At the sight of Hermione Granger dressed in the ceremonial white gown of a pureblood making a cast that evening, Draco did a double-take. The former resident of Gryffindor tower was chatting up Longbottom near one of the bonfires dancing with purple and green flames as high as the trees.
He did not know what to make of her presence. By any of his calculations, she should not be here - should not even know what was occurring here this night. Drinking deeply from the frosted goblet of wine in his hand, he pretended not to be observing her over the rim.
It had been two years since the end of Voldemort's regime, and the members of the infamous Golden Trio were still lauded as heroes on a regular basis by the press. Despite that the Daily Prophet rarely had anything good to report when it came to something Malfoy-related, Draco recognized the benefits of staying informed. It was something Lucius had hammered into his head: it was always best to be aware what was being said, even if it was not ego-stroking. Especially if it was not ego-stroking.
Harry Potter, of course, appeared in the newspaper with some frequency, even now. He probably always would. He was reported on often, nearly daily, due to his new situation as an Auror, but also because he had started up a charitable campaign that placed war orphans without magical relatives into homes with magic families. It had been a wild success. Draco would have sneered, as he would have thought Granger would have been the brains a scheme like that... but it appeared that was not the case. She had left for Australia; meanwhile some reporter had nabbed her whole sordid story that she'd had to obliviate her parents before the war, and now wanted to restore their memories.
In fact, while Potter was being inspirationally quoted saying something-or-other in nearly every issue... and Weasley's love life was just interesting enough that the papers loved him... the other one-third of the hydra that had been Potter's posse (the bushy-haired, know-it-all swot of a Muggleborn one-third), was notably missing.
But somehow… she was here.
Draco felt many ways about her presence. His first gut reaction was confusion, followed quickly by abhorrence.
His third reaction, was wonder.
Fourth, understanding.
Finally, as if an obstructing panel of gauze had prevented his properly seeing it before, it was obvious she was a pureblood. The conclusion came slowly, in the way a brook loosens from April banks, ice hurled up along the edges, winter leaving in a hush.
He recalled her as an eleven-year old: she knew too much, was too intelligent, to be a Mudblood. His father had told him all about Mudbloods, hadn't he? She was nothing like what he had been assured a Muggle-born would be like. Then, he had got his letter with his final examination grades and he had done so well, he was deeply proud of himself. But Severus had also provided Lucius with a list of grade rankings… and Draco had done quite well - was second in his entire year, as a matter of fact - just behind Hermione Granger.
In second year, she had bossily stood up to him as if she were better than him. Hadn't anyone taught her that he was the superior? He spat out that slur – he had grown up using it, only being warned during the summer before Hogwarts that it was considered to be offensive by some – and he had not necessarily meant it to hurt her feelings: it was just what she was.
In third year, he stared down the end of her wand and was afraid. Crabbe and Goyle had not even tried to do anything about it, having been both stunned by the action themselves. Who would dare actually hex a Malfoy?
Hermione, it's not worth it, one of the brainless oafs she called friends yelled from behind her.
She lowered her wand, but socked him in the face. As blood poured from his nose, her expression was one of warning, but also smugness. He had run for it.
At the beginning of fourth year, talk was beginning to reach the old pureblood families that the Dark Lord might rise again, and soon.
He can rise from the dead? Draco had skeptically worried, but thought little of it. Lucius spoke of revels from the old days for a few months prior to the Quidditch World Cup. In the aftermath of the match, Draco was told to hide in the woods to be sure he was safe. He had known what that meant, but knew better than to get in the way.
He would have been quite content to stay in the wooded area of the massive campground and watch as chaos unfolded around him, when who should come along, but the Golden Trio. Of course.
...Ron, where are you? Oh, this is stupid - lumos. A narrow beam of wandlight illuminated the area to reveal Weasley sprawled on the ground.
Tripped over a tree root, he grunted as he stood.
Hard not to, with feet that size, Draco drawled, more annoyed at their presence than amused.
The Gryffindors spun around and Weasley promptly jabbed him with, Next time I need the opinion of a colossal fuckwit, I'll ask, Malfoy.
Language, Weasley… hadn't you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn't like HER spotted, would you?
Granger's eyes narrowed, What's that supposed to mean?
Granger, they're after Muggles. D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around… they're moving this way and it would give us all a laugh.
Potter snarled, Hermione's a witch.
But he only shrugged, Have it your own way, Potter. If you think they can't spot a Mudblood, stay where you are…
The trio had left shortly thereafter, but Draco almost wished Granger would get in the way of his father and his friends. In fact, after the punch she had dared to land on his face only a few months prior, he gloatingly dreamed that she could be floated up above the heads of the crowd. After all, those Muggles would be fine, eventually – and so would she – but she would certainly have learned her place...
Instead, he had to wait for comeuppance. He graced her with long, beaver-like teeth at the first opportunity.
But then there was the Yule Ball. She had been stunning in that periwinkle dress, which made her look like an ice nymph floating on water. For so long, she had been a mass of bushy, unremarkably brown hair that obscured her face, hunched over with a heavy bookbag… she nearly did not look like the same person. None of the girls in Slytherin, or amongst his family acquaintances, looked like that. None of them looked as purely good as her.
How could that be?
Fifth year was rougher than the last. Voldemort had risen and a darkness had suddenly crept over Draco's life. His father assured him they were favored amongst the ranks, but he felt the umbra of uncertainty all the same.
He followed, blindly, because his father told him to.
He hated Hermione Granger and everyone like her, blindly, because his father told him to.
But then, everything flipped on its head.
Years later, when the Golden Trio was brought to Malfoy Manor, Draco panicked. The three of them looked very much the worse for wear: Potter was the worst, having been disfigured in some way, probably by a hex, while Weasley was dirty and looked as if he had taken a tumble through some mud. Granger was thin, a little dirty, and her hair was a fwooper's nest of a ponytail. The look in her eyes was terrified determination. He would never forget it.
Bellatrix had tortured her on his drawing room floor. She had pressed her cursed knife (lately used to gut one of Greyback's werewolves for disobeying orders) to Granger's throat until bright red drops of blood beaded there.
It was the same color as all the rest of the blood he had seen. By now, of course, he knew it would be.
By a stroke of luck, they created a whirlwind of confusion and escaped. It was to Draco's relief; he was done trying to convince himself otherwise.
Now, two years after the great battle, here was Hermione Granger. A pureblood.
Fuck.
"One hell of a plot twist, that, eh?" Theo murmured, noting Draco's gaze. He must have been staring more intently than he realized.
"How is it even possible she's here?" he demanded.
"Turns out she's the last heir of the House of Prewett," Cadfael explained. "My mother got it straight from the mouth of one of the old biddies left in that House. Apparently she's existed all these years without even knowing she was a pureblood…"
That explains why she was able to best me all those years in school, Draco thought as he discreetly sized her up. It should have been impossible for a Mudblood - and it was, in the end. Of course she's a pureblood.
Despite this, it still could not quell his astonishment at the fact. All the times he had called her a Mudblood and she had really been a member of the ancient wizarding blood pact the whole time!
It must have been at least a year she was resident in Australia, as attested by her sun-kissed skin. She was far tanner than he could ever dream of becoming, and it made the white linen of her gown that much more beautiful when contrasted against her tawny skin. The garment was one of the more old-fashioned ones he had seen, but there was something nearly ethereal about it. She may have been covered from elbows to knees, but it was clear her figure was very good. The way she moved, even subtle movement had a certain lissome.
In the light from the bonfire where she stood, Draco could see her elegant collarbone on display from the wide neckline of her gown, and the dark freckles on her shoulders from exposure to the sun, perhaps thrown into greater contrast by the flickering quality of the light.
Longbottom leaned in toward her to whisper something in her ear and she threw her head back and laughed. Draco admired the long column of her throat. Her hair, which he had constantly teased her about in their younger years, was a cascade of shining brown curls down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were dark, but he had never much seen them in mirth like they were now. He felt an unexpected spike of jealousy toward Longbottom.
Jealousy…?
...Of Longbottom?
Fuck, he thought again for the second time in only moments.
Granger was a pillar of light moving around in the mists that was everyone else. Even the gown she wore was as if it was fashioned of its own essence, separate from everything and everyone around them. It struck him that there was magic afoot, clouding his brain to everyone but her… and it terrified him.
She terrified him.
He would be damned before he let it show however, and straightened up. He had very little faith he could focus on anything else, however, so strongly had her presence been pressed into his brain. Gathering up that tenuous faith - so shaky, it vibrated like a plucked wire - he wrapped himself up in it like a cloak. It was his camouflage, his safety... at least it was something.
"Look, Theo, it's your lady fair," Avery jibed with a snicker.
"I saw," Nott attested, the slightest of smirks lifting the corners of his lips.
Draco glanced over to where his companions' attention had shifted and noticed Ginny Weasley making her way over toward the group that had formed around Granger. The ginger girl looked pale and pinched, nothing like the Valkyrie he remembered her as. Instead of the traditional flower crown many of the casting witches wore, the Weaslette had opted on more of a wreath, of sage.
Sage for protection, he recognized. It was an interesting choice, and he shrewdly guessed she was hoping she would not be matched up that evening so she could run back home to Potter…
He glanced again at the small group, of which Granger was the center of attention.
All men, he noticed, appraising her again.
Unlike the Weaslette, Granger had opted for a more traditional approach to adorning her hair, but while he was sure she had chosen dahlias - a symbol of dignity - with strategy, he wondered if she had known that eglantine also had its own meaning as well, or if she had merely chosen it to fill in the thin band of flowers that surrounded the top of her head. It seemed unlikely, as he had never heard of a witch willingly advertising such a conundrum as what the dog-rose stood for: a kind of balance of pleasure and pain.
"Malfoy?" Cadfael prodded.
"What?" he demanded acerbically, rounding on his friend.
"You're staring."
Fuck.
.
.
Author's Note: Now, I know what you're thinking... it's probably something along the lines of, "Screw you, Aspen, where is my damn casting chapter?" All I can say is that I'm an evil minger, it's true. On the other hand, I've done us all a solid and combined the entire casting into one larger chapter instead of splitting it up into two or three, so we all have instant gratification. I hope that will post this weekend, barring some calamity. See, I do love you!
Mondo beta-love to I was BOTWP and Filisgare. No one wants to read a dreadful mess, so thanks for helping me with that. Also thank you to everyone who reviewed! Reviews are like hot cocoa and an electric blanket after a long day spent out-of-doors.
P.S. How mad are you that I've left Draco prejudiced for this fic?
