Unthinkable Acts

Draco Malfoy was being buried alive.

Naked, he lay in a pit, six feet of earth towering over him. A jeering crowd cast dirt on him. Bits of gravel rained down, dust stung his eyes, and a few rose petals—a tiny handful of withering blossoms that spoke of his possible redemption—scattered across his chest. Their sickly perfume threatened to overwhelm him.

He always had been super-sensitive to smells.

With a gasp, Draco sat up. He saw his bedroom. His down comforter. His silver-and-green tapestries. His wand beside his pillow. It was all there, just as it should be. He was safe and at home.

Of course, he wasn't really dead. He just wished he was.

In the past five years, the nightmares had been relentless. There was the one of him screaming, his arm burning where the dark mark had defaced it. Him, slaughtered by Voldemort for failing to kill Dumbledore. Him, sobbing over his parents' bodies. Him, watching as Crabbe burned. Him, being dragged across the campus by Severus Snape, who rained curses down upon him for being an utter failure. To this day, Draco wasn't sure whether Snape called him a failure for not killing Dumbledore or for not switching sides soon enough.

Draco remembered how he'd hidden during Harry's final showdown with Voldemort, wishing he were brave enough to intervene—to throw Harry his wand, or something. Anything. Anything but what he did best—which was nothing at all.

He had too many secrets. Secrets that he'd lived with for so long that they were beginning to crush him. Secrets he kept from his mother. Secrets he kept from his father, who was always in his cups. There were the secrets he had kept from the reporters who had haunted the gates of Malfoy Manor during the interminable trials that occurred after Voldemort died. And then there were all the other things he could never tell anyone.

For example, Draco never told people that he hadn't wanted to be a Death Eater. At first, he had been too cowardly to say no, then he'd been too proud to say he'd been an unwilling pawn. Not with his dad watching.

He couldn't confess that his first and longest-lasting crush had been on Hermione Granger, the Mudblood who was smarter than him and who dared to slap him in the face.

Nobody knew he'd respected Luna Lovegood more than anyone else at Hogwarts. She didn't care what anyone thought of her. She was who she was—everyone else be damned.

And oh, Merlin, he didn't dare tell anyone that the best friend he ever had at Hogwarts—the only one who really listened to him during his entire life—had been a ghost who haunted a leaky bathroom. Or that he still visited her there every summer.

Last, but not least, he'd never confess to anyone that he was still a virgin. At twenty-three years old, Draco Malfoy had never "known" a woman. Not in that way. Yet he had been commonly accepted as Slytherin's most notorious Lothario. If he ever approached a witch, their mamas, papas, and friends bristled:

"Stay away from him, princess. You remember what he is."

"Legal trouble. We don't want to get entangled with that family."

"He's a Muggle-hater! A bigot!"

"Of course we want you to marry a pureblood, sweetheart. Just not that one."

"Draco Malfoy's got a bad reputation. Keep your eyes open if he's around, or you might be sorry."

Draco sat in bed, covered in a cold sweat, and laughed until tears came. Wasn't it ridiculous? Wasn't it the stupidest thing? Out of all his shameful secrets, being a virgin felt like the most humiliating of all.

He was twenty-three years old, for God's sake! Some of his friends had "lost it" when they were thirteen. Some had been in serious relationships in school. Others had been betrothed by their parents and figured they might as well get a head start on their arranged marriage. But as much as his dad and Mr. Parkinson had hoped Draco and Pansy would make a match of it, he'd always found her repulsive—especially after the Yule Ball, when Granger had transformed like a princess in a fairytale. Draco remembered with disgust the day he'd lounged on the Hogwarts Express, his head in Pansy's lap and her fingers entwined in his hair as he bragged about the Dark Lord's big plans for him.

All the time that Pansy had caressed him, he'd been fantasizing about getting his hands on Granger. About what he'd do to her when she was finally in his power. And what had he done? Nothing. He hadn't laid a finger on her, even though he'd spent almost seven years itching for the chance. Sure, he'd refused to identify her—or Potter, for that matter—but he'd also stood by while she was tortured.

That's when his childish crush finally ended. He wasn't good enough for her, and he never would be. He was ashamed of his puerile fantasies. Draco disgusted himself. Granger would never want him.

Sighing, he got out of bed and washed his face in cold water. He wouldn't fall asleep again. Not that night.

Not many people associated with the Malfoys nowadays. Narcissa was desperate to regain a modicum of respect in the community. Lucius was busy drowning himself in a butt of malmsey, so to speak. Draco spent his time cooped up in the Manor's library or roaming the streets of London, watching Muggles. He was never sure whether he went to those places to escape his peers or to punish himself for fighting on the wrong side. The losing side. After a few awkward years, he'd finally mastered his "Muggle" disguise. No one stared at him anymore. He blended right in. There, he was a nobody. It was a welcome respite for a notorious man.

But—despite his curiosity and the twinge he felt when he remembered Granger, who remained "Hermione" in his fantasies—Draco never approached a Muggle woman. Some prejudices were too hard to overcome. Maybe he could bring himself to love a Half-Blood. But he was bloody sure he'd never care for a Muggle. The idea made him sick.

What an arse I am, he told himself. I can't even follow through on my own convictions—and I pretend it's because of love.

It was love that was burying him alive: love of his family, of their history, of their traditions, and even of their imperfections. Love of his mother and his father, who had once been the center of his universe. He was—attached—to his prejudice. He was used to giving in to it. It was comfortable. Comforting.

Yet another voice told him—that irritating, know-it-all voice he could still hear in his head—that he would keep waking up in his nightmare grave until he learned to turn his love outward.

On February 9th of his twenty-third year, Draco went into a bookstore with a small cafe, ordered a chai, and sat down with a pile of books. Sipping his drink, Draco skimmed each one. He pushed away The Leviathan and The Prince with disgust—he'd had enough of that garbage already. Pride and Prejudice he liked better. He decided he would put it in his "to buy" pile. Then, a shadow fell across his table.

"Do you mind?" a woman asked. She smelled like vanilla and her voice was unusually deep. Draco looked up. Hovering over him was a young girl with curly, dark-brown hair and cat's-eye spectacles.

She gestured at the empty seat across from Draco. "I mean, may I share your table?" She smiled, flashing a crooked front tooth. Every other seat was taken. He nodded, and she joined him. For a few minutes, they sipped their drinks and flipped through their books. Then, the young woman spoke again:

"Pride and Prejudice?"

"Yes."

"I'm surprised you're reading it."

"Why?"

"Most . . ." she hesitated, then cleared her throat. "Most—guys—wouldn't be caught dead with it. Unless their girlfriend made them read it." Her eyes widened a bit. "Is your girlfriend making you?"

"No." Draco looked away. "I'm just reading it. For educational purposes."

The woman nodded, a lock of hair escaping from the elastic that held it back. "What do you think? So far?"

Draco muttered something incoherent, watching how the loose curl fell beside her glasses. He drank his tea and stalled for time.

"I think—well, I think that Darcy is a—a—privileged arsehole." He thought of himself. "And that not everyone has to get married. Not so young, anyway." Granger, Potter, the Weasleys. Even Goyle. "And Bingley is an idiot because he doesn't take what he wants when it's right in front of him."

The woman was chewing on her lip as he spoke. Somehow, Draco couldn't tear his eyes away. I never knew, he thought, that vanilla went so well with chai.

"Do you always take what you want?"

"Almost never," he said, then amended: "Not anymore."

"You haven't read very far yet," she said.

"No."

"Keep going."

"I intend to," Draco answered. He had turned back to his book when the girl's knee brushed against his own.

"Sorry," they said in unison. Then, she smiled at Draco. His stomach flipped over and he laughed—a genuine laugh this time, not a bitter one. After so many years, it sounded strange.

"What's your name?" he asked, still smiling.

She looked down at her hands, which were clasping her mug. Her lashes brushed her cheeks. "Why don't we just—enjoy each other's company. Without names," she murmured.

Draco was glad to agree. His name was unusual in the Muggle world. There was no reason to attract attention to himself.

Now that the ice had been broken, he studied his table-mate openly. She was not beautiful so much as striking. Her hair was a tangle—Just like Hermione's, but darker—and her eyes were unremarkable. However, they were intelligent-looking. Perhaps she was too thin and wiry, and, if you wanted to be critical, flat-chested. But she dressed well.

Draco wished he could run the tips of his fingers across her cashmere sweater. Even just the sleeve. He was taken aback by the strength of his fantasy. He hadn't felt that way since he was a fifth-year—before all that business with the Dark Lord—and now he was longing to touch a Muggle. He shook his head to clear it.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. A headache, that's all."

The woman's lip quirked. "Given you a headache already, have I?"

"No—no!"

"I have that effect on people."

Draco didn't know what to say. He wasn't in his element. He didn't belong in a Muggle bookstore, talking to a Muggle woman, holding a Muggle masterpiece and trying to offer commentary on it. Every fibre in his body was screaming that he needed to get away—as far away as he could—from this woman who reminded him so much of his hopeless high-school crush.

But his libido was telling him to stay. Oh Lord, it was telling him to stay.

Their knees brushed under the table again, and Draco suspected that it wasn't by accident. The eyes that met his were free of guile, though—nothing like Pansy's had been all those years ago.

Maybe he could care for a Muggle after all.

"It's getting dark," the woman said. Her voice was hypnotic. "Why don't we get out of here?"

"Where should we go?" he answered, his heart pounding.

"Go for a drink?" When she saw Draco's skeptical look, she added, "I'm legal, I swear!"

"How old?"

"Nineteen. Is that a problem?"

Draco hesitated. She was very young. Finally, he answered: "One drink."

After they bought their books, the woman had to show Draco the way to a pub. "My favorite," she confided.

The next day, Draco returned to the bookstore, hoping to meet the anonymous woman again. He'd had fewer nightmares, and part of him said it was because he'd finally made a connection with someone from the outside world. When that someone failed to appear, he went to the pub. Draco went home disappointed. Again, his new friend was a no-show.

That's all she was. A friend. Even if he had dreamed of slipping his fingers under her sweater. Of how her skin would feel beneath his hands—soft like rose petals. Of kissing the nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin. Of her slender body pressed against his. When he woke, his skin tingling from the memory of her touch, he had been on the verge of crying out to her. But nothing came. He didn't know her name—but at least he wasn't dreaming of Hermione. Or open graves.

After another restless night, he stood in front of his mirror. He'd been told all his life that he was a beautiful boy. That he'd have the world at his feet. That women would be falling over each other to take the Malfoy name. For once, Draco decided to be honest with himself. He wasn't that much of a prize anymore. He was only in his early twenties, but he could tell that his widow's peak was getting more pronounced. His nose was sharp. His face was angular. He'd never developed the broad shoulders that some of his peers had, nor had he gained the weight back that he'd lost in his sixth year at Hogwarts. He was—to tell the truth—rather gaunt.

Gaunt. A muscle in Draco's cheek twitched as a cavalcade of names ran through his mind.

Gaunt. Malfoy. Black. Lestrange. Parkinson. Crabbe. Goyle . . . and the Dark Lord. Such wonderful allies. And now he didn't even stand to inherit a fortune. It was all gone. Why had he spent all these years waiting to find a witch who would give him a second look? Maybe a Mudbl—he cut himself off and took a deep breath. Maybe a Muggle is the best I can do.

Draco thought again of the stranger from the bookstore. She wasn't that bad. Really, she was too pretty for him. She was smart. She liked him. And he wanted her—he wanted her badly. If she'd have him.

"Why the hell not?" he said to himself. "Why the bloody hell not?"

His father was too drunk to care. His mother was so desperate for social acceptance in the new, liberal government that she might welcome any ties he might make with a Muggle. She'd never protested Draco's little sojourns into the Muggle world. But he wouldn't risk their ire. If he ever found the bookstore-girl again, he'd wait a long time before bringing her home.

If I ever find the bookstore-girl again? Draco's lips thinned. No, when I find her again.

It was February 11th. Draco had already been to the bookstore, but his ingenue was not there. Then, he went to the pub, taking a seat near the window. Every time the bell tinkled, he looked up. Finally, she walked in.

Draco's mouth went dry. Merlin, he thought, It's like I'm sixteen again. But of course, he might as well have been. He hadn't touched a woman since fifth-year. Too busy.

She must never, ever know.

Fortunately for Draco, the young woman saw him without him having to say a word. She greeted him shyly, even as she slipped into the booth beside him. Putting her feet up on the bench on the other side, she said she was glad to see him again.

"I've missed you," he blurted out.

"Missed me? It's only been two days." Her eyes sparkled.

In an alternate universe, Draco would have said something suave. In this one, he was too aware of her hip pressing against his. He was glad when the server asked for their order. Over the course of the evening, they drank far more than they should have. He hoped that it was for the same reason. Certainly, as the pint glasses piled up on the other side of the table, her hand began to wander, first to touch his arm, then his knee, and finally his thigh, where she left it, her fingers stroking his leg lightly.

Draco thought he'd go crazy, so he covered her hand with his.

"Ss-sh-seriously," he slurred. "What's your name?"

"I'm your mystery woman."

"You're very . . . "

"Forward?"

Draco nodded.

"Well," she waved her finger in front of his face. "I know what I want, and I want—"

Rather than finishing her thought, she touched the tip of Draco's nose. He blinked in surprise, and when she wobbled a bit, grabbed her shoulders.

Shaking her head a little, she continued. "My older sister told me—she told me—" suddenly she broke off again. "Thought you'd do more've th'work. Thought you'd kiss me . . . by now."

Again, Draco was struck by how delicate his Muggle friend looked. How vulnerable. And how very pretty. Carefully, he removed her glasses and placed them on the table. He put one hand under her chin and studied her eyes.

"I'm not a nice man," he said, gazing down at her mouth and at the bare skin exposed by her v-neck.

"S'ok."

"You sure?"

"Mmmm. Hmmm."

He shouldn't do it. The girl was young, and she was drunk, and she was a Mudb—a Muggle, and he was a wizard, and an evil wizard, and he didn't know what the hell he was doing. But he was touching her skin—which was soft like rose petals, and her perfume was as intoxicating as the drinks had been. Her lips were parted, as if she wanted to ask him a question.

Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers. Their lips grazed, and Draco felt her hand behind his head, pulling him closer. He took a deep breath and sat back. I can't allow this to happen, he thought, no matter how I want it. It's—depraved. Wrong. Sickening.

"Why?" she asked, running her fingers down his neck and to his arm. Draco couldn't tell her the real truth, so he decided to settle for a half-truth instead.

"You're drunk." She continued her caress down his forearm. "I'm drunk," he added. She turned his hand over and scraped her nails against his palm. "Your sister taught you—very—well."

He pulled his hand away and carefully put her glasses back on for her. He gave her a crooked smile and confessed that he sometimes wished he'd had an older brother. I need one, he thought, just to figure out how to navigate a date with a nineteen year old. He could never go to his father.

For some reason, his statement had made the girl crack up. Draco demanded to know why.

Choking on her laughter, she said, "I d-d-don't think there is room for more than one of you in our world."

"Our world?"

"Yeah . . ." she said, suddenly grave. "Our world. Our crazy, screwed-up disaster of a world." She hiccuped, and her head fell against his shoulder.

DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

SHOUTOUTS: Thank you to the following for reviewing: Blackrose Malfoy, Green Phantom Queen, YawningBrilliance, keeptheotherone, AnnaRavenheart, The Death Frisbee, kitkatritrat, TheProfool, Fire The Canon, Ralinde. Thanks also for new faves and followers! Updated 2/9/13.