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The first week, she had gotten horribly drunk every night, crawled in between the cotton sheets and slept.
Week two and three followed the same way, except the drinking binges stopped after Harry and Ginny staged an intervention.
Harry shot out in concern, “You have more vodka in your veins than blood.”
Hermione tried to take the bottle from his hand and hissed, “Malfoy! Harry, I got fucking Malfoy.”
Harry nodded in understanding and took a long swig from the bottle firmly in his grasp, “I know it’s disturbing. “
Ginny rolled her eyes and asked the group, “No one’s seen him in years. Where do you reckon he is?”
Ron placed the bags of Chinese takeout on the counter and glared, “Yeah, saves me from having to murder the bastard.”
He added knowingly, “I heard he’s living as a Muggle in Russia.”
Harry let out a short laugh, “Probably the most farfetched theory is that he’s Polyjuiced himself to look like the Muggle Prime Minister.”
Hermione groaned, “For Merlin’s sake, Skeeter hasn’t lost her idiotic touch then.”
None of the theories mattered. She would not be forced into any sort of union with Malfoy. The very notion was vile and disturbing, to say the least.
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Bookmark Notes:
WIP 78/? The Algorithm
SamadiW -
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