, Draco would respond that it was the best feeling ever.
It was as if all his troubles and worries simply faded into a fuzzy void where they prioritized themselves into an amazingly neat, imaginary tickler-file. The first order of business: Deflecting the Cougar.
Not an easy task by any means, fersure, but accomplishable. 'Know thy enemy' and all those trite tenets. Perhaps throw in a dash of patience, a measure of exuberance, and loads of natural instinct.
Cougars were basic creatures really, a successful, general predator with its agility and capability of sprinting. Usually it preferred to ambush its prey, stalking unseen until it delivered a powerful leap and a suffocating neck bite. Mostly a solitary mammal that is incredibly protective over her young. Cougars were also secretive and crepuscular---
Wait a tick. Draco's eyes lit up with mischievousness, for he suddenly realized how to properly deflect Mrs. Zabini's advances.
He could attack Blaise's character!
However, that idea was immediately squashed because the universal code of friendship strictly stated that no defamation of disposition could be executed when the other was unavailable to defend it.
Such is Draco's life. Unlucky and awkward. Exponentially tragic. So on and so forth. Woe is he. Blah Blah Blah.
When the fresh garden salads were delivered, Mrs. Zabini excused herself to the powder room and Narcissa opted to join her. Draco was thankful for the reprieve. However, Mrs. Zabini used his upper bicep for purchase as she stood and her fingers trailed along the expanse of his shoulders pausing briefly to twirl into his hairline.
His body became rigid, his breath caught and it took all his willpower not to shudder visibly. Inwardly he was cringing and whining like a two year old.
If only etiquette allowed him to trade seats with his mother. Where it was safe and he was free from being molested.
He did take the opportunity to move his chair closer to the aisle, and at his father's perspicaciously lifted brows, Draco said, "You could offer an appropriate excuse for my immediate departure."
"Now, now, you are being rude. Nera is your mother's dearest friend and it is our duty to see that she feels welcomed and entertained," Lucius said carefully, his tone insisting that the matter is to be dropped and that Draco would comply even at the expense of his personal space.
As his mother and Mrs. Zabini returned, Draco idly wondered if his father had indeed decided he was the ultimate deity and could meddle in other's love lives.
After the salad plates had been cleared-- Mrs. Zabini's palm returned to his thigh and her toes to the mix, making small circles on Draco's calf-- it occurred to him that maybe this was punishment for breaking into Lucius' safe and stealing his collection of pornography when Draco was thirteen. It was just the sadistic retribution that Lucius preferred to dole out.
So it all came down to the fact Draco was on his own. He would have to either a.) Let Mrs. Zabini fondle his bits and pieces throughout dinner and then scrub himself pure for three days afterward, or b.) Since his "flight" option had been revoked, he would have to "fight" back and then scrub himself pure for three days afterward.
Obviously, he chose the latter, and instantly took her hand off his inseam and simultaneously kicked back at her invading toes. He let his wicked smile wan at her as he squeezed her hand cruelly.
Mrs. Zabini's eyes widened, and then settled into a glittering dare.
He was suddenly fearful that she might be a masochist.
Buggering ass head and hole. Shit and fuck a duck. Abort mission. Abort. Abort. ABORT! His brain screamed at him. He didn't; he merely redirected his strategy away from physical pain.
Draco decided he hated Mrs. Zabini and graced her with his most sinister sneer.
Humans, as a species, are blessed with the innate ability to sense danger and react accordingly. There was gut instinct, and although hugely ignored, it was the one instinct that should always be followed.
When four waiters brought out the entrée on silver platters, Draco's fortitude told him that it was time to disregard the friendship creed and slander Blaise's moral fiber. It was self-preservation and he hoped that Blaise would be understanding and magnanimous later.
Draco's inner child rubbed its palms together mirthfully.
"Y'know Nera, it's really awful that Blaise is failing out of Uni. I mean, he's nearly flunked out of every institute in the UK." Draco's voice was oleaginous and piteous, "I've always offered to help him but he is too proud to accept."
Her lips curled back over her teeth in a mockery of an appreciative smile. "You are a dear, but I do believe it is not pride that refuses him to allow you as a tutor, rather good sense. After all, it is common knowledge that he exceeded you in scores at Hogwarts." She returned her palm to his knee, causing him to flinch. "Although I do believe I am eager to see if the rumors of your dexterous hands are true."
Slapping her fingers away briskly, Draco coughed in order to launch his retort covertly, but he was interrupted by Narcissa inquiring everyone's opinion of the veal.
"Sorry, Mum, I haven't had the opportunity to try it. Is it as delectable as it appears?" he asked genuinely, unexpectedly overwhelmed with gratitude and affection for her, because in her artic blue eyes there was sympathy and a glint of maternal protectiveness.
Narcissa raised her fork to her mouth and smiled widely. "Do try it; your palette will be most pleased."
"It is delicious, Cissa," Lucius agreed.
"Quite so," Mrs. Zabini concurred.
Draco picked up his utensils and prepared to dine as quickly as humanly possible. Manners be damned.
There was a short reprieve throughout the entrée and the desert, but once coffee and tea were served, and the table's conversation had dulled to weather and politics, Mrs. Zabini's stockinged toes returned to Draco's leg. Unrelentingly.
Draco was hopeful, for the evening was nearly spent, and soon he could return to the Cottage where he planned to scour himself raw for many hours in a hot shower only to then fall graciously onto his beloved Chesterfield. The only thing in his life giving him absolute and unconditional comfort.
But then, as expected, disaster struck its ugly hand right on Draco's groin.
Both figuratively and literally.
While Mrs. Zabini attempted to blatantly rub at Draco's trousers, Lucius spoke dooming words. "Draco would be happy to escort you to the hotel, Nera."
Draco's jaw flexed and he was just about to decline, but Lucius kicked him harshly in the shin and as Draco winced, he agreed to his father's suggestion.
"Oh, thank you, Draco, you are such a dear. It's nearly impossible to Apparate with the champagne dizzies. I do appreciate your hospitality." And her long fingered hand clutched at his testicles with innuendo and emphasis.
He gasped and shot up from his seat, jostling the table and startling everyone. He pushed his hand through his hair and smiled. "I forgot I was supposed to meet the mates at the pub. If it's all the same to you, Missus—uh Nera, would it be all right to leave now?"
"Of course! I do find myself eager to be tucked into that wonderful bed." She winked suggestively and Draco was crestfallen. Obviously she had misinterpreted his hastiness as acquiescence to her seduction.
Mrs. Zabini stood and Draco diplomatically assisted her with her cloak. As the older woman said her farewells, an ominous tension settled on his shoulders and he was very apprehensive about the walk to the hotel.
Albeit, it was only a few blocks away.
However, Draco inwardly longed for the safety of the Chesterfield where he could surely hide under the cushions, deep, near the springy coils where loose change and odd socks had found residence. Far away from Neravedova Zabini's antique claws.
Perhaps if he still had Hermione and all her glorious assets. If she were with him, she could surely stave off Mrs. Zabini in that really amazingly condescending way that Hermione tossed off her competitions. Nasty-nice, is what Draco called it. It was an innate skill that she could wield beautifully. As a matter of fact, if she were still his, he wouldn't have agreed to dinner with his parents, ergo he wouldn't have had his anatomy assaulted.
So really, it was all Hermione's fault.
Yes.
He liked that idea.
Draco grinned at his parents and nodded goodnight as he offered Mrs. Zabini his arm. When the pair exited the restaurant, he made a tactful attempt at small chat. "Bleak weather we are having, yeah? Thank you I'm quite warm, how is your mum? Cheerio."
Only he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed and yet, at every glance over his shoulder, he saw only nameless unfamiliar faces huddled against the autumn wind.
As they arrived at the hotel entrance, Draco was deep in thought, planning his escape when suddenly Mrs. Zabini pounced on him. Her mouth was hard, cold and unforgiving on his and her ferocious hand was gripping his arse quite painfully. He struggled against her, his protests muffled and ignored and he momentarily marveled at the older woman's super strength until finally he was able to wretch himself away from her. There was a distant crack and the familiar scent of mimosa, but it barely registered on his radar. He had more pressing matters at the moment.
His mouth had been raped.
And he hadn't even enjoyed it. He felt as though a large carp had leapt from a murky lake and attached itself to his mouth. He couldn't quite catch his breath and he had a strange stitch in his side. Eyes wide and fearful he blurted, "What the fuck?"
"Oh, come now, my dear tadpole, you've been gagging for it for years; do be more mature about this." She produced a cigarette and with a snap of her fingers it ignited.
"Me? Be more mature? Are you insane? Blaise is my best mate; you are his mum. You are millennia older than me!" he yelled, never minding that his cool reserve was spinning into a tyrannical frenzy of panic and disgust.
Mrs. Zabini sighed as if bored. "What a waste. Blaise mentioned you were distraught about that insipid Mudblood leaving you. So I suggested this dinner to cheer you up. I should have known that you are still a juvenile and petulant wizard. Goodnight Draco." Spinning on her heal she strode into the hotel as if the whole evening had been nothing short of social graces and polite society.
Draco pivoted abruptly, Disapparating directly to Blaise and Pansy's flat, his mind was set on ripping Blaise a new brown-eye-- the ass hat. Blaise should be escorting his mother around and keeping her on a short leash. And muzzled.
And Draco wasn't distraught over Hermione moving out. Good riddance, right? Yeah.
Unbeknownst to Draco, however, across town, in Ron Weasley's spare bedroom, a pretty witch with feral curls and endless brown eyes was convinced that her beloved wizard had moved on and forgotten all about her in a matter of two long weeks.
As Hermione Granger stood before the full-length mirror to study her sorrowful visage, amidst the still packed boxes, she felt like discarded furniture thrown out to the dump, to be forgotten, weather-beaten and unloved. She wondered, though, if rubbish ever found its way back home.
Note to readers: I would like to tell each of you how much I appreciate that you are reading this story. I'm very proud of this one because I poured a lot into it. I know most of you don't review, but with every alert and favorite I see in my email, I am just as delighted. But I would really like to hear your thoughts on this story. Obviously you are enjoying it and are interested in where it shall lead, so please, ask questions, tell me some con crit. Make me better. I need you all for that. Btw, where other authors offer e-cookies or virtual brownies, I simply promise that I will not shank you, ever if you just leave a message. Even if it's just a simple Hello.
A/N: 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.