Post by jazzyjess on Aug 12, 2011 3:41:33 GMT -8
Title: Something From Nothing
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild Language
Pairings: DHr
Summary: In which Draco burns the cookie sheets, a great-aunt dies, and everybody loves Jed. Written for the Love Potions dmhgficexchange.
-
Something From Nothing
Draco tripped over the body. It was late and it was pouring, and the chocolate colour of her hair was a sharp contrast to the dull grey of the cement. In fact, he would have let himself land on her if he hadn't registered that it was something live, instead twisting his wrist and bruising his knees when he sprawled crossways over the limp figure. "What the hell are you doing here?" he muttered, staring down into honey-coloured eyes as they gazed luminously back at him.
With a groan, he hauled himself to his sore knees, propping himself back on his heels and lifting a hand to his wet hair. "Well, what the hell. Let's get you inside."
He considered it a sign that she had collapsed right in front of his building. It was a struggle to lift her from the cold ground, and from the whimpering noises he deducted that she'd probably broken a leg at some point, but eventually he managed to haul her through the doors and up to the second floor. Fumbling in one pocket for his key, and then, upon neglecting to find it, on top of the doorframe for the spare, Draco muttered inaudible obscenities as he dragged her through his flat and deposited her in a heap on the living-room rug.
"For God's sake, you didn’t look that heavy out on the street." It wasn't as though she was paying any attention to him – she simply stared at him, eyes glazed, until he dragged the ratty afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it atop her thin, shaking body. "You’re going to fall off the couch if I put you up there," he explained in a short, abrupt tone of voice, "And I doubt my delicate arms'll handle lifting you again tonight."
Those brown eyes blinked once, trustingly, before closing in a deep sleep.
At precisely nine o'clock the next morning, Hermione Granger was seated across from her childhood nemesis, and the dog gazed pitifully up at her from the cavity beneath the sink. "Draco," she said patiently, hands clasped loosely on the pathetic excuse for a dining table, "You can't hire me to help you around a no-pets-in-flat rule. That is not what I do for a living. You could hire me to ensure that the abusers pay for the vet bills. You could even hire me to create a case were the dog to attack you. But you can't hire me to make sure the landlord doesn't throw you out for keeping her here."
Sulkily, Draco glared at her from under thick lashes. "Granger, look. I found a starving dalmation – "
"A Labrador retriever, actually – "
" – outside of my apartment building – "
"Well, she was outside of the Laundromat next door – "
" – I've fed her some bacon – "
"That's not proper dog food – "
" – and invested in a collar – "
"I wouldn't call a piece of rope– "
" – but she needs a home – "
"I could give you the name of several shelters who take homeless and abused dogs – "
" – and I'm damn well not taking her to the shelter she probably already escaped from. "
"Now, Draco, you can't assume that – "
"She's smart enough to have escaped from a shelter!"
"She's a dog, Draco, not – "
"I've considered all angles – "
"You've considered all angles – "
" – and I'd like to keep her – "
"Have you considered, even for a moment – "
" – she's got a bed – "
"You've got to think about – "
" – I can afford the Healer's fees – "
"They're called veter – "
" – it's Valentine’s Day – "
"It's January the nineteenth!"
"I've named her Beatrice."
"You've… what? "
--
Beatrice was not a dignified enough name for a dog as handsome as theirs. Hermione was positive that the dog agreed with her in that regard. It took the two of them, much complaining, whining, bribery and threats involved on the side of the human, before their roommate had finally relented. Now, exactly three years after Draco had "adopted" her, a shiny, red leather collar was clasped around the Lab's neck. Glinting metal tags dangled sophisticatedly from the ring, though both sides of the identification were needed for her name.
"Well, Jed," Draco said, leaning back on the ratty couch and propping his feet on the scarred and chipped table, "Looks like it's just you and me tonight. Granger's up to her ears in paper, the telly's lost its ears, and it's pouring outside. Nothing for us to do here but kick back our feet and have a good old doggie nap."
"Think again, buster." The brunette towered in the doorway, the elastic around her hair doing nothing to prevent the bushy brown mass from sticking out every which way. Hands plopped onto fists, and a grim expression settled itself onto unforgiving features. "You, get out of my house. And take her with you. I can't stand her barking when I'm trying to work."
The rumours that had spread around Hogwarts, so many years ago, were true. Draco was a first-hand witness – Hermione Granger was dangerous when she was frazzled, stressed, or simply behind.
Just as she opened her mouth again, Draco got to his feet, lifting a hand in a gesture of peace. "I'm going, woman, I'm going. C'mon, Jed." Jed froze, body lowered halfway to the floor, half of her body already in the hall until Hermione turned her blazing eye in that direction.
"Princess Jedidiah Francesca Emmaline the Fourth! Draco Malfoy, you will turn your tail and march to that fireplace, and if Harry kicks you out, you will go to Ron's, and if Ron kicks you out, you will go to Neville's, and if Neville kicks you out you will sit in the Laundromat and stare at the drying machines until precisely eleven o'clock, at which time you will be allowed back into this apartment. Am I clear?" Without waiting for an answer, she spun on her heel, marching like the fiercest of war captains back into the miniscule kitchen.
--
--
Hermione started the day off like any other – gasping for breath as she squirmed beneath the suffocating mass on her chest.
"Jed!" Pausing for a deep inhale, she put all of her energy into pushing at the deadweight. "Jed, get up!" A large eye opened, gazed solemnly at her mistress, and then the large mouth opened as she yawned a horrifically smelly breath into Hermione's face. "Augh!" At the sound, mixing both disgust and frustration, Jed slowly stood, unfolding herself and hopping to the floor. Both females stretched simultaneously, yawning again as they did so, and as Jed padded out of the room, Hermione slipped her feet into the faded blue house shoes next to the bed. February the thirteenth, her brain registered, and nothing's different.
The bed next to her was empty.
Moments later, she grimaced as water left the showerhead, piercing needles of moisture striking her back. Draco was supposed to get her a new one, one with a softer spray. But he'd forgotten, again.
Just as he'd forgotten that her hot water tank was this small, and when the warmth was gone, it was gone.
Still, she finished out her shower, tightlipped but refusing to complain, just as it had been for the past who-knew-how-long. There was some sort of familiarity in the routine, something that she couldn't quite place her finger on. Something that she wasn't sure she wanted to place her finger on. There was the chance that she wouldn't like the result.
A faint smell wafted into the bedroom as Hermione dragged a comb through her slightly damp hair – a comb that Draco had forgotten to put back on her dresser, and so her hair was nearly dry by the time she found it under the bed – a smell that vaguely resembled coffee mixing with something burning. She frowned, and moved to the doorway, facing the kitchen as the scent became stronger. There hadn't been a smell when she'd awoken, had there? And Draco should already be at the Ministry for his six o'clock shift. Cautiously, Hermione peered into her kitchen, and closed her eyes in a weary gesture of acceptance.
A pot of coffee it was, but the thick brew inside the pot didn't look like her usual store. Had she forgotten to preset the automatic coffeemaker? Pouring herself a cup and taking a sip – it tasted like hot mud, but she'd had worse – Hermione leaned against the counter to assess the damage. With sharp eyes, she took in the rest of the disaster that was her kitchen - a plate of cold, burnt toast sat untouched on the table, each slice of bread charred to a crisp; a tall glass of milk was near the oven, warming in the morning sun; a broken bowl was dumped haphazardly into the stainless steel sink.
But worse still was the smell of something burnt, and it wasn't the toast. It was coming from her oven. Inside her oven. Pulling open the door took far more courage than she'd admit, but when she caught a glimpse of what was inside, it was all she could do to go through the motions and turn off the heat, close the door, and find a chair to sit in.
--
"I didn't go to work today."
Obviously. Briefly, Draco wondered how Elmwood, Fitch and Granger was functioning without Granger herself there. He dismissed the idea after envisioning her two elderly partners, running around without their trousers.
"Those were my mother's best cookie sheets."
It had taken four and a half hours, but she was speaking to him.
"Yes, well, I didn't know they were in there."
Silence.
"Where's Jed?"
"At Harry's."
So maybe it was through a heavy oak door, one of the nicest furnishings in their tight-pursed little flat. But she was speaking to him.
"Why did you even turn the oven on?"
"To cook something."
"What happened?"
"I forgot."
Really, who saw that one coming?
--
At three in the morning on February the fourteenth, Hermione tripped over the body of her roommate-boyfriend-thing – she never did know whether they were dating or just sleeping together. "Well, for God's sake, Draco!" she scolded, picking herself back up and brushing off her old pajama bottoms. "Why are you laying across my doorway?"
He stood, massaging a sore spot on his leg where her toes had connected with his thigh. "Wuh time'zit? Where yuh goin'?"
"The morgue." By this time, Hermione was in the living room, sitting on the couch to pull on her scuffed running shoes.
The telly-fone had rang? And he hadn't heard it? "Granger! Nngh... Granger! Where are you going?"
"The morgue," she snapped again, snatching her jacket from the hook behind the door just before she wrenched it open.
"Why?" He was dogging her heels, pulling on one shoe and his snug woollen cap.
"Because Great Aunt Josephine died."
"Josephine? The one with the – "
"I don't have time to talk to you about this."
"But, Granger – "
"Shut up if you want to come. Taxi!"
"Why don't you just--"
"I'm not, Draco Malfoy, going to Apparate in the middle of a street full of muggles!"
After that, he kept his mouth closed.
--
The room was cool, and Great Aunt Josephine's pale complexion clashed horribly with the dull silver of the table she was laid out upon. The walls were a stark grey, and the heavy sheet covering her stiff body was crinkled in several places.
All of this, Draco took in with unblinking eyes. He could barely remember meeting her, way back when. If his memory wasn't failing him, Hermione herself had only met the woman twice.
Hermione stood in the middle of the room, arms folded across her chest and a business-like look on her face. "Yes, this is my great-aunt," she told the attendant, a frown dimpling her forehead. "I'd like – yes, of course. Thank you."
Draco wondered if maybe he should hug her or something.
"You know, Great Aunt Josephine made the most god-awful bread, do you remember?"
Yes, he remembered. That was what he'd started to ask earlier. Was she the one with the bread? Wisely, he didn't answer, and let her talk.
"She used to put in peanut butter and marmalade and anything else she could find. Do you remember the chocolate loaf? I don't know if I've tasted anything more disgusting in my life." Hermione turned to her companion, and a sheen of tears had glossed over her eyes, though her voice remained steady. "Or the one with the walnuts."
"Except she forgot to take them out of the shells before putting them in the chopper."
"And she'd wear that awful dress. Those horrid prints."
"She had two."
"How do you know?"
"She showed me. One was orange floral, and the other was purple and green pinstriped."
"She loved those damned dresses." Relieved, because she was no longer in danger of crying, Hermione turned to Draco and smoothed out a wrinkle in yesterday's shirt. "It's cold out there. Especially at this hour. I'm surprised you came."
"You needed me," was the simple response. "So I came."
"Sometimes I want to kill you," Hermione murmured. "You make me so upset, and you never remember the important things. Today's Valentine's Day, you know. Maybe we could go to a picture show. Or a dinner. A fancy dinner would be nice. With candles. And some nice champagne."
"We could get married."
When Hermione didn't reply, Draco frowned. So maybe he'd forgotten her last birthday, and the day that marked two years of rooming together. And… maybe he'd forgotten about the damn showerhead, but he'd deal with that later. But the least she could do was answer when he proposed.
"I said, we – "
"Stop. Before you say one more word, stop. And look around you."
So Draco stopped, and he looked. And when he took in Great Aunt Josephine's perpetual frown even on her stone-cold face, he grinned – a real, genuine, look-I'm-human grin. "She doesn't mind, see. No protests from that one."
"Do you really want me to marry you, Draco?"
"Have you got anything better to do?"
"Well… no." She linked her arm through his. "I wonder how Jed will handle the news."
"She's a dog, Hermione, not a – "
"Oh, shut up."
"You know, there's this question I've been dying to ask."
"Is it the 'will-you-marry-me' thing? Because we've already moved on past that."
"What ever happened to Princess Jedidiah Francesca Emmaline the First, Second, and Third?"
_ _ _ _
Final Notes/Disclaimers:
The proposal in the morgue comes from Desperate Housewives.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild Language
Pairings: DHr
Summary: In which Draco burns the cookie sheets, a great-aunt dies, and everybody loves Jed. Written for the Love Potions dmhgficexchange.
-
Something From Nothing
Draco tripped over the body. It was late and it was pouring, and the chocolate colour of her hair was a sharp contrast to the dull grey of the cement. In fact, he would have let himself land on her if he hadn't registered that it was something live, instead twisting his wrist and bruising his knees when he sprawled crossways over the limp figure. "What the hell are you doing here?" he muttered, staring down into honey-coloured eyes as they gazed luminously back at him.
With a groan, he hauled himself to his sore knees, propping himself back on his heels and lifting a hand to his wet hair. "Well, what the hell. Let's get you inside."
He considered it a sign that she had collapsed right in front of his building. It was a struggle to lift her from the cold ground, and from the whimpering noises he deducted that she'd probably broken a leg at some point, but eventually he managed to haul her through the doors and up to the second floor. Fumbling in one pocket for his key, and then, upon neglecting to find it, on top of the doorframe for the spare, Draco muttered inaudible obscenities as he dragged her through his flat and deposited her in a heap on the living-room rug.
"For God's sake, you didn’t look that heavy out on the street." It wasn't as though she was paying any attention to him – she simply stared at him, eyes glazed, until he dragged the ratty afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it atop her thin, shaking body. "You’re going to fall off the couch if I put you up there," he explained in a short, abrupt tone of voice, "And I doubt my delicate arms'll handle lifting you again tonight."
Those brown eyes blinked once, trustingly, before closing in a deep sleep.
At precisely nine o'clock the next morning, Hermione Granger was seated across from her childhood nemesis, and the dog gazed pitifully up at her from the cavity beneath the sink. "Draco," she said patiently, hands clasped loosely on the pathetic excuse for a dining table, "You can't hire me to help you around a no-pets-in-flat rule. That is not what I do for a living. You could hire me to ensure that the abusers pay for the vet bills. You could even hire me to create a case were the dog to attack you. But you can't hire me to make sure the landlord doesn't throw you out for keeping her here."
Sulkily, Draco glared at her from under thick lashes. "Granger, look. I found a starving dalmation – "
"A Labrador retriever, actually – "
" – outside of my apartment building – "
"Well, she was outside of the Laundromat next door – "
" – I've fed her some bacon – "
"That's not proper dog food – "
" – and invested in a collar – "
"I wouldn't call a piece of rope– "
" – but she needs a home – "
"I could give you the name of several shelters who take homeless and abused dogs – "
" – and I'm damn well not taking her to the shelter she probably already escaped from. "
"Now, Draco, you can't assume that – "
"She's smart enough to have escaped from a shelter!"
"She's a dog, Draco, not – "
"I've considered all angles – "
"You've considered all angles – "
" – and I'd like to keep her – "
"Have you considered, even for a moment – "
" – she's got a bed – "
"You've got to think about – "
" – I can afford the Healer's fees – "
"They're called veter – "
" – it's Valentine’s Day – "
"It's January the nineteenth!"
"I've named her Beatrice."
"You've… what? "
--
Beatrice was not a dignified enough name for a dog as handsome as theirs. Hermione was positive that the dog agreed with her in that regard. It took the two of them, much complaining, whining, bribery and threats involved on the side of the human, before their roommate had finally relented. Now, exactly three years after Draco had "adopted" her, a shiny, red leather collar was clasped around the Lab's neck. Glinting metal tags dangled sophisticatedly from the ring, though both sides of the identification were needed for her name.
"Well, Jed," Draco said, leaning back on the ratty couch and propping his feet on the scarred and chipped table, "Looks like it's just you and me tonight. Granger's up to her ears in paper, the telly's lost its ears, and it's pouring outside. Nothing for us to do here but kick back our feet and have a good old doggie nap."
"Think again, buster." The brunette towered in the doorway, the elastic around her hair doing nothing to prevent the bushy brown mass from sticking out every which way. Hands plopped onto fists, and a grim expression settled itself onto unforgiving features. "You, get out of my house. And take her with you. I can't stand her barking when I'm trying to work."
The rumours that had spread around Hogwarts, so many years ago, were true. Draco was a first-hand witness – Hermione Granger was dangerous when she was frazzled, stressed, or simply behind.
Just as she opened her mouth again, Draco got to his feet, lifting a hand in a gesture of peace. "I'm going, woman, I'm going. C'mon, Jed." Jed froze, body lowered halfway to the floor, half of her body already in the hall until Hermione turned her blazing eye in that direction.
"Princess Jedidiah Francesca Emmaline the Fourth! Draco Malfoy, you will turn your tail and march to that fireplace, and if Harry kicks you out, you will go to Ron's, and if Ron kicks you out, you will go to Neville's, and if Neville kicks you out you will sit in the Laundromat and stare at the drying machines until precisely eleven o'clock, at which time you will be allowed back into this apartment. Am I clear?" Without waiting for an answer, she spun on her heel, marching like the fiercest of war captains back into the miniscule kitchen.
--
--
Hermione started the day off like any other – gasping for breath as she squirmed beneath the suffocating mass on her chest.
"Jed!" Pausing for a deep inhale, she put all of her energy into pushing at the deadweight. "Jed, get up!" A large eye opened, gazed solemnly at her mistress, and then the large mouth opened as she yawned a horrifically smelly breath into Hermione's face. "Augh!" At the sound, mixing both disgust and frustration, Jed slowly stood, unfolding herself and hopping to the floor. Both females stretched simultaneously, yawning again as they did so, and as Jed padded out of the room, Hermione slipped her feet into the faded blue house shoes next to the bed. February the thirteenth, her brain registered, and nothing's different.
The bed next to her was empty.
Moments later, she grimaced as water left the showerhead, piercing needles of moisture striking her back. Draco was supposed to get her a new one, one with a softer spray. But he'd forgotten, again.
Just as he'd forgotten that her hot water tank was this small, and when the warmth was gone, it was gone.
Still, she finished out her shower, tightlipped but refusing to complain, just as it had been for the past who-knew-how-long. There was some sort of familiarity in the routine, something that she couldn't quite place her finger on. Something that she wasn't sure she wanted to place her finger on. There was the chance that she wouldn't like the result.
A faint smell wafted into the bedroom as Hermione dragged a comb through her slightly damp hair – a comb that Draco had forgotten to put back on her dresser, and so her hair was nearly dry by the time she found it under the bed – a smell that vaguely resembled coffee mixing with something burning. She frowned, and moved to the doorway, facing the kitchen as the scent became stronger. There hadn't been a smell when she'd awoken, had there? And Draco should already be at the Ministry for his six o'clock shift. Cautiously, Hermione peered into her kitchen, and closed her eyes in a weary gesture of acceptance.
A pot of coffee it was, but the thick brew inside the pot didn't look like her usual store. Had she forgotten to preset the automatic coffeemaker? Pouring herself a cup and taking a sip – it tasted like hot mud, but she'd had worse – Hermione leaned against the counter to assess the damage. With sharp eyes, she took in the rest of the disaster that was her kitchen - a plate of cold, burnt toast sat untouched on the table, each slice of bread charred to a crisp; a tall glass of milk was near the oven, warming in the morning sun; a broken bowl was dumped haphazardly into the stainless steel sink.
But worse still was the smell of something burnt, and it wasn't the toast. It was coming from her oven. Inside her oven. Pulling open the door took far more courage than she'd admit, but when she caught a glimpse of what was inside, it was all she could do to go through the motions and turn off the heat, close the door, and find a chair to sit in.
--
"I didn't go to work today."
Obviously. Briefly, Draco wondered how Elmwood, Fitch and Granger was functioning without Granger herself there. He dismissed the idea after envisioning her two elderly partners, running around without their trousers.
"Those were my mother's best cookie sheets."
It had taken four and a half hours, but she was speaking to him.
"Yes, well, I didn't know they were in there."
Silence.
"Where's Jed?"
"At Harry's."
So maybe it was through a heavy oak door, one of the nicest furnishings in their tight-pursed little flat. But she was speaking to him.
"Why did you even turn the oven on?"
"To cook something."
"What happened?"
"I forgot."
Really, who saw that one coming?
--
At three in the morning on February the fourteenth, Hermione tripped over the body of her roommate-boyfriend-thing – she never did know whether they were dating or just sleeping together. "Well, for God's sake, Draco!" she scolded, picking herself back up and brushing off her old pajama bottoms. "Why are you laying across my doorway?"
He stood, massaging a sore spot on his leg where her toes had connected with his thigh. "Wuh time'zit? Where yuh goin'?"
"The morgue." By this time, Hermione was in the living room, sitting on the couch to pull on her scuffed running shoes.
The telly-fone had rang? And he hadn't heard it? "Granger! Nngh... Granger! Where are you going?"
"The morgue," she snapped again, snatching her jacket from the hook behind the door just before she wrenched it open.
"Why?" He was dogging her heels, pulling on one shoe and his snug woollen cap.
"Because Great Aunt Josephine died."
"Josephine? The one with the – "
"I don't have time to talk to you about this."
"But, Granger – "
"Shut up if you want to come. Taxi!"
"Why don't you just--"
"I'm not, Draco Malfoy, going to Apparate in the middle of a street full of muggles!"
After that, he kept his mouth closed.
--
The room was cool, and Great Aunt Josephine's pale complexion clashed horribly with the dull silver of the table she was laid out upon. The walls were a stark grey, and the heavy sheet covering her stiff body was crinkled in several places.
All of this, Draco took in with unblinking eyes. He could barely remember meeting her, way back when. If his memory wasn't failing him, Hermione herself had only met the woman twice.
Hermione stood in the middle of the room, arms folded across her chest and a business-like look on her face. "Yes, this is my great-aunt," she told the attendant, a frown dimpling her forehead. "I'd like – yes, of course. Thank you."
Draco wondered if maybe he should hug her or something.
"You know, Great Aunt Josephine made the most god-awful bread, do you remember?"
Yes, he remembered. That was what he'd started to ask earlier. Was she the one with the bread? Wisely, he didn't answer, and let her talk.
"She used to put in peanut butter and marmalade and anything else she could find. Do you remember the chocolate loaf? I don't know if I've tasted anything more disgusting in my life." Hermione turned to her companion, and a sheen of tears had glossed over her eyes, though her voice remained steady. "Or the one with the walnuts."
"Except she forgot to take them out of the shells before putting them in the chopper."
"And she'd wear that awful dress. Those horrid prints."
"She had two."
"How do you know?"
"She showed me. One was orange floral, and the other was purple and green pinstriped."
"She loved those damned dresses." Relieved, because she was no longer in danger of crying, Hermione turned to Draco and smoothed out a wrinkle in yesterday's shirt. "It's cold out there. Especially at this hour. I'm surprised you came."
"You needed me," was the simple response. "So I came."
"Sometimes I want to kill you," Hermione murmured. "You make me so upset, and you never remember the important things. Today's Valentine's Day, you know. Maybe we could go to a picture show. Or a dinner. A fancy dinner would be nice. With candles. And some nice champagne."
"We could get married."
When Hermione didn't reply, Draco frowned. So maybe he'd forgotten her last birthday, and the day that marked two years of rooming together. And… maybe he'd forgotten about the damn showerhead, but he'd deal with that later. But the least she could do was answer when he proposed.
"I said, we – "
"Stop. Before you say one more word, stop. And look around you."
So Draco stopped, and he looked. And when he took in Great Aunt Josephine's perpetual frown even on her stone-cold face, he grinned – a real, genuine, look-I'm-human grin. "She doesn't mind, see. No protests from that one."
"Do you really want me to marry you, Draco?"
"Have you got anything better to do?"
"Well… no." She linked her arm through his. "I wonder how Jed will handle the news."
"She's a dog, Hermione, not a – "
"Oh, shut up."
"You know, there's this question I've been dying to ask."
"Is it the 'will-you-marry-me' thing? Because we've already moved on past that."
"What ever happened to Princess Jedidiah Francesca Emmaline the First, Second, and Third?"
_ _ _ _
Final Notes/Disclaimers:
The proposal in the morgue comes from Desperate Housewives.