The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy
Chapter ThreeWriting is way to let loose your imagination and free your soul.
Right. The walking, living truth every writer knows deep inside his heart. The mantra every author repeats to himself as his litany. The air every creator breathes everyday.
Of course, it all freakin' depends if that writer, author, and creator – who, in this case, is me – can actually write!
Oh, the world must be ending. Any time now, the sun will fall from the sky, the stars will shatter into millions of pieces, and the moon will turn blood-red.
Damn it, even at exaggerating I cannot come up with more artistic metaphors. See? See? The extent of my troubles, the pit of my worries? It seems like I… I have… my creativity… I can't accept this. I just can't! It's too horrible… it seems like… like…
I cannot write.
Damn bloody damnit all to hell. This has never, ever happened before! Even in my lowest moment – that being trapped inside a cage with no companion but a rat and, well, I don't really want to dwell on the specifics here because my point is – I can bloody well write at any damn time and place I please. Why, that's where and when I wrote a brilliant piece of mine called, "An Ode to a Smelly Rat"!
No. No. I refuse to accept this. There must be some cosmic imbalance behind this abnormality. Probably an enemy traded his soul with some quack doctor and part of their agreement was to rob me of my genius! Which is probable, you know, because I do have many enemies out there!
This is a test of my willpower and resolve, I just know it. Well! I'll show them who they're dealing with! I stare at the achingly blank parchment in front me, determination coursing through my veins, resolve pounding a sinister rhythm in my heart. I will stay here and force myself to write. Even if it takes a lifetime. Even if it takes forever.
I will not yield to this monstrous desire to do something else! I will not stand, eat, even breathe until I am able to produce at least three thousand words! I will not give up!
After approximately three seconds, I give up.
Sigh.
This is most vexing. Most frustrating. Most… well, words that have the same meaning as vexing and frustrating. Why now? Why is it that, the day I moved into Weasley's apartment was the day my muse decided to pack and take a vacation? Sure, she continues to bug me with her destructive criticisms but, as far as production goes… nothing. Not even a single bloody—
Hang on. Seems like I just solved this mental dilemma.
Yes, that's it! I haven't been able to write anything since the day I moved into Weasley's old and dilapidated flat, which is, oh, approximately ten days ago. Not one word from my gifted mind has been put into paper ever since.
So naturally, this is Weasley's fault.
Well, I've got to give the poor bloke a break. I mean, maybe it isn't his entire fault that I'm fooled into taking his decrepit place. Why, I won't even be here if Potter hadn't come and literally forced me to take it!
Technically, this – as well as a lot of other unresolved issues in my life – is Potter's fault.
But, sure, I have to admit that the bespectacled freak is only trying to help me. Can he help it that he has this annoying habit of shoving his help down anyone's throat? Besides, Potter wouldn't have volunteered Weasley's decaying apartment if I did have a place to live in, which wasn't the case, since I already took Pansy's advice and sold the bloody, nightmare-inducing manor to the highest bidder.
Pansy's fault all along.
That conniving little snake. I should've known she still harbors some deep and complicated feelings for me! No matter how many times she denies it and tells of her love for Weasley, she will never ever get over me! Her advices are all borne out of spite, though even I have to give her some credit. I mean, if it weren't for her I wouldn't have realized that the absence of house elves was a good reason for selling the manor, as I couldn't bloody well clean it by myself.
Aha! I've finally figured out the real fiend in this! The true reason why I, Draco Malfoy, writer extraordinaire, am not able to write is because of one Hermione Granger! She probably envisioned this day since that time in our fourth year, and while she's knitting house elf scarves and hats she's also plotting my downfall!
That… that Muggleborn. Jumped-up Mudblood! Agh! Just thinking of her makes me angry. Yes, angry lines are already forming on my face, marring my perfection… must calm down, must think of… calming… things… like the blue of the ocean, the wings of a butterfly, the duet of a lady and her goatherd—
On second thought, this issue must be solved immediately. I must talk to her at once! I must make her stop whatever enchantment she has done to me!
With my resolve made, I walk to my door and open it.
Lo and behold, I see the monster that lives across my threshold come out of his lair.
"Malfoy—"
"No time to talk, have to kill Granger," I push through clenched teeth. I march to the stairs whilst pondering, how does one kill a girl with his bare hands?
"Reschedule it," Potter says calmly at my back. "She's not there."
I pause to look at him. "She's not? But it's only… what, six in the morning?"
"Actually, it's already eleven-thirty."
I stare at him in open-mouthed horror. What? What! "Surely that's not— I mean, it can't be that late! Your sense of time must be faulty at best."
He sighs. "You want to see my watch?"
"Your what?"
"My watch—timepiece."
At my astounded look he lifts his arm and shoves the back of his wrist to my face until I swat it away. "Get off me! I don't want to see any piece of you!"
"But I was just showing you my—"
"I'm not interested in your Muggle ways!" I all but shriek. "And you're diverting me from the issue. Granger's not upstairs?"
He shakes his head. "At this hour, she must be where all the other working people are – in their offices."
I cross my arms. "So why are you here?"
"Because, like you, I don't work in an office?" He looks irked. "Don't you remember, there still are Aurors like me that—"
"Yes, yes, do let's hear 'your special Auror job' speech. Only let's not. I just—" I send a hopeful look at the stairs. "It's just—"
"Why'd you want to see Hermione, anyway?" Curiosity predictably coats his pathetic face.
"You mean why do I want to kill her?" I let out a loud breath and a feral grin. "Simple. She's done something to me and I want her to undo it."
His brows come together. "And what's that?"
I smirk. "Surely you don't expect me to disclose that to you, do you?"
Potter looks extremely put off. "Why not?"
"Because… I don't want to?"
"Fine." A smile begins to form on Potter's face, making him more hideous and ghastly looking. "Then wait for her until she comes back, while I meet her for lunch."
"What? You're meeting her for lunch?" At his proud nod I say, "I'll go with you."
"And what if I say no?"
"You won't."
"I won't?"
"Yes."
"But what if I do?"
"Then I'll kill you first, find Granger and kill her too."
Potter pauses prominently. "You're really desperate to see her, aren't you?" he asks in an amused tone I intensely dislike.
"Very," I say truthfully.
Because, as a writer, author, and creator – I'm willing to do anything to be able to write again.
Anything.
--
"And what, exactly, is he doing here?"
"Fine afternoon to you too, luv," I drawl, as I take the seat opposite from hers. I throw her a wicked grin while she seethes in her unfortunate gray uniform.
Potter sits himself between us. "Relax, Hermione. He's just here to—err—" Potter turns to me. "Why do you want to see her, again?"
"Because I want to kill her," I answer.
"Right." Potter smiles benignly at Granger. "He wants to kill you."
"I heard him!" she glowers, still glaring at me.
"Manners, Granger." I point to her chair. "You're supposed to sit down when your guests have done so already."
"You're not my guest," she says, but begrudgingly takes her seat.
For a few seconds, none of us is willing to break the silence. Potter squints at his menu, I stare at Granger, and she studiously keeps her attention on the small attack of paper in front of her.
"I think I'll take the baked chicken. Looks great." Potter looks up. "What about you two?"
"Coffee," I say.
"Tea," she says at the same time.
"That's it?" Potter asks. He shows Granger the menu. "I thought you liked their Tuna Surprise?"
"I'm not hungry."
"What about you, Malfoy? This Shrimp Sunrise sure looks tasty."
"Then order it yourself. I'm not hungry."
"Fine. One coffee, one tea." Potter shrugs. "That'll surely fill you both up." Then he goes away.
For a few terse seconds, silence reigns in our table.
"Quit staring at me or I'll tear your eyeballs off," she says, rather distractedly. Granger then crosses something out on her paper.
Odd that her threats don't hold much sting. She must be too engrossed in what she's doing. Why, that's almost insulting! Curious, I try to get a good look at her paperwork.
"I said—"
"Whoever said I'm looking at you? I'm looking at your work."
Granger pauses just enough to glare at me. "Then stop looking."
"Why? What are you doing?"
"None of your business."
"Of course it's not, it's your work, after all."
"Then stop—"
"You know, Granger, you'll save us lots of time if you tell me what's that you're doing already. Otherwise, we'll just do this all day long."
She leans back on her chair and scrutinizes me carefully. "Tell me why you're here first, because from what I remember Harry's the only one I invited for lunch, not some blond bastard I refuse to name."
See, here's my dilemma. If I ask her about my case of writer's block, then she'll figure out that I actually write – a fact that I'm not yet ready to share with the rest of the world. But if I don't ask her, then the spell will still be with me and it's possible I won't be able to write ever again.
Damn you Granger! She thought this all the way through. I know she did!
Without batting an eye I ask her, "Do you promise to be honest with me?"
"Why should I?"
"Because I ask you to?"
"And just who do you think you are to ask me that?"
I smile. "Just the person who can answer the question, 'What am I doing here with you when I can very well do something else more productive?'"
Silence.
"Do you promise?" I press, noticing once again that she's too focused on her work. I pound on our table.
"Huh? What? Yes, yes, just—"
"Did you cast a spell on me during fourth year?"
That gets her attention. She drops her pen. "What? No! That's just—"
Just then, Potter comes to us with a tray in his hands. "Tea for you, coffee for you, baked chicken and white wine for me."
Granger sends him a withering look. "It's high noon and you're drinking wine?"
"Let him be, Mother," I tell her tonelessly.
She sends me a withering look in response.
I take the coffee in my hands. Ah, sweet, sweet black heaven, let me drown in your caffeine abyss. I sip. "So, Potter, Granger here's all secretive about her work. What is it, anyway?"
"She's—"
"I'm an Ancient Runes Translator," she answers instead, fixing me a beady look while drinking her tea. "Assistant Head of our department."
"Huh. And here I thought your job's to annoy people to death, because you sure do a great job in it." I flash her some teeth.
She bares her fangs. "Well, that job's already occupied. By you."
"Touché." I set my cup down, my offense armed and ready. "Assistant Head, eh? How unfortunate that Hermione Granger's still beaten by some wizard at that job. So, just how do you assist him? Do you get to do his coffee, fetch him his things?"
Granger's quiet for a few seconds. Score one for me! "What about you, Malfoy?" she asks in a softer, more sinister tone. "What do you do for a living? Aside from, well, counting money and past sins you've done."
I bristle. "Wouldn't you want to know?"
She smiles, largely and insincerely. "That's why I'm asking. Don't tell me…" Granger leans in for the kill, "…you don't have a job? The great Draco Malfoy? I don't believe it." She picks her cup. "But maybe that's just why you're not telling."
We don't speak with each other for a few seconds, and other than the loud munching of Potter at my side I'm not aware of anything else but her. The way she looks at me, she's experiencing the same thing.
"Say, Hermione, why'd you want to see me today?" Potter asks between bites, breaking the tension between us.
She reluctantly looks at him. "Well, I wanted to ask you if you're available tomorrow night."
"Why?" I ask. "Are you asking him for a date?" The idea of them, doing illicit things together… I can't help the frown that forms on my face. Disgusting!
"No," she says, scowling at me. She then smiles at Harry. "One of my colleagues is asking you for a date."
"I think I know who that is," Harry says, shaking his head. He swallows. "The answer is one big hell no. Tell Millicent that."
"But—"
"Millicent works for the Ministry?" I ask, surprised despite myself.
But no one pays attention to me.
"Oh come on, Harry, please! It'll just be for one night. If you go out with her, maybe she'll stop asking me about you, and maybe she can actually… you know, work!"
"No!"
While they're busy ignoring me, the idiots, I happen to notice that Granger's notes have become loose from her obsessive hold on them, making them free for the taking.
Which I do.
"Hey! Give—"
I study the notes for a second, then start laughing. "You tell me you're the Assistant Head in Ancient Runes Translation and yet you can't translate this one little word?"
She becomes red in the face. "Why? Can you?"
I smile. "Yes, I can. It's actually very easy." Plucking the pen from her – I ignore her shriek – I say, "Watch and learn, Muggleborn. This word—" I underline it, "—is Hellenic in origin, used as an adjective then. But through time and tribal translation this word has become a verb, and that is—" I scribble down five letters.
She scoffs when I show her my work. "I don't believe you. I'm not taking that."
"Then research it in your big, dusty libraries. Be my guest and waste your time, but I assure you I'm correct."
Granger looks at Potter. "Can you believe the nerve of this—this—"
"Actually, Hermione, I do." He wipes his face with a napkin. "You asked what his job was, right?"
She frowns at him. "What does that have to do with—"
Potter clears his throat. "Well, he was actually the Order's Official Runes Translator."
I puff out my chest. "Still is."
He sends me a wry look. "Not that we still need you or anything."
Granger's mouth hangs open. "What? But he isn't— I mean, why didn't I—"
"I believe you were on leave when I was appointed," I tell her, though I'm not sure why I remember that fact. "I think you were… securing your parents or something."
She still looks shocked. "But… I was gone for two weeks only."
"Well." I grin. "You missed a lot. My appointment, Voldemort's defeat…" I can't help but add, "Me, Potter, and Weasley reluctantly forming a triumvirate…"
"I realize that," she snaps.
"What's a triumvirate?" Potter asks.
But no one minds him.
Granger glares at me, then makes a big show of checking the back of her wrist. "I have to go," she says, standing and collecting her papers. She pauses, then looks at Potter. "Please reconsider, Harry."
"I won't!" he vehemently declares.
She shrugs. "Well, see you," Granger tells him. She turns to me. "And you go to hell."
Then I notice that she intentionally left the paper I wrote my help in. That stupid little girl! I reach in, take a pen from my pocket, and start to scribble furiously:
Some people could only be so stupid
Wanting help but claiming they don't need it
To you, Granger, I do solemnly declare
I won't aid you anymore! See if I care!
--Ode to A Stupid Girl
Malfoy 0605
Well, I'll be damned. I can write again!
--
Author's Notes: Well, this chapter sure is late. Thank you for waiting and reviewing! See you in Chapter Four, I hope! And owns that quote at the very beginning, I sure hope no one minds my using it…