Memento Mori

It took a while for Draco to wake up. He was having a lot of trouble
finding his center. What he thought was his center, at least. He liked
to awaken every morning with the thought of going through the day like
a snake. A glittering, cold, malicious serpent. Basilisk, more or less,
was his favorite choice of snake when he had the morning apparitions.
He tended to favor its potency.

But alas, he couldn't find the image. He racked through his brain,
flipping through ideas that reminded him of a snake. It was like a
search engine running through Draco's every stirring mind. He hated it.
Detested it. He couldn't find that damn snake.

Feeling completely out of place, Draco shook the covers from his bed
and made his way to the bureau at the front of his bed. He slid the
care package from his mother aside- he didn't feel like reading long,
sympathetic, stupid letters from his mother about being strong. He knew
it would take a miracle to knock him down. Draco was a cockroach. He
could survive anything. Whether he would survive in tact was still in
the air. Draco had to call it.

He put on his most shabby pair of clothes. It was a black, old, smelly
sweatshirt with a rumpled pair of torn jeans beneath it. He couldn't
help but cringe when he saw himself in the mirror. However, his plan
had to go through perfectly. Hermione had to notice the lack of
elegance in his robes. Surely she had to see how abnormally stupid he
looked.

He took his black, shining robe off of the dresser door, and placed it
on his thin frame. It was open. Smugly, Draco knew that normally he was
gorgeous, and everyone in the castle had to know the difference. In the
one case of Draco, his arrogance hit the nail right on the head.

He wandered around his room a little, rehearsing his lines to say to
Hermione. He didn't especially care if they sounded stale, but he had
to get it right. Hermione was a smart girl, Draco thought. She could
see through him, if the slightest mistake were to present itself. Too
smart, he continued thinking. A know-it-all. He shook his head, a look
of befuddlement on his face. He couldn't think of Hermione in
cold-blooded terms. He had to start acting the role of Draco- the
depressed, fatherless child who sees the error of his ways and seeks
out Hermione to help him cope.

He was a master thespian, though he hardly knew it. Draco could conceal
the biggest lie, and let slip the smallest gossip in a way that even
Pansy Parkinson would hardly be able to tell was a preconceived move.
He acted guilty, and angry, and stupid when the moment pleased him. He
was able to fool his father all the time.

Was able.

Draco fought back the thought. He had to start thinking in past tense.
He had to start thinking positive things about Hermione. He had to
start thinking.

Sighing, Draco whisked out of the dormitory he shared with Crabbe and
Goyle. He hopped to the common room, and was happy to find it empty. He
needed solitude to plan what he needed to plan.

He seated himself on the couch in the middle of the foyer, and set to
work expressing his depression in the most obviously subtle manner.
Draco waited for what he anticipated was the proper time before
Hermione noticed, and started the false conversation.

Oh, hi, he said mournfully to no one. He waited, thinking about
Hermione's response.

Yeah, it was kinda weird that we ended up there. Maybe it was the
depressed congregating, huh? Draco again mouthed what he knew Hermione
to say.

Yes, he said bowing his head. It's been hard. Hermione would look at
him with eyes filled with sympathy. Then she would gush.

Yeah, I've always known Harry would act that way. Seemed like he should
know how... Draco trailed off. Know how what? Hermione would say.

"Know how to treat... a lady," Draco said, finally voicing his
sentiments out loud. Hermione would stare. "Because you are a lady."

"Why, thank you," a teasing voice said from the staircase.

Draco froze. Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit. Think Draco, think. He
turned around, and almost fell off the couch.

Rita Skeeter was staring at Draco. Her blonde hair was tousled, as if
she had slept on it, and her diamond studded glasses were nowhere to be
seen. She was wearing nothing but an old Quidditch sweater. Thankfully,
it covered what he didn't particularly want to see.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he sputtered. Rita placed one hand on her hip,

and the other on the frame of the staircase.

"It's very nice to see you, too, Draco." She laughed. Draco's eyes
bulged.

"How did you... where did you... Crabbe's sweater!" Draco pointed.
Indeed, Rita was wearing Crabbe's Quidditch sweater. Rita looked down.
She laughed again.

"Oh, yeah," she replied, still playful. "I thought I had to put
something on." Draco stared.

"How did you get in here?" he asked. Rita challenged his gaze.

"Never you mind."

"Somebody had to have let you in," Draco said, exasperated. He didn't
want Rita infiltrating the Slytherin common room. If she stayed for too
long, he could expect a very scathing article about his mannerisms
towards the press.

"Yes. Somebody let me in." Rita sauntered casually over to Draco,
swinging her hips with every step. "But that doesn't matter," she
continued. "What I want to know is-who you think is a lady?" She smiled
a malevolent smile.

"I was rehearsing for a play," he said, regaining his cool. Rita raised
an eyebrow.

"I didn't know there were plays at Hogwarts," Rita said. She sat down
next to Draco on the grey couch.

"It isn't at Hogwarts," he retorted, quick on his feet. Rita clenched
her jaw.

"Where is it?" she asked. Draco continued to stare at her.
"I'm not going to tell you," he challenged. Rita kept her gaze, and
then burst into a fit of laughter.

"You're not rehearsing for a play!" she said, slapping her knees.
"You're not in a play. Don't lie to me." Draco shook his head.

"I am. I'm just not going to tell you. Don't know what nasty lies you
might make up if I do." Rita instantly stopped talking. She set her jaw.

"You weren't so keen to insult me two years ago," she spat. "Does this
little temper tantrum have something to do with, oh I don't know, the
fact that I told Harry's side of the story, and that led to your father
dying?" she cunningly hissed. Draco looked away.

"No," he muttered. "It doesn't." Rita shook her head.

"Look, honey, I don't really care if you don't like me. I'm not here
for you."

"Yes you are!" Draco yelled. "You just want to piss me off."

"It's working, isn't it?" Rita teased. Draco clenched his fist.

"No," he said. The word hung in the air like a cold dagger. Rita
shrugged, and then smiled.

"Well, Draco," she said, getting up. "I'll leave you at that."

"Oh no you won't," Draco said. "You never leave a conversation if you
think you haven't won." Rita smiled.

"Oh, but I have, Draco." Rita smiled. "I have."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Snape sat, staring at the wall. He shook his head. The beginnings of a
hangover were starting to creep into his awareness. If only he could
remember the potion he had stumbled upon to cure hangovers. He vaguely
remembered that it had essence of wolfbane in it, but beyond that, his
mind was completely fogged.

Trickling thoughts began to seep into his water-logged mind. They
weren't the most pleasant of thoughts, but they were thoughts
nonetheless. They involved a woman, Snape knew that, but whom he didn't
want to specify. Snape knew perfectly well who it was, but in his
attempts to alleviate his hangover, he didn't want to agitate his mind.
The blonde bouncing curls jogged his memory. The glasses, the shirt.
Snape bowed his head down, refusing to let her jog behind his eyelids.
She was worse than he was.

Rita Skeeter. How in the hell could he have slept with Rita fucking
Skeeter? She was arrogant, dirty, rugged, and masculine- if he hadn't
of slept with her, Snape would have continued thinking that Rita was
one of the elite power-house lesbians he so rarely heard about. She had
the mystique and seduction of an alley cat, but the pedigree of only
the best. She wasn't a particularly skilled magician, that Snape knew,
but beyond that, he couldn't determine Rita from Adam.

He ran through his mind what he knew had transpired the previous night.
He had been sitting, doing his Friday evening crossword (severely stuck
on item 64 down, "This is the headquarters of the Wizard Wireless
Network."), when he was startled by a very loud knock on the door.

"Yoo-hoo," a shrill voice called. Snape narrowed his eyes at the door.

"Who is it?" he asked, not wanting anyone to interrupt his solitude.

"It's me," drawled a pearly voice from behind the wooden slab. Snape
sighed, and answered quickly.

"Come in," he spat. The door creaked open, and Rita stepped in. "Bloody
hell!" Snape cried, perturbed by her presence. Rita smiled a trademark
devil-woman smile.

"Language, Severus," she had teased. Rita strutted forward until she
was centimeters away from the tip of Snape's extremely large nose. "You
wouldn't want old Alby knowing I was down here." Snape blinked several
times.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Snape muttered. Rita smiled.

"I have my ways," she coyly replied. Snape withdrew his wand.

"You will tell me now, Rita," he roared. "Or I will hurt you so fast
your fucking hair will spin on its ends."

"Now, now, Snape," she said, looking utterly calm. "I have somewhat of
business with you here." Snape blinked again. "You're head of Syltherin
house, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," Snape said, having drawn himself tall. He removed his
glasses from the crook of his nose.

"Well, then," Rita said, inching herself forward over the front of
Snape's desk. She lightly brushed his hands. "You're in charge of Draco
Malfoy, aren't you?" Snape nodded, curtly. Rita pulled something from
her bag. It was a shiny bottle of Chateau Malromé, 1989 edition. Snape
knew it must have cost her many Galleons, and he didn't argue when she
pulled two glasses out of her bag.

"Are you a fucking restaurant on wheels?" he asked after she had
poured two glasses. Rita smiled again.

"I thought a drink might sober you up," she said. Snape cocked his
head.

"To the contrary, Madame." He clinked his glass with Rita's, and they
sipped in silence for several moments. Snape put down his glass. "Now,
Rita," he drawled. "What is it exactly that you want with Draco?"

"Oh, nothing," she replied, running her finger around the rim of the
glass, and shifting her weight from foot to foot. The action was slowly
making Rita more and more attractive to Snape. He took another sip.

Rita leaned in close, and her breath felt warm on Snape's face. He
hadn't been this close to someone in a very long time.

He was reminded of when he had first made love to a woman. He was
twenty-two, and something about the experience made him very weary to
ever try it again. He had, in fact, with several woman- Miranda
Hutchinson had been a disaster with her stuttering, and the woman at
the wand shop had never returned his calls.

Snape was brought back to Earth with the touch of Rita's lips to his
own. Snape gave in, swimming in the (magically enhanced) cushion of her
lips. He didn't care at the moment that the woman he was kissing was
the Devil; all Snape wanted was to kiss somebody.

Rita withdrew her mouth, and drank from her wine glass. Snape did the
same.

"Snape..." Rita batted her eyelashes, biting her lip and looking quite like a seductive school-girl. "I was wondering if-"

"If what?" Snape asked.

"If, well," she leaned in closer. "We could spend the night in your
room."

Snape took several moments to study Rita. He then drained his wine
glass, then thoroughly intoxicated, and placed it back down on his desk
with a swagger. He grabbed Rita fiercely, and pulled her into a kiss at
the side of the desk. Rita tried to make Snape move out of his office
to the Syltherin quarters, but Snape planted himself firmly to the
floor. Rita disengaged, and looked down at Snape's desk.

"It's Essex," she stated plainly. Snape looked at her with interest.
"Number 64 down. Essex is where WWN is located."

Snape nodded curtly, and pulled Rita out of his office. Together, they
spent the night in the Slytherin dorms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione sat alone in the library, occasionally throwing the odd glance
at the door, hoping that Ron would run inside and apologize any moment.
She was hurt, burning, inside- the world was collapsing around her, and
the only thing keeping her strong was her insatiable infatuation with
Draco. She felt so torn, so lonely, so hurt, and she just wanted words
to express to someone how she felt. There was no one, Hermione reminded
herself, no one that wanted to hear a word of what she could possibly
say. She kicked herself for giving up on Harry and Ron. They were all
she had.

"Is this seat taken?" a drawling voice asked. Hermione looked up. Draco smiled back at her. Hermione looked around, confused as to who he
was talking to.

"T-this seat?" Hermione stuttered. Was she dreaming?

"Yes," Draco said, laughing.

"N-no," Hermione added. Draco sat down.

"I, umm... wanted to thank you for your, umm, sympathy last night,"
Draco coughed out. Hermione looked at Draco with intensity.

"You wanted to thank me?" she asked. Draco raised one eyebrow.

"Yes, dipshit," he spat. He seemed to curse himself for a moment, and
then put on a very pained smile. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's, umm,
frustration," he added for Hermione.

Hermione searched Draco's eyes. She didn't see any good intent. "I'm going," she muttered, taking her things and leaving the library. She trusted the hook pulling on her navel; pulling her out of the library. She was going to find Harry.

"Wait!" Draco called. "Hermione, I need your help!" Hermione turned
around.

"You what?" she spat, eyes glittering.

"Look, it's not that easy for me to admit," he said, grimacing, "but I
know that you're smart, and, er..." Draco clenched his teeth. "I know
you're a know-it-all, and I hate to ask you for help, but you're my
last chance."

"What, exactly," Hermione said through gritted teeth, "is it that you
want me to help you with?"

"School," Draco replied, equally pained.

For a moment, he thought Hermione was going to turn him down; even slap
him, perhaps. She stood strong. Slowly, the stone began to crumble,
though, and she sauntered over to Draco.

"Fine," she muttered under her breath.

The both of them, with their pained exteriors, were dancing up and
down. They had both been able to act their way into getting what they
wanted.