Eight and Eighth--Chapter 28
Title: Eight and Eighth
Author: Marmalade Fever
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and more.
Genres: Romance, Drama, weird combo of in-Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts, and Humor. I can't write a fanfic without humor leaking its way in.
Spoilers: DH (though no epilogue)
Overall Rating: PG-13
Summary: Up from the ashes of seventh year grow the roses of the eighth. Eight students return for their final year at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger would never have thought Draco Malfoy would or could be one of those roses.
Eight and Eighth-Chapter 28-April is a Time of Pilgrimage
Malfoy had convinced her to take a study break. Since when was anyone ever able to convince her to take a study break? It just never-all right, seldom-happened. But here she was, sitting outside, leaning against his chest as he leaned against a tree.
Spring was in the air, as cliché as that may sound. Some of the trees were flowering with white and pink buds, and it was definitely warmer out. She’d missed the vitamin D.
Malfoy shifted her hair to the side and pressed his lips to the side of her head, just above her ear. Ron, Harry and Ginny were all playing a just-for-fun game of Quidditch together, and Hermione was temporarily enjoying the peace and quiet.
Ron was slowly starting to give up. His ire was still present, but he was getting lazy about it. Besides, he had August, and it seemed that the other girl had snapped him back to her attention.
Malfoy’s nose found the hollow in the cartilage in her ear. “I could get used to this,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her lobe teasingly.
Weirdly enough, so could she. His arms felt warm and safe around her, and she’d missed that. She missed just being held, though with him it wasn’t quite the same as it had been with her parents when she’d been little.
He squeezed her a little, moving his lips down… down… onto her neck, and her breath caught.
There was a squawking sound nearby, and they both looked to see a raven staring at them from a few feet away, its head tilted to the side.
“Think it’s a bad omen?” Malfoy asked, his chest rumbling as he chuckled.
“Yes,” Hermione answered decisively, “it means I need to get back to studying for NEWTs.”
His arms tightened around her. “I don’t know about that.” One hand lifted to turn her chin towards him, and he bent to press his lips to hers, nipping leisurely.
The raven squawked.
O
Hermione didn’t recognize the owl that swooped down and landed next to her bowl of porridge, and it flew away as soon as she’d removed the accompanying letter.
Ginny bobbed her head in the letter’s direction. “What do you have-is that from Narcissa Malfoy?” she asked, and Hermione froze, letter half turned up.
Sure enough, it was signed with a very curly N. Malfoy-the Y in her signature would certainly have been loopy enough for Astoria Greengrass’s taste.
“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, reading over it quickly, “and-she’s invited me for tea on Saturday,” she added, her mouth going significantly dry.
“She’s,” Ginny paused. “Wait, what?”
“She invited me to Malfoy Manor for tea,” Hermione repeated. “Tomorrow at three.”
Tomorrow? That was soon. Almost too soon. Mrs. Malfoy hadn’t even asked her to R.S.V.P.-not that there was much time for it-which Hermione supposed meant that this tea wasn’t optional. She could either show up or risk insulting her boyfriend’s mum, and neither sounded especially pleasant-and Hermione’s last and only visit to Malfoy Manor had definitely been anything but pleasant and, come to think of it, had been almost exactly a year prior.
“Too bad Malfoy can’t go with you,” Ginny pointed out.
Hermione nodded, silently agreeing. There was a certain awful irony in the fact that the mother and son weren’t allowed to meet until one or the other’s sentence was up, and yet Hermione was freely able to visit both.
She closed her eyes, briefly remembering that scene she’d witnessed on the Hogwarts Express Platform back in September, how Malfoy and his mother had both seemed broken.
Harry had told her in an aside about Narcissa’s devotion to her son during the Final Battle, how she’d helped Harry and defied Voldemort. That part of the woman’s personality Hermione found commendable.
Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the woman would be willing to allow anything that would make her son happy, including letting a muggleborn within ten feet of her son.
Or maybe it would be horrible and Hermione would be forever grateful that the woman wasn’t allowed to use magic. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to stop in Hogsmeade first and buy a bezoar, just in case that tea happened to be poisoned.
O
Draco was used to being stared at. Just not so much by Luna Lovegood. That Luna girl was most definitely staring, or, at least, she was drifting off into space with her head turned exactly in his direction and her eyes glazed over toward his own.
That girl was just… he didn’t even know how to describe her. Freaky, maybe. He wondered if Thomas were only dating her because he was scared of the consequences of breaking it off. Lovegood was liable to do something, for the lack of a better word, weird, maybe hex the bloke into growing Easter lilies out of his ears.
“Do you mind?” he finally asked, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Lovegood didn’t appear even slightly fazed.
“Your mother’s initials are N.C.B.M., aren’t they?” she asked, her voice drifting to him on a much too calm lilt.
“Yes…” he answered slowly.
“I thought so.” And with that, Lovegood turned around and drifted away.
Okay. Weird. Definitely the best word choice.
O
Hermione bit her lip as she waited for Malfoy to arrive in the first class they had together for the day, which happened to be Arithmancy. Vector was due in roughly six and a half minutes, according to the simple formula Hermione had concocted over the course of the last five years, mostly based on the distance between the teachers’ lounge and the classroom with the added variable of the number of male professors likely to have been flirting with her.
Malfoy slipped in at about four minutes till, taking his seat next to her and stretching his arms back behind his head, his manacle jangling as he did so. “Something wrong?” he asked, his head half turned in her direction.
He was eying her lip. He did that a lot.
She nodded, ducking her head to reach into her bag and also to hide her blush. She wasn’t sure she was ever going to get used to-this. Having Malfoy looking at her like a raspberry truffle on a gold platter instead of a piece of gum on the underside of his shoe. It was a nice change, of course, just a drastic flip-flop from the old norm.
“Here,” she finally said, handing over the letter she’d received from his mum. He took it, not seeming to realize what it was at first, if the fact that he buckled about two seconds into reading it was even slightly telltale.
He looked up, wetting his lips. “Are you going?” There was a strange look on his face, one she hadn’t been expecting. Then again, she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Hopeful, however, had not been it.
“You… want me to?” she asked, incredulous despite herself.
He shifted, almost antsy. “Well-” and then he looked guilty. “I haven’t told her,” he said in a rush, so fast Hermione almost thought he’d said something else.
“You-”
“She knows now, obviously,” he pointed out. “But,” and now he was almost defensive, “have you told your parents?”
“Sort of….” She’d told them she was dating someone new; she’d just happened to have left out whom.
He looked pointedly at her. Point made. This wasn’t really a normal “go out and tell everyone with all due excitement” relationship. If anything, downplaying it made more sense on both their parts.
He turned his desk a fraction to face her better, and he held up the letter. “This,” he said, “this is a good sign. Civility is a good sign, and….” He trailed off, almost as if he’d swallowed his tongue.
“And?” she prompted.
“Nothing.” Which was code for something.
She leveled her stare at him. “You’re sure?”
His head tilted to the side. “I-she,” he quickly amended, “hasn’t seen me since September. I’m sure she’ll be happy to speak in person to someone who’s been around me lately.”
Hermione’s head tilted to mirror his. “And… is there anything you’d like me to say to her?” she asked, nudging at the unspoken truth.
“Then you are going?” The hopefulness was back, peeking around a wary caution.
She nodded quickly before she could change her mind. “It would be polite,” she said, hoping she wasn’t offending him by being reticent about meeting with his mum.
That smile that undid her was back, turning her knees to jelly and making her glad she was already sitting. The door opened, and Vector came in, trailed by the other students. “I’ll write something for you to give her,” he said, and then he straightened his desk, and it was as if nothing had happened. Or it would have been. He had a glow.
O
The letter McGonagall had sent in August inviting her back for her eighth year had specifically mentioned that Eighth Years would have free rein to go to Hogsmeade at any time, as well as other perks. McGonagall probably hadn’t had Hermione leaving for Wiltshire on a random weekend in April in mind, but if Ron were allowed to spend half his time training with the Cannons, then Hermione was certainly allowed to go to tea with Narcissa Malfoy.
That didn’t stop Hermione from feeling like a bit of a daredevil by simply walking to the Hogwarts gates, Malfoy in stride beside her to see her off. Having an overactive conscience is annoying and nonsensical like that.
“Concentrate on a large white birch tree. That’ll get you just outside the grounds. Tap the bell on the gate with your wand to request permission to enter…. Can you picture it all right?” he asked, looking slightly wary. “I’d rather not have you splinching yourself.”
“Appreciated, but I’ll be fine.” That’s what she told herself, anyway. At the moment, the thought of part of her body getting stuck in an object or being left behind, though unfriendly, was not the scariest thing on her mind. Going there was bad enough. Going there to have a spot of tea with Draco Malfoy’s mum in order to discuss their relationship? Terrifying.
“You don’t have to do this.” He’d taken hold of her hand, and if it weren’t for that faint hopeful spark about him, he might have actually looked sincere.
“Oh, I know.” She glanced briefly at the letter he’d given her to give his mother, which Hermione considered a form of insurance. Life insurance, that is. He gave her hand a squeeze before she pulled away. She closed her eyes once outside the gates, willing herself to concentrate on that white birch. Her memories of the manor were disordered and confused, along with the majority of her memories from the year before, but thinking hard enough, she could just make out the outline of the surrounding area before, with a surging pop, she Disapparated.
Hermione didn’t stumble when she arrived, though it took her a moment to regain her equilibrium as the world trembled around her. It was a beautiful day in Wiltshire, the sun shining down through the branches of the birch and dappling the grass in light and darkness.
It had been dark when she’d been there before, and neither she, Harry, nor Ron had been in a healthy frame of mind. There was a cheerfulness in that sunshine that seemed alien now.
The gate, which she was sure she didn’t recall, was some twenty meters off, and she followed Malfoy’s direction, tapping her wand against a green calcified copper bell. She’d wager that a matching bell was ringing somewhere within the house, alerting some poor elf that the mistress had company.
She checked her watch. It was four till.
There was suddenly a whooshing sound as vines began untwisting from the gate, allowing it to swing open creaklessly. She had to take a few hasty steps backward to avoid being hit.
Well, here went nothing.
The grounds were beautifully maintained, flowers blooming among arbors and topiaries that lined the cobblestone path that led to the front door. A white peacock squawked and strutted nearby, eyeing her when she passed it. Off to the side, she could see young vegetable plants growing in a slightly more haphazard manner.
The door swung open just as she was preparing to knock, Narcissa Malfoy herself standing there and staring down.
O
The hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stood on end, and before he could turn around, a flash of amber light beamed past the side of his head, just narrowly missing him.
Granger had only just Disapparated, and now what was this? An ambush?
“Stay where you are.” Something that felt suspiciously like a wand pushed into his back. Whoever it was didn’t sound familiar. Maybe that was the point, though.
“What do you want?”
The wand pushed farther into his back, jammed into his left kidney. “A blood traitor like you should have a fair idea what it is that I want.”
Blood traitor. In the past, Draco’d always been the one calling other people that, and now it seemed strange to be called it himself. He wasn’t sure it should apply to him. It wasn’t like he was a Muggle enthusiast, like Arthur Weasley. But dating a muggle-born would constitute treachery to the majority of Slytherin House. “You’re not really answering the question very well.”
“And you shouldn’t be talking back,” the person hissed.
Draco closed his eyes, his vision blurring all of a sudden. He should have known something like this would happen sooner or later, unarmed Slytherin dating Hermione Granger and all. His mind raced as the sweat started cropping up at the base of his neck. His options were limited. Even if he had his wand, his options would still be limited. But….
But he did have his wand, he belatedly realized. There was a buzzing in his ears. If he could just….
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” the person said. “Think you’re the king of the world. Ex-seeker, the Dark Lord’s little helper, a Malfoy.” The person spat. “Tell me, what right do you think you have to soil your line? What right do you have to end one of the last remaining truly pure strands in the wizarding fabric? There are families that would kill to marry you to their daughters.” The pressure of the wand lessened, but then it began to trail along his lower back, up and around his spine in a lazy pattern of eights and infinity signs. “Your line shouldn’t go to waste, Malfoy.” There was something in the voice, something in the tone, something in the eerie trail of the wand… something that told him a fact that had never before made him fearful: the speaker was a girl, and from the sound of it, a girl who had unladylike thoughts running through her head.
Hot breath blew on his neck. “Rest assured, you will not be the last of your pure blood.”
“Greengrass?” Draco guessed, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
There was a laugh. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? But no.” More breath. “She’s all talk. Me, I’m into action.”
O
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said, trying her best to keep her voice calm and respectful.
“Miss Granger,” she replied, and then, in a clipped tone: “Follow me.” Narcissa turned and started down the hallway. The inside of the house was immaculate, though it seemed bare in some places, as if some of the furniture had been gotten rid of-sold, maybe.
They went up two flights of stairs and arrived in a sitting room, where a small spread of tea, six finger sandwiches, and three scones sat on a table. Hermione eyed them warily. “Is someone else coming?” she asked. There were three place settings instead of two.
“In a moment,” Narcissa replied, taking her seat and pouring herself a cup of tea. Hermione followed suit, though she found herself waiting for her hostess to take a sip before she did. Narcissa drank some and set down her cup in its saucer before taking a long, calculating look at her. “I suppose you know why I’ve asked you here?” she asked.
“I have an idea,” Hermione responded, setting her own tea cup down.
A moment of silence passed between them. Narcissa’s eyes were very blue, unlike her son’s, but they were shaped similarly, and Hermione was suddenly struck by the number of similarities she actually could identify now. It was more than just physically; there was something in the way Narcissa sat, something in her expression, something familiar in an almost calming sort of way. “Why did you come?”
Hermione paused and took another sip, resisting the urge to ask why she thought she had come. “Because,” she began, “it seemed best.” She slipped her hand into her robe pocket and took out the letter Malfoy had given her and handed it to the woman sitting across from her.
Narcissa didn’t read it straightaway, instead continuing to stare at her. There was something in her gaze that didn’t seem right. It was sad, almost… regretful? The woman’s eyes flicked down to the letter, reading it over as Hermione took a sandwich that she had no intention of eating. When she was done reading, she let out a soft sigh, and that was it.
Hermione nudged the corner of her sandwich with her finger, and tried to look around the room. It was well-kept. Slightly barren. There was one very large portrait of a sixteenth century nobleman with a haughty expression and a hunting dog at his side. Both nobleman and dog were giving her the stink eye. Other than that, the walls were completely bare.
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said slowly, “why did you invite me here?”
As if on cue, the door to the drawing room swung open again, and standing in the archway was a familiar face. Her hair was lank, and she had a slightly gaunt look about her that didn’t quite match the swell of her pregnant stomach. Pansy Parkinson was staring at Hermione with a slightly alien expression: not quite contempt, not quite revulsion, not quite exhaustion, not quite defeat, but definitely not pleasure. There was a manacle around her bony left wrist.
O
A.N. Two cliffhangers? What am I thinking? You’re all going to threaten me with very sharp pencils, aren’t you? Would it help if I blamed the plot bunny? …Yeah, didn’t think so.
Quoth the raven, “Oh dear.”
Please click the tag for a list of chapters.
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Author: Marmalade Fever
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and more.
Genres: Romance, Drama, weird combo of in-Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts, and Humor. I can't write a fanfic without humor leaking its way in.
Spoilers: DH (though no epilogue)
Overall Rating: PG-13
Summary: Up from the ashes of seventh year grow the roses of the eighth. Eight students return for their final year at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger would never have thought Draco Malfoy would or could be one of those roses.
Eight and Eighth-Chapter 28-April is a Time of Pilgrimage
Malfoy had convinced her to take a study break. Since when was anyone ever able to convince her to take a study break? It just never-all right, seldom-happened. But here she was, sitting outside, leaning against his chest as he leaned against a tree.
Spring was in the air, as cliché as that may sound. Some of the trees were flowering with white and pink buds, and it was definitely warmer out. She’d missed the vitamin D.
Malfoy shifted her hair to the side and pressed his lips to the side of her head, just above her ear. Ron, Harry and Ginny were all playing a just-for-fun game of Quidditch together, and Hermione was temporarily enjoying the peace and quiet.
Ron was slowly starting to give up. His ire was still present, but he was getting lazy about it. Besides, he had August, and it seemed that the other girl had snapped him back to her attention.
Malfoy’s nose found the hollow in the cartilage in her ear. “I could get used to this,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her lobe teasingly.
Weirdly enough, so could she. His arms felt warm and safe around her, and she’d missed that. She missed just being held, though with him it wasn’t quite the same as it had been with her parents when she’d been little.
He squeezed her a little, moving his lips down… down… onto her neck, and her breath caught.
There was a squawking sound nearby, and they both looked to see a raven staring at them from a few feet away, its head tilted to the side.
“Think it’s a bad omen?” Malfoy asked, his chest rumbling as he chuckled.
“Yes,” Hermione answered decisively, “it means I need to get back to studying for NEWTs.”
His arms tightened around her. “I don’t know about that.” One hand lifted to turn her chin towards him, and he bent to press his lips to hers, nipping leisurely.
The raven squawked.
O
Hermione didn’t recognize the owl that swooped down and landed next to her bowl of porridge, and it flew away as soon as she’d removed the accompanying letter.
Ginny bobbed her head in the letter’s direction. “What do you have-is that from Narcissa Malfoy?” she asked, and Hermione froze, letter half turned up.
Sure enough, it was signed with a very curly N. Malfoy-the Y in her signature would certainly have been loopy enough for Astoria Greengrass’s taste.
“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, reading over it quickly, “and-she’s invited me for tea on Saturday,” she added, her mouth going significantly dry.
“She’s,” Ginny paused. “Wait, what?”
“She invited me to Malfoy Manor for tea,” Hermione repeated. “Tomorrow at three.”
Tomorrow? That was soon. Almost too soon. Mrs. Malfoy hadn’t even asked her to R.S.V.P.-not that there was much time for it-which Hermione supposed meant that this tea wasn’t optional. She could either show up or risk insulting her boyfriend’s mum, and neither sounded especially pleasant-and Hermione’s last and only visit to Malfoy Manor had definitely been anything but pleasant and, come to think of it, had been almost exactly a year prior.
“Too bad Malfoy can’t go with you,” Ginny pointed out.
Hermione nodded, silently agreeing. There was a certain awful irony in the fact that the mother and son weren’t allowed to meet until one or the other’s sentence was up, and yet Hermione was freely able to visit both.
She closed her eyes, briefly remembering that scene she’d witnessed on the Hogwarts Express Platform back in September, how Malfoy and his mother had both seemed broken.
Harry had told her in an aside about Narcissa’s devotion to her son during the Final Battle, how she’d helped Harry and defied Voldemort. That part of the woman’s personality Hermione found commendable.
Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the woman would be willing to allow anything that would make her son happy, including letting a muggleborn within ten feet of her son.
Or maybe it would be horrible and Hermione would be forever grateful that the woman wasn’t allowed to use magic. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to stop in Hogsmeade first and buy a bezoar, just in case that tea happened to be poisoned.
O
Draco was used to being stared at. Just not so much by Luna Lovegood. That Luna girl was most definitely staring, or, at least, she was drifting off into space with her head turned exactly in his direction and her eyes glazed over toward his own.
That girl was just… he didn’t even know how to describe her. Freaky, maybe. He wondered if Thomas were only dating her because he was scared of the consequences of breaking it off. Lovegood was liable to do something, for the lack of a better word, weird, maybe hex the bloke into growing Easter lilies out of his ears.
“Do you mind?” he finally asked, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Lovegood didn’t appear even slightly fazed.
“Your mother’s initials are N.C.B.M., aren’t they?” she asked, her voice drifting to him on a much too calm lilt.
“Yes…” he answered slowly.
“I thought so.” And with that, Lovegood turned around and drifted away.
Okay. Weird. Definitely the best word choice.
O
Hermione bit her lip as she waited for Malfoy to arrive in the first class they had together for the day, which happened to be Arithmancy. Vector was due in roughly six and a half minutes, according to the simple formula Hermione had concocted over the course of the last five years, mostly based on the distance between the teachers’ lounge and the classroom with the added variable of the number of male professors likely to have been flirting with her.
Malfoy slipped in at about four minutes till, taking his seat next to her and stretching his arms back behind his head, his manacle jangling as he did so. “Something wrong?” he asked, his head half turned in her direction.
He was eying her lip. He did that a lot.
She nodded, ducking her head to reach into her bag and also to hide her blush. She wasn’t sure she was ever going to get used to-this. Having Malfoy looking at her like a raspberry truffle on a gold platter instead of a piece of gum on the underside of his shoe. It was a nice change, of course, just a drastic flip-flop from the old norm.
“Here,” she finally said, handing over the letter she’d received from his mum. He took it, not seeming to realize what it was at first, if the fact that he buckled about two seconds into reading it was even slightly telltale.
He looked up, wetting his lips. “Are you going?” There was a strange look on his face, one she hadn’t been expecting. Then again, she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Hopeful, however, had not been it.
“You… want me to?” she asked, incredulous despite herself.
He shifted, almost antsy. “Well-” and then he looked guilty. “I haven’t told her,” he said in a rush, so fast Hermione almost thought he’d said something else.
“You-”
“She knows now, obviously,” he pointed out. “But,” and now he was almost defensive, “have you told your parents?”
“Sort of….” She’d told them she was dating someone new; she’d just happened to have left out whom.
He looked pointedly at her. Point made. This wasn’t really a normal “go out and tell everyone with all due excitement” relationship. If anything, downplaying it made more sense on both their parts.
He turned his desk a fraction to face her better, and he held up the letter. “This,” he said, “this is a good sign. Civility is a good sign, and….” He trailed off, almost as if he’d swallowed his tongue.
“And?” she prompted.
“Nothing.” Which was code for something.
She leveled her stare at him. “You’re sure?”
His head tilted to the side. “I-she,” he quickly amended, “hasn’t seen me since September. I’m sure she’ll be happy to speak in person to someone who’s been around me lately.”
Hermione’s head tilted to mirror his. “And… is there anything you’d like me to say to her?” she asked, nudging at the unspoken truth.
“Then you are going?” The hopefulness was back, peeking around a wary caution.
She nodded quickly before she could change her mind. “It would be polite,” she said, hoping she wasn’t offending him by being reticent about meeting with his mum.
That smile that undid her was back, turning her knees to jelly and making her glad she was already sitting. The door opened, and Vector came in, trailed by the other students. “I’ll write something for you to give her,” he said, and then he straightened his desk, and it was as if nothing had happened. Or it would have been. He had a glow.
O
The letter McGonagall had sent in August inviting her back for her eighth year had specifically mentioned that Eighth Years would have free rein to go to Hogsmeade at any time, as well as other perks. McGonagall probably hadn’t had Hermione leaving for Wiltshire on a random weekend in April in mind, but if Ron were allowed to spend half his time training with the Cannons, then Hermione was certainly allowed to go to tea with Narcissa Malfoy.
That didn’t stop Hermione from feeling like a bit of a daredevil by simply walking to the Hogwarts gates, Malfoy in stride beside her to see her off. Having an overactive conscience is annoying and nonsensical like that.
“Concentrate on a large white birch tree. That’ll get you just outside the grounds. Tap the bell on the gate with your wand to request permission to enter…. Can you picture it all right?” he asked, looking slightly wary. “I’d rather not have you splinching yourself.”
“Appreciated, but I’ll be fine.” That’s what she told herself, anyway. At the moment, the thought of part of her body getting stuck in an object or being left behind, though unfriendly, was not the scariest thing on her mind. Going there was bad enough. Going there to have a spot of tea with Draco Malfoy’s mum in order to discuss their relationship? Terrifying.
“You don’t have to do this.” He’d taken hold of her hand, and if it weren’t for that faint hopeful spark about him, he might have actually looked sincere.
“Oh, I know.” She glanced briefly at the letter he’d given her to give his mother, which Hermione considered a form of insurance. Life insurance, that is. He gave her hand a squeeze before she pulled away. She closed her eyes once outside the gates, willing herself to concentrate on that white birch. Her memories of the manor were disordered and confused, along with the majority of her memories from the year before, but thinking hard enough, she could just make out the outline of the surrounding area before, with a surging pop, she Disapparated.
Hermione didn’t stumble when she arrived, though it took her a moment to regain her equilibrium as the world trembled around her. It was a beautiful day in Wiltshire, the sun shining down through the branches of the birch and dappling the grass in light and darkness.
It had been dark when she’d been there before, and neither she, Harry, nor Ron had been in a healthy frame of mind. There was a cheerfulness in that sunshine that seemed alien now.
The gate, which she was sure she didn’t recall, was some twenty meters off, and she followed Malfoy’s direction, tapping her wand against a green calcified copper bell. She’d wager that a matching bell was ringing somewhere within the house, alerting some poor elf that the mistress had company.
She checked her watch. It was four till.
There was suddenly a whooshing sound as vines began untwisting from the gate, allowing it to swing open creaklessly. She had to take a few hasty steps backward to avoid being hit.
Well, here went nothing.
The grounds were beautifully maintained, flowers blooming among arbors and topiaries that lined the cobblestone path that led to the front door. A white peacock squawked and strutted nearby, eyeing her when she passed it. Off to the side, she could see young vegetable plants growing in a slightly more haphazard manner.
The door swung open just as she was preparing to knock, Narcissa Malfoy herself standing there and staring down.
O
The hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stood on end, and before he could turn around, a flash of amber light beamed past the side of his head, just narrowly missing him.
Granger had only just Disapparated, and now what was this? An ambush?
“Stay where you are.” Something that felt suspiciously like a wand pushed into his back. Whoever it was didn’t sound familiar. Maybe that was the point, though.
“What do you want?”
The wand pushed farther into his back, jammed into his left kidney. “A blood traitor like you should have a fair idea what it is that I want.”
Blood traitor. In the past, Draco’d always been the one calling other people that, and now it seemed strange to be called it himself. He wasn’t sure it should apply to him. It wasn’t like he was a Muggle enthusiast, like Arthur Weasley. But dating a muggle-born would constitute treachery to the majority of Slytherin House. “You’re not really answering the question very well.”
“And you shouldn’t be talking back,” the person hissed.
Draco closed his eyes, his vision blurring all of a sudden. He should have known something like this would happen sooner or later, unarmed Slytherin dating Hermione Granger and all. His mind raced as the sweat started cropping up at the base of his neck. His options were limited. Even if he had his wand, his options would still be limited. But….
But he did have his wand, he belatedly realized. There was a buzzing in his ears. If he could just….
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” the person said. “Think you’re the king of the world. Ex-seeker, the Dark Lord’s little helper, a Malfoy.” The person spat. “Tell me, what right do you think you have to soil your line? What right do you have to end one of the last remaining truly pure strands in the wizarding fabric? There are families that would kill to marry you to their daughters.” The pressure of the wand lessened, but then it began to trail along his lower back, up and around his spine in a lazy pattern of eights and infinity signs. “Your line shouldn’t go to waste, Malfoy.” There was something in the voice, something in the tone, something in the eerie trail of the wand… something that told him a fact that had never before made him fearful: the speaker was a girl, and from the sound of it, a girl who had unladylike thoughts running through her head.
Hot breath blew on his neck. “Rest assured, you will not be the last of your pure blood.”
“Greengrass?” Draco guessed, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
There was a laugh. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? But no.” More breath. “She’s all talk. Me, I’m into action.”
O
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said, trying her best to keep her voice calm and respectful.
“Miss Granger,” she replied, and then, in a clipped tone: “Follow me.” Narcissa turned and started down the hallway. The inside of the house was immaculate, though it seemed bare in some places, as if some of the furniture had been gotten rid of-sold, maybe.
They went up two flights of stairs and arrived in a sitting room, where a small spread of tea, six finger sandwiches, and three scones sat on a table. Hermione eyed them warily. “Is someone else coming?” she asked. There were three place settings instead of two.
“In a moment,” Narcissa replied, taking her seat and pouring herself a cup of tea. Hermione followed suit, though she found herself waiting for her hostess to take a sip before she did. Narcissa drank some and set down her cup in its saucer before taking a long, calculating look at her. “I suppose you know why I’ve asked you here?” she asked.
“I have an idea,” Hermione responded, setting her own tea cup down.
A moment of silence passed between them. Narcissa’s eyes were very blue, unlike her son’s, but they were shaped similarly, and Hermione was suddenly struck by the number of similarities she actually could identify now. It was more than just physically; there was something in the way Narcissa sat, something in her expression, something familiar in an almost calming sort of way. “Why did you come?”
Hermione paused and took another sip, resisting the urge to ask why she thought she had come. “Because,” she began, “it seemed best.” She slipped her hand into her robe pocket and took out the letter Malfoy had given her and handed it to the woman sitting across from her.
Narcissa didn’t read it straightaway, instead continuing to stare at her. There was something in her gaze that didn’t seem right. It was sad, almost… regretful? The woman’s eyes flicked down to the letter, reading it over as Hermione took a sandwich that she had no intention of eating. When she was done reading, she let out a soft sigh, and that was it.
Hermione nudged the corner of her sandwich with her finger, and tried to look around the room. It was well-kept. Slightly barren. There was one very large portrait of a sixteenth century nobleman with a haughty expression and a hunting dog at his side. Both nobleman and dog were giving her the stink eye. Other than that, the walls were completely bare.
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said slowly, “why did you invite me here?”
As if on cue, the door to the drawing room swung open again, and standing in the archway was a familiar face. Her hair was lank, and she had a slightly gaunt look about her that didn’t quite match the swell of her pregnant stomach. Pansy Parkinson was staring at Hermione with a slightly alien expression: not quite contempt, not quite revulsion, not quite exhaustion, not quite defeat, but definitely not pleasure. There was a manacle around her bony left wrist.
O
A.N. Two cliffhangers? What am I thinking? You’re all going to threaten me with very sharp pencils, aren’t you? Would it help if I blamed the plot bunny? …Yeah, didn’t think so.
Quoth the raven, “Oh dear.”
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