The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy

Chapter Five

Using an exclamation point after a question mark is an abomination.

Right. And so is cavorting with one's enemies, I believe.

Or is it a common practice nowadays? Something about keeping them closer and--

"Where are we going, again?" Weasley asks, eagerly rubbing his hands together.

"When I asked Pansy out, I don't believe my invitation extended to you," I say harshly, glaring at him. Mimicking his tone, I mutter, "Why are you here, again?"

He just rolls his eyes and says, "Quit being a git, you git. I'm here because-- well, actually, I don't know why." He fixes his stare at his girlfriend. "Where are we going again?"

"We'll be helping Draco buy something," Pansy answers, a bit distracted. She frowns. "Where did you get that shirt? I thought I threw that one away - the very day we moved in together."

Weasley proudly lifts the collar of the said shirt. "I dug it up. You can't throw this away, this is my favorite shirt!"

Which certainly explains a lot about his character, in my opinion. I mean, what kind of pathetic idiot will actually like a shirt that's orange in color and has some weird scribble that says 'Orange you glad I love you'?

Weasley you poor, pathetic bastard. I almost pity Pansy for shackling herself with the likes of you.

Which certainly explains a lot about her character, I believe. I mean, what kind of pathetic, desperate female will actually allow herself to associate with the likes of him? And for that matter--

Wait a bloody minute.

Justwhatam I doing with the likes of them anyway! Me, the epitome of virtue and good looks! Me, the vessel of supreme intelligence and extreme humility! Me, the personification of beauty and truth!

Cavorting, that's what.

Which is an abomination.

Eh, well.

"Well, aren't you?"

Pansy lifts her brows. "What? Aren't I what?"

He flashes his huge, nightmare-inducing grin, points at his hideous clothing and proudly says, "Orange you glad I love you?"

OH MY BLEEDING BRAIN, that has got to be the most idiotic, stupid, crass--

"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Pansy comments snidely, redeeming herself in my eyes.

Maybe she has some taste anyway.

Then Pansy ruins the moment by smiling beatifically at Weasley and saying, "You are such a stupid dork. Come here, you."

I have to leave. Right now. Or else, all the food I've eaten since last Spring will come out of my mouth and I will disgrace myself and the holiest name of the Malfoy clan and--

Kissing sounds! Moans! Merlin! I walk away, disgusted, annoyed, irritated, and very much repulsed by the scene I've the unluckiest misfortune to witness. Eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwww. I have the strongest urge to scrub myself until I'm sore and I've positively removed all traces of that encounter, and feet, don't fail me now. Take me as far from here as possible, thank you. Walk! Or run gracefully, damn you! Run!

"Oy! Malfoy, wait up!"

"I'm fine. Leave me be! If you prefer to continue groping each other in public then go away and I'll deny knowing anything about you two disgusting--"

"We aren't groping each other." Then Pansy winks at Weasley. "Yet."

I can feel my skin crawl at her words.

This is the reason I won't be writing anything that has some stupid lovey-dovey aspect to it. I abhor everything related to the bloody concept, because romance is just some stupid woman's fancy way of referring to slavery - specifically, the man's. Men who think themselves in love are just brainwashed, hexed with a strong spell, until they are forced to do things they aren't inclined to doing - like thinking about some other person's feelings and--

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Weasley demands.

I blink. "What?"

"You're looking at me like I'm diseased or something," he replies, looking a wee bit insulted.

Interesting. Weasley has perception. And he uses it.

Pansy scoffs. "That's the way he always looks at you, love."

Weasley thinks this over and smiles. "Oh. Right. I forgot. Aaaanyway, where are we going, anyway?"

"Flourish and Blotts," I say succinctly.

"Really?" she asks disbelievingly. "What are you going to buy in a bookstore?"

I lift a brow. "What do you think?"

"I know! I know!" Weasley says happily. "You're going to buy - a book!"

Good Lord. I am in the company of a decrepit with a mental capacity of a five-year-old

Hang on. I think I just insulted every five-year-old in the world.

Pansy shoots him a glare before asking, "I meant what type of book are you going to buy?"

I ponder about this for a moment. If I tell them my true purpose, will they be able to put two and two together and deduce that I'm going to buy a model for my upcoming book? Will they be able to discover for themselves that I'm an aspiring writer - and an excellent one at that - and my dream is to have legions of fans who will write fan fiction and draw fan arts based from what I have written?

I scoff. Probably not. We are talking about Weasley and Pansy here.

"Autobiography," I finally tell them.

Blank stares met my declaration.

Which just confirms my earlier thoughts.

"Auto-bio-whatnow?" Pansy asks.

"Wait, wait, I know this," Weasley says, concentrating hard. He then snaps his fingers. "I've got it! That, that word you said - that's a muggle contraption, isn't it? Like what we used before, waaay back in second year, when Fred, George, and I had to rescue Harry from his loony relatives, because they locked him up in a room, imagine that, and we had to tie a rope around a--"

"Pansy, for the love of sanity shut him up."

"It was blue... yes, blue, and I was driving it - so cool - and Snape--"

"Why should I? You're the one who got him started!"

"--and then these spiders, huge, huge spiders, they started creeping towards me and Harry, so I stepped on--"

"Weasley, shut up and no, that's not it!" I all but shove my words to his face.

He frowns. "But Harry said--"

"Autobiographies aren't just muggle things you oversized buffoon," I tell him loftily. "They are books written by writers that are about their own lives, and not what that nonsense you're saying." I add, as an afterthought, "And Harry is a blathering idiot so don't believe all he says. Or anything he tells you, for that matter."

Again, blank stares.

"That's what that is?" Weasley grunts. "Sounds boring."

I feel insulted, in behalf of us autobiographers in the world. Well, I will be. "Have you ever read one? Or wait, wrong question: can you actually read?"

"I can," Pansy chimes in, "and I have to say, Ron's right. Sounds dreadfully boring. What do I care about some weirdo's life? I have a suggestion, though. Since we're going to a bookstore, and we'll be getting married, why don't you buy our gift now?"

Weasley severely frowns. "You want a book as a present?"

Pansy links her hand with his. "Trust me. Once you see Kama Sutra and The Perfumed Garden, you'll do, too."

And so we walk on, an excited gait in Pansy's, a bored one in Weasley's, and an elegantly thoughtful one in mine. Their comments made me reflect. Simple-minded folks actually think autobiographies are a dreadful bore? Then... then... even before starting my war, I may have already lost. If I'll write an autobiography, and people are immediately turned off at the very idea - then that means the number of people who will be buying my book will be severely dented! My market will have become horribly limited to incredible intellectual thinkers, and those people are hard to come by these days!

I gasp. I admit, I have not thought this scenario possible.

"Malfoy, are you all right? You look awfully pasty."

Pansy hits him on the shoulder. "Idiot. He always looks pasty."

Weasley thinks this over and smiles. "Oh. Right. I forgot."

I'm too preoccupied to even consider kicking him on the shin.

At that moment, we enter the bookstore, and as Pansy steers Weasley to the more secluded portion of the shop I march to the center aisle and slowly scan over the different areas. I hesitate, even as I spot the autobiographies section. Understandably, I'm having second thoughts.

If not an autobiography, then what will my book be?

"Do you really have to stand there, in the middle of the aisle, or will you let other people pass?"

I roll my eyes heavenwards. Why is it that, of all people, of all people that I have to encounter--

"Granger. If I didn't know better, I'll say you're stalking me. Oh, wait, I do know better, so - you're stalking me."

She sniffs. "Let me pass and I'll consider letting you go unharmed."

I grin. "Ha! How, may I ask, will you harm me?" I raise my brow. "And just what type of ill wind would've brought you here, I wonder?"

"I wonder the same thing myself." And, as I have no intention of letting her pass, she marches right by me. But the aisle is so very narrow that I can't help the contact between her hair and my face, and while I mentally brace myself for the stench of death what hit me instead is the smell of - something fruity. Lemon, maybe. Or apples.

And then I realize that I'm actually smelling her hair, which is completely inappropriate, not to mention weird. I pull back, then all but shove her away. She sends me a look of pure wrath before heading to the reference section of the bookstore without another word.

All right, so I have two choices here: one, go to Weasley and Pansy and catch them doing that illustration on page 73 because Pansy will just totally love that, or, two, go to Granger and annoy her to death. Hers, not mine.

Answer's obvious, because right now I don't want a nasty mental image, thank you.

I slowly creep up to her, just so I can see what type of book she's scanning. I'm curious, all right, and as I am in the crux of a lifechanging dilemma what she's reading may just influence my--

Oh.

Mwahaha.

"So," I say, enjoying immensely with the way she jumps suddenly, "explain one thing to me: how is it that you became the assistant head of some runes translating department when it's achingly clear how completely incompetent you are?"

Something flashes in her eyes, and a dull flush erupts on her cheeks. "You are a bastard of the lowest order," she snaps, closing her big tome shut.

I lean on the shelf. "What word do you need help translating this time?"

"I don't need help," she says through clenched teeth. "Especially not--"

I shove my hands in my pockets. I am not offering her help; I'm simply reiterating and letting her realize the fact that I'm superior to her. "Quit being such a proud prude and just give me the damn word!"

She stares at me for long, long seconds. Obviously against her will but being desperate enough, she gets a paper and quill from her bag and writes down a phrase of some cryptic gibberish. I ponder for a moment as my brain analyzes - Mesopotamian--no, Persian... or is it Gaelic?

"So what is it, oh great and most revered one?" she asks snidely.

"I'm getting there," I tell her distractedly. Then it hits me - Hellenic! I scribble down quite a lengthy passage, look at her, shove the parchment to her, scan the shelf, grab a book, open it on page 3246 and say, "See for yourself, my ingenuity. You can compare my translation to that of these texts and learn that I am indeed great and revered."

Granger gives me a particularly nasty look, but does as she's told anyway. To my extreme pleasure, her eyes round at the evidence of my vast intellectual prowess. She closes the book with a sharp snap. "All right, I admit you're right."

Ah, beautiful music. "And?"

"And, well--" She purses her lips, then grabs something from her bag. "--here."

I stare at the bag of Galleons in her hand, very much confounded. "What the bloody hell's that for?"

"Well, I have to pay you something," she says, shaking her hand as emphasis.

"Why?"

Granger rolls her eyes. "I'm paid to do this translation," she explains. "I didn't translate it, though, you did, so technically, you deserve to get paid for it, not me."

I look at her through beady eyes. "I'm not taking that."

"Why not? You don't have a job. I'm sure this'll--"

"What, help me?" I snap. "I don't need your help."

And before she gets to wave the money in front of my face again, I leave.

--

There's only about a few drops of milk left for me, but instead of drinking it I give it to Crookshanks, the cat I all but begrudgingly adopt as my own seeing as it's always by my side instead of it's owner's. Unlike the rest of the world, it actually has sense and good taste. The furry beast licks the milk silly while I rub the sleep from my eyes.

These days, I'm waking up later that I'm accustomed to. Before, I'm usually up before the sun peeks from the clouds - huh, artistic license. Now, seeing as Potter has the side of the apartment with the view of the sunrise, short of barging in unannounced I've no way of witnessing its magnificent splendor.

Sigh.

Aside from that, I've also written down the problems in my life, namely:

1) Living with Gryffindors
2) Dealing with Granger every damn day
3) Busted faucet
4) Feeding Granger's cat - what does it eat, aside from milk?
5) Dwindling fortune
6) Gift for upcoming wedding - no, wait, this isn't my handwriting... Pansy!

The one shining beacon in my life is my book, my autobiography. Once I sell it, I'll regain my millions and move out of this blasted place. It's that simple.

But nothing in this damn life's really that simple, damn it.

---

Damn it, I'm being all broody and melancholic here! What can be so damn important that some people have to talk about it right outside my door in obnoxiously loud tones and--

"Keep it down, would you!" I snap, right into the stunned faces of Potter and Granger. "I'm being all broody and melancholic and--"

"Draco! Good to see you, mate. Erm, Hermione has something to tell you. Hermione?" Then Potter all but shoves Granger forward.

Huh. Lemons and apples again.

"Wha--Harry! You told me you'll be the one to--"

"But he's here, so I don't have to--"

"Harry, just--"

"Well what is it you bloody woman? You're wasting my time, you know!" Memories of yesterday assault me, and I rage all over again. I mean, the bloody woman insulted me by offering me payment for my services and--

--yes I'm aware that at some other part of the world that's called 'employment' and--

--well, I'm not working for her, so she can shove her Galleons up her--

"Malfoy," she begins, "you know I hate you and everything you represent and the very sight of you makes me ill but--"

"--you love me? I know."

Potter manages to keep a straight face.

"--but," she continues, "well, Harry told me that you're, well, somewhat good--"

"No, I told you he's very good," Potter interjects.

Hmm, interesting that his praises don't change the fact that I still see him as a bespectacled freak of--

"Well, do you want a job as a translator or not?" Granger says in a rush.

--nature.

What?

"Tell him something about the job," Potter urges, nudging her.

Granger rolls her eyes and says, "The job's case-to-case basis of course, and you don't have to go to our office - thank God - ow, Harry, stop nudging, all right! But, you know, every now and then I'll drop the papers and you'll just give them to me - or to Harry, yes, to Harry, when you're done."

"Think it through, Malfoy," Potter says. "I think it's a good way to pass time and, you know, earn money, since we don't need your services yet and we can't pay you for not doing something."

"So?" she prods impatiently. "Do you want it or not?"

Well...

I may need more time to think about this. I mean, will my salary include damages incurred from associating with the likes of her?

I open my mouth to tell her that, but the words that spilled out were:

"All right."

Looking at her, I know she's as surprised as I am that I actually accepted.

I'm going to regret this for the rest of my shortened life, I just know it.

Damn you, mouth!

--

Author's Notes: A huge thank-you to those who keep reading! This chapter is dedicated to all of you :)