Prompt 88 - Haste Makes Speed - "His Loves"- ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spikespetslayer -
Mar. 29th, 2008 10:57 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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tamingthemuseTitle: His Loves
Fandom/Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: The only thing that he loved more than Granger was Muggle alcohol.
Muggle alcohol, he found, was better by far than Dreamless Sleep Potion. It dulled the senses enough to allow him to look in the mirror without loathing the face that stared back at him. That was the tenure of his life now—alcohol, loathing, the occasional bout of faceless, nameless sex, and more alcohol.
He wanted to forget everything. That he was a Malfoy. That he was a wizard. That he had fucked up his life enough with his misguided thoughts and deeds that there wasn’t one person in the wizarding world that would touch him willingly with a ten-foot pole.
He didn’t mind the hangovers. Didn’t mind the horrible taste in his mouth after the vomiting. Didn’t mind that he reeked of sweat and stale cigarette smoke instead of the expensive cologne that he’d worn since Merlin knew when. Didn’t mind the stares from passers-by as he leaned against the wall, the bottle disguised by a brown paper bag as he sipped delicately from the neck—ah, the tasteless ambrosia of vodka! The variety that was to be had in this world was almost overwhelming to him.
He loved the bitter tang of gin when he remembered the way he treated Granger all those years. It suited him to choke it down when he recalled her testimony at the Wizengamot earlier that spring. There was no need for her to be so magnanimous but she did so. That was the goodness inside her, the light that shined through her to illuminate poor sods like him and show them their faults and shortcomings. He loved the bitterness and loved her a little for it, just because she could be—hell, she could never be. She wouldn’t let herself.
He loved the bite of tequila as he tossed it back, one shot for every person that he knew who died in the war. Each jigger gnawed a bite from his soul that he would never get back and he didn’t care—didn’t care that it was a moment lost to time that was irreplaceable. He never thought that he had much of a soul and believed that even stronger after he’d seen and done all he had. He threw his head back and downed the last one for his stalwart thick friend that died from his own curse. It was all that he could do to keep from crying out loud.
He loved the invisible oblivion of vodka, how it seeped into the bones and made him feel like he could actually handle what he had become. A spoiled prat with a felony under his belt who was on probation from the Wizengamot; one wrong move and he’d be in Azkahban before you could say a word. Maybe that was why he kept to the Muggle bars and the Muggle liquor stores; he didn’t know how the MLE felt about public intoxication and it wouldn’t be a good time to find out.
He dragged himself down the brick wall, leaving traces of skin and leather from his transfigured cloak in the rough brick. He couldn’t feel it so he didn’t care—it was secondary to the incredible need that he had to be drunk as quickly as possible. Haste makes speed seem slow; he needed to forget seeing her in the alley hours ago, walking with the Weasley clan and forgetting everything that he’d ever said to her.
Which was only right. Only proper. Why should any witch want to remember anything he ever said?
Which was why it shocked him to see her not ten yards away, a look on her face that he could have sworn was bordering on pity? It was almost enough to make him put down the bottle, already having lost the pleasant buzz that echoed in his ears and kept his mind from going in circles.
It didn’t keep him from slurring when he spoke, though.
“Whatcha doin’ here, Granger?” he said, believing it came out in the suave tones that had all the witches (and some of the wizards) panting. He didn’t recognize the hoarse croak as his voice until her cultured tones ran over his ears.
“Malfoy, what are you doing to yourself? Come on—let’s get you a hot meal and cleaned up.” She reached for his arm and he snatched it out of the way, preferring another drink from the hidden bottle.
“Don’t need you. Don’t need anyone. Got my friend right here.” He clutched the bottle closer to him, his personal Calming Draught, fearful of losing such precious stuff.
With a wave of her wand, the bottle was gone and he was stone cold sober, the only evidence of his drunkenness a lingering headache that settled between his temples and throbbed with his heartbeat.
“Why did you have to do that, Granger?” He dragged the heel of his hand over his forehead, trying to obliviate the thoughts that immediately snapped to the fore of his mind the minute the charm was cast. “I’m just trying to forget…”
“What are you trying to forget? The war or the promises that you made?”
He looked up at her in shock. “You remember?”
She took his hand and began walking him toward their destination. “I was hurt, not comatose. I remember you coming in the hospital and telling me that you would do anything for me if I made it. Do you remember that?”
He nodded, his eyes unable to leave hers.
“Well, I’m counting on you. I’m counting on you to use whatever means necessary to push things through the Ministry, but more important, to teach me how to do it.”
He patted her hand. “If that’s what you need me to do, I will.”
She looked up at him from the corner of her eye. “Well, it may not be all. It’ll be a start though.”
Fandom/Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: The only thing that he loved more than Granger was Muggle alcohol.
Muggle alcohol, he found, was better by far than Dreamless Sleep Potion. It dulled the senses enough to allow him to look in the mirror without loathing the face that stared back at him. That was the tenure of his life now—alcohol, loathing, the occasional bout of faceless, nameless sex, and more alcohol.
He wanted to forget everything. That he was a Malfoy. That he was a wizard. That he had fucked up his life enough with his misguided thoughts and deeds that there wasn’t one person in the wizarding world that would touch him willingly with a ten-foot pole.
He didn’t mind the hangovers. Didn’t mind the horrible taste in his mouth after the vomiting. Didn’t mind that he reeked of sweat and stale cigarette smoke instead of the expensive cologne that he’d worn since Merlin knew when. Didn’t mind the stares from passers-by as he leaned against the wall, the bottle disguised by a brown paper bag as he sipped delicately from the neck—ah, the tasteless ambrosia of vodka! The variety that was to be had in this world was almost overwhelming to him.
He loved the bitter tang of gin when he remembered the way he treated Granger all those years. It suited him to choke it down when he recalled her testimony at the Wizengamot earlier that spring. There was no need for her to be so magnanimous but she did so. That was the goodness inside her, the light that shined through her to illuminate poor sods like him and show them their faults and shortcomings. He loved the bitterness and loved her a little for it, just because she could be—hell, she could never be. She wouldn’t let herself.
He loved the bite of tequila as he tossed it back, one shot for every person that he knew who died in the war. Each jigger gnawed a bite from his soul that he would never get back and he didn’t care—didn’t care that it was a moment lost to time that was irreplaceable. He never thought that he had much of a soul and believed that even stronger after he’d seen and done all he had. He threw his head back and downed the last one for his stalwart thick friend that died from his own curse. It was all that he could do to keep from crying out loud.
He loved the invisible oblivion of vodka, how it seeped into the bones and made him feel like he could actually handle what he had become. A spoiled prat with a felony under his belt who was on probation from the Wizengamot; one wrong move and he’d be in Azkahban before you could say a word. Maybe that was why he kept to the Muggle bars and the Muggle liquor stores; he didn’t know how the MLE felt about public intoxication and it wouldn’t be a good time to find out.
He dragged himself down the brick wall, leaving traces of skin and leather from his transfigured cloak in the rough brick. He couldn’t feel it so he didn’t care—it was secondary to the incredible need that he had to be drunk as quickly as possible. Haste makes speed seem slow; he needed to forget seeing her in the alley hours ago, walking with the Weasley clan and forgetting everything that he’d ever said to her.
Which was only right. Only proper. Why should any witch want to remember anything he ever said?
Which was why it shocked him to see her not ten yards away, a look on her face that he could have sworn was bordering on pity? It was almost enough to make him put down the bottle, already having lost the pleasant buzz that echoed in his ears and kept his mind from going in circles.
It didn’t keep him from slurring when he spoke, though.
“Whatcha doin’ here, Granger?” he said, believing it came out in the suave tones that had all the witches (and some of the wizards) panting. He didn’t recognize the hoarse croak as his voice until her cultured tones ran over his ears.
“Malfoy, what are you doing to yourself? Come on—let’s get you a hot meal and cleaned up.” She reached for his arm and he snatched it out of the way, preferring another drink from the hidden bottle.
“Don’t need you. Don’t need anyone. Got my friend right here.” He clutched the bottle closer to him, his personal Calming Draught, fearful of losing such precious stuff.
With a wave of her wand, the bottle was gone and he was stone cold sober, the only evidence of his drunkenness a lingering headache that settled between his temples and throbbed with his heartbeat.
“Why did you have to do that, Granger?” He dragged the heel of his hand over his forehead, trying to obliviate the thoughts that immediately snapped to the fore of his mind the minute the charm was cast. “I’m just trying to forget…”
“What are you trying to forget? The war or the promises that you made?”
He looked up at her in shock. “You remember?”
She took his hand and began walking him toward their destination. “I was hurt, not comatose. I remember you coming in the hospital and telling me that you would do anything for me if I made it. Do you remember that?”
He nodded, his eyes unable to leave hers.
“Well, I’m counting on you. I’m counting on you to use whatever means necessary to push things through the Ministry, but more important, to teach me how to do it.”
He patted her hand. “If that’s what you need me to do, I will.”
She looked up at him from the corner of her eye. “Well, it may not be all. It’ll be a start though.”
no subject
Date: 2008-04-14 02:12 pm (UTC)