"And hey, if I keep loving you, maybe you'll eventually crack and love me too. Hell, I'm pretty sure you're already half in love with me."
"I am not! And everything you just said is ridiculous. That's terrible logic."
Adrian returned to his crossword puzzle. "Well, you can think what you want, so long as you remember-no matter how ordinary things seem between us-I'm still here, still in love with you, and care about you more than any other guy, evil or otherwise, ever will."
"I don't think you're evil."
"See? Things are already looking promising."
-The Indigo Spell, by Richelle Mead.
Draco's head was pounding when he woke.
"Bloody . . ." he mumbled, too drained to finish the feeble oath.
He sat up to find the room spinning alarmingly. Closing his eyes, Draco pressed the heels of his hands to his temples.
Why am I so hung-over? he wondered vaugely. He recalled something involving a dim corner of the Hog's Head and copious quantities of firewhiskey, but why had he been drinking? Draco only touched firewhiskey when thoroughly depressed. His hangover-clouded mind throbbed dully to come up with an answer.
Ah . . . yes. Hermione and Weasley at Blue Dragon, Hermione and Weasley meeting at her flat. How revolting.
. . .
Why does that bother me so much again?
wondered Draco absently.
Because he's not good enough for her.
Oh. So, there's no jealousy factor at all?
No.
Good. I was worried.
Somehow, Draco still hadn't convinced himself that he mightn't be the tiniest bit envious.
Why do I have to be such a possessive person? It's exhausting . . .
Hermione had some serious thinking to do.
It was time to end her romantic relationship with Ron.
The spark had gone out ages ago, really. It was just that neither of them had wanted to be the one to end it officially.
So, how to go about it? It was extremely delicate. They had been very close friends for most of their lives, and Hermione would rather die than lose Ron's friendship. They had suffered a lot together, and she wasn't willing to toss that aside just because he wasn't an exciting snogger anymore.
The problem was, Ron wasn't exactly the "let's stay friends" type. True, she didn't have much to compare with since -cringe- Lavender Brown had been his only other girlfriend, but somehow Hermione hypothesized that Ron would be more the "I hate you in sulky silence forever" type.
Hopefully, she was wrong.
Maybe I should just keep dating him until things fall apart naturally. That will save our friendship, right?
No way, Hermione. You are not going to end up married to your best friend because you were too spineless to break it off cleanly.
It was true. Hermione could practically smell a marriage proposal. Harry and Ginny had been married for some time, George's wife Angelina was pregnant, and Fleur was expecting her second child. If Hermione and Ron were ever going to 'end up' married, now was the time.
Yes, she had to end it before things got out of hand.
The next day, Draco felt considerably better. He made a metal note to look into finding a magical cure for hangovers, which as of yet did not exist, and prepared to go about the normal business of day-to-day life.
Oh, wait - he had to write Astoria a massive check. After some deliberation, Draco charged it to his personal account. This would be difficult to explain to Lucius as a business expense . . . Oh, by the way, Father, I gave my ex-girlfriend a three-thousand Galleon check so she could go into the Muggle fashion industry. That's okay, right? Yeah, not so much.
Draco idly toyed with the pen on his desk, doodling cubes and snowflakes in the margins of some old papers. He was bored. Clearly he needed a new project . . . Maybe he ought to follow Astoria's lead and go into Muggle industry. What could he sell? Musical instruments? Fancy soaps?
Wait, muscial instruments! I could learn how to play an instrument by hand. The . . . oh, the violin or something. What a fabulous idea.
Draco strode purposefully from his office, preparing to latch his singular determination onto playing a violin in the Muggle way. Yes, it was random, but at this point he would do aything to fill the existential gap.
Hermione waited nervously for Ron at her flat. He had offered to take her out for coffee, but she had declined, wanting to tell him in private.
He arrived, looking tall and red-haired and adorable. Hermione gulped, wondering if she hadn't made a terrible judgement call.
"Look, Ron. . ." she trailed off helplessly. Something in Ron's blue eyes seemed to change, and he put an arm around her.
"You're breaking up with me, aren't you?"
"I - yes." Without intending it, Hermione's eyes glassed over with tears.
"It's okay, 'Mione. I knew you were going to."
"You knew?"
"Yeah. He laughed sadly. "I'm not quite as tactless as you think I am. Maybe you rubbed off on me."
"Oh, don't!" cried Hermione.
"What?"
"Don't be all understanding and sweet. You're supposed to fight with me and make me feel totally justified, but now I wonder if I haven't made a terrible mistake!"
"Don't cry - please don't cry. It's not a mistake, I know as well as you do why we have to break up. The spark is completely gone."
"Is it? I wonder."
Ron kissed her. It was nice, but . . . boring. It was like kissing Crookshanks on the nose. Okay, stupid analogy, but it produced the same emotions. A sort of warm camaraderie was all that she felt.
"You're right," she agreed tiredly. "I'm just so relieved that I didn't have to be the one to say it. We had something, Ron, but in the end I think we're just better off as friends."
"Best friends. Don't forget that." He sighed. "We're just not right for one another romantically. It started off as 'opposites attract', but -"
"Yeah. We're diametrically opposed."
They stood awkwardly for a moment, Ron looking off into space, Hermione staring avidly at her shoes.
"Well, I'd better go and break the news to Ginny. Not that she'll be surprised," said Ron with a slightly bitter little laugh. "Goodbye, 'Mione."
"Bye."
Draco squinted at the sheet music in growing frustration. He was a natural at improvisation, but actual songs made his eyes cross slightly. He shook himself and tried to focus.
Hm.
It wasn't working. The violin had been a sort of early midlife crisis, a shallow attempt to amuse himself. What a stupid idea. What Draco needed was some meaning in his life, something that didn't come from firewhiskey or chance encounters with Granger.
Of course! The art collection.
Ever since the "original Malfoy" had been granted a piece of land in Wiltshire by William the Conqueror, the family had been collecting works of art. The building itself dated from the 1400's, when it had been torn down and rebuilt on a much grander scale. The art collection took up the entire east corridor.
Malfoy walked quickly to it, revelling in the collection of history and aesthetics combined. A perusal of the Muggle Hedonist manfesto, Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, had sharpened his already-keen appreciation of the beautiful and useless.
He resolved to reorganize the entire corridor - arrange it according to aesthetic angle, not chronology. It contained all manner of specimens: Chinese pottery and Greek sculpture, French needlepoint and Flemish furniture, Maori carvings and Japanese lacquerware. It had a set of Russian wedding crowns and a massive Monolithic tabernacle that no one quite knew the origins of. It had a genuine Picasso and a false Vermeer. It had a fragment of the Berlin Wall and an intricate three-foot-tall wax model of Marie Antoinette's dog.
Draco wandered aimlessly about, dazzled as always, before coming to a stop in front of the family portaits. There was the first Lucius Malfoy, looking devious in his Elizabethan ruff. Crazy Asellus Malfoy waved a flask of arsenic around with undue enthusiasm. Alcor Malfoy and his wife Maia Peverell gazed haughtily out of their frames. As Draco progressed down the hall, the faces grew increasingly similar to his own. At last, he found himself staring into the unforgiving grey eyes of his father. The portrait didn't bother greeting his living son.
Narcissa Black Malfoy was lovely as ever and younger than Draco had ever seen her. She gave him a small smile. Draco moved on to his own portrait.
It had been taken recently, about six months ago. He was impeccably good-looking as ever, his pale marble-like features arranged in an expression of aristocratic hauteur. He looked incredibly bored.
"Get a life, why don't you," it remarked unexpectedly. Draco jumped in astonishment. The other Malfoys had been so silent that his own slightly drawling voice eminating from the canvas took him quite by surprise.
"Get your own life," he snapped irritably, too unnerved to come up with a witty rejoinder. The other Draco smirked at his feeble attempt and didn't even bother replying. The three-dimensional Draco glared poisonously at his painted counterpart and moved on.
There was a new addition. Lucius Malfoy had recently found it on the magical black market of Knockturn Alley. It had allegedly once been at Hogwarts, but the rumors were unconfirmed.
Without hesistation, Draco tugged the rough canvas covering off. It was a massive mirror, engraved with the words Erised stira ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. He stared up at it in fascination for a moment before his eyes drifted down and saw his reflection.
There was nothing especially unusual about the reflected image, expect that somehow it didn't look bored. How odd. It looked completely, radiantly fulfilled. Draco didn't know why the reflection looked that way, and it bothered him. It seemed to know a secret - the secret to happiness. As he watched, it smiled. A genuine smile, not a caustic smirk. Fierce jealousy gripped Draco, and he suppressed a sudden urge to smash the mirror. He threw the canvas back over it and stalked away, feeling unsatisfied.
That night, he dreamed of his entire family tree playing violins while his relfection laughed at him and kept handing him new pieces of art.
Hermione kicked off her shoes after another satisfying day at work. DEW could drag sometimes, but it was worth it when she solved a really difficult case.
An owl tapped at the window. It was neither Pigwidgeon nor Isolde, but an unfamiliar barn owl. Hermione accepted the note and fed it an owl treat.
Dear Hermione Granger,
I am having a cocktail party on November 12 for certain people at the Ministry. I would be honored if you would attend! RSVP.
Regards,
Parvati Patil
So, Parvati was having a party. Hermione hadn't kept in touch with her, but had heard from someone that she had gone into the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes and done very well.
Was this invitation a result of Malfoy's efforts to bring her into society?
No. It's true that he was the one who technically introduced me to society, but I got noticed on my own talents. He might have invited any other witch and she might not have gotten noticed at all. Anything that happened, happened on my own steam.
If I keep telling myself that, maybe I'll believe it.
Well, she would go to the party anyway. It would be a good opportunity to rub elbows with influential Ministry contacts. Besides, Parvati might invite other old Hogwarts acquiantances, and Hermione would get to catch up with them.
As long as Malfoy didn't show up . . .
Draco stood languidly near the edge of the room at Parvati Patil's cocktail party. It was deadly dull. The same round of faces that had made an appearance at the Hallows Eve event gathered in the rented white marquee to congratulate one another on their pompously inflated egos.
The only person that he had willingly addressed thus far was his hostess, whom he had thanked soon after arriving. A few hopeful witches had approached him and tried to strike up conversation, having gotten wind of his newly single status, but Draco's frosty monosyllables made it abundantly clear that he wasn't interested.
Draco's pulse spiked involunarily. Hermione Granger was across the room, chatting with Patil and a few other witches. She was wearing exactly the same Muggle dress that she had worn on her date with the Weasel - the cobalt blue halter-top. A large red silk poppy ornamented her upswept brown hair.
From his position, Draco could watch her shamelessly from across the marquee. Her every feature excited his irritation and adoration in equal measure.
Jumped-up little Mudblood.
The old-fashioned curse sounded foreign, unexpected even to Draco's own mind. It was an antiquated term now, equivalent to the Muggle "n-word". Only Granger could ever make him hate himself like this. Only Hermione.
He had to lash out at her, to protect the crumbling walls around his heart.