"Flatware"
Disclaimer: I do not own Draco (sobs herself quietly to sleep every night), Ginny, or anything else to do with the Potterverse. These belong to J.K. Rowling. You can sue me, but please note that the electric bill, phone bill, internet bill, and my student loans come first. After that and food there'll probably be like 2 cents to rub together. Enjoy it.
Chapter One:
I suppose in some ways, I shouldn't be particularly surprised. Draco's always been the person he is. There have been some major choices in his life, and he's not generally one to ignore his mistakes, but I hardly expected him to show up at my door with not flowers or apologies, but a simple dish to replace the one he'd broken. He couldn't have known that it was my mother's favorite dish. He couldn't have possibly seen me heading for the corner he was turning just at that perfect second, when the Trickster gods just couldn't let either of us walk away cleanly with a few sneered words, and hateful glares. In truth, we walked right into each other, and by fate alone things changed.
I burst into tears; porcelain shards scattered across the bleak linoleum of the Ministry hall, as I fell to my knees to retrieve what was left of my mother's sole family heirloom. My father's mother had given it to her, and she'd cherished it, knowing that Grandma Anathema had always hated her. It was perfectly polished, and ornate, not gaudy, and was only used on special occasions.
When it'd been left to me, after her passing, I was so … emotional. Happy that something (if only one thing) was finally mine, and only mine. Sad because she was gone, and I'd have rather she was here and I had nothing, than to lose her. It was a sad time, one that I was learning to get over. Using the piece was therapeutic for me.
He stared down at me, in the middle of the mess, silently crying, and sighed, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet before I could do myself any irreparably damage. He cast a silent repairo, and handed me the newly mended flatware, and silently walked away. I knew it would never be the same, mended by even his powerful magic.
.:||:.
Apparently he knew it too. My doorbell rang several days later. I sighed quietly, padding my way into the hall, and opening the door expectantly, and he was there. As posh and sophisticated as ever I'd seen him, dove grey slacks, matching waistcoat, and overcloak, looking perfectly pressed over his starched white shirt. He smelled of clean, and some spicy probably expensive cologne, and in his elegant, slim fingers he held a box.
"Ms. Weasley." He nodded to me in greeting. I stared, shocked by his sudden appearance, and the motives that it hinted at. He held the white box out to me, wrapped in what looked like bleached leather, and lined in soft leaf green velvet. I opened it with a brief click and gasped. Inside, a large bone white china centerpiece lay nestled in the recess of its velvet lining. Depicted in the center was the Weasley crest, a lioness rearing against an unseen foe, while cubs cowered behind. A small smile of wonder and appreciation stole across my face, and he raised an eyebrow in question.
I stepped backward, allowing him entrance and closed the door, setting the piece on the coffee table, still entranced as I flicked my wand at the kettle. He sat straight-backed and proud in the armchair he'd chosen, as if it were completely natural to be sitting there, in the belly of his family most hated rival, bearing gifts. I brought his tea out to him, serving him first, and then myself before I gently lifted the ornate platter from it's casing, and examined it minutely.
"I'm not sure what to say." I murmured truthfully. I expected him to smirk, or sneer. To raise an expectant eyebrow, and look down his perfectly formed nose at me, the lowly Weasley. He smiled a soft half smile, and nodded, completely ignoring my shocked gaze.
"It won't ever replace the one that was destroyed, and I'm sure that the memories attached to it will never wholly transfer, but it was the only one I could find on such short notice. Either your ancestors buried a great deal of the Weasley loot, or someone's doing a damnable job by hiding them from me. Either way, I believe this passed out of the family's hands sometime last century. Returning it to you now is a token gesture of my sincerest apology." His words were soft, and quiet, and left me little to nothing in the way of intelligent thought.
Draco Malfoy had just apologized to me, not, for the petty things we said as children, or the churlish insults he and Ron still exchanged to this day, but because he felt he'd done me, Ginny Weasley, some great disservice, or dealt me some wounding blow by shattering a piece of pottery. I was not sure if I should be appalled at the very idea of his niceness, or ashamed of myself for not professing my thanks. Not to mention ashamed for perpetrating the feud, even after all our parents were dead, and we had fought side by side to face a common enemy during the war.
"There were several other pieces along with this one. I had found out recently that your brother, Percival, was trying to procure them, but I wanted you to be the one to have this one." He cleared his throat nervously when I didn't answer. I hadn't touched my tea, and made no move to now. I had just enough presence of mind to keep my mouth closed, lest my jaw flap in an ungainly manner, and I further embarrass myself, far more than muteness ever could. I was being rude. I knew I had to say something.
"How did you know?" the question was blurted in quiet awe, and I'm sure that he knew the reasoning behind it. Instead of completely misinterpreting my vague question; instead of being the Malfoy I knew him to be, he shook his head.
"The look on your face was more than telling enough. You looked as if I'd personally closed my fingers around your heart and ripped it, still beating, from your chest. I meant to fix it with the spell, but then I saw the Weasley Crest. Heraldry has always been one of my strong points. If I'd ever been so clumsy as to break one of the Malfoy heirlooms, my mother would come back from the grave to haunt me. I didn't figure your mother was any different, and I doubted that she'd spare me. There was certainly no love lost between us. She thought, quite rightly, that I was a snot-nosed brat. But much has changed." I nodded slowly.
Draco Malfoy, was sitting in my living room having afternoon tea with me, Ginny Weasley. And to top it all off, he was not only carrying the conversation, but doing his best to be polite, and make amends for a freak accident that was in no part anyone's fault. I wasn't sure if demon's had ice skates, but it was certainly possible for them to being doing double axels in hell. My brothers would never believe it. My Father was probably rolling in his grave. Grandma Anathema probably thought the sun was about to explode, wiping away all traces of this apocalyptic happening.
"I … thank you. It will mean a great deal to pass this on to my daughter one day." I stated quietly, as my eyes filled with tears. Draco Malfoy, the self proclaimed snot-nosed brat had risen above his breeding and contempt to do something for me that I was unsure I'd ever be able to accomplish given a change of our places.
"Or son." He murmured. Shock was the least o my worries as I nodded in reply, and tears slid down my cheeks.
He regarded me uncomfortably for a moment before he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a perfectly folded white square of clothe. It was soft, and monogrammed with his initials, but he came and sat beside me awkwardly on the couch, and pressed it gently into my hands. I dabbed my eyes with it, thanking the gods in heaven that my nose wasn't running.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to cry. It's just –" I trailed off as he shushed me, gently rubbing my back as I sobbed.
"Ms. We – Ginevra, I meant no disrespect. I only wished to replace that which I took from you. Please don't cry." His deep voice was soothing as it rumbled in his chest.
It sounded so simple when he said it. I didn't know whether I should be ashamed of myself, or relieved that he was taking this so well. Crying in front of Draco Malfoy had never been a fantasy of mine; in fact, there was nothing farther from it. If I had ever imagined the instance, it wouldn't be because of a kindness he granted, and I would never have imagined that he wouldn't encourage my tears with taunts and insults. Instead, he gingerly reached out and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close, not caring that my tears would stain his pressed clothing, or that my name was Weasley, and his Malfoy, and things like this were just not done.
He hushed my tears and rubbed my back in gentle soothing circles, and when my sobbing subsided to gently hiccoughs and barely audible sighs, he held me at arms length and looked down at me, assessing the situation. He swiped my eyes gently, one and then the other, drying them with the forgotten handkerchief before patting my shoulder awkwardly.
"Perhaps it would have been wiser to send it by owl post, but I wanted to be sure nothing happened to it. I am deeply sorry for the intrusion. I'll just be one my way." He spoke quietly, gathering his cloak, and wand, finishing the last of his tea in a hurried gulp, and heading toward the door.
"Malfoy!" I called suddenly, "Draco, I… Stay. I'll make you something or…" I trailed off. He halted at the sound of his name. He seemed torn. I knew he felt it impolite to dash off the way he was. He would never have considered it at all, except that my sudden onslaught of tears had shaken him, and his comforting demeanor had shaken him all the more. He seemed to battle within himself, until finally he turned, draping his cloak over the arm of the nearby chair, and coming back to sit, edgily in the armchair he'd taken when he'd first arrived. I was pleased to note he was as on edge as I was, but I kept it to myself as I made my way to the kitchen.
"I've got some roast, or a casserole, but that needs to defrost a bit. Or I suppose I could make –"
"You could let me cook something, if I wouldn't be imposing? After all, it is me who owes you, not the other way around." He seemed surprisingly upbeat at the idea of preparing a meal, and I was too shocked to decline. I nodded dumbly, and he moved toward my kitchenette, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.
"Ma- erm… Draco, you really don't have to do this." I found my voice as he opened the ice box and pulled out the lamb chops I'd been contemplating making for Hermione and Ron. He looked over his shoulder at me, though his hands stayed busy, removing the packaging and discarding it elegantly.
Suddenly it seemed that everything he did was done elegantly. It made me all the more uncomfortable to have him here in my tiny kitchen preparing food for me. I'd never even had a boyfriend cook for me, let alone a former enemy!
"I'll need a meat tenderizer, and access to your spice collection. Also, this dish requires an onion, an egg, some milk, bread crumbs, parsley, mint, butter and a little sugar." He murmured, completely ignoring my misgiving about him cooking.
"The cooking utensils are in the drawer to your left. The spices and herbs are in the third cupboard from the right, and I'll check if I have any onions." I moved toward the cold-box, to get the milk, butter, and an egg, and he began rummaging through my cupboards.
"Spices are to your right, above your head. Be careful, some of those are potions ingredients. Pots and pans are hanging behind you, and if you need anything, just holler. I'm going to finish my tea."
I set the ingredients on the table and headed toward the living room, and our forgotten teacups. I settled on the sofa, and cast a warming charm on my cup, gripping it in both hands as I tried desperately to fathom what was going on here. I stayed like that, lost in thought until a yell from the kitchen shook me out of my reverie.
I found Draco, eyebrow-less, and slightly singed, staring in shocked awe at my oven. I rushed to his side, checked him over, and made sure nothing was seriously injured or missing. After a few seconds he chuckled.
"Ginevra, had I known that your oven had the curse of Montebooma(1) on it, I would never have gone anywhere near it. Now, since I appear to have burned dinner, perhaps we should go out and get something?" He murmured, pulling my rose-patterned oven-mitts from his hands, and tossing them on the counter as he stood.
I stared as he straightened his tie. Had Draco Malfoy just made a joke? He dusted off his clothes, before pointing his wand at his face and casting a quick scourgify. I giggled. Now that his face wasn't blackened with soot he looked even worse without his eyebrows. I pointed my wand at him and cast Svilupcapel(2) spell. His golden arcs blossomed back into being, and he sauntered off toward my bathroom to have a look for himself.
"Thank you." He called from the bathroom, as I set to clearing away what was left of my lamb chops. He came back out and accio'd my cloak, tossing it nonchalantly over my shoulders as I was making a mental note to buy more lamb chops for Hermione.
"Let's go." He said as he turned to leave, grabbing his own cloak from the chair, and heading toward the door before I had a chance to argue. When I finally caught up with him, he grabbed my hand and held it tightly, and I was swept away in a side-along apparation.
.:||:.
Not to be confused with explosive diarrhea, or dysentery of any kind. Montebooma is the curse of small explosions removing all facial hair, or at the very least starting a forest fire in any nearby facial growth.
Svilupcapel is a literal translation of grow and hair in Italian. I figured it was close enough to Latin, and since I don't know any Latin I went with that. If anyone knows the Latin words for hair growth, let me know, I'd very much appreciate it.
Author's Note:
Also, isn't it wonderful how we fanfic authors have up and decided that Draco Malfoy smells of spicy, expensive, cologne? Do you think he bathes in "Paul Sebastian"?