A/N: Companion piece to Then Comes Love. Lovely Beta is SwirlsofBlack.
First Comes Marriage
"I wonder how many people never get the one they want, but end up with the one they're supposed to have."
-Fried Green Tomatoes
"Without a heart, I can never really know what it would be like to love someone, or ever really understand trashy novels."
-Wizard of Oz
The cell was dingy, but not vile like she had expected it to be. Weak light filtered from glowing gray orbs of magic that lit the corridor and cells drearily. Hermione nervously adjusted her smart jacket suit, almost wishing she hadn't dressed so nicely. She appeared to be waiting for a job interview, not for a grungy prison-mate to acknowledge her presence.
His hair was still its platinum blond, though thin and washed out in the sad surroundings. His face was dirty, and his clothing brown, dirty and shapeless. Even his eyes were different: impassive, thoughtful, and perhaps even a tad wary.
None of the old aggression and prejudice lingered; just the look of a large dog that had been beaten one too many times.
She would have turned around right then and there; rejected the forcefully sought offer, and returned to her mundane life of scholarly pursuit, if he hadn't sighed. It was an exhale of breath that revealed relief, depression, and longing.
"Granger," he murmured, his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped. Whether he had said it in greeting or thanks, she did not know.
O
The first book she had bought him, out of sympathy for the utter boredom he must suffer daily, was a bit of a joke. The cover was gaudy: a glittery frame in which a woman with limpid, seductive eyes gazed at a rakish man. With little thought she grabbed it, shoved it in her book bag and brought it with her to Azkaban.
In all her years, though, she had never imagined such gratefulness would emit from Draco's eyes. Immediately he began to read, none of the expected derision apparent in his features.
O
Hermione hadn't paid much attention to the trials. She didn't necessarily want to forget that time of her life, but she didn't see the point in agonizing over something she had no control over. Why should she focus on the Daily Prophet when she could just as easily be researching the newest Charm text? It was less stressful, more gratifying and much more useful.
Yet every time Hermione visited with Ron and Harry, that was all they spoke of. Or, more often than not, shouted about. Lucius Malfoy had not received a long enough sentence. The Nott family was only on house arrest. And how in Merlin's honored name had the Parkinson clan gotten off scott free?
For the most part Hermione allowed this rage to run this course, before changing the topic to their Auror training. Or, if she was truly desperate, Quidditch.
It was this disinterest that allowed her to completely miss the new Death Eater Rehabilitation Proposal, and its subsequent approval, that lead to her being so gob smacked. There she sat at her parents kitchen table, surrounded by textbooks and notes, staring aghast at the insincere little note copy-signed by the Minister of Magic himself. The grumpy little owl proceeded to peck her hand when no treat was surrendered, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to care.
O
"Why, Hermione? Why choose him? Why even do this?"
Hermione rubbed her eyes, dry and burning with exhaustion, as Ron and Harry gaped at her, aghast.
"Because," Hermione said tiredly, "you know it's the right thing to do. He shouldn't be in there; it's just not right."
Ron leaned forward, one arm propped on dining table in Number 12 Grimmauld place, and the other fisted against his knee. She focused on the stressed white of his knuckles.
"Why can't you just do the normal swotty thing," he argued, "and change the law? Fight for him legally." His voice cracked. "Why marry him?"
Her heart, perhaps, was breaking. (But, really, this wasn't just for Draco. So, so selfish.)
"I can't," she whispered, "and you know it, Ron. It would take too long, and - as smart as I am - I just don't have the knowledge. It would take years for an appeal to be put into affect."
"We should have never allowed Shacklebolt to become Minister," Harry hissed, though his words were strangely hollow.
"It's not the him and you know it. This reeks of the Wizengamot. Promoting family and redemption, while really just getting rich patriarchs out of prison."
"This is permanent, Hermione." Ron.
"There's divorce."
"You know that's barely an option." Harry.
(Was she running? Perhaps. But she could do right during it. Yes. Yes.)
"Then I will just have to make it work," she said stubbornly.
O
"I thought you and the Weasel would marry," Draco sniped one of the first few times she visited him, before their heartwarming nuptials. "Make a bunch of know-it-all, ginger babies to inflict on the world."
Hermione shot him a quelling glance over her textbook, which he easily ignored. "That is none of your business."
His grey eyes narrowed. (Damn his perception. Damn his persistence.)
"Maybe he rejected you? Is that it? His muddled brain is intimidated by you, eh?"
Hermione sniffed. (Because, really, it was so twisted, upside-down, opposite. If only….) "For your information, Ron and I are good friends, but unsuited for anything more."
Impassive; like a stone, a summer pond, the clear night sky. Must give nothing away to her betrothed, because if she was ashamed (like she was) then she would never be able to defend from his biting comments.
"Hm," he replied instead, picking up his tawdry novel to focus on. She tried not to breath a sigh of relief.
O
Her hands trembled as she slid the plain golden band onto his finger. Officially, they were married, and this was the first time she had ever touched him. His skin was dry and chapped beneath her calloused palms. He slid her own plan band onto her finger, then pressed a hastened chaste kiss to the corner of her lips. Awkward nervousness curled in her chest like a malicious, dark ooze.
They both stepped back, avoiding gazes, as the crusty wizard snapped his book shut with a shocking crack. A prison guard - their only witness - immediately moved to restrain Draco's wrists, sliding the ring off his finger.
"Can't wear it 'til 'e gets out," he said gruffly, handing it to her. "Keep it 'til then." Hermione nodded, attempting to swallow the thick lump in her throat. Draco glanced at her covertly and she allowed a small nod of recognition in his direction. The Prison Warden's office was dreary, piled with musty stacks of paper and a half-rotted bear fur. Hermione never imagined getting married in such a place. She slipped Draco's ring into her pocket.
The guard took him out and she turned to the old registrar. A parchment had been slid to sit before her on the desk.
"Your contract," he said - no nonsense. "He'll be released to your custody eight months from now, on terms of parole."
(Merlin, what had she done? It was over; no turning back now.)
"Of course," Hermione said.
O
More of his ridiculous romance books. Hermione couldn't claim a lack of curiosity anymore. Splayed on the double bed in her (and Draco's?) new apartment, she flipped through the pages. Words like 'rapture,' 'lust,' 'husky,' and 'seductive,' jumped out at her. (Was this what he expected? A mistake, this was a mistake.)
A knock at the front door shocked the book from her hands. With a rueful shake of her head, Hermione tucked the book beneath the closest pillow and went to greet whoever was at the entrance.
O
"What do you do?"
Hermione nearly dropped her quill at the resounding echo of his voice. Rarely he spoke; their time usually spent in studious silence.
"Say again?" Hermione asked politely.
Draco frowned. "What do you do?"
Vague question, but Hermione thought she understood. "I study Advanced Arithmancy and Wizard Law."
"Odd combination there."
Hermione felt herself warming up with an explanation. Many thought so, but they were just not looking that deeply. "No, actually, learning both could be quite useful. Arithmancy is the collection of information to place inside a formula, which will lead to an educated guess - if you will - about a future outcome."
"Yes, yes, I know what Arithmancy is - six years of Hogwarts."
Hermione scowled at him, but graciously overlooked the interruption. "Anyways, I could use Arithmancy to advance, or change, Wizard Law. By entering various gambits of information into an equation, I could attempt to hasten my efforts by better understanding what is needed to convince the Wizengamot, and the Wizard populace, to pass or annul a law. It's quite simple, really."
Draco rolled his eyes discreetly. "What brought about this interest? I saw you more as a bookish little scholar making Charm discoveries and writing ridiculous little articles to Witch Potions Monthly."
The excitement faded from Hermione, leaving a strange, uncomfortable bashfulness. "Well, to be honest, you did."
Silence. (So, so embarrassing. Why couldn't she learn to lie for once? Just once.)
"Yes, well, I must be leaving now." Clumsily she shoved her journal and quills into her messenger back and then shouted for the guard. She felt his eyes on her the entire time.
O
Time was closing in on her like a steel trap. She could feel her lungs compress every time she thought about it.
"Three months," he said, looking at her with hooded eyes. (This was wrong. She couldn't make it work.)
(She wasn't beautiful or lust-ridden like those women.)
O
Hermione stared blankly at the pieces of male clothing she had arranged neatly in the dresser - the right side drawers. She had taken the left. Under-things in the top drawer, shirts in the middle and trousers at the bottom. Her nice things hung neatly in the (left side of the) closet. In the bathroom there were two sets of toiletries, and in the kitchen a multitude of teas.
(Married seven months and she had no idea what he liked.)
( -Other than bosom heaving, unrealistic, Harlequin doxies.)
Damn her insecure mind.
O
Harry and Ron had invaded her kitchen. Biscuits sat before them, uneaten; a nearly unheard of occurrence. Both were too busy studying her.
"A week," Harry said. "One week."
Hermione nodded, stretching her fingers from the tense fists she had curled them into. She took a sip of her lukewarm tea, trying to moisten her dry mouth. "Yes."
"If he doesn't treat you right, tell us," Ron murmured. "We'll put him in place."
Hermione smiled weakly. "I'm sure it will be fine."
"You won't need to tell us, Hermione," Harry said softly, and his eyes seemed like they were staring into her mind, seeing all of her fears. "We will already know."
"I couldn't ask for better friends," she admitted.
"No, you couldn't." But Ron's words seemed a humorless attempt at overconfidence. She could see right through it. He was terribly unhappy.
Harry reached a hand forward, linking fingers with her in a comforting gesture. "No matter what, we're here for you. We always will be."
O
She had picked up clothes for him at the last minute. A thoughtless action that maybe he would appreciate. If she were in his position she would not want to appear in public - for the first time in over a year - in a drab prison uniform. It also gave her something to do with her hands.
(Like a nervous, weak schoolgirl.)
She fidgeted.
(Not a wife greeting her husband.)
The sky was a dreary, overcast gray. Fog whorled listlessly through stone crevices and over gentle, lapping ocean waves. She watched it blankly, her palms clammy as she shifted awkwardly on her feet. The cranking of the front gate groaned to life and Hermione straightened her back and lifted her chin as Draco shuffled through.
O
For months she had tried to figure out why she reacted to him the way she did. She read books on the human body, the brain and it's emotions, autobiographies, and the study of love potions. She had even resorted to perusing some of his ridiculous romance novels, to no avail. She did not understand her body, and why her heart beat so heavily when around him. Why her body flushed and her skin shivered.
Taking notes had done nothing to further her research. Finally, she had resorted to watching him, hoping to find some irritating quirk that would take such damning reactions away.
Unfortunately, it worked against her, as she was forced to reach a horrifying conclusion; she found Draco Malfoy attractive.
O
He hadn't brought his books.
She wanted to cry with relief, because she had been so afraid that they would always be a third part in their (currently nonexistent) relationship.
But he had left them behind, his eyes studying her, searching her face, as he told her so. She wanted to flush under his perusal, to coyly tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and gaze to the side. Instead, she just turned abruptly and began to walk towards the dock.
"Hermione."
(Her heart; it would not stay still. Fluttering like a particularly silly butterfly.)
"Can I hold your hand?"
With her clammy hands? With her flushed cheeks and wayward hair? She looked monstrous, and he wanted to touch her?
"Okay…."
He reached forward, and his hand slid into hers - fingers long and skinny and rough - like some lost piece of a puzzle. He twitched his lips nervously, and suddenly Hermione remembered she wasn't in this alone. After all, Draco had never been married. He knew as little about her as she did about him. Yet, it seemed to her, that he was willing to learn, despite the unsure footing he had in the world, and in their marriage.
"Right," Hermione said, warm confidence brewing in her heart. "Let's go."
~o~
"You are what I never knew I always wanted."
-Fools Rush In