Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter world or any of its characters, spells, objects, locations etc. I'm not making any money off of this story.
Author's note: This one-shot is a supplement to my story Inosculation, a multi-chapter Dramione fic which can be found on my profile. What you'll find here will make no sense to you unless you've read the parent fic.
This story is additional material for chapter 14 of Inosculation. Its creation was aided by Caroline, Marnel, and Rianne, to whom I extend my gratitude.
Draco Malfoy walked into Azkaban's visitors room at ten o'clock on Monday morning, approximately ninety minutes after he'd dropped and broken an expensive Malfoy heirloom teacup at breakfast. The cause of said cup-dropping – a neatly rolled up edition of the day's Daily Prophet – was in his hand.
"Have a seat, Mr Malfoy," said the attending guard, darting glances at the newspaper he was holding. Of course, he knew exactly what was on the front page. Draco doubted there was anyone in all of wizarding Britain who didn't. Thankfully, the guard didn't comment on it. "Your father will be out shortly."
"Thank you," Draco said, seating himself on one of the two straight-backed chairs at the table in the middle of the room. He directed a silent thought of gratitude that his social standing was good enough these days to warrant him a private visit. If he'd had to have the impending discussion-slash-fight with his father in the general visiting room, with dozens of other Azkaban inmates and visitors listening in, he wasn't sure if he'd have had the guts to show up here.
He put the newspaper face-down on the table and drummed his fingers on it. His hand moved involuntarily to turn it over, but he stopped himself. He'd spent ten minutes this morning staring at the photograph, in which he and Hermione were kissing like there was no tomorrow. It was etched onto his mind now; there was no need to look at it again. Doing so merely reminded him of the thousands of Prophet readers who had seen it as well.
His mind was not yet made up as to whether he was mortified or proud. He was front page material because he'd managed what nobody else could: snatch up a war heroine. More importantly, that war heroine was Hermione Malfoy née Granger, who, frankly, was all sorts of wonderful. On the other hand, he was on the front page, kissing her, for all the world to see. He knew what he looked like on the other side of that newspaper. Knew that he looked unrestrained, happy, and 'very much in love', as the helpful anonymous source in the accompanying article put it. And he didn't do unrestrained, didn't do public displays of affection, because he was a Malfoy and a Slytherin and generally a reserved, restrained sort of person.
Hermione would not be pleased. She had friends, relatives, colleagues – all of whom were supposed to be unaware of recent developments. Draco, on the other hand, had potion master Frayser, who wouldn't mind as long as Draco was all right, and Pansy, who hadn't written to him in months.
Then again, he also had his father, which was why he was now sitting in Azkaban's visitor's room dreading a painful discussion. Unsupportive as Hermione's friends might decide to be, they paled in comparison to the ire that Lucius Malfoy would indubitably spew now that his son had intimate relations with a muggleborn woman.
Draco tapped his fingers on the table.
The door he was facing swung open. A guard walked in, followed shortly by Lucius Malfoy, then another guard. Lucius sat down and rested his hands on the table. "Should we stay here, sir?" the first guard asked Draco. He stared unapologetically at him as he waited for a response. Draco wasn't usually given a second glance when he came to visit, and he was well aware of the reasons for this extra attention.
He shook his head. The last thing he wanted was for complete strangers, who had just watched him kiss, to be present while he talked to his father. "No need. I'll find you when I'm done."
"As you wish, sir," the guard said. "Let us know if you need anything."
The guards disappeared, and Draco directed his attention to his father. Lucius was paler than Draco had ever seen him, even on previous Azkaban visits. It was partly due to the pale orange prison robes he was wearing and the lack of outdoor activities. The other part, Draco suspected, was this morning's newspaper. Lucius pushed a strand of his blond hair out of his face – it was well groomed yet somehow still looked lifeless.
Draco wasn't entirely sure how to start the conversation. Silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft rustle of Draco's moving fingers against the Daily Prophet.
"For Merlin's sake, Draco, keep your fingers still," his father bit out. Draco remembered that his father hated his nervous habits. He lifted his hand to rest it in his lap instead, but stopped himself, put his hand back, and slowly and deliberately tapped it against the newspaper. Lucius glared but said nothing.
"I assume you've read the Daily Prophet this morning?" Draco asked after a moment.
"Indeed," Lucius responded. "Would you care to explain yourself?"
Draco sighed. "Not particularly," he muttered.
"Speak up," his father said, exasperation in his voice.
"Stop telling me what to do," Draco retorted. "You're intelligent enough; surely you've realised by now that it doesn't work."
"Clearly," Lucius said. "For how long has this been going on, Draco?"
"Would you like to know when she and I became friends, or are you primarily interested in when I first had amorous relations with her?" Draco asked, torn between amusement and exasperation at the disgust on his father's face.
"Friends," Lucius scoffed disdainfully. "I didn't think I'd ever see my son turning into a Hufflepuff."
"That's the most unimaginative insult on the planet." Even so, it stung. At least when Hermione had told him he was a Hufflepuff, she'd been joking. "In answer to your question, we've been friends since last spring. Kissing did not enter the equation until last weekend."
His father grimaced. "I knew this was a bad idea when you first married her," he said. "I even told you so in no uncertain terms, Draco. You ought to have stayed away from that idiot girl."
"She's not an idiot," Draco bit out. "And may I remind you that I married her because you dragged our family into a war? You know how close I was to losing the Manor!" He glared at his father. "Not that you'd care. Given that you'll be in here for the rest of your life, you probably couldn't care less whether or not I'm still in possession of our ancestral home."
Lucius pursed his lips, looking pained. "I would never wish to see you homeless, Draco," he said, suddenly sincere. It stifled some of Draco's anger. The simple statement meant more than what it seemed. His father had never been one to waste words to express affection, but Draco wasn't stupid. He knew what his father didn't say.
With some effort, he reined in the rest of his irritation. "I know you don't understand," he said, "but I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Lucius responded. He didn't look angry anymore; instead, he almost seemed worried. His voice was low when he spoke again. "You're being foolish. I'm aware that our views on… certain matters… are no longer concordant, but Draco, you can't seriously think that that mudblood will-"
"Do not call her that," he bit out.
Lucius paused, looking taken aback. "You can't deny that she's-"
"I'm well aware of her blood status," Draco said, struggling to keep his voice even. "If you'll recall, her lack of so-called pure blood almost got her killed two years ago. Regardless of your views on the matter, you will not refer to her by that disgusting slur." He held his breath when he realised what he'd just said. He'd never, ever spoken to his father in that tone of voice before. He was years too old for teenage rebellion, but it seemed like it was never too late.
Silence descended. Draco had half begun to expect that his father considered the visit over, when Lucius spoke again. "You can't think that a muggleborn can have anything to offer for you. Even if you've somehow convinced yourself that she's pretty, she'll never truly be an equal. Your upbringing, your place in society…" He trailed off when he saw the outrage in Draco's eyes.
"You think this is about her looks?" Draco rested his lower arms on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and met his father's eyes. He took a deep breath, and said, "I won't deny that Hermione is fucking gorgeous and that certainly helped things along, but let me be exceedingly clear about this: I am with her because she's brilliant, and compassionate, and thoughtful; because she's willing to forgive me for all of the horrendously idiotic things I did when I thought you knew what you were doing; because she knows when to talk and when to listen; and because she taught me how incredibly unhelpful it is to judge people by their blood status or their upbringing or their Hogwarts house, or in fact by anything at all other than by who they actually are. Nothing you are going to say will change the fact that I love her."
What did I just say? he thought frantically as he watched his father, who stared back at him. He hadn't meant to lose control of himself at all; generally that was not a smart thing to do when in the presence of Lucius Malfoy. He certainly hadn't planned to monologue to his father, of all people, about the virtues of Hermione. But he'd meant every word – including the last three, though he'd never spoken them or even thought them. Even as he dreaded his father's response, he couldn't regret what he'd said.
Lucius' features were arranged into the patented Malfoy mask. Even so, Draco could tell that he was surprised by his son's words. "Clearly you hold her in high regard," he said after a moment. His tone was almost soothing as he continued, "But you're making a mistake. Think of her background, Draco."
Draco took a deep breath and stood up, his hands on the back of the chair as he spoke again. "I've thought about her background for ten years, and it's never resulted in anything good. I'm done with it," he said. "Feel free to contemplate her muggle roots all you want. It won't change anything." He picked up the Prophet and turned to the door. "I'm spending Christmas with Hermione," he said. "I'll visit on Boxing Day. Goodbye, father."
He waited for a second or two, but received no reply. Without another word, he left the visitor's room. The guard outside was one he hadn't seen before. He was reading the first page of the Prophet, photo of Draco and Hermione in full view, and Draco resisted the urge to groan. "I'm done," he said.
"All right, Mr Malfoy," said the guard, smirking at him for obvious reasons. "We'll take him back to his cell. Have a nice day with the missus." He chuckled at his own joke.
Draco sent him an icy glare, firmly pushing away the mortification that threatened to overwhelm him. He walked to the exit and apparated as soon as he'd left the protective wards of the prison.
The Manor was empty, of course – Hermione was still at St Mungo's. Draco looked at the clock and fervently wished she'd be home early today. He could do with a hug.
Author's note: Let me know what you thought! I'm currently working on a new oneshot for Dean. So you might want to read Not Technically Lying, my Dean/Seamus oneshot, and in order to see the new upload you have to follow my profile (or check back every now and then). I don't currently have plans to write more oneshots for Draco, but I do still have some ideas for a sequel to Inosculation. We'll see what happens!
Review please :)
