The Chronicles of Draco Malfoy

Chapter Six

Continue to educate yourself on writing and getting published.

Hmm? What? What?

Ah. Right. Of course I shall do that! Writing is, after all, my number one priority. The most important aspect in my life. My first thought as I wake in the morning, and my last as I drift off to sleep. It is my calling, my vocation, my mission here on earth.

Just let me finish this pathetic little piece of runic trash I'm currently translating, and then I'll... I swear I'll...

"If the origin isn't... well of course it's not, these characters are more cylindrical whereas... wait, they're also quite... no, no, that's not it..." I tap my quill against my chin. "Mid-1800 runes are spherical in nature, so cross out these stupid notes of yours, Granger! I bet these came from 1700. Yes, yes that's it. But then..."

I rub my palm against the back of my neck. Nasty little bugger, this page. A whole lot of cryptic nonsense where some words have translations and some do not - and based from what I've uncovered so far, this freakishly old text is only some ancient recipe for... something. A cure for some hideous illness, probably. Worthless, in my opinion.

Granger better pay me double for this. Or better yet - triple. Or even more than that. The page is with me and I will not yield it to her until I'm paid what I want - until I'm given what I desire.

Mwahaha.

Evil, indeed thy name is Draco Malfoy.

I pull my sleeves up my arms. "All right, you bastard, there'll be no handsome ransom without a completely translated page, is there? So--"

Three loud, obnoxious knocks interrupt my reverie just then, and I glance at the door, confused. Who can that be? I know only three people who, annoyingly, always seem to manifest themselves in my territory without me wanting them to. Take Potter, for instance. He always uses his one-loud-knock-then-yell technique to announce his freakish presence. Pansy usually scratches the surface of my door with her freakishly long nails, and Weasley, the freakin' idiot, often forgets that I'm the reluctant owner of this place and apparates in without warning. Thank goodness I no longer prance around naked. Imagine if he--

No, no, I'd rather you don't, thank you.

So, judging from this mental comparison, there's only one answer as to what is the identity of this person currently behind my door. The person who, may I add, I'm currently ignoring as I pretend to ponder on and think about this dilemna.

"Malfoy!" Three prude-like knocks. "Open this door, now."

I snicker elegantly. As if I'll do any--

"I know you're in there. I heard you snort!"

I gasp. I do not... and for her to implicate that I--

"Open this damn door now or I swear you'll regret it!"

I glare at the door, and mentally hack the person behind it to pieces. Let her try all her tricks; there's nothing in this damned world she can do that will force me to open the door for--

BAM

--her.

I stare at my door... the one that's now lying dead on the floor. Then I look at the witch behind it all and my vision starts to darken and this strange mechanical voice starts chanting in my head, saying killkillkill and then I, I just--

"Oh calm down. Reparo." A strange wheezing sound fills my puny flat as the door reattaches itself to the hinges. She tucks her wand back to her robes and looks at me. "There. So, where's the translation?"

Oh she is one sick, twisted, demented--

Granger rolls her eyes. "Yes, yes, I'm all that - the translation? Where is it?"

"It's not yet done," I inform her using my crispiest voice. Or something to that effect. "Where's Potter? Why isn't he playing mailman? What unfortunate circumstances brought you here, unwanted, uncalled for, un--"

"What?" she shrieks. "It's not yet finished?" Granger crosses her arms. "I knew it, I knew it. I shouldn't have... I even gave you my notes to quicken things up! And to think you pride yourself for being the premiere--"

I breathe deeply to quell the rising tide of anger that threatens to drown me in its grip. "First of all, I do not pride myself for anything, it's just that I am grand and great and gorgeous and..." She rolls her eyes again, and I can tell that she's mad as hell, so I continue, "god-like, and for your information, your notes? Absolutely worthless. I think I lost valuable time just trying to disprove each one."

For a moment, her mouth hangs open and her eyes glaze over, and happily I return to my work.

"My... notes?" Her voice trembles a bit, making me feel all fuzzy and warm and evil. "You dare tell me that my notes are--"

"Oh I dare, all right. Make no mistake about it, woman." I all but shove the page to her face as I stand. "How in the name of all things bright and wonderful can you call these runes spherical? Do you see anything remotely spherical in a text that looks like several boxes stacked together? No, Draco, of course not. Do you know that these are closer to the 1700 era than the 1800 you wrote here? Oh, Draco, I'm sorry, but I'm such an idiot that I--"

"Give me that." She snatches the page from my hand and looks at it closely.

"It's an ancient recipe for something. Medicine, most likely. Maybe it can cure stupidity." I smile benignly at her. "Thank your lucky stars, Granger. There's hope for you yet."

Quite suddenly, she bursts into mad chuckles that has me gnashing my teeth. "Oh Malfoy. Truly you amuse me," she says snidely. Then she pokes me and says, "You idiot. Don't you know there aren't any recorded usage of runes in the 1700s?"

What the hell is she saying? "The hell there isn't! You're just making that up, you twisted little--"

"Check your books. There's none." Her voice drips poison honey. "I guess you'll have to start again." She then shoves the paper at my manly chest.

"You think I'll take your word for it? Ha! I think not!"

"Then don't think! Look at your references from whatever place in hell you get your books!"

"When I prove that I'm right and you're wrong, you'll be paying me triple for this," I snarl at her.

She pokes me again and says, "If, Malfoy, if. And when you prove to yourself just how much an egotistical bastard you are, then you'll be doing a month's amount of work for free."

"Deal." I put my hand out.

"Deal." She takes it readily.

And at this point, Weasley and Pansy apparate in.

"Is there something you want to tell us?" Pansy asks, smiling rather evilly at us. "Say... something about you two?"

Granger and I hastily let go of each other.

Pansy taps Weasley on his arm. "I guess I should start making changes in the seating--"

"Oh please God NO," Weasley moans. He sits on the couch, cradling his abrormally red head in his abnormally large hands. "Not the flags again! Anything but the flags!"

"What flags?" I ask, earning his apoplectic look.

"Seating arrangements. That's why we're here. We're informing you of your designated places." She whips up a chart of some sort where tiny flags of green and red are pasted. "We can't just have anyone sit anywhere or it'll be like Ginny's wedding. Remember that? Ugh," Pansy shudders. "What an utter disaster. People were just roaming around like barbarians and--"

Having not attended the said wedding and due to the fact that I don't care, I keep silent.

"So, who do you think we should transfer? Draco or--"

"No, no transferring!" Granger squeals. She approaches Weasley and tugs at his sleeve. "Ron, Ron, promise me you'll--"

"Talk to her," he says, pointing at Pansy who is busily making notes. "I'm not looking at those flags again. Damned annoying pieces of sh--"

"--from table nine to six..." She takes one red flag and puts it on the other table, "and we could switch Millicent with Draco, I think--"

"No you don't," I say loftily. "Seating arrangements are nothing to me. I sit wherever I choose." Casually, I slide an idle look at Granger. "If I so decide to annoy you to death on that day then no amount of chairs will stop me, mark my words."

She takes three deep breaths, then says in a rush, "Finish this thing by tomorrow or you're fired!" Then Granger whirls around and gets her arse out of my flat.

Finally.

"You do know that you have to follow my seating arrangement or there'll be hell to pay, right?" Pansy informs me in her shrillest tone.

"You do know that I don't care, right?" I inform her in my haughtiest tone.

"You're working for Hermione?" Weasley asks me in his stupidest tone. "Since when?"

"Last week," I answer, returning to my chair. "Since she's incompetent in her job she asked me for help."

"Really?" He stares at me, his eyes wide. "Hermione asked you for help?"

"What's her job, again?" Pansy asks.

"Translating Ancient Runes." I smile evilly. "Which happens to be my forte."

"Really? Translating Ancient Runes is your--"

I cast a look at him. "Harry Potter is a bespectacled freak of nature."

"Really? Harry Potter is a--"

"Stop repeating my words, Weasel."

"Really? I'm... wait, I'm not repeating your words!" At my glare he insists, "I'm not!"

Hopeless.

"Don't you think working with her's going to cost you... say, your life?" Pansy says, lifting her attention off her chart. "She hates you, you know. Enough to... oh I don't know, slit your throat when you're not looking?"

I lift my brow. "Would you happen to know why?"

"Well, she's hated you since first year," Weasley answers. "Who didn't? You were such a slimy, smarmy git."

"Still is," Pansy says.

"I know that," I snap.

"I think she even built a little shrine for you back then."

That, I didn't know. "Really?"

He nods. "Every now and then she threw dung bombs at a piece of cardboard with your name on it. Said it helps sometimes."

"Isn't that just the sweetest thing," Pansy mutters, lifting a brow at me.

That, I didn't need to know. "Thank you, Weasley, for that unsolicited bit of information on how you Gryffindors worshipped me," I say, waving off what he revealed. I reread the parts I've already translated before I say, "I understand her hate of me back then. What annoys me is that she seems to hold grudges even up to now. Isn't she too old for that? Even I told her so."

"Affected, aren't you, Draco?"

I made it a point to ignore her singsong tone. I drum my fingers on the table, trying hard to pinpoint exactly what I'm feeling. "Ever since the war... a lot of people's view of me has changed. I mean, look at you and Potter. After the war you don't hate me as much, which is a shame, because if you did then you would've stayed the hell away from me and--"

"I think it's more of her seeing you as a threat," Pansy tells me.

I pause. "A threat?"

"Really? Hermione sees Malfoy as a--"

"Oh shut it!" She smacks Weasel across the forehead before turning to me. "I mean, you just said it yourself, Ron and Potter just don't hate you anymore. Maybe Granger thinks that you'll... I don't know, take her place as part of the Golden Trio, or something."

I screw my face into an expression of sheer disgust. "What an atrocious mental image, Parkinson!"

"Hey!" Weasley says, finally taking offense over something I said. "What's wrong with--"

"Well, that's just my opinion," Pansy says. "Maybe you should ask her." She studies her nails. "That is, before one of you kills the other."

Which will happen, you know.

Probably sooner than you think.

-

If there's anyone in the world who has the unfortunate fate of knowing the absurdities, stupidities, and intricacies of one Hermione Granger, it'll have to be her mother. Or her father.

But since I've no plans of meeting either one, I go to the next person in my extremely short list - Harry Potter.

I would've asked Ron Weasley but, unfortunately, he and Pansy Parkinson are currently engaged in lewd activities that I didn't witness, thank you. I didn't happen to apparate in on the exact moment that they were on the dining table in their kitchen, with several plates and glasses broken on the floor, which they must've knocked aside in their desperate haste to use the damn table. I didn't see them with legs entangled and limbs flailing about and-- I didn't see anything, I solemnly declare. No, nothing at all!

So here I am, at Potter's doorstep. I knock at his door, and wait a few seconds before launching into another set of my sophisticated proclamation of my presence.

When the door still fails to open, I take my wand out, ready to blast the damn door to pieces...

...only Potter pulls it open, just in time to spoil my fun. Like he always does. Like he's some person whose sole existence and purpose gravitates around inflicting emotional and moral pain on--

"You're giving me the evil eye," he states. "Why?"

I reluctantly tuck my wand back to my robes. "There's no need for you to know," I answer, breezing into his dingier apartment and noting, for the nth time, that I have better taste at everything than he does. I turn to face him, but an internal war is raging inside me. Should I ask him already? Or do I veil my intention by asking him some other question that leads to my original question, so that he will not think that I came here just to ask one question when, in fact, I could have asked dozen other more pertinent questions? With that in mind I say, "I know that you are pathetic and all that, but I will risk asking you this: do you happen to have any references on Ancient Runes?"

He blinks at me. "You're the second one to ask me that," Potter says, forming one giant eyebrow on his forehead.

"Second?" I repeat. Then certainty dawns upon me. "You mean Granger, don't you."

He nods. "I told her, why ask me? I'm not the expert on Ancient Runes. So, I'm going to say the same thing to you: I'm not the expert on Ancient Runes, you are." Potter scratches his unkempt hair. "Maybe you should ask her, though."

I lift my chin and gaze down at him imperiously. "And risk her slitting my throat whilst I'm not looking? No, thank you."

"Whatever." He closes the door and charges to the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Without a doubt," I answer, following him. I watch as he pours coffee into two cups, then grabs a milk carton and--

"Nooo!" I cry out. Startled, he drops the carton and looks at me. "I mean, no, no milk on my coffee, you moron." I grab my cup and glare at him. "Desecrater," I hiss.

Potter sighs and says, "Fine." After pouring milk and adding two - two! - spoonfuls of sugar, he takes his coffee outside. I trail quietly behind him.

He sighs again, and defensively I ask, "What?"

"You have an ulterior motive," he tells me flatly.

"I have a what?"

"Don't pretend you don't," Potter says. "You come here, you drink my coffee, you follow me around... you have something to ask me, don't you? Admit it."

I raise a brow. "What if I'm here just because I wanted your company?" At his astonished look, I burst into mad chuckles. "Ha! As if, Potter! Yes, I do have an ulterior motive. Yes, I do want to ask you something." So, Potter has enough sense in him to sense this things. Interesting.

And a bit surprising, may I add.

He sighs for the third time and says, "What is it?"

I look at my coffee, noting the eternal blackness that dwells within it. Then I bring it to my lips and sip, enjoying the tang of caffeine, the hint of deep bitterness, the richness and fullness of--

"Malfoy!"

"Right. Um..." This is it, then. There's no turning back. "Potter. I want you to answer me honestly. Why... why does Granger hate me so much?"

He blinks at me, his eyes wide behind those ugly glasses of his. Then he asks, "Why do you hate her?"

I scoff. "Because she's insane," I answer readily. "Everyone knows that. She's hard to work with. She's insufferable, she thinks she's so smart, she looks down on everyone and she grates on my nerves every damn day, she doesn't comb her hair, and--"

"Funny, she says the same thing about you," he tells me, smiling annoyingly. "Word for word."

"Wha-- that's not true!" I say vehemently. "I comb my hair!"

He raises his brow and waits for me to continue.

I stare back, defiance radiating from every beautiful pore in my body. I say nothing.

"Why does it bother you that she hates you?"

Why, indeed. "Maybe it's because I'm used to everyone worshipping me," I snap. "And, and, well..."

"Face it, Draco," Potter speaks softly, "you're used to the fact that most people have already forgiven you for the past. Hermione hasn't yet, and it's bugging you. Maybe you want her to forgive you as well."

"I never said I wanted anyone's forgiveness," I say loudly, my hands balling to fists. "Least of all, hers."

"But you got ours, anyway."

I look away. Damn you, Harry Potter. "Let's say your pathetic theory is correct. Is that it? She hates me because of the things I did to her back in Hogwarts? That's it?"

He's silent for a while. "Like I said before, maybe it's better to ask her."

And I will. Mark my words. I will risk my neck in my eternal quest for the truth!

...I think.

I cross my arms. "So, you're saying that my coming here is pointless? That you won't tell me anything beyond what I already know?"

Potter shrugs. "Yeah."

You stupid, pathetic, bespectacled freak of--

"Yes, yes, I'm all that - now can you go? I have to change. Unless you want to stay and see me--"

And out I go, before I see anything I'll just have to gouge my eyes for later.

-

Author's Notes: This is eons late, isn't it? -grins sheepishly- I'm terribly sorry, but I've been quite busy the last few months... anyways, if I don't post a new chappie or story after this, then let me greet you an Advanced Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! -hugs all readers-

By the way, if you haven't visited dhr101 community in lj, please do so. I'll be the "Author in Focus" from December 10 - 24, so if there's anything you want to ask me - what takes me so long to update, to name one - then do it, and I'll be happy to answer you :D Also, the past few weeks have been host to other dhr authors as well, so you can ask them questions. Thank you! -ends announcement-