Hello, dearies. Time to catch up with delayed work from last year. This was my submission for the Dramionelove 2015. Since last year was crazy, it took me until now to get the final edits done to be able to finally post it elsewhere.
This was my prompt: "There is something calming about the rain, the way it washes away the past and gives way to new opportunities for enemies to become friends, and even something more." (#19) My thoughts went a slightly different way, but the idea of rain washing away the past is still present. I hope you don't mind, dear reader (and dear prompter), the way I took this fic. I wanted to try something different than usual, and I'm quite pleased with the outcome, even if it became much longer than I originally intended – no surprise there.
I hope it's still enjoyable. I still like it.
Biggest thanks, as usual, go to M for helping me over the grammatical bumps and even more for her help with the final edits.
Spring is dragging its feet this year.
It is as if the generous Gryffindor has given his friend, the wintery Slytherin, a slap on the back, saying, "Alright, ol' boy, I'll give you a few more weeks to play."
Hermione shivers as she stares into the cold curtain of water outside the window.
Bending to her hot tea, wrapping her hands around the cup for warmth, she shakes her head. No, that scenario isn't quite right. Fiery Gryffindor is better suited to be the summer heat, not spring's thaw. He is too hot-tempered, quick to defend his friends, yet equally as easy going as a long, summer evening.
No, more likely, it would be fair Hufflepuff impersonating spring, as she would be too timid to take the reins from the dark, forbidding Slytherin, waiting patiently until he had to pass them on to her, and then only grudgingly.
Then again...
An intriguing thought intrudes upon Hermione's self-imposed solitude: it is part of wizarding history that the Founders of Hogwarts were best friends. Thus, Hufflepuff, albeit the most tolerant of the four, but the one with the gentlest, most transitional touch, would have been able to delicately take the reins of winter away from Slytherin's clawing hands when she'd thought it was her turn to wield them, for that is the true nature of Hufflepuff—soft, but determined, like flowers pushing through the permafrost, heralding a new beginning.
Or perhaps sharp Ravenclaw, wrapped in steely blue, would be the one to rationally argue sly Slytherin into submitting control. Yes, rather than golden Hufflepuff (who more accurately represents gentle autumn), it is better that the deliberate and sensible Ravenclaw be the sharp new beginning of spring, working hand-in-hand with boisterous Gryffindor to evolve the world away from Slytherin's winter.
Regardless of the line-up, the imagined scenario implies one important thing: three Founders coming together explicitly to work against the fourth—cold, ambitious Slytherin. He is always the odd one out... which is to be expected, as the chasm he creates with his fanatic views of the world is too wide to cross.
She thinks back, remembering how that translated in real life...
When Voldemort attacked Hogwarts, the different House pulled together to face the danger... all but one, that was to say. No other house had as many kids leaving before the Final Battle as Slytherin.
To be fair, and in all honesty, they were kids, though—barely adults. Of course, they would leave Hogwarts when staying meant they would have to face their parents in a fight. Not many of the other students had to face such a dilemma.
Still, she wonders. Cold and cunning, calculating all benefits, it is hard to imagine a loving relationship with a profiteer from Slytherin house. Do they ever open their hearts? Is there such a thing as a loving and loyal Slytherin who wouldn't sell his wife if it meant an advantage for him? What unites them? Magic, only magic. Even then, they have completely different understandings about it.
No matter how she frames it, Hermione is aware that Slytherin and Gryffindor will always stand on opposite ends. Summer and winter facing off. Their opinions of what the world should be are too different.
She puts her cup down and her face in her warm hands, and exhales with exasperation.
In the next thought, she admonishes herself again. It's no use, and this is no way of thinking if one wants to overcome enemy lines, so she tells herself to stop searching for faults in a Slytherin.
Besides, cleverness, resourcefulness, and determination are not bad traits. In fact, she prides herself for possessing them, and so does Harry. Winter has its purpose... and its own kind of beauty, too. Hermione simply loves the serene look of a snow-covered field, a sole tree reaching up and touching the icy blue sky; the quiet of snow muffling steps, and the beauty of sun reflecting on icicles.
Like the sun reflecting on white-blond hair.
He sits alone at a table, as far removed from her as possible in this small café, ignoring her as much as possible, stoically staring out at the rain just as she does. He stirs his tea, once, twice.
His sullen gaze rests on her very briefly on its way down to the cup, as he lifts the demitasse spoon away and gives it a small jerk, shaking off all liquid before placing it on the saucer. He doesn't put the spoon in his mouth to lick it off, but she almost wishes he had.
dmhgdmhgdmhg
The first time she kissed him, a sudden downpour took them by surprise as they left the Royal Opera. They'd both enjoyed The Magic Flute , its magic in the music and the plot alike.
With the rain coming down in sheets, they ran two blocks to the next Apparation point. Her silk gown and slippers were drenched in seconds despite her hasty Impervious spell.
Cavalierly, ever the well-mannered pureblood, he offered her his cloak, and then getting ready for the magical jump, he protectively wrapped his arms around her, as if to ward off the rain. Just before the pull behind her navel whisked her away, she noticed how good his chest felt under her hands, that the arms surrounding her were well muscled despite his slender build, and how pleasantly he smelt. Clean. Male. Flattering, but unobtrusive.
When they had landed on her doorstep, under the protection of her porch roof, he let go of her immediately, but she held tightly to his cloak, spurred on by a sudden impulsiveness. With the water sluicing between her fingers, she pulled him down until his face was level with hers, and pressed her rain-wet lips to his.
She inhaled the scent of moisture on his face and hers, and tasted his reluctance and surprise. They quickly disappeared, however, turning to what felt like resignation to the inevitable.
He didn't pull away, but the kiss remained soft and chaste, a trial spiked with uncertainty.
They both appeared startled at her forwardness when they separated, and then he scowled.
"You'd better get inside, Granger, before you catch cold."
With a wide-eyed stare and a whispered, "Goodnight, Malfoy," she escaped behind her front door. Only then did the silliness of his comment register, he'd thrown a warming spell over them, and she collapsed in a fit of hysterical giggles.
She kissed Draco Malfoy. Who'd have thought?
dmhgdmhgdmhg
Ginny and Luna have just left her in the café, discussing her situation, commiserating, and promising their support. Offering their condolences as if her future is bleak and grey - grey like the strings of rain outside the window. As if it had rained on her parade. You'd think the world was ending.
She frowns at that thought. The world had almost ended when Voldemort rose to power. She'd survived that, though, employing her cleverness, following her instincts. She'd helped Harry win an uneven fight.
She is going to survive this, now, too.
In fact, she is going to do more than survive. Fate has thrown her a curve ball, but she sees its clear benefits: Malfoy is fit and quite articulate—when he isn't tossing around insults. He is interested in investigating magical history, in doing research, in reading without purpose, simply to broaden his horizon. These are things she likes to do, too. He's stopped calling her names a long time ago, a youthful folly that is long forgotten, and behaves with exemplary politeness toward her now. He doesn't extend the same to her friends, yet, but she realizes it would be too much to ask for him to overcome a life-long rivalry in a few years.
Besides, it's not as if Harry and Ron welcome him with open arms, either.
It may have rained on her parade, and she really doesn't like rain. She prefers happy spring colours over cold, wet, greyish dark, honestly, but her future isn't all grey. Even if his eyes are, and she much prefers blue. Or green. She'll take the bad if she has to.
She steals a quick peek in his direction. He is reading right now; his head is bent to his lap, as if he has a book lying open there. She cannot see his eyes, only his hair falling in his face. It is shorter now than ever, except for the fringe, whose length makes him look boyish.
She wonders if his hair is as soft as it appears from the distance.
She glances over his relaxed posture, his lanky body lounging in the armchair with masculine confidence, his robe open, exposing expensive cloth, cashmere and wool she thinks.
Thoughts about the skin and body below the cloth intrude, accompanied by the realization that he would want an heir and what that entails. Their first impulsive meeting of mouths and his immediate reaction may not have been promising as physical compatibility goes. However - and at this point she feels heat spreading under her hair - they would be required to do much more than that eventually. The law would see to their relationship's consummation, and she can't help but wonder how he will feel, there, inside her, and if there will be any pleasure at all or only abhorrence and indifference.
Her eyes sweep up the length of his body, grazing the fine knit of his bluish-grey jumper ... and lock onto his grey gaze as he stares intensely back at her, telling her that her curiosity's been found out.
Hermione's heart plummets into her stomach.
dmhgdmhgdmhg
Harry and Ron were furious, of course, when they first heard the news, and they didn't hold back expressing their horror with the same tactlessness they had displayed the previous week at the Ministry's Annual Ball.
It's viciously clear from their words just how difficult her future is going to be.
"Hermione, how can you live with that?"
Harry's eyes sparkled with the same fire as when he'd been about to face his doom during the Final Battle. Anger flared in them, and a cold determination propelled him forward. Hermione wants to live up to this, his heroism. She feels the same fire burning in her.
As for Ron...
"The ferret," Ron groaned. "Why the ferret?"
...She still feels irritated at his fatalism. It isn't his life, is it? It's hers.
"Minister, isn't there anything you can do?" Harry asked, turning to Kingsley Shacklebolt, who joined their small group as they stand a short distance from the packed dance floor. The Ministry's Annual Ball, commemorating the anniversary of Voldemort's defeat, is a Who's Who of wizarding society.
"Afraid not," the Minister replied with a small headshake. "The decision is magically binding. The couples are pledged to one another once the chalice spits out their names. Remember your participation in the Tri-wizard Tournament, Harry?"
Harry nodded, sad at the memory. That chapter is still sore for him; the superfluous death of Cedric Diggory and the return of Voldemort.
"But the ferret," Ron whined again. "Why the ferret, of all people?"
Before Hermione could air her irritation at the fruitless (and unnecessary) aggravation on her behalf, she felt a presence move in behind her. She felt a tall person, and as she inhaled, she smelt a clean and a tantalizing scent. Her stomach did a somersault.
"Potter, Weasley," a familiar, sneering voice spoke from over her shoulder, addressing her friends. "Minister," it greeted Kingsley with slightly more respect.
Hermione stifled a smile. It was no secret that Draco Malfoy and the men here were not friends.
The voice addressed her, finally. "Granger." He spoke reluctantly, his voice surprisingly soft.
She turned to him. "Malfoy," she politely met his greeting, nodding at him.
"I wouldn't expect you to, but do you happen to dance?" he asked her in his customary, challenging tone.
She smiled, making a conscious decision not to be offended by his mannerisms. He is to be hers, after all, and they must start somewhere. "As a matter of fact, I do. We all learned for the Yule ball back in fourth year, remember?"
"Of course." He inclined his head in affirmation, and extended his hand formally towards her, indicating his want to take her to the dance floor. "Shall we, then?"
She sent a quick look at Harry and Ron, both of whom looked incredibly upset. Ron looked like he wanted nothing more than to hex Malfoy back to his Manor and seal the doors shut forever. His face shone in a rare shade of burgundy, clashing exceptionally with his carrot-coloured hair, and a vein on his temple pulsed with vigour. Harry turned pale, in sharp contrast to his dark mob of hair, and looked as if he had just stumbled upon the decayed remains of his beloved pet after it has gone missing.
Both their wand hands twitched.
Malfoy followed her gaze when no reply was forthcoming. "Is there a problem, you twits? Does she need your permission to dance?" He sneered at them again. "You two have no room to complaing. You got off lightly, didn't you? It certainly pays to be Saint Potter and his best mate.
I should have had the same luck. My family, after all, is as old as British Wizarding Society itself. Top notch, as you know."
They had the decency to blush.
Hermione felt the sting of his words. She was one of Harry's best friends, too, if not his mate. She was only the one who made sure he survived until the Final Battle. If anyone truly deserved gratitude for their efforts and a free pass, it should have been her.
Alas, Hermione was not so fortunate where the Marriage Law was concerned.
She didn't want to go there again, to that place of resentment and regret. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever, because once she did, she would have to question the unequal treatment...to herself and to Draco Malfoy, post-war. His family, his father to be precise, had had gambled his son's privilege away, putting their stakes in the losing side of the war, and the Ministry had made him dearly pay for that.
Regardless, she didn't want to make a fuss, after the fact. It was a done deal, and her inquiries in the legality of the marriage lottery would only shake-up the whole peace and rebuilding process and send people back into a place of doubt. Deep down, she didn't want that to happen.
Honestly, deep down, she liked the fact that Malfoy's going to be hers- however it pans out.
Across the room, she spied a sulking Pansy Parkinson and recalled the woman's fit when she'd heard the news. Hermione cannot help gloating in private at the thought that her old school rival didn't get the boy in the end, that the witch will never be a Malfoy, as she'd always dreamed.
He was hers.
Hermione put her hand in Malfoy's. "Yes, we shall."
She grabbed his hand firmly to pull him towards the other dancers, but he didn't let her. With two quick steps, he was at her side, frowning, always frowning, his hand at her back, and he led her like a gentleman. When they reached the middle of the dancefloor, he swung her around and positioned her just so. Their gazes connected, and, with a brief nod, they both acknowledged the right note on which to start.
After a minute or two of concentration and adjustment to her dance partner, Hermione gave in to the joy of the dance. She knew the steps by heart, of course, and Malfoy led her effortlessly, flawlessly, with a gentle grip, a soft push, and a warm hand on her back.
She would let herself relax completely in the apparent safety of his arms' enclosure, if only she was sure that she could trust a treacherous Slytherin mind. If only she could know what he really thought. Constantly faced with his deep frown, Hermione found herself dreaming of a genuine smile on a handsome face—a true sign of affection. She had thought their tentative kiss enjoyable, but that belief didn't help her now in knowing how he really felt, and she hated that uncertainty.
The truth was she could live without passion, but she was afraid of condemning herself to a life of misery with a man who couldn't stand her.
She only came back down to earth when she realized that Malfoy had led her out of the ballroom, and into a little-used niche behind the cloakroom. She saw before they disappeared entirely from the room Harry and Ron standing on the sidelines, scowling, growling, Ron prowling up and down like a caged tiger.
"What—?" she started before he interrupted harshly.
"When are you going to tell them?"
She blushed, thinking about their kiss and how she had felt in the aftermath—warm from head to toe.
"Tell them what?" she demanded.
His eyes narrowed to slits and he snorted before hissing, "You kissed me. Clearly, there is something to tell."
She wondered how he wants her to tell, what to say. That she thoroughly enjoyed herself every time she's with him? That they got along splendidly, and that he could behave now that they have an understanding, that she was his intended? That she was falling for him and looked forward to exploring a lot more of him? Yeah, that would go down wonderfully with her friends. They were just as hateful of him as he was of them.
Talking about prejudice, she still didn't know what he thought about
them . Did he date her because he had to? When he frowned at her, was it a sign of the dislike of old? She knew she had no choice, but she'd rather know than not know, being who she is and all.
His eyes burned, and she saw too much hatred, malice, and fanaticism still in them. He could, she thought, be even then thinking about how best to get rid of her the next time they are alone. Perhaps deliver her to his father or his aunt...
Well, no, his aunt was dead, and his father in Azkaban.
Still, one never knew...
"So? I kissed you... and I still don't know what you thought about it," she reminds him. "Is there going to be more? Did it please you? Will you initiate some or will I be the only one? Does it still disgust you when I touch—"
She didn't get the chance to finish, because his hands were in her carefully coiffed hair, holding her head like a vice, and she wanted to scream, but his mouth closed over hers in an instant.
His lips sucked on hers and his tongue soothed the nips, and there was so much tension! She held onto his arms, held on, held herself up, as the familiar heat bloomed through her. He tasted of the sweet elf wine he had been drinking, and underneath it there was a tartness that was solely his own.
Just when she really leant into it, pushing her pelvis against his hip—because how could she not given their proximity—he winced and pulled back in a sudden move that put some good distance between their bodies.
Reality smashed through the haze of desire, and Hermione realized where they were and what they were doing... and what they were and were not to each other. They were not lovers, that is for sure. They were so far from being lovers. The gap he created between them now sharply reminded her of the chasm between them.
But she wished. Oh, how she wished...
Afraid that anyone could happen upon them any minute and see how embarrassingly passionate she was about this man, she shook her head, shook, shook until their lips separated and she could see his horrified face - his hands still in her hair.
Why, oh why, was she so drawn to this wizard after everything he has done to her?
She turned in the opposite direction from the ballroom and ran towards the entrance, where she could Apparate home, and forget the night.
dmhgdmhgdmhg
A week later, she sits alone in a café.
Malfoy is only half a room away from her, and the memory of their last kiss still makes her blush until her cheeks catch the table on fire. She hides her face behind a curtain of her frizzy, forward-falling hair.
How does he do it—look so utterly composed, completely unaffected by her presence? How can she ever live up to such poise?
She wonders if he is snickering at her behind that calm expression, scheming behind those cold, grey eyes, considering all the best things he can get from her out of this marriage law deal... and if he's making contingency plans if she doesn't live up to her part of the bargain. Will she be the laughing stock within their social circle once they are married? Will she be forever the outsider who will never fit into his world?
Worse, will she be left alone as he seeks other, more "acceptable" forms of "entertainment"? Ginny's pitying looks seem to imply a string of his mistresses in the future. Poor Hermione, those brown eyes seem to tell her every time they zero in on her, doomed to a loveless marriage, dishonoured by your husband. What a fate! And nothing you can do about it.
Hermione straightens her back when she realizes that all these dark, depressing thoughts bog her down; that she's slumped in her seat. Why is she thinking about worst-case scenarios? Besides, even if her marriage turns out to be a sham, she still has her friends and her work and her popularity as Harry's best friend. She has her reputation as the brightest witch of the age and her status as a winner in the war. She can make a happy life for herself, with or without Malfoy in it!
Besides, there are indications that it doesn't have to come to him falling into the bed of other witches. Malfoy is still just as snobbish and snarkish as he has always been. Perhaps he'll be discerning when it comes to sex, too. After all, he hasn't really changed all that much since their school days, despite the war. He still fights and complains and pulls secret strings to receive the best for himself and his family, the same way his father has always done. He is still well-received as the heir of one of the oldest families in Wizarding Britain, despite his family's reputation from the war. And he still doesn't get along with Harry and Ron (she primarily blames Ron for that, but Harry's just as guilty, too. Neither of them have ever let Malfoy take a single clearing breath before starting in on him). It's no wonder he still snarls so viciously at the world.
He doesn't snarl at her, however. In fact, he usually plays the part of a gentleman to her... well, all except for his unshakable habit of starting any conversation with an insult (that must be a Slytherin thing, though, as he does that to everybody, even his friends). Besides that, he is generally well-mannered and doesn't take any liberties with her person... well, except for that kiss...
She can feel her cheeks blooming again.
If only she knew where his heart truly lay, she could make a definitive decision about where hers should lay, too. Is he really a dark wizard in disguise, or just the prattish Draco Malfoy she's always known? Does he follow the law because he has to or because he wants to?
Gnawing on the inside of her cheek, she realizes that this is what she really needs to know. She can easily abide by the law for the rest of her life, suck up her aspiration for love and accept a life without, but she has to know this. She is simply too Gryffindor to not want to know the truth of the matter.
Just when she is about to get up and walk over to him to have a serious talking to, a shadow falls over her table.
"Dreadful weather, isn't it?"
Malfoy has come to taunt her. Of course.
She turns her face up at him and is determined not to let him annoy her. "All the more delightful to have company. Join me."
He seems taken aback at first, then a hesitant, unsure smile appears.
Encouraged, she smiles in reply, putting a little more voltage into hers.
He shakes his head in amusement. "Didn't take you for a pluviophile, Granger. And I know that obnoxious happiness is not one of your afflictions."
Her heart skips a beat. He sounds occupied, distracted. It seems, he is also trying to come to terms with their situation.
Going with it, she pulls out the chair next to hers in a silent invitation.
He hesitates. "You don't mind if I sit here?"
"Not at all. The nuptials are in two months. We both have to get used to this... to us , don't you think?"
He stands, cloak over his arm, his cup in hand. "About that. We need to talk."
She frowns as the other shoe drops and suppresses an uncomfortable gulp. "What about?"
Here we go, she thinks. Here come his conditions to the marriage contract: sex only for the purpose of having an heir, mistresses allowed on the side, no access to his fortune without his express consent, no touching his perfect, pureblood body without permission and kissing with eyes closed, etcetera.
He grimaces. "Not here. I was hoping we could go somewhere, um, not so public."
She scowls, feeling anxious. "Why?"
He scowls back. "Because, Granger, I want to talk to you in private . It may be a completely foreign concept to you, Gryffindor that you are, sharing your righteousness with the rest of the world, but there are some topics that shouldn't be made known to all and sundry. It's one thing having to marry you by official decree, because of an insane Marriage Law, it's quite another having to share my formerly private life with the public because my intended thinks it beneath her to hold her cards to her chest, the way I've been brought up. It may seem dishonest to you not to share very private details with everybody, but I refuse to let my, or rather our, dirty laundry be dragged out into the sun." His scowl deepens. "And don't tell me you don't have any dirty laundry, because I know you do. All I have to say is Rita Skeeter, Umbridge, and the Forbidden Forest."
Hermione narrows her eyes at him.
Well, he's definitely got her there. However, she will not go with him anywhere he has an advantage over her. She feels quite comfortable in this cosy teashop, thank you very much. Where would they go anyway? Her apartment is no place she wants him to see at this point, and she will not go to Malfoy Manor before they have a few things about that place cleaned up. Too many bad memories there.
Hermione's glare is withering, but Malfoy is not impressed. They stare each other down, Slytherin and Gryffindor and their opposing worldviews at loggerheads, until the air crackles with years of pent up tension, and Malfoy cracks a dry smile.
"Some marriage this is going to be. At least, it's not going to be boring."
Hermione keeps glaring. "Did you pay for your tea?" she asks him.
He shrugs but doesn't express surprise at the non-sequitur. "I have an account. They know where to send the monthly bill. I come here quite often. Why?"
She raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Because it will raise questions if we disappear without paying. Have a seat." She indicates the chair she'd recently pulled out for him.
He's suspicious. "Granger, did you hear what I just said about—"
"I heard you," she interrupts him. "Have. A. Seat." She kicks the empty chair in an unmistakable command.
He doesn't comply. He keeps standing, tea cup in hand, scowl firmly in place, giving not an inch. His cloak is over one arm as if he's going to leave at any second, and Hermione has to think of the years ahead of her, of the many disagreements she and her husband are going to have and how terrible it is going to be if they are going to fight out each and every one.
With a sigh, she pulls her wand out, hidden behind her thigh, and recites incantations like so many times before, starting with a Muffliato , then a Disillusionment Charm, Protego Totalum, Salvio Hexia, Repello Muggletum, and Cave Inimicum.
He assesses her with a calculating look from above.
He's tall, she suddenly realizes as she cricks her neck back, much taller than most of her friends. Of all the men she knows, only Kingsley Shacklebolt stands taller.
"Is that how you stayed hidden for so long when fleeing from the Snatchers?" he demands.
Hermione shrugs, denying him an actual answer, stubbornly waiting for him to comply with her wish to sit down. She stares at the empty seat and then back at him, silently expecting him to do as she wants.
He meets her challenge with a glare of his own but finally sits. Carefully, he places his cup next to hers.
She likes his precise, careful movements and the fact that his cup barely clinks against the saucer when he sits down. In comparison, Ron is a clumsy tea drinker, and Harry is no better.
"Yes," he says on an exhale while arranging his cloak on the arm of his chair, agreeing with her earlier observation, "there's a lot of adjusting we'll need to do with each other." He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and kneads his hands. They are beautiful hands, she notes, slender and fine. He is about to say something else, opens his mouth, but quickly closes it again on a snap before snarling, "You will take my name, of course."
It isn't a question.
Hermione is a firm believer in having a common married name. She doesn't think that feminism and independence comes from habitually keeping your father's name, but rather from choosing to take the name you wish to have of your own free will. In this case, she has already decided to take Malfoy as her last name.
She is also quite aware that the Malfoy name carries its own magic in certain circles, and she intends to take full advantage of that fact.
However, Hermione is absolutely certain that this subject is far from what Draco actually has wanted to say to her, and that he has touched upon this provocative subject simply to test her. Thus, she doesn't give him the satisfaction of answering his concern. Rather, she chooses to test him instead.
"Why should it matter to you what my last name will be?"
He grumbles and fidgets a bit, reminding her a lot of Ron that way. Perhaps, in some areas, all men are alike. "You seem to me to be the hyphenated-name type of witch, and Malfoy-Granger will look and sound ridiculous."
She snorts. "It would be Granger-Malfoy."
Before he can reply or she can explain further that appearances can be deceiving, two witches, teacups in hand, walk past them. Hermione can clearly hear their conversation while they steer directly toward their table in the corner, and it is obvious that they are oblivious to Hermione and Draco's presence because of the spells hiding them from prying ears and eyes.
"I tell you, I'm so happy that I'm already over the age, and happily married, of course," says the witch with a scruffy black cloak and a bent pointy hat to her friend. "Can you imagine having to marry your worst enemy?"
"You saw them here, too, right? That disgraceful Malfoy boy and our beloved Hermione Granger?" the other witch replies while trying to keep her companion's pace without sloshing her tea.
Both Hermione and Draco close their mouths and listen in, wanting to hear how the public perceives their situation.
"I think it's a good sign that they managed to come to the tea shop together, at least," the first witch counters. "Perhaps the Malfoy boy is not as snobbish as his father nor as evil as we've been led to believe from the papers if Miss Granger would be seen in public with hi– Oh! I have to go to Gladrags! They're having a sale on cloaks today! I nearly forgot!" She drops her teacup on the next table like an old Daily Prophet and it shatters, spilling tea everywhere, but the witch doesn't pay it any mind.
Yes, you definitely need a new cloak, Hermione thinks when she sees the two witches react to her Repelling spell. Too bad you only recognized it now when I actually wanted to hear what you thought.
"Quite right," the second witch agrees, also skimming the barrier of the spell. She drops her teacup next to her companion's. "Hats, too. Let's go quickly before they're all cleared out, shall we?"
Turning, both witches hustle out of the shop, their forgotten tea pooling under the table.
Hermione turns to the wizard sitting next to her. Malfoy's lips twitch for a second, then he lifts his wand, and the tea vanishes. The teacups, now empty but clearly used, stand two tables down waiting to be tidied away.
When he turns back to her, she meets him with a glare. "Is that privacy enough for you?" she says waspishly, then presses her lips together.
She braces herself for whatever he has to say to her because she is sure she will not like it.
He, however, cannot hide a small smile. "Respect, Granger. Not too bad, though. No wonder you evaded capture for so long."
Her patience is officially at an end. She cannot play this game any longer. She wants answers. "Okay, spit it out, Malfoy. What were you going to say before... that?"
He nods and takes his time to stow his wand away again.
Watching him stall, Hermione thinks if she has to wait another two seconds for his Slytherin manipulation she will strangle him.
"Well," he says, and then stops. "Why—?" He halts again. He doesn't look at her, keeps his head down, and clears his throat. While her heart crawls into her mouth and takes up residence, pounding away, he tries again. "Why did you run away during the ball?"
He doesn't say "after the kiss we shared," even though it is obviously implied. Should she think about the importance of this? Does he want to forget their shared intimacy and save his beaten reputation? Did he Scourgify his skin when he returned home after that incident? Will he want to do more kissing in the future? She just doesn't know where he stands on any of it. On them .
It's driving her crazy.
If only he was more forthcoming...
When he lifts his head, waiting for her answer, she sees his frown. Why does he always frown, she wonders. Surely, it's a sign of discomfort. He doesn't like being with her, of course, he doesn't.
Really, what was she thinking that night anyway, kissing him back? Her worst-case scenario unfolds in her mind again, and she remembers Ginny's pity for her, a forsaken woman in a loveless marriage. God, can she really do this marriage thing with him?
His frown turns to a scowl in light of her silence.
Merlin's knot, will they only ever scowl at each other, too? Will it be like this forever between them: uncomfortable silences filled with things unsaid, questions unasked and unanswered—one big guessing game from morning 'til night?
"You didn't protest," he says, trying a different tact.
"Protest what?"
She knows what he means, of course she knows, but she wants him to ask it. Wants him to start wondering about her thoughts, her words, her actions, too.
"You didn't protest when our names came up in the Marriage Lottery. I thought... I thought that meant something, Granger. That somewhere, deep down, you could... I don't know... possibly want it. Want us. Marriage to me. I thought if you really hadn't wanted it, you would have protested against it so vehemently that people two continents over would know about it. I remember your 'free the house-elves' campaign and how not even McGonagall could get you to shut up about that, so clearly there was no way the Minister could have stood up against you if you really hadn't wanted me, right? I mean, you're Hermione Granger. Potter's best friend. War heroine. One bloody scary witch. So... I thought... I thought—"
He warmed up to his confessional speech before he faltered, and Hermione can only sit there and listen, flabbergasted. While she would not mind exploring what he means when he says things like, 'want us' and how he refers to her choice of him as something meaningful, she wants to hear more.
Actually, she wants to hear his reasoning for not protesting their marriage, since she already knows her own. That's the part that has her wand and her heart all twisted up in knots.
"Wait, why didn't you protest the marriage to me ?" she interrupts. "A pureblood Malfoy marrying a Muggle-born commoner, ruining your family's reputation, your untainted magical legacy. Isn't that how you've always felt about people like me? So, why didn't you say anything to stop it?"
He lowers his head again, exhales loudly. It almost sounds like a sigh. "Well, for one, the Dark Lord proved that power is not exclusive to purebloods. As for why... I think it's no secret that my family's reputation couldn't be any worse than it is right now. There are still people speaking to me, yes, and I can schmooze and bribe my way like my father did with some of them, but the Malfoys have taken a big hit in popularity, in case you didn't notice. Marrying you, the war heroine and best friend of Harry Potter could only help fix that."
So, that's it, she thinks. He's looking for his benefits. He's marrying me for my name, my reputation, goes through all registers of dating before the nuptials, and, once married, he'll leave me untouched in my bed, drying up like a prune, while he entertains other ladies.
Her heart sinks in her chest.
Maybe it would have been better never to have known, after all, because this disappointment has cut pretty deep.
But Malfoy is not done. Still looking at his hands, he continues. "Additionally, despite the fact that our names being drawn out of the chalice is a binding magical contract and revoking it would have shaken magic to its very foundations, there's also the issue of the chalice's wisdom in predicting a good match being unerringly precise."
At her confused look, he asked, "Didn't you bother investigating where the chalice they used for the draw actually came from?"
She hadn't, she realizes. At the time of the lottery, she had been so shocked over her match (and, yes, a little enticed), she hadn't even bothered to look into its origins or the legality of the selecting instrument.
Draco nods when he sees her shocked face, blond fringe falling into his eyes. "Magical artefacts like the Goblet of Fire or Demeter's Hearth Chalice are few and far between. Most are in the possession of powerful families. The chalice was confiscated, and considered to be part of the war reparations from Malfoy Manor."
Hermione gapes. "What... what do you mean?"
Malfoy boyishly smirks. "Well, there's an advantage in knowing your artefacts, Granger. The chalice has been in the Malfoy family for centuries. It was used to choose the perfect wife or husband for each family heir. Now, you can trick an object at times, thus, the Ministry was able to trick the chalice into accepting hundreds of names instead of just a few to match to one wizard or witch. Just like the Goblet of Fire was tricked into spewing out four names, instead of the usual three that year it was at Hogwarts."
He says this lightly, like describing the weather, speaking with ease about his magical heritage. It should not make Hermione feel inadequate, as magic is her birthright, too. Yet, if she is being honest, it does make her feel a bit lacking that she hasn't connected the idea of magical chalices (the kind not used for drink, but for spells) typically being created with a similar purpose in mind. If she'd been born into a magical family, she would have known this and put two-and-two together sooner.
"Just like the Goblet of Fire had for the Tri-Wizard Tournament, the Demeter's chalice chose the best matches for its spell. In this case, it was required to arrange the best marriage prospects from the candidates presented."
Hermione can't believe her ears. "For example?" she requests, needing clarification for what she thinks she is being told in a round-about manner.
"For example, of all the girls whose information was put in the chalice in advance, Potter's perfect magical equal turned out to be his own girlfriend, Ginny Weasley. The chalice thought them a good match temperamentally and in their likes and dislikes, and it's not wrong, is it?"
"And Susan Bones and Ron?"
Draco shrugs. "She likes cooking, I hear, and caring for others like a true Hufflepuff I might say. He loves shoving food into his gob. Perfect match. The chalice always makes the perfect match. "
He looks at her imploringly, and Hermione's heart lifts from the pit of despair. She lets the slight against her good friend Susan go because she's briefly distracted by the way he licks his lips but still has enough presence of mind to ask the obvious question.
"And a Muggle-born for a Malfoy?"
Draco smiles, chagrined. "As I said, it makes the best match based on a combination of factors from the set of names given. Naturally, when choosing for a pureblood heir the contenders entered were also of pure blood, or so it was assumed, but that's a technicality. Blood purity is only one part of the equation." His expression shifts, his scowl is at odds with his next words. "If hot kissing is part of the bargain, well, that doesn't hurt either. Kissing you was… enlightening."
Hermione is confused, trying to separate his frown from what he says in her mind. "Enlightening in what way? You recoiled from me when we kissed at the ball!"
He winces. "Granger, you had already snogged me weak-kneed after the opera, dripping wet on your doorstep, your dress showing more than hiding anything. However impulsive this was, as you Gryffindors are prone to be, it taught me that there was something there." He shakes his head as if he cannot believe he is actually confessing this to her. "Something to build a good marriage on. I could have fared far worse with many a pureblood wife."
Dumbstruck over seeing Malfoy at odds with his own feelings on the matter of marrying her, Hermione has an out-of-body experience. She sees herself sitting at the table, invisible, with the attractive wizard across from her, who is clearly in the throes of declaring himself.
Draco seems oblivious to her thoughts, however, as he continues to explain his position to her. "Then, at the ball, after riling-up your two nitwits, I just— I wanted— Little did I know that it would have such an effect. Although, I should have."
Hermione cannot believe what she hears. "What effect? You pushed me back!"
He's clearly embarrassed but cannot hide his grin. "Granger, you rubbed up against a sensitive part when you pressed against me during the kiss. I was afraid I'd embarrass myself, right then and there, if you kept pushing further."
Sensitive part?
She still stares at him wide-eyed, trying to get a grip on what he's saying.
He rolls his eyes. "Do I have to spell it out? Brightest witch her age, my arse." He leans in and presses his mouth to her ear. "I was rock-hard, Granger. Any more pressure and I would have exploded in my pants."
Her brain is slow, so slow. It skips backwards while her heart stutters, and is stuck mulling over the discrepancy of a Muggle-born with a Malfoy name. She stutters. "But…but… won't… won't the Manor expel me or … or… your family paintings curse me or … or-" Words fail her.
Malfoy's smirk against her sensitive earlobe widens. "My family's Manor is there to serve the family, any family. Do you think you are the first Muggle-born or Half-blood that's married into the Malfoys? We don't exactly parade around the fact, but there have been a few, hm, let's say, non-traditional bondings in our lineage. I don't mind telling you this because there can be no doubt that you are going to be one of us in a few short weeks."
He's still close to her and she feels his warmth against her side. "It will do our dried-up pedigree good to add some fresh blood as powerful as yours."
When Hermione stays silent, completely incapable of forming words that make remotely sense, he leans back and, with a look at her face, goes back to frowning, glances out the window and adds, "Gods, I hate this rain. Would it be too much to ask to have some sunny spring weather this time of the year? With some dashes of yellow flowers?"
He turns back to her, and that's when she notes that his eyes are about as grey as a rain letting up; like the end of a dreadful downpour.
dmhgdmhgdmhg
It is dark in her apartment when they stumble in. The pouring rain has covered the windows, dunking her rooms into an early evening gloom. They don't mind. Stripping off their wet clothes between heated snogs, hurriedly, impatiently, they almost don't make it to the bed.
All her intimate questions find answers and the future seems bright after that day.
Perhaps, cool Slytherin and hot-headed Gryffindor could get along after all.
Due to formatting there might be a double-space between words, particularly before italics. And other stuff. I don't know why some formatting stuff goes through and other of the same kind doesn't. Sorry about that. If I ever find an expert, I'll correct it.