A/N: Happy Friendversary CourtingInsanity. You are a gift and I treasure NE for bringing us together. I don't know if you remember, but last year I shared a little piece of Edwardian WW1 fiction with you and thus began my writing journey. I would be lost and floundering without you. This bit of nonsense is a nod back to that original piece shared last year. To anyone else reading this: please note this is a work of pure fiction. I have done some research so as not to sounds a complete idiot in writing this, but I'm no historian.
SPECIAL THANKS TO MykEsprit! She shares my love for period fiction and gave this massive thing lots of last minute time in her roles as alpha and beta. Thank you for making this possible, my friend. xoxo
All errors are my own. I own no part of the Harry Potter franchise.
From all Hermione Granger had gleaned from books and school, which was a limited harvest, given her sex and family's social rank, she knew enough that she should rebuff all emotional ties to fantasies of 'luck', 'Fate', 'Providence', and 'destiny'.
Yet, she also knew there were no possible or plausible means for her to disprove such old-fashioned, pacifying nuances.
She would further argue within herself that no matter how it would seem to anyone else, the events of her relatively short life all appear to be the work of woven and twined notes, orchestrated together in some metaphorical harmony.
She could never explain how she continually found the proverbial silver lining in every perceived cloud. Perhaps it had everything to do with the examples of determination, diligence, and drive for making a difference her parents had set for her. Perhaps, it was because she had seen good come of all her parents' efforts in the impoverished community into which they continually poured. Granted, the changes were admittedly relative and deemed 'too isolated' to count on national records and censuses, but even one affected family was better than nothing.
No, there was more at work in her life than mere science could explain.
And she never knew that more so than this clear and sunny day at the end of August, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and four. As she stood in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, a private school in the Scottish Highlands for Britain's elite, her eyes locked on the most unique and vivid set of grey eyes she'd ever encountered.
She wasn't supposed to be in here, her duties already been performed in this ancient dining hall; and if Umbridge caught her doing extra tweaking to the floor-to-ceiling curtains, she would receive her second sharp lecture from the condescending, toad-faced Head of Housekeeping this week.
Yet, here she was. And there he was.
And perhaps it was in the way his lips quirked in—well, not exactly a smile in the traditional sense of the word, but she caught the twitch in his cheeks. Or perhaps it was how his eyes narrowed, but not in a sneer—more in observation. Perhaps even a hint of curiosity…
"Hello," he said. It filled the mounting silence between them, but it was enough for Hermione to know beyond any shadow of a doubt that she was right where she was supposed to be.
"Hello." It was all she could immediately force from her lungs. When she came to her senses two blinks and one long breath later, she summoned the courage to say more: "The gong won't sound for another hour, if you were wondering, sir." His pale brows lifted in silent question, and it seemed she needed to explain herself further. "What I meant was, the professors dine an hour later, keeping with regular manor schedules over the summer holiday; it's only after the students return that supper is at this early of an hour."
"Ah." A decided smile crept its way up his face as he ventured further into the room, nearer to her. "I was just familiarising myself with the grounds again. It's been some years since I've graced these halls."
"Were you a student here?" She mentally berated herself for asking, but everything about him suggested he certainly did not need a means of occupation for survival. There was a healthy glow of decent nutrition about him, in spite of his pale skin. His almost-white blond hair may have been thin, but it was trimmed and neat, not a single strand straying from its place. His trousers and jacket were pressed and appeared to fit him as though they'd been made especially for him. And in Hermione's experience, that usually meant they were.
He nodded, fiddling with a cufflink. "Yes. But that was some time ago."
"Surely that can't have been too many years previous?" Her cheeks flamed, but she couldn't back down and drop his gaze now. Not when laughing crinkles formed around the edges. Her head tilted of its own accord, her unruly curls desperate to spring free from her white maid's cap. "Unless you're a wizard and hide your age well."
The wrinkles around those mesmerising eyes deepened as this stranger continued to break too many rules of decorum and laughed. Not too loud, but somehow filling all the space surrounding them all the same.
"I am, unfortunately, not, although I believe it would come in quite handy with the mundane tasks of everyday life. Wouldn't you agree?"
"I do, sir." And as quickly as warmth from this man's laughter brushed her flushed cheeks, the proverbial bucket of cold water doused it all. She remembered who she was. Her station in life… For now, she reminded herself. She sidestepped around the stranger, clasping her hands behind her back. "I beg your pardon, sir. I've been forward, and I really ought to get back to my main duties."
Her worn shoes clicked along the stone floor as she rushed from the Great Hall, hurrying through the back corridor that lead down to the kitchens and servants' quarters. She would have to hustle to relieve herself, put away all her now-dry laundry, and clean her own room before sweeping through all the professors' rooms to empty their chamber pots and turn down the beds for the night.
August heat combined with a large oven lead to stifling swelter, and Hermione found it was near impossible to breathe as she slipped through the door into the servants' hall. Her curls strained and struggled against their bonds in the onslaught of humidity, and her taste buds longed to stop, savour, and sample the tempting scents of glazed ham, roasted spuds, fresh bread, and spiced pudding.
Her stomach growled and protested as she forged on to the maids' water closet, but she silently bid it to have patience. There would be time for a quick meal before her session with Professor McGonagall tonight.
Which Umbridge would easily snatch from her should she tarry or dally any longer with evening duties. And so she pressed onward, shutting down any daydreams of grey eyes or succulent ham that threatened to distract her.
Her sessions with Professor McGonagall were worth every sacrifice necessary.
More than worth it, she repeated to herself as her stomach clenched once more.
"Good evening, Hermione. You were able to steal away early tonight, I gather?"
"Good evening, Professor McGonagall." Hermione reached out to undo the bow at the back of her white apron. "It's Mandy's turn to help the kitchen staff with cleaning the oven tonight, and I slipped away before—" She caught herself just before saying something that would be construed as insubordination, but something in her mentor's gaze told her she'd said enough. She smoothed a shaky hand over her pale green dress. "I didn't mean to insinuate anything; I should not ha—"
"No, you should not." Professor McGonagall lifted a reproachful palm, holding it in midair a few breathless seconds before stepping forward and plucking Hermione's apron from her arm. "But there's too much familiarity between us to fret over such formalities in my quarters. Besides that," the middle-aged woman hung Hermione's apron with ease on a coat rack by the door and offered a wrinkled smile, "Umbridge has fought my efforts to further the education of the maids in her service for decades now. It's unfortunate that you should be caught in the middle."
Hermione forced her lips into a line to keep her tongue from perpetuating the trouble she appeared to be eager to get into today. First with the stranger in the Great Hall, and now with a professor. She tugged the pins from her service cap, pocketing them and placing the cap on its usual place on a small table as Professor McGonagall motioned towards the readied tea service.
The usual stack of books was noticeably missing, however, and there was an extra cup and saucer laid out this evening. None of which she inquired about aloud
The professor continued: "Actually, I don't think I've ever told you, but your education may be the first time I've had the upper hand in this battle. She's granted you more leeway than anyone else previous, and I truly believe you will be more than sufficiently prepared to sit for the teaching exam come next spring."
"Truly?" She could burst for the welling joy. This was… everything. "Really and truly?" Her heart pitter-pattered an excited rhythm all the way up her throat.
"Quite so, my dear. Especially since—"
Knock, knock!
Professor McGonagall turned back the door. "Yes, come in."
"Sorry I'm a bit tardy." A voice started as the door swung open, freezing Hermione's blood in her veins. She'd heard that voice just hours previous… "Still learning my way about the staff's quarters and—oh." He stopped short, mouth dangling in a way that would be almost comedic if Hermione had not been so surprised herself.
Those keen grey eyes darted between the women as he said, "Am I interrupting something?"
"Nonsense," Professor McGonagall answered. "Miss Granger is the very reason I've asked you to tea this evening. Come in; hang your jacket next to Miss Granger's apron, there, and we'll get right down to business."
Not accustomed to being in a state of speechlessness in the Professor's quarters, Hermione followed, threading her fingers together over her lap as she sank into her usual seat. Their hostess occupied her hands by pouring the tea while making introductions: "Professor Malfoy, this is Miss Hermione Granger, the daughter of a dear family friend of mine."
Had her teacup already been in her hand, Hermione would have dropped it. Had tea already been sipped, she would have either choked on the beverage or spewed it all over her companions. It had been, well, since she'd last been home for a holiday that she had been introduced to a stranger as a lady; and even then, her parents had bent the rules of society for her.
"Miss Granger's father is a doctor with a practice in London; her mother has always worked as his assistant and managed the clinic's books. Hermione follows in their footsteps with the current ambition to be a teacher. But that could only be the tipping point of all she'll accomplish in this lifetime."
Cheeks flaming, Hermione's gaze burned holes into her tea setting. She couldn't fathom a response, but the professor spared her the need by turning the attention to their unexpected visitor.
"Hermione, this is Draco Malfoy. He will be filling in the newly vacant post for History and Government. He was one of my pupils here at Hogwarts, after which he attended Oxford for his law degree. He recently sat for his teacher's certificate while in pursuit of finding his life calling."
There was a respect in Professor McGonagall's voice that Hermione seldom heard before. Whatever the purpose of this meeting was, each introduction served as an endorsement of sorts. At last, Hermione's gaze floated up and found his grey eyes waiting.
Curious and pensive. Open and inquisitive. She had to swallow before managing any form of a polite response. Professor Malfoy's smile was genuine, albeit laced with traces of confusion as he reciprocated.
The middle-aged professor held the platter of biscuits and cucumber sandwiches out to Hermione as she spoke again: "I have asked Draco here, Hermione, because I will be unable to continue with our weekly tutoring sessions this year—don't look so stricken, my dear! Draco's at this table for the precise purpose of taking over in my forced absence."
"I see," Hermione managed, taking a quick gulp of tea, relishing the scalding down her throat. Her finger tapped against the cup as she lowered it to the saucer. "Is everything well with your health?" she asked, concerned and able to focus beyond her immediate dismay now.
"Nothing you need to worry about," the professor answered with a dismissive air. "It's my father whose health is failing. He lives in Hogsmeade, and the headmaster has made special allowances, for all my Latin classes are between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon. I will be leaving the grounds shortly after my last class and arriving back an hour before my first class the next morning."
Hermione nodded. She understood; she truly did. And she fought to properly convey that in her tone as she murmured her understanding, not giving any indication her heart was sinking.
"But, why me, ma'am?" Professor Malfoy asked, meeting Hermione's gaze immediately as the words left his mouth. "I mean that as no offense to you, Miss Granger, but this seems such a crucial time for you, and I'm certain any number of the other professors would be far more qualified than I."
"Perhaps within their field of expertise, Draco, but no one else would be able to give as well-rounded an approach to each subject as you would. There is also the advantage that you have recently sat for the exam and have also recently interviewed for jobs." Professor McGonagall paused, looking between the two young people for a moment. "We all are aware of the importance of a proper first impression, and I think you would be best suited to prepare Hermione for such interviews."
Hermione chewed her tongue, her fingers now wrapped around the teacup in a tight grip. "Do you have a plan for the logistics of this change, Professor McGonagall? I can think of several objections Umbridge will have to my receiving private tutoring sessions alone with a man approximately my own age." A flush filled her cheeks, quite unbidden, and hopefully not as obvious as she feared.
"I have already arranged with Albus for these sessions to take place in the Headmaster's office starting this Friday. He'll serve as chaperone or supervisor or however you wish to think of him; I think we can all agree that any wagging or complaining tongues will be silenced at the mention of the headmaster's name."
The professor looked thoroughly pleased with herself; a great deal of planning had already been done behind the scenes. "Neither of you are under any obligation to accept to these terms, and I've made provisions for an alternate professor should either of you find this arrangement disagreeable, but I wish you would both consider its advantages.
"Hermione is bright and thorough, and I've already prepared several weeks' worth of lesson plans in advance, Draco. I believe she would benefit from the fact you've recently come through the very process she's preparing for. And Hermione—" The professor shifted in her seat to address Hermione directly. "You're no stranger to the importance of solid references and a good first impression. I hope you will take into account all that Draco can offer you by way of interview practice and lesson planning."
"Is there a regimented schedule the two of you follow?" Professor Malfoy asked.
"It varies," Hermione answered before noticing her mentor appeared prepared to answer. When the middle-aged woman motioned for Hermione to continue, she admitted the worst of this fragile system: "And I'm afraid has more to do with my assigned duties, but, in general, we have maintained a steady regimen of two or three nights each week, between one and three hours each meeting."
Professor McGonagall made no attempt to hide her scowl as Hermione finished, immediately supplementing her new colleague's knowledge by adding, "Umbridge has battled with me every chance she could when I've approached her maids about private sessions to further their education. Anything to give girls the option for more if they wanted. Albus has always been forced to side with her with the slightest of complaints, but that changed with Hermione because of a connection outside of the school, and she made no secret of her future aspirations beyond a life in the service."
Grey eyes bored into her from across the table, and for as much as she wanted to look away, Hermione found she could not. To her utter disbelief, her chin even lifted a quarter of an inch, to give the impression of daring him to find anything objectionable in her…
It was impossible the effect this stranger had on her already… After only two meetings…
He dropped his eyes as he brought his teacup to his lips, with all the appearance of natural grace and poise that Hermione longed to possess.
And then, to her utter amazement, his lips quirked and widened into the most delicious feral grin Hermione had ever seen. He lowered his teacup and looked to Professor McGonagall, saying, "It's entirely clear to me how you talked your way into a teaching job at an all-boys private school all those years ago, ma'am. I'm of the opinion it's impossible to decline anything you ask for with such logic and thorough planning."
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, young man." The professor's response was prim and clipped, but Hermione caught a gleam behind the woman's bespectacled eyes as she sipped her tea.
With a giggle and a sip of her own, the remainder of Hermione's hour of freedom continued in pleasant conversation, leaving Hermione filled with hope at the coming school year.
Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy.
Hermione knew that name from somewhere. It had been tickling her brain for the past three weeks, all the while remaining so irritatingly out of reach from her memory.
Malfoy…
"Are you in need of assistance, Miss Granger?"
"Pardon?" She blinked up at the gentleman, taking in the angular shape of his chin, the seemingly familiar arc of his right eyebrow as he surveyed her from his seat… "Oh my good lord! Your father is Lord Malfoy of Wiltshire!" The gravity of her current situation pressed down on her chest as a trunk full of her father's medical books. "The very Lord Malfoy who sits on the Board of Governors for Hogwarts!"
"The one and only." Her tutor laid his bookmark over his page, softly closing his book, eyes never leaving her. "Are you finding you have inquiries regarding the binomial theorem after all, Miss Granger?"
She loathed the flame in her cheeks as she shook her head. "I apologise. I've been trying to place your name since we met, and it only just came to me."
"I see…" The professor opened his book, floating his gaze back to Hermione. "I hope this won't change anything in our sessions. I've been impressed with all we've covered these last few weeks, and I'd hate for anything as silly as my father's title to hinder your progress."
"Of course not," Hermione rushed, her pen hovering over her inkwell as she added: "I will admit, I'm not sure how to address you now, though." She felt that honesty was an important commodity between a tutor and pupil.
Which was all they would and could ever, ever, be now...
Hermione had permitted herself the private indulgence of falling asleep thinking of grey eyes once or twice over the past few weeks; she'd even allowed herself the one-time fantasy of a future meeting at a tea house when she'd learned they were near in age. Hermione would be in a new pale blue dress and have a brand-new hat as well, because, as a teacher, she would always want to look her best. And Malfoy would be the handsome, weathered professor with wisdom to share…
But the cruellest unknown about hope was how misleading and misguided it frequently was.
Hope deferred bred all manner of discontentment, and if she'd convinced she was being foolish in her privacy fancy of her tutor before… This was the proverbial nail in the coffin.
"Professor Malfoy," he answered, centring her thoughts from this sudden stinging sorrow. "We can continue as normal, Miss Granger."
"All right." She allowed her pen to hover a moment more before dropping it in her inkwell. "Forgive me, but I believe it will be a challenge for me to proceed as we have been.
"It shouldn't be, Miss Granger," he said. "Nothing at all has changed."
It seemed Hermione's mind could not let this go, for she found herself arguing next: "But the significance of your name and the title your family holds make all the difference in any situation."
He sighed, heavy and deep. "My father is 'Lord Malfoy'. I'm merely his son. The law of the land dictates that I am his heir by default, and I'm fond enough of a certain degree of luxuries, but I'm no one important. I've contributed very little to society up to this point, and I'm here to see if teaching is a means of doing something useful with my life."
"All the advantages in the world, and you still seek purpose and usefulness…"
She didn't realise she had spoken aloud until something undefined, something entirely unreadable, crossed his features. He removed his bookmark as he softly answered, "Well,I don't know about you, Miss Granger, but I learned in my youth that I didn't care for the idea of my future being decided for me because of something I was born into."
Her mind raced for words to respond. To find the appropriate means of conveying how grand and noble he was for such convictions. To say how such qualities were admirable…
But Professor Dumbledore entered the room, the unsaid hovered over her as a fog the remainder of the night.
Hermione felt like there was lead in her shoes. Sensibility and functionality only carried one so far, especially when the work bled from one day and into the next. With the change in the weather, more fires were being lit daily, and Umbridge had made it her personal mission that the cleanliness of the castle should not suffer for it.
Soot stained Hermione's apron and sleeves, clinging relentlessly to her skin and coating her lungs. Her throat itched with residue from the last fireplace she had cleaned while the professors and students ate supper, and her mind had already begun to drift to pleasant fantasies, like a cup of tea and a bowl of Cook's thick beef stew.
These were soothing compensations that ebbed the pain of missing yet another tutoring session. Her mind grieved the loss of stimulation, and she fretted that Professor Malfoy and Professor McGonagall's good opinion of her would suffer, but there was nothing for it.
To further abate her grief, she began humming as she slipped through the door leading to the servants' staircase. She had long since forgotten the words—she had been too young to know them, anyway—but the tune always surfaced when her mind needed a proper distraction.
She blinked a couple of times, allowing her eyes to adjust to the lower lighting before plodding to the staircase.
Only four flights down before—
"There you are!"
Hermione's body reacted in perfect tandem; a screeching yelp spouting from her throat as she whirled, and her tin bucket falling from her grasp, clanging as it made contact with the stone floor and clouding the air with soot.
"Shite." It was muffled amidst the coughing and chaotic curls of soot, but Hermione's heart faltered as her mind acknowledged it was indeed he who'd sworn at her reaction. And perhaps it was because she was simply too overwhelmed with everything, but she could not decide what was more unsettling about the entire situation she now found herself in: the fact it was impossible to catch her breath; the fact she'd just been sworn at; the fact it was someone she'd respected and valued, perhaps even admired; the fact there was yet another mess to be cleaned.
Or perhaps that her overall final reaction to this horrifying moment was to cry.
She supposed she could blame the soot for these traitorous hot tears and wracking gasps that threatened to turn into sobs, but it was still no less humiliating when the strangled sound of something wounded filled the servants' stairwell.
Her knees gave way, and she sank to the floor, face falling in her hands. Coughs and words filled the background, but nothing registered in the midst of her wallowing and self-loathing…
Until something did.
Warmth cradled one of her elbows, and it seemed as though large circles were being drawn over her back.
"I can't apologise enough, Miss Granger." His voice was low and soft, but it rang out with all the clarity of a horn through blinding fog. "The swearing is a beastly habit I picked up from some mates at school, and… I'm so very sorry, Miss Granger."
Hang decorum. Hang the fact anyone could burst in here at any moment and misinterpret this scene of a man comforting an emotional woman alone in a dim room. It was the most decent form of human interaction she'd had in weeks, and Hermione, too tired and starved for kindness in any form, sagged into his loose embrace.
She refused to ponder over the fluttering in her stomach as Professor Malfoy stiffened just before his arm slid across her back, spanning both of her shoulders, and he pulled her in close, tracing hypnotic patterns over the sleeve of her elbow. She had no measure for time under such unorthodox forms of comfort, but it wasn't until Professor Malfoy spoke again that she realised their intimate proximity and withdrew...
But not by much…
"Oh, your suit, Professor!" She swiped at her eyes and moved to stand with as much dignity as she could muster, accepting his proffered hand. "Gracious, I'm so terribly sorry. I'm not usually one to startle easily, but it's been such a trying time as of late. I've been so guilty for missing our sessions, and it was made all the worse that is no way of communicating with you, and—"
"Wait, wait." He was calm but firm, fishing in his jacket before extending a clean handkerchief. "The fault is mine and mine alone in this instance. I've allowed my concern and distress to cloud my judgement. I reacted hastily in dashing after you when I caught a glimpse of your hair and dress entering this stairwell, and I should have known it would startle you."
She sniffed and scoffed, dabbing her eyes with the soft handkerchief. With as steady voice as she could manage, she assured him no further apologies were necessary and that this mess could be easily cleaned.
"Allow me, Miss Granger," he said, pocketing his handkerchief as dropped to the floor and collected her brush and dust pan, ignoring her fierce protests.
And what else could she do but watch? It wouldn't do to assault a professor, her tutor, claiming it was beneath him to clean a floor, especially as she was of the belief that a bit of cleaning was good for everyone. And what if Umbridge waltzed up on them as she was fighting him amongst soot on the floor…?
Shivering, she watched wordlessly as he worked in methodical silence until the floor was clean, and he handed the bucket, brush, and dustpan back to her.
"These are critical preparation weeks, Miss Granger," he began, though not as chastisement, she surmised. Far too many worry lines trenched and stretched above his eyes for it to be a lecture. "I don't want to make trouble for you, any more than I may already have. If you're unable to get away, we must come up with some form of a solution."
"I clean your room," she answered, so fast, the words hardly registered until she'd said them aloud. Her eyes widened, and the light in her chest that seemed faint and flickering only moments before now sparked with new life. "I clean your room," she repeated, clear and full of hope. "You already write out lesson plans for our sessions, you make a second copy and leave it out for me. Or tests or assignments. If you'll allow me to use your pen and ink, I'll leave you a note if I believe I'll be able to come as planned or not."
"Excellent. Do you anticipate being rotated to other rooms anytime in the foreseeable future?"
She shook her head. "This has always been one of my assigned floors. So long as I keep our communications from prying eyes, no one will catch on."
"Brilliant." He nodded excitedly before his head tilted, confusion in his expression. "How do you know which room is mine?"
"The family photograph on the mantle over your fireplace." She shrugged because that should be obvious. "It's clearly from several years ago, but you seem the perfect blend of your parents." Her tongue turned to sand as unspoken implications of what she'd just admitted screamed at her. She cleared her throat, adding hastily, "And you've spoken of your book collection so much, it wasn't hard to make inferences after dusting those shelves a few times…"
And perhaps it was the dim lighting of the stairwell that played tricks with her mind, but Hermione could have sworn his cheeks appeared darker than they had a moment before; that his eyes appeared softer before he agreed with her idea again and bid her a good night.
"When do you leave for home, Professor?" Hermione asked, full of bold confidence after having completed a mock interview, which both Professor Malfoy and Professor Dumbledore agreed went 'quite well' for a first time. Professor Dumbledore had excused himself for the evening moments before, blaming his absence on the demands of an insistent sweet tooth.
Professor Malfoy sighed, deep and heavy. "Tomorrow morning. My train leaves at ten o'clock, and so begins the drudgery of the holidays."
"Drudgery?" she parroted. "Not excitement?"
His lips pulled inward, eyebrows furrowing, and it was several moments before he answered. "Let's just say I find the time of forced interaction with family to be more vexing than festive."
"Shame." She offered a tired smile before looking back down to his notes of her interview.
"I'm well accustomed to it by this point," he responded, softer, as if to himself, drawing her attention. He sat drumming the fingers of his left hand over his leg, but when he met her questioning gaze, he shrugged, fingers still and palm flattening over his leg. "They're a stuffy and opinionated lot, and everyone together under a single roof runs the risk of some violent family feud breaking out over brandy and cigars. That is, if it's not already begun at some point before the wine and Christmas pudding."
Hermione's eyes widened, and she began to trace a pattern over the first page of the notes in her lap. "Goodness. Do you all have such polar opposite opinions?"
"Seems like it," he answered, eyeing her with a wistful expression. "Grandfather Malfoy is a crotchety old prig and has always been so. His wife died in childbirth when Father was very young, and Grandfather never remarried. There are no cousins to speak of on that side of the family; all is austere and dignified at Malfoy Manor until my mother's family arrives."
"Intrigue..." She loosed a giggle, leaning forward in her seat. "Well, go on, then," she said when he hadn't continued. "Relieve your burdened shoulders of these family secrets. We've still some time before I'm due back."
The professor dragged a hand down his face, tugging at his tie. "Mother's the youngest of three girls. Aunt Bella and her husband are far too posh for us, even though the Malfoys can trace their lineage all the way back to an alliance made with William the Conqueror. It's always been like this, but it still casts a pall over Mother's Christmas cheer that one sister forever declines our invite. Grandfather and Granny Black follow suit and always Christmas with Aunt Bella and her in-laws. All the better for us, I've always thought.
"Her other sister, my Aunt Andromeda, married a chemist, and they live in Manchester. Both Andromeda and her daughter are extremely involved in the Women's Suffrage Committee. They were both very supportive of Emmeline Pankhurts and her daughter Christabell last October when the Manchester group broke away from the national group to form their own charter."
"The Women's Social and Political Union," Hermione interjected, lifting a shoulder at his raised brow. "Between Wickson and Professor McGonagall, I am usually able to dig into several editions of a newspaper throughout the week."
The professor considered her, his mouth resting in one of those almost-smiles, his eyes gleaming at her in the yellow light of the headmaster's office. "I hadn't even thought of that. If you are able to sneak them back to your quarters, you are welcome to my paper in the evening after you light my fire. I could even arrange to have it wrapped in brown paper if you think it would be necessary to hide it in your soot bucket."
Such an offer was too generous to be denied, and she agreed with honest enthusiasm. It was simple, but combined with the practice exams he'd already prepared for her to do in his absence, and the fact he'd granted her permission to borrow any book from his bookshelf anytime she needed, Hermione decided this may be one of the best Christmases yet.
She would sit for her exam this week.
Winter had passed, and spring almost turned to summer, with time moving according to its own fancy, unaltered by the fickle winds of Hermione's heart. At times she wanted nothing more than for the exam to be over and done with, if only to be free from Umbridge's infuriating presence forever.
But then, there were nights like tonight, when she was so caught up in her sessions with Professor Malfoy that she felt there was never enough time. They passed too quickly, the nights they rehearsed interviews and lesson plans, nights when Professor Dumbledore excused himself for something he'd forgotten in his room.
She was never able to savour…
"Something on your mind, Miss Granger?"
Several things, she thought wistfully. Perhaps it would have been safest to focus on her pending examination, though…
"Have you noticed you always call me 'Miss Granger'?" At the way his pale brow shot upward, she could easily surmise he was as surprised by her question as she. Nothing for it now… With a breathy noise between a sigh and a chuckle, she continued: "You have insisted formal titles are worthless and that occupation is what is important, yet this entire time, you have addressed me above my occupation. Why?"
"You are more than your occupation, Miss Granger. We first conversed as two strangers. You were later introduced to me as the dear friend of a colleague. You're the daughter of a doctor with dreams of changing the world one step at a time. Why would I diminish any of that by addressing you as less than you deserve?"
His explanation was so unexpectedly considerate, she couldn't speak...
And it was possible he misinterpreted her silence for he rushed to add: "And I am fully aware of the hypocrisy in my speech. I can only name two other maids in this entire school by name, and I will address them accordingly. I am far from perfect, but perhaps one day we'll live in a more equal world where men and women may simply meet and dictate for themselves how they would like to be addressed."
Several heartbeats passed before Hermione finally found her voice. "And here I was prepared to tease," she started, soft and gentle, "that it's been so long, you've forgotten my given name altogether."
"Hermione," he said, unblinking. It rolled off his tongue with such ease, as if he'd said it a hundred times before. The grey in his eyes softened and seemed to speak a language all their own.
Her mind answered with an immediate smile that lifted the corners of her lips. "It seems I would have been mistaken," she said, tilting her head just so. "What an excellent surprise."
"Perhaps—" he started, faltering as his throat bobbed, and his gaze traced every inch of her face. "When you have a proper teaching post… Perhaps you will allow us to meet again, but as 'Hermione' and 'Draco'."
Hope throbbed in her chest as Professor Dumbledore re-entered his office. She cleared her throat, rising for her own exit, smiling still as she offered up these simple parting words: "Perhaps I shall."
Miss Granger,
I trust Professor Dumbledore has seen this letter to your hands, as he assured he would. I regret that I am unable to see you off myself this morning, but I've been called away for emergent family business that unfortunately could not be delayed. I also hope the headmaster delivering this letter to you himself has caused you no unnecessary subsequent embarrassment, but I had reason to be suspicious the Head of Housekeeping would keep it from its rightful recipient.
Social conventions would have us believe that because of the parents we have each been born to, I am by default a gentleman, and you will never be a lady; however, I have come to the steadfast conclusion over the course of this school year that the precise opposite is the truth.
You are the most determined, diligent, charitable, compassionate, and loyal person I've had the pleasure of encountering. It has been an honour assisting you in your journey this year. I would like to express here and now how I've come to see you as one of the greatest of women in my limited acquaintance, and the finest of ladies.
I once looked at the world as what the future holds for each person, but you have taught me that it is what we each bring to it. It is about what we offer of ourselves. You have much to offer, Miss Granger. I have every confidence in you today, and every day. Although our sessions have come to an end, I would request we continue to keep in touch through the usual system, and that you keep me informed on the status of your exam results and interviews.
Such good luck, though I know you hardly need it.
Sincerely,
Draco
She knew it had been the right decision to wait until after the examination to read his letter. It burned a hole in her pocket for hours, but, oh now, the payoff was well worth the wait. For now, on her journey home, she had something to distract her mind from plaguing questions she was uncertain of.
Now her mind could throw herself fully into dissecting this message word-for-word.
She had read through it three times before her carriage even made it to the train station at Aberdeen. By the time the steam engine lurched to a halt at the station in Hogsmead, she could have been able to recite it by heart if asked. She could see from the ink blotches and splatter where he'd hovered over the paper before using such fine and lovely words to describe her, as if he was hesitant to say too much.
Or perhaps considering if his words were not enough.
But he had signed the epistle with his given name. A sign of familiarity, of intimacy.
And as Hermione tucked the cherished letter into her coat pocket, she knew he had conveyed more than enough.
Perhaps hope had the ability of birthing something beautiful, as well.
For reasons she would never be able to explain, Hermione's breath shook as she withdrew her response from her apron pocket. Hands that had held steady and commanding of her pen over the course of the lengthy exam that morning now shook as she laid the letter over a book on his desk.
Her nerves failed her, and she snatched the letter up, opening it, reading it once more:
Your letter was the most delightful company I could have hoped for my on journey today. Thank you for it.
I suspect I won't be able to sleep much tonight; my nerves are still all abuzz and questions I'm uncertain of plague me still. Should you find yourself in the unfortunate position of the same sleeplessness before the sun rises, I would welcome your company out by the Black Lake near the stables.
Hermione
Before she could question or doubt herself further, she folded the letter, carrying it and the book to his bedside table, arranging the two to be on prominent display.
Draco had visited her that morning. His pale hair gleamed in the soft glow of the moonlight, and never before had she seen as many shades of grey than when the stars reflected in his eyes. They had kept their voices hushed as they faced each other and leaned into each other's presence, while refraining from surrendering to the mutual desire to touch.
He'd caught his hand twice as it lifted, seemingly on course to float to her curls. In return, she'd fought every muscle in her arms that screamed at her to take his hands, fill the gaps between his fingers with hers and squeeze so hard he would know without any spoken word how grateful she was for his time. How much their time given this year meant to her.
How much he meant to her.
In the subsequent weeks, sightings were rare, especially as the main reason for seeing each other had come to an end. The letter exchange continued; Hermione had been squelching the gutting reminder that he was heir to Malfoy Manor of Wiltshire, and she remained a maid for the time being.
Umbridge went to great lengths to remind her of her status multiple times throughout the day, keeping an extra sharp eye on all the staff, chiding them to stay out of sight and keep busy. Hermione found herself working long hours to make up for the hour here-and-there for job interviews. The carriage rides afforded her by the school to-and-from said interviews were taken from her salary or, at times, made up for in extra chores—however Umbridge felt so inclined that day.
The final weeks of May passed in this exhausting, yet oddly contented, existence, bleeding into June until at last, at last, on the fifth day of the month, Hermione was summoned to the headmaster's office over her lunch break.
She paused at the great doors, heart thundering in her chest as she smoothed her hands over her apron and dress and straightened her white service cap. Summoning all her courage, she knocked and marched over the threshold when bid to enter.
Her breath caught in her throat as she found both Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall standing by the grand bookcases.
"Ah, there she is," Professor Dumbledore began, proffering a hand and taking hers when she reciprocated the gesture. "I apologise for summoning you over your break, Hermione, but I hope you'll forgive an old man his oddities when you understand why."
She hadn't the chance to voice any assurance, whether false or truthful, before he gestured to a steaming tea pot and a platter of sandwiches, fruits, and tarts. She frowned in spite of the lovely setting, finding the table set for only one.
"If you'll have a seat at the table, Hermione," Professor McGonagall said, "you will find three letters addressed to you underneath the plate."
"Oh." There was nothing for it; she was unable to find anything else to say in response, and she stood as mute as a statue, barely breathing, and blinking in confusion at the co-conspirators.
A rare and gentle smile slowly formed on Professor McGonagall's face. "We took the liberty of instructing Wickson to deliver all formal-appearing posts addressed to you to this office, in case anything happened to go missing under less-than-honest eyes. And in light of the accomplishment it is for you to have sat for a proper teacher's examination, regardless of the results, this is our way of expressing how very proud of you we are, Hermione." Her eyes glistened behind the severe spectacles. "We'll leave you to read and eat in private. Professor Dumbledore does not have a meeting in here until half past three this afternoon, so you are invited to take your time."
"As long as you let us know which teaching post you've accepted once you're done," Professor Dumbledore added.
Her heart lurched, and she felt herself nodding as Professor McGonagall scolded the headmaster's 'cheeky impertinence'. She steadied herself, fortifying her nerves as she sank into the chair and reached for the letters.
One from the Board of Examiners.
Two from two separate schools she interviewed at last week.
Her future now lay in the palm of her hands.
She really should not be taking such risks: waiting in a shadowed corridor as the evening sun glimmered to the very last moment before dusk was simply asking for trouble. Waiting in said shadowed corridor for a man was an open invitation to be sacked. Without references.
Never mind they had already crossed the line of touch months before in an empty stairwell over a spilled bucket of soot. The rules hardly mattered for the moment, though. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall had agreed to keep her secrets so that she could inform Draco, Draco, of her news in person.
In person.
And so she waited, rehearsing her excuse for coming back to the servants' hall after supper had been eaten when she should have been already be in her room reading, mending, or polishing her shoes.
She waited and waited, heart quickening and sinking as passersby continued to not be the one person she longed to see.
She waited and drummed her fingers against each other until her patience was handsomely rewarded. She could hardly contain her glee as she first saw his pale blond hair and caught hold of his jacket, managing to tug him back into the corridor.
"What th—"
"Shhhhh! Don't get us caught."
"Hermione?" His protest ceased, and he seemed unable to control himself as he whirled, stepping into her space, so close her shoulder blades met the wall as she leaned back to properly look him in the eye. "My God, it's brilliant to see you. This letter exchange isn't enough, and that dreadful Flint spawn staged a coup in my classroom yesterday, and all I wanted was to forget everything in one of our lessons, but they're all done, and I was quite put out over it, and—"
She lifted a finger to his lips, applying gentle pressure. "Someone will find us if you persist in rambling so."
Throat bobbing and eyes darkening, he ceased talking, leaning his head down to hers all the while. "I presume you have a reason for such a clandestine meeting, then?"
"I passed my exam and—Draco!" She hissed his name, but any other protests were lost to the stuffy air, for he had gathered her in his arms, pulling her tight in an embrace she wished would never end. When she squirmed to adjust their hold, he stiffened, only to melt back into her as she ran her arms up his chest and wound them around his neck.
Time seemed inclined to favour Hermione this evening as the embrace lasted an eternity. They exchanged words of pride and gratitude. Words of friendship and caring. Words that spoke volumes without the pressure of being direct.
"And have you received any responses from where you interviewed?" he asked when he finally pulled back, keeping close, his forehead hovering just over hers.
"Hogsmeade," she answered. "Inverness wanted someone with more experience for the time being but said they would keep in touch over the years." She swallowed thickly, hoping and hoping against all odds as she continued. "I know we've said nothing about the future, and made no obligations to one another. You're set to inherit and certainly have no reason to oblige yourself the daughter of a doctor and a teacher, but—"
He was the one to interrupt her rambling this time with a firm kiss to her lips. It was tame and chaste in comparison to all the ones she'd imagined in the privacy of her room, but it set fire to her blood all the same and had her craving his touch and taste when he released her lips.
"My dear Miss Granger," he started, voice husky and thick, grey eyes torn between her lips and eyes, "I intend to court you in every sense of the word now that we've all the freedom and time in the world for it." He brought her hand to his mouth, eyes boring into hers as he kissed her palm. "If you'll have me, that is."
"Only you, Draco," she answered, cupping his cheek and leaning up to tempt Fate once more with a final kiss that tasted of all the sweetness of Draco and hope for the future.