Never Mind Affection

Never Mind Affection

Chapter 2

Hermione sat at a common room table muttering quietly to herself. You'd barely know she was there but for the shock of wild brown curls that peaked out from her mountain of books and crumpled up parchment.

It was as if she was building a nest.

Quill scratching furiously against parchment, Hermione's murmurings were accompanied by the frantic gesticulating of her free hand.

"No, no!" Cross out. More furious scratching. Gesticulating.

"Ye-no, no, no! Aargh!" Hermione pounded the table madly, tossing another crumpled piece of parchment into the perfectly circular pile that somehow managed to form around the frustrated Gryffindor. Anyone who valued their social life stayed clear or was subjected to Hermione's ramblings on N.E.W.T.s preparation strategy.

Ginny Weasley had survived worse.

"Hermione?" She approached the nest cautiously.

"Hermione, are you okay?"

"Fine, fine," she said absently, "I'm fine."

"Well, maybe you should tell your face and this mound of abused parchment--because I don't think they got the memo."

"What? What are you on about, then?" Hermione looked up briefly from her Arithmancy notes, but continued scribbling.

"Hermione!" Ginny grabbed Hermione's hands to thwart the incessant scratching of her quill.

"We've all witnessed exam time Hermy. The incoherent muttering, the obsessive writing and reading and re-reading, wild hair hidden behind dangerously tall stacks of books. . . But, Herm, these poor rejected scraps of parchment," she said while making a sweeping gesture with her hand, " are evidence that you obviously cannot manage one cohesive thought."

"Now, tell me immediately what's wrong with you. And don't arse around with that 'Fine, fine, I'm fine' crap!"

Hermione began to fidget nervously beneath Ginny's grasp, biting her lip for good measure. She sighed.

"Alright, then, if you really must know . . ."

***********

"Mother's black cat nip! This. Is not. Possible."

Ginny stared disbelievingly at her friend. Her mind seemed to buckle beneath the weight of everything she had just been told. The world had apparently gone mad.

"It's true, Ginny. I wish it weren't, but . . . but, well, there's more."

"More?" Ginny didn't think her poor fragile mind could stand anything more.

"Yes, well . . . well, he . . . he stares at me, Ginny. Unabashedly, really, and he, well, he . . . he follows me. He's everywhere I go, now, so, well, I . . .I just don't go anywhere alone anymore. I think Harry and Ron are getting quite tired of me."

"Ginny, please, say something."

Ginny took a moment to breathe--and to blink--as she had ceased to do both whilst Hermione was telling her story. The world was still completely off it.

"Well," she began slowly, "good thing you didn't tell Ron or Harry. I'm sure Malfoy'd be dead by now." Ginny smirked at the thought of Lucius Malfoy going to identify Draco in St. Mungo's "Dead and Dismembered" wing. She couldn't believe that somehow the Malfoy's and the Weasley's were related. How could Hermione stand to touch him, let alone kiss him! Ginny was convinced the Malfoys' depravity stemmed from centuries of inbreeding. It was as if the evil had been baked in!

"Avoidance is not the answer; it will only make things worse. But we've got to find a way to throw the dog off your scent." Ginny suddenly cut her eyes at Hermione, giving her a shrewd look, "Unless you enjoyed the little game of tonsil quidditch you played with Malfoy last week."

"Don't be daft!" Hermione said snootily--and a little too quickly. Ginny threw up her hands.

"Okay, lassie, but I'm not the one you have to convince." Hermione looked appalled by the implication, but Ginny trudged forward.

"Right, so, the next time he attacks, you'll have to do something so debasing, so humiliating, so bloody brilliant, that he'll never want to touch you again."

"But I've already disrobed him and left him for the whole school to see."

"True. Let's build on that." There was silence as the two girls were cast into deep thought.

"Okay," Ginny said, assailed by a moment of clarity, "this is what you have to do."

**************

Draco plucked the luxurious green velvet comforter with the tips of his long, slim fingers. He surveyed his perfectly manicured nails for a moment before slamming his hand down on the bed and pushing himself to a sitting position.

Where is she, he thought petulantly. He knew she was avoiding him. He dogged her every move, but she was never alone. Lately, she hadn't been seen at all. He tried every clandestine, underhanded trick his father had taught him, but to no avail. Short of kidnapping and administering veritaserum to every one of her housemates, Draco was lost as to obtaining her whereabouts. His obsession was driving him mad. He was sure of it.

How was it that Draco Malfoy, the most desired boy in his year, could have such an impossible time at procuring the affections of one insignificant little Mudblood? All he wanted was sex. Surely, she could understand hormonal instincts. They were teenagers, for Merlin's sake!

She and her saintly nitwits should be offering to spit polish my dragon hide boots. The time I devote to stalking Granger is time I could be devoting to nefarious plots aimed at delivering Potty to the Dark Lord. I would just kill him and the Weasel, but that wouldn't increase my chances of getting into Granger's knickers . . . she'd know it was me.

Draco sighed and stretched languidly across his bed. He had begged his father to let him be part of The Movement, and now that he would finally be of some use, all he could think about was bedding the Mudblood.

Before the war killed her, or worse . . . him.

The fact that she despised him made the idea of possessing her all the more succulent, but was what threatened to be the best shag of his life--if he could ever get her to agree to it--worth the wrath of his father? Or worse, Vol . . .the Dark Lord? He had to act quickly. His father had been sending owl after owl requesting information on Potter, on Dumbledore and his band of merry twits. He couldn't keep feeding him mundane tidbits of student life. He had to give Lucius something worth keeping him alive past graduation. His father's latest letter had been on the verge of terse.

Draco,

The last bit of information you provided me was . . . interesting, at best. Do try to be more thorough in your pursuits, dear boy. This is a test of your abilities. Consider seriously, your future, Draco. I would hate to think that there is no place for you in our little. . . club.

Lucius Malfoy

Well, what was he supposed to say to that? His own father had stopped just short of threatening his life. To think one exceptional Mudblood could so effectively unseat his reality. Draco slid from his bed and walked, with bare feet, to its foot. Crouching in front of his trunk, fingers paused at the lock, he thought briefly of his reply. Shaking himself of his reverie, he opened the trunk and pulled out a few sheets of stationary parchment-- charmed to reveal the Malfoy crest--and an obsidian quill with a silver tip. Sitting down at his desk he began to write:

Dearest Father,

My apologies for the unsatisfying nature of my last letter. Be assured, I am relentlessly pursuing what appears to be a heavily guarded bit of information. I am currently employing all resources at my disposal to obtain said information. Patience is key, dear father. Patience is key.

Respectfully,

Draco Malfoy

Draco put down his quill. It wasn't a complete lie. Granger's whereabouts very well seemed heavily guarded. It should buy him at least another 3 to 4 weeks. That should give him enough time to bed Granger and get on with the business of destroying Potter's life. Come to think of it, bedding Granger fits quite well in the 'Destruction of Potter's Life' category. But he'd work out the logistics later, his stomach was growling most obscenely. He usually ate much earlier, but he had needed a moment to think outside of Crabbe and Goyle's inane chatter. For now, he would settle for a hearty--if somewhat late--dinner.

**************

"Look at her, Nott"

"Her?"

"The Mudblood. Granger."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Ever wonder, Nott?"

"Wonder?"

"What she's like underneath all that prim and proper?"

"Again, Malfoy, this begs the question--"

"I know, I know but . . ."

"But what?"

"I still wonder . . ."

"More wondering."

"If she's a biter . . . or a scratcher . . . or both."

"Thinking of doing a little slumming, eh?"

"Already done it--sort of."

"She let you?"

"No, she didn't let me. She hates me. Which is what will make her deflowering all the more sweet."

"Malfoy, you rake--but why her?"

"Because I can, dear Nott."

"Oh? You could have your pick of girls in any house, including Gryffindor--though they would never admit to it--but you choose a girl who'd spit on you if she thought it proper."

"Yes, yes, girls like Lavender and Pansy practically throw their knickers at me, Nott, I know. But I'm a Malfoy! I need a conquest worthy of my lineage. And the mere thought of being cat scratched by that clever little--"

"Indeed, Malfoy, if there is one thing your Mudblood does not lack it is intelligence. How ever will you convince her from snuffing your lights out--again?"

"If there is one thing I do not lack, dear Nott, it's cunning."

"Of, course."

"Of, course."

"I must say, Malfoy, the prospects of your little endeavor are . . . well, let's just say I'm very intrigued to know the outcome."

"Oh?"

"Well, yes. The mudlood seems completely entrenched in her affections for Weasley, there. Or haven't you noticed? Oh, and how would your father react to news of the union between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger? Or hadn't you thought that far?"

"Never mind affection, Nott. I just want to boff her till her eyes roll to the back of her clever little head. That's all. And in regards to my father's opinion, well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him, will it?"

"Indeed, Malfoy. Indeed."