Drinks, Draco and Morbid Musings
Disclaimer: I disclaim Harry Potter completely. I am nothing but a poor fool.
Going back to the same pub you got drunk at last night? Not the best idea. The barman remembered me, and what I was drinking. He didn't look too happy to see me, because some of his punters kept giving me funny looks yesterday, all because I was drinking more than they were. Alright, after my ninth I probably should have stopped, but vodka is half as strong as Firewhiskey, if you ask me. Then again, I'm drunk. I hardly know what I'm saying—thinking?—right now. In any case, an annoyed bar tender isn't the reason why going back to the same pub is a bad idea; it's the people there that you see. Blonde people in particular. Blondes are always looking for repeats, especially the blondes that smell nice. It's the innocent one, and he's back again. This time, I accept his offer for a drink. It'll make us both feel better.
"What're you drinking, Hannah?" There's that charming smile, out again and making me feel a little sick. I tell him rum and coke, because the vodka's just too boring at the moment. I tell the bartender to make it three quarters rum and one quarter coke, with no ice because that weakens the brew. Blondie (I'm screwed if he thinks I can remember his name, I can hardly remember my own) gets the same, and downs it in one. That doesn't impress me, but I think he thinks it might. Which is actually kind of pathetic, now that I think about it. It takes a while for me to think about it; my poison is effective.
I want to ask him why he's back at this sad old pub, but I know I won't. I'm too scared to find out the answer. See, he could just like the mould-green decor, or he could be here for me. I'm a coward, so I'm not going to ask, just in case. I wasn't always a coward. At Hagswort... Hogswort... Hogwarts, I was in Gryffindor. We were lions in that house, and we consumed cowardice for breakfast. Now, I meet up with innocent blondes in muggle pubs, and don't ask them the questions I want to ask. How lame am I? I hate the person I've become. She's... well, she's not Hermione Granger, is she?
"Hermione Granger," I say, and Blondie stares at me like I've transfigured into Hagrid. But Hagrid's dead now. A lot of people are dead now. My parents... Tonks... Remus... Sirius... Hedwig... Fred... Dumbledore... Snape... Cedric... We watched the casualties pile up, and as we plotted Moldywart's demise, our comrades were Kedavra'd off one by one.
"How do you know her?" he asks me with surprise.
"How do you?" I retort.
"I used to know her once. A long time ago." he had a faraway look in his eyes. That or the rum was getting to him. It was probably the rum.
"Exactly," I say with a wise nod.
Then it gets really confusing. The bloody pub starts to spin, and I'm faintly aware of warm hands guiding me out of a door and into the cool night air. There's a long walk in the cold, warmed only by that pair of hands. After that, there's a set of stairs, and then there's a warm embrace which seems to last for forever, but I know it can only be hours even in my sleep. All is peaceful—until the morning, that is.
"Why is the sun awake?" I moan. My head's killing me. Slowly and painfully, I am dying inside. And it is hot here; far too hot for my liking. Where's the cool of my draughty room back home? The constant cold was soothing, familiar. It is best to wake to a chill when you have a permanent hangover. This heat is too much for me. I register the strong arms encircling my body eventually, and I am immediately panicked. Who the fuck is this?
If I dare open my eyes, I know I'll find out. I lift my right eye lid up a little bit, and I'm blinded by the bloody sun. Wincing, I stretch awkwardly. The person holding me stirs a little, and then holds me to him closer.
"Wake up, person, wake up!" I whisper hurriedly. I'd shout, but my head hurts. The person doesn't wake up. I wait a few minutes to see if he will, but he doesn't, so I blindly hit at him until he lets me go.
"Hannah?" The man asks with a yawn. His voice is sleepy and rough and deep. I make a noncommittal noise in response.
"What's your name, again?" this man sounds like my blonde stalker. What was his name, again? Tom, Harry, Dean? I can't remember. I think I might have known it once, perhaps.
"Draco," he yawns again, and alarm bells begin to ring in my head. Draco? Blondie is called Draco? I've only ever known one Draco, and he was a complete and utter tosser. He was a blonde complete and utter tosser. If I open my eyes, will they see the face of a prat from my past? Probably. Which is why I choose to do the only bearable thing—keep my eyes shut, and go back to sleep.
A/N: I attempted to resist writing another chapter. Needless to say, it was futile. I seem to have some odd curiosity to find out what happens next, unfortunately. Review and tell me how to improve and be a better writer!