A Mandatory Alliance
By: Provocative Envy
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CHAPTER NINE
To: Someone Who Obviously Sent Me the Wrong Letter
You’re on cocaine if you actually believe what you wrote to me.
From: The Guy Who Wants Nothing To Do With You Now That You’ve Proved Yourself To Be Under The Influence Of Heavier Illegal Substances Than It Is Within His Power To Acquire At The Present Time, And Is Therefore Embittered About
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Draco Malfoy was in an utterly foul mood, and it was made all the worse by his acknowledgement that his predicament was entirely his fault: he’d gone and lost the goddamn letter that the neurotic Russian had written him. The one that falsely and blatantly accused him of loving a Mudblood. The very same Mudblood that had given him one of the best kisses of his life and then proceeded to use numerous expletives to describe how violated and dirty she felt.
If anyone other than an illiterate house-elf had found that letter, his life was virtually over. Not only would everyone hate him for ignoring the centuries-old, unspoken rules that forbade inter-house dating, he was quite certain the entirety of Gryffindor house would try to kill him. And even if the lot of them were incompetent retards who were probably incapable of executing “The Perfect Murder”, in large groups it was possible they just might succeed in ending his life. Which was a self-deprecating thought in the extreme.
Understandably, Draco hunted through every square inch of the kitchen, his eyes scouring the corners that a broom had so obviously missed. To no avail. That stupid little piece of paper just wouldn’t be found.
It wasn’t until he saw it hanging out of Ron Weasley’s back pocket that he realized his searching had indeed been fruitless.
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“Harry,” Ron Weasley whispered to his best friend, his voice quaking with excitement, “You’ll never guess what I just found in the kitchens.” The raven-haired boy he was speaking to turned to look at him and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
“What? A veela who’ll actually do you?” Harry asked with a smirk, laughing and ducking as Ron swung a punch at him.
“No, Harry, I think we all know that no one will ever find one of those,” Hermione put in, her smile fading into a frown at the smug expression on Ron’s face.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to make a joke out of this, Hermione,” he replied complacently, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of parchment.
“What do you mean?” she asked carefully, eyeing the stained, dirty paper warily as Ron grinned and held it up to the light to read:
“To: A Boy Who Is So Obviously In Love I’m Almost Prepared To Be Sorry For Him. Oh, you poor, tortured young soul! Deep in those never-ending throes of love and completely unaware of it! Don’t bother getting all huffy and indignant. I think, subconsciously, that you’ve suspected your “feelings” all along. You should have reread your letter, dear boy. (“And those eyes!”) Believe me when I say you wouldn’t have been describing her “maddeningly wise brown eyes” with such fervency if you didn’t harbor some kind of warped affection/desire/desperate longing for her.
And I know that you’re undoubtedly going to spend the next seventy years of your life denying this, so don’t think I’m going to go be stupid and play matchmaker for you and this girl. Hermione Granger, you said her name was? Sounds like a marvelous girl. I really do want to meet her; if only because she deserves a bloody medal for getting you to fall in love. But enough of that: you’ll never admit any such thing, so I’ll shut up.
Whatever. I’m over writing to you, since you never even acknowledge my letters. I’m not here to simply listen to you ramble about your problems, you know. I have feelings, and you’re hurting them. So go off and get tendonitis in your wrist, or whatever it is you do in your spare time. (Haha. That was funny. Tendonitis in your wrist? Do you get it? From…you know…yeah. Whatever.) From: A Girl Who Doesn’t Give A Flying Fuck About Your Life.”
There was a long silence after he’d finished. Hermione had turned white, her skin drained of all color as she stared at Ron. Harry was gaping at him, his mouth hanging open as Ron merely nodded and beamed and nodded at both of them.
“What…where…what the hell?” Hermione finally burst out with, her blithering idiocy very uncharacteristic.
“Oh, be a good sport about it all, Hermione,” Ron said cheerily, waving his hand dismissively at her dismay. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve already pegged Justin Finch-Fletchley as the boy in question. It’s so obvious I don’t know why you’re upset. Just go and find the bloke and tell him how you feel,” he suggested, shrugging his shoulders. Hermione’s jaw dropped of its own accord.
How Ron had come to that conclusion, she’d never guess; there was absolutely no evidence whatsoever that Justin was the boy the letter was addressed to. In fact, it sounded the exact opposite of what someone would say to a boy like Justin, who was overbearing, to be sure, but a nice enough fellow besides all that. Certainly not the type to warrant an angry response to one of his letters. Ron’s logic actually disturbed her quite a bit.
“Ron,” she responded slowly, “I’m very concerned at the moment. You’re making no sense.”
“Oh, come on! The clues are all here! You just have to read between the bloody lines!”
“Harry?” she said, exasperated, “Will you make him see reason?”
“Well,” he answered, looking from her to Ron, “I don’t see anything wrong with Ron’s explanation.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she choked out.
“No,” the two boys said at once, “I think it’s you who’s missing something. This letter’s meant for Justin Finch-Fletchley, I’m telling you.”
“Ron! I don’t care who the blasted letter’s from! I’m just worried about how and why you came to that…supposition!”
“No need to get testy, Hermione, I’m just trying to help,” Ron said defensively.
“Look, I’m sorry, can we just forget about this?”
“No,” Ron and Harry replied, sniffing as they spun on their heels. “We think you need to reflect on what you’ve said to us and to set your affairs with Justin straight,” they threw over their shoulders.
“This is the bloody twilight zone,” she mumbled to herself, turning around and running head-first into Draco Malfoy, who’d been standing behind a pillar and listening to the entire conversation.
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