Chapter 2: Wind Me Up
Just as Draco was about to head back for a bath, a loud metallic SMACK caught his attention and he spun around in the direction of the sound.
A young muggle woman was striding towards him, having just exited her car. This happened quite frequently when passersby lost their way and spotted him on one of his walks. He moved towards her, intent on meeting her halfway and saving her the possibility of being covered in the dusty earth he so commonly had to scrub off his skin. It was oddly stubborn dirt, and muggle tourist tended to complain quite a lot.
As he did so, he mused at what his Father would say about his level of consideration for a bunch of muggles. He smirked as he imagined his Father's sneer of disgust and disapproval, and it gave him a strange sense of comfort and relief to know that he was pissing Lucius off without even having to make the trek to Azkaban.
As he got closer, however, he began to sense that something wasn't right. This particular muggle woman looked vaguely familiar, though admittedly the sun was a bit too harsh to see her face clearly. There was something about her poise and manner of walking that made him wonder if he knew her. Her stride was headstrong and determined, rather than tentative and unsure like most muggles who stopped in for help. Her brown hair was rebelling against the top knot she'd clearly attempted to use to tame it, sticking out in all directions. She was looking down at her feet as she walked in an effort to make her way across the rocky path safely. Consequently, he couldn't see her entire face, even as she was closing the distance between them with speed and ease. She had smooth, sun-kissed skin, and he imagined that when she looked up he'd confirm that she was an extremely attractive woman.
Perhaps she'd like to accompany him to an event that evening, that would truly sort Father out wouldn't it? Maybe they'd have a summer fling and send photos to Luscious in prison via muggle holiday postcard. "Wish you were here!"
He grinned at the thought of his Father's would-be violent reaction to this, just as the woman looked up and met his eyes.
His grin vanished. His breath caught in his chest.
"Granger?" he said.
"Malfoy?" she replied.
"What are you doing here?!" they both cried in unison.
"This is my family's land, as if you didn't know, and I have every right to be here." "I'm here for Gabrielle Delacour's coming out gala this evening and fancied a wine sampling."
Again, in unison, talking right over one other.
"You what?" they asked together... then both recoiled.
—
Hermione wasn't sure whether to begin yelling or burst out laughing. She decided instead to be silent for a moment and catch her breath. As she stood there, her eyes moved down the length of his shirtless body, noting his extremely toned arms and calves, and settling on his bare feet.
What was Malfoy doing here and what was he doing walking around these fields with bare feet?! And when did he get so tan and muscular? She'd always known him to be tall, but lanky, scrawny, and pale. Admittedly, she hadn't laid eyes on him since his trial, and he had been gaunt, malnourished, and as war-torn as the next Death Eater back then. The years on this Vineyard had presumably treated him well.
Her eyes moved to his left forearm where the dark mark had faded significantly, resembling a burn scar more than a tattoo. Realizing that she was now staring, she snapped her eyes up and saw that he was wearing that familiar smirk she had once slapped right off his pointed face. Only his face was no longer pointed. He had filled out over the years, and he had a significant 5-o-clock shadow across his well cut jawline.
"Quit gawping and close your mouth, Granger, you're inviting the grape flies in."
She snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed, but recovered quickly.
"Grape flies? Are those even a thing? I've never heard of them."
"They are flies that land on grapes, specifically these grapes, ergo they are grape flies, I don't need to be a muggle biologist to adequately name the things."
She scowled, remembering all the reasons she'd loathed him in school. Always a quick retort, never unprepared for a verbal joust. And although she knew she was the more skilled player, it had always rattled her that he dared to play the game. Harry and Ron had known well to give up before they'd got started. Malfoy was always relentless, and the years seemed not to have changed that.
"This is... your family's land?" she asked, her brow furrowing. How could that be and how could she not have realized?
"Hermione Granger is ignorant of the connection between the Malfoy and Black families? Sound the alarms, we must start a parade for this momentous day on which the girl who knew all did not know something."
She bristled at the use of the word ignorant, but she also blushed at the use of her first name. She didn't think he had ever called her by her given name in their entire acquaintance, and it caused her to sway on the spot for a moment. She mentally slapped herself back to her current reality.
"I know full well that your Mother's maiden name is Black and that the families are connected, all of the pure blood families are connected. In fact I saw with my own eyes the original Black family tree tapestry at Grimauld Place, scorch marks over Sirius and Tonks and all!"
Was she boasting now?! He was looking at her, bemused. She had to recover quickly again.
"I merely did not connect this beautiful glorious vineyard to such horrifically hateful people. Imagine that," she spat.
Now it was his turn to bristle.
"Touched a nerve, did I, Granger? I'm sure it won't be the last."
He recovered quickly too, however, "Did you say you're here for the Delacour girl's opening night?"
"Yes, I've grown quite fond of Gabrielle, having spent some time with her the last few summers while she was visiting Bill and Fleur, it only felt right to travel here to be of support" she said with a bit too much defensive conviction.
Malfoy regarded her for a moment, tilting his head with curiosity and then said, "I would have thought your attendance compulsory given that you and Fleur both married a Weasel and would logically arrive on their arms."
After a short moment of silence, he seemed to shift from confusion to wonder.
"Or are you explaining your intentions because there's trouble in paradise? Have things not worked out with Weaselbee?"
Damn but he was quick! How did he work that out faster than she could foresee her blunder in oversharing? She did so loathe the way he got under her skin and forced her to say too much too quickly. Her head was spinning, she needed to slow down but her heart rate was off the charts.
"Paradise is fine thank you very much, not that it's any of your business," she lied matter of factly, regaining her faux-composure.
He looked suspicious, but moved on from the topic, clearly not that interested.
"So you were, what... looking for a tasting table? Planning to arrive at this evening's momentous event in support of the girl you're so fond of… thoroughly pissed?"
"I didn't - I - that," she sputtered. Gods, she was losing it again!
He cut her off, "Easy there, Granger, I can't have you exerting yourself to the point of heat exhaustion and passing out in my fields, my family have enough blood on their hands and I fear I wouldn't survive another trial, especially if my greatest champion is the one I'm accused of doing in" he said with a broad grin.
Was he just winding her up or was this some backwards way of saying thank you for all she did to have him released from prison?
"Your greatest champion?!" she exclaimed, "is that really how you see me?"
"It's how you see yourself, I'm sure. That many years of mutual hatred couldn't have been stricken from my record, there had to be at least a tinge of selfish pride in there somewhere."
She scoffed, entirely affronted that this was how he held her efforts to have him released. He was more self-important and undeservedly confident than anyone she had ever met, and she began to regret her previous open-hearted position about his post-war plight. The ungrateful coward! Sure, she had been driven largely by pity for the boy, and it felt wrong not to use her social position to help someone innocent be brought true justice. He wasn't her charity case, he was just an exception to the rule where Death Eaters were concerned. The fact that he was underage and clearly brain-washed and coerced from birth made him a sympathetic figure in her mind, and she simply couldn't stand the idea of him wasting away in Azkaban, no matter how deeply she'd hated him. Not matter how he'd treated her, she wouldn't stoop to his level. She would choose the high road.
Oh bother, perhaps there was some truth to his words. Perhaps her testimony was given from at least a small amount of martyrdom on her part.
Watching her closely, he suddenly affected a gentler tone, "Or perhaps it's just my Pureblood upbringing tinging my ability to see anyone else as having solely noble intentions for helping another person, especially when said person has been vile to them since the first day of their acquaintance. My apologies if that is the case," he offered, and made a small bow.
An ironic bow? A sincere bow? She truly couldn't tell. The air was thick with a sense of manipulation and coercion she had always associated with Malfoy's attempts to charm Hogwarts staff.
"Malfoy, what are you on about? Was that some sort of twisted apology or are you just winding me up?" she asked with a glare, so cautious about her words that she was barely drawing breath.
"Are you wound up, Granger?" he asked, slowly surveying her from head to toe as he said it, ending on a suggestive smirk for effect.
His eyes raking over her sent chills in every direction. He'd never looked at her like that before. Had he ever really looked at her before?
"I... I... I…" was all she managed before he cut back in.
"Come on then, let's get you that drink before my fate as a social pariah is sealed for all eternity after I turned the girl who never knew when to shut up into a mute."
He turned and began walking toward the small cottage on the grounds adjacent to the large manor house. For a moment she just stood there, stock still, trying to work out what had just transpired between them. Thoroughly confused, she followed along in his wake.