The Papered Prince
Title: The Papered Prince
Author: somandalicious
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1499
Notes/Warning: Thank you floorcoaster and pokeystar for the stellar beta and spadul for the musing. I want to feed you all fancy lobster dinners. For dramiondrabble : the prompt -- 18. Get a grip, people hate sissies. No-one's ever gonna shag you if you cry all the time. - Love Actually
Summary: Nobody should cry on Christmas.
Draco Malfoy was wearing a cerulean papered crown trimmed with gold foil. It was tremendously garish, sat lopsided on his head, and mussed his shockingly snow blonde hair. He was smiling and laughing, completely handsome, roguish and carefree. It was all strangely spectacular because it caused everyone to want to be around him, to be presented with the occasion to laugh, sing and dance in his presence, as if he was the semblance of Christmas cheer. Strange. A top-notch spectacle.
At least that was the reason Hermione Granger used to justify her blatant staring, because really, who would ever imagine that Malfoy would be completely terrific at merry-making? Certainly not her, but then again, she really didn’t know much about him other than the fact that he was usually a total and utter sod. One that had been irrevocably blessed with the fittest bum in all of England.
Hermione crinkled her nose. She really ought to stop thinking of him so…sexually. It was abnormal and unhealthy. Especially for her, since she hated him. Well, she tried to maintain that pretense. She had never really hated anyone. Not truly. Particularly Draco Malfoy. In fact, she was certain that she fancied him, although it was purely superficial. He had lovely aesthetics.
Pursing her lips as she glanced down at her empty red party cup, it occurred to her that not only was she still very thirsty, but that perhaps she needed more than just prim, proper, punch. It was the Department’s Christmas party after all, and it would be perfectly acceptable for her to indulge in a thorough inebriation. Holiday cheer, she could say, and she was sure a shot or two wouldn’t put her on Santa’s Naughty List.
Besides, she really needed the courage. Because tonight was the night. She was going to seduce him. She was a witch, and a rather pretty one too, so she freshened up her wiles and prepared to put them to use. He was nothing more than a virile young wizard, and he would certainly fall to her charms. What man could resist? Of course, those were Harry Potter’s words, and at the time that he had spoken them to her, Hermione was sure that he was merely patronizing her so that she would get lost and he could shag Parkinson. This was all speculation, and Hermione wasn’t one to spread rumors. And there were lots of dark corners for covert trysts, and coincidentally neither Harry nor Pansy could be found.
Glancing at Draco one more time, Hermione sighed. It really was a now-or-never sort of thing, and no matter how much alcohol she imbibed it wouldn’t salve the anxiety. Actually, the more she considered it, she realized that she wouldn’t want to face the humility that would surely arrive with sobriety. So there was only one way about it, yeah? She just had to march right up to him and tell him that she really liked his posterior and thought he had lovely eyes and that she wanted to shag him into oblivion. Or tell him simply Merry Christmas. Whichever.
Tossing her cup, Hermione took a cleansing breath, pinched her cheeks, adjusted her jumper, and patted her curls. Then she bit her bottom lip and took a brave step forward. Yet, when her searching gaze found Draco, her plan and desires and fancy all crashed down around her sensible shoes.
He was leaning against the wall, an amused smirk gracing his handsome face, his hands shoved boyishly in his trouser pockets, and Lavender Brown running her hand down the dark brown jumper he wore. That two-bit slag.
Immediately Hermione felt the old familiar clenching of nauseating envy, of static wretchedness, of utter and pathetic defeat. Her esophagus was closing around her vocal cords, and they lumped like immobile rocks at her uvula. She wanted to retch, to cry out with the dry heaves of an unrequited broken heart.
It just wasn’t fair that he should prefer Lavender. Hermione felt as if she was a tarnished silver spoon looked over for the sparkle and glitter of a plastic spork. Yeah, sure, a spork was very accommodating for many purposes. But cheap and good for only one use. A tarnished silver spoon was a treasure untold, a hidden surprise, and a prize to cherish. That was the thing though; men wanted something they didn’t have to work for, that came easily and didn’t cause a fuss or a hassle. Men like Ron and now Draco who cared nothing for romance and passion. For depth and chemistry between two hearts.
Hermione felt the embarrassing sting of rejection in her eyes. Sucking in a wrecked breath, she pivoted quickly and tore through the party, shoving merry-makers out of the way. Causing a scene. Making a spectacle of herself. But she didn’t care. She just wanted to get away. To hide from the cruelness of her heart and all it desires.
The coat room sufficed immensely, and once she was sure no clandestine lovers about, that Harry and Parkinson weren’t present to witness her foolishness, she let her emotions get the best of her. Slumping behind the rack of coats, she cried with great drops of tears and bone wracking sobs. Completely unadulterated.
In her unabashed outburst, she considered that her feelings for Draco Malfoy were more than a passing fancy. That perhaps they ran deeper, like a river of Attraction heading for the Sea of Ultimate Affection and Adoration. She couldn’t logically believe, though, that she would love someone who she didn’t really know. What she did know of him wasn’t even nice. In fact. Draco Malfoy was a brat.
Hermione sniffed, her sorrow ebbing.
No, he was more than that. He was a spoiled, pointy-faced toff that probably chose tarts like Lavender because he knew he didn’t deserve such goods as Hermione.
She let a small laugh.
That was it.
Hermione Granger was better than the likes of Draco Malfoy! Yeah.
Suddenly, the coat room was very bright.
“Granger?”
Hermione winced. “What, Malfoy?”
“Get your arse out here. You are behaving atrociously,” he told her. It was mostly obnoxious, but with currents of playfulness and affection.
“Piss off.” She wasn’t emotionally balanced enough to look at him or talk to him or anything. She was busy trying to hate him.
He chuckled, and it was heaven in her ears. Hermione closed her eyes and bit down on her bottom lip. The bastard really needed to learn to follow directions, but instead, he was searching for her. Scraping the hangers along the racks and grating on her nerves.
She didn’t move, and some hidden part of her was anticipating his discovery. It was really anti-climatic when he did though; he merely looked down his nose and shook his head. “You look disgusting.”
He really liked to kick her while she was down. Honestly, what did she see in this bloke? Surely there were nicer ones out there. Somewhere. She wiped her nose and looked away from him. “I think your paper hat looks ridiculous, but clearly you like having cheap, needless things hanging all over you. So I hadn’t thought you needed telling.”
The amusement dissolved from his face and his nose twitched. “You saw me with Brown,” he affirmed.
Hermione’s brows rose mockingly. “Oh? You admit to being partial to rubbish?”
He grimaced as he squatted in front of her. “Knock it off, Granger. When did you become such a harpy? No-one will shag you if you are silly like this.”
She wasn’t sure what about his statement gave her occasion to snap. But it did. Suddenly her tears were forgotten, and words were exploding from her mouth in a hectic lava of incoherency and expletives. She told him everything she felt; the good, the bad, and even the ugly. It was all raw truths. Her eyes were burning with the passion that only love and hate can inspire, and then quite unexpectedly, he kissed her.
He just put his mouth on hers, without any preamble or ado.
She blinked with surprise, her parted lips still pressed against his, and she swore that she was locked with a body binder. She couldn’t respond, she couldn’t comprehend anything, and just before she got her wits together and realized all her dreams were coming true, he broke away and apologized.
“You’re sorry??” Hermione sputtered.
“I shouldn’t have taken such liberties when I wasn’t sure … if… you … reciprocated my feelings,” he said gently, and although it didn’t really sound like an apology, the contrition was written on his face.
“I do,” she whispered.
“What did you say?” he asked, his handsome face contorting with puzzlement.
Hermione never spoke. Instead she threw herself at him and began to snog him thoroughly. After all, she was a smart witch and knew the shortest distance between two points was a straight line and the best way to make your intentions known. And at Christmas, a witch should always be straightforward.