Temptation Pour Deux, chapter 13
Finally! Damn.
It was beautiful to wake up to him.
His skin was like parchment, absorbing light as warmly as shadow, shaded golden and pale in the morning sun. Draco lay sprawled across the windowseat, uncommonly mussed blonde hair hiding blue eyes. It cut short just below his cheekbones, fine and transparent as the mane of the Pegasai. The clothes he wore were torn and dirty; she couldn't bring herself to mind. Fine, white, summer linen torn to shreds- she cared not at all.
She felt at once elated and terrified, trapped and rejected. Contemptible, unworthy; not fit for him, or for this. She felt like a painter, gazing upon a subject- a poet, a muse. Maybe something like a wife.
It was far too early in the morning for thinking.
Hermione rose from the bed, draping cream-coloured sheets about her shoulders, and walked to the mirror on the far wall, the light of the morning illuminating her auburn hair behind her face. She breathed. The potion was starting to wear off. She had more. She ought to take some before Draco woke.
But her face was familiar. Familiar in a place where nothing was, her feelings and least of all herself. She pressed a hand to the warm glass and closed her eyes; she imagined she was anywhere, Scotland perhaps, in safety and relative comfort. With her friends, her family. Yet the fantasy was less than desirable, as there was something missing.
Him.
Reaching into the day bag he had thought wisely to pack, she swallowed Snape's bitter concoction once more, throat burning. With that, she turned back to the bed to find Draco sprawled out upon it with an insufferable smirk upon his face.
"Morning."
Just like him to ruin a perfectly good picture. Shaking her head, she sat primly on the edge of the bed, checking in the mirror to make sure that the potion had worked to the same effect as it always did. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Draco snorted.
"Vain thing, aren't you?"
"You're one to talk," she retorted, defiantly tidying up her hair. He yawned, stretching his limbs out languorously upon the bed. She had to fight very hard to resist the urge to join him.
"Oh, dear God," he said suddenly, sitting up in the bed like a shot. She frowned, turning to face him.
"What?"
"The garden party." Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"The what?"
"Blaise Zabini," he said, throwing the sheets off the bed and rushing over to the dresser on the far side of the room, "is throwing a garden party. She specifically requested our presence."
"And?"
"It started half an hour ago."
Hermione stood, walking over to get a better view of Draco frantically tossing clothing out of drawers with no visible rhyme or reason. Apparently, tending to their respective wounds paled in comparison to selecting an appropriate outfit for a society function. "And why can't we arrive fashionably late?"
"Don't be a fool. She's expecting the Dark Lord."
Hermione blanched, feeling suddenly quite as if her stomach had dropped down to the floor.
"At a garden party?"
"What, did you think our gatherings were held in damp dungeons spattered with the fresh blood of Muggle virgins? Really."
"Well, how are we supposed to get there?" she asked, crossing her arms. To Hermione, it seemed a better idea not to go at all then to go late- surely Draco could think up some sort of excuse. This desire had nothing at all, of course, to do with the the pure terror that struck her when she thought of this final test of her disguise- one she had not in any way been prepared for by Professor Snape.
"We'll have to take the horses."
"Pegasai," she corrected automatically. "Oh- what?"
"It's risky in broad daylight, but the Zabini's aren't far and we'll be traveling over wizarding territory."
"Are you mad? Flying off your grounds on winged horses? That violates nearly every single clause and sub-clause of the Muggle Protection Act-"
He grabbed her wrist to shut her up, which had been shaking a finger at him in an unsurprisingly Minerva McGongagall-like manner.
"I live dangerously. Now get dressed."
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There was nothing in the world quite like a crumpet with strawberry jam. The delicate, powder-like texture of the pastry melting in the mouth of the diner and the sweet, smooth, slightly fruity and cold sensation of the strawberry preserve combined approached, reached, and surpassed culinary perfection. Crumpets with jam cured all ills. Crumpets with jam could keep her sane through Azkaban.
Which was why Hermione was particularly disappointed that everything she'd put in her mouth for the past forty minutes had tasted like ash.
Nothing too terrible had happened yet. The other guests had taken their late if fashionable arrival in good humor, excepting, of course, Draco's father, who had dragged him off for a presumable talking to. Which left her alone by the porch swing, watching Pansy fawn all over Alec through the trellis. It was sickening, really- to have the nerve to be caught in a betrayal, and then to continue acting as if she somehow cared for the boy. It was a convincing show, to be sure; if Hermione didn't know better, she'd say the two were truly falling in love. But how on earth could you betray someone you loved and look them in the eye like that? Another discomforting Slytherin mystery.
"Hermia!"
She'd been spotted. Alec and Pansy were making their way over to her, hands clasped tightly together. She felt fully as if she might vomit, a sentiment she suspected had little to do with the copious amounts of blood she'd lost last night. If there was anything to be said for life at Malfoy Manor, there were certainly few dull moments.
"Hello. Lovely party, isn't it?" she said by way of greeting as they joined her on the porch. Pansy laughed, separating from Alec and leaning in a bit closer to whisper in her ear. Hermione felt vaguely repulsed.
"If you ask me, I think it's terribly boring. Trust Blaise to depend on the Dark Lord to come through with the excitement. Wouldn't it be rich if he never showed?"
This, at least, Hermione wholeheartedly agreed with. Alec, oblivious to their assessment of his sister's entertaining faculties, smiled widely.
"Look at the two of you, gossiping like schoolgirls. You think you'd known each other all your lives."
Pansy beamed at Hermia, taking her gloved hand in hers. "Oh, and I feel as if I have! You and Draco simply must join us in London this weekend, Hermia. There's all sorts of fabulous parties to be had, and we may even attend the opera."
Alec looked wholly unenthusiastic at that, though the fondness in his eyes when he looked at Pansy was unmistakable. The raging kettle inside Hermione boiled over. Enough was enough.
"Pansy, may I speak to you alone for a moment? You'll pardon us, Alec. Girl things, of course."
"Oh, it's no trouble," Alec replied, waving them off. Her hand still in Pansy's, Hermione led the girl to the other side of the porch and sat her down on a swing hidden behind a curtain of hanging ivy.
"What are you playing at, Pansy?" she asked furiously, unable to contain herself. "I saw you with that man- if you want to play about with older men, fine, but how can you lead Alec on so? It's cruel!"
Pansy looked taken aback. "Hermia, what on earth are you talking about? Older man? I've barely spoken to any men but Draco since Alec and I have been together. Are you sure you aren't speaking of my butler? He accompanies me out at times..."
"Unless your butler was shoving his tongue down your throat in the basement of the Manor, no," she spat. Pansy looked furious, and as genuinely insulted as any innocent party would be. But Hermione had seen her. And she'd spoken back to her!
"Honestly, I don't understand how you can be so insulting! These accusations, and your- your crude language. I thought you a girl of better manners." With that, Pansy stood, looking quite as if she might walk out at any moment. Hermione sighed. She supposed there was no good end to this sort of conversation, but to deny it all?
"Who was he, Pansy? Come, don't play games with me."
"I don't know who or what you're talking about," the older girl replied through clenched teeth. "I got a bit lost on the way to the bathroom, you know how it is wandering about those corridors."
"So you tripped, stumbled into a dark closet and fell on his lips?"
"No! I spent a bit more time than I thought I would looking for the loo, found it, and puzzled my way back upstairs. You know you can't apparate into or around the manor unless you've Malfoy blood."
"Pansy, are you sure? There's no need to lie to me, you know, I won't tell Alec, however cruel I think-"
"Of course I'm sure! Like I'd forget all about a snog with some stranger I don't know while my boyfriend was a few floors off?"
Hermione frowned, the spinning wheels in her head plain to even Pansy. Forget all about it? Was it possible that there'd been some sort of memory charm involved? Even the imperious curse?
"Pansy," she began, guiding the other girl back to the bench, "can you remember anything odd from that night? Did you feel out of sorts at all before you joined us upstairs?"
"I suppose I did feel a bit out of sorts, at that. I figured it was just nerves, you know? Being with Alec and all." At that, she cast a wistful glance in her boyfriend's direction, who, to be honest, looked a bit lost without her. Hermione sighed. Clearly there was much more to this than she'd first imagined.
"I must have mistaken you for someone, Pansy. I'm terribly, terribly sorry... you will forgive me, won't you?"
Pansy hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Of course I will. You've made this summer a thousand times more enjoyable in merely a week, and I'd hate to lose you over some ridiculous slight. You will come over soon, won't you? Or perhaps take us up on London?"
"I'll ask Draco," Hermione promised, without thinking. Pansy grinned, squeezed her hand tightly once more, and left to join Alec.
Hermione's frown returned as soon as she was out of sight. Ask Draco? Since when did she have to ask Draco Malfoy for anything? As she recalled it, he'd begged her for this summer... as much as he'd ever begged anyone for anything, at any rate.
"Have a nice chat?" asked the man in question, jauntily vaulting himself over the low porch bannister to join her by the swing. He cut quite the figure in his finely tailored white oxford and navy blazer- complete with Malfoy crest- slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. With a roguish kick, he started the thing swinging, and looked down at her with an expression of deep amusement.
She had to try very hard to look cross with him.
"I thought I was in for it with father, but all he wanted was a talk about the Proper Way to treat Proper Girls from Proper bloody Families. And, can you believe, he said we're welcome to use the stable house whenever we wish! To get away from it all, he said. At our leisure. Old man's gone soft with age."
Hermione held up a hand before he could continue, cursing the smile that tugged on the edges of her lips. There was serious business at hand... far more serious than, say, pulling him off behind the house and snogging him breathless. Honestly.
"Draco, there's something I need to tell you," she said, looking pointedly at the empty space on the swing. He took it obediently, steadying the thing before turning to face her.
"What is it?" he asked. And while she hated dearly to break his good mood, she related the story of what she'd seen and the conversation she'd had with Pansy. After she finished, he paused for a moment, eyes glazing over with what she'd come to recognize as concern.
"What did he look like?"
"He was... he was tall, and pale, and had dark hair, and- well, he was quite old," she finished lamely. "He looked familiar, but I can't imagine where I've seen him. To be honest, I can't remember much."
"It's odd. Pansy wouldn't act that way in a thousand years. I know you think Slytherins are capable of anything, but she's a proper girl, Hermione, I swear it-"
"I know," she interrupted, meeting his eyes as she took his hands in hers. "I like her. And I- I think I'm beginning to understand. What you meant, you know, when you said that- we weren't so very different."
And then his eyes were warm again, and sparkling, and he was fiercely pressing his lips to hers with no trepidation at all. She felt the change, and in all things earthly and bright it was a shattering of universes. He kissed her like he belonged there, kissing her, like if anyone should see them they ought feel no shame. As if, when the glamour came down- and it would, she knew, someday- they would still be. Each with the other, Hermione and Draco and all those other useless names they'd called each other... Slytherin, mudblood, Granger, ferret. A rose by any other was still a rose, and this one just so happened to be hers.
Hermione pulled away with a shy smile, and Draco snuck a furtive glance back at the other patrons of the party, as if suspicious they could somehow tell. She laughed and stood, dropping one of his hands and pulling him to his feet by the other. He, as if responding in kind, spun her about by the waist until they were just at the top of the stairway to the lawn, and she was quite eerily reminded of her first entrance into a crowd as such. Her companion held out his arm. She took it.
And that was when everything went to hell.
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The young couple descended into the party with much grace and aplomb, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy beaming all the while. Draco waved hello to a rather sour-looking Petra Parkinson, and Hermione followed suit. It felt good, she decided, even such a simple little gesture. They were doing it together. She didn't feel as if she were tagging along, or compelled to join, or supporting, supporting, always bloody supporting someone. Hermione Granger was here at a party with Draco Malfoy and yes, he was hers, and yes, she belonged here, and of course she was staying with the Malfoys and they were absolutely delighted to have her. And nothing else mattered but that, just this once. Not what they thought her name was or what they thought she looked like or the fact that she actually enjoyed speaking to Lucius Malfoy when he wasn't glaring down his nose at her, hidden behind Harry Potter and a gaggle of Weasleys.
A gaggle of Weasleys?
Hermione shook her head, pulling Draco's arm a little closer. The stares were a bit intimidating to be sure, as if at any moment one would look right through the skin that covered her and see a clever little mudblood inside. It was odd, this feeling of being someone else entirely- and she, not for the first time, quite deeply regretted Millicent Bulstrode's unabiding love for her cat. Sensing her discomfort, Draco put a hand over hers, drawing them closer to a circle that was beginning to form around what looked like a fountain. An impossibly smug Blaise Zabini lorded over it, dispensing glares and smiles wherever she felt they were deserved. She was a lovely girl, but cold, eminently cold; she looked at Hermione and she shrunk back a bit, before remembering who exactly she was supposed to be.
Deftly, Draco maneuver them into position next to Alec and Pansy, the former who greeted them with a wide grin. Pansy's was more tight-lipped, though, Hermione sensed, and not for lack of pleasure at seeing them. Something was about to happen. If only they'd stayed back a little further, she could have asked him what was going on. Draco met her eyes, and she was utterly shocked to see fear in them. What on Earth could make him so afraid?
"Honored guests!" Blaise called, her throaty voice amplified so it echoed across the lawn. "Servants of the Dark Lord, assemble, if you would."
They did, and Hermione was shocked to note that the press of bodies was not all that different from that of any busy Diagon Alley crowd. All pretenses at politeness had been shunted aside. Something very serious was going to happen, and they all wanted desperately to be a part of it.
Eyes sparkling with delight, Blaise whispered a short phrase in French in the direction of fountain, which sunk into the ground with an ominous groan. In its place rose an enormous black stone sphere, glinting in the noonday sunlight. Hermione had to stifle an ill-timed hysterical giggle. The combination of terror and excitement was doing quite a number on her nerves. A black crystal ball? What on Earth was the point of that?
"What is it?" she whispered, sure her alter ego would ask much the same question. Draco didn't look at her, but responded under his breath.
"It's a viewing device."
"To view what?" she asked, afraid she already knew the answer.
"Him."
The sphere rose a bit higher before shuddering to an abrupt halt. Blaise jumped a little, and Hermione allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Even she felt, apparently. An older man, who she assumed was Blaise's father, took her arm and helped her down from the platform, guiding her to a place not far from where Hermione, Draco, Alec and Pansy were standing. He looked significantly at Alec, who looked distinctly unhappy.
"Death Eaters," hissed a voice from the sphere, and instantly all attention was riveted on the device. "Those loyal and disloyal to me."
No one spoke. No one moved. Hermione barely even breathed. Draco was holding on to her hand for dear life, and she his.
"The time for gathering our strength is over. Through the blood of the Potter boy and the help of a few... acolytes, I am as strong now as I ever was!"
A cheer went up at that. Hermione was stunned. Their voices sounded almost bloodthirsty, and the look in their eyes was one of blind devotion. How could such evil inspire such fervor?
"I have enlisted the aid of a being that is nearly as powerful as I. He shall aid you in taking measures against the boy, while I prepare to take the Ministry. There, I shall install one among you as Minister," Lucius Malfoy looked overjoyed, "and we shall purge our world of the unclean!"
Another cheer. Hermione felt faint.
"He is among you now. Obey him as you would me."
The sphere lumbered back into the Earth, and a man stepped out from the crowd, climbing up easily on the dais. Hermione's breath caught in her throat- it was the man she'd seen with Pansy, the one who'd spilled the wine all over her dress. A being of great power? What on earth? She met Draco's eyes, and he nodded to show he understood.
Hermione's mind worked furiously. Why on Earth would Voldemort pass off his duty to someone else? He hated Harry, didn't he? Did he fear he couldn't handle it? Harry had defeated him before, after all... six times, now, was it? How many more would there be before Voldemort couldn't return? But he was the most powerful dark wizard; what else on Earth could honestly be more powerful? Was he a dark creature of some sort? A demon? A spirit? A werewolf?
"A vampire," hissed Draco, his eyes never leaving the dais.
It all fell into place. Adrian Alston- the familiarity in his features, the surety of his walk, his age, his looks, his blood-
She was looking at Carden's cousin.
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I have a college application due in five hours and I finished a chapter after months and months. Yay procrastination!
I meant for this to be longer. And better. Here's hoping you aren't too terribly disappointed.
As some people have pointed out, a certain suspension of disbelief is required to really get into this story. Yes, Malfoy Manor might have some sort of anti-mudblood ward on it, yes Lucius Malfoy might be more suspicious, yes Pansy Parkinson might be a great deal less thick and well-intentioned and yes, canon Draco would never kiss canon Hermione, and if he did, she'd knock his block off. However. This is a story, darlings! In which the Malfoys are loving parents, Slytherins are human beings, Draco is painfully lonely at the top, and Hermione Granger has a crush on the most attractive boy in school, whom she knows now to be quite intelligent. Not so insane, I think.
For the record, the party scene in this was a nightmare to write. Absolutely impossible. And for those of you who were curious about my age, I turned seventeen on the eighteenth. Yay me!
It was beautiful to wake up to him.
His skin was like parchment, absorbing light as warmly as shadow, shaded golden and pale in the morning sun. Draco lay sprawled across the windowseat, uncommonly mussed blonde hair hiding blue eyes. It cut short just below his cheekbones, fine and transparent as the mane of the Pegasai. The clothes he wore were torn and dirty; she couldn't bring herself to mind. Fine, white, summer linen torn to shreds- she cared not at all.
She felt at once elated and terrified, trapped and rejected. Contemptible, unworthy; not fit for him, or for this. She felt like a painter, gazing upon a subject- a poet, a muse. Maybe something like a wife.
It was far too early in the morning for thinking.
Hermione rose from the bed, draping cream-coloured sheets about her shoulders, and walked to the mirror on the far wall, the light of the morning illuminating her auburn hair behind her face. She breathed. The potion was starting to wear off. She had more. She ought to take some before Draco woke.
But her face was familiar. Familiar in a place where nothing was, her feelings and least of all herself. She pressed a hand to the warm glass and closed her eyes; she imagined she was anywhere, Scotland perhaps, in safety and relative comfort. With her friends, her family. Yet the fantasy was less than desirable, as there was something missing.
Him.
Reaching into the day bag he had thought wisely to pack, she swallowed Snape's bitter concoction once more, throat burning. With that, she turned back to the bed to find Draco sprawled out upon it with an insufferable smirk upon his face.
"Morning."
Just like him to ruin a perfectly good picture. Shaking her head, she sat primly on the edge of the bed, checking in the mirror to make sure that the potion had worked to the same effect as it always did. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Draco snorted.
"Vain thing, aren't you?"
"You're one to talk," she retorted, defiantly tidying up her hair. He yawned, stretching his limbs out languorously upon the bed. She had to fight very hard to resist the urge to join him.
"Oh, dear God," he said suddenly, sitting up in the bed like a shot. She frowned, turning to face him.
"What?"
"The garden party." Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"The what?"
"Blaise Zabini," he said, throwing the sheets off the bed and rushing over to the dresser on the far side of the room, "is throwing a garden party. She specifically requested our presence."
"And?"
"It started half an hour ago."
Hermione stood, walking over to get a better view of Draco frantically tossing clothing out of drawers with no visible rhyme or reason. Apparently, tending to their respective wounds paled in comparison to selecting an appropriate outfit for a society function. "And why can't we arrive fashionably late?"
"Don't be a fool. She's expecting the Dark Lord."
Hermione blanched, feeling suddenly quite as if her stomach had dropped down to the floor.
"At a garden party?"
"What, did you think our gatherings were held in damp dungeons spattered with the fresh blood of Muggle virgins? Really."
"Well, how are we supposed to get there?" she asked, crossing her arms. To Hermione, it seemed a better idea not to go at all then to go late- surely Draco could think up some sort of excuse. This desire had nothing at all, of course, to do with the the pure terror that struck her when she thought of this final test of her disguise- one she had not in any way been prepared for by Professor Snape.
"We'll have to take the horses."
"Pegasai," she corrected automatically. "Oh- what?"
"It's risky in broad daylight, but the Zabini's aren't far and we'll be traveling over wizarding territory."
"Are you mad? Flying off your grounds on winged horses? That violates nearly every single clause and sub-clause of the Muggle Protection Act-"
He grabbed her wrist to shut her up, which had been shaking a finger at him in an unsurprisingly Minerva McGongagall-like manner.
"I live dangerously. Now get dressed."
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There was nothing in the world quite like a crumpet with strawberry jam. The delicate, powder-like texture of the pastry melting in the mouth of the diner and the sweet, smooth, slightly fruity and cold sensation of the strawberry preserve combined approached, reached, and surpassed culinary perfection. Crumpets with jam cured all ills. Crumpets with jam could keep her sane through Azkaban.
Which was why Hermione was particularly disappointed that everything she'd put in her mouth for the past forty minutes had tasted like ash.
Nothing too terrible had happened yet. The other guests had taken their late if fashionable arrival in good humor, excepting, of course, Draco's father, who had dragged him off for a presumable talking to. Which left her alone by the porch swing, watching Pansy fawn all over Alec through the trellis. It was sickening, really- to have the nerve to be caught in a betrayal, and then to continue acting as if she somehow cared for the boy. It was a convincing show, to be sure; if Hermione didn't know better, she'd say the two were truly falling in love. But how on earth could you betray someone you loved and look them in the eye like that? Another discomforting Slytherin mystery.
"Hermia!"
She'd been spotted. Alec and Pansy were making their way over to her, hands clasped tightly together. She felt fully as if she might vomit, a sentiment she suspected had little to do with the copious amounts of blood she'd lost last night. If there was anything to be said for life at Malfoy Manor, there were certainly few dull moments.
"Hello. Lovely party, isn't it?" she said by way of greeting as they joined her on the porch. Pansy laughed, separating from Alec and leaning in a bit closer to whisper in her ear. Hermione felt vaguely repulsed.
"If you ask me, I think it's terribly boring. Trust Blaise to depend on the Dark Lord to come through with the excitement. Wouldn't it be rich if he never showed?"
This, at least, Hermione wholeheartedly agreed with. Alec, oblivious to their assessment of his sister's entertaining faculties, smiled widely.
"Look at the two of you, gossiping like schoolgirls. You think you'd known each other all your lives."
Pansy beamed at Hermia, taking her gloved hand in hers. "Oh, and I feel as if I have! You and Draco simply must join us in London this weekend, Hermia. There's all sorts of fabulous parties to be had, and we may even attend the opera."
Alec looked wholly unenthusiastic at that, though the fondness in his eyes when he looked at Pansy was unmistakable. The raging kettle inside Hermione boiled over. Enough was enough.
"Pansy, may I speak to you alone for a moment? You'll pardon us, Alec. Girl things, of course."
"Oh, it's no trouble," Alec replied, waving them off. Her hand still in Pansy's, Hermione led the girl to the other side of the porch and sat her down on a swing hidden behind a curtain of hanging ivy.
"What are you playing at, Pansy?" she asked furiously, unable to contain herself. "I saw you with that man- if you want to play about with older men, fine, but how can you lead Alec on so? It's cruel!"
Pansy looked taken aback. "Hermia, what on earth are you talking about? Older man? I've barely spoken to any men but Draco since Alec and I have been together. Are you sure you aren't speaking of my butler? He accompanies me out at times..."
"Unless your butler was shoving his tongue down your throat in the basement of the Manor, no," she spat. Pansy looked furious, and as genuinely insulted as any innocent party would be. But Hermione had seen her. And she'd spoken back to her!
"Honestly, I don't understand how you can be so insulting! These accusations, and your- your crude language. I thought you a girl of better manners." With that, Pansy stood, looking quite as if she might walk out at any moment. Hermione sighed. She supposed there was no good end to this sort of conversation, but to deny it all?
"Who was he, Pansy? Come, don't play games with me."
"I don't know who or what you're talking about," the older girl replied through clenched teeth. "I got a bit lost on the way to the bathroom, you know how it is wandering about those corridors."
"So you tripped, stumbled into a dark closet and fell on his lips?"
"No! I spent a bit more time than I thought I would looking for the loo, found it, and puzzled my way back upstairs. You know you can't apparate into or around the manor unless you've Malfoy blood."
"Pansy, are you sure? There's no need to lie to me, you know, I won't tell Alec, however cruel I think-"
"Of course I'm sure! Like I'd forget all about a snog with some stranger I don't know while my boyfriend was a few floors off?"
Hermione frowned, the spinning wheels in her head plain to even Pansy. Forget all about it? Was it possible that there'd been some sort of memory charm involved? Even the imperious curse?
"Pansy," she began, guiding the other girl back to the bench, "can you remember anything odd from that night? Did you feel out of sorts at all before you joined us upstairs?"
"I suppose I did feel a bit out of sorts, at that. I figured it was just nerves, you know? Being with Alec and all." At that, she cast a wistful glance in her boyfriend's direction, who, to be honest, looked a bit lost without her. Hermione sighed. Clearly there was much more to this than she'd first imagined.
"I must have mistaken you for someone, Pansy. I'm terribly, terribly sorry... you will forgive me, won't you?"
Pansy hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Of course I will. You've made this summer a thousand times more enjoyable in merely a week, and I'd hate to lose you over some ridiculous slight. You will come over soon, won't you? Or perhaps take us up on London?"
"I'll ask Draco," Hermione promised, without thinking. Pansy grinned, squeezed her hand tightly once more, and left to join Alec.
Hermione's frown returned as soon as she was out of sight. Ask Draco? Since when did she have to ask Draco Malfoy for anything? As she recalled it, he'd begged her for this summer... as much as he'd ever begged anyone for anything, at any rate.
"Have a nice chat?" asked the man in question, jauntily vaulting himself over the low porch bannister to join her by the swing. He cut quite the figure in his finely tailored white oxford and navy blazer- complete with Malfoy crest- slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. With a roguish kick, he started the thing swinging, and looked down at her with an expression of deep amusement.
She had to try very hard to look cross with him.
"I thought I was in for it with father, but all he wanted was a talk about the Proper Way to treat Proper Girls from Proper bloody Families. And, can you believe, he said we're welcome to use the stable house whenever we wish! To get away from it all, he said. At our leisure. Old man's gone soft with age."
Hermione held up a hand before he could continue, cursing the smile that tugged on the edges of her lips. There was serious business at hand... far more serious than, say, pulling him off behind the house and snogging him breathless. Honestly.
"Draco, there's something I need to tell you," she said, looking pointedly at the empty space on the swing. He took it obediently, steadying the thing before turning to face her.
"What is it?" he asked. And while she hated dearly to break his good mood, she related the story of what she'd seen and the conversation she'd had with Pansy. After she finished, he paused for a moment, eyes glazing over with what she'd come to recognize as concern.
"What did he look like?"
"He was... he was tall, and pale, and had dark hair, and- well, he was quite old," she finished lamely. "He looked familiar, but I can't imagine where I've seen him. To be honest, I can't remember much."
"It's odd. Pansy wouldn't act that way in a thousand years. I know you think Slytherins are capable of anything, but she's a proper girl, Hermione, I swear it-"
"I know," she interrupted, meeting his eyes as she took his hands in hers. "I like her. And I- I think I'm beginning to understand. What you meant, you know, when you said that- we weren't so very different."
And then his eyes were warm again, and sparkling, and he was fiercely pressing his lips to hers with no trepidation at all. She felt the change, and in all things earthly and bright it was a shattering of universes. He kissed her like he belonged there, kissing her, like if anyone should see them they ought feel no shame. As if, when the glamour came down- and it would, she knew, someday- they would still be. Each with the other, Hermione and Draco and all those other useless names they'd called each other... Slytherin, mudblood, Granger, ferret. A rose by any other was still a rose, and this one just so happened to be hers.
Hermione pulled away with a shy smile, and Draco snuck a furtive glance back at the other patrons of the party, as if suspicious they could somehow tell. She laughed and stood, dropping one of his hands and pulling him to his feet by the other. He, as if responding in kind, spun her about by the waist until they were just at the top of the stairway to the lawn, and she was quite eerily reminded of her first entrance into a crowd as such. Her companion held out his arm. She took it.
And that was when everything went to hell.
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The young couple descended into the party with much grace and aplomb, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy beaming all the while. Draco waved hello to a rather sour-looking Petra Parkinson, and Hermione followed suit. It felt good, she decided, even such a simple little gesture. They were doing it together. She didn't feel as if she were tagging along, or compelled to join, or supporting, supporting, always bloody supporting someone. Hermione Granger was here at a party with Draco Malfoy and yes, he was hers, and yes, she belonged here, and of course she was staying with the Malfoys and they were absolutely delighted to have her. And nothing else mattered but that, just this once. Not what they thought her name was or what they thought she looked like or the fact that she actually enjoyed speaking to Lucius Malfoy when he wasn't glaring down his nose at her, hidden behind Harry Potter and a gaggle of Weasleys.
A gaggle of Weasleys?
Hermione shook her head, pulling Draco's arm a little closer. The stares were a bit intimidating to be sure, as if at any moment one would look right through the skin that covered her and see a clever little mudblood inside. It was odd, this feeling of being someone else entirely- and she, not for the first time, quite deeply regretted Millicent Bulstrode's unabiding love for her cat. Sensing her discomfort, Draco put a hand over hers, drawing them closer to a circle that was beginning to form around what looked like a fountain. An impossibly smug Blaise Zabini lorded over it, dispensing glares and smiles wherever she felt they were deserved. She was a lovely girl, but cold, eminently cold; she looked at Hermione and she shrunk back a bit, before remembering who exactly she was supposed to be.
Deftly, Draco maneuver them into position next to Alec and Pansy, the former who greeted them with a wide grin. Pansy's was more tight-lipped, though, Hermione sensed, and not for lack of pleasure at seeing them. Something was about to happen. If only they'd stayed back a little further, she could have asked him what was going on. Draco met her eyes, and she was utterly shocked to see fear in them. What on Earth could make him so afraid?
"Honored guests!" Blaise called, her throaty voice amplified so it echoed across the lawn. "Servants of the Dark Lord, assemble, if you would."
They did, and Hermione was shocked to note that the press of bodies was not all that different from that of any busy Diagon Alley crowd. All pretenses at politeness had been shunted aside. Something very serious was going to happen, and they all wanted desperately to be a part of it.
Eyes sparkling with delight, Blaise whispered a short phrase in French in the direction of fountain, which sunk into the ground with an ominous groan. In its place rose an enormous black stone sphere, glinting in the noonday sunlight. Hermione had to stifle an ill-timed hysterical giggle. The combination of terror and excitement was doing quite a number on her nerves. A black crystal ball? What on Earth was the point of that?
"What is it?" she whispered, sure her alter ego would ask much the same question. Draco didn't look at her, but responded under his breath.
"It's a viewing device."
"To view what?" she asked, afraid she already knew the answer.
"Him."
The sphere rose a bit higher before shuddering to an abrupt halt. Blaise jumped a little, and Hermione allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Even she felt, apparently. An older man, who she assumed was Blaise's father, took her arm and helped her down from the platform, guiding her to a place not far from where Hermione, Draco, Alec and Pansy were standing. He looked significantly at Alec, who looked distinctly unhappy.
"Death Eaters," hissed a voice from the sphere, and instantly all attention was riveted on the device. "Those loyal and disloyal to me."
No one spoke. No one moved. Hermione barely even breathed. Draco was holding on to her hand for dear life, and she his.
"The time for gathering our strength is over. Through the blood of the Potter boy and the help of a few... acolytes, I am as strong now as I ever was!"
A cheer went up at that. Hermione was stunned. Their voices sounded almost bloodthirsty, and the look in their eyes was one of blind devotion. How could such evil inspire such fervor?
"I have enlisted the aid of a being that is nearly as powerful as I. He shall aid you in taking measures against the boy, while I prepare to take the Ministry. There, I shall install one among you as Minister," Lucius Malfoy looked overjoyed, "and we shall purge our world of the unclean!"
Another cheer. Hermione felt faint.
"He is among you now. Obey him as you would me."
The sphere lumbered back into the Earth, and a man stepped out from the crowd, climbing up easily on the dais. Hermione's breath caught in her throat- it was the man she'd seen with Pansy, the one who'd spilled the wine all over her dress. A being of great power? What on earth? She met Draco's eyes, and he nodded to show he understood.
Hermione's mind worked furiously. Why on Earth would Voldemort pass off his duty to someone else? He hated Harry, didn't he? Did he fear he couldn't handle it? Harry had defeated him before, after all... six times, now, was it? How many more would there be before Voldemort couldn't return? But he was the most powerful dark wizard; what else on Earth could honestly be more powerful? Was he a dark creature of some sort? A demon? A spirit? A werewolf?
"A vampire," hissed Draco, his eyes never leaving the dais.
It all fell into place. Adrian Alston- the familiarity in his features, the surety of his walk, his age, his looks, his blood-
She was looking at Carden's cousin.
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I have a college application due in five hours and I finished a chapter after months and months. Yay procrastination!
I meant for this to be longer. And better. Here's hoping you aren't too terribly disappointed.
As some people have pointed out, a certain suspension of disbelief is required to really get into this story. Yes, Malfoy Manor might have some sort of anti-mudblood ward on it, yes Lucius Malfoy might be more suspicious, yes Pansy Parkinson might be a great deal less thick and well-intentioned and yes, canon Draco would never kiss canon Hermione, and if he did, she'd knock his block off. However. This is a story, darlings! In which the Malfoys are loving parents, Slytherins are human beings, Draco is painfully lonely at the top, and Hermione Granger has a crush on the most attractive boy in school, whom she knows now to be quite intelligent. Not so insane, I think.
For the record, the party scene in this was a nightmare to write. Absolutely impossible. And for those of you who were curious about my age, I turned seventeen on the eighteenth. Yay me!