Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love

Chapter 23: Draco Malfoy, Notorious Auror

Draco's post-Granger afterglow lingered all night. When he returned to the Manor he wandered about, sighing and staring out of windows. He smiled vaguely at nothing. He thought about the back of her neck and where he would most like to put his mouth. He read some of her old notes on the Jotter. He indulged in a delicious daydream of her in the library, pushed up against the stacks.

When he found himself floating towards the rose garden for a midnight stroll – an unprecedented activity, for him – Draco realised he was acting like a besotted imbecile. Again.

His brain, which had been adrift amongst those stupid fluffy clouds, came plummeting back to earth, where it took up residence in his skull once again, but grumpily, as though he'd interrupted it in something important. As though there was anything remotely important about cherries and sundresses and I'm glad you kept the protection assignment.

At the entrance to the rose garden, Draco pivoted on his heel and stormed back into the Manor. He closeted himself in his study, where he strode about, freshly perturbed.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Seeing her had been a bad idea. He had done very well over the month of July, getting Granger out of his head. The crush had all but been quashed out of existence. But then, in her presence, his quashing had lasted all of an hour. An hour!

This was troubling. Aggravating. Fuck Theo and his nonsense about absence making the heart grow fonder; he did far better when he was away from her. When he couldn't see her, tease and be teased by her, smell her, steal looks at the back of her neck...

Draco half-lapsed into another daydream before catching himself at it again.

Right. This was fixable. Granger's next asterisk holiday wasn't until Mabon – that was late September. That was ample time to let this thing wear off and disappear.

Draco leaned against the unlit fireplace and rapped his fingers against it. She was his fucking Principal. And – even more importantly – he was Draco Malfoy. Highly eligible, perpetually unattached. He didn't do besotted imbecile.

His Jotter buzzed. Draco waited an entire ten minutes before checking it, during which he paced in agitation while telling himself that he was playing it cool.

It wasn't Granger Jotting him, anyway. And he was not disappointed in the least. It was Goggin, scheduling a training session for the next morning. Which would be an excellent outlet for these mad, frustrated energies that he was grappling with.

Draco replied, No wands, to ensure that Goggin would knock a bit of sense into him.

-

The next day, Draco and Goggin knocked so much sense into each other that they both became quite venerable philosophers. This was marred by one minor hiccough: nobody could understand them through their fat lips. The world made do without their unutterable wisdom.

A few days passed, during which Draco did wonderfully from a quashing perspective. Granger became a mere afterthought amongst various emergencies, missions, and brutal training sessions.

Draco grew pleased with himself once more. Everything was going to be fine.

His first contact with Granger was initiated by her, and it began with an insult, which was promising.

You're mad, was Granger's opener.

Draco, who was Playing It Cool, waited for two hours before responding with: ?

I've just spoken to Hippocrates, said Granger.

Draco answered, Who?

Hippocrates Smethwyck. The head of St. Mungo's. He showed me your letter. Did you mean to put that many zeroes??