A Kind of a Sort of a Cost

I have not seen the bloody prat for nearly a month. We had a violent fight. Again.

It start with him starting up a discussion regarding my house. Harry hates my house. My best friend, Crystana Zeller hates my house, as does Ellamina Gamp and Willa Nettles. But Draco, oh Draco, doesn't just hate my house. He loathes my house.

This was not the first argument. Or the worst. Or the last.

He was rubbing my hands that night. Work had been long and on hot days my joints sometimes ached for mysterious reasons. He had visited me after work. We were in the garden. Ever since moving there I had planted roses, lilies, lilac bushes and hydrangeas. Ferns line the walk and an enchanted willow stands in the back. A small section focuses on herbs—lavender, thyme, mint, basil, etc. I can't cook, but they are useful in some light potions. We were actually talking about my garden while we sat in it, about the herb garden. Draco was teasing me.

"You can hardly make toast, but your potions are supposedly the best around."

"Please," I scoff. "They're not 'supposedly,' they are. You of all people should know that!" I swat him on the shoulder gently. "Besides, I don't need to cook. There is a pub in town and the doors of Malfoy Manor are always open to me."

"If you want decent meals all the time, you ought to just move in."

"What to the pub?" I raise my brows in a challenge. "I don't think I'd be too welcome to sleep there, Draco."

He sticks his tongue out. "The Manor, you imbecile."

"Mmm, I would but I have a reputation as a moral, upstanding citizen."

"Ha, of course you do."

I hit him again. He sobers. "But really, Keturah. Why not?"

"Because I like my house." I say.

"You are the only one who likes your house."

"Essay likes it." I huff, referring to my horridly jumpy Irish Wolfhound.

"He does not count."

"He does! He lives here."

"Which makes him bias." Draco points out. "You can't stay here alone, forever. And don't say you're not alone, the dog and the owl do not count. At some point, you're going to have to venture out into society fully. What better way to do so? Move in with me, Keturah."

As logical as his impromptu speech is, I am not swayed. "I'll leave. Eventually. But I like it here, Draco. It's home. It's been home for years. Leaving now is just…Draco, I can't. Not yet."

"Then move the house. You hate this valley. We can find some land, somewhere in Devon, perhaps. By the sea. And I'll find a way to move the garden as well."

"Draco…."

"Just think about it."

I say I will. I've found sometimes it's better to agree and lie, rather than start an argument resulting in one of us losing a pair of arms and gaining a pair of yellow tentacles.

We go back to our gentle teasing. It's a nice evening. We sit out in the twilight, sharing a half bottle of wine, some unknown label from the Malfoy wine cellar. We whisper stories back and forth, because we haven't seen each other for three days. There is so much to tell. I mention the raid on Borgin & Burkes last Tuesday, and Essay's most recent escapade. He speaks of a gala coming next month, at the Comet Center in London.

When he leaves, which he must, it's late, nearly one in the morning. Before he apparates, he has to bring up the ill-fated topic again.

"If you moved in with me, we could stay up till three."

"We can stay up till three tonight, but I still have work tomorrow."

"Move the house and I'll move in with you."

"What makes you think I want to live with you?" I ask coolly.

"Just consider, really think about it…"

"Leave it, Draco." I ground out dangerously. "In fact, go home. I'll see you tomorrow." I start toward the house. No goodnight kiss tonight.

For a moment, he stares after me. Then, complete spur-of-the-moment- "Marry me."

I turn 'round, giving myself whiplash. "What?"

"Marry me, you harpy."

I'm entirely speechless. Marry him? As in wed? Fully commit? White-dress-church-flowers-and-cake, that kind of "marry?" But I'm only….

"Twenty-one." My father's voice snickers in my mind.

"Long time no see." I tell him.

"Um…" I've found my voice again. "Come again?"

Draco sighs, dropping to sit on my steps. "I want you, silly girl, to marry me. I've wanted you to for a very long time. My future is secure. We're old enough."

"I don't think—" My mouth is dry. I swallow and try again. "I'm not sure we're ready for that. Yet."

"Why?" He demands. He's still sitting, but probably not for long. "It's been two years, Keturah. You've done none of this 'Living' you claimed you wanted to do before you settled down. All you've done is buy a house, work, and garden! No traveling, nothing! The most exciting thing you've done over the last two years is buy that fucking dog!"

"Draco." He's being unreasonable and I tell him so. Furious, he stands, circles me. I am standing in the grass, barefoot, in my satin calico sundress. My wand is in my pocket, but I don't want to go that far. "Draco, I'm sorry. But I need time."

"How long?" He throws the words at me like verbal knives. There is desperation in his eyes equal to the anger in his words. "Months? Years?"

"Years, probably." I cringe. This is not the answer he was looking for. "Oh please, Draco. It's not like—"

"Three years, Keturah. We're practically already engaged. Why not just make it official?"

"I need time."

He takes a breath, hesitating. There is something serious, something important that he needs to say. "I need reassurance that I'm not wasting my time."

"What?"

"Keturah…" He holds out the silence, staring into my eyes. He knows this makes me squirm, the git. "I've got a duty to my family. Marriage is something they were expecting, I was expecting. I can't simply go on hold when you're not sure."

"I never said I've never marry you. I am sure. Right now is not the ideal time." I want to scream. The Malfoys are practically the only resemblance of a family that I have.

Draco stops his circular paces. "I need you to commit to this."

"I am committed." I automatically say. He shakes his head. The sleek mane of silver-blond fall into his face. It had been perfectly arranged today, until I completely mussed it up during our visit. "What are you saying? That I need to start my bid? Brand you?"

In these three years, we've never once said the fated end-all-be-all words "I love you." It is just not our style to express these things verbally. I thought the feeling was clear though. We may not like using the terms, but we love. We do love.

"The Greengrass's youngest daughter, Astoria? She's becoming very interest in me, lately."

I reel back. Is he…ending things? I turn away and begin to march toward the house, speechless yet again.

"Keturah, wait."

"Wait?" I spat. "I thought you wanted me to stop waiting. Have a swell time getting to know Miss Greengrass, Mr. Malfoy. I've heard she is a delightful child."

One thing on my mind, I storm into the house, magically locking the door behind me. I hear him outside, trying everything from Deletrius to Alohomora no success. I smile viciously. Father taught me locking spells. I learned an impenetrable one at the tender age of three, shortly before he left. Draco hit the door multiple times before his single intelligent thought hits him and he apparates inside. He is one of only three people my wards allow to apparate directly inside my home. This, I realize, needs to change. He lands with a soft "pop" in my parlor. I'm in the kitchen, making myself a cup of tea. When he walks in I'm putting a couple of biscuits on to a china plate, planning to levitate the whole bit (tea pot, tea cup, plate with biscuits, and tray) all up to my bedroom.

"Keturah, please." His eyes are soft. There is nothing he wants so badly than for me to forgive him. However, that is not happening. Not tonight. He follows me as I levitate the tray up the steep stairway, ignoring him firmly.

"You have to talk to me."

"No, I don't." I think. Father is still laughing.

"You're acting like a spoilt child."

Now I'm the one laughing. Inside my head, but it still counts.

"A little mad, if I'm not mistaken." Father remarks lazily.

"In comparison to having my dead father popping up in my head whenever he wants to chat, I'd say it is right as rain."

"Ignoring me is not going to fix this."

"Oh, isn't it?"

"Blimey, I know you're having one of those one-sided mental conversations you always have when you're mad. Talk to me."

He's right about the internal part. However, it is far from one-sided.

"I ask you to marry me and we start fighting like children."

I finally do speak, once I've settled in the window seat in the attic. I just kept walking until I reached the attic loft, which is now a rather lovely sitting room. It used to be my room, until I actually owned the house. A leaded stain glass window, a circle with merry blue flowers woven around a fleu-de-lis dead center is at the front of the house, overlooking the drive. I spent many hours as a child tracing the pictures on this glass, murmuring make-believe stories.

"I'm not angry." I state. "I'm so past angry I'm numb."

He doesn't respond, simply looks at me from beneath his pale lashes, and that crop of silken hair that lies over this eyes.

"So you have two choices, Draco. You can leave, date Greengrass and be done with the whole mess, the exhausting effort of courting me," I sneer, letting the words drip with obvious malice. "Or you can still leave. Then come back here in a month and we'll see about patching things up."

"A month?" His voice sounds like gravel.

My voice is cold. For a brief instant, I'm reminded of my father, addressing his hoard of Death Eaters. "It will take me some time to 'get over' this one, Malfoy. "

With nothing left to be said, I look out the window, sipping my tea. Draco lets himself out.

I never knew what choice he decided upon.

Drama, drama, drama. Lord. Poor Draky-poo. This was slightly foreshadowed in chapter 8, in some little offhand comment Keturah makes regarding the idea of letting Draco know she's being taken my Ministry members.

I know these switches between the past and present are a tad confusing. In the first chapters I used italics, but in these later ones they're not always like that. I just felt stylistically it didn't work all the time.

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