And...like three months later: but here I am! Woop! I can't believe I've actually updated!
Sorry however, for the wait...what's worse is it's been ready for ages: just didn't get around to updating!
Again thanks to my lovely BETA. Her patience is amazing!
Anyway...a small Pretty Woman moment to follow...
Enjoy! x
Chapter Two- Hell
She'd had enough.
Sometimes, extreme action was entirely necessary. One sometimes had to overthrow morals, make tough decisions based entirely on the severity of the present situation. She didn't want to do it, she really didn't. But she was, by her own acknowledgement, a psychological mess. Her fairytale had peeled away like damp wallpaper to reveal stinking, crumbling dry rot. If this was not a time to break rules, she didn't know when was.
Today, for the first time in-well, ever- she was going to spend the day blowing her money on every remotely frivolous thing she could lay her eyes on. Damn budgets. Damn restraint.
She was going to go shopping.
With trepidation and an inexplicable thirst for something she had previously so despised, Hermione almost sauntered down the high street. There was a smile which seemed permanently seared onto her face despite the rebellion of her deeper consciousness. The sun was out, the shops were open, and whether she liked it or not, she was goingto have fun.
By three in the afternoon, she'd lost some of her initial enthusiasm. Her feet were killing her. Her eyes were blurring and grey spots popped into her vision every now and again, and her arms were aching with the weight of her purchases, but at least she was now armed with a new wardrobe. Armed with a new Hermione.
She'd decided to take the long way back home and was about to walk past Parida, in Diagon Alley when she stopped suddenly. There in the window, was the most perfect red dress that she had ever seen. The kind of dress a girl dreamed of when she still thought it possible to be a Princess. The shop was notoriously expensive. Even the sign above the door advertised taste, elegance and class: the kind all served with a glass of champagne and morsel of caviar on a silver platter.
She really ought not. After all, she'd already spent a fortune.
The smile on her face reappeared, and she felt lighter than as if she'd been sucking in helium.
But she mustn't of course.
Her nose was almost against the glass before she knew it. One thousand galleons! In her head she did a quick calculation. Maybe if she passed up on the washing machine she might just afford it.
Needing a little convincing, she examined the garment in question. The was no doubt about it. It was a piece of art. She thought it looked like silk, but she was no expert. The neckline and length were modest, sophisticated. Nothing particularly special, but the decorative stitching and the lace that enveloped part of the bust were absolutely stunning.
She allowed herself to imagine how wearing that dress would feel, the caress of the silk as she slid into it. She bit her lip.
One thousand galleons?
What the hell. She was only going to live once.
With a smile and a tiny spring in her step, her feet danced towards the door.
Later, when she thought back on it, she should have known. Trouble was a sly companion, but the blonde who greeted her at the door did not disguise the company she kept with it. Her hair was swept back into a fashionable coif, her grey dress of the finest fabric. She was wearing pearls and an aristocratic sneer.
It was with this self-assured expression that the woman assessed her, Hermione Granger. The opposite of well–presented; tired, and in clothes that had never ever been de rigueur.
"Can I help you madam?" the blonde said.
"Yes," her unsuspecting victim replied with a glorious light in her brown eyes that hadn't been there that morning. "I would like to try on the 'Phoenix' in the window."
"Is madam aware of the cost of such an item?"
"Yes, of course," a frown appeared, deducing a problem, "but I would still like to try it."
The assistant did not hesitate. "I do not think that will be possible ma'am."
"Sorry?"
"You may find a different shop to cater for you, but we are not prepared to."
"I don't understand?" Hermione said, her frown deepening.
The assistant sighed, and pointed to the door. "Madam, I would like to ask you to leave." She looked Hermione up and down: a calculated insult. "The company will not allow you to try on the 'Phoenix.'"
Hermione's heart crumpled.
This was it. This was it. It was always the same. The woman undoubtedly knew exactly who she was. But that meant that she knew she was muggle-born, and that, that, could be the only reason why this woman would not let her try on this dress. Had it been pureblood Ginny, the shop assistant would have undeniably ushered her in, would have complimented and flattered her despite the horrific clash it would have made with her hair.
This. It was always this.
"I understand," her voice was choked.
The woman was unrelenting. "The door is behind you," she stated bluntly.
Hermione felt tears blur her eyes. She turned and stumbled out into the street.
It tasted better when he felt this shit. He'd never really been one for Muggle alcohol, but here, in this London, there was no way that his parents would come looking for him.
This London was safe. From them at least. Wryly, he acknowledged that his own mind might pose more of a problem. Already he could feel it happening. From the first moment he could think, could understand what was happening in the world, he had known that he was a colourful bird of paradise in a gilded cage, but now, for the first time, the door was closing on him.
And how fast life seemed to run to trap him. What had he done wrong? He was under no disillusion; his parents' request was nothing of the kind. When, after all, had he ever been requested to do anything? This was an order. As clear as if they had spun a contract from the darkest of magic and wrapped its tight web around his white neck. He could feel it sure enough. There was no doubt about that.
He downed another swallow of that cold drink they called vodka.
His head spun.
Why?
Looming in the back of his mind was the painting. He could see it now. A shrieking shrew of a woman with the conversation of a society bitch: a petty schemer with no sense of the important. A blundering matron with two little vultures in tow.
Shuddering, he downed another drink.
Hermione had sobbed for hours. And then pulled herself together. She always did.
For a moment she had clutched to normality, the usual reaction. Her fingernails screeched as she tried to hold onto it, but her sense of the dramatic prevailed.
She stumbled from the sofa, wondering if she'd finally lost it. Her head spun and the world was blurry. She closed her eyes.
Right.
Breathe slowly. Find a center of gravity. Still. Think of still things.
Apples. She liked apples.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and once more the world seemed normal.
Revenge.
She'd show them. The little mudblood. Granger. Not for much longer.
She'd make them eat their words. To swallow the ugly things and seal them with a curse. That's what she would do.
Exchange: One Granger, for something of value. Change the name, change how they thought of her.
Eurydice. Orpheus' wife.
Oh yes. Definitely. A married woman doesn't have the shame of her own name. She has stolen another of more worth to label herself with.
What fun! What a laugh! What a joke!
They wouldn't think about her blood then would they? Name. Name and money. That bought protection.
Her mind cleared.
Yes, that was what she would do. She'd find a nice, wealthy, pureblood of a good name and she'd marry him. Yes, she'd do that. And then they'd see!
How would blondie fare then, if the wrath of a good name were to be bought down upon her?
With faulty feet, she headed for her bedroom. It was nine, she could tell, from the dusty clock propped against the mantel in her front room. Night-time. And night-time meant sleep. And bed.
Or did it?
This could be it. Her last night of freedom. If she found the wizard she wanted, he'd probably be old and ugly. There were many advantages to that of course, but...
She glanced at the door. Not once. She'd never done it once. Never gone out, got drunk, got laid.
Well, she wasn't really dressed suitably. But that could be changed. The bags were still unpacked in the main room.
Why not?
It would be simple. Magical bars were of little use to her. Hermione Mudblood might be dirt but she was still the 'friend' of the half-blood Potter. She didn't want her escapade plastered all over the morning papers. She'd be better off heading somewhere a little less reputable. A little more muggle.
With trepidation she glanced at herself in the mirror, but the result wasn't as bad as first expected. A little make-up and the tug of a brush through her hair might swing it. Curious eyes watched how the smudge of lipstick crept along her fingers, how the damp skin of her lips undulated beneath the caress. There was a morbid curiosity in the eyes that watched her, and she liked it.
She stuffed sterling into her bra and headed for London town.
It was no good. She was going to have to hit the more obscure and dangerous places soon and it was only getting later.
First, she'd tried a bar right in the centre of the city's bustling night-life scene. At first there had been little concern. The night was young. With a little nerves flitting at the edge of her brash confidence, she'd settled herself with a large red wine to banish them and scanned for potential targets.
She'd avoided any red-heads. Brown was too close to that so she eliminated that too. Black made her think of Harry, and that would be like fucking your older brother. So it was blondes. She was looking for any fit blonde with a superiority complex, a smirk and a recurring habit of picking up random women. In random bars. Early Saturday evening.
At least, it had been early. Now it was getting later. And later. And there was nobody, nobody, who had caught her eye at all. She had all the bad luck it seemed. Maybe all the fit blonde guys in London hibernated on Saturday nights?
The woman was just no good. She didn't feel right.
He pushed her away. "Piss off," he said, grumbling.
She looked mildly offended but simply shrugged and looked around for other prey.
The night was not going exactly to plan for Draco. By now, he was supposed to have at least two beautiful women on his arms, and be at least onto his third or fourth bar. Instead, he was in the same place he'd started, and all the girls he'd pulled from the crowd had reminded him too much of the harpy his mind had conjured, which his mother was going to force him to marry.
He sighed. That plan would have to change.
Out of the corner of his eye he spied a slim, curvy, brown haired girl slide into a seat and order a drink. Maybe he was looking for the wrong sort of woman? Normally he was the type to chase after blondes, the type which required no maintenance, expected nothing from him and left quickly with no fuss when they were done. The type who knew how to behave but had the brain cells of a small nit in any other regard.
Perhaps he should widen his horizons. Be a little more ambitious.
For a moment he wondered if finding another type of woman might be too risky. After all, he didn't want to be strung along and have to actually make an effort. Merlin forbid Draco Malfoy ever made an effort for a woman.
Well, other than his mother.
He glanced at the brown haired girl again. It was unlikely, he supposed, if she was here drinking as she seemed to be, that she was looking for a meaningful relationship. Hopefully, he would be safe.
For another few moments he studied her. She looked vaguely familiar: the inviting curve of her cheek, the soft caress of her hair against it. With gleeful satisfaction, he raked his eyes down her. Even though his view was obscured a little from the way she sat, the brow of the bar, he could tell.
It would be worth every knut and galleon.
He watched as she drained the drink and carefully played with the glass until it was slid back onto the surface. With practiced ease he made his move. Scanning the immediate area for competition and disposing of it with a confident swagger which advertised arrogance and bred contempt.
Pulling a stool up, he slid into it. "So if I buy you a drink," he said, "will you shag me?" With a rehearsed hand he wrapped the crude language with a charming, cheeky grin.
She considered him in the dim light. "Maybe," she said.
He signalled for the barman.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Other than you?"
With surprise his eyes shot to her. And then onto his face the smile of a bloke who's received more for Christmas than he'd first anticipated slowly appeared.
"Yes," he said.
"The same as I had before would be fine."
They considered each other from the corners of their eyes until the drinks arrived. Draco broke the silence first.
"So do you have a name or shall I stick to Goddess?" he asked.
She smiled, hesitated and then replied.
"Jane."
With a winning smile he offered his hand. "Robert," he said, his eyes dancing with mirth and holding onto hers.
She went to shake, as expected, but he captured it and lifted it to his lips. For an agonising moment he held her there, and in a deep, shuddering breath inhaled as if her scent was oxygen to a drowning man, before he brushed gently the tingling sensation of his lips against the soft cream of her knuckles.
To his chagrin she laughed, although he realised it was not unkind. Her laughter was silk lilting on a breeze.
"Is there something wrong?" he asked.
"No," she smiled, "It's just this is all so terribly cliché..."
He looked at her soft, inviting lips and wondered what it would feel like to kiss them.
"So every man who has ever wanted you has treated you this way?" he asked.
For a moment she looked like someone had twisted a burning poker into her gut, but then she seemed to recover. A thoughtful expression replaced the pain.
"Not a one," she said. Those delectable lips sipped slowly at the Martini cupped in her hands.
"I'll just have to make up for all their failures then won't I?" he smiled, attempting unconsciously to lighten her expression.
It worked. She leaned forward toward him, giving him a perfect view.
"Can I be a little foreword Robert?" Her voice enveloped his adopted name in a tone low and seductive. A little more confident than when she first introduced herself.
"Feel free."
"I'm fed up with drinking," she said. Slowly, she leaned closer. Her breath caressed the sensitive lobe of his ear. With a sudden innocent aggression she nipped at the soft skin there. "Will you fuck me please?" she asked.
Reviews appreciated! x
