Voting Post: Most Creative Ficlet
Most Creative Ficlet (501-1000 words)
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5c - Most Creative Ficlet:
1. (TOP CHOICE)
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3.
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-1-
Draco's Wishes, by elektra30
Five.
There was a burst of ribbons, confetti and cream upon his face. He beamed as his mother swiped the thick froth off his face; there were bright moons of happiness bobbing around him too - Pansy, Greg, Vince. All of them clambered onto the long table, ready to unleash their breaths, only for his mother to whisper,
“A wish, dear, a wish!”
He wished that the four of them would always celebrate their birthdays together.
Ten.
“I’m going to Hogwarts and I’m going to be the youngest Seeker there!” He proudly brandished a brand new Cleansweep, its silver handle gleaming. In a flash, he hopped onto the broom and swerved around the huge backyard. From above, he could see that Vince the Crab was gaping like a goldfish, while Greg the Gargoyle was staring rigidly at it. When he landed, Pansy shrugged and said,
“Boys.”
Fifteen.
Presents upon presents heaped upon his bed. The right corner of his lips tugged upwards as he picked up a tiny velvet box with gilded edges. Good things always come in small - and shiny - packages. Crabbe and Goyle sat on their own poster beds, watching him carefully. He pulled out an ornate pendant, a antique golden skull resting in a black circle. His smile faded as he fingered the rough symbol.
During supper, he saw Potter laughing along with Weasley and Granger at the Gryffindor table, while at the Slytherin one, Crabbe and Goyle had their faces buried within their plates, while Pansy held her fingers to the light. His own fingers slipped into his robe pocket to trace the skull.
They were two boys whose fates were both laid out for them. Neither of them wanted the road laid out for them. But Potter had moments of happiness.
He closed his eyes, wishing.
Twenty.
Whether it was out of pity or really, truly, out of merit, he couldn’t care less. He had a job to support his mother now and it was a decent one. That was all that mattered.
“Malfoy, you’ve got ten minutes to finish up that report and that’s not going to happen if you’re continuing to stare into space.”
He didn’t answer, as always. But he took the quill anyway and dipped it in ink.
“I honestly don’t know why Kingsley wanted to put you here,” she went on, “when you completely don’t give a damn about whatever goes on here. This is Law Enforcement, Malfoy, not Silence Enforcement."
The edges of his mouth twitched. Silence Enforcement would definitely be torture for someone like her.
"That smirk wasted five seconds of your brainpower that could have been translated into better productivity for your work."
Unlike everybody else, she hadn't gone beyond insulting his intellectual capacity. She had always been treading carefully around the cracks, even though she tried to pretend she didn't see them.
While thinking, he didn't realise that the quill was trembling. A smudge appeared.
“Oh, look what you’ve done...”
“Malfoy?” It was Kingsley, walking by. Granger opened her mouth to complain further, but it was Kingsley who spoke again. “It’s your birthday today, you should be out celebrating, not doing this report.”
He thought Granger would gasp incredulously at this massive injustice, but to his surprise, she arched an eyebrow. “It’s your birthday today?”
He shrugged. Why did it matter? No one ever cared, not least after his persona of a Hogwarts student had shattered before a Death Eater mask. Pansy was going to have her own party - Goyle had been invited. He could almost imagine Crabbe there too, lurking behind a curtain where it was hard to see him. They’d be there as two lost shadows, him and Crabbe. But Pansy wouldn’t even care.
Nobody remembered anymore, not even his mother. The Minister of Magic probably only remembered because he had to look through the resume of his most notorious employee about a hundred times each day to convince himself of the decision made.
It didn't surprise him that even logical people like Granger could embrace such an intangible concept, she who had Potter and Weasley to throw her a birthday bash complete with a library of encyclopaedias and a bunch of stupid house-elf lifesaving badges.
“You’re not supposed to work overtime on your birthday,” muttered Granger. “Get home, Malfoy.”
It was ridiculous that she kept to the most asinine of Ministry rules, including the unspoken ones. But for once, her being so rule-abiding was earning him a few hours of freedom from stifling whitewashed walls.
“And Happy Birthday.”
He stacked the files in one corner, kept the quill. But his ears were ringing with the last two words.
“But you’ve got to finish it at seven in the morning, Malfoy, no dawdling or trying to get out of-”
He really wished she would shut the bloody hell up.
Now, was that the first time he had spent his birthday wish on somebody else?
-2-
Plans, by silvia_elisa
Draco rushed to the lift in a futile attempt to catch it before it began its descent. He saw a hand stick out and stop the doors from closing as his shoes slid on the marble floor.
"In a hurry, Malfoy?"
He smirked at the man inside the lift.
"Yes, actually," he replied. "My fiancée is waiting for me, Potter."
Draco saw his former schoolmate roll his eyes and his smirk turned into a wide grin. He pushed a button on the wall, ready to pretend Potter wasn't sharing his air, but it seemed as his plan to be on time wasn't the only thing he hadn't been entitled to that evening.
"The latest intelligence has it your department is slacking off, Malfoy."
He wondered idly if Gryffindors were innately unable to issue a convincing threat.
"We're going through a dry spell," he drawled. "You would know what I'm talking about."
Potter frowned. "Why should I?"
"No need to get all defensive on me," he replied. "I'm sure you and your wife will rekindle the flame! After all, Valentine's Day is not too far ahead."
Draco didn't listen to whatever insults the other wizard threw at him, because the lift had finally reached the Atrium and he was racing again; he was late already, but he'd better not make matter worse by appearing to have taken his time. His was not the right woman to cross.
He reached the prearranged spot. It was dark all around him due to the fact that nobody used those Floo fireplaces anymore; some where out of order, others hadn't been cleaned in years, and the Ministry had other things to worry about than dusty old fireplaces in the back of the Atrium. Draco glanced around, and sure enough, a cloaked figure was leaning against one of the walls. He tidied his robes, racked his brain for plausible excuses, and walked forward.
His plan was simple enough, in his opinion. He'd sneak up on the unsuspecting and probably annoyed witch, take her in his strong, muscular arms, and snog her senseless. She wouldn't even remember why she had been angry with him! It was perfect.
Draco advanced on her and grabbed her by her shoulders, bringing their faces mere inches from one another.
"I'm here, honey," he whispered huskily.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, muffling her response. He manoeuvred his arms around her slim figure, biting her lower lip like he knew she liked; he congratulated himself when the witch moaned softly.
He released her from his grasp a moment later, listening closely to her heaving.
"Draco!" He heard someone call from behind him.
He turned around, curses for whoever was interrupting them already forming on his lips, but the words died in his throat when he realised who had been calling him.
"A- Asteria?" he stuttered.
The blonde giggled as she jogged up to her fiancé.
"Of course! Who else?" she said. "I'm so sorry I'm late, but Mother wouldn't stop talking about the flowers..."
Draco tuned the witch out to focus on the other one, standing right behind him. He stared at her blankly until she lowered her hood; at that, he gasped.
"Draco, don't be rude!" Asteria chided him. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger."
"Likewise," she said.
"I trust you received your invitation to the wedding?"
Granger smiled. "We did, thank you."
Draco couldn't take his eyes off the bushy-haired witch talking to his fiancée. There was no way he had been kissing Granger! Her lips couldn't have been that soft. Asteria! His fiancée's lips were what he should be thinking about, not Granger's!
"Well, Draco, let's go," Asteria said at last, tugging his arm.
He followed her, glancing one last time at the other witch.
Granger was wickedly smiling at him.
-3-
The Futility of Fighting, by Pathera
She has always known that when it comes to the war
(war, war like a cloud, a black cloud, a maelstrom)
they will be on different sides of the battlefield. She has always known that one day she will raise her wand and her lips will form words
(green words, killing words, green, green light like envy)
and her breath will catch, because the eyes of her opponent will be gray
(storm gray, like clouds, like fog, like mist, like rain, like).
She has always known that this would be true, yet when it happens, when fate pulls her gaze up and she meets that sharp gray
(like clouds, like storms, like ice, like)
she falters, breath catching in her throat. Her wand is at her side, held in a death-grip
(white-knuckles, death, yes, death-grip is accurate, irony, oh the irony)
and she can't bring herself to raise her wand. Her heart clenches-it's a physical pain, but one that shudders though the entirety of her existence. In the middle
of the mayhem
(war is chaos, war is mayhem, war is a storm that swirls and they are the eye)
they pause, staring at each other. Through the slits of the bone-white mask his eyes stare at her, and she can see the churning in them. She can read him, even if his face is hidden behind bone. She knows that she needs to focus-that this is war and she has to focus or die
(clarity, clear and sharp and death is like a mirror shard, bright and sharp and reflective)
but she can't. All that rolls through her mind is the single thought, that she can't raise her wand against him, that she won't. She doesn't care that he is supposed to be the enemy. She won't.
He stares at her, and then his hand rises, his wand points at her, aimed straight for her heart
(her heart, it's his and he knows it, and that wand is an arrow, and he wouldn't, he wouldn't, he)
and her automatic response is to raise her wand, to let her training wash over her, to be defensive, to strike before he can. But she won't. She suppresses the instincts, keeps her wand at her side, keeps her back straight and still, and she won't look away from him. She
(won't).
His eyes glare, and his mouth snarls, and his eyes
(gray, gray, gray, she could drown)
plead, and his mouth forms words
(green words, death words, green like envy, green like hate)
and she won't look away.
The spell flies towards her
(death, palpable, tangible, burning like fire, green)
and passes over her shoulder, missing her by inches, striking the man sneaking up behind her square in the chest. Still staring at him
(drowning, really)
she smoothly raises an eyebrow, as though completely unfazed
(but she's trembling, she's shaking, because death was so)
and he shakes his head
(close).
In a fluid motion
(like water, he's always fluid like that, like mercury, silver, silver, gray)
he pushes his hood back, revealing the shock of his bright silver-blonde hair. He pulls the bone-mask from his face and tosses it to the side, eyes never leaving her.
"No more." He says, and those words
(I love you)
are the only ones she needs. She knows. And there are no more words. They turn, pressing their backs to each other
(heat through fabric, heat, burning, life, red)
and they fire off a volley of spells. They see the bewildered looks of their allies, the shocked, nasty looks of those who realize the betrayal. They fight
(as war, war spins madly around them, the eye moving away, the wall of clouds bearing down)
to survive.
Trying to fight each other
(magnetism)
always was futile.
(Red green life death love hate
futility)
-4-
Some Things Muggles Do Better, by ningloreth
“Granger, you ready?”
It’s their second wedding anniversary and his mother has all but bankrupted his father putting on a celebratory banquet; he’s spent a whole week preparing his stupid speech; and Granger’s refused to show him what she’ll be wearing.
He is stressed.
“GRANGER!”
She walks into his dressing room wearing her new robes-but they’re not robes, they’re a Muggle evening gown of the softest cream velvet, cut to hug all of her curves and with a neckline that’s been cleverly designed-obviously by a Muggle man-to look as though it’s unbuttoned and falling open, affording him tantalising glimpses of the ivory silk bustier cupping her breasts...
“Bloody hell, Granger,” he mutters, pulling her down onto his lap, “there’s no way I’m letting you out of this room dressed like...” He frowns. “You have make-up on your tits.”
“It’s supposed to give a deep cleavage effect-is it too much?”
“Too much? Not if you’re happy for every man at the banquet to die of a hard-on.” He grimaces. “Obviously, not my father, or Potter, or Old Weasley-well, maybe Old Weasley, but not-”
“Don’t, Malfoy,”-she grabs his hand-“you’ll smudge it!”
She kisses his fingers and, keeping his hand at her mouth, she looks at him, speculatively.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m wondering whether to give you your anniversary present now.”
Yes, he mouths.
“Merlin, Malfoy, you’re such a kid! All right, wait here a minute.”
“I’ve no intention of going anywhere...”
He turns to the mirror, and works on his hair until she comes running back and, seating herself on his lap again, hands him a parcel wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a dark blue ribbon.
It’s obviously a book, but tucked under the ribbon there’s something else.
He pulls it out and looks at it-it’s white, about the length of a Muggle fountain pen but thicker, and it has a small hole, like a window, in its side. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she says, smiling. “I’ve already done it.”
“Done what?”
“Peed on it.”
“Granger!” He drops it into her lap.
“I’ve washed it since, silly.” She hands it back. “Do you see the two blue lines?”
“Of course. What are they?”
“Your son,” she says, proudly. “Well, evidence of your son.”
He stares at her, open-mouthed, and she laughs and wraps her arms around his neck. “It’s a Muggle pregnancy test, Malfoy. I’m pregnant.” She hugs him tightly.
“You mean,” he murmurs against her cheek, “you mean I’m going to be a father?”
“Well, technically, you are a father.” She leans back, and takes his hand, and places it on her stomach.
“Oh, Granger... Oh, Granger, Granger.” He suddenly pulls his hand away, panicking. “But I... We shouldn’t have... Granger, you should have told me before. Before I-”
She presses her finger to his lips. “It’s all right. Really. Open your other present.”
“What?”
“This.” She pulls the parcel from where it’s slipped down between them, and hands it to him. “Open it.”
“I know it’s a book,” he says, tearing off the paper. “A Muggle book...” He turns it over and reads its title. “Love-making during Pregnancy.”
“It takes you through each trimester, gives you lots of advice, and illustrates special positions...” She presses her lips to his ear. “Because I don’t want you finding alternative accommodation whilst I’m pregnant, Malfoy.”
“Granger!” He’s genuinely hurt-almost angry with her. “What do you think I am? I’d never-”
“That’s not what you said to me when we signed the Marriage Law contract,” she says. “If you won’t have sex with me, I’ll have to find someone else who will-that’s what you said.”
“I was an idiot when I said that! I didn’t know you when I said that-didn’t love you!” He grasps her hands, trying to make her understand. “I would never betray you, Granger, or little Scorpius. Never! I’d charm my own balls off before I did that.”
It takes her a moment to react. “Scorpius?”
“Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.”
“No.”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Granger-”
“It’s ridiculous.”
He says nothing-but he lets his determination show on his face.
She looks at him through narrowed eyes. “I’ve no choice, have I? You’d Confund me until it was too late to stop you.”
“I’d use an Imperius on you,” he says, “and make you smile throughout the naming ceremony.”
There’s an uneasy pause, because they both know that he just might. Then, “Well,” she says, “I suppose it’s no sillier than Draco Abraxas Malfoy.”
“Since I seem to be winning at the moment,” he says, “I’ll let that pass.”
“Remember it’s not my fault, Scorpius,” she says, patting her stomach, “when all the other kids make fun of you. Blame your father.”
He puts his hand over hers. “No one will make fun of a Malfoy, Granger.”
“Keep dreaming, Draco.”
She’s irresistible. He leans in to kiss her nose.
“Did you mean it?” she asks, cupping his face in her hands.
“Mean what?”
“That you’d hex your balls off?”
“Nah.” He smirks. “But I wouldn’t need to. You’ve got me so whipped, Granger, I don’t think it would work with anyone else.”
“Will it work with me, when I’m the size of a Muggle house?”
“Granger...” He imagines her, all warm and rounded, carrying his son, and immediately feels the answer. “It will work even better,” he says. Then he grins, holding up the book. “Do you want to try a bit of Muggle-style shagging,”-she scowls-“I mean, love-making?”
“We’d be late,” she reminds him. “And I’d be blamed, and your father would feel the need to read out our pre-nuptial agreement. Again.”
He leans in slowly, proudly, possessively. “Not this time, Granger,” he murmurs, nuzzling her neck and resting his hand on her stomach. “This time, you’ve got him. From now on, Hermione Granger, you’re a proper Malfoy.”
THE END
-5-
What If We Were Made For Each Other? by sarahyyy
Draco sighed and griped her wrist before she could leave the room. “Don’t go, Granger. You can’t walk away every time we have an argument.”
Hermione turned to look at Draco with incredulity. “Don’t you get it? We have to stop this…this thing between us! I’m marrying Ron in June.”
“You aren’t,” Draco said lowly and Hermione had to bite on her lip softly -startled, touched, upset, amused, she didn’t really know anymore since he had the stark ability to render her emotions jumbled- at the stark convincement in his voice, “You aren’t going to marry him because you can’t”
Hermione’s fists clenched in anger. How dare he assume that he knew what she could or couldn’t do?
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” she hissed softly at him.
Her let go of her wrists abruptly to pick up a chair near them before placing it in the middle of the large hotel room.
“Let’s play a game then, Granger,” she knew him well enough to know that his cheery tone was a mask for his anger, “It’s a mind-reading game. Here’s how it works. I read your mind without the help of Legilimency. If what I say is wrong, you take one step back…towards the doorway. I what I say is right, you take one step forwards towards the chair. If you reach the chair, you sit down. If you reach the door, you can go. Are you up for it, Granger?”
She glared at him. “I don’t have the time to deal with you right now, Malfoy.”
“Running into Weasley’s arms already?” Draco sneered, “Or are you just scared to listen to what I have to say?”
“Fine,” Hermione snapped, turning away from his eyes, “I’ll play your game. Read my mind, Malfoy.”
“Let’s start with the easy ones, shall we? You never meant for our one-night stand to turn into something more,” he said slowly, turning her head over to face him so that he could look straight into her eyes.
She snorted a laugh but took a step towards the chair anyway. Draco let his lips tip up in a wry smile.
“But you ended up enjoying yourself with me anyway,” he said with a small smile, “Isn’t that so?”
Again, she took a step towards the chair. “I’m beginning to think this game should be called ‘State Obvious Facts’ instead,” she said dryly.
He chuckled. “I know you watch me sometimes when you think that I’m asleep,” she took a step forwards, “And I know that I’m the highlight of your weekends after a long week at work.”
She took a step backwards towards the door. “Egotistical as usual, I see…”
“This game only works if you’re being truthful, Granger,” he said whilst giving her a mocking look.
“I am being truthful,” she insisted, shrugging.
He shook his head and hid a smile. “I know that you enjoy my sarcasm more than you let out and you often wish that there were more people who spoke like me.”
Grudgingly, she stepped forward.
“I know that two months ago when we were in Italy, you had a life-changing epiphany about me and this thing we have together,” he watched her as she stilled, “And I know that right after that you tried to distance yourself from me.”
She bit her lower lip but remained where she was standing.
“The game, Granger,” he prodded, “Walk.”
Two steps.
Forward.
“I know that you called Weasley as soon as you came back to London. I know that you asked him out. I know that’s why you refused to go to Greece with me,” he moved closer to her, “And I know why you did all that, Granger.”
“Malfoy-”
He shushed her. “Don’t. Let me finish.”
“I-” she started but he placed a finger on her lips to stop her.
“I know that you think of me when you’re with him and you feel bad about it. I know that when he asked you to marry him, you were shocked but you accepted anyway because you know people think that you are both ‘meant to be’. I know that I don’t give shit about what people think and I know that you don’t love him.”
“Please stop,” she pleaded weakly.
“I know why you can’t marry him and I know why you don’t love him,” he murmured firmly, pulling her flush against him, “The question is, Granger, do you?”
He felt rather than saw her nod.
“Say it, Granger, I want to hear it.”
Her hand moved up to cup his face and he leaned into her touch. “I think I’m in love with you.”
“Only think?” he teased with a smile.
She swatted his hand playfully. “Don’t push it, Malfoy,” she managed to get out before his lips met hers, devouring and teasing. When he pulled away to rain light kisses down her throat, she suddenly gasped, “Ron! How do I tell Ron?”
“Easy,” Draco smirked, “I took the liberty of informing him on your behalf already. As we speak, I believe he is in midst of figuring out how to disable the wards to your apartment.”
Scandalized, Hermione gaped. “Malfoy!”
“You had to tell him one way or another,” Draco shrugged, “I took care of it for you.”
“But you couldn’t have known-” she trailed off, caught for words, “I could have still decided to marry Ron!”
“What can I say?” Draco’s lips tipped up in a predatory smirk, “I like a good gamble. And it all worked out, no? Since you’re in my arms now and we have a Portkey to France in about an hour.”
“Who said I was going to France with you?” Hermione was still a little peeved that Draco had taken things into his own hands.
“How else are we supposed to get married?”
Hermione gaped. She tried to speak but no words would come out.
Draco laughed and pulled her towards him. It was time to kiss her into acquiescence.
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Complete rules and procedures can be found on the main voting page. To summarize:
1. To submit your votes for this category, copy and paste the code below into a comment to this post (will be screened), or send it in an email to dramioneawards[at]gmail[dot]com. No anonymous comments allowed!
2. You must vote for your top THREE favorite fics, and rank them with your top favorite fic in the #1 position.
3. When casting your vote, please use the number assigned to the fic, rather than writing out the whole title.
CODE (5c):
5c - Most Creative Ficlet:
1. (TOP CHOICE)
2.
3.
Return to Main Page
Nominees:
-1-
Draco's Wishes, by elektra30
Five.
There was a burst of ribbons, confetti and cream upon his face. He beamed as his mother swiped the thick froth off his face; there were bright moons of happiness bobbing around him too - Pansy, Greg, Vince. All of them clambered onto the long table, ready to unleash their breaths, only for his mother to whisper,
“A wish, dear, a wish!”
He wished that the four of them would always celebrate their birthdays together.
Ten.
“I’m going to Hogwarts and I’m going to be the youngest Seeker there!” He proudly brandished a brand new Cleansweep, its silver handle gleaming. In a flash, he hopped onto the broom and swerved around the huge backyard. From above, he could see that Vince the Crab was gaping like a goldfish, while Greg the Gargoyle was staring rigidly at it. When he landed, Pansy shrugged and said,
“Boys.”
Fifteen.
Presents upon presents heaped upon his bed. The right corner of his lips tugged upwards as he picked up a tiny velvet box with gilded edges. Good things always come in small - and shiny - packages. Crabbe and Goyle sat on their own poster beds, watching him carefully. He pulled out an ornate pendant, a antique golden skull resting in a black circle. His smile faded as he fingered the rough symbol.
During supper, he saw Potter laughing along with Weasley and Granger at the Gryffindor table, while at the Slytherin one, Crabbe and Goyle had their faces buried within their plates, while Pansy held her fingers to the light. His own fingers slipped into his robe pocket to trace the skull.
They were two boys whose fates were both laid out for them. Neither of them wanted the road laid out for them. But Potter had moments of happiness.
He closed his eyes, wishing.
Twenty.
Whether it was out of pity or really, truly, out of merit, he couldn’t care less. He had a job to support his mother now and it was a decent one. That was all that mattered.
“Malfoy, you’ve got ten minutes to finish up that report and that’s not going to happen if you’re continuing to stare into space.”
He didn’t answer, as always. But he took the quill anyway and dipped it in ink.
“I honestly don’t know why Kingsley wanted to put you here,” she went on, “when you completely don’t give a damn about whatever goes on here. This is Law Enforcement, Malfoy, not Silence Enforcement."
The edges of his mouth twitched. Silence Enforcement would definitely be torture for someone like her.
"That smirk wasted five seconds of your brainpower that could have been translated into better productivity for your work."
Unlike everybody else, she hadn't gone beyond insulting his intellectual capacity. She had always been treading carefully around the cracks, even though she tried to pretend she didn't see them.
While thinking, he didn't realise that the quill was trembling. A smudge appeared.
“Oh, look what you’ve done...”
“Malfoy?” It was Kingsley, walking by. Granger opened her mouth to complain further, but it was Kingsley who spoke again. “It’s your birthday today, you should be out celebrating, not doing this report.”
He thought Granger would gasp incredulously at this massive injustice, but to his surprise, she arched an eyebrow. “It’s your birthday today?”
He shrugged. Why did it matter? No one ever cared, not least after his persona of a Hogwarts student had shattered before a Death Eater mask. Pansy was going to have her own party - Goyle had been invited. He could almost imagine Crabbe there too, lurking behind a curtain where it was hard to see him. They’d be there as two lost shadows, him and Crabbe. But Pansy wouldn’t even care.
Nobody remembered anymore, not even his mother. The Minister of Magic probably only remembered because he had to look through the resume of his most notorious employee about a hundred times each day to convince himself of the decision made.
It didn't surprise him that even logical people like Granger could embrace such an intangible concept, she who had Potter and Weasley to throw her a birthday bash complete with a library of encyclopaedias and a bunch of stupid house-elf lifesaving badges.
“You’re not supposed to work overtime on your birthday,” muttered Granger. “Get home, Malfoy.”
It was ridiculous that she kept to the most asinine of Ministry rules, including the unspoken ones. But for once, her being so rule-abiding was earning him a few hours of freedom from stifling whitewashed walls.
“And Happy Birthday.”
He stacked the files in one corner, kept the quill. But his ears were ringing with the last two words.
“But you’ve got to finish it at seven in the morning, Malfoy, no dawdling or trying to get out of-”
He really wished she would shut the bloody hell up.
Now, was that the first time he had spent his birthday wish on somebody else?
-2-
Plans, by silvia_elisa
Draco rushed to the lift in a futile attempt to catch it before it began its descent. He saw a hand stick out and stop the doors from closing as his shoes slid on the marble floor.
"In a hurry, Malfoy?"
He smirked at the man inside the lift.
"Yes, actually," he replied. "My fiancée is waiting for me, Potter."
Draco saw his former schoolmate roll his eyes and his smirk turned into a wide grin. He pushed a button on the wall, ready to pretend Potter wasn't sharing his air, but it seemed as his plan to be on time wasn't the only thing he hadn't been entitled to that evening.
"The latest intelligence has it your department is slacking off, Malfoy."
He wondered idly if Gryffindors were innately unable to issue a convincing threat.
"We're going through a dry spell," he drawled. "You would know what I'm talking about."
Potter frowned. "Why should I?"
"No need to get all defensive on me," he replied. "I'm sure you and your wife will rekindle the flame! After all, Valentine's Day is not too far ahead."
Draco didn't listen to whatever insults the other wizard threw at him, because the lift had finally reached the Atrium and he was racing again; he was late already, but he'd better not make matter worse by appearing to have taken his time. His was not the right woman to cross.
He reached the prearranged spot. It was dark all around him due to the fact that nobody used those Floo fireplaces anymore; some where out of order, others hadn't been cleaned in years, and the Ministry had other things to worry about than dusty old fireplaces in the back of the Atrium. Draco glanced around, and sure enough, a cloaked figure was leaning against one of the walls. He tidied his robes, racked his brain for plausible excuses, and walked forward.
His plan was simple enough, in his opinion. He'd sneak up on the unsuspecting and probably annoyed witch, take her in his strong, muscular arms, and snog her senseless. She wouldn't even remember why she had been angry with him! It was perfect.
Draco advanced on her and grabbed her by her shoulders, bringing their faces mere inches from one another.
"I'm here, honey," he whispered huskily.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, muffling her response. He manoeuvred his arms around her slim figure, biting her lower lip like he knew she liked; he congratulated himself when the witch moaned softly.
He released her from his grasp a moment later, listening closely to her heaving.
"Draco!" He heard someone call from behind him.
He turned around, curses for whoever was interrupting them already forming on his lips, but the words died in his throat when he realised who had been calling him.
"A- Asteria?" he stuttered.
The blonde giggled as she jogged up to her fiancé.
"Of course! Who else?" she said. "I'm so sorry I'm late, but Mother wouldn't stop talking about the flowers..."
Draco tuned the witch out to focus on the other one, standing right behind him. He stared at her blankly until she lowered her hood; at that, he gasped.
"Draco, don't be rude!" Asteria chided him. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Granger."
"Likewise," she said.
"I trust you received your invitation to the wedding?"
Granger smiled. "We did, thank you."
Draco couldn't take his eyes off the bushy-haired witch talking to his fiancée. There was no way he had been kissing Granger! Her lips couldn't have been that soft. Asteria! His fiancée's lips were what he should be thinking about, not Granger's!
"Well, Draco, let's go," Asteria said at last, tugging his arm.
He followed her, glancing one last time at the other witch.
Granger was wickedly smiling at him.
-3-
The Futility of Fighting, by Pathera
She has always known that when it comes to the war
(war, war like a cloud, a black cloud, a maelstrom)
they will be on different sides of the battlefield. She has always known that one day she will raise her wand and her lips will form words
(green words, killing words, green, green light like envy)
and her breath will catch, because the eyes of her opponent will be gray
(storm gray, like clouds, like fog, like mist, like rain, like).
She has always known that this would be true, yet when it happens, when fate pulls her gaze up and she meets that sharp gray
(like clouds, like storms, like ice, like)
she falters, breath catching in her throat. Her wand is at her side, held in a death-grip
(white-knuckles, death, yes, death-grip is accurate, irony, oh the irony)
and she can't bring herself to raise her wand. Her heart clenches-it's a physical pain, but one that shudders though the entirety of her existence. In the middle
of the mayhem
(war is chaos, war is mayhem, war is a storm that swirls and they are the eye)
they pause, staring at each other. Through the slits of the bone-white mask his eyes stare at her, and she can see the churning in them. She can read him, even if his face is hidden behind bone. She knows that she needs to focus-that this is war and she has to focus or die
(clarity, clear and sharp and death is like a mirror shard, bright and sharp and reflective)
but she can't. All that rolls through her mind is the single thought, that she can't raise her wand against him, that she won't. She doesn't care that he is supposed to be the enemy. She won't.
He stares at her, and then his hand rises, his wand points at her, aimed straight for her heart
(her heart, it's his and he knows it, and that wand is an arrow, and he wouldn't, he wouldn't, he)
and her automatic response is to raise her wand, to let her training wash over her, to be defensive, to strike before he can. But she won't. She suppresses the instincts, keeps her wand at her side, keeps her back straight and still, and she won't look away from him. She
(won't).
His eyes glare, and his mouth snarls, and his eyes
(gray, gray, gray, she could drown)
plead, and his mouth forms words
(green words, death words, green like envy, green like hate)
and she won't look away.
The spell flies towards her
(death, palpable, tangible, burning like fire, green)
and passes over her shoulder, missing her by inches, striking the man sneaking up behind her square in the chest. Still staring at him
(drowning, really)
she smoothly raises an eyebrow, as though completely unfazed
(but she's trembling, she's shaking, because death was so)
and he shakes his head
(close).
In a fluid motion
(like water, he's always fluid like that, like mercury, silver, silver, gray)
he pushes his hood back, revealing the shock of his bright silver-blonde hair. He pulls the bone-mask from his face and tosses it to the side, eyes never leaving her.
"No more." He says, and those words
(I love you)
are the only ones she needs. She knows. And there are no more words. They turn, pressing their backs to each other
(heat through fabric, heat, burning, life, red)
and they fire off a volley of spells. They see the bewildered looks of their allies, the shocked, nasty looks of those who realize the betrayal. They fight
(as war, war spins madly around them, the eye moving away, the wall of clouds bearing down)
to survive.
Trying to fight each other
(magnetism)
always was futile.
(Red green life death love hate
futility)
-4-
Some Things Muggles Do Better, by ningloreth
“Granger, you ready?”
It’s their second wedding anniversary and his mother has all but bankrupted his father putting on a celebratory banquet; he’s spent a whole week preparing his stupid speech; and Granger’s refused to show him what she’ll be wearing.
He is stressed.
“GRANGER!”
She walks into his dressing room wearing her new robes-but they’re not robes, they’re a Muggle evening gown of the softest cream velvet, cut to hug all of her curves and with a neckline that’s been cleverly designed-obviously by a Muggle man-to look as though it’s unbuttoned and falling open, affording him tantalising glimpses of the ivory silk bustier cupping her breasts...
“Bloody hell, Granger,” he mutters, pulling her down onto his lap, “there’s no way I’m letting you out of this room dressed like...” He frowns. “You have make-up on your tits.”
“It’s supposed to give a deep cleavage effect-is it too much?”
“Too much? Not if you’re happy for every man at the banquet to die of a hard-on.” He grimaces. “Obviously, not my father, or Potter, or Old Weasley-well, maybe Old Weasley, but not-”
“Don’t, Malfoy,”-she grabs his hand-“you’ll smudge it!”
She kisses his fingers and, keeping his hand at her mouth, she looks at him, speculatively.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m wondering whether to give you your anniversary present now.”
Yes, he mouths.
“Merlin, Malfoy, you’re such a kid! All right, wait here a minute.”
“I’ve no intention of going anywhere...”
He turns to the mirror, and works on his hair until she comes running back and, seating herself on his lap again, hands him a parcel wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a dark blue ribbon.
It’s obviously a book, but tucked under the ribbon there’s something else.
He pulls it out and looks at it-it’s white, about the length of a Muggle fountain pen but thicker, and it has a small hole, like a window, in its side. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she says, smiling. “I’ve already done it.”
“Done what?”
“Peed on it.”
“Granger!” He drops it into her lap.
“I’ve washed it since, silly.” She hands it back. “Do you see the two blue lines?”
“Of course. What are they?”
“Your son,” she says, proudly. “Well, evidence of your son.”
He stares at her, open-mouthed, and she laughs and wraps her arms around his neck. “It’s a Muggle pregnancy test, Malfoy. I’m pregnant.” She hugs him tightly.
“You mean,” he murmurs against her cheek, “you mean I’m going to be a father?”
“Well, technically, you are a father.” She leans back, and takes his hand, and places it on her stomach.
“Oh, Granger... Oh, Granger, Granger.” He suddenly pulls his hand away, panicking. “But I... We shouldn’t have... Granger, you should have told me before. Before I-”
She presses her finger to his lips. “It’s all right. Really. Open your other present.”
“What?”
“This.” She pulls the parcel from where it’s slipped down between them, and hands it to him. “Open it.”
“I know it’s a book,” he says, tearing off the paper. “A Muggle book...” He turns it over and reads its title. “Love-making during Pregnancy.”
“It takes you through each trimester, gives you lots of advice, and illustrates special positions...” She presses her lips to his ear. “Because I don’t want you finding alternative accommodation whilst I’m pregnant, Malfoy.”
“Granger!” He’s genuinely hurt-almost angry with her. “What do you think I am? I’d never-”
“That’s not what you said to me when we signed the Marriage Law contract,” she says. “If you won’t have sex with me, I’ll have to find someone else who will-that’s what you said.”
“I was an idiot when I said that! I didn’t know you when I said that-didn’t love you!” He grasps her hands, trying to make her understand. “I would never betray you, Granger, or little Scorpius. Never! I’d charm my own balls off before I did that.”
It takes her a moment to react. “Scorpius?”
“Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.”
“No.”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Granger-”
“It’s ridiculous.”
He says nothing-but he lets his determination show on his face.
She looks at him through narrowed eyes. “I’ve no choice, have I? You’d Confund me until it was too late to stop you.”
“I’d use an Imperius on you,” he says, “and make you smile throughout the naming ceremony.”
There’s an uneasy pause, because they both know that he just might. Then, “Well,” she says, “I suppose it’s no sillier than Draco Abraxas Malfoy.”
“Since I seem to be winning at the moment,” he says, “I’ll let that pass.”
“Remember it’s not my fault, Scorpius,” she says, patting her stomach, “when all the other kids make fun of you. Blame your father.”
He puts his hand over hers. “No one will make fun of a Malfoy, Granger.”
“Keep dreaming, Draco.”
She’s irresistible. He leans in to kiss her nose.
“Did you mean it?” she asks, cupping his face in her hands.
“Mean what?”
“That you’d hex your balls off?”
“Nah.” He smirks. “But I wouldn’t need to. You’ve got me so whipped, Granger, I don’t think it would work with anyone else.”
“Will it work with me, when I’m the size of a Muggle house?”
“Granger...” He imagines her, all warm and rounded, carrying his son, and immediately feels the answer. “It will work even better,” he says. Then he grins, holding up the book. “Do you want to try a bit of Muggle-style shagging,”-she scowls-“I mean, love-making?”
“We’d be late,” she reminds him. “And I’d be blamed, and your father would feel the need to read out our pre-nuptial agreement. Again.”
He leans in slowly, proudly, possessively. “Not this time, Granger,” he murmurs, nuzzling her neck and resting his hand on her stomach. “This time, you’ve got him. From now on, Hermione Granger, you’re a proper Malfoy.”
THE END
-5-
What If We Were Made For Each Other? by sarahyyy
Draco sighed and griped her wrist before she could leave the room. “Don’t go, Granger. You can’t walk away every time we have an argument.”
Hermione turned to look at Draco with incredulity. “Don’t you get it? We have to stop this…this thing between us! I’m marrying Ron in June.”
“You aren’t,” Draco said lowly and Hermione had to bite on her lip softly -startled, touched, upset, amused, she didn’t really know anymore since he had the stark ability to render her emotions jumbled- at the stark convincement in his voice, “You aren’t going to marry him because you can’t”
Hermione’s fists clenched in anger. How dare he assume that he knew what she could or couldn’t do?
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” she hissed softly at him.
Her let go of her wrists abruptly to pick up a chair near them before placing it in the middle of the large hotel room.
“Let’s play a game then, Granger,” she knew him well enough to know that his cheery tone was a mask for his anger, “It’s a mind-reading game. Here’s how it works. I read your mind without the help of Legilimency. If what I say is wrong, you take one step back…towards the doorway. I what I say is right, you take one step forwards towards the chair. If you reach the chair, you sit down. If you reach the door, you can go. Are you up for it, Granger?”
She glared at him. “I don’t have the time to deal with you right now, Malfoy.”
“Running into Weasley’s arms already?” Draco sneered, “Or are you just scared to listen to what I have to say?”
“Fine,” Hermione snapped, turning away from his eyes, “I’ll play your game. Read my mind, Malfoy.”
“Let’s start with the easy ones, shall we? You never meant for our one-night stand to turn into something more,” he said slowly, turning her head over to face him so that he could look straight into her eyes.
She snorted a laugh but took a step towards the chair anyway. Draco let his lips tip up in a wry smile.
“But you ended up enjoying yourself with me anyway,” he said with a small smile, “Isn’t that so?”
Again, she took a step towards the chair. “I’m beginning to think this game should be called ‘State Obvious Facts’ instead,” she said dryly.
He chuckled. “I know you watch me sometimes when you think that I’m asleep,” she took a step forwards, “And I know that I’m the highlight of your weekends after a long week at work.”
She took a step backwards towards the door. “Egotistical as usual, I see…”
“This game only works if you’re being truthful, Granger,” he said whilst giving her a mocking look.
“I am being truthful,” she insisted, shrugging.
He shook his head and hid a smile. “I know that you enjoy my sarcasm more than you let out and you often wish that there were more people who spoke like me.”
Grudgingly, she stepped forward.
“I know that two months ago when we were in Italy, you had a life-changing epiphany about me and this thing we have together,” he watched her as she stilled, “And I know that right after that you tried to distance yourself from me.”
She bit her lower lip but remained where she was standing.
“The game, Granger,” he prodded, “Walk.”
Two steps.
Forward.
“I know that you called Weasley as soon as you came back to London. I know that you asked him out. I know that’s why you refused to go to Greece with me,” he moved closer to her, “And I know why you did all that, Granger.”
“Malfoy-”
He shushed her. “Don’t. Let me finish.”
“I-” she started but he placed a finger on her lips to stop her.
“I know that you think of me when you’re with him and you feel bad about it. I know that when he asked you to marry him, you were shocked but you accepted anyway because you know people think that you are both ‘meant to be’. I know that I don’t give shit about what people think and I know that you don’t love him.”
“Please stop,” she pleaded weakly.
“I know why you can’t marry him and I know why you don’t love him,” he murmured firmly, pulling her flush against him, “The question is, Granger, do you?”
He felt rather than saw her nod.
“Say it, Granger, I want to hear it.”
Her hand moved up to cup his face and he leaned into her touch. “I think I’m in love with you.”
“Only think?” he teased with a smile.
She swatted his hand playfully. “Don’t push it, Malfoy,” she managed to get out before his lips met hers, devouring and teasing. When he pulled away to rain light kisses down her throat, she suddenly gasped, “Ron! How do I tell Ron?”
“Easy,” Draco smirked, “I took the liberty of informing him on your behalf already. As we speak, I believe he is in midst of figuring out how to disable the wards to your apartment.”
Scandalized, Hermione gaped. “Malfoy!”
“You had to tell him one way or another,” Draco shrugged, “I took care of it for you.”
“But you couldn’t have known-” she trailed off, caught for words, “I could have still decided to marry Ron!”
“What can I say?” Draco’s lips tipped up in a predatory smirk, “I like a good gamble. And it all worked out, no? Since you’re in my arms now and we have a Portkey to France in about an hour.”
“Who said I was going to France with you?” Hermione was still a little peeved that Draco had taken things into his own hands.
“How else are we supposed to get married?”
Hermione gaped. She tried to speak but no words would come out.
Draco laughed and pulled her towards him. It was time to kiss her into acquiescence.
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