The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy

Chapter Two

Never begin a piece of writing with the word 'the' as it makes for a trite, ill-conceived, over-used beginning.

I immediately think of the supposed title of my book, and – surprise, surprise – my evil, must-die muse gleefully point out the blasted word. I begin to think really, really hard. Will it pose a problem? Will it hinder my dreams of becoming a world-class, even-if-I-write-trash-it'll-be-a-bestseller author? Will it? Will it?

I stifle a laugh. Of course not. I am, after all, Draco Malfoy. I can very well name my book 'The the the the' and still it will be a bestseller.

Because I'm gifted.

Because I'm phenomenal.

Because I'm Draco Malfoy.

It's as simple as that.

Besides, it's not like the book said, "thou shall not begin the title of your book with the word 'the'." Ha!

Stupid muse. From now on, I shall call you Ronald Weasley and mentally bash you over the head every time you dare criticize my God-given talents!

I throw my copy of How to Be a Really Really Really Good Writer inside my really really really small drawer, lean back on my really really really uncomfortable chair, and begin to mull over some changes in my life.

Ah, yes. Change. The one thing constant in my damned life.

So, in case anyone's wondering, I've already spent two days in my brand new – well, not-so brand new… actually, not-at-all brand new house/flat/room, and I've come to three conclusions.

First, with my room not facing the east I cannot see the sunrise from my window. And I never forget to mentally throttle Potter for it. It's just not fair. Fate has a habit of playing favorites and now she has her eyes set on Harry sodding Potter. Sure, since he's such an ugly and pathetic bloke let's all give him a chance and—

"I have to go!"

I look out and see Granger's inhumanly-fast-paced steps as she charges from the door out into the world. Idiot girl, doesn't she know she can just Apparate?

So, charitable as I am I call out to her and say, "Hermione, luv! Save yourself some time and Apparate to work!"

Then she looks up and throws a very dirty look at me. She may have flipped a finger but I guess that's just my imagination.

Or is it?

This is when I realize that what I actually said was, "Idiot girl! Don't you know you can just Apparate to work?"

Thus, the dirty look and imaginary finger.

At least I tried to be helpful to her! I'm that good a person already! I'm willing to build bridges with the people I hated before!

Anyway. Let's go back to my mulling, for I do not wish to dwell on such unimportant and unattractive matters.

Second, Pansy Parkinson is the worst woman in the history of the world to ever consult when it comes to interior decorating. Despite the unfortunate stereotype of men not caring about what their house looks like, I am definitely one of the best-looking exceptions to the rule. I do like my house to be neat and tidy and entirely habitable. I do like to have complementary colors on my sheets and furniture and curtains. It… adds some sort of elegant quality that truly befits a Malfoy and is not, in any way, a deterioration of my unquestionable manliness.

But this color scheme of Pansy's… well. I can only blame Weasley's unfortunate coloring and her natural Slytherin tendencies for the red-and-green combination that's currently making my head ache. It's like all the bloody Christmas elves in the world – oh, wait, they've all been liberated, damn you Granger, but do indulge me in this – came and raped my things to make them look like this. It's sickening, revolting, and entirely irremediable – yes, I've tried using my wand already. Didn't work.

Third, I can only insult every inch of the house for exactly twenty-four hours, because there's only so much things I can insult. I've listed down the things I hate about this bloody house, and I've categorized them into three headings: too-damn-small things, too-damn-cheap-things, and I-won't-touch-these-things-with-a-ten-foot-pole-things. The first category is actually a surprise to me, considering how gigantic Weasley is. The second… we are talking about Weasley, aren't we? Thus, the cheap taste. Him hooking up with Pansy did not improve matters, I see – and why am I not surprised at that? The third category… let me elaborate. The couch makes me cringe every time I look at it, because the thought of people – or Pansy and Weasley to be precise - doing… well, that on it – for Merlin knows how many times! - makes me green with the desire to puke. So the couch has to go. For that matter, so does the bed, the kitchen table, the sink, the tiles, the rugs…

Actually, all the damn furniture has to go.

And today, I will have to talk to Weasley about it.

I go to their new place – and I Apparated, take that Granger! Pansy is curled up on the couch when I arrived and the smell of coffee's so powerful it makes me salivate elegantly.

Yes, elegantly.

"Draco!" she says, smiling. "What a nice surprise. Come. Sit here." She pats the empty place beside her.

Ew. Who knows what they did there last night? "I'd rather stand. Anyway, this'll be short." I look around. Red and green, as expected. What, doesn't she know about the existence of other colors? Like yellow, blue, violet… err, yellow? "So I take it you decorated the place."

Her grin widens. "Of course. I like the personal touch." Pansy flips her hair. "Besides, it's a testament to Interhouse unity."

I raise my brows at her. "But we're not in Hogwarts anymore."

"I know. Doesn't make me less than a Slytherin, though." She stands. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Black," I answer automatically. And I watch as she takes a green cup and pours some coffee into it. From a red coffee pot. The word 'overdoing' comes to my mind. "Where's Weasley?" I ask, looking around and trying hard not to throw up all over the red and green things.

"Taking a bath." She gives me the coffee and I smile and sip – damn, but it's strong and definitely good. "Why are you here?"

I drain the coffee and wordlessly ask for more. "I have to get rid of Weasley's things in the house."

She frowns. "Why?"

I sip my second cup. "Because I want to redecorate the place."

Pansy's frown becomes more menacing. "Redecorate? Why? I decorated your place."

Careful, Draco. She's holding a pot and she may just throw all that strong coffee at you. "I know. But like you said, it's all about… personal touches." I nod. "Like you said."

She considers that and gives in. I can tell because she's no longer threatening to bathe me in scalding-hot coffee. "Fine. I have to warn you, though, there'd be a lot of weeping involved."

Er, what? "Weeping? Aren't you overdoing it again? Look, just because I'm getting rid of your hideously-decorated furniture doesn't mean—"

"No, you stupid—I don't mean me weeping, I meant Ron."

And despite the fact that I am definitely entertained by the thought of Weasley weeping, something in me urges me to say, "I'm sure he won't cry over some damned furniture!" Because that will just be plain wrong, and stupid, and most of all—

"WHY!"

--something a Gryffindor normally does, I later on find out.

Delightful. A few moments after he comes in and I tell him my purpose and when my words finally sink in his pathetically small brain two huge drops of tears roll down his face and he repeats, "WHY!"

What to say? What to say what to say what to freakin' say without losing my life to this humongous, small brained— "You can keep them if you want! I even thought of you picking them up, and bringing them here, and— it'll be just like your olden days, Weasley! With all your furniture, and… all… your… furniture…"

And he blinks and his eyes widen in a way that reminds me of how girls looked at me during my Hogwarts days.

Weasley looks at me like I'm a god.

Of course I am, but that's not the point.

And now he's standing, and his arms lift like he's going to choke me, or—or—

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WEASLEY LET ME GO!"

And I go out of their house before the pathetic freak tries to hug me again.

So now I'm free of Weasley's things, and I can buy my own elegant, expensive, truly-befitting-a-Malfoy furniture.

I'm such a genius, sometimes even I am overwhelmed by my own ingenuity.

Of course, though, there is a tiny, teeny glitch.

I don't know where to start looking for all those expensive, truly-befitting-a-Malfoy furniture.

Which is why I'm at Potter's door, knocking.

"Potter!" I bellow. "Potter! Open this door this instant or I'll—"

The door swings open and, behold – the bespectacled freak of nature sleepily blinks at me. "Malfoy?"

"I need your help," comes out of my mouth.

What? I'm desperate! Despite my fiercely proud and independent nature, I do know when to ask for help!

He gets rid of his glasses and rubs his eyes. "For what?"

"I need to shop for furniture. Now."

That catches his attention. "Isn't Ron's place fully-furnished?"

I snort. "Right. Because I really really really want to use all the furniture they had sex on."

He smiles in a twisted sort of way. "So… you didn't sleep on the bed? Or the couch? Or – that huge table by the fireplace?" He catches my look of disgust and says, "Don't ask me how I know. I just do."

"I'd rather rot than touch all those hideous things! I slept on the floor, you freak. Which, considering I'm Draco Malfoy, is definitely an insult to me. And did I mention that you're a freak?"

"Twice. Right. Err." He checks his watch. "Can't you shop alone?"

"I would, only I don't want to." And besides, I really don't know where to do my shopping.

But hell will freeze over before I admit that to him!

Potter looks at me disbelievingly, and I wonder for a moment if he can read minds.

I grit my teeth. "Fine. I don't know where to shop. Because… we did have elves, and… my mother…you know…. and I didn't have to… know," I finish lamely.

He nods. "I thought it'd be along those lines." Potter checks his watch again. "Unfortunately, you came at a bad time. I have to go to work now."

But— "But you were still sleeping not more than ten minutes ago! And dressed like that?"

Potter is unfazed. The bastard. "Yes. Dressed like this. Though…" He checks his watch, and if he keeps on doing that I'll shove the blasted thing down his—"I think Hermione's free."

Er. What? "So?"

"So, she can come with you."

"She's at work."

"She's on her lunch break."

"She wants to kill me."

"Yeah. She does."

I wave my hand loftily. "I'm not that desperate, thank you very much." I glare at him. "Fine. I'll go back to my house and you go to hell." Then I walk away.

But something makes me turn back. "Potter…"

He looks at me questioningly.

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

The words are stuck in my throat. But I've been wondering, since that night they welcomed me in the house… "Why does she want to kill me?"

Potter looks at me like he wants to tell me the reason. Then he shrugs and says, "Doesn't everyone?"

Which is true, you know. "Right, right." I go to my door.

"Maybe you should ask her," he tells me finally.

And before I can ask him further, he's already closed his door.

--

So I'm back in my own room, and I've come to two more realizations.

One, the room is better without the too-damn-small things, too-damn-cheap-things, and I-won't-touch-these-things-with-a-ten-foot-pole-things around. I have all this beautiful space, and without the ugly colors around the room looks much improved. I don't have to worry about using overused furniture nor sleeping on things other people actually slept on.

Two – and this is more important - I don't have any furniture at all. For Merlin's sake, I don't even have a damn chair to sit on, because I all but shoved it down Weasley's throat in fear of touching something other people actually touched each other on!

So I'm sitting on the floor and thinking, this is too damned pathetic. I'm sitting on the damned floor for crying out loud! I have to buy furniture. I have to, for the love of all things expensive and luxurious!

I stand, and with my resolution made I dash to the door and go out.

I don't care if I'm alone. I'm driven by something primal – to surround myself with expensive things!

And that's when a walking bush comes up to me and decides to get rid of another Malfoy in the world through suffocation.

Or, rather – I bump into Granger, and we both stumble to the ground.

"Oh for the love of—get off me!" She pushes me away, and scrambles to straighten herself. Granger shoots another dirty look at me and says through clenched teeth, "Watch where you're going would you!"

"Don't you mean you watch where you're going?" I hiss – well, as much as I can without saying the letter 's'. "You're the one who decides to play 'let's kill Malfoy' and—"

"Pointless," she says succinctly. "It's always pointless talking to you." Granger marches up and past me when she halts unexpectedly and I realize –

- that I've grabbed her hand to keep her from walking away from me. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask, my anger rising up to the surface. Damnit, I don't know what her problem is, and all I want is--

She tries to shake my hold on her, but I won't budge. "Let go off me! People are staring!"

"I don't care," I snarl.

Then her eyes flash and she says, quietly, "No. That's always been your problem. You really don't."

And because of my confusion, I let her go, and she walks up to the apartment and closes the door behind her.

And while I still want to go out and shop, I feel like it's not as important anymore – because Granger's just burst my bubble with all her pent-up anger at Merlin-knows-what I did, so I decide to just, just—

I knock on her door. "Granger!" I yell. I try her doorknob, and surprise, surprise – it's open.

I step inside.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demands, hands instinctively looking for her wand. Granger's just taken off her coat, and she looks at me like I'm about to pounce and do very unimaginable things to her body.

Ha! You wish, Granger!

"Door's open," I tell her, and she shoots a look at the offending piece before returning her attention to me.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asks again.

"I—" How to start? Hi, I just want to know why you're a being such a bitch to me? Somehow, I know I'll die for that. "I just—"

"Aren't you too old to have a stuttering problem?"

And my anger rises up and I say, "Aren't you too old to still hold grudges?"

She looks taken aback, and then she purses her lips. "You've always been used to getting what you want the quick way," Granger all but spits. "You easily had Harry and Ron forgive you, and you think you can get me to forgive you as easily? Let me tell you, you arrogant, egotistic—"

"What the hell are you talking about, woman? Are you – are you telling me that you're being like this because you're bitter your friends forgave me?" I emit a harsh laugh. "Do you know just how inane that sounds?"

"And do you know I can have you arrested for breaking and entering?"

"I didn't break your door; you left it open. Which is another stupid thing to do, and you're avoiding the issue!"

"I—don't—care!" She then shoves me. "Get out! Get out!"

"Wait!" And before she sends me out, I say – desperately, and without thought – "Do you know where I can buy furniture?"

And then I realize I just pulled a Ron Weasley.

Meaning, I just did something stupid.

Because she's trying to kill me, and I ask about furniture?

And I think Granger thought about that, too, because her mouth dropped open for a minute. But before she pushed me out of her flat something flying knocks me on my back and for a moment a smooth, paper-y thing covers my face.

It's a magazine.

Last month's issue of The Zen of Housekeeping.

With a feature on Fantastic Furniture and Where to Find Them!

So, needless to say – I now have furniture.

Thank you, Hermione Granger.

Author's Notes: Erm. For all those reading Creative Writing books, I'm sure you recognize that golden rule written at the top. Weee! I'm having so much fun writing this chapter down. And thank you for the awesome reviews! I love them and I love you :) I hope you're there for chapter three!