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Red Summer of 19	By : bk11 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 2142 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Red Summer of 19
- 2-part 2
- 3-part 3
- 4-part 4
- 5-part 5
- 6-part 6
- 7-part 7
- 8-part 8
- 9-part 9
- 6
- 7
- 8
Disclaimer: Don't own them. J. K. Rowling does.

Title: Red Summer of 19

Email: bkeleven11[at]yahoo[dot]com

Rating: R

Spoilers: Anything. Everything.

Summary: Boy meets Girl again during the summer of twenty-three. And they remember the summer of nineteen. When there had been a war.
Notes: Um, watch out for cliffies. I hear they SUCK!

So many big thanks to reviewers. Special thanks to Sammy, who really does more for this story than she actually realizes. ;P

- - - - -

Part 7

- - - - -

A brown tawny owl is waiting for him when he gets home:

There�s a plain brown package tied to both of its legs. He recognizes the owl and rolls his eyes. The package has sharp corners with a sparse sprinkling of tape and he frowns, thinking of his mother in her white gown. She�s sitting in a small room with a roll of paper, a pair of scissors, and cellophane tape. She quietly wraps the package up with machine-like efficiency. She has gotten really good over the years, you see.

And he�s exhausted. He spent most of his day poisoning half of the Australian population (or so it felt like, sometimes) with alcohol.

That expression, �Drowning away your sorrows,� means something alright.

He�s exhausted, and now he�s being harassed by a brown tawny owl.

Life just wasn�t fair.

What he doesn�t see (never sees because she never lets him see) is the picture of his red-face shrew of a mother screaming at the portrait of Mathias Malfoy (who helped England conquer those bloody black magic Orientals during the Opium Wars). YOU SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU DIRTY DEAD SHITHOLE! YOU SAY ANOTHER WORD--ANOTHER WORD--ABOUT DRACO, AND I�LL SLASH YOUR MUGGLE-FUCKING DICK IN TWO!

Not so carefully, he takes the package and rips away the brown wrapping. He rolls his eyes at his na�ve little mother.

Inside, he finds a flask filled three quarters of the way with a clear watery liquid. Fluoxetine.

Hello, old friend.

The letter says what it always says.

Draco, my darling-

This should last a month. Don�t forget to dilute it, four to one.

-N. M.

He snorts, and then he takes the flask and dumps it down his sink.

- - - - -

They sit on her beige sofa:

They are staring at her busted coffee table. Ask them who they are, and you'd get many answers. Pretend you had found them at the local pub, or in the comedy section of a video store. Pretend you had gone up to the pair and introduced yourself. And then you ask who they are. The dark haired fellow might give you a small ironic grin and tell you he is the "Boy Who Lives." If you were to turn to his friend, the one with the red hair, and ask him the same question, he might shrug guilelessly and tell you he's the "Sidekick of the Boy Who Lives."

Perhaps this time, you ask them what the name Draco Malfoy meant to them.

Maybe the red-haired fellow would flush hotly, and lash out while his friend, the one with the scar, looked at you suspiciously.

"Why the hell would you want to know about that fucking prat?" the red one would bite out.

And you wonder what they would think if they were able to see Draco Malfoy, slumped miserably against the side of a blue Corolla, on the side of an Australian highway.

I heard . . . things . . . about him, you would explain.

�What sort of things?� the red one would hiss dangerously.

The fellow with the glasses, the calmer one of the two might be the first to speak. "I think the period where children become adults is a schizophrenic period. You don't know who you are, and you are constantly changing. You might want to be an Auror one day, and then perhaps a Gringotts banker the next. During this period where children struggle with their identity, there was one person who didn't have such problems. He thought he knew who and what he was since the day he was born. But you see, he figured it out, in the end."

"What are you talking about Harry? Goddamn fuckwit, he was."

And you wonder what they would think if you told them that perhaps Draco Malfoy was a late bloomer. That, if they were to see him slumped miserably against the side of a blue Corolla, they'd see that he was in the middle of an identity crisis.

"Maybe not in the beginning. I think in the beginning he was just a boy that played angry games. I bet everyone has schoolmates that were antagonists in that children's game. But later, when we transitioned to adults . . . it became real. Lines became blurred. Things got confusing. He became confused."

The red haired fellow, having not been there the night Potter and Malfoy made amends, might look at his friend as if he had just lost his mind. "He's evil, you know. You can't really believe such a person exists until you meet him. He hates intensely and he discriminates because of blood. He's a pathetic bastard. He'll stand there like his shit is made of gold and make you feel so inferior. And he has a talent for it. I don't know why I listened to that dickless fuck. He makes you feel worthless. And for no good fucking reason. And all of this is child's play. When we became older, we got scared. He was never a threat before, but later . . . God . . . we were scared that it wasn't just harmless talk. He�s the type to stand in the midst of blood, death, and hell, and he�d drink it all up. Later, it started to become genocide.�

�He helped stop it, though.�

The redhead might shake his head and pretend he hadn�t heard that bit. �The new ones that meet him want to say that he's misunderstood. Or he had a nasty home life. And maybe that is the case. After all, look at his father. But then, after a bit, it doesn't matter one bit. I don't care how abused he might have been. I just don't care. He can rot in hell because he must�ve deserved it all."

�He�s been there.� This phrase, in its deceptive simplicity, might be muttered, as to not enrage the redhead.

"Do you know who his bloody father is? A fucking murderer. And unapologetic killer. And the son's the spitting image of his old man. I was there the day he said the worst thing he could�ve said to a girl. I stood there when he said they were better off dead. He said he�d kill them all, if he could. I was there. I saw him. I don�t care what you say--that's what I believe."

If you had asked the red-hair fellow about it, he'd tell you that he had lost a brother and a father in the war, not at the hands of Lucius Malfoy, but then, it didn't matter who did the killing. Charlie was dead. His dad was dead.

After four years, Ronald Weasley still wore the shirts that had the holes in them. He still took the hand-me-downs. �Cept after four years, he buried himself in Charlie�s old shirts, not because Ronald couldn�t afford his own, but because he just . . . missed his brother so badly. Ronald still wore the shirts and still pulled out the gnomes every Sunday (like his father used to, like his father used to) and still carried a pair of non-pointed school scissors in his pockets, just in case he happened to have a spare bit of time in his day. Some days, he�d Apparate to their gravestones (just markers, just markers, the bodies were never found) and he�d spend an hour or two, painstakingly trimming the individual blades of grass that threatened to obscure the small inscriptions on the bottom.

We love you, Charlie. We will always remember you.

He was the best father that ever could have existed.

It didn't matter.

�I hate him,� the red one would spit. �I hate him so much. He represents everything wrong in the world. He represents the reason--the very REAL REASON--why my mum can�t stand to stand in the same room as Percy anymore. Why she cries for no reason, while she�s washing the bloody dishes with her bleeding hands. I irrationally blame everything on that Draco Malfoy bastard. And you will never make me feel bad for it.�

"Lucius Malfoy died in the War, you know,� the one with the glasses would remark. �The rumor is that his son stared down into the face of his father, as he died. Didn�t bother doing anything about it, the rumor is. Just stared down and laughed at his old man. That�s what they say. Maybe he killed his father, too. It�s been speculated. But he has post-war immunity, so they really can�t touch him. Not that anyone really cares enough about one insignificant death of a Death Eater to open investigation on it."

"Heartless little shit probably got his chuckles watching his old man die at his feet," the red one would mutter darkly. And you might wonder whether you should point out that this red-haired fellow also got some chuckles over Lucius Malfoy�s death.

"Word is that Draco Malfoy was disgusted with his father for being an inept leader that he deserted the man. Then after the War, he left his mother to fend for herself, so that he could go live in some foreign country. But that�s just a rumor."

�I hope I never see his traitorous face ever again. I will consider the world a fair and just place if I never have to see his ugly face, ever again.�

�Don�t be so angry, bud. It�s over, now. Just . . . let it go.�

And you wonder, with a smile, what the world would say if they knew Harry Potter made it a habit to owl Draco Malfoy at least once a month.

- - - - -

He pours a Coke:

The glass slides a short two feet before a small pale hand stops the momentum. A blue haired girl frowns at him behind a haze of dust and smoke. �Hey. This isn�t what I wanted.�

Draco sweeps his eyes up to her pale shiny face, and his lips slant into a half-smile. She thinks of it more like a derisive smirk, though. He shrugs. �You shouldn�t be drinking.�

�Not that it�s any of your business,� she says, haughtily, �but this is for my pop. He�s the one who wanted the Jack D.�

Draco grins. �Then tell him to come get it himself. Though I�m liable to tell Joe over there to escort you all out if he shares the Jack D, though.�

She gets mad. She stands on her tiptoes and tries her best to look into his face. �Who the hell are you? Fancy accent, you got there. You a northerner, then?�

Way north, he thinks. The smile is still on his face. �I�m a bloke that thinks you�re thirteen and that man,� he points to a fellow with a black cap, �isn�t your father.�

Her face twists into a scowl. �I�m sixteen!� She realizes her mistake.

�You�re still underage.�

�Dammit,� she mutters. �This isn�t fair.�

He cleans a glass with a bandaged hand and pushes the Coke closer to the girl with blue hair. �On the house.�

She looks at him as if he�s a child molester. �How old are you.�

He snorts. �Old enough to be your dashingly handsome older brother.�

�Right.� She breaks eye contact and stares at her glass. �Well, thank you.�

As she starts to leave, he throws this out:

�My advice? Go home. Go home and study hard and get the hell out of joints like these. There�s nothing here for you but trash. Go home and play dollies or whatever. Go be sixteen. Don�t waste it.�

She pauses and turns back slowly. Then she throws this out:

�And I should listen to your advice because you�re older and wiser, huh? Because you�ve been there and done that, and you care. Well, shove it. You don�t know me at all.�

Draco laughs. �No, little girl. You should listen to me because I�m a guy in a joint like this telling you that joints like this isn�t a future. I�m a not old or wise. I�m frightening stupid and rather young. And as for caring . . .� he looks away, down at his hand which had been spinning circles on the counter with a towel. �I don�t. I just don�t want to lose my job because I gave some thirteen year old whiskey.�

She blinks. �I�m sixteen.�

�Well, then, what the hell are you doing here?�

- - - - -

It�s funny:

It�s like . . . when you�re working overtime in trying to clean up your act, you have no time or effort left over to keep up appearances up . . . physically.

He spends his day cleaning up his soul (he laughs at this). He doesn�t spend his day worrying about stupid little things like grooming and hygiene.

Where once he woke up to humidified air and perhaps the occasional facemask, these days he wakes up to tiny strands of dog fur in his mouth and a nice oily sheen on his face.

He gets up and feels and hears his spine crack from sleeping on a lumpy mattress. His ass tingles for some reason (please, let it be a stroke, LET IT BE A STROKE, he wishes to an atheist�s deity). The stroke never comes.

Figures.

God really is dead. Or maybe He was still in the midst of smiting Draco Malfoy for that one time Draco Malfoy played in the dirt and got his pretty new robes dirty. Though, his mother already ripped into him for that, so Draco wonders why the hell God is still punishing him for something he has already repented for.

He stumbles into the bathroom, still rubbing bits of sleep out of his eyes. �Larry!� he yells.

And his dog happily trots into the bathroom, tail wagging expectantly. Puppies must love unconditionally, Draco reasons. Probably why the beast bothers putting up with him. Stupid dog can�t think for himself. If he did, he�d hightail it out of there and never come back.

�Good,� Draco says. �You�re still alive.� Sir Larry pants a bit and looks like he�s smiling before he disappears into the kitchen to wait for Draco to take out the can opener.

After Sir Larry grew past fifteen pounds, Draco no longer let him sleep in the bottom of the bed. Sir Larry stopped being so cute and fat and became a bonafide bed-hogger. Nowadays, Sir Larry sleeps on the couch and comes trotting through Draco�s open door whenever he�s called.

Draco ignores the beckoning call of the mirror (Back off, bitch! No one wants to look at you!) and opts to walk past it and turn on the shower faucet. He strips out of one article of clothing and nearly trips over the rim of his tub before the hot spray of the water hits his head. He snickers. If gravity hadn�t been so kind, he could be knocked out and drowning in the shower by now.

After he�s done, after he brushes his teeth and flosses, he finally bestows the mirror with an even stare. He stares at the mirror for six fat seconds as he mulls over his tasks for the day.

Pay bills. Kill myself after I fork over five-sixths of my paycheck to the lackeys of the Australian Government. Read paper. Buy apple juice and other necessities with the last sixth of my paycheck. Write back Potter. Vaccinations for Larry. Oh, fuck! No money in which to vaccinate Larry with!

He wonders if he could get away with not giving Larry his booster shots. �Larry!�

Sure enough, Larry comes trotting in again.

Draco regards him carefully. �Are you planning on biting any strangers in the next month?�

Larry doesn�t answer him.

Figures.

�Ah, fuck. Just get outta here!� Larry happily trots out of the bathroom.

Draco carefully rearranges his plan so that he would have to only pay off half the balance on his credit card bill. He�ll deal with consequences of this, later.

He reasons that the only people who have to see his crazy mug today is Gertrude, the checkout lady at this grocery store down the corner, and Dr. Cross, Larry�s vet (Stupid dog has a doctor, but not the stupid boy attached to the dog).

He finally decides to forgo the razor today.

- - - - -

A boy slides into the booth across from her:

He reaches for her head and gently tugs on the clean ends of her curls. She looks back at him, surprised.

"New cut, then?"

She pulls away from his warm fingers, a bit uncomfortable at the contact, and looks at him. Her own hand absently starts touching her head, fingers crawling through the thick layers of her shortened locks. She is reminded of all the yesterdays when she had been overly self-conscious about her frizzy hair. She is reminded of the days when she would sneak gazes at the back of Lavender or Parvati's head and wonder what it must be like to live like the other half. As she is thinking this, she realizes where her hand is, trying to deflect, but hopelessly drawing attention to her head anyways.

She blushes.

The boy laughs at her. He actually had the gall to laugh at her. "For the record, I like it."

"It's too short."

He smirks. "Is it, now?"

"I can't even tie all of it up," she confesses.

He shrugs. "Hair like that, it can't be tamed."

She doesn't know if it was meant as a compliment. And then she wonders if he was really referring to the hair, or if he had been talking about the girl.

She isn't allowed to give it much more thought, because the boy suddenly blurts out, "one of these days, would you perhaps like to have a meal that doesn't consist of ground up cow and sliced up taters?"

Her eyes go wide, "T-taters? Oh. Oh! You mean--"

He smiles. "Yeah, I mean. What do you say?"

She is scared. Not the kind of scared that she got when she's hovering ten feet above the ground, straddling a broom, but the kind of scared she got when a bleached-blond boy touches her hand gently and coyly asks if she's heard of a new kind of kissing, the kind they practiced in France.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think that's a good idea."

He looks at her inquisitively. "Why not? You have a fella?"

She scrunches up her nose and is scared that this boy might�ve caught wind about another boy--and how wrong this boy is. She shakes her head. �Nobody, I don�t think.�

�So have dinner with me, Sal. It�s just dinner,� he finishes reasonably.

And she stares for an awkward moment before she throws her gaze down to the table. She quietly laments, �Why me?� because she really isn�t sure what this boy sees in this Sally girl. Sally isn�t particularly pretty, or sweet, or smart. She�s not even that good at her job, always distracted.

Sally swallows. "It's just not a good idea. I'm sorry, Danny."

Danny nods, and his smile turns wistful. "Alright. Just had to try." He pushes her cut of the tips in front of her hands and stands up abruptly. He touches the ends of her hair again. "It's alright, Sally. You go on home. I'll close up once I finish my pack of ciggies."

- - - - -

He spends his afternoons muttering to himself:

The foreman down the counter calls him a �Drifter.�

His boss calls him, �Little Drakey Boy, Who�s a Little Snakey Boy.� Something about the bite, and another something about the poison that came after the bite. Whateverrrr.

Draco silently calls his boss, �Psychic.�

Regular Moe, who only comes in to sit on the John twice and orders a Tom Collins once, calls him �Difficult.�

The scary magenta-haired lady calls him, �McGorgeous,� because of his accent. Though he isn�t sure what the fuck that had to do with anything because he isn�t of Irish descent.

�Hey, sweetie pie, how about--"

�On break,� he mutters curtly, raising his hand, and pointing his finger to �Lotta Piercings� guy down the counter.

�But I like it more when you mix--"

�On break,� he repeats angrily.

She keeps her mouth shut for the time being.

During breaks, he sometimes takes shot glasses and arranges them in rows. Then he strategically shifts them around so that the square ones are flanking the round ones. Certain days, he runs the squares parallel to the border to fake out the circle ones for a bit before they shift back and divide the round ones into three units. Sometimes he tells the square ones to conquer the round ones.

Joe, �Psychic� boss, passes by a lot while he�s commanding his fleet of shot glasses. �Whaddya doin� Drake? You�re crazy.�

�It works on paper, man,� he grumbles. �But put it into use, and chances of victory can drop fifty percent, if your opponent is smarter than you are.�

Joe is puzzled. �What?�

Draco shrugs. �There�s no sure thing in life. Shit happens and sometimes you lose. Some guy could see the fake-out two minutes too soon and hold back his men so they won�t break up into groups of three. Then where would I be? Fucked, that�s what.�

�What are you talkin� about, Drake? I know you�re pissy about your breaks, but hey, gimme a scotch, please. I�ll tip you pretty-like.�

Draco pours him the drink and slides it over.

�Thanks.�

Joe doesn�t ask the right questions. He should�ve waited until it was two in the morning, while they were closing. Joe should have hung around the counter as Draco wipes it carefully. And then, while the other man is tired in the early morning hours, Joe should have asked him about what he had really meant about victory dropping fifty percent.

If Draco is tired enough, he might stare up at bulky Joe with weary gray eyes, metallic gray eyes that glint like the steel they must have been made of. He�ll say, �Fuck, Joe. Imagine . . . imagine standing at the bank of a violent river. Imagine looking down at the dark oil-water. And then imagine being scared shitless of drowning.�

He�ll laugh. �I stood at my river, and I wanted nothing more than to cross the fucking thing. I wanted to do something worthwhile for once in my pathetic existence. I wanted to selfishly give my father an official fuck you, you bastard. How could you do this to me?�

He�ll look at Joe straight on, and without the least bit of humor in his voice, he�ll say, �Imagine not being enough. Imagine not being destined to be the hero. Imagine being suffocated by your own inability.�

And then he�ll go back to wiping his counter. �I�ll tell you about it, some day, Joe. Fun story. I�ll tell you how cold it feels to be asphyxiated by your Rubicon. But for now, let�s talk about the weather.�

- - - - -

It was in the sun:

It was on one of those days where he bent to the whims of his mad mother. The only source of color on her body was the dark navy blue hat that she chose to wear to block out the harsh light of the afternoon sun. Otherwise, her skin was as pale as her light dress and her gray eyes faded away against the scenery, the color of dust.

It was hard to look at her. It was harder to walk down the lawns and gardens with her next to him because he always thought that people stared. Because, with her glowing skin, bright enough to almost be invisible, she didn�t look like she was from this world.

She liked indulging in walks along the gardens. She liked getting a bit of fresh air once in a while.

On one particular day, as she was touching a yellowed lily with her fingertips, she turned to his stoic figure, standing a distance away to convince himself that he was detached from it all. �Draco,� she said with a smile, �I�m not the standard anymore. I�ve lost . . . a lot of family . . . and I�m a dying breed.�

And he absolutely hated it when she started talking her mad sort of talk. After his father went to Azkaban in Draco�s fifth year, his mother started bringing out these crazy words at the most inopportune times.

Draco, lend me a hand, darling. The basket is too heavy, and I�m an old weak woman.

Draco, don�t slouch. You look like a monkey. And you�re not a monkey.

Draco, you�re sweet, you know that? You�re really a sweet boy.

�Think a bit about the future,� she prodded forth, �and think of what it means.�

�Mother--"

�Indulge me,� she said sharply.

And he shrugged, stepping forward and talking her arm tightly in his hand, pulling her along the path, as if talking her away from the lilies would make her stop her incessant babbling. �I have no idea what you want me to say. Or what you�re getting at. How do you want me to answer?� He said it with a smirk.

�Where do you see yourself--"

�In ten years?� He laughed. �Filthy rich, like now? Powerful, like now?� Like Father, like father, he should have said. �Dead?� he said with a sharp staccato, eyes suddenly harsh and unforgiving. �Is that the answer you�re looking for?�

She slapped him upside the head. He flinched and immediately reached for the back of his head. �Mum. . . .�

�Do you think that�s funny?� she demanded. �You stupid ass! That�s not funny at all.�

He angrily rubbed the back of his head. �Well, what�s your point, then? Just spit it out, already!�

�What�s so great about being on top, Draco?�

He groaned. �Christ, mother. I don�t know. I don�t care.�

�If you think about it,� she began, �had China never been exposed to any other nations, had they extended that Great Wall around the whole country and completely closed itself off to the end of time, then they wouldn�t have anyone to measure against. And then they would consider themselves modern--the future.�

�What does that have to do with me?� he said rudely.

�But such is not the case,� she calmly continued. �Since China was exposed to the West, since it got to see the U.S., France, Britain, Spain, and Portugal invade and colonize Southeast Asia, it saw a bigger scope of power.�

Ever since his father had brought him into his inner circles and had given him own men to lead, Draco had found himself with books on Muggle warfare, because it was the Order�s preferred method. His father had said choice words on knowing who your enemy was. Truthfully, the whole thing gave him a huge headache. Things were much simpler when it was just BANG, YOUR DEAD, FUCKER! None of this learn this, do that, step back, trade this.

He grabbed her arm again and tried steering the both of them away from the fucking flowers. �Is there a brilliant point around the bend, then?�

�China let Britain in. Britain poisoned her with a drug. She died.�

�Well boo-fucking-hoo for her.�

�Power is a value of modernity, Draco. Modernity is subjective, darling. Power is subjective. Learn this. You must learn this.�

He threw her arm off. �I don�t need to do anything! You don�t control me. Not anymore.�

Did I ever? she wanted to say. Did you ever belong to me? Just me? Instead, she says, �I love you as much as a mother can love you.�

He shrugged. �I still don�t see how any of this talk has to do with me.�

So what? he wanted to say. Not enough? he should�ve said.

Too much, she should�ve explained.

And, almost as if she had never said it (that had been the first time she has said it after he learned to speak the coherent syllables and understand the real words--and despite it all--he didn�t even care), she goes on to the more important things. �Pay attention, Draco,� she said bluntly.

�I am, mother,� he replied distantly.

�Why will you listen to every little insignificant word your father says but you can�t even carry on a conversation with me?�

�What do you want me to say?� he said with a lofty amount of exasperation.

�Who do you want to be, Draco?�

He gave her a scrutinizing look before he said, �Myself?�

And finally, she said, �Have you ever thought about what exactly it is that you�re doing?�

�Murder? Mayhem?� He grinned darkly. �Genocide,� he said with a sarcastic gentleness. �Does that bother you? I don�t see why it should, hypocrite.�

�It�s my prerogative.�

�Hypocrites are undependable.�

�I could kill you,� she said seriously. �Then you�d really be dead then, wouldn�t you? Then you wouldn�t be this person, doing all of the things you�re doing right now. I�d be doing the world a favor.�

�Do it, Mummy,� he goaded. �Do it. I dare you. I�ll even lend you a dagger. I�ll turn around and I�ll let you push it in.�

She stared at him. �How can you stand there and say these things to me?�

He snorted disgustedly. �You�d never do it. That�s why I can say it all. You wouldn�t do it.�

�You have an uncle who participated in the Opium Wars,� she said hotly. �He broke them. Broke them like they were nothing.�

�Survival of the fittest. To the victor goes the spoils . . . and whatever else have you.�

�Who do you want to be, Draco!� she yelled. �Do you really want to be Mathias Malfoy? Or do you want to be Sirius Bl--"

�Don�t you dare say his fucking name!�

She looked at him sharply, and he could feel the heat of her gaze from underneath her navy blue hat. �Draco--"

�Can you really give me a reason why I should care about his �fellow man� shit? You can�t. Just because your husband left you for bigger and better priorities, doesn�t mean you have any right to fucking stand there and preach to me. Who the hell are you, Mother? You�re not a fucking saint! You�re just like us. So stop pretending that you suddenly got struck by a conscience the second Dad wised up and left your mindless simperings. You can�t give me a fucking reason . . . other than �it makes you a better person�,� he spat out, �or that �it gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling�,� and then he laughed cynically, �or because God says so, dumbass�?�

And then he felt his mother�s surprising tight grip on his arm as she halted her steps and stood frozen, staring in front of them.

He drew his gaze up and followed her line of sight. He saw a black hazy cloud floating in front of throngs of people, circled around. He saw swaying char.

He viciously took him mother�s arm and swung her around, so she was facing west. He shook her hard enough for her navy blue hat to fall to the ground. �Don�t look,� he said fiercely. His mother squirmed in his grasp. He yanked her. �Didn�t you fucking hear me, woman!� he hissed in her shocked face. �Keep your fucking face in front and walk right on home. If you fucking turn around for one moment, I won�t be happy. And I will make you pay for it.�

- - - - -

He knocks on her door:

He knocks on her door because he had suddenly been struck down by the most mind-numbing guilt as he was building his shot-glass army.

He had to apologize, he decided right then and there. He owes her that much, at the very least.

He bangs on her door.

Mental note: Apologize to Granger later, for banging rudely on her door, jackass.

Mental note: Remember your mum�s birthday, for once, jackass. Send her a million fucking bucketfuls of yellow-tinted lilies, shit-head.

When she opens the door. . . he sees . . . he sees . . . Hermione Granger.

And fucking hell. He just lost all of his resolve.

�What are you doing, Mal--"

He expels out a loud rush of air before he grabs her face in between his hot palms.

And then he kisses her.

- - - - -

(09-10-04)

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Red Summer of 19