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.
Plan A
Talking Heads were an American rock band that were begat in 1974 and were part of the New Wave slash Punk Rock movement at CBGB & OMFUG (Country, Blue-Grass, Blues and Other Music For Uplifting Gormandizers), a small hole in the wall that was formerly located at Bowery and Bleecker Street in Manhattan, New York City, New York.
Their hypnotic melodies and stimulating lyrics blended into a life-altering sensationalism that transcended diffidence and mawkish tristesse.
As Draco repaired his broom, he tried to ponder a Lifetime Piling Up but he could only irritatingly acknowledge that Ron Weasley was not David Byrne. Ron had neither the rock star good looks nor the vocal talent and somebody needed to inform him so immediately.
"My ears are bleeding, Weasley." Draco's brogue was curmudgeonly and his argent eyes egregious.
"Sod off," Ron said, but his warbling did fall taciturn, his focus turning to the three cards on the table and the two in his hand. "Check."
Harry burned a card and then turned a card. "Raise fifty." He threw in a blue poker chip.
"Three-hundred, "Ron said impassively.
"Fuck, Ron. I'm committed to the pot, you bastard." But Harry still burned and turned again.
"Aha, I flopped two pair." Ron ebulliently dropped his cards on the chip pot.
"Fuck-head," Harry murmured and chucked the deck at Ron. "I can't wait until Zabini gets here."
"Oi! That reminds me; I heard his mum tried to come onto you, Malfoy." Ron said brightly as he shuffled the deck.
"You'll shut your mouth from talking if you know what's good for you," Draco said scathingly, his mouth curling into a sneer.
"Besides," Harry paused to peek at his cards. "Zabini's mum tries to shag any wizard twenty years her junior."
"You lie!" Ron exclaimed, his eyes wide in disbelief. "She's never came onto me!"
"That's because all females, kittens and cougars alike, see you as asexual." Draco's mouth pulled tight as he pondered Ron evanescently. "It's probably the freckles."
"Oi! I get laid plenty."
"Your right hand doesn't count." Harry smiled and adjusted his glasses.
Ron rolled his eyes and folded his cards. "Har Har. The sooner you realize you aren't in the least bit hilarious, Harry, the better off we will all be."
"Hear. Hear," Draco concerted, and settled his broom into its case again. He saw through the window, Blaise coming through the gate and Draco rose to let him in.
"Piss off. The both of you," Harry bit out grimly, scowling at his friends. "You may think I lack a sense of humor, but clearly, when it comes to sex and relationships, I've bested both of you."
"Nah. You've condemned yourself in matrimony." Blaise said as he removed his gloves. "That means one vagina for the rest of your life."
"Exactly, Harry. The mates and I, we are bachelors and the world is our oyster." Ron said after he nodded a hello to Blaise.
Harry did the same, but turned his attention quickly back to Ron, "You." He jabbed his finger in Ron's forehead. "Are a deluded fucker. Admit to it. It's been so long you wouldn't recognize a pussy if it sat on your face." Then he threw his attention to Draco. "And despite what your argument may be, the only reason you didn't dip your willy into Zabini's mum is—"
"Watch it Potter," Blaise warned.
"Because you miss Hermione," Harry continued, ignoring Blaise's threatening timbre.
"Now, you're delusional and hilarious." The last subject Draco wanted to discuss was his ex-girlfriend and his feelings towards her.
"Of course I am." Harry laid his cards on the table, "And a master at Hold'em. That's a flush, Ron."
"I don't miss Hermione. Good riddance, I say." Draco smiled conspiringly. "Do you know the kind of ass I could get if I wanted? I'm a famous Quid—"
"A right infamous liar. That's what you are," Blaise said as he moved Draco's broom case and settled himself on the Chesterfield.
"I'm not!" Draco was affronted. Would all his mates gang up on him about this? He really didn't want Weasley to be his only ally. "I am famous and I do play Quidditch professionally."
"And you miss Hermione." Ron pointed out.
Son of bearded mermaid, Draco had absolutely no allies. He sighed and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. As he rolled his weight from the heels to the balls of his feet, he admitted that he did miss her, but his intense pride refused to allow him to say that aloud. "Get off my sofa, Zabini."
"As soon as I get off on your mum." Blaise grinned and waggled his eyebrows.
"Really original; get up," Draco said, gesturing with his thumb.
"What's with you and this shitbag anyway?" Blaise asked, but stood nonetheless.
"I'm not sure, but he's been over protective of it since Hermione moved out." Harry was shuffling the cards whilst Ron counted his chips.
Draco's tongue pressed against his cheek and he wondered how he could explain to them what the Chesterfield embodied. How could he explain that it was special because the first time he kissed Hermione had been on the left arm and that the first time they shagged had been awkward, clumsy and wonderful on it. They would laugh and they would know he wished she had never left. Maybe. He wasn't exactly sure why it was so important to him to appear unflappable and … well … tough, but it was. He needed to or he would be defeated. Another moment in his life he was too afraid to handle. With Hermione he was always brave, never cowardly. She had been Dorothy Gale and he depended on her to get to the Emerald City to gain courage. The cottage and the Chesterfield were only yellow bricks guiding them to the ultimate destination.
Even though she had left him, he knew if he stuck to the familiar road, he would some how find her and recapture the magic of invincibility.
Amongst the chaos of male bonding, through the haze of amicable jabs and rowdy snarking, Draco saw clearly that despite the dooming gloom of loneliness, he was not alone. He had good pals who were very concerned about him and were just as clueless about his broken relationship as he was.
So why did he feel like the only true friend he had was a rather stiff, olive green Oxford Chesterfield? He supposed because it never laughed at him. It understood his plight and could comfort him unconditionally. He didn't have to explain himself, he didn't have to pretend. It just knew. Everything. His doubts, his dreams. Where his heart truly laid. It never judged him. It couldn't, because it had been through every significant milestone in his life.
In his reverie, he didn't hear the gate slam. He didn't hear anything at all. Yet suddenly, somehow, he knew she was there. At the cottage.
His heart clenched and he felt a lopsided, rhapsodic smile break his face. The pulsing enthusiasm bruised his nerves and whirling dervishes danced in his stomach.
She had come home. She had missed him too.
He could hold her again so very tight against his bones and kiss her pretty smile endlessly.
He was positive of it.
Uncharacteristically, he sprinted towards the door and yanked it open, breathless and itching to swallow her up into his soul.
The sunshine glittered off her undulant, dark brown hair, her cervine eyes were dulcet and benign, but her smile was false as she gestured to the elderly couple standing behind her, "Hello Draco, this is Mr. and Mrs. Madison and they are interested in purchasing the Cottage."
It was as if the Apocalypse had thundered into his heart, churning its oceans and crashing down its mountains. He'd been wrong. She wasn't Dorothy Gale. She was Elmira Gulch, Wicked Witch of the West.
Draco slammed the door in her face and stormed heatedly to the Chesterfield where he petulantly threw himself onto the cushions. It sighed and welcomed his weight and anger.
Blaise, Harry, and Ron were looking at him forlornly, expectantly.
"If any of you let her in, I will string your entrails along the guttering like fairy lights," he said through gritted teeth, his eyes daring them. He would do it. He would. He would. He would. Dare him. Go ahead.
Not one of them moved, but soon Hermione was through the door, her timbre clipped as she apologized for Draco's uncouthness.
A consuming fire burned through his veins, riving his composure into oblivion. "Get them out!" He roared.
"I will not." She was indignant, but not surprised. Hermione knew he would behave this way. He did not want her back and she was a foolish woman for thinking so. Yet she had wanted to believe in Pansy so bad. After all, Pansy had been rather convincing in her colluding.
"I don't want to see your fucking face or smell these old farts decomposing." He crossed his arms, and turned his cheek so that his glare was directed at Potter, who gulped and stood to back away from Draco's misdirected wrath. Draco proscribed himself to look at her. It just hurt too much. How dare she try to sell their dreams to the highest bidder?
"Draco!" She squeaked, and her face burned with the rouge of discomfiture. Biting her lip and entwining her fingers she looked around at the cottage's occupants before taking tentative steps towards him and the Chesterfield. "You are embarrassing yourself," she whispered harshly and then stepped back offering everyone a sympathetic and rueful smile.
Unexpectedly he sprung from the couch and spun on her, "Am I? Oh excuse the fuck out of me!" He glared at the cowering older couple. "Forgive the ignorant muggle-born, but the Cottage has already been sold. Get fucking lost."
Hermione let out a shocked gasp as an acute pang split her rapidly beating heart. She wasn't sure what forced the fissure, his invectiveness or that he was truly getting rid of the cottage. "You sold it?"
"Of course. Why would I keep it?" His lips cambered upward, baring his teeth in a nasty sneer.
"To whom?" Hermione blurted, although she wasn't sure if she could stand to hear the answer.
Draco sniffed pompously and looked down his nose at her, "Neravedova Zabini. This morning. Over breakfast." So he lied. He was good at it. He knew he was because her brown eyes clouded over and began to glister with tears; her luscious bottom lip was quivering. All telling that she believed every word he spoke.
Her palm prickled as she closed her fingers in on it. Her entire being begged her to allow it to explode and to let her hand connect with his jaw. Pansy had been so very wrong. Completely. Draco didn't miss her. He wasn't holding on to the cottage hoping she'd come back. He was sleeping with Blaise's mum. The betrayal and heartbreak was agonal, deep and candent. She refused to lower herself to his sick and iniquitous constitution. But she couldn't help but let herself be brash and fatuous. Her feet were like elastic as she launched on him, her fingers hectically tangling into his perfectly combed hair, mussing it up into supreme ludicrousness. His arms were like steel bands as they came around her body and in that moment she realized how much she had lamented them, but it only infuriated her more and soon she was slapping and hitting his face and head. Psychotically, unabashedly.
They were a tangle of limbs and a chorus of expletives as Draco tried to push her off of him and escutcheon his face as she ruthlessly assaulted him.
It was an ephemeral moment before their friends rushed forward in an urgent attempt to pry the sparring couple apart. It took Blaise, Harry, and Ron to disentangle Hermione from Draco.
In a matter of moments they had her screaming, writhing form out the door and the elderly couple was following quickly in their wake.
As the older wizard shut the door on Draco's vulgar shouts of good riddance, Harry hugged Hermione tight against him, "Calm down, girl." His voice was soothing and brotherly.
Hermione didn't know why, but for the first time since she broke up with Draco, the tears flooded her and she was a snotty quaking mess in Harry Potter's arms. It was a wonderful release of emotions and she was grateful that Harry was there for her to clutch to so desperately. He was there, cushioning her fall from grace.
The unnamed elderly wizard leaned towards the unnamed elderly witch and whispered heatedly, "This plan was crap, Pansy."
"Sssh, Gin." Pansy hushed her and wiggled her nose at Ginny's Polyjuiced face. "Maybe so, but you have to admit that it's obvious that he loves her. I daresay we need plan B after all." It was apparent to her that Home is where both Draco and Hermione wanted to be, they just needed to be picked up and turned around. It was up to Pansy and the others to help them, after all, Draco and Hermione…
They were numb. Burned with weak hearts.
a.n.: The last four sentences were paraphrased from the lyrics of the song "This Must be the Place (Naïve Melody)" and rightfully belong to Talking Heads.
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.
Remember to review my darlings! I love hearing from you!