Assassination

Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Assassination

He comes to abruptly, with a pulsing in his temples and a feeling of severe discomfort. He opens his eyes and realises that he is lying on the floor, and it's infernally hard and cold. His vision is bleary, which should come as no surprise, given the amount of alcohol he has consumed in the last forty-eight hours or so. Wait a moment: has he really been at it so long? He hoists himself up on his elbows and looks around. Judging by the number of bottles around him, and the fact that the sun has rolled down almost behind the horizon, he has indeed.

He tries to check the time, but the clock on the wall is annoyingly unsteady: those damned golden digits keep jumping up and down. "Whatever," he says and sits up with a grunt. An almost empty bottle of Firewhisky draws his attention, and he reaches for it, noticing the dried blood on his knuckles. With a muttered "Fuck," he opens the bottle, and swallows the last of the amber liquid in one gulp, anticipating the usual burning in his throat. It never comes.

"Useless," he says and hurls the bottle into the opposite corner of the room. The crash brings a foolish, drunken smile to his face as he stares at the scattered pieces of dark brown glass. He wants to chuckle, but a strange vibration in his chest makes him hiccup. He hiccups again, and yet again. Gradually, the vibration becomes much stronger, and not only in his chest. Everything around him begins to shake. At first, he doesn't understand what is happening. After a moment, though, he realises that his wards are being removed. "Here come the bloody Aurors," he says and scans the floor for his wand.

Too late. His door is thrown open with a bang. He focuses his eyes on the doorway, expecting to see the full Auror squad. He had punched the ever-so-fucking-important Potter, after all. Surprisingly, though, there is only one silhouette on the threshold. What a disappointment.

"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy? Could you please explain it to me?" The voice is familiar. Correction: very familiar. And very furious.

All those decibels are giving him an unbearable headache, and he groans. "Merlin." He'd take the Auror squad over one angry Hermione Granger any day.

Stamping inside, she looks down at him and shouts, "Are you completely out of your mind? What are you doing here?"

He shrugs. "I should have thought it was obvious. I've been drinking. And unfortunately, I'm still too sane for my liking. The real question however is: what are you doing here?"

"Your mum called me. She's worried about you," she says, rather more softly.

"My mother called you?" he says and frowns in disbelief. "I think you need to come up with something better. This doesn't sound at all plausible. Why on earth would my mother call you, of all people?"

"That you'll have to ask her. She said that she couldn't get through your wards."

"Rubbish. But whatever," he says with a sigh and focuses his groggy eyes on her. "I must say I'm surprised to see you here. Your bloody friend, along with that super-duper Auror of yours, made it quite clear that you don't want anything to do with me. I'm not good enough for you, or something along those lines. So I suggest you leave now and let me continue my little drink-fest in solitude, as I intended. Which, by the way, was quite clearly indicated by the wards on that bloody door!" He points an unsteady finger at it. "Leave, Granger. Let me be."

He waves his hand dismissively, turns away, and fishes another bottle of Firewhisky from under the bed. He is about to uncork it when he hears the word "No", and the bottle vanishes from his hands.

"Oh, for broomstick's sake, don't go on a bloody rescue mission! I told you to leave. I do not need your help!" he says and glares at her.

"Yes, you do, you stubborn idiot!" she growls, and with one swish of her wand, all the bottles, empty and full alike, disappear. Another swish, and the windows fly open. "You stink!" she says, wrinkling her nose.

"Malfoys never stink!" he retorts, but feels that all the fight in him has gone. The rush of fresh air makes his eyes water. He groans and covers them with his hands.

"Here, drink this," sounds in his ear. Uncovering his eyes, he finds that she has sat down next to him on the floor, and that she is uncorking a small blue vial.

"I know what you're doing!" he mumbles as a sudden thought bolts through his foggy brain. "It's ... what's the word ..." He looks for the right word, but his mind doesn't want to cooperate. The word is right there—he can feel it. "That's it! Assassination!" he shouts and looks at her triumphantly. She arches an eyebrow, and he's pretty sure that she learned that particular expression from him. "No, wait, wait, wait," he says, "that doesn't sound right." He mumbles the words aloud, "Assassassination, ensignation, extermination, inseveration, insemination, insurrectation! Damn it, what is that bloody word!"

"Intervention, you dolt!" She smiles at him. "Though I must agree that assassination and extermination sound rather appealing at the moment. And, perhaps, insurrection at a later date. Now drink!" She brings the vial to his lips.

Obediently, he opens his mouth, probably because he isn't ready to be assassinated or exterminated just yet. The potion immediately soothes his throat, and a few moments later, his headache has gone. His vision slowly returns to normal, and he gazes into her eyes.

"Why are you here?" he asks, once again. "Potter said—"

She interrupts him by pressing her hand to his mouth. "Harry and Kingsley were wrong. They shouldn't have said anything of the kind. They had no right to decide or interfere."

He covers her hand with his and presses a soft kiss on her warm palm. "I punched Potter," he confesses.

"So did I," she says and smiles.

His eyes widen. "You did? That's my girl," he murmurs. A second later he frowns. "I'm still on parole. They can send me back to Azkaban."

"No." She shakes her head as her fingers find their way into his hair. "They can't, and they won't. Your parole ended a week ago, and you were provoked. Harry won't do anything—he promised."

He looks at her silently, then says, "Granger, I ..." The words stick in his throat. But she kisses him on the lips and says, "I know. I love you too. Come on. Your mum is waiting." She tugs him to his feet, and he manages to steal a few more kisses before they leave the room.

They walk down the hall, hand in hand. His mother is resting in the armchair with her eyes closed. Soft music is playing in the background.

"Mother," he says.

She opens her eyes. "Draco, darling," she says, with a slight smile, "you're just in time for dinner. Miss Granger will be joining us, I presume?"

He curls his arm around Hermione's waist. "Yes, Mother, she will."

"Marvellous." She focuses her attention on Hermione. "Do you like Brahms, dear?" she says. "I find him very soothing."