Alyssa
His date was wearing a lacy blue dress that Draco was fairly sure he’d seen in his mother’s wardrobe at some point. He was vaguely concerned that it was a deliberate choice on Alyssa’s part. She was alarmingly enthusiastic about the date, and he’d come to learn that was a glaring red flag. A classic sign of a gold digger, beware any rich men who enter here.
“I was so excited to finally hear from you.” Alyssa simpered as they sat down at the table. “I’ve thought of little else since I saw you at the St Mungo’s fundraiser ball.”
“Did you donate?” He asked.
Hermione snorted as she leant on the side of the display cabinet. Her book shop and adjoined cafe wasn’t busy that lunchtime, so she had time to listen to his tale of woe. “You didn’t ask her that.”
Draco grinned at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “I absolutely did.”
“Bloody ridiculous man.” She replied, shaking her head and rounding the cabinet, fishing out his favourite apple tart and putting it on a plate. “Carry on then. You promised me it was a disaster.”
“Did you donate?” He asked, tilting his head and watching her smile fade into confusion.
“Well, it slipped my mind on the night. I’ve been intending to go and donate, but you know how it is when your week gets away from you. There are just so many things to do.” She replied.
“What was it that you did again?” He smiled, knowing the answer.
“I help my father with the estate. Managing the elves, riding the horses, that sort of thing. It’s important work.” She sniffed. He kept his smile in place.
“I’m sure it is.” If he’d allowed himself, that was exactly what his own job description would have been - lazy heir who’s self importance had been inflated by their parents. As it was, he’d decided to work for a living, almost as a form of recompense for his actions in the war, serving the community with his apothecary. His father had lost his mind at the idea of a Malfoy being in trade, but Draco felt that his father didn’t get to have opinions when he was in Azkaban for life. “Shall we order?”
“Can you order for me, I can never decide.” She replied, and he did a valiant job of containing his eye roll.
“Are you especially opposed to mushrooms?” He asked, not quite stopping the hint of boredom slipping into his tone. Alyssa didn’t seem to notice.
“I simply adore mushrooms. See, I knew you’d know my palate, Draco.” She beamed at him. He tried not to grimace.
After two hours of tedious conversation, the meal was, blessedly, over. Alyssa was obviously angling for more - an invitation to go back to his house, he assumed - but he was already planning his most efficient escape route. He was mere seconds away from asking for the bill when several waiters appeared with a delicate looking dessert, Weasley whizz-bang candles spewing sparkles out of the top of it. The restaurant went quiet as they waited to see who they were delivering it to. Draco’s eyes widened in horror as they placed the plate in front of Alyssa, and then started singing one of the worst renditions of Moon River he’d ever heard. The plate read ‘will you marry me?” in swirling chocolate letters, and for some reason, Alyssa was crying. Yes, Draco was heir to two of the oldest pureblood families, and yes, his mother had been growing more aggressive in her requests (demands) for grandchildren of late, but he wasn’t so desperate as to propose on the first date. He blinked.
“Yes! A thousand times yes!” Alyssa shrieked, and Draco longed for the sweet embrace of death as she flung herself at him.
“Um, I think that’s supposed to be over here?” A man to his left said. Alyssa went stiff as a board.
“Oh.” She muttered, standing up and dusting down her dress. “Right.”
A waiter grabbed the plate and winced, moving it to its rightful owner. As Alyssa turned her back, Draco decided there was no need to protect his dignity, as that had been promptly destroyed by a sparkler stuck in a cake, so he tossed far too many galleons down on the table and ran for it. If Alyssa tried to follow him, he didn’t notice. He didn’t look back once.
Hermione was wiping the tears from her eyes as she laughed. “Where on earth did you find her?” She asked.
“Her father was friends with mine. I couldn’t avoid her once she noticed me at the gala.” He replied. “It’s your fault, you know. She pounced when you abandoned me to dance with Potter.”
“Oh, I didn’t realise I was protecting you from the pureblood princesses. You should have said. I would have held your hand or something.” She smirked.
He leant back in his chair. “Gods, imagine the scandal. My mother would have drawn up a betrothal contract within the hour.”
“And how would you like being stuck with me for the rest of your life?”
“If you keep making these tarts for me, I think I could probably manage.” He replied.
Genevieve
Draco had never been all that into blondes. His family tree was inbred enough already, he didn’t feel like he needed to consciously add to the problem by dating someone that could pass for his sister. Genevieve was intimidatingly beautiful all the same, though. He was nervous because of that. He was also testing his ropey French skills, as the former Beauxbatons student did not speak English. It would be fine, he reassured himself. He knew enough to get by.
“Tu es magnifique ce soir.” He said in a way that he hoped was charming as they arrived at the venue. He’d bagged tickets to an open air production of Romeo and Juliet, hoping to impress with a showing of British culture.
“Vous êtes trop gentil, monsieur. C’est un honneur pour moi de sortir avec quelqu'un d'aussi beau que toi.” Genevieve replied with a shy smile. Bollocks, she spoke so quickly. He’d caught odd words, but nothing more.
“Le spectacle se veut très bon. Es-tu aussi excitée que moi?” He asked. She gasped softly and blinked up at him.
“Oh god.” Hermione cringed. “I thought you learnt French when you were a child?”
Draco was sitting opposite her in the Ministry holding cell, both with their hands cuffed and their magic dampened. “My teacher was hardly going to explain the difference between the words excited and horny to a child, Granger.”
She started laughing, and he tried to hold his own in, even as a ghost of a smile began to appear on his face.
“So you told the very reserved French girl you wanted to shag her. What did she say?” She prompted.
Genevieve gasped softly and blinked up at him. Her chest was heaving, threatening to spill out of the top of her tight white dress. “à quel point vous êtes en avance. Je dois l’admettre, j’ai plutôt hâte de voir ce que tu as sous ta chemise plus tard.” She whispered. He caught something about a shirt, so made an assumption and ploughed on.
“Oui, les costumes sont très bien.” He replied, guiding her to their seats.
“J'aimerais te toucher devant tout ce monde.” She said as she sat down, her hand trailing across his upper arm. He frowned.
“On peut se tenir la main si tu veux?”
She huffed, seeming impatient about something. “Touchez moi. J'ai porté cette robe juste pour toi.” She said, as the lights illuminating the theatre dimmed and the play began.
“C'est une très belle robe.” He whispered, moving his attention to the actors.
The next thing he knew, she was grabbing his hand and shoving it up her skirt.
“She did not!” Hermione exclaimed, cackling loudly.
“Apparently, if you inform a repressed French pureblood that you’re horny for Shakespeare, they will immediately need you to get them off.” He replied, and she laughed again.
“In a field though? With people next to you?”
He shrugged. “It was dark. Sort of.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Foul, the pair of you. I assume you didn’t stop her?”
“I am a mere mortal man. Of course I didn’t.” He grinned. She scoffed, but smiled all the same.
“So, are you seeing her again?”
“Ah, no. Her father was pretty keen on me marrying her if I wanted to see her again. Call me old fashioned, but I would quite like to be able to talk to my wife. It wouldn’t be practical.”
“Plenty more fish in the sea, I suppose.” She lamented, and he chuckled.
“Mione?” Someone said, and Draco turned to see Ron Weasley. He immediately sighed.
“Alright, Ron?” Hermione smiled at him through the bars.
“The bloody hell did you do?” The Weasel gaped at them.
“Protesting the Werewolf Identification Bill. We chained ourselves to the Wizengamot doors.” She explained.
“What? Both of you?” He frowned.
“Weasley, I’m allowed to care about things. People shouldn’t be forced to tell the government that they’re a werewolf, it’s barbaric. So yes, both of us.” Draco snapped.
“Huh.” The ginger man shrugged. “I’ll go and find out who’s processing you. See if I can speed it up any.”
“Thank you Ron!” Hermione called as her moronic golden counterpart wandered off down the hall.
“We’re going to be here for hours, aren’t we?” He said. She winced.
“Yeah.”
Scarlett
“I’ve been here a few times now. It’s nice.” Scarlett waffled on as they walked up to the restaurant. It was a relatively new place, specialising in international cuisines that the typical Englishman on the street might not have tried before.
He had mixed feelings about going out with Scarlett. A fellow slytherin from the year below him at Hogwarts, he’d known her for years. They’d both been on the quidditch team at one point, and he was still trying to decide if this was a date or not. It didn’t really feel like one. He shook off the feeling and resolved to make the most of the night, whatever it was. He liked Scarlett at the very least, and knew they could hold a decent conversation. That was more than could be said for some of the other dates he’d been on recently.
He’d warned her not to try the Caribbean curry. Granger had told him time and again that the food from that part of the world was typically spicy, and Scarlett had already said she wasn’t big on really hot stuff. When it arrived, smelling like it had the potential to do real damage, he winced. He really had no idea what came over him when, a few minutes later, he offered to swap meals with her.
“I have to admire your manners, I suppose. You’ve got balls, son.” Joel Granger clapped him on the back. The three of them were out on the golf course, a sport that Draco had never even heard of, never mind played, until a year ago. Now, he played it fairly regularly, usually with Granger’s father, oddly enough. He wasn’t half bad, either. Granger had begged him to help her ground Joel after he had struggled with the reversal of his obliviation, and Draco had been all too happy to help. He’d always felt as if it had been partially his fault in the first place, so if playing golf with the man was what he needed to do to fix it, then play golf he would.
“Malfoy, you have the lowest spice tolerance of any person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would you swap?” Hermione asked, noting her score down on the card as she wandered back over to them.
He shrugged. “Manners drilled into me from birth, I suppose.”
Joel grinned mischievously. “You should pop over for a day or two in one of your port key whatsits when we go to Martinique for Christmas. I’ll have my mother make you something proper.”
“Gran’s jerk chicken would kill him, Dad.” Hermione smirked.
“What a way to go, though.” Her father reasoned. “What happened next with the girl, anyway? Did she have to call you an ambulance?” He nudged Draco, who winced at the embarrassing memory.
Draco’s stomach was churning in a way that it had never churned before. They were playing a pick up game in the park just off Diagon, and the flying was not helping. He’d long since ascertained that it was not a date with Scarlett, which he was fine with, but he was not fine with potentially showing her a selection of bodily fluids if she didn’t stop chasing him so hard. This was a casual game, why was she giving it her all? He didn’t even know most of the people they were playing with. That made it worse, somehow. They’d only remember Draco Malfoy as the guy who threw up when he joined them for quidditch that one time.
“Oi, Ferret!” Someone hollered. He glanced up and saw George Weasley swaggering across towards him. “You got a minute?” Draco landed quickly, feeling worse by the second, and made his way over to what was, in his opinion, the most tolerable Weasley. “Blimey, are you always that pale?”
“Ate something earlier that wasn’t good.” He replied, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably.
George frowned. “I was going to ask for your help with a charm seeing as Mione’s ignoring my owls, but you look like you’re about to die.”
“I feel like I might be.” He muttered. His stomach gurgled in agreement. George grimaced.
“Merlin. Come on, you can chuck up in the toilet in the shop.” He gestured with his head and they started back towards Diagon itself, heading for WWW. His stomach gurgled again, and Draco’s heart sank. It was too late.
“George.” He muttered, and the ginger man turned around in alarm, seeing as Draco had never used his first name before.
“What- Oh. Oh.” He glanced down before looking back at his face. “Let’s just keep moving. You’re alright, mate.”
Gods, he wished he could just die. Why the hell was the walk to the shop so bloody long? His body was not cooperating in any sense of the word, legs or…other parts. Warmth spread through his trousers, as did all-encompassing shame, and he wanted to crawl up in a ball and disappear. Of course, this had to happen in front of a Weasley, too. George would never let this go-
“Seems like you let it go, though.” Hermione grinned at him. Joel snorted loudly as he put their clubs away.
“I am sharing a very vulnerable story with you, and you treat me like this.” Draco exclaimed, although he was smiling.
“You are not the first white boy to crap himself after a curry, and you certainly won’t be the last.” Joel slung an arm over Draco’s shoulders. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I did wonder why George keeps asking if you’re alright. I think you must have really scared him.” Hermione said.
“Or scarred him.” Joel muttered. “Did this Scarlett not wonder where you’d gone?”
“She owled the next day saying she hoped I was alright, seeing as I looked so terrible. It wasn’t a good experience for my ego.”
Hermione hummed. “Oh, I don’t know. Your ego is far too large. I think it’s necessary for you to be humbled every now and then.”
“Granger, I shat myself in the middle of Diagon alley. What more do you want from me?” He looked at her. A moment passed, before they burst out laughing. She collapsed into him, barely holding herself up.
“Come on then. Helen will send out a search party if we’re much longer. Are you staying for dinner, Draco? I promise it’ll be something plain.” Joel smirked.
“I would like that, thank you.” He smiled.
Tiffany
Draco slumped on the sofa immediately after stepping from her floo. He wrenched his tie off and tossed it behind him, not caring where it landed. Crookshanks, apparently sensing his misery, hopped up onto his stomach and prodded him rhythmically, purring loudly as Draco fussed his fluffy ears.
“Are you alright?” Hermione frowned, wandering in from her study down the hall.
“Death eater kink.” He mumbled, not taking his eyes off Crooks. Hermione said nothing. She simply disappeared into her kitchen, reappeared a few moments later with two beers, and sat down next to him.
“Pizza?” She asked, passing him the bottle.
“As long as you don’t cover the thing in olives.” He replied. She rolled her eyes.
“All that effort your mother put in trying to raise you properly and you still have the palate of a toddler.” She shook her head in faux disapproval. “I’ll order the food. You put the film on.”
He smiled at her gratefully, before gently moving Crooks and fishing the DVD out of collection. Love Actually was a cinematic masterpiece, he didn’t care what anybody else had to say about it.
A while later, he idly wondered why he’d bothered going out in the first place. Curled up with his favourite film and his favourite company, there was nowhere he’d rather be. In fact, he’d quite like the rest of his life to look like that.
The thought rattled around his head a few times before he really understood what it meant. Bollocks, he was in love with Granger.
Padma
Padma Patil was wearing a black turtleneck jumper, tight black trousers, and a beret. He supposed that really should have been his first warning sign. Warning sign number two arrived as she led him down some steps into a seedy looking bar, where several rows of chairs faced a stage with a single stool in the centre of it. Salazar’s left testicle, please don’t let it be-
“I do spoken word poetry.” Padma explained. “There are a few to watch before I go on. I thought you’d enjoy it.” She smiled. He smiled back, knowing full well that it did not meet his eyes. Operation Maintain-A-Platonic-Relationship-With-Granger was having mixed results, seeing as he now only went on dates so he’d have an excuse to see her, in order to tell her about all the ways it had gone wrong. This was largely unfair to Patil, he knew, but, in his own defence, he was an idiot.
“Sounds great.” He replied.
The night went by excruciatingly slowly. Partly because Draco had always found spoken word hilariously pretentious, and he was having a hard time stopping himself from laughing as everyone else snapped appreciatively at the end of the bullshit pieces, but mostly because he wished Granger was there to laugh at them with him.
“Why do they snap, by the way?” He asked her. They were making their way down a road he didn’t recognise, but he figured that was fine. The march had a predetermined route, he just had to follow the group of people draped in glitter and feathers. Granger, for example, had glitter all over her face and had been forced into a rainbow skirt by Theo. Draco had escaped the skirt, but not the glitter.
“It’s quieter than clapping. I think those sorts of things started in apartments, so they wanted to show appreciation without being loud.” Hermione replied. “Please tell me you remember her poem.”
“Obviously. I was memorising every detail to give you an accurate picture of my suffering.” He grinned as Potter appeared next to them, a flag wrapped around his shoulders and a feather boa around his neck.
“Padma’s been trying to hook someone into going to one of those poem nights for months. I didn’t think you’d be the twat she managed to convince, Malfoy.” The bespectacled git smirked at him.
“Now, now, dearest, be nice. It took enough persuading to get him to come to Pride in the first place.” Theo said from the other side of Hermione. “But seriously, why did you go to that, Drake? It’s pretentious bullshit.”
Draco shrugged. “Was curious, I guess.” That was an outright lie. He had gone to try and distract himself from the fact that he was arse over tit for his best friend. It had not helped.
“Did you at least shag her?” Pansy called over her shoulder. She was, of course, tastefully dressed in an outfit of pink and orange, holding hands with her wife, Luna Lovegood. Luna was also in pink and orange, but it could not be described as tasteful, not that she even remotely cared what anyone else thought of her. Draco had always admired that about the witch.
“No, I did not.” He replied. Pansy huffed.
“Waste of time.”
“Go on then. Do the poem for us.” Hermione grinned, and he rolled his eyes.
By the time Padma got on stage, Draco was fairly drunk. It had become necessary to stop him falling asleep. Then Padma was all but shouting and he was very much awake.
“My skin stains blue and bronze as I bruise,
House proud as I fight alongside
A pride of lions, they stalk their prey,
And I pray that my sister will see another day.”
Everyone snapped. Draco grimaced.
“My blue tie cannot hide the blood stains,
It proves my life hangs in the balance again,
My tie ties me to the cause,
Mai tais on the beach, cheers as we pause
And take stock of all that we have lost.
Victory comes at a heavy cost.”
More snaps. Draco took a heavy sip of his gin and tonic. Padma kept going.
“War is a mother’s endless tears,
These endless years and stoic fears,
Our dreams were drowned in blood-soaked rain,
We fought to stop his blood-soaked reign,
Place the green ties behind the bars,
Their green should lie behind the bar
To make up for what they did to us,
Make-up hides scars with little fuss.”
He frowned. She’d brought him here to…lecture him? He’d been buying her drinks anyway. He didn’t need her to tell him to do it through the medium of violently delivered poetry. She was up off the stool now, waving her hands around.
“War is not the answer, friends.
It is a question, and to that end
I believe the answer must be peace.
I worry that I lost a piece
Of myself upon that field,
Field questions from the children
Who need not know the answers,
And sirs, we will be better.
My sister, I will bet her something meaningless,
What am I if not an authoress?
Under duress, I profess to be an author.
If nothing else, I am my father’s daughter.”
She bowed. Everyone snapped. Draco downed his drink.
“Good gods.” Hermione cringed. Whilst he’d been talking, she’d acquired a ‘trans rights are human rights’ placard, and was holding it aloft as they walked. “I mean, there is skill in it, but Merlin, I don’t know how people keep a straight face.”
“There is nothing straight about today, thank you.” Theo chimed in, and she rolled her eyes.
“So, are you seeing Padma again? Maybe even having a go at a poem yourself? You recited hers rather well.” She said. He scoffed.
“Gods, no. She’s pretty, but I’ve had more interesting conversations with Binns.”
“I think you’re too fussy. Why are your standards so high?”
“Maybe somebody set the bar and I’m struggling to meet it.” He replied, uncomfortably close to the truth.
“I hate it when people do that.” Hermione said. “It’s incredibly selfish of them.”
“It’s certainly not charitable.” He smiled at her. She shook her head, before her attention was captured by Luna, who took her hands and started spinning her around. Draco took custody of the placard. He supposed he should have offered to carry it sooner. Not because it was chivalrous, just because he was taller, so more people could see it. Obviously.
Hermione
If Draco didn’t fuck it up, then he was attending his last ever first date that night. He had rather a lot riding on that. If it wasn’t his last ever first date, then he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to go about the rest of his life with the knowledge that he’d messed up the best thing to ever happen to him. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything, and considering the fact that he was a spoiled only child, he’d wanted several things very badly throughout his life.
After they’d been to Pride, Pansy had pointed out to Draco that Granger had seemed jealous of the idea that he’d shagged Padma Patil. He’d sat on that information for two deeply stressful days until he’d gone to her book shop and somehow managed to ask her out. He was not a gryffindor for a reason, that reason being he was a coward by nature. He needn’t have been so worried, as it turned out, not judging by the radiant smile she’d rewarded him with as she agreed to get dinner.
“I’m sort of sad about this, you know.” She said as he held her chair out for her. “You can’t come home and tell me about your horrendous date.”
“I’m hoping it won’t be horrendous for once.” He replied, and she smiled. “Even if I’m half expecting a dog to be released in here or something. Maybe the roof will cave in, who knows.”
“At least it would make for a better story.” She reasoned. “It’s hardly interesting if we just get dinner and then leave.”
“Who exactly are you telling this story to, Granger?” Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Crookshanks.” She replied, holding his gaze.
“It was in that moment-” He glanced up from his parchment and smiled at Hermione. “-that I knew I was going to marry her. That Granger was in this as much as I was.”
“Not Granger anymore.” She said softly.
“You’ll always be Granger to me.” He replied, reaching for her hand and squeezing gently.
“My speech isn’t as heartfelt as this, I feel like I need to warn you.” Theo said after a moment. Their guests laughed, and Draco winced.
“I’ve been worried about the stories you have to tell.” He replied, eyeing his best man warily. Joel snorted from his place slightly down the table on Granger’s side.
“Can’t be anything worse than that date you told us about. Touching cloth is not the way to a lady’s heart.” He exclaimed. Helen Granger held her head in her hands as the room exploded in laughter. Even his mother had a ghost of a smile, struggling to maintain a demure countenance in the face of toilet humour. Draco went red, but found he didn’t mind the embarrassment all that much. He’d always taken himself quite seriously, but if the stupid tales from his life made his wife laugh in the way she was doing? He figured it was worth it. Maybe he’d quit the apothecary and become a full-time clown, just to make Granger laugh. It was his favourite sound, after all.