Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't own Harry Potter
This is sad, but true
The breakfast table was laden, as usual, with tea, crumpets, and an assortment of fruit and yoghurt. The spread was not what stopped eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy in the doorway as he appeared in the dining room; it was the fact that both of his parents were seated at the table. His father was hidden behind a copy of today's paper, and his mother was sipping tea gingerly from a China cup.
"Mother," he frowned as stepped towards the unusual scene, "are you quite well?"
Narcissa looked up at her son from beneath her eyelashes. "Of course," she said haughtily. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"It's not like you to join us for breakfast." Draco looked to his father as he sat down next to him, but the paper did not twitch.
Narcissa made an impatient noise through her nose. "You have a job to do today," she said stiffly.
Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he busied himself making tea. "Oh? And what would that be?"
"The artist has arrived," Narcissa said. "You will go to the library as soon as you are done here."
"The artist?"
"For your portrait."
"For my - ? Mother, that's absurd!"
"It's tradition," Narcissa shrugged one shoulder in an elegant display of nonchalance.
"Sod tradition," Draco sulked.
This got his father's attention. "Draco," Lucius warned.
"It's a farce!" Draco insisted, running a hand through his blond hair. "I don't want a blasted picture of me hanging in the Manor! It's butter upon bacon, Father"
"I don't know what that means, and I don't care. And may I remind you," his father finally lowered the paper and affixed him with a cold stare, "it's not about what you want, son. It's about the Malfoy legacy; you are my heir, and you have recently come of age. This is your birthright and you will honour it."
"And if I refuse?" Dracos lip curled as he brought his tea cup to his mouth.
"You do not have that option." His father said with a note of finality before disappearing behind the paper again.
Draco ground his teeth together but did not argue further; he knew it would do no good. His father was adamant that Draco should take over as Lord of the Manor before his twenty-first birthday. By that time, he should also be married.
But Draco, while he once dreamt of such a life, no longer wanted to be paraded around like the peacocks in the front garden, as if he were someone to be feared. He had yearned for a simple life for some time now; he often found himself envying the help. What, with their crude humour and gay little parties; such a difference from the stuffy balls often held in his home.
As if she could read his mind, Narcissa piped up again. "The ball planning is coming along," she said. "I've invited the Greengrass sisters, and the Parkinson girl; I can never remember her name - "
"Pansy," Draco supplied through gritted teeth; how anyone could forget the shrieking tone of that black haired banshee was beyond him.
" - and I've written a letter to the Bulstrodes as well," Narcissa continued as if he hadn't interrupted. "Is there anyone else you would like to add to the guest list?"
"No," Draco said sullenly, and bit into his crumpet.
"Once the ball is over," Narcissa's tone was stern, "you will decide whom you wish to court."
"Lucky me," Draco deadpanned.
Narcissa narrowed her eyes at her son. "Yes, lucky you. Do you have any idea how many would die to be in your shoes? To have the life you get to lead?"
"Let them have it," Draco shrugged as he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "I don't want it."
He turned to stalk from the room, but his father's voice halted his movements. "In the library; you are expected."
Draco huffed, but nodded once. He knew there would be hell to pay if he did not meet with the artist. Though the last thing he felt like doing was sitting still for eons while an ugly old man who smelt like varnish asked him to turn this way and that, he knew the alternative was a berating in his father's office and a weepy conversation with his mother.
He arrived in the library on the third floor of the expansive house, and allowed the door to slam behind him. Storming in to the room, he saw the easel and paint stand near the window. The curtains had been opened so that he could see into the grounds. He frowned as he took in the set up; his favourite armchair had been placed in front of the bookshelves and he wondered if the artist was so late that he had not even begun to arrange the furniture yet.
Draco huffed as frustration bubbled in his chest. The door on the other side of the room clicked shut and Draco prepared himself to meet the man who had been tasked to immortalise him in oils. He stepped forward as a figure appeared from behind more bookshelves; only it wasn't a male…
"Oh," Draco's eyes went wide as he took in the woman before him. She had long brown ringlets which she had pulled back into an interesting knot on top of her head. Her dress was made of a light coloured cotton, and hung free about her figure with no trace of a corset or hoop beneath the skirt.
"Hello," she curtseyed politely. "My name is Hermione Granger."
She offered her hand and Draco accepted it slowly, as if he were in a trance. "Hello," he choked out as his grey eyes locked onto her chocolate brown ones. "Forgive me," he shook himself as he let go of her hand. "My father told me to meet the painter in the library." He gestured towards the easel behind him. "Obviously he's running late." He shot her a lopsided smile and felt a zing of pleasure rush up his spine as a light blush graced her cheeks.
"Mister Malfoy," she said softly. "Did your father not mention the name of your artist?"
"No," Draco shook his head, the smile sliding from his lips.
"Well, let me introduce you," she stepped around him and began to rummage in a wooden box that had been set up next to the easel. Draco stared as she pulled from it a square palette and several jars of pigment. She turned to face him, her arms laden with the paint supplies. As she opened her mouth to speak, Draco's brain clicked into gear and he understood what was going on before she said it. "I'm your artist."
He stared at her for a few long moments, blinking slowly. His brain whirred; was this his father's idea of a sick joke?
"You're the…" he trailed off.
"Are you quite alright, Sir?" Hermione stepped towards him, her expression scrunched in concern.
"I'm fine," Draco cleared his throat and forced himself to smile. "I just wasn't expecting…"
"A woman?"
He could have sworn her mouth twitched in a semblance of a smirk, but then she turned away from him to organise her palette. His hand twitched as if he wanted to reach forward and tug her back to face him.
"It's perfectly alright," she was saying a she settled a large piece of canvas on the easel. "I know it's not usually the done thing." She positioned the heavy piece of wood on an angle, and Draco's eyebrows shot up at the display of her strength. "Come on," she said as she straightened. "Sit down for me."
Draco moved robotically towards the armchair and folded himself into it as elegantly as he could manage. He frowned as he realised he could not see her from this angle; the canvas was in the way. "I'm sorry if I've offended you, Miss Granger." He finally managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.
A soft laugh floated from behind the canvas. "No need to apologise, Mister Malfoy," she said. He thought she was going to continue, but whatever words were on her tongue must have died in her mouth.
Silence filled the room, interspersed only by the sounds of lids being twisted off the pots of pigment, and coarse brush strokes as the colours were mixed on the palette. Draco felt the frustration from before return with a vengeance, only now he wasn't upset about having to sit for a portrait; he just wanted to see her face. His mind was reeling; he was a highly sought after bachelor and one of the richest men in South Western England. Draco knew that with his name and fortune, he could have any woman he desired.
Only, the women with similar social standings held no interest for him. The Greengrass sisters his mother had mentioned earlier were vapid creatures with less personality than wet rags. Pansy Parkinson was a character; he had known her since they were children, but she was also extremely bossy and he didn't think he would have the energy to keep her in line once they were married. Millicent Bulstrode...Draco shuddered at the thought; she wasn't entirely awful, but she reminded him of a troll, if such a thing should exist. He knew he was shallow, but Miss Bulstrode also had a personality to match; he had no desire to tame that either. He sighed at the thought of having to dance with all of those women at the ball next month. His mother did love a charade, and his father never missed an opportunity to show off the Malfoy fortune.
"Are you okay, Mister Malfoy?"
Draco started at the sound of her voice. Miss Granger had appeared around the edge of the canvas, a paint brush in one hand and her palette in the other.
"Fine," he said with a quirk of his lips. "Sorry, I was lost in thought."
She raised her eyebrows in what he took as an expression of sage understanding. "Just relax for me. Feel free to move; I'm not one of those artists that expect to paint a living statue."
Draco chuckled but did as he was told. "I'm assuming you are well versed in the world of art," he said. "Who else have you painted? Anyone I would know?"
"No," came her voice from behind the canvas. "This is my first paying job."
Draco's eyebrows almost reached his hairline. "First job? Really?"
"Yes, Sir," she said as the brush made swishing noises on the rough surface. "I received a letter from your father a few weeks ago outlining the details. I thought it was a cruel joke, at first."
"Then how did he find you?"
"I've done other pieces back home, in London. Though I was not paid for them; I usually paint as a hobby," she answered. "I guess he saw one of my portraits."
"I see," Draco said, though he really didn't; it was not like his father at all to hire an unknown artist, and a woman no less!
They did not speak for the rest of the session, and Draco spent the next few hours in silent turmoil. He longed to stand and peer around the canvas just so that he could see her face. He caught glimpses as she ducked her head around to glance at him, but she never lingered for long. He imagined the creased lines of her forehead as she concentrated on her work, and fantasised about how her eyes would sparkle as she created the masterpiece.
Not that he considered himself a masterpiece.
"I think we'll leave it there for today." Her voice was soft as she set down the palette and her paintbrush, but Draco startled as if she had bellowed the words.
"Oh," he stood quickly as she stepped around the easel. "Thank you for your time."
"I will need to let this sit for a week," she continued, busying herself with the tidying of her area. "Oils take time to dry between coats. I think a sitting per week should see this hanging on a wall within six months. Does the same time next week suit you?"
"Yes," he said quickly, though in his mind he was already inventing ideas of how he could see her before the week was out. "I will see you then."
Miss Granger curtsied and then spun on her heel to leave the room. Draco wondered if she would mind if he looked at the painting. He was itching to see how she had captured him, but then he didn't want to offend her by judging an unfinished piece of artwork.
The decision was made for him as the dinner bell rang. Had he really been in here that long? Glancing once more towards the door which led to the servant's stairs, Draco felt a tug in his chest that suggested that he wished he could follow Miss Granger.
Instead, he forced himself to walk in the opposite direction and make his way to his chambers, where his valet was waiting to dress him. He felt as if he were moving through water as he slipped into his dinner jacket; no woman had ever had this affect on him before, and it was slightly unnerving.
When he arrived at dinner, his parents were already seated at the dinner table.
"Draco," his father drawled. "Nice of you to finally join us."
"My apologies, Father," Draco replied in his most pompous voice.
He took his seat in between his parents and allowed the footman to serve him. The fish was his favourite, but he seemed to have left his appetite in the library. Lucius and Narcissa made small talk for the duration of the meal, and Draco was happy that they chose not to include him. It meant that he could spend the time thinking of the way Miss Granger's cheeks had flushed pink when she thought he had been upset over her gender.
His peace was inevitably short lived. Soon, the plates had been cleared and Narcissa was excusing herself from the table. Lucius stood to bid her goodnight, and Draco mimicked his father's movements.
"Shall we go through to the drawing room?" Lucius turned his cold grey gaze on his son as the sound of Narcissa's heels disappeared on the other side of the door.
"Yes." Draco nodded and placed his napkin on the table.
In the drawing room, two cigars and a decanter of port had been laid on the ornate wooden table. Draco wandered to stand behind the offerings, his hands clasped behind his back.
"So," his father began, shrugging out of his dinner coat and slipping into one of velvet. "How did you fair during your first portrait sitting?"
"Fine," Draco frowned. "Though I must confess, I was rather startled upon meeting the artist."
"Really?" Lucius wandered over to the table and selected a cigar. He placed it in his mouth, and struck a match to light it.
"Yes," Draco took a small step backwards as the smoke curled from his father's mouth. He had never seen the draw of such a filthy habit, but his father would hear nothing of Draco's protests.
"What startled you exactly?"
Draco quirked an eyebrow at his father who was regarding him shrewdly. He knew he would have to choose his words carefully; should Lucius think that he had the upper hand, then Draco knew the manipulative bastard would see to it that any future meetings with Miss Granger would be as awkward as possible for the young heir.
"Was it meant to be a joke? Or were you hoping to embarrass me?" Draco opted for a nonchalant tone, and hoped that his father would take it as such.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," Lucius said in a bored voice, looking over his shoulder as if he was expecting to be interrupted at any minute.
"She's a woman!" Draco chortled, though it came out more as a strangled cry, and shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets.
"She's the best," his father turned back to face him and shrugged, though the movement was rather stiff. "Malfoys only have the best."
"She did seem very well equipped," Draco nodded but then quickly added, "for a woman."
"You think so?" Lucius brought the cigar to his lips and took a long drag.
"Yes," Draco said, a little too emphatically.
"Miss Granger didn't make you feel...uncomfortable?"
Draco frowned, confused. "No."
"She's pretty to look at," Lucius eyed him skeptically and brought the cigar to his mouth again. "Don't go getting any stupid ideas though, Draco. She's middle class at best, and London trash at worst. She would not do for you."
Draco felt his collar grow warm. "And what if I do find her esteemable? She's an artist; she must be at least somewhat intelligent."
Lucius chuckled. "My dear boy," he said through a cloud of smoke, "all men think they want an intelligent woman, but believe me when I tell you that there isn't a fellow on the planet who has the time nor patience to deal with such a creature." He arched an eyebrow, his mouth quirked into an all too familiar smirk.
Draco scowled. "Maybe those men just don't have what it takes to appreciate a woman with a brain."
"Don't even think about it," Lucius' voice had grown cold, and warning laced his words like a poisonous promise. "Your mother has worked herself sick to arrange the ball for October; you shall choose an appropriate bride on that night, from one of the approved families." He took another drag on the cigar and stepped closer, so that there was less than a foot between the two men. Lucius blew the smoke into Draco's face and it was all Draco could do to keep from choking on the cloud of bitter smelling ash. "If you are unable to contain yourself, I will find another artist; one with decidedly less desirable features, if you get my drift."
Draco blanched and stumbled backwards. If he was being honest, he knew that this conversation was doomed from the start. He had only wanted to know the meaning behind Lucius' interesting choice of artist; of course he had been unable to hide his infatuation with Miss Granger...had Lucius been counting on it?
"Yes, Father." The words were out of his mouth before he could think them; a well-rehearsed response which had been literally beaten into him as a child. He continued to walk backwards until he reached the door which led to the stairs that would take him to his bedroom. "Goodnight."
Lucius nodded in response, placing the cigar back in his mouth and turning away from his son as Draco hurried from the room.
