Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy hated Mondays. He hated waking up with the glare of the sun in his eyes, always somehow still hungover despite the anti-hangover potion -- he was still refining the recipe after all -- and the sleeping draught, which was always required on a night he’d been drinking to stave off the nightmares that ten years of peace still haven’t quite banished. He particularly hated mornings like this one, where he’d yawn and stretch out his arm, and, expecting to feel the silky soft fur of Pallas, his 5 year old Whippet who’d been a gift from Narcissa one Christmas, he’d feel the silky smooth skin of a naked witch instead.
Not that he didn’t enjoy having a witch in his bed, of course. He was a fit, young and extremely wealthy man with enough good sense to have avoided any serious commitments thus far, and took advantage of his freedom to the fullest extent. It was everything that had to happen as soon as she woke up that immediately filled him with dread. He was well practiced at this routine by now, of course, but it was still unpleasant, and almost always led to him being just a few minutes later to work than he’d prefer to be, late enough that his department head,Harry bloody Potter, was sure to comment on it. This was also a part of the routine by now, and he had grown accustomed to the cadences of Harry’s humour not to be truly bothered by it, but he would prefer to avoid the attention from the rest of the bloody office if he could.
He turned his head and winced, not entirely due to the added sun in his eyes. The witch in his bed this morning was Astoria Greengrass. No matter how many times he told her, and himself, that it could never happen again it always did. She knew he was weak on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon; mellowed out after a morning of pick-up Quidditch, followed by mimosas at the manor with his mum over brunch, a mid-day nap in the sun curled up with Pallas, and a few glasses of the finest wines with his best mates at Blaise Zabini’s newly opened beer garden just off Diagon Alley. He supposed he could always change his routine to avoid ‘accidentally’ running into her in the speakeasy style lounge hidden below, but it always felt so good in the moment.
He let out a deep sigh and rolled over reluctantly. If he didn’t wake her up now, he’d be more than a few minutes late. He could always just leave her asleep, but the last time he’d tried that she’d overslept and been late to her job at the Daily Prophet, and sent him a howler right at the end of the morning briefing, which meant that everyone who’d lingered for the abysmal selection of biscuits on offer had been privy to their lack-of-relationship drama. She did avoid him for a full month after that though, and he briefly considered whether a howler was worth getting another month long break from her attentions, but that wasn’t guaranteed. With her 25th birthday on the horizon, she’d seemed more determined than ever as of late. It was all still a bit of a haze -- Merlin! He needed to dedicate some extra time in the potions lab to perfecting his recipe -- but he could vaguely recall her bringing up a betrothal contract again somewhere between rounds 2 and 4. He knew he needed to end this thing they had, for her sake as well as his, but he could never seem to find the right words to make her believe that he truly meant it.
He finally felt her stirring beside him, and watched the satisfied smile on her face as she woke up to find his eyes already on her.
“Stori -” he started.
“Morning Draco."
“Stori -” he started again, “this was the last time. I mean it.”
She rolled her blue eyes in that way she knew frustrated him. “You say that every time. You never mean it. I’m 25 in six months Draco. There has never been a Greengrass witch unmarried at 25. You know the pressure I’m under. I know we will be good together. After 3 years, you’d think you’d have caught on by now. I know you value your freedom, and I wouldn’t begrudge you any of it. I know you love your routines, and you already know I fit into them. Nothing much would have to change for you, I’d even let that dog into our room when we’re married.”
“Stori, you know it's the dog that chooses to sleep away from you, not the other way round. I’ve heard this all before, and you’ve heard my reply. Last night too, if I recall. I’m not going to change my mind. I don’t want to marry you. I do not love you. I don’t know how to be more clear about any of this. You can do so much better than me, and if you let this foolish idea of us go you’d see that too. You say that I’d still have my freedom, my routines, that nothing would change. If you really loved me, and I really loved you, you would want those things to change, and I would want to change them for you. I don’t want a marriage like my parents, like yours, like the one you want. I don’t want a marriage at all. I’m never going to let anyone pressure me into that.”
Standing beside the bed now, looking down at her, he saw something that gave him an idea. He knew it would hurt her, and certainly earn him a howler. He wouldn’t even be lying to her. It’s not his fault that she chooses to ignore the reality of their situation. He bent down and grabbed the lacy red bra from beneath his bed. “Is this one yours from last week, or Pansy’s from Friday night?”
She looked up at him, stunned. She’d always been jealous and insecure over his close bond with Pansy, and he knew the bra was Pansy’s, as Astoria would never be caught dead in anything quite so ‘garish’ as red lace. He’d also stripped it off Pansy and flung it there himself. Astoria should know the score by now; they’d never made any commitments to each other and he never hid the fact that there were other women in his life. Pansy certainly never minded, and was actually rather fond of inviting other witches in to join them. And, Pansy could be trusted to stay sleeping in his bed the next morning and let herself out. If Astoria, after 3 years, still deluded herself into thinking this was anything other than a good shag for him, he needed to do something to help her figure it out.
“PANSY! PANSY? PANSY!” She screamed at him, “You had PANSY in your bed on Friday?”
“She’s here all the time, Stori, I’ve never tried to hide that. Pallas loves her, and so do I. Besides, it's none of your business. I don’t know how many more times I need to tell you this. You are not my girlfriend, and I won’t ever marry you. If I were to marry anyone, I would’ve married Pansy years ago.”
This seemed to be the last straw. Finally. Astoria started sobbing frantically as she searched for her clothes and slammed the door on her way out. Draco took a couple of deep breaths and finally started his morning routine.
Shower. Shave. Breath freshening charm. Freshly pressed suit. Dragonhide boots. Wand in thigh holster. Espresso. Cigarette. Ham and cheese croissant. 8:16. Drat. Floo to the ministry. 8:24. Place last week's reports on Potters desk. Attempt to avoid his knowing look. Fail. Grab a chocolate biccie from the tray being passed around. Take his usual seat between Weasel and Boot. 8:32. Pretend to listen to Potter drone on about the previous week's successes and failures. Receive his new assignment.
The first thing to catch his eye as he opened the folder? Contact: GRANGER, H.
Draco Malfoy hated Mondays.