Love, and Other Things That Hurt

Chapter Eight

Draco fumed all the way down to the Slytherin common room, striding straight past the noisy Great Hall without a glance inside. Having spent the whole of breakfast attempting to deter Alyssa from sticking her hands down his trousers under the table, he had been ravenous by the time the lunch bell had rung . . . and now he seemed to have suddenly lost his appetite. Was it the atrocious performance that Longbottom had given to the entire school that he had to thank for that, or was it the irrational behavior of the girl who was becoming more and more baffling to him every day?

Draco strode into the empty dormitory and slammed the door behind him. He had a free period after lunch anyway so he didn't need to rush to class, but he had a feeling that he wasn't going to bother showing up to Charms last period anyway. Figuring he might as well take a nap while the dormitory was quiet, he turned to collapse onto his bed and found an eagle owl sitting on his pillow with a letter tied to its leg.

"Evie, get off my damn bed," Draco said impatiently, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding out his arm. Evadne stared at him reproachfully before grudgingly flying onto his arm, clipping his hand with her talons as she did so.

"There's no need to be mean," Draco grumbled, untying the letter from her leg. "Why didn't you just deliver this at breakfast?"

She shuffled her wings haughtily.

"Right, I forgot," he said sarcastically. "You're above such routine." He glanced at the front of the letter and saw his father's slanted, precise writing. "Great, just what I need. A long distance father-son talk." He glanced at the grey and black owl. "Don't worry, I won't shoot the messenger."

Evadne blinked her wide orange eyes.

"You'd better head to the Owlery if you're hungry," Draco added as he unfolded the letter. "I have nothing for you."

He watched Evadne take off through the open window. Only when she had flown so far out of sight that the sunlight was no longer visible shining off the silver threads of her gleaming feathers did he finally turn his attention to the letter that lay on his lap.

Dear Draco,

Most unfortunately, this cannot be a social note. I would appreciate nothing more than to be able to merely inquire as to your life at Hogwarts, and to be certain that you are keeping your grades up to the Malfoy standard. However, something has recently been brought to my attention that I simply cannot ignore.

A friend of yours (who shall remain nameless) has contacted me about a tryst you seem to be involved in at present. This friend has informed me that you have developed a habit of returning to your dormitory extremely late into the night, if indeed not early morning.

At this point in the letter, Draco had to roll off of the bed and sprint to the window where he heaved in great gulps of fresh air. Friend? Friend? When he found out who had been giving reports of his behavior to his father, he would macerate them. When he finally got his pulse back under control, he snatched up the fallen parchment and his eyes flew over the neat, rigid script.

Needless to say, the ancient and honored name of your forefathers and your responsibility to such should never venture far from your mind, Draco. It pains me to doubt your sense, but I feel it necessary to remind you that even a covert tryst with a young woman of anything but undeniably Pure Blood and a respectable family tree could be detrimental to our reputation. I therefore urge you to use great discretion when choosing a young lady to flaunt.

If you are choosing to be less exclusive with your partners, it becomes even more imperative that you avoid entangling yourself in a delicate situation that may implicate or embarrass myself, your mother, or the distinguished family name.

With all this being said, I have complete confidence that you will reread these words most carefully until the end of the semester and the end of your time at Hogwarts School in order to remind yourself of what is truly important. Remember, son, you are not just any seventeen year old boy . . . you are a Malfoy.

Regards,

Mr. Lucius A. Malfoy,
Order of Merlin, Third Class

When Draco reached the end of the letter, his eyes remained staring at the shining green ink of his father's signature for several minutes. When he finally regained feeling in his limbs, he dropped the letter onto his vacant bed and stared at it. He was just considering sending back a reply to the man who had sired him in which the words "sod off, you fucking wanker" were frequent when the door of the dormitory banged open behind him and Blaise strode in.

"Oh, there you are," he said, tossing his books at the foot of his bed and glancing at Draco. "You weren't at lunch."

It wasn't a question, and in any case, Draco didn't feel it would have warranted a response even if it had been.

"Did you see Longbottom?" Blaise added, collapsing on his bed and flinging an arm over his eyes with a snigger. "Just when you think people like that can't sink any lower."

"Speaking of," Draco said coolly, snatching the letter off of the bed and dropping it on Blaise's chest, "what do you think about this?"

Blaise took the letter, his eyebrows contracting, and read through it. When he had finished, he scratched his head, looking slightly taken aback.

"Well?" Draco said pointedly after a moment of silence.

"Uh," Blaise said, still frowning at the parchment. "What I deduced from that is that your father doesn't care if you're banging a different girl every night as long as none of them are Mudbloods?"

"Uh huh," Draco said, leaning against one of the posts of Blaise's bed. "Although, it would interest me to know where the notion that I'm banging anyone is coming to him from."

"Oh," Blaise said, understanding taking over his face. "Yeah, well, I guess that's a good question."

Draco scowled at him. Blaise looked affronted. "Hey, don't look at me, mate," he said, shrugging and tossing the letter aside before laying his arms back over his face. "I don't even like talking to your father when it's necessary."

"Well, who the hell has been reporting on my nighttime rituals to him?" Draco snapped.

"Dunno," Blaise said. "Nott?"

"He wouldn't dare," Draco said with a snort. "It has to be you, Zabini. Vince and Greg don't have the guts either, and you're the only one with enough brains to notice."

Blaise lowered his arms, looking interested. "So there is a girl?"

"Go to hell," Draco growled, stalking out of the room and slamming the door.

After searching all the places that he thought he might find Nott, Draco
finally located him in the last place he would have thought to look. He was sitting at a round table in the library with a stack of books and . . . Pansy Parkinson? He headed to the table and when Nott spotted him, he turned slightly green.

"Draco!" Nott said in a voice a little higher than usual. "We were just - um, homework. C-care to join us?"

"Tempting," Draco said, ignoring Pansy, who was attempting to catch his eye. He felt slightly optimistic about the fact that Nott felt compelled to stutter feeble excuses explaining something that Draco couldn't give a rat's arse about in the first place, but it was overshadowed by his irritation. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure," Nott said, jumping to his feet and sending a fleeting look at Pansy. "I'll, er - be right back." He glanced at Draco. "I think."

As soon as Nott followed Draco behind a wall of books, Draco cornered him against the rows of shelves with his hand pressed against his throat and fixed a piercing scowl on his face. "We're going to play a game," he said in a dangerous undertone. "I'm going to ask you a question. You can lie, forcing me to procure Veritaserum to verify your story and irritating me in the process, or you can spit out the truth, after which the consequences may not be any less painful, but will at least assure that you will die with some dignity."

Nott gaped at him. "I don't -"

"Think very carefully before you open you oversized mouth, Nott," Draco said through gritted teeth. "Here's the million Galleon question. Are you the thick-headed conniving conspirator who has been in contact with my father, and who has been informing him of what may or may not be occurring in my day-to-day social life?"

Nott stared at him, his mouth opening and closing several times, although no sound came out.

"Do you not understand the rules of the game?" Draco asked icily.

"Draco, what are you talking about?" Nott asked as soon as he had gotten his voice back. His shock had disappeared; he now looked merely bewildered. "Why the bloody hell would I talk to your father about -"

"There is nothing fun about listening to you rationalize with me," Draco said musingly, staring up at the ceiling. "Therefore, I think it should be cut from our game."

"I'm not deflecting the question," Nott said impatiently. "I honestly don't have a clue what you're on about."

"Are you going on the record as 'pleading ignorance' or 'in denial'?" Draco asked, tightening his grip on Nott's larynx. "You could always plead temporary insanity, although I don't think that's going to fly with the jury."

"Have you lost your mind?" Nott asked incredulously, wrenching Draco's hand off his neck with deceptive strength, based on his scrawny arms. "I mean, fuck, Malfoy, I know you've been on edge lately, but you need to get a grip."

Draco was momentarily taken aback. "I'm not stup -" he began in a growl, but Nott interrupted him.

"I have no reason to rat you out to your father, even if I was monitoring your nightly comings and goings. Despite what you may think, I do have a life." He straightened up and said, in a dignified voice, "and I have a girlfriend now."

Draco looked at him. "Really."

"Yeah." Nott nodded jerkily back over to the table he had just vacated. He looked slightly regretful about voicing this, and seemed in trepidation of how Draco would take it.

Draco followed his motion and had to choke back a laugh. "Pansy? You're not serious, mate."

"Yes, I am," Nott said defensively, turning slightly red. "Well, it's not like you were exploiting the fact that she was practically presenting herself to you for your own personal sex slave since we got to this damn school."

"Exploit away," Draco said, trying to keep a straight face. "Trust me, she's all yours. Now look me in the eye and tell me you haven't been in correspondence with my father."

"Bloody hell, Draco, I swear. Are you happy now?"

"Not remotely." Draco was already walking away. "I have others to interrogate and then pulverize." He glanced at Pansy and called in a mock-undertone to Nott, "Don't do anything that I wouldn't do."

-

By dinnertime, Ginny's mind had been on such a high speed of overdrive after the events of lunchtime that she was both anxious to see and question Neville and Linnéa. She was so distracted as she wandered the hallways on the way to the Great Hall that she nearly ran headlong into Draco, who had just sprinted around the corner.

"Oh!" she said, stumbling backwards and toppling an urn she had just passed. Draco caught it with one hand and manage to break Ginny's fall towards the stone wall with his arm.

"Have you been Confounded?" he asked irritably as he righted the urn and set her back on her feet at the same time. "Why the hell are you roaming around empty corridors with a vacant expression on your face?"

"Nice to see you too," Ginny said, and, as though forgetting momentarily that she was angry with him, she went in for a kiss. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"I'm looking for Goyle and Crabbe," he responded warily as she broke away from him. "Forgiven my insensitivities, have you?"

There was a moment's pause, and Draco got the impression that Ginny had been thinking far too much since lunchtime. However, in this situation it seemed to be to his advantage. Ginny lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I guess," she said wearily. "The truth is, Draco, that I'm expecting too much of you."

This was not what he expected to hear. "You . . . are?"

"Yes." Ginny slung her bag back on her shoulder and looked resolutely up at him. "I keep expecting you to be something you're not. Neville is hopelessly romantic, and he's been in love with Linnéa since goodness knows when. You two are as different as night and day. It's not fair of me to expect the same from you."

There was another pause. "I see," Draco said slowly, feeling wary, as though this situation was a bomb and he had his finger on the detonator. "So, that's it?"

"Yup," Ginny said, shrugging again. "That's it." She started walking away in the other direction.

"Where are you going?" Draco called after her.

"Dinner," she responded. "See you."

Draco watched her go, feeling distinctly disgruntled, before making his way to the Great Hall after her. It was, after all, the most likely place to find Crabbe and Goyle at any time of the day. He was not disappointed. As he followed a couple of frizzy haired second year girls to the Slytherin table, he saw that his two right hand men were already gorging themselves on croissants, baked potato and spaghetti Bolognese.

"Oh, hey, Draco," Goyle said with his mouth full as Draco slid in between them. "What's up?"

"I'm going to cut this short," Draco said briskly, surveying one and then the other. "Did either of you learn how to write and not let me know?"

"Oh, har har," Crabbe said, swallowing and rolling his eyes. "Like we've never heard that one bef -"

Draco dropped the letter on the table. Crabbe and Goyle glanced at each other before leaning in to read it. It looked like difficult work for both of them.

"Er," Crabbe said five pull minutes later, his forehead crinkling. "What's your dad on about?"

"Coo-vert trissss . . . tuh," Goyle said slowly, squinting at the paper. "Is that, like -"

"Someone has been writing to my father and telling him that I'm nailing someone on a nightly basis," Draco snapped, rapidly losing all remaining patience. "It wasn't Zabini, it wasn't Nott, so it must be one of you two idiots."

"Who are you nailing?" Crabbe asked interestedly.

Draco swiftly continued, ignoring this inconvenient inquiry. "Admit it now, and the retributions will be minimally agonizing," he said. "So let's hear it."

Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other again.

"Was it you?" Goyle asked Crabbe in an undertone. "Because I don't even know what a coo-vert is."

"No way," Crabbe said, shaking his head. "I didn't even know Draco was sleeping with someone."

"I'm NOT," Draco said loudly. "The point is that somebody is making shit up and sharing it with my father. And that person is going to get kicked in the teeth when they are identified."

He stared from Crabbe to Goyle and back again, but both of their faces were as blank as usual. Oh, for fuck's sake. It wasn't them either.

"Never mind," Draco muttered irritably, pushing back from the table and standing. He seized the letter and stalked out of the Great Hall.

This was perfect, just perfect. This one letter could ruin everything. He could ignore it, and possibly spark the need in his father's mind to take further action, or he could write an innocently bewildered response, heavy on respect and light on sarcasm, after which he wasn't sure he would have any self-respect left. As soon as he reached the sanctuary of the blissfully empty dormitory (everyone was clearly still at dinner, or elsewhere), he stood at the window, staring out at the green-lit lake, shifting murkily against the glass. His relationship - if you could call it that - with Ginny was making him dizzy. From meaningless (but gratifying) sex, to uncalled-for one-sided proclamations of love, all within a few weeks, and now they were apparently back to the 'friends-with-benefits' status. He rubbed his temples. He couldn't keep up, and more than ever, he couldn't figure out what Ginny wanted from him. Not that it mattered, though. What she was getting was the most he had ever given and, despite what she may have ever thought, it was all that he had to give. It was sex. No matter what his conscience told him, no matter what sensations hit him when Ginny smiled, no matter how often he lay awake, wondering if she was doing the very same thing . . . they were in it for one thing. They were good together just the way they were.

Silently, Draco dropped his father's letter onto the windowsill, pointed his wand at it, and set it on fire. He watched it burn, the words ancient and honored name still visible until the very last moment when the last corner of parchment was licked by the blue-grey flames and the entire letter lay on the window sill, a small heap of smoldering embers.

She doesn't love you, a voice in his head told him as he watched the flames die upon the pile of ashes. She loves how it feels to be with someone. She loves the companionship. She loves the danger. She loves the game.

And that, Draco told himself, a wry, contented smile spreading across his face, was the only real truth he had heard all day.