Disclaimer: Harry Potter & Co. (even my ever-beloved Draco - and it's DRACO I love, not Tom Felton: blasphemy, I know) belong to J.K. Rowling. MargaritaVille belongs to Jimmy Buffet. I get no compensation for writing about either except for reviews. Though I do love reviews... hint, hint.)
Prologue: in which we find Draco in self-imposed exile in the tropics, attempting to fuck Hermione out of his system, with only limited success.
(A/N: so here's the story. It all started when I put my cell phone through the laundry in the pocket of my jeans. Needless to say, I very shortly found myself needing a new cell phone. I ended up finding a great used one (God Bless Craigslist) which I absolutely adore because it's even pinker than my last one. It's that sugar-sweet, bubble-gum-and-cotton-candy shade of pink that I have loved all my life but that I can neither wear (because I am an adult) nor decorate my home with (make that a married adult…cotton candy pink is not a big favorite with the hubby, go figure.) So I accessorize with it. Anyway, I loved my new, used phone enough even before it actually rang – and then I discovered that the ring-tone is Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville. Okay, now I have a bubble-gum pink phone that plays Margaritaville every time it rings!? Best. Phone. Ever. Yes, I'm often ridiculously easy to please. Anyway, almost immediately this little plot bunny insinuated itself in my brain and hasn't gone away days later, so… I had to sit down and put it on paper. For those who are following TTB and DCL, yes those are still in progress. It's just, this bunny would not leave me alone. So anyway… enjoy. I don't see it as more than a 3 chapter fic, including this one, but we'll see where it goes. Hope you like!)
He woke to stippled sunlight and shadow making lazy patterns on the rough-hewn timber ceiling. The low bed was in complete, rumpled disarray; sheets and coverlet heaped on the floor and one of his legs hanging awkwardly over the edge of the mattress. As for the rest of his body, it was hopelessly entangled, in a crazy jumble of naked limbs, with his latest meaningless fling.
What in the hell was her name again?
He had been allowing this particular young woman to share his ocean-front cabana for over two weeks; an exceptionally long time, given his usual modus operandi. Five days was the longest any of her predecessors had lasted before being sent on her way with a generously padded purse and only the haziest of memories of the past few days, thanks to a skillfully cast Obliviate spell.
He would have been hard-pressed, if asked, to actually give a reason as to why he had allowed this latest conquest to very nearly put down roots in his little beachside cottage. It wasn't something he consciously thought about. Subconsciously, it was probably because, with her sleek blonde hair, dazzling yet fundamentally vacant blue eyes, and severely limited vocabulary, she could hardly have been more different from…
The one who had sent him running halfway across the world in the first place.
The one of whom he wanted no reminders, conscious or otherwise.
Even so, the time to cut this one loose was fast approaching. It had been clear from the beginning that she was a shameless gold-digger, and really he had no problem with that, no problem at all; money he had, in plenty, and he didn't mind using some of it to buy himself some pleasant, if rather vapid, company. That was not an issue; it never had been. But now that a couple of weeks had gone by, she was clearly beginning to feel just a bit too entitled, too… settled. So, it was just about time for her to be moving on.
And what in the hell WAS her name again?
It was something with a Mc.
McKenna? McKenzie? McKinley? Something like that. Something that just practically screamed American. Damn yanks with their penchant for saddling baby girls with first names that were meant to be last names. One of these days some bloody yokel was just going to get it over with and actually name his daughter MacDonald's.
And if, down the line, she ended up looking halfway decent, he'd be perfectly happy to shag her too.
He turned his head to regard his sleeping bedmate. A broad band of sunlight fell across her naked torso, revealing the swell and curve of a pair of somewhat too perfect, surgically enhanced breasts. There was a light, salt-tinged breeze from the window, which had been left wide open all night, the gauzy curtains thrust carelessly to one side (this girl was a bit of an exhibitionist, and he had no issues with that, either) and her nipples were pink and hard in the pale morning sun.
He realized three things at once; he was thirsty as hell, his head was pounding fit to burst (he'd gotten a little too friendly with the tequila last night… again), and he was sporting an erection that was actually painful in its intensity.
Ah, right. Now he remembered. He'd been dreaming again, dreaming about -
Nothing bloody nothing, damn it.
Okay, fine. About nothing. But that didn't solve any of the three aforementioned problems. Well, one of them at least could be addressed without having to so much as leave the bed. He rolled up onto his knees – even hung-over, he was possessed of an almost preternatural litheness and grace – grasped his still-slumbering companion by the hips, yanked her sleep-warm body to him… and simply drove himself in, straight and deep and sure.
Her eyes, the color of the sea just outside the window, flew open wide, and as her lips parted to utter a small, shocked, protesting cry, he sealed them decisively with his own.
And then there was no more thinking.
And that was just fine with him.