About Last Night

He was a piece of shit and he knew it. There. No bullshit. All truth. Draco Malfoy would break anything he touched if he so wanted to without the slightest chance of remorse after.

If this was a worldwide conception, then why were people constantly surprised at how far he would go or how detached he could become? It was in the name itself. Malfoy: famous for being careless, for breathtaking arrogance, and extreme self-preservation.

So, really, the crying witch that was currently hurling random objects at him should have known what she was getting herself into when she decided it was a brilliant move to leave the club with Draco. He never gave her promises of something more than incredible sex when he was tearing off her clothes last night. She could not blame him, then, for asking her to leave his flat when the first rays of sun poured in through his crystal-clear windows.

"You complete areshole!" she screeched after throwing a very ugly and tacky vase Pansy Parkinson had given him during another one of their dating stints (that last only two weeks and went down as one of the stupidest things he had ever done). "I've never been so degraded in my life! You will regret this!"

Even if he was the worst of the worst, Draco would not tolerate false accusations. He never degraded what's-her-face in the length of their one night rendezvous. He gave her a safe word, asked permission before bringing out the big guns, and not to mention she taught him one or two filthy moves. As well, he had graciously ordered his house-elf Delta to make her breakfast before her departure. He was being more than a good host, but now he had enough. Legally speaking, it was his private property and she was intruding. So when he Floo Called the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to remove the girl, he walked back to his bedroom without sparing the hysterical witch another look while she vowed revenge.

He went to his lavish room to open his closet and browse through his fine wardrobe. After pulling out a sleek black suit and a grey button-up, all very well-fitted to his toned body, Draco had his morning shave before making certain his blond hair was perfectly disheveled. Even if he was not more than perfectly aware that he was incredibly handsome regardless of how he dressed, he still had a reputation to uphold. The media and public constantly dubbed him one of Britain's five most eligible bachelors ('only if someone could tame his wild heart,' the magazines would say). Not that Draco particularly cared about his rank (he had been in second place for three years now), but with Saint Potter in the lead and the Weasel in third, it was a matter of principle for Draco to continue to uphold his status.

When he left his bedroom to have a spot of breakfast Delta kindly prepared, Draco found that he still had company despite the forceful departure of his last conquest.

"The Auror Department does not exist to escort your one night stands from your home, Malfoy," said Blaise Zabini in an authoritative tone despite being sat at the kitchen table eating a large waffle topped with all his favorites. Delta finished pouring him tea and Blaise smiled politely at her before returning his annoyance at Draco. "This is the fourth time this year. You're going to get me sacked."

"Not like you need the employment, Blaise," scoffed Draco as he took a seat. Delta was quick to serve her master. "Being an Auror is technically your hobby. Five years later and I am still confused as to why you can't spend your time being the playboy we all very much miss."

"First off, you and Nott are more than capable of fucking up your own lives without needing me to join you," said Blaise. "Secondly, being an Auror is not a hobby, you wanker. It's my career—just as being a notorious areshole is yours."

Draco grinned. "Sweet talking me still won't make me accept the fact that you're a Ministry tosser. As your best mate I am obligated to tear the mickey as often as possible. And assure that you rid my flat of clingy women."

"Jenna is actually a great girl, you know."

"Who?" asked Draco as he dug into his breakfast.

"The witch you just had my partner arrest."

"Oh. That was her name?" Draco laughed.

"Yes. And she happens to be Flint Sr.'s favorite niece," Blaise continued. "He is very protective of her seeing as he has no daughters of his own. Marcus has even let on that his father has offed a bloke for breaking her heart. If word gets out of what you just did to her your carefree life is about to get complicated. Or, in the bright side, he'll just have you murdered."

With one more bite of his food, Draco stood from his chair after glancing at the sleek watch on his wrist. "It's a good thing my best mate is an Auror, right?"

Blaise snorted.

"Come on. I need to make a stop at the Ministry before going to the office."

"Why the hell do you need me for?"

"As you mentioned, you're an Auror. Your job is to serve and protect." Draco buttoned his cuff links. "And Salazar knows the paparazzi outside the Ministry will flood me."

Blaise rolled his eyes, but stood up regardless. "Not to worry, mate. Your head's too big to fit the front page."

X

There was a loud pounding in his head. The noise clung onto the walls of his skull, sinking its nonexistent claws in, tearing apart the bone, to push the stinging into his cells. That was how best Draco could describe the gripping headache he was feeling. Hangovers were hardly a bitter end to his wild nights, but now it seemed to be settling in. It was a clear indication that whatever he did the previous evening was reckless, sweaty, illicit, and incredible.

When he rolled onto his back, Draco discovered that the pounding he was hearing was not only in his head, but it was also coming from the entrance door of his flat. Someone was knocking inconsiderately loud for someone who was nursing the aftermath of a lot of alcohol and poor life choices.

By the time whoever was visiting touched their knuckles to the door, Delta would have opened and determined if the person was on her master's list of allowed-in-without-an-explanation. Seeing, however, that the Wizardying World's very own righteous Hermione Granger campaigned for House-Elf Suffrage—and that no one would deny her and the holy Light Side anything, them being heroes and all—Draco was legally bound to give Delta weekends off to do whatever the hell house-elves did with their spare time, leaving him without anyone to serve him. He would just let whoever was knocking tire out and leave, but the knocking was making his headache worse. And he was too far from his wand to magick the noise out and he had a terrible case of cotton-mouth to scream for them to fuck off.

He opened his eyes and the crisp sunlight flooded his eyes. A groan escaped his throat. As he adjusted his sight, he caught discarded clothes on his bedroom floor. There was a red pump by the door, its pair by the closest, giving Draco evidence that he must have thrown those things right off after round one. There was something about those heels, though; he had a momentary flash of the previous night, seeing them on shapely legs, walking away from him.

He sat up, pulling the tangled sheets off his body. The naked woman beside him rolled onto her stomach, facing away from him. Draco stared at her bare back. She had a map of freckles on her skin, but what caught his attention was the scatter of scars that told a story he wondered if he'd heard the night before. He was tempted to run his fingertips on them, but the knocking continued.

He grumbled a curse word as he grabbed yesterday's trousers and slipped them on. When he made it to the door, he barely had turned the knob when he was pushed back and his flat was invaded.

"What the actual fuck?" Draco barked at the dark-haired witch stomping very loudly.

"Where is she?" demanded Pansy as she turned into the living room.

Draco cursed louder. Where was his wand? He had no problem at all hexing Pansy back to the moment she thought paying him a visit was a good idea. He looked at the hall that led to the kitchen, wanting to go in for a glass of water and a Sobering Potion, but instead grunted on his way to his sitting room. He found Pansy overturning his furniture.

"What are you doing, Pansy?"

"Looking for her!"

"Don't you think your whole jealousy act is getting bloody old?" She turned to him with an offended expression while her fingers gripped a red, lacy bra. "It's why we broke up, remember? You are the world's clingiest woman. Now, that might work for Weasel because the only thing that circles him are the flies and he needs to feel desired, I suppose, but I'm not flattered."

Pansy took one slow, calculating step to Draco. The lethal glint in her blue eyes could scare anyone, but it did not scare him. She knew that, too. But it was in a venomous woman's nature (for lack of a less refined word) to expose her fangs. "First of all, do not insult my fiance. Do you even know what I had to do to ensure that I ended up with Ron? I almost left Lavender Brown blind as a warning for all those other groupies."

"Groupies," Draco scoffed.

"Secondly, I broke up with you."

"You did not!"

"You are the last man on Earth I would ever be with. I rather end up with brainless Goyle, Draco. And he's as interesting as a teaspoon. So get the idea of me being a scorned lover out of your head." She held up the bra, waving it to get Draco's attention as he rolled his eyes. "Just tell me where she is. She didn't show up to breakfast and I just know you did something to her."

"Who the hell are you talking about?"

"Hermione!"

"Who?" he asked, plopping himself on his couch. He shifted, pulling out a gold, embroidered clutch. He opened it and found an identification tag. "No," he gasped, his silver eyes popping out of his sockets when Granger's face peered up at him.

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, confused, but then she stopped paying attention to Draco when footsteps were heard on the shiny, wood flooring. "There you are!"

Draco looked away from the brown eyes on the tag to find the real version glancing back at him. There, in all her naked glory, stood Hermione Granger.

Pansy grabbed the matching panties from the set that were tucked in the crook of Draco's couch. She hastily made her way over to Granger, handing her the undergarments. Granger seemed unabashed by her state with Pansy. On the contrary, she smiled and properly thanked her.

"You didn't have to come all this way, Pansy," Granger said with a silky tone that made Draco's skin run cold. His mind flooded with a series of flashbacks of the night before, all with the sound of her voice calling out for him in waves of ecstasy.

"Trust me, I did," assured Pansy. "Ron and Harry started asking for you when you didn't show up to breakfast at the Burrow and I knew I had to come and find you before they sent out a search party. You wouldn't want them to find you in this state, would you? Especially not with him."

Granger finished putting on her bra and walked closer to Draco. He wanted to push himself further into his couch, to be devoured by it so he didn't have to face the reality of what had obviously transpired between them.

"Actually," she begun, "Harry and Ron are going to find out eventually."

"Your lack of judgment when you're piss drunk should remain with yourself and your mistakes," said Pansy. "You don't need to publicize it, regardless of them being your best friends. Everyone's allowed a secret once in awhile."

"Well, this one can't be hidden," Granger refuted.

Just when Draco did not think things could possibly get worse, Granger raised her hand and the sunlight of the room reflected off a diamond ring on her finger.