Chapter 4
Weasley's Always Finish First
Draco sighed with the tone of one who has lived his life a hundred times over—and was extremely tired with the monotony of it. At the age of eighty-four, he was old enough in the wizarding world, but an ancient in that of the Muggle. Since Hermione's—death? Disappearance?—he had taken to thinking in Muggle terms. His mind was strict, analytic. He scarcely allowed for moments of free space, and his whole life was based around manual, menial work.
His mother and father had died long ago—in a serious raid that left nearly all Weasleys dead or dismembered, and Draco had felt…completeness. He felt as if their death was meant to happen—that it was to be expected. How could he—lower, worse than anything, have any concern for the mere hitches in the human world? His parents' death had been dreadfully anticlimactic. Their bodies had been found face down, in a large pile of animal shit and mud nested on a little farm in the very corners of Scotland. They found Lucius with a suspiciously glowing bag of fluids beside him, his lips curled in an omnipresent, rotting sneer. Narcissa's body had been ripped viciously apart, black holes where her eyes had been, staring sightlessly into the worms and maggots beneath them.
He'd brought them to Potter, and he'd been outwardly sobbing, although inwardly, he was perfectly accepting. Potter had raised an eyebrow and looked Draco straight into the eyes.
"Send them to Neville Longbottom," He'd said casually, and Draco had felt his face fall even farther. Neville Longbottom was the curator for the Dark's dead. Draco had felt that he needed some compensation for his Lux Lucis bond. They'd dragged him out of the room, he kicked and screamed in their arms, begging to have his parents back—just to have them buried like normal people. He'd been nineteen years old when he'd been told that no one was normal. Potter, younger than he, had already taken his reign of the world. He had everything, it seemed to Draco. Potter had friends, power, her. He didn't have her, not the way Draco wanted her, but it was close enough.
Draco envied Ron Weasley one thing—and that was the feel of Hermione's slender fingers cupping the redhead's cheeks every night. The smell of Hermione's hair under his nose, the taste of her skin between his teeth. Even now, Draco seethed as he remembered them, and how he'd wanted to be him, for her.
Draco had prepared the special batch of Amortentia, just for tonight. He'd felt like some kind of sick voyeur as he'd taken a strand of her hair while she'd been sleeping—he watched her for many hours.
He looked curiously once more at the pale pink concoction, swirling around and dancing into marvelous shapes before his very eyes. The sweet aroma of skin, Hermione's skin, floated off the top of the potion, and the smell intoxicated him to the point of near madness.
He'd found his stones eventually, and snuck out of the common room with the practice of a professional, tripping over his friends?, Crabbe and Goyle, only twice.
He found the Gryffindor common with more difficulty than the last time—it was darker now. Feeling like an absolute idiot, he whispered the password he'd wrangled from Longbottom a few days earlier.
"Wrong!" The hideously fat lady in the portrait trilled happily.
"What?" Draco asked.
"I said that Numbskull Slytherins isn't the password. Changed the other day," she smiled, and the flesh jiggled dangerously below her chin. Draco let off a string of swearwords before he heard footsteps coming down the other end. Thinking quickly, he performed a Disillusionment spell on himself, and voices matched the thudding of the feet.
"Ssshhh! We've got to be mmkf…quiet! Mmmmmm, stop it!" A girl giggled, and as she approached him, Draco noticed that it was Lavender Brown, wrapped in the arms of Seamus Finnegan.
Draco rolled his eyes as they stumbled through the password, a drunken, "How's your father?" and he entered behind them quickly, the portrait catching on his robes.
He shrugged it off, worming his way through the Gryffindor common room, keeping a safe distance behind the snogging couple.
He heard similar sounds coming from his left, and he stood absolutely still, hoping that this new complication wouldn't reveal him.
"Maybe they heard us? Seamus and Lavender—who'dve thunk it?" The voice was distorted, speaking in an accent Draco couldn't place.
"You didn't catch them last Wednesday? Lavender sounded like an absolute troll," Draco turned his head to the left—ever so slightly, and he saw Hermione. And him
"Lav? She's not so bad. Remember sixth year?"
"You were only dating her to make me jealous." Hermione declared resolutely.
"Well, it worked didn't it? 'Sides 'Mione, you're the only girl for me," Ron smiled as Hermione blushed. "Hey, where's my kiss?"
Hermione smiled and pecked him on the cheek.
"That wasn't what I meant," Ron said, and pulled her more firmly into his arms.
Draco felt extremely voyeuristic now, but he couldn't turn away, the sick pleasure of watching Hermione happy, and the horror at seeing her with him tearing his heart in two.
He looked lamely at the potion in his hands, the smell nowhere near as aromatic as the one coming off of Hermione just then, the smell of her sweat and her (even though it sickened him to admit it) arousal.
She looked straight at him for a minute, and time seemed to stop as her brown eyes collided with his own grey ones.
"Hermione? You okay?" Ron asked, and his voice with thick with—something.
"Yeah. I thought I saw—forget it." Draco quickly turned around and clambered out—it would be difficult to explain her seeing Draco Malfoy in the Gryffindor common room.
After he'd charmed his way out of the portrait (yeah right) he slumped against the wall, frightening a woman out of her painting as he pondered the Love Potion in his hands.
Staring at it, he made his way to the common room—one purpose in mind.
He walked over to the bathroom, and tossed the whole contents of the beaker down the sink, allowing the sweet aroma to envelop him once more.
I'll make her fall in love with me. I will.
-- --
Dear Diary,
Is everything alright? Is it all okay—I feel odd, I feel sick. I can't understand this me? Can I understand this you? I mean, I mean, I thought of him today. He was smiling at me, and I was young again—but then he came in and I was…alone…Ron was gone, and he was there. And now—Ron is gone, and he is here.
Don't let him find me.
Hermione
A/n: Whoa….this was short…but hey, I updated! Review responses: ahem:
Ashley-In-Wonderland: Gracias! I thought I'd never seen it before, but these days you can't be sure…
DCoD: She really is…unforch there is none of her in this chapter…it's all feelings, urgh. (lol)…
ele: THANK YOU! And, to fulfill your request, I have updated! So there:) :)
FAQ:
Draco's eighty…is he? And if he is, how would Molly be alive.
Ok, there is this potion that de-ages the drinkers. This accounts for Harry's thirty-year-old appearance and Molly's hmm…fifty-year-old appearance? However, remember that when Dumbledore died, he was over one-hundred and fifty, so obviously things are different in the wizarding world, and therefore even without the potion, Molly can still be of a fairly advanced age.
Sorry for the length, and see ya next chapter!
Peaches,
Anya