You know the drill! House: Ravenclaw, Category: Short (Additional for Prefect), Prompt: Wet towel, WC: 1015

Disclaimer: Muggledom, so obviously an AU thingy.

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Stress is something that I have always experienced. It's always going to be in my life. But the one thing is that it doesn't consume me - at least, hardly not ever. It doesn't plague me, but it certainly is constant. For some people, the stress eats away at them. It gnaws away at their minds, weighs heavily on their chests. For me, it's just... Present. Always there.

Yet, as soon as I'm stepping under the hot faucet of the water in the shower, having just returned home, things seem a little easier. The scalding water is a shockwave to my entire system. It calms my frayed nerves, and reinforces the comfort of home. Today was long, and it was exhausting. There were too many things that went wrong, and too many people that were bothering me. Having this routine helps at the end of every day. Come in, have a shower, and return to some level of control over an otherwise bonkers lifestyle.

The liquid slides over me as I lather shampoo into my hair, it foaming far too quickly. Being in a stuffy office can sometimes be claustrophobic. It leaves your skin with a grimy touch, as though the paper and the ink have stuck to you throughout the day. But here I can go through the motions. Shave my legs. Comb through my hair and rinse out the conditioner. Revel in the warmth and the hot steam.

Water off. A few seconds to breathe. I reach around the shower curtain for my towel, feeling fresh as a damn daisy.

"Are you kidding me..." I mutter, my hand snapping back from the towel. Jesus. Wet again.

Furious, I stand naked in the basin for a few seconds, eventually deciding to bite the bullet and throw the damp thing around my body. It's gross, and a complete anti-climax from such a glorious shower. At least it's covering me while I have this conversation. I say conversation. I mean argument. The floor is covered with the splash from the shower, making it slippery. In my haste to not fall, my hand grabs onto the hot towel radiator. Which happens to be shit hot. It sears my skin, feeling as though I am sizzling better than bacon. This is ridiculous.

He's watching TV again. I can hear the too-loud buzzing of fuzzy noises from the living room. His too-blonde head of hair shaking in dismay at the football scores. He can't take five paces to put a towel on the radiator for half an hour? He's been too busy to replace a towel when he's done washing up? Has he emptied the tumble drier? Life must be just so difficult for the ex-heir of Malfoy Manor.

"Draco."

Malfoy hums in response, barely acknowledging my presence. To which I growl my frustration at. At the sound, he spins away from the television, butt still planted on the couch, confusion on his face. He's just going to have to deal with my wrath for now. Not my fault. My hand still fiery from the radiator, it fuels my burning hate-fire. And then his eyes dare to trail over my bare legs.

"Hey, my eyes are up here!" I yell, clutching the towel tighter around my body. "The towel is wet," I say finally.

"Okay?" He still seems confused.

"Did you not think about replacing the towel after you used it?" I ask, incredulous. He scowls back. "Did you think I wanted your manky, smelly, dirty -!"

"Stop shouting at me," he bellows, standing somewhat unsteadily. Bottles clink together, and instantly I recognise the slight stench of alcohol in the air, and the clattering of glass from the cushions around him. He's been drinking. Again. What the heck have I come home to? I know he sees my eyes follow the sound. "It's not what it looks like."

"What is it then, scotch mist?" I accuse.

"My God, you sound like my mother!"

"Why have you been drinking?"

"No, let's talk about your bloody towel," he hollers, voice thick with sarcasm. I know he's deflecting. He knows it too.

We glare at each other for a minute. It's a battle of our minds, and our powers. I have nothing right now. Not even something worth talking about. This, the drinking, is so much bigger than my towel issue. This means he's skipped out on one of those evenings again and convinced himself that he's fine to drink - that he can limit his drinks, no less. But this proves that he was wrong. Yes, it's okay to have a beer when you get home. But one beer leads to three, which leads to much worse.

"God, you're insufferable," I give in.

"And you," he finishes, "are clearly on your period."

My entire body flushes with the sudden burst of anger. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Malfoy collects the three beer bottles and shuffles slowly over to the kitchen of our small apartment. "Clearly, I'm an idiot for forgetting to put out a fresh towel for my lady love!" He throws the bottles into the grey recycling bin in the far corner. I don't say a word as he moves to the fridge again, pulling out a lager this time. He doesn't bother with a glass, finally turning to me. "It's a fucking towel, Hermione. Get over it."

"Screw you."

"You already are, so what's your next plan of action? Huh?"

I don't speak. He flops back onto the couch, popping open the fizzing can.

My heart seems to be crushing itself from the inside. But I know it's wrong. This relationship, here and now, I know that I can't do it anymore. I'm not going to tell him that. I'm going to leave him with his beer until he passes out, then I'm going to leave. This is too toxic to fix.

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Much love. I hope you enjoyed this.