Disclaimer: I still own nothing, really. Nescafe is an instant coffee brand over here in Britain, and I don't own them. Obviously.
"Hannah, wake up!" some sort of earthquake is shaking around me.
"Mmm?" the earthquake is still happening. Why is the earthquake still happening? I'm in England, aren't I? Earthquakes in England? That isn't right, is it? I don't think it is.
"Hannah, get up!" and there's that voice. The familiar voice of a familiar blonde. Innocent? I don't think so, not anymore. I should have just fucked him while I had the chance... where did that thought come from? Me, fucking Malfoy, my childhood enemy? That's the plot of a badly written romance, that is. 'Opposites attract', they call it. I call it great hate sex followed by a messy divorce. It's all rosy until the honeymoon's ended and you have to actually be married. Or so I've heard.
"Piss off, Blondie," I moan. I can't stand to call him by any other name—let him think I don't know who he is, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Stupid bastard. I really know how to pick them, don't I? And I thought the guy who liked feet was bad... at least he wasn't a ferret, a wastrel, a wizard, a pure-blooded, prejudiced, pompous prick.
"Come on Hannah, you need to get up now." He sounds a bit amused. That's probably because he's weird. Yes, he's very weird. And he has no right to sound so fucking amused. Not when my head's giving me grief, and I have to go to a birthday party later on. It's Harry's birthday today. Thank fuck I went shopping for it yesterday, and I have a present for him. But that's at home, and I'm definitely not at home. That's a good point, actually—
"Where the fuck am I?" it's a mumbled question, but I know he hears and understands it when he answers me back (sounding far too amused and happy for my liking, if I'm honest)
"We're at my flat. Don't you remember last night, Hannah?" the bastard is smiling and laughing and looking good. Not as innocent as I remember him in my hazy drunkenness, but sinfully good in an amazing way. Now, we can skip the marriage if he likes (I know I like that idea—I'm not Malfoy material yet because I haven't killed anyone so far) and get to that hot, steamy hate sex...
Then again, only I'd know it was hate sex. Draco Malfoy always was a dumb shit. I don't look that different to how I did in our school days, not really. Well. I guess I'm skinnier because I never really eat any more. And I guess I stink of booze, too. And my hair's a lot longer than it used to be. And it looks a hell of a lot messier and wilder than it did back then because I don't bother with brushing it. The look I'm going for these days is sort of a cross between Bellatrix Lestrange and Nymphadora Tonks: bat shit crazy, and about to kill you. In a cute, adorable way.
"I remember. I was in that mouldy pub, I was drinking drinks, then Blondie—I mean, you—came over and bought me a drink and then everything started spinning." He laughed again. Apparently, hangover 'strangers' amuse him. A lot.
"My name's Draco. I've told you that a few times now, but I guess you've been pretty drunk for most of them. And after the pub started spinning for you, I took you here to my flat and, well, it's my bed so I wasn't going to sleep on the couch or anything, but I didn't do anything to you while you were asleep, I didn't even take off your clothes or anything..." he was in such a rush to reassure me that nothing had happened and that he'd been honourable that I almost laughed. But laughing—even at Malfoy, the stupid prick—just wasn't in my vocabulary when I had such a crappy headache and needed a mug of coffee. Coffee. Who do you have to shag around here to get some of that? Malfoy, perhaps? I'd like that...
"Coffee?" I ask through a yawn, and he scrambles up out of the bed (and a very nice one it is, too, though the plain blue bedding isn't quite the green and silver monstrosity I expected. Then again, I can't talk much, can I? Mine's plain black—definitely not the red and gold everyone tried to force on me) and half runs out of the room in search of the caffeine I'm seeking. This spot on the bed has the loveliest view of his arse (clad only in black boxers) as it leaves the room. Draco Malfoy is undeniably one of the hottest men I've ever been in a bed with—even if we didn't do the yummy, scrummy things one expects to do in a bed.
The bastard probably knows it, too. I yawn again, and not five minutes later Malfoy's back with two piping hot mugs of coffee. I thank him and take a sip, and it tastes bloody gorgeous. You can always tell if someone's giving you the good stuff or just some cheap Nescafe by how rich it is. This shit is richer than his family. Malfoy has unmistakably chosen to give me the good stuff, and I feel like hugging the wanker and forgiving him for all of the crap he's ever done to me—so long as he makes me coffee everyday from now on, I'll do anything.
"Fuck that's good," I say appreciatively, and he nods in agreement, a lazy smile on his face as he too sips the magical elixir he's made. Move over Amortentia—I could snog Snape right now.
We sit in silence, both drinking the hot coffee slowly and occasionally, just occasionally, I moan a little (very quietly) from the brilliant taste. Of course, after every moan I see the tosser smirk a bit, so I know he can hear my moans. By the time we've finished, his ego is bigger than Hogwarts and I'm torn between killing him and asking for another mug.
Instead, I stretch, stand and awkwardly smile at him. He smiles and stands too, and we walk out of the bedroom past a kitchen, living room and tiny bathroom and make it to what must be his front door. He moves in to hug me, but I instead open the door and grin at him.
"Thanks for the coffee, Blondie." He laughs, and watches me walk away a bit, before shouting back
"The name's Draco!"
After apparating to my own flat, I shower and wash my hair, brush my teeth and check the time. It's 6 and Harry's party starts in half an hour. I feed Crookshanks, yank on a tight, short black dress and apply liberal amounts of mascara, eyeliner, and lip gloss and wrap Harry's present (a box of chocolate frogs and a bottle of Firewhiskey) before drying my hair and preparing myself to pretend to be happy. Tonight I will join in with the laughter, and pretend everything is fine—and tomorrow, I'll find myself a new pub and drink myself once more into my favourite kind of oblivion.
Authors Note: Good God sometimes I write complete and utter rubbish. Fortunately for you, once I've written it I upload it onto FanFiction so you can snigger at my foul, arbitrary attempts at literature. Review please; I like to read reviews because it cheers me up after writing in such a depressing persona.