Cunt With Bad Hair:
Many thanks for replying so swiftly. Though, I am inclined to remark that so colourful a vocabulary was not efficient or even strictly necessary under the circumstances. Haha. Pans, I think I’m having heart palpitations.
Let me see if I can remember this all correctly: First, I received the owl, obviously. Let it be said how extremely unsettling it still is that I have her contact information, that she has mine. This was about a week ago, if my estimations are correct. I’m not even going to go into my reaction; needless to say, it was an event of unfathomable shock!!!!!!!!!(ad infinitum) and caused a most distressing reaction on the part of yours truly: as to which she will quite readily attest, Miss Weasley found me in a state of utmost terror and unparalleled hysterics. But enough with the dramatics.
I awoke that fine, glistening Friday morning as I usually do: with a jolting start and sweating extremities. It was not, of course, until I’d wandered into the shower that I remembered a most delightful obligation hovering over my gorgeous head like a shiny, pretty storm cloud. No comments, please, but I did happen to use the lavender hair potion you sent me and found it most soothing, thanks loads, etc., etc. Girl Weasley was out practicing at the crack of dawn, so I took a load off and made some burnt toast and bad tea. Don’t ever, ever buy me Russian Caravan, not ever again, ever. I don’t know how you managed to sneak that filth into my cupboard. You know my loyalties lie with Earl Grey. Pans, it tastes like American barbecue. I will instate security screenings if I must.
You asked: it was the grey shirt from Portugal, black trousers, and my Christian Louboutin oxfords. Yes, I folded them - though rather hastily - before. No, I will not tolerate or even acknowledge your commentary. Anyway, I swept my hair back like usual - a little loose, as I’ve grown to prefer, lately. I didn’t put on any mascara, and I really wish you’d stop teasing me about that. It was one time, Pansy. One time. And I looked damn good.
So, I had about seven hours or so to kill, then, and I proceeded to spend the better half of them pacing and checking the fridge. Though, I didn’t eat a bite. Weasley returned at five-ish - earlier than usual - looking windswept and thoroughly unruffled. She bullied me into playing audience to her silly fashion show until she deemed an offensively glittery slip thing worthy. It was, admittedly, very pretty. Kind of bronze-ish, brought out her eyes. No, sweetums, never pretty as you.
She Apparated the both of us there. This, it would appear, was the final ingredient to my recipe for disaster, because it was at this moment, upon arrival, that I stumbled (with impressive grace) into the rose bushes and vomited. I have never been especially fond of Apparating. Weasley was gracious enough to help clean the mess, though I can’t say the same of my battle wounds. The flowers attacked me, Pans, but I fought bravely and have the scratches to show for it. Potter must’ve thought I made a habit of it. But we’re getting to that.
I went inside and made my greetings, dropped the present on the designated table, etc. Granger was very nice about the whole thing. No, I don’t believe it was secondhand. It was a brick sort of red, with a low neck and delicate straps. You know she has perfect shoulders - the neckline was a good choice. I couldn’t tell the brand, but it was probably muggle, and probably cheap. Anyway, it was very nice. Weasley was positively drooling over her. Her husband, I mean. Our Weasley and Longbottom were both conspicuously absent.
It was not nearly as bad as I’d feared. I went into the dining room and back again several times until I’d polished the tray of lobster canapes - they were very good - and then I had enough champagne to quench a family of four, and then I had to sit down. Lovegood came to sit next to me, so silent I thought I may have gone deaf. After about ten minutes, she said to me something like: “Harry’s just outside, he doesn’t know you’re here, yet.” I don’t know. I told her thank you, something like that. The memory’s a bit fuzzy. Thomas and Finnegan kept looking at me funny, so I told them to sod off, I think, but I doubt they heard me. I realize this won’t be very interesting to you, but what I remember most is sitting on their couch for about an hour, tracing the paisleys on the fabric with my fingers. Over and over. Granger came over once and tried to corral me into coming outside with them to watch her friends make fools of themselves, but I think she gave up eventually.
Anyway, enter Potter: ugly, bespectacled git. He stood in front of me, so I had to look up at him. I don’t even want to think about it, Pans. Yes, it was the black shirt. I wish you’d been there to, I don’t know, drag me out screaming. Anyway, his shirt kept coming up over his stomach a sliver, because, as you and I well know, the hooligan has never owned an article of clothing that fits him in his life. It was worse with the angle. He stood there with his hands on his hips and looked at me like my mother, or something. He said: “Malfoy, get your arse off the sofa.” I told him the bit about his clothes not fitting properly, I think, and he got kind of angry and tried to pull me off. His hands were warmer and drier than mine. I only say that because mine are always cold (you know this). Look, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. You know how I get around him. He looked great.
I let him pull me up, and it was funny, because he didn’t let go of my hand. He led me outside and made me sit next to him and watch the rest of them fool around on broomsticks. George Weasley was setting off fireworks and chocolate snitches, and the idiots were flying around after them trying to catch them in their mouths. I said to Potter: “But you like real snitches, right? You don’t do things halfway, right?” And I was laughing my arse off, I thought it was so funny. I thought it was a lot funnier than it was. I was remembering the time in first year he caught the snitch in his mouth. Potter must’ve thought this was a pretty funny thing to say, though, because he started laughing with me, and he was like: “You’re right, Malfoy. They’re all posers.” Granger came over and thanked him for herding me out like a drunk lamb, though not in those words. She started talking to Potter about work, and then about her husband, and then they each, in turn, dragged me into various points of conversation, until I’d had enough and volunteered myself for the next round of Monkeys On Broomsticks. Granger didn’t think it was a very good idea, kept saying, “You’re smarter than this, Draco,” and I kept saying, “Think of my humiliation as a present, it’s a present.” Anyway, I got on that broomstick, and I was about ten feet in the air when I fell - arse over bloody tits - into another rosebush.
Oddly, it was George Weasley who first arrived at the scene, scooping me into his arms like a bronzed hero. Except, he was freckle-y and pale and had an uncomfortable grip on my armpit. He released me at the bare feet of our Weasley who, after some argument, released me at the trainers of one rattled Mr Potter, at which point I was hoisted rather unceremoniously to my feet and dragged into the nearest loo. No, not like that. I think they figured he had the most experience treating scrapes, bruises, etc. because of the auror program, despite the bit where he dropped out. Anyway, I remember this part pretty well, actually. Granger told the rest of them to stay put, I think, that all was well, and she helped Potter get me into the bathroom. It occurred to me that it was her birthday and that she was the last person who should have been worrying about other people, and I told her this, though a little sloppily, but I don’t think she cared. They put me on the toilet lid, but I got a good look at myself in the mirror first, and I looked a bit like something you’d run from in an American horror film. Don’t worry, though. Really. I was still, as forthcoming evidence will suggest, devastatingly handsome.
Granger left the room to find disinfectant spray and a teatowel - she insisted rather fiercely that magic wasn’t wholly reliable. This left Potter to tend to my wounds. He rooted around in the cupboard for a minute until he unearthed some kind of herbal salve and a variety of equally cold, equally painful substances, which he began dabbing liberally over my entire face. He was sitting very close. I could see the whites of his eyes, but also the flecks in his irises and every blinking eyelash. Did you know his eyes turn sort of black in certain light? Darker, more dilated. He was very focused on the scratch above my lip, haha. He sort of touched there after he’d finished, flicked his thumb across it and back again. I was feeling a little dizzy, though that may have been the blood loss. I didn’t know thorns could cut so deep.
Look, I don’t want to get too graphic, but this is sort of what happened next, to the best of my memory: Granger was busy cleaning something up - probably blood - and was still gone, and Potter and I were still alone. He asked me to unbutton my shirt. Obviously, I complied… because I know when to admit defeat, and because I am a cooperative and dignified individual. Mind, I was still a bit tiddly, and his hands were all over my skin, everywhere, and when his fingers brushed past my nipple, I sort of… moaned? I don’t know, Pans, I hate myself. I made a bit of a sound, though, I think. Anyway, he pretended like he hadn’t heard it. Maybe I hadn’t made one at all. Except, then he asked me to take off my trousers, and there is no way he couldn’t tell. I was straining. There weren’t any cuts on my legs, Pans. I checked. He took the bloody salve and started rubbing it on little imaginary patches of skin, on my ankles, the backs of my calves, my knees. My thighs. I could feel his breaths coming short and quick from his mouth. He had his head bent over my lap. He said to me: “Malfoy, you’ve got to take better care of yourself.” Except, he was kind of whispering it, and the skin of his cheek was pressed against my… other cheek. Haha, just kidding. But he was very close. He closed the door with his foot. He asked me to take my pants off. We had sex.
Pans, let it be said that Harry Potter has never been one to do things halfway.
I woke up at three in the morning, sticky all over. The light was still on. Potter was conked out in the bathtub. I took a much needed piss, and then I panicked, and then I left. You know what? I think Weasley knew it would happen. I think the bitch told Granger not to check in on us. She got in a row with me in the afternoon, said I could’ve splinched myself Apparating under the influence. Note that it was not until two in the afternoon that she returned, and with no explanation. Well, I can certainly guess. The slut.
Listen - don’t worry about it. It’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine. I don’t know how I’ll manage the whole coworkers thing, but I’ll figure it out. It’s been weird, anyway, since the kiss last month. No. I mean, I don’t know how I feel about it, I guess. Pans, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Yes, he’s owled me. No, I have no intention of responding. Let’s keep it that way.
Hope the honeymoon’s going well - tell Blaise and the rest of Paris that I said “Hello,” and also “Send Help.” Just kidding. Please don’t worry. I have always been dramatic, and you have always been careful. Love you.
P.S. What do you think?