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A Thing Called Transference by Aiedail
Chapter 1 : id
 
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Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm returning with this co-written work to enter into a different realm of fiction, with new and exciting characters (for us, as writers!). My good friend and co-author simply wishes to be known as "Mrs. Draco Malfoy," but I want to make clear that she had an equal input while writing this short story, and is mostly to thank for the genius ramblings of Malfoy (I don't know him all that well but she obviously has some keen insights as to his character). We didn't have the thought for a story while riding a train from Manchester to London, but we were inspired while riding in a moving vehicle on the I-5 through Capo Beach.

We would like to dedicate this story to: 1. Sigmund Freud; 2. AP/IB Psychology students; 3. our senior-year psychology teacher; 4. Anyone who thinks we're funny; and 5. Anyone who understands or enjoys the nattering of two ridiculously crazy teenage girls!

Thank you for reading, and without further ado:


id


"Das Es"



Draco Malfoy was having a very bad day.

“Bloody—Muggle contraption!” he bellowed, throwing the stapler against the bare wall of his cubicle. “Granger,” he demanded angrily, “Why must you force us to use these blasted stip—sipstap—siplurers?”

Hermione scoffed. “It’s called a stapler, Malfoy,” she said, amused, and then turned and walked away. 

“OH, BECAUSE IT’D BE JUST SO INCONVENIENT TO USE A SIMPLE STICKING CHARM!” he roared at her retreating back, sticking his head up over the edge of his cubicle. 

She ignored him.

“First you stick us in cages, then you try to force us to build up some stinking tolerance for the mysterious and bloody nonsensical ways of the Muggles by making us use their painful contraptions, then you ignore us and drown us in paperwork...” Grumbling, he began rolling up small balls of paperwork and charming them to zoom violently across the office space, one of which poked Ernie MacMillan in the eye. 

“Ouch,” Ernie mumbled, rubbing his eye sorely.

Take that, pig, Draco thought, chuckling darkly.  

Hermione stormed into his cubicle suddenly.

“Draco Malfoy!” 

“Sheesh, woman, can’t a man get any privacy around here?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and chewing nonchalantly on the end of his pen. Which I hate, he thought darkly. Muggle riffraff. 

“Don’t you think that Ernie might be wondering the same thing? What’s going on with you?” She narrowed her eyes.

“I’m having a bad day, for your information.”

“Well, you don’t have to throw things.”

“Bloody hell! Don’t be so bossy.”

“For your information, Draco Malfoy, I’m not having a good day either. Ronald and I just broke off our engagement.” She glowered at him. “Happy now?”

Draco considered for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “Yes,” he said, and Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation, turning away. “And, hey—” he said, and she looked back over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose that your use of his full name has anything to do with the breakup—”

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped. Draco laughed at her annoyance, rather pleased with himself. Hermione stalked off.

“If I might say so, sir, you seem to have been having quite a few bad days as of late,” Blaise Zabini said, casually leaning over the cubicle barrier. 

“Mind your own business, you tosser,” Draco quipped. Blaise grinned and folded his arms over the edge of the wall.

“Seems to me as if you, kind sir, could benefit from the services of a therapist. To reign in your sass, you know.” He retreated back to his own cubicle. Where he belongs, Draco thought, frowning severely.

But, wait...maybe Blaise is right. Maybe I could “benefit from the services of a therapist.” Draco shook his head, making a face.

Nonsense, you git. Shut up and get back to work.

“Sass! Hah, hah.” He shook his head again, amused at Blaise’s delusion.

He leaned over and picked up the—strapper—off the floor. Bloody useless thing, he thought broodingly as he twisted it in his fingers.

But if I were...to visit a therapist...I’d have to see a Muggle one. Wizarding therapists would know too much about me—my past. I mean, practically everyone in the Magical world of Britain knows who Draco Malfoy is—as they should—but yes, Muggle it is.

However, Draco thought, sneering and chuckling to himself, I quite doubt that a Muggle would be able to uncover the deep and buried root of my problems. Like they’re problems! Hah, hah! I don’t have problems, I’m Draco Malfoy.

But, for the record...perhaps—and I mean, just maybe—I’m a little unhappy.


* * *


A car splashed through a puddle of dirty water as Draco crossed the street, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into his pockets. Filth sprayed over his beige designer coat.

 “Bloody fool! In your stupid Muggle locomotor, watch where you’re going, peasant! This is Burberry!” he screamed, pointing at his coat, after the disappearing vehicle, which trundled along as though nothing was wrong. As it clearly is. 

He was standing in the middle of the street.

Now or never, mate, he thought sullenly. Did I just call myself ‘mate’?

...I need more friends.

He walked quickly to the dirty sidewalk, looking up at the sign over the large glass doors that stood facing him. “Das Freud,” he read, frowning. What the hell does that mean? he asked himself. Stupid Muggles. Shaking his head, he sucked in his breath and pulled open the door, stepping into the warm waiting room.

“May I help you, sir?” An elderly woman in square spectacles sitting at a desk asked him sweetly. He looked at her uncertainly, and suspiciously took in his surroundings, making sure that they were quite alone.

“Who are you sassing?” he snapped after a moment. The woman looked taken-aback, and Draco cleared his throat, straightening his tie. He looked around again, and then leaned in close over the counter. “Sorry, just nervous. You see, I’ve been having problems with my temper lately, and I’m not sure—”

“Oh, you’d be here to see Dr. Fielgud. Please wait in that seat over there in the corner and he’ll be with you shortly.”

“Dr. Feel-Good? In the corner? Is this your crackpot idea of a Muggle joke?” Draco demanded angrily. 

“I’m sorry, sir, if you’d take a seat.”

Draco hesitated a moment, standing threateningly with his feet splayed apart, just to make sure this lady understood he was clearly in charge of this stupid situation, before stalking to the corner, muttering under his breath. Stupid Muggles and their names...

“Hello, sir, if you’d step right this way,” said a tall, nondescript man of a smug nature, gesturing in the general area behind him. Draco followed him down the hall, until they reached the third door on the left.

“If you could kindly sit tight for a moment. You’re a little early, so if you don’t mind, I need to go feed my fish, visit the loo and eat some curry.”

Draco frowned at the doctor. “Well, the idea of therapy is to be honest, so I’m just beginning with the right foot forward,” the doctor said, and Draco scoffed deeply before stepping into the room. It was lined with couches and in one corner, a peculiar, long bench sat. It seemed to beckon him. He looked over his shoulder before walking over to it and sitting down.

“How do I ‘sit tight’?” he hissed angrily. He sat, frowning, tensing his muscles.

His anxiety swelled at the prospect of spilling his secrets to a stranger—to a Muggle, on top of that. His breathing suddenly became rapid.

He heard a loud crack and a crash as from the wall opposite him, behind a large mahogany desk, a frame fell and shattered on the ground. He jumped slightly and then got up to fix it, pulling out his wand.

Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate.


Draco read from the piece of paper that had been housed in the frame. “Sigmund Freud.”

He frowned, grimacing. “What rubbish,” he spat before placing it back in the frame and muttering, “reparo.” He hung it back up in its place on the wall, reading it again. Something deep within him seemed to understand it.

He didn’t like that feeling.

He hated that feeling.

“Who’s this Frood guy—why does he keep appearing?”

Fr-oi-d,” the doctor said, walking in and closing the door behind him. Draco sniffed at the air. Curry. 

“Freud is an extremely famous and acclaimed psychoanalytic psychologist.” He raised his eyes at Draco.

 What, you can’t scare me with all your big words, peasant.

“That thing that you’re sitting on, in fact, is called a Freudian couch, developed by Freud himself to aid his patients in a treatment he called ‘free association.’ That’s what you’ll be doing today with me, after you fill out some basic forms, of course.” The doctor proffered a clipboard piled high with forms. Draco took it, looking at the papers petulantly. He handed it back.

“I don’t do paperwork.” I do enough of that at the Ministry, peasant.

 “All right, then,” the doctor said, snatching it up off his desk and placing it aside. “Now, lay down.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lay down. On the couch.”

Draco glared before obeying.

“Now, tell me what’s been bothering you lately,” the doctor said in that same smug tone, tapping his pen against his notepad.

“You. I don’t like you,” Draco said honestly.

The doctor laughed, and asked him to try again. 

Draco pursed his lips angrily, and then tried to relax. “Well, I’ve been really irritable lately,” Draco said, frowning at the doctor’s pen, which was still tapping. “Which has been a problem at the Depart—I mean, office.”

“Ah, Draco, Draco, Draco,” the doctor said, smiling patronizingly. Draco wanted to punch him. “Now, in order for this therapy to be effective—that is, to work—you’re simply going to have to tell me everything you think of. That’s just how this therapy works.”

“I know what effective means,” Draco snapped viciously. “Now stop that incessant pen tapping!”

Raising his brow, the doctor set aside his pen delicately. 

“There’s some honesty,” he said. “Now, tell me why you think you feel irritable.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Draco asked, but at a glare from the doctor, he settled back down, folding his hands over his stomach, and tried to oblige. “Well, here’s a list for you.

1. My best friend’s a tosser.
2. My boss is a wench. Stupid Mudblood.
3. My parents are dead. And left me with this stupid name.
4. Harry freaking Potter is still around.
5. And I’m talking to this haughty, arrogant git who keeps asking me questions to which I don’t have the answers.”

“Okay,” the doctor said, looking amused. “I just have some questions for you, now. First of all, what’s a Mudblood? Who’s Harry Potter? And what’s wrong with your name?”

“Well—” Draco paused, sitting up. “Obviously, this isn’t going to work. So bye.”

He got up, smirked, and walked out the door. Slamming it for good measure.

* * *


“I gave you that paperwork three days ago!”

“Well, it’s not on my desk, so I don’t know where it is. Maybe you lost it on your way over here...you know, in your hair.

“That was unnecessary and rude.” And you have the mind of a child, Hermione thought.

You’re unnecessary and rude.”

Hermione groaned, clapping her forehead with her palm, and walked away shaking her head.

“Well that worked quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself.” Blaise popped his head up from the next cubicle over. “Finally got her to leave.”

Draco stuck his head out of his cubicle, checking to see that all of the others were doing their work. Reasonably confident that no one was listening, he whispered to Blaise, “I went to therapy.”

“How did that work out for you?”

Draco hesitated. “I left.”

“Why?”

“The man didn’t know who Harry Potter was!” he hissed.

“I thought you hated Potter.”

“I do, you dolt,” Draco spat vehemently. 

“So you went to a Muggle therapist...Therein lies your problem, friend. What’s wrong with a good old Wizarding therapist?”

“They know who I am...‘Therein?’ Does anyone say that?” Draco said disbelievingly, then shook his head. “Ugh—I mean, Wizarding therapists think they’ve got me pinned. Think they know who I am.” He paused. “Bastards.”

“I believe that you should give it a chance,” Blaise said, appraising Draco from the corner of his eye. “I was kidding at first, but now I do believe that you could actually benefit from this.”

Draco looked at his friend darkly. “Thanks.”

“That doesn’t sound like paperwork, boys,” Hermione bellowed from her cubicle.

Frowning, Draco bent his head to his desk and began to sort the case files. 


* * *


Draco couldn’t believe his eyes. Or his luck.

“Longbottom?” he said incredulously, taking in the young man seated behind the counter of the front desk in the lobby. “You’re a bloody receptionist?” He began laughing, closely bordering hysterics as he compared the image of Longbottom to the last receptionist he’d seen in Neville’s place.

“Nice to see you, too, Malfoy,” Neville said pleasantly, looking on at the laughing man in front of him. He raised his brows, nodding to himself. He had always figured this one would end up in the loony bin. “Ms. Lovegood will see you shortly.”

“Lovegood?” Draco asked, his laughter ceasing abruptly. A tear ran down one cheek. He couldn’t believe his stupid luck. “Loony Lovegood is a therapist?” he cried, raising his arms. Neville looked alarmed. Seemed to me like she could have used a good bit of therapy herself, Draco thought. He wondered at the irony. 

“Yes,” Neville said, leaning back, seeming to want to put as much distance as possible between himself and Draco. “Luna Lovegood has become one of the most acclaimed Wizarding therapists in all of Britain.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Draco said, whistling softly. “I’ll just wait over here, then, in the corner.”

“You don’t need to sit in the corner, Malfoy. There are plenty of other seats.”

“I’ll have my corner, thanks,” Draco snapped.

“Oh, Draco! How lovely to see you! Would you step this way, please?” Lovegood said, appearing just before Draco could escape to his corner. Yes, she was as spacey as he had remembered. And feared. Oh, boy, he thought, following her down the hallway to the third door on the left.

What the hell is going on with this third door on the left business?

“Well, Draco,” Lovegood said, “What do you—”

“Look, Loony—I mean, Lovegood—before we start this, I just want to lay down some ground rules. You don’t speak of this information to anybody. And I mean, anybody. Second of all, don’t you think that I hate all Mu—Muggleborns—just because my father was a Death Eater.” Even though I do hate Granger, if I do say so myself. “Lastly—and don’t you forget it—I don’t want to hear anything about any damned Nargles while I’m here. Don’t waste my precious gold.” 

“Well...I guess we don’t need to go over the confidentiality policy,” Luna said genially, smiling. “And as for Nargles...well, never mind.”

Draco smiled, satisfied that she seemed to be following his rules. 

“And as for your past,” Luna said, “I’m not here to judge you—just to help.”

“Like I need help.”

“Er—that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Draco frowned. “Hey,” he said, a sudden thought occurring to him, “Do you know who Freud is?”

“Freud...I may have heard his name once or twice but I believe that I thought his work and theories to be distinctly rubbish.” She shook her head, glancing up at him. 

“But you have a Freudian couch!” Draco whined, pointing at it.

“Very good, Draco...very good!”

“Don’t patronize me,” he returned, furrowing his brow. He sat down on the couch, even though he hated it. I hate you, he thought, looking down at it.

“You need to—”

“I know, I know—lie down,” he interrupted hotly.

“I was going to say ‘make yourself comfortable,’” Luna said, seemingly unfazed. Draco regarded her from one eye. I’m starting to like Lovegood a little more now, Draco thought to himself. She’s not as bad as I thought.

“So...why did you decide to come and see me today?”

“Well, first of all, let’s get this straight—I wasn’t aware that it would be you I’d be seeing. But the reason I’m here is that I’m having a...little...bit of trouble with my temper, focus, and overall quality of life lately.”

“That last bit sounds rehearsed,” Luna said lightly, and Draco snapped back, “So what?”

She said nothing, only made a small note on her roll of parchment.

She looked up after a moment, clearing her throat. “I’m not the kind of therapist to ask you ‘how does this make you feel?’ and ‘why do you think that is?’ All I’m going to ask you to do is to close your eyes and tell me everything—every little detail—that comes instantly and easily to mind. We call this exercise ‘free association.’”

“Okay,” Draco said, deciding to lie down after all. He closed his eyes, peeking suspiciously at Lovegood, who was simply sitting at her desk quietly. “What?” Draco asked, seeing her staring at him.

“I’m just waiting for you to begin. Go on. Talk.”

“Fine, fine...” he muttered, resenting not having control over the situation. He closed his eyes again, settling down, folding his hands over his stomach comfortably.

“So Blaise, Blaise Zabini, from Hogwarts—you know him— was the one to tell me to come see a therapist. He was joking at first but then I realized that I probably do need to see one. I haven’t been in the greatest mood recently. Blaise...he’s kind of a tosser. I mean, he means well, but he’s an arse all the same. He talks like he’s the bloody pope or something, all ‘holier-than-thou.’ Anyway, we work at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And Granger is our boss. She’s a bit of a...er...well, bitch. I mean, actually she’s kind of nice. But still, she’s annoying. She always shrieks for no reason. Well, maybe not shrieks but still her voice is bloody shrill. The other day, she yelled at me for levitating paper balls. Paper balls! I mean, it’s not my fault MacMillan got in the way of one and opened his eye for it to punch. It’s not my fault I got tired of all my paperwork. It’s definitely not worth the pay, not that I need the pay. I’ve got a whole fortune from my father.”

“So anyway, because of all that paperwork I decided to make it into little levitating balls. It’s not like I was actually going to finish all that work. It’s bloody boring, and all those sodding cases. I don’t even know why I work there, sometimes. I don’t know why I don’t just leave. Maybe I just want to stick to something for once.”

“I’m always angry. I miss my parents. I mean, not really—but kind of. One Christmas I really wanted a model broom, but they got me a damned peacock. I mean what the hell would a child want to do with a peacock? A peacock, for Merlin’s sake. But my mother was quite nice. Besides from being a Death Eater and all. And my father...well...you know him—Lucius Malfoy. What more can I say? He always wanted me to be better than Potter. Damn him—stupid scarhead. Potty. Ugh. Oh, and his sidekick Weasel! I’m quite damn pleased that he and Granger broke it off. They would have had a million little ginger-haired Weasels and Weaslettes running around. And—”

“I’m sorry, Draco, but that’s all the time we have today,” Luna interrupted kindly. 

“What, already?” Draco said, a little startled, opening his eyes.

“You only scheduled a fifteen minute appointment, and I have another patient to see. But just one more thing before you leave,” said Luna, “I think that instead of getting angry, and acting on that anger, I would self-soothe with something other than allowing your temper to fire up. Like doing something you enjoy: reading, painting, running.”

“Er—okay, I guess I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Lovegood,” Draco said begrudgingly. 

“Don’t forget to make your next appointment with Neville out front!” Luna called as he walked out the door. 

“When can I put you down for next?” Neville asked with a smile as Draco approached the counter.

“Thursday is good, and make it a half-hour. Say—where’s the closest Honeydukes?” Draco asked. I like eating. I wonder if I could self-soothe with chocolate frogs...

“The only one I know of is in Hogsmeade,” Neville replied apologetically, shrugging. 

“Dammit,” Draco spewed, then caught look of Neville’s shocked expression. “I mean—er—thank you, Longbottom.”


* * *


CHOCOLATE FROGS.

“Excuse me?” the small till lady asked, looking with wide eyes up at the tall, pale, crazed-looking young man who had just burst into the store, snow swirling around his cloak as he stood in the doorway.

“I need some chocolate frogs. As many as you have.”

“Well, I’m not sure I can sell them all—”

“Listen, lady, do you know who I am?” Draco demanded, shaking his fist at her. “No? I’m Dra-co Mal-foy.” He raised his brows impressively. 

“Er...sorry?”

Draco sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Draco Malfoy. Really, you don't—? Ugh. Fine. Anyways, I have pockets full of gold. Just give them to me.”

The woman frowned. Then sighed, throwing up her hands feebly and shaking her head. “Alright, alright, I’ll just be down in the cellar a moment.”

Draco smiled awkwardly, trying to look grateful. As soon as the lady descended into the storage room, his face wiped clean. “Good choice, peasant,” he muttered under his breath, and he waited, impatient, thumping his fingers on the glass counter.

He was suddenly overcome with an incredible desire to eat sweets. As many as he could. He swished around dramatically, looking at the shelves stocked high with candies. He grabbed a basket from the pile near the door and began to raid the shelves,  grabbing whatever he could hold in two hands. 

When the woman came back with boxes piled high in her arms, he nearly tripped running to the counter, his basket bursting with all kinds of sweets. She set the boxes down on the counter and began to ring up the bill, sighing loudly and shaking her head as she took stock of package after package. She looked up at Draco, who was leaning on the counter excitedly.

“What?” he challenged, thrusting out his chin intimidatingly. “I have a problem.”

 She nodded and handed him the receipt.

“Fifty galleons,” he whispered, shaking his head. He hesitated, and then shrugged. “Ah, what the hell,” he said, handing over the gold.

He exited the shop and looked down at his loot. “Well, there’s an investment I hopefully won’t regret.”


* * *


“Guess what?” Draco said excitedly as he walked into the third room on the left, hanging up his coat on one of the hangers. 

“What, Draco?”

“I followed your advice. I self-soothed by doing something I really love.”

“Good!” Luna looked pleased. “What is that?”

“Eating!” Draco replied happily, sitting on the couch.

Luna inhaled sharply. “Draco—that’s not exactly the idea I...had in...mind...” she trailed off. Draco’s eyes widened. She held out her hands, shaking her head. “You know what, never mind.”

Draco relaxed. “So, what’s on the agenda for today? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with me?” he asked, surprisingly good-natured.

“You tell me, Draco. What would you like to talk about?” Luna asked, taking off her pink horn-rimmed glasses. 

She looks quite good without those ghastly spectacles.

“Where did I leave off last time? Before a certain someone interrupted me?” He chuckled. 

Taking a look at her notes, Luna replied, “You were talking about Hermione and Ron and their red-headed children.”

Draco was instantly annoyed. “Right! Those little brats running around. If Granger can’t stand me—me, Draco Malfoy—there’s no way she would be able to stand little recreations of Weasel.” Draco paused, breathing heavily. He considered for a moment. “She does put up with a lot. I mean, I guess I’m not easy to be around, with my moods and what not.”

“Mhm. Tell me more about these moods.”

“Well I’m grumpy a lot. I snap at almost everyone. I guess I just don’t like talking about my feelings. I mean, I never talked about them to my parents, and if my parents didn’t care, why would anyone else? And it’s not manly to talk about one’s feelings. That’s a girl thing. I mean, the only guys who talk about their feelings are probably Potty and Weasel.

 “Tell me more about your relationship with Harry.”

 “Relationship?!? What relationship? I hate him, he hates me. It’s the way it’s always been, and always will be.” Wo-w, I am a rhyming machine, Draco thought, impressed. 

“Okay...” Luna said, scribbling on her notepad. “But then why work for Hermione? If you don’t need the pay? She is his best friend.”

“Well—I mean, it’s probably just by chance—but Granger’s the only one who agreed to hire me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come off it, Lovegood. Who wants to hire Draco Malfoy, son of Old Voldy’s right-hand man?”

“Draco—I think we need to ‘get this straight.’ You aren’t your father, and despite what you think, not everyone compares you to him!”

Draco’s throat choked up a bit. He glared at Luna over his shoulder. “You don’t mean that. You’re just saying that because you have to.” He frowned. “Because I’m paying you.”

“No, that’s not what I do. But thank you for questioning my integrity.” Luna raised her brows and Draco grudgingly apologised. “Now, listen carefully. I wasn’t judging you when you walked in. I accepted you as a client. And I am not judging you right now, either. Accept that,” Luna ordered, putting her hair behind her ear.

I can’t believe this is actually happening, Draco thought, trying to absorb this information. Loony Lovegood of all people understands me. She isn’t judging me... She’s actually quite cute, this Lovegood.

Draco smirked—his devil-may-care smirk—and winked at Luna. 

She rolled her eyes in a temporary suspension of professional behavior. 

“So, Luna,” he started, looking up at the ceiling. “Would you ever want to go get a butterbeer with—”

“Time’s up, Draco,” Luna interrupted, shuffling her papers. “Make your appointment with Neville up front.”


* * *


Draco hiccuped. “I love this place, Blaisey.” His eyes were watering slightly as he looked off dreamily into a distant corner. 

Blaise looked darkly at Draco with narrowed eyes. 

“Don’t call me that. You always call me that when you’ve had too much to drink.” The two were currently sitting, slumped, in a booth at the Three Broomsticks.

“You know what I love about it, Blaisey? I was always on a date here. Back in Hogwarts, I always came here with my ladies, and old Potty was only here with Granger, Weasel, and disgustingly—I mean, really, Blaisey—the Weaslette.”

“STOP CALLING ME THAT!” Blaise yelled, banging his drink back down on the table. “...It’s diminutive.” He folded his arms grumpily. 

“You know what else?” Draco asked, his pronunciation slurred as he slumped even further forward onto the table. He tried to catch Blaise’s eye intently, but the stagnant tears that pooled in his lower eyelid obscured his vision. “You know what else? Potty and Weasel were such losers! It was great! Hah, hah...” Draco laughed inanely, wiping his eye.

“What a burn,” Blaise said coldly, his brows raised. He took a long swig of firewhiskey, sighing.

Draco stared at him blankly. He suddenly spoke. “You know what’s the difference between you and me, Blaisey?” he asked, beginning to giggle. “When we get drunk, I get happy, and you get sad and talk with normal words.” Draco surrendered to a peal of giggles, his mouth hanging open stupidly. Blaise refused to acknowledge him.

Draco laughed for a while longer, then sighed deeply, wiping his eyes with his napkin. “Oh, yes...they were losers and they couldn’t even get more than one girl ever to go out with them. And now Weasel’s lost Hermione, who was practically the only girl who ever even liked him.” Draco frowned, slurping some spittle. “You know what, I wish that he wasn’t such a loser. Granger’s been so nit-picky at work lately, wanting all her paperwork done, and on time...”

“I work with you, I know that. And she’s always like this. You just never pay her any attention. It’s only since she mentioned (and God knows why she did) that she broke it off with Weasley that you’ve been complaining about her.” Blaise set his mug down and folded his arms again.

“Well, forget Granger, anyways.”

“She’s our boss, you can’t just forget her.”

“I meant right now, you idiot. Forget her right now because I’ve got something very important to say on the subject of women.”

“What do you know about women?”

“Only that I’m in love, you git.”

 “You. Are. In love?” Blaise asked, biting his lip.

 “Yeah. Is that offensive to you?”

 Blaise shook his head, his eyes beginning to water.

“Then what’s your bloody problem?”

Blaise burst out laughing, robust and noisy laughter. “You—in love? I never thought I’d see the day. Tell me about it.”

“It’s Luna.”

“Luna?”

“Luna Lovegood, dolt, she’s been my therapist the past few weeks and I just really like her. Her world, her butterflies and rainbows and crumple-skinned snotbags and all that...” Draco trailed off mistily, sighing.

Blaise stared at his friend for a moment, and then shook his head. “You are so drunk.”

“You idiot.”

“Fine, fine. Have you told her?”

“What?”

That you love her! It seemed to be pretty important to you a second ago.”

“Well—of course not. How could I? She’s so wonderful, and I’m—well, me. No one likes me or thinks any good of me. Look at what I am, the product of two of Voldy’s right-hand slaves.” Draco slumped dramatically in his chair.

“Don’t be such a Hufflepuff!” Blaise hissed seethingly. “You, sir, are Draco Malfoy. Slytherin prince!”

“Well...yeah, thanks. But I don’t think I could ever tell her.” Draco hiccuped once more. “I’m too much of a Hufflepuff, as you put it.” He reached into his pocket suddenly, pulling out a chocolate frog. “Do you want it?”

The door tinkled open, as a great rush of people crowded into the Three Broomsticks.

“Bollocks. Get down,” Draco spat. 

“Why?”

“It’s Luna!”

“Hey, since when are you two on a first-hand basis, anyways?”

“Shut up,” Draco retorted as he attempted to cower behind the rather large, almost empty, firewhisky bottle. 

To his embarrassment, mostly because he was quite pissed and grimy from his afternoon of Quidditch, Luna spotted him.

“Oh, hello, Draco!” she greeted him brightly, with a man in tow. “How are you doing? It’s quite a lovely evening; I heard the Quintenpuffs singing.”

Draco attempted to regain composure, and not to act like a complete tosser. He replied, “I’m well enough, how are you? You look lovely this evening.”

The man behind Luna coughed at this remark. Luna chuckled and dragged him forward to introduce him.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my husband, have you? Draco, this is Rolf Scamander.”

Draco’s face fell. Losing all composure and along with it all sense of logic, he spluttered slobberily, “Husband?!?”

 “Yes,” Rolf said, with a hint of a warning. “Husband.”

Luna tinkled a laugh as she put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Draco, I’ll see you on Thursday, right?”

Draco attempted wildly to regain some control over this situation, smirking and throwing a look at Rolf. “Thursday. Can’t. Wait.”

Rolf rolled his eyes, grabbed Luna’s hand and walked her to the other side of the room.

“Hah,” Draco let out a smug laugh. “I showed him.

Blaise chuckled. “Yeah, you showed him. Him, as in Luna’s husband. The husband of the woman you love.

“Shut up, you tosser, and have a frog.”






a/n: edited 25 july 2012


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