C2: Burnin’ Up For You, Baby

As a medic ran diagnostic spells all over Draco and the team manager shoved a bottle of water at him for drinking purposes, he considered how this whole fiasco started.

Draco’s life-saving hobby began with a fire.

Well, no, to be more accurate, he supposed it had started long before the fire with a war. Or maybe it went even further back to his childhood and upbringing.

Perhaps that was too far back. It was a touchy subject anyway, so maybe he’d just skip that part.

It started with a fire. And a pub.

Over the last few months, Draco had found himself in the Leaky Cauldron wallowing in self-pity for various reasons—not that he needed any reason to pity himself. One day he had discovered quite by accident the only known cure for his misery in a plate of chips lovingly fried by the Leaky Cauldron’s surprisingly buff cook.

Draco had never eaten a chip in his life. Fried potatoes had been strictly prohibited from the Malfoy household’s menu due to the unhealthy quality of cooking them in oil and also because, frankly, Malfoys were too good to eat potatoes in any fashion whatsoever. Food of the lower class, his mother called them. Root of the desperate! Draco had rebelliously tasted a potato for the first time at Hogwarts, and even then only once.

His mother still did not know his potato secret.

Alcohol was strictly against his diet per the Tornados’ nutritionist, so when Draco had found himself inside the Leaky Cauldron one dark night, he’d sat at the bar and contemplated the menu for over half an hour. His schoolboy rebellion had reared its ugly head, and thus the tradition of Draco eating chips to smother his misery had been born.

He had been eating chips at the bar, reminiscing about his war days, when Weasley and half of the Harpies had swarmed the pub in a tizzy about their most recent win. They hadn’t even bothered to change clothes, the sweat on their Quidditch kits still mostly fresh.

Why they had come all the way back to London to celebrate in the dingy Leaky Cauldron instead of patronizing a finer establishment closer to the pitch they’d played on in Yorkshire, Draco hadn’t a clue, and he’d been annoyed about it. Couldn’t a man bask in his discontent whilst eating a plate of chips drowning in ketchup without half a Quidditch team reveling in the background reminding him how much better other people’s lives were?

No, apparently not.

Draco had tried to ignore them, but their raucous voices kept penetrating his brain and interrupting his thoughts. Another man might have been glad for the distraction. Not Draco. No, how else was he supposed to pity himself if he couldn’t even replay the most awful memories of his life in peace?

Finally he had given up trying to stay miserable and decided to glare in the Harpies’ direction while stuffing his face with chips instead.

Weasley apparently was reenacting the winning play from their match, her arms waving and body turning as if she were riding an invisible broom and throwing and dodging invisible balls. Her eyes were bright with excitement and animation (or maybe alcohol), and her teammates listened with rapt attention even though they had witnessed the actual events firsthand along with her. They were so absorbed in the show that none of them noticed when Weasley’s sleeve swept over the candle lighting their table.

Her sleeve caught fire. The vigorous waving was not strong enough to put out the flame, but it did produce enough air to encourage the flame to grow larger by the second.

Draco didn’t even think. He grabbed his tankard of non-alcoholic beverage and sloshed it right over Weasley’s head. Comically audible gasps filled the entire pub as he stood there frozen, his arm and the tankard still outstretched.

Weasley slowly turned around, her eyes wide in outrage until they landed on him, which caused them to narrow.

“You’re welcome,” Draco said with a sneer. “Didn’t you notice you were on fire?”

One of the Harpies gasped again and reached for the hanging fabric of Weasley’s sleeve, lifting it to show everyone the hole and singe marks from the flame.

Draco knew she was too proud to thank someone like him, so he left before she could start screeching.

He didn’t even get to finish his chips. As it turned out, though, the satisfaction of the expression on her drenched face was an even better cure for his morose mood.

The next time they’d met at a function both had been required to attend, Draco had made sure to rub Weasley’s continued existence into her face. He’d shared the story far and wide with his teammates, her teammates (who had fawned over him like the hero he was, even if Weasley refused to give him any credit), and anyone else in the league who had the misfortune to stand still long enough to listen to him.

The Daily Prophet had even reported the story in one of those feel-good columns in the middle of the paper. Draco had thought the event worthy of the front page, but ever since the first publication, reporters had inundated Weasley with questions about Draco’s heroic actions, and that felt just about as good as a front-page feature.

The longer the story had circulated, either in print or by word of mouth, the more beautiful Weasley’s expression grew every time Draco saw her. Now, all it took was a single glance in his direction for her face to flush, her ears to turn as red as tomatoes, the color rising to her cheeks making her hair look pale in comparison the rest of her beet-red features. Her whole body would tremble, particularly in her hands, as if the sight of him spurred thoughts of shaking his hand vigorously to her mind. Or maybe wringing his neck.

She always looked moments away from exploding. Literally. In his head, Draco referred to her as Mount Weasley whenever he saw her thus affected by his presence. You know, because any minute she was going to pop her top like a volcano… incinerate them all in lava… extinguish thousands of lives in the aftermath with the volcanic gases she was sure to spew….

The metaphor was funnier in his head.

Not including Draco’s most recent actions during the Quidditch match of which they were still in the middle, he had saved Weasley’s life three other times after the fire incident, and Weasley still had the same reaction to him today that she did those months ago.

And Draco took pride in the fact that Ginny Weasley was hot for him, even if the heat she felt for Draco stemmed from inexplicable outrage and not ardor.

At least she felt something for him at all.

Author notes:

This chapter is dedicated to the glorious event that has taken place since I posted the first chapter. Yes, you know exactly the event of which I speak. Let us all celebrate the reunion of the Jonas Brothers together with this commemorative chapter named in honor of their hit single from 2008, Burnin' Up. You're welcome.

For my fellow Americans, the chips Draco eats are french fries.

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