Love, Your Future Sugar Daddy

By attica

Disclaimer: Me? Own Harry Potter? Surely you jest!

A/N: While Draco and Hermione’s situation here may be a bit OOC and vastly exaggerated, do not fret! I guarantee fun. And if there happens to be no fun involved in it for you… then you’re (semi-) free to flame… but please don’t feel obligated to do so!

A Draco and Hermione fic.

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Part I

The Great Hall was plagued with murmurs again.

Hermione had entered the great oaken doors in her usual breezy way, satchel saddled on her shoulders and almost exploding with her parchments and textbooks, chestnut curls loosely coiled and carelessly spilling down her neck. Her face looked content today, with calm light eyes and no forced lines entrenched on her fair face, indicating that she’d had a productive night and had finally slept well.

That had seemed an impossibility for a while. The notion of sleep had appeared an eternity away. Her nightly thoughts always wandered back to one particularly painful person that never ceased to push the security of sleep away, tangling up her mind with frustration and anger. Thankfully, for the first time in many weeks, last night had signaled the end of those misery-filled hours she would just stare up at the ceiling, trying to suppress that amorphous and throbbing smart that she had thought to be incongruent in every way.

And though her body still seemed to be drugged down with the lingering affects of her restful slumber, she was still relieved as a light sigh eluded her lips, settling herself down on the wooden tables beside Harry and Ron.

“Hullo Hermione,” said Harry, greeting her with a smile that lit up his sullen face.

Hermione granted him a warm grin in return, wondering exactly when his training had made him look so old and worn. “Hullo, Harry. Good morning. How was last night? I hope Remus let you have at least five hours of sleep.” Her Mother Hen tone started to kick in again. “He’s overworking you, you know. You need your sleep as much as you need your training. That man,” she mumbled, shaking her head as she reached for a muffin from the plate across from her.

A frown furrowed on Harry’s pale features as he became defensive at her disagreeing comments about his mentor. “He isn’t so bad, Hermione. You’re overreacting. I sleep just fine.”

Hermione scoffed.

But just as she was about to grab the muffin she had had her eye on, another hand stole into her view and snatched it away from right underneath her fingertips. Hermione, her brunette brows drawing down with annoyance, looked in the direction the hand had whizzed back to.

Ron, however, was too busy to notice the scowl simmering on her face, made just for him. He had stuffed the muffin right in his mouth and was trying to chew it down with some bacon and kippers. And then had not hesitated to chug it down with some pumpkin juice that spilled down his lips and onto his shirtfront where there was already a big sticky glob of syrup.

“Good Merlin, Ron,” said Hermione. “Slow it down, you pig. At this rate, you’re going to very well choke and we’re not going to do a thing about it. You need to learn your lesson. And” – Hermione groaned – “close your mouth when you’re eating, will you?” Hermione started to mumble again, getting another muffin from the plate. “It’s like watching Jaws every single morning.”

Ron, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, scowled. “What are you so bent up about, Miss Twisted Knickers? I don’t recall setting any of your things on fire today.” He burped, gaseous and loud. “Not yet, at least.”

Hermione, revolted, fanned in front of her while the other Gryffindors did the same. “For heaven’s sake. Have some manners, would you? Soon we’re going to have to make you sit with Crabbe and Goyle, so that three of you boars can all be audaciously loud and disgusting together.”

Ron snorted.

“Nothing to snort about, Ron,” piped up Seamus. “I’ve heard they’ve got a thing for cannibalism – and redheads.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron held up one of his muffins to him. “You shut it or I’ll chuck this at your head.”

Just then, a girl burst through the Great Hall’s doors, causing Hermione and her tablemates to look over in surprise. Their eyes trailed her as she headed to the Slytherin table, a gleaming magazine in her hand.

A roar of gasps intruded their conversation. Then they all turned to look at Hermione, whose eyebrows shot up her forehead in perplexity, with their mascaraed eyes as big as her father’s golf balls. A wave of whispers and shocked squeaks followed suit, some still looking at the baffled Gryffindor girl with slack jaws.

Hermione, thinking it was just another useless scam by Rita Skeeter, shrugged it off and went back to her muffin, picking out all the raisins.

Ron finished chewing with a disturbed expression and prodded his fork in her direction with Harry also looking bothered by the furious glares they were now shooting towards their friend.

“What’d you do this time, Hermione?” Ron asked her. “Brashly contradict another wealthy and powerful member of the Wizarding Board? I told you to stop it with that house-elf nonsense. You’re only going to drive everyone else barmy.”

“I did no such thing,” she huffed, taking out her issue of the Daily Prophet. “Not this week, at least.”

Harry nodded, pursing his lips. “I think it’s much worse, actually.” He turned to Hermione, who didn’t seem perturbed at all. “Hermione,” he said, poking her shoulder blade, “aren’t you curious at why they’re talking about you all of a sudden? I mean, it seems pretty big…”

“No,” she said casually, reading her Daily Prophet. “Probably that wench Rita Skeeter again. The thing about these things is that you’ve got to learn how to ignore it and snub them – it always works.”

“Hell, I’m curious,” said Ron, his eyes lighting up. “What d’you think they’re reading? Is that Witch Weekly? Maybe they’ve created another scandalous story about you! Who is it this time? Maybe it’s you and Goyle!” He started to get excited. “Or maybe you and Malfoy!”

Hermione noticeably stiffened.

“Oh, Merlin!” laughed Ron, smacking his thigh. “How rich would that be?”

“Very rich,” said Hermione dryly, though there was a twitch beside her mouth. “Considering it’s not true.”

“Exactly,” said Ron. “But it’d give us a good laugh, don’t you think? I mean, you and that git… Bloody hell… that one would have me laughing my arse off for weeks!”

Even Harry’s mouth had quirked into an amused smile.

“Don’t entertain yourself with such crude thoughts,” said an annoyed Hermione, “at my expense.”

“Don’t get snippy,” Ron told her. “It’s only a joke.”

“Well, some of your jokes aren’t funny,” she snapped, almost crumpling her newspaper in annoyance. “Actually, let me correct that: they aren’t funny a majority of the time anyway.”

Ron and Harry exchanged glances. Ron had an irritated expression pinched on his freckled face that hinted a looming spat in the very near distance, but when he opened his mouth to spit something back to her, his words never made it out of his mouth. Instead, he paled, a horrified look dawning on his face that Hermione only associated with him handling or being near spiders. Particularly massive ones like Aragog.

Hermione was starting to get worried when he didn’t speak. “Ron?” she chirped. “What’s wrong with your face?”

One word cracked from his throat, dry and fractured from shock and terror. “Run.”

Hermione was taken aback. “Run? What for?”

Then, catching on, she finally looked to where his gaze was frozenly directed. Hermione stared in bewilderment as girls from each table had gotten up and were now walking over to the Gryffindor table with murderous looks on their faces. Some even held their butter knives in their fists. She felt a tiny gasp rip from her throat as she almost stumbled over herself, seeing that each of their hateful glowers was pointed right at her.

“What in the world—?” she breathed, completely confused at what was happening. “Why are they…?”

Harry had started to clutch her arm tightly, sending shocks of pain up her arm. “I don’t know,” he whispered quickly to her, panicked, “but you’d better do as Ron tells you – run.”

Hermione stuck out her chin, masking her slight fear and booming uncertainty with fierce bravado. “No. I’m staying right here. If they have a problem, we’ll sort this out like civilized beings – no running involved, and most certainly no butter knives—”

The professors were just as confused as she was, shouting at the girls, threatening expulsion or reduction of House points.

“Run, Hermione,” Harry said, shoving her arm away. “Run! Now!”

“No!” said Hermione frantically. “Why should I run? They’re my peers, and—”

A butter knife zipped past her, missing her by just an inch. It fell with a loud clatter behind her as Hermione’s eyes widened, feeling as if her breath had been stolen away with that flying kitchen utensil. Harry was completely still now, not breathing at all.

“Run, Hermione, Run!” shouted Ginny, Ron, and Seamus. “Run! Now!”

“But—” objected Hermione.

“Don’t be an idiot!” yelled Harry, causing her to flinch. She felt a jerk of pain burst through her eardrums as he had opted to not very cleverly shout right into her ear. She cringed as she heard the high-pitched ringing sharply thread through her skull. “Run!”

And so Hermione quickly swung her legs over the bench, watching with a horror-struck expression as the girls came closer. Professors had leapt to their feet and were trying to gather the mob, but they were coming quicker at her now.

Finally, she felt energy blast through her as she stumbled back, the bright glints of their forks and knives casting small spots of glaring light in her vision.

“Miss Granger!” she heard a familiar voice shout, toned at a rather unrecognizable pitch that took her a second to register. It was her Head of House. “Run!”

And so she ran.

She ran through the last aisle, and quickened her pace as she heard a roar of anger explode at her motion, clumsily dashing out of the doors, the marble floors slippery from its monthly polish. But she kept running, hearing the clamors of whizzing silverware racing after her, turning the halls and climbing up the staircases until her dizzying and chaotic rush of adrenaline had wilted into exhaustion and aches that throbbed in her joints.

Drained and breathing heavily from the pain in her side, she slowed into an empty corridor, too tired to care about the portraits also whispering about her. She sunk down to her knees against the wall, lolling her head back where it rested against the firm and cold stone surface, sending chills through her skull. She tried to calm down her labored breathing, her chest heaving, her legs tensed with cramps. Her pulse was pounding in her hands, wrists, and in her ears. She closed her eyes firmly, feeling a shout of confusion bubbling inside her lungs.

“What’s happening?” she sighed, digging her face into her hands, wiping the beading sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, everything spinning around her. She felt diseased. “Those girls… with butter knives… they were going to kill me!” she exclaimed in incredulity. “With butter knives!”

“Oh, you’re only lucky I’m only alive in a painting,” a voice grumpily coughed above her. Bothered from the ill-meant quip, Hermione looked up and saw a wrinkled face of an old man glaring down at her from a portrait.

Hermione, still wincing from the pains in her legs, scrambled up in a huff. “Pardon?” she asked sharply.

The old man’s eyes were thin slits. His cracked lips sneered at her. “I don’t have any butter knives ‘ere,” he clarified in the same gruff and nasty voice. “But if I did…”

“Oh, hush, Harold,” barked another voice. Hermione’s head snapped to her right, where a plump woman with a soft face was looking warmly at her. Her raven hair was gathered into thick ringlets that illuminated her rosy cheeks and smiling crimson lips. “Dear,” she acknowledged. “I think he’s a lovely man. Granted, he was a bit sharp around the edges…” She looked nauseous. “But, you know,” she sighed, her face returning to its alabaster color, “even the most insufferable boys can grow up into stunning men of great status and nobility,” she giggled. Then she winked.

“What?” asked Hermione. “What man? I’m not understanding—”

“How could you?” boomed another voice that caused Hermione to jump in surprise. She looked to the right of the plump woman. There sat a horse-faced woman fashioning a vicious scowl. “Inter-House unity? That’s rubbish! Houses were created for a reason, you know!” she spat. “Gryffindors stay with Gryffindors, Slytherins stay with Slytherins! You don’t try to mix two and two together! No!” she banged her fist on her desk where a candle shook.

“I think it’s lovely!” said another above them. “A mere thing like Houses shouldn’t separate true love! No, not at all! That’d be a crime against fate!”

“True love?” Hermione choked out.

“True love?” another portrait scoffed. It was a man. “True love is for fools! And Gryffindors are the only true fools – especially the ones who fall in love with smug Slytherins!”

Hermione’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide. “Fall in love with – fall in love with—” she started to stammer incoherently, not able to mull it over. “Fall in—”

“Don’t you insult the poor girl! The attention from the media is already terrible, oh, think about that young man’s mad fan base… oh, you’d better look out—”

“Serves her right! Cavorting with the enemy – she should be sent to Azkaban!”

“And so publicly! She’s practically gloating for the whole wizarding world to see!”

“Do you blame her? If I had snagged such a precious man like him, I’d have sent naughtier pictures to every newspaper affiliate in the entire wizarding world!”

“Don’t be such a loose bint, Glynnis! You’re putting ideas into her head!”

“He’s a Malfoy! He knows better than to go traipsing around with—”

“Wait!” Hermione exploded, her sudden volume silencing the arguing portraits and ricocheting off the stone walls. The torches flickered.

Her breaths wore her body. Her hair was mussed and her face was alive with vexation and determination, her fists clenched beside her. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage, sending thumping vibrations through her limbs and fingers and bones.

“Would somebody tell me what in the bleeding hell is going on?” she demanded through gritted teeth.

She heard a gasp from beside her. The plump woman had her hand to her mouth; her slender fingers adorned with large jewels and rings that sparkled, her eyes large. “You mean… Dear, you don’t know? You absolutely haven’t a clue?”

“I would have,” seethed Hermione, “if someone had bothered to tell me.”

“Oh my,” she said, fanning herself. “Oh my.”

“By Golly,” said the crotchety voice. “Look at ‘er. ‘asn’t even got a bloody clue about the wrong she’s done.”

“I think someone discarded a copy nearby… Oh yes,” said the plump lady, pointing at the wastebasket. “There. It ought to be in there.”

Skeptical, and even almost afraid, Hermione turned around and headed towards the rubbish bin the lady had directed her to. She swallowed hard, feeling a sudden aridity wash over her mouth and throat as she spotted the glossy back cover of a magazine lying in the bin. She heard the mumbles and chattering start again.

She bent over, curling her fingers into her hand, hesitating, before straightening them out and reaching for the magazine. She felt its cool and smooth surface before she clutched the narrow and squared edge, raising it carefully, staring hard at the advertisement of a willowy blonde holding up an expensive bottle of fire whiskey that glowed amber in the firelight. She was in motion, winking and smiling, throwing her head back and laughing silently, pouring herself a glass. When she bent over, her well-endowed cleavage blossomed from her extremely low-cut dress.

That, Hermione guessed, must have been the selling point.

They all seemed to hold their breath, lapsing into a stunned silence, as they were held in the suspense of Hermione discovering what the madness had all been about. She’d been run out of the Great Hall by butter knife-carrying teenage girls, had been shouted and thrown offensive remarks, chastised by portraits…

She turned over the magazine and gasped, her hand flying to her lips, horror and terror flooding her body, her face paling.

“Oh by the Earl of Demby,” a portrait whispered. “She really hadn’t a clue!”

“What are the chances?”

“Do you think it’s just another one of those scams?”

“But if it was, wouldn’t it have involved Potter?”

They all anxiously looked to Hermione, who was just too shocked beyond anything else to register what was going on around her. She just stared at the front page, the sleek surface shining in the fleeting firelight, and something – an unexplainable something she didn’t think she’d ever felt before – struck her heart, right there, right in the very core, like the backlash of a whip. Her knees almost buckled and she found herself squeezing out labored gasps. She felt her rage boil through her entire body, sending a wave of icy heat pass through the top of her skull to the tips of her toes.

Her fingers curled against the magazine, hearing the noise of crumpling paper.

Her jaw forcefully clamped down inside of her mouth, her muscles tensing.

She screamed.

The portraits flinched.

---

Hermione had to muster up every ounce of willpower to prevent herself from ripping the magazine to pieces – and then some. But she needed proof of the wrong they’d done to her, and thus she needed the magazine. But she’d been so angry she recalled even biting into it whilst letting out another one of her animalistic, infuriated screams that made her whole body tremble from anger. And when she’d heard people start to come her way, questioning the noisy shrieks, she had to put her legs to use once again and bolted, not even bothering to bid the meddlesome portraits adieu.

She spent the remainder of breakfast wandering the halls, trying to compose herself but still throwing very aggressive tantrums every now and then, flailing her limbs about angrily and stomping her feet, asking aloud with clenched teeth how it could have ended up this way. She could have sworn she felt steam shooting out of her ears.

“How could they have done this?” she fumed, shaking the magazine cover in front of her, their smiling faces staring back at her. Happiness radiated from every inch of the enlarged photograph, unmoving unlike wizarding pictures, but still every bit alive as motion itself. The stars in her eyes toiled in her heart, the way their faces were wrinkled in merriment and joy. Oh, and she’d been doing so well without trying to remember any of those horrible memories! How cursed could she be that the one day she was finally able to arise from her bed without reliving all of the terrible things he’d done to her and feel that slither of pain and brokenness – was the one day that someone rotten and so foul would post up their picture on one of the best-selling magazines for everyone to see?

“They really must be out to kill me,” she muttered to herself, glowering at the cover and the screaming headline: Hogwarts’ Star-Crossed Lovers. She slumped her shoulders, closing her eyes and firmly squeezing them shut, letting out another deep sigh. “Of course those girls came at me with their butter knives,” she suddenly snapped, to no one in particular. “They’re Malfoy’s loony fan club. They’d have cut me to pieces and sent my parts to the corners of the world if they’d gotten a chance.” She let out a tactless groan. “Bloody girls! Who on earth would even want to devote their time worshipping that arrogant swine? All he sodding cares about is himself and his hair!”

She stared at the magazine, feeling her head start to overheat again. “I cannot believe this. They’re all so horrible to have pulled off something like this. It has to be that wretched Rita Skeeter. Oh,” she said with a meaningful shudder, “just wait till I give her a piece of my mind.”

She hadn’t read the article yet, not really. Would it be out of line to say that she was a little frightened to? She didn’t want to go on a hexing spree and getting suspended, or worse – expelled. Though it would be a very good way to let off the continuously building steam, it wouldn’t be a very clever thing to do. But she just was all too reluctant to read what it was they had managed to dig up about her and Malfoy. How could they have known? They’d been so secretive! They’d always made certain there were no witnesses, no possible extendable ears, no single glances that might have leaked out their clandestine relationship… And just how in Merlin’s name did they get a hold of this picture? The only person who had it was—

Hermione’s eyes widened.

Malfoy.

But it couldn’t be him. He’d been the one who’d broken things off with her after all, claiming that he was ashamed to be with her even when they were alone and that she was too annoying and too Gryffindor-hearted to possibly satisfy him in every which way. There was no way he’d let them snatch the photo and story from him when he hated her and hated their so-called “relationship.” He’d be too humiliated to let the world know he had once been associated to a Mudblood on such romantic and intimate terms. He’d absolutely kill himself.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

But he was the only one who had that picture. Even she hadn’t a copy. It was his, after all, a product of the instamatic she had purchased from a Muggle thrift store for his birthday, to extend his very narrow horizons. She shivered when she remembered that moment, Draco inquiring very irksomely how a little plastic thing could possibly cough out pictures, and so she told him to stay still so she could take a picture of him, but instead he had grabbed her arm and demanded that she be with him in the photograph.

Apparently he had heard the rumors about cameras stealing souls, and he barked at her that if his soul was going to be taken away by a plastic Muggle contraption, he would not be alone – as she was going to be in the picture as well. They would be two soul-less beings together.

And so Hermione had pressed her face against his, feeling the coolness and softness of his cheek that she remembered vividly sending trickles of heat to shimmy up her body.

“Smile,” she told him. “Don’t scowl.”

“Smile? I don’t even know how to smile.”

“Don’t act so tough. Yes, you do. You’ve done it before.”

“When?”

Hermione remembered how even taking a simple photograph with him was tiring, as she had said, in a very exasperated tone, “Could you just smile? It’s not like anyone else is going to see this. Just do it.”

“Why do I have to smile on my birthday? You do what you do – I’ll do what I do. Just take the sodding picture.”

“No!” Hermione had wanted to shout at him. “Draco Malfoy, you’re wealthy, healthy, physically complete with ten toes and ten fingers, not yet balding, you’ve all your teeth – what isn’t there to smile about? And it’s your birthday!”

“Well, that, and I am a hot piece of arse.”

Rolling her eyes, she looked at the camera she was holding in front of them, the lens winking at her. “Fine, I’m going to take this picture right now. Scowl all you want, you git.”

“Fine.”

But as annoyed with him as she had been, she thought of a way she might make him smile. She’d known for a fact that Draco Malfoy was oddly quite ticklish with his cheeks (and she’d tortured him the moment she’d found out), and so she conjured up a plan. So it might have been sappy and romantic, but she wanted to stomp on his birthday boot – he could not be a stubborn arse to her anymore today than any other day. And she’d wanted to make certain he knew so.

“All right,” she said, feeling his cheek against hers, his fingers tracing up and down her other palm. “On three, all right? One… two… three!” At that moment she’d turned her head and kissed him on the cheek, making a brilliant smile ripple across his face. The flash went off and blinded their eyes for a second, both Hermione and Draco blinking to regain their clear vision. She gave him a victorious grin as he patted his cheek, giving her a begrudging look.

“I was going to smile anyway, you nag,” he’d grumbled.

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the lingering sensations she felt in her chest when she thought of him. The memory slowly webbed away. “This is all his fault,” she said lowly, glowering at the magazine as if she could shoot fire from her eyes. She felt those persistent knots in her stomach again. “It has to be.”

A holler of raucous caught her ears as her head snapped up, glimpsing at her wristwatch and discovering that it was already time for class. Stuffing the magazine inside her bookbag without another glance, she forced momentum into her feet as she ran to her first class.

Her first class was Transfiguration, a vast classroom with ancient curios that still gleamed through the spots of rust they hadn’t wanted to magic away so that it would serve its old purpose as an antique and be deceived as nothing else. The chalkboards were always covered with notes they were to copy down while their professor lectured and silently watched them for any backhand tricks from underneath her pointy hat. She’d known her Head of House was legendary for her strict rules and even her strict way of life – had even seen her handle some very bad situations with the same unyielding manner.

But this morning, even if it was just one quick look, she’d seen her fly towards the butter knife-seizing madcap girls like a squirrel on the run, all the while shouting for her student to get as far away as possible in as little time as possible. So that had been quite new.

When she appeared in the doorway her peers were still chattering and fetching their supplies, but when she entered, every pair of eyes fell upon her and she heard a surge of small gasps disease the room. Hermione felt one of her eyebrows twitch in annoyance. She thought it to be a ridiculous instant reaction to her presence; she did not appreciate it at all. Nor did she appreciate all the promising looks of possible body disfigurement some of the members of Malfoy’s fan club were still sending her.

Trying to act like her normal self and also appear totally unfazed by the attempted murder they had invoked on her this morning, she tilted her head up, jutting out her chin, and walked over to Harry and Ron’s table. Setting down her satchel and books on the wooden surface, she nonchalantly started to prepare her things with – she couldn’t help it – slightly trembling fingers.

Her body was stiff with wariness. In the corner of her eye she was looking out for any sharp flying objects. Perhaps even any charmed quills that would slowly glide over and start to discreetly poke her eyes out.

She wasn’t aware of the sour faces of Harry and Ron until Ron harshly elbowed her, causing her to wince in pain, the protruding bone of his arm colliding with one of her own in her ribcage. Then she looked up with flashing eyes, her face twisting into a look of grumpiness.

Two angry pale faces stared back at her. Dark emerald and glinting baby blue.

“What?” whispered Hermione.

“Don’t you ‘what?’ us, you hypocrite,” Ron hissed. “How could you do that to us? How? With Malfoy? That walking tub of over-inflated egotism and hair gel!”

“I can clearly recall you stating that you would be laughing your arse off for weeks—”

“Doesn’t matter what I bloody said!” he said back. “What matters is that you and Malfoy—”

“Are you going to start throwing butter knives at me too?”

“Maybe!”

They glared at each other.

So now it was two against one. Great. No, wait, scratch that – the whole female population lusting after Malfoy and her two best friends now as well. Hermione had to suppress the aggravated scream tickling her throat when she instantly knew that Malfoy had managed to turn everyone against her, that insufferable bastard.

Someone clearing their throat brought their attention to the front. Hermione silently sighed in relief as she discovered it was Minerva McGonagall, but raised her brows at her appearance. Her thin hair was wiry and disarray and she looked so disoriented that it would have even been bedwetting for some.

She narrowed her eyes at the class through her askew half-moon spectacles, her thin lips pressed into a rigid line. Then she held up her wand, her other hand in the air as if she was preparing to catch something. Her voice boomed through the room, causing everyone to jump in their seats, their quills toppling out of their hands.

“Accio butter knives!”

With a loud zing! of silver and metal, Hermione gasped as dozens of butter knives soared towards their professor’s outstretched hand, flashing in the light, stacking neatly and quickly in her palm.

---

Hermione had the right mind to owl him and demand his presence in the deserted Divinations classroom during lunch. She couldn’t enter the Great Hall anyway because there were more butter knives there (despite Professor McGonagall’s threats to ban butter knives from the school altogether), and so what if Malfoy was hungry and wanted to eat lunch? She’d almost been maimed today, damn it. A little delay on a meal never hurt anyone. Now, with butter knives – that was a completely different story.

She paced in the room, waiting for him. Her fists clenched and unclenched all on their own in a routinely fashion. The magazine was lying on the table sitting before her, and her impatient eyes flickered to it then away again as she bit the inside of her bottom lip. Where in Merlin’s knickers was he?

If he didn’t show up, she would see to it personally that he was brutally hurt in some equally disturbing way. When one requested another’s company (in urgent business, at that, maybe even life-threatening), it was only common courtesy to show up. Being ten minutes late, however, was not.

‘If he wasn’t even going to bother to show up,’ she mentally fumed, ‘he could have at least owled me back a note. He’s just a coward. Was back then, and he still is now. Oh! How I would just love to wring his neck right about now!’ It simply wasn’t fair that she was enduring all this persecution. It wasn’t even her fault. She hadn’t been the one to send out that picture. She hadn’t been the one to even mention anything about their past secret relationship. Because it was long gone. Dead. Nonexistent in her memory. A stub that had gone out and devoured by ash.

She pounded her fist on the magazine, swearing aloud.

“Now, now, Granger,” said a silky drawl.

Hermione froze, her spine instantaneously jerking straight, shoulder muscles taut.

“No need to get so violent. It’s done no harm. It’s only a magazine.”

She whirled around with a fierce face, glowering at him, yet she felt that same sting in her heart again when her eyes took him in. A microscopic part of her told her that she had never really gotten over him, but that tiny shout was easily obscured with the rest of her that was wholeheartedly equipped with objections.

Of course she had gotten over Draco Malfoy. She hadn’t even gotten under him in the first place.

He was just an incredibly vain boy with a pitifully dysfunctional family and a deep pocket. He was harmless now. His future had been cleared along with the obliteration of the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. He was just an annoying ferret in a handsomely tall body.

She snatched the magazine from the table, holding it up for him to see. “Would you mind telling me,” she hissed, “what in the bleeding hell this is, Malfoy? Is this another one of your tricks? Your ploys? Your plans to try to humiliate me or perhaps – maybe this one is more accurate – try and kill me?”

He snorted. “Don’t get so carried away, Granger,” he told her, looking completely untouched by the whole butter knife business. He looked so nonchalant, with his towering stature and light molten eyes. He was not smirking but she recognized the look on his face although all she had tried to do these past months was erase it from her memory. His broad shoulders were just as broad as ever; slender mold caressed with flattering muscles even evident from outside the cloth of his shirt, almost giving Hermione a headache. She felt that overwhelming feeling pass through her again, making her fingers buzz, making her heart contract poignantly.

“If I tried to kill you, I would have succeeded. Thus you would not be standing before me right now – preparing to yell my head off, I suspect.”

“You’re bloody right I’m going to yell your head off,” she snapped. Her fist was shaking, making the magazine also quiver. “You’re the one who did this, weren’t you? Sent off the picture, obliged the interview—”

“You read it?” he inquired, one eyebrow hitching up behind his blond hair.

“N-no!” she sputtered. “Of course I didn’t read it! Do you think I would even consider reading this garbage?” She almost smacked him in the face with shaking the magazine in his face. “Let me ask you something, Malfoy: what exactly were you planning to achieve with this lowly exploit? What was it? To punish me? To almost get me killed by your deranged fan girls with butter knives?”

Still, he looked unscathed, which angered Hermione even more. “I think you’ve gotten it all wrong. If you’d even bothered to read the sodding article, you’d be pleased to see that it’s rather flattering.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed at him, her lips disappearing. Oh how she wanted to shove said article down his throat. “Flattering?” she echoed in spite. “Flattering, Malfoy? Did you even see what they did?” she exclaimed, her temper getting the best of her. “They got up, taking their forks and knives with them like they were looking to maim me, and you—” she seethed, shuddering with rage, “you—”

“Sat there and watched, I know,” drawled Draco lazily. Then his face lit up with laughter, chuckling. “It was bloody funny.” Hermione glared at him. “You should have seen yourself!” he laughed harder, his eyes squinted with mirth, “your face! Oh Merlin! And the way you bolted out of there like you were—”

He was really enjoying himself. Unfortunately, Hermione had rolled up the magazine and flew at him, hitting him furiously. The whack! sounds she heard repeatedly, each striking a different part of his skull and mussing his precious hair, almost relieved her. And so she continued to wallop him, thinking that maybe it would help her feel better about the fact that almost all of the females had organized a blood hunt for her, Hermione Granger, while Draco tried to push her away.

“Hey!” he yelped. He tried to cover himself from her blows, using his arms as shields, but she kept hitting him. Hermione, of course, almost had to tiptoe to reach the top of his head for she was inches shorter than him, but she hit him all in the right spots. How did she know? The high-pitched sounds he made.

Score.

“Ow! Granger! Knock it off! Not the hair! Not the hair!”

And so, just to infuriate him more, she discarded her weapon and pried his hands away, furiously messing up his hair, feeling his silky strands as they whipped against her lively fingers, and, even in the midst of her rage and childish revenge – she almost felt her heart elicit a moan. Oh Merlin, how she hated his hair. It was soft and downy and everything she hated. Damn him and his baby-fine hair.

“Stop!” he bellowed, trying to force her hands away.

“If you don’t give me an explanation, I swear to Merlin, I’m going to rip out your pretty little tresses, Malfoy!” she shouted.

“Fine!” he shouted, and he caught and grabbed her wrists firmly, making Hermione’s body stiffen in surprise. This is why I hate Quidditch players, she scornfully reminded herself. Fast reflexes.

She tried to look right into his eyes, feeling the tensing of her muscles throughout her body. But as his dim eyes peered down on her through his hair, now disarray and even creating the illusion of a halo of blond fuzz around his head, she felt her body start to pound. All of her. She felt it begin in two places: right below her left collarbone, and her wrists where his fingers dug into her sensitive flesh there, where his pulse connected with hers. She felt it. Like a wave of forlorn feelings, rush over her and unearth that slowly healing hole he had left in her heart.

Suddenly, she just wanted to wrench herself away and leave this room. She’d hit him again some other time. But right now, with him holding her like this, looking at her in a way that brought back all those unwanted feelings, it was a bit too much for her. No amount of denial could ever cover that fact up.

His face seemed to lean in towards hers, and she felt very dizzy, his distinctive musk of rain and elegance filling her mind and making her feel woozy. But then she jerked her body away, frightened and alarmed, and he let go of her wrists.

Immediately, as soon as his fingers had left them, they grew hot where he had been holding her.

The silence between them, hanging like the last loose leaf of autumn, proved that their moment of whirling emotions had been a mistake, and she was grateful. But then he smirked, a very Slytherin smirk, one that jumpstarted her heart again. She felt a clout of annoyance compact against her ribs.

“Did you do it?” she asked him, her voice low and serious. “You always did have such close relations to Rita Skeeter, after all.”

Draco snorted. “And how did you know she wrote it? You haven’t read it!”

“I don’t have to read it to know if it’s the wench,” Hermione barked. “Scandalous story that involves me and will surely ruin my life and gain me possible assassinations? It has Skeeter written all over it!”

“You don’t think she’s gone on to better things since what you did to her?”

“No!”

Draco was silent, only looking at her. His face seemed neutral but impassive, as if he was just contemplating about what answer to give her. Then he spoke, no amount of scorn in his voice – a tone she had to take a few moments to register. “No. I didn’t do it.”

Hermione’s stare burned holes through him. “I don’t believe you.”

His mouth descended into a scowl. “Then what’s the point of even asking me that question if you aren’t even willing to consider the truth?”

“Tell me why you did it,” she demanded. “Tell me – did you do it just to spite me? Or is it something else?”

“Granger, I told you I had no part in it,” he seethed.

“That’s rubbish!” she exclaimed. “How else could they have gotten that sodding picture? You’re the only one who had a copy of it! What are you going to tell me next – they snuck into your room and stole it?”

“Don’t act so stuck up,” he snapped. “I don’t bloody know how it got to be on the front cover of Witch Weekly, and I don’t fancy you accusing me of doing something I already told you twice I did not do—”

“Because you’re lying!”

“No, Beaver Face, I’m not!”

“Just tell me what your sick and perverse reason is right now! I’ll hex you – don’t think I won’t! I’ve got nothing to lose now! Teenage girls with butter knives and forks are out to get me – do you really think it could get any worse?”

“Granger,” he started to yell, getting angry, “I told you I had no—”

“You’re just trying to get back at Harry again, aren’t you?” she yelled. “Hitting me first, then you’ll get Ron, and then it’s Harry—”

“If I wanted to do anything with Potter, I wouldn’t have put a picture of you and me on the cover of Witch Weekly!”

“A-hah! So then you do admit it! You did put the picture on there!”

“No! Would you just listen to me, you deaf ingrate?” he said back, frustrated.

“You’re jealous again, that’s it, isn’t it?” she exploded, completely not hearing him. “He defeated the Dark Lord and got all the attention and glory and you’re obscured in his shadow worse now than ever before! And so now you want to drag us down, one by one—”

“Would you listen to yourself?” he roared. “You’ve completely turned mental!”

“You shut it!” Hermione cried, pointing a finger at him.

Draco’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing at her. She could see his strong build slowly shake with his breaths.

Hermione then knew that she had struck a major nerve.

“Why don’t you just fess up, Malfoy?” she said coldly, glowering at him while crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “No good lying to someone who already knows half of the truth, anyway.”

“Do you think I would purposely broadcast my relationship with you on Witch Weekly?” he hissed. “Because if you do, then think again. I had no part in it. I don’t know how the picture got out, but I suggest you don’t start accusing me for things you know nothing about. You think it can’t get any worse? I’ll show you it can.” His tone was frosty and sharp, making her breaths suddenly freeze in her throat, as his slitted eyes gave her one last venomous look before he stormed away.

Hermione stared after him, stunned. He had just threatened her. Threatened her. Then, her mind reeling and her stomach queasy from their interaction, she let out a weary but anticipating sigh from behind her teeth.

She slightly trembled, remembering how his voice had sent arousing tremors through her skin.

“I hate this school.”

---

Please review! Now, I know I’ve been coughing out new stories/fics the last few days like a disease, but this has just been sitting around on my computer for months and I thought that I should post it. Now, I warn ye, the updates may be quite scarce, but I’ll try my best.