A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-ONE

first impressions

"Stop fidgeting. It will be fine."

They had chosen a compartment near the back of the train, where Harry and Ron were unlikely to pass by. Crookshanks mewled unhappily in his wicker basket. "You don't know that," Hermione shot back, nervously wringing her hands in her lap.

Draco's long fingers reached out to still her. "Yes, I do. Relax. She'll be impressed with your choice of dress. That will keep her at bay for at least an hour." A smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. Hermione frowned, a wave of self-consciousness sweeping her. He had dug through her closet for a solid half an hour before locating the black dress she was currently wearing and insisting that it would be perfect for stepping off the train to meet his mother. It was a simple affair, really: silken black material, with a scoop neckline that gathered in the front, then clung to her torso before flaring out slightly at her waist in small ruffles. The hem was trimmed in silver thread, and it fell to her knees. Draco had laughed when he'd heard her putting a warming spell on her stockings, but being cold was worse than being embarrassed, she maintained. A pearl necklace and matching earrings, given to her for her seventeenth birthday by her mother, along with black ballet flats—trimmed in silver, like the dress—completed the ensemble. Her hair was tamed and half-pulled-back, a few of the shorter strands framing her face. She covered the whole thing with a thick black coat made of a warm, coarse material; for the moment, she had discarded her bright red scarf and mittens.

The closer they got to King's Cross Station, the more nauseous she felt. And at this point, they were very close indeed. Where had the day gone? she wondered hopelessly. Where had the simple hours of conversation and exchanging looks with Draco vanished to? The looks he gave her were curious, now: sometimes smouldering, though not angry; sometimes gentle, a brief tenderness flashing in his eyes; sometimes delighted, pleased with the hint of sarcasm, a borderline smirk, as though she had done something that amused him. None of them lasted long, but they were there, and that was enough.

Since spending the night in his arms that week—since brazenly and recklessly pressing a kiss to his cheek and smirking at him—she had suffered from continuous indecision. On the one hand, she felt a new part of herself struggling to emerge and, for the sake of being courageous, she occasionally gave the new Hermione reign. The newcomer to her personality was bold, delicately put. This Hermione continued dropping subtle hints by way of body language, coy looks, subtle touches. There were excuses to innocently widen her eyes at him while she smirked, to brush her fingertips against his hands as she reached past him for ink wells or textbooks, to angle herself toward him, giving him her attention. I'm in it this deep, she thought, as she had been thinking all week. His fingers again brushed apart her fidgeting hands, barely touching her knee in the small movement.

The odd thing was, it wasn't making her feel worse about her situation. Perhaps it was because he was flirting—if it could be called that—right back at her. He would squeeze her shoulder to say good night, making sure his fingertips grazed the delicate skin of her collarbone; he cast her fleeting, sultry looks from across the Great Hall that made her muscles tremble; if stopped for a word in the corridor, he would be sure to whisper as close to her ear as possible, his soft voice sending tingles down her spine. The pain in her chest was easing, as though her heart had stopped swelling and begun to reduce to normal size again. He was plainly not interested in Pansy, and he knew that she had rejected Ron. They didn't speak of it aloud, but she knew that his sights were set on something else, now—her.

Why else would he have pulled her down to his chest and kept his arm curled around her, pressing her body against his, for that entire night? Why else was he smirking at her now, with that smouldering glint in his eyes again—as though he were contemplating shagging her?

A light shiver racked her. She knew better than to think that any relationship with him would begin with gentle words and soft promises, though the old Hermione—the clever, innocent, cautious Hermione, before Granger 2.0 was released—held out hope for some normalcy to be preserved in a relationship with him. This Hermione was not bold, she was anxious, and she could tell that her flickering indecision was annoying Draco. He seemed to like the coy version of her, the one that liked playing his games. When she descended back into her harder, nervous, easily angered, perpetually worried state, he didn't seem disappointed, exactly; she couldn't figure out exactly what it was he felt about her then.

She knew that if Draco Malfoy wanted her, it wouldn't be a relationship similar to hers with Victor Krum by any stretch of the imagination. It wouldn't be like what she could have had with Ron. It would be something much rougher, wilder, and more forbidden. The new part of her liked the idea. The old part of her was just a little frightened. She suppressed a smile, but it quickly turned to a worried frown. It was not a very Gryffindor-like thing to do.

She was Hermione to the outside world, devoted student, Head Girl, regular know-it-all, but behind closed doors and in patches of shadows there were new things to explore—if only she could make her nervously chattering intellect shut up long enough to try something new. She wanted to do something stupid, on purpose, spontaneously—just once, to see how she liked it.

So far, she liked it so much it scared her. And that scared part barely shut up for two minutes at a time.

The train was beginning to slow; Draco got to his feet to pull their trunks from the luggage racks, but she yanked him back down. "Not yet. Wait until the platform clears a bit," she pleaded. He rolled his eyes and slumped against the seat. "I know it's ridiculous, I know. I wish..."

"...you could trust them? Yeah, what a merry world it would be," he snorted as the train came to a complete halt. There was a sound like distant thunder as their fellow students poured off the Hogwarts Express. "Unfortunately, that seems unlikely."

She sighed, and they subsided into silence. Her heart was beginning to pick up speed; she could practically feel her blood pressure rising. She had, in her lifetime, slipped past a three-headed dog, been Petrified by a basilisk, ridden a hippogriff, and fought Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, but none of those terrors really compared to the horror she felt now. Draco Malfoy's mother was somewhere out there on the platform—waiting to meet her. They had not yet even glimpsed one another, and the anticipation had already made short work of her nerves.

After five minutes, he checked his watch. "That should be enough time. Come on." He lifted her trunk down for her, and then pulled down his own. She slid her arm through Crookshanks's wicker basket, ignoring the cat's plaintive mewing, and followed him out of the compartment, both of them jumping down onto the platform. It was still crowded, but there was no red hair in sight. "Mum should be around here somewhere..." His silvery eyes searched the crowd; his height, well over six feet, allowed him to do this with ease. "Ah. I've spotted her."

Hermione's heart felt as though it had swollen and risen up to choke her throat. It pulsed furiously. She stayed close at his side as they moved forward, parting the crowd; the students reuniting with their families were far too occupied to be interested in the two of them. A shade of happiness coloured his tone when he spoke next. "Hello, Mum."

"Draco." Hermione had expected a cold greeting between the two. This was anything but cold. Draco leaned down and gathered the thin frame of his mother into his arms, hugging her tightly. "I hope you're well?" The words were formal, but the tone they were delivered in was not; this was not the Narcissa Malfoy that Hermione had glimpsed at the Quidditch World Cup or in Madam Malkin's the year prior. This was another woman—a woman she had not seen before.

Her blonde hair was long, and seemed to dance in thick strands around her shoulders and down her back. She must have been in her mid-forties, but didn't look it at all: her skin was a creamy pallor interrupted by only a few shallow wrinkles, her eyebrows thickly arched, posture ramrod straight, teeth almost unnaturally white as they flashed in a brief smile while her son hugged her. She was unquestionably elegant, tall—taller than Hermione, to be sure—well-dressed in an emerald-green coat that fell to her mid-thigh; there was a glimpse of black satiny material beneath the coat, perhaps her dress for the evening.

"Quite. Term has been fine." Hermione was startled from her observations by Draco's voice. A small smile twisted up the corner of his mouth as he released his mother. "How are you? You look pale."

The same small smile turned up the corner of her mouth. "I'm fine, Draco. You worry too much." Her eyes moved from her son's face—Hermione noticed that the shade of blue that she continually hunted out in the silver was there, plain as day, in Narcissa's eyes—and onto Hermione's. "You have yet to introduce me to your charming friend," she chided, the words directed at her son, though her gaze was still on Hermione. "Draco, Draco, where are your manners?" The soft way she said the words was laced with interest and the slightest hint of disapproval, though for her heritage or Draco's incompetence, Hermione couldn't be sure. She did note, her stomach sinking at the realization, that she recognized this woman now: the detached indifference and the muted displeasure returned to her features as she looked at Hermione.

"Of course. I'm being rude. This is Hermione Granger, the current Head Girl. Hermione, this is my mother, Narcissa Malfoy." His tone, though smooth and polite, was full of a certain wariness. His eyes turned on Hermione with a reassuring look in them.

"It's lovely to finally meet you, Mrs. Malfoy." She barely recognized her voice as her own as she gave a small smile and offered her hand to shake Narcissa's. She didn't know what she would do if the gesture was not returned. "Thank you for inviting me to stay for the holidays. It's very kind of you."

Her blue eyes took the measure of the younger girl, features still stiff and indifferent, but she nodded and took Hermione's hand. "After hearing so much about you, it's lovely to finally meet you as well, Miss Granger." Her heart jumped to her throat. How much had Draco said about her? And what, exactly? "We should Disapparate; Craxus will have dinner nearly ready," she told her son as she released Hermione's hand.

The platform was thinning out. Draco nodded. "You can side-along with me, Hermione, so you don't end up lost," he said, with the hint of a smirk in his voice, and offered her his arm. She nodded politely, quite aware that Narcissa was watching her closely, and took his arm, laying her hand atop his own. He turned on his heel; she followed suit, allowing his direction to guide her. The feeling was still horridly uncomfortable. She preferred not to Apparate at all if she didn't have to, but she couldn't have expected the Malfoys to keep a car or anything so thoroughly ordinary. In a moment's time, however, they were standing in a long drive which led straight up to the door of what could only be called a Manor.

It seemed nearly a miniature of Hogwarts, castle-like in appearance, though somehow more stately than the old school. Hedgerows and gardens turned off from the long drive, and Hermione caught the glimpse of a white, feathery tail—an albino peacock, perhaps? Snow had already fallen here, coating the greenery and the dormant fountains with glistening heaps of white glitter. The drive alone was untouched. Hermione's eyes widened as she took in the bell tower perched atop the Manor, the many high windows and the wrought-iron gate behind them that stretched out of sight around the complex. They certainly had a great deal of land.

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," Draco murmured, gently prying her fingers off of his with a smirk.

"It's...beautiful," she breathed.

"You haven't even seen the inside yet." He chuckled and started forward, following Narcissa up the drive. Hermione walked briskly to keep up with him, each of them towing their trunks along with them.

"You should give her a tour after dinner, Draco," Narcissa called over her shoulder as she reached the front door. She did not spare a glance on Hermione. "For now, show her to her room and let her freshen up. Craxus will be anxious."

"Who's Craxus?" Hermione murmured, as they turned up the staircase on the right and Narcissa vanished through another door in the entrance hall. Draco magicked their trunks into the air for greater ease.

"Head house-elf. Mother's come to rather like him since father went to Azkaban. I think he keeps her company." He shrugged. "And she tends to treat him rather well, so he's quite fond of her." They reached the top of the stairway. A long carpet, mostly dark green but edged in gold and silver, covered the otherwise bare hardwood floor, down the hallways and down the stairs behind them. The hallway was very long, with only a few doors. Draco turned to the last door on the left and pushed his trunk inside before closing it again. "It's boring," he answered in response to her mystified look. "This, on the other hand, is your room, and I'm sure mother's had a grand time fixing it up for you." He turned the knob of the door across the hall, pushed it open, and led the way inside.

She stopped in the doorway, her hands pressed over her mouth to hold in a gasp.

The ceilings were of cathedral proportions. To her left, there was a massive four-poster bed, king-sized at the least, the wood in a soft golden colour—she guessed it was oak of some kind—that glowed faintly. A delicate, gauzy, lightly peach canopy draped over it, concealing the richly apricot-coloured comforter from view. The dresser, night stand, and wardrobe were all in the same wood, the handles trimmed in gold. A vanity table in the same golden colour and topped with a hovering oval mirror was perched to the left of the enormous window, which opened to a view of the garden below—or a bit of the garden, Hermione thought numbly, as she finally stepped over the threshold of the door and moved forward to peer out. Moonlight covered the whole glittering affair—hedges, fountains, statues—with a soft, beautiful light. Her fingertips grazed the vanity, feeling with shock and delight the smooth, soft nature of the wood. In a dreamlike trance, she turned. The opening to the bathroom was through an archway straight in front of her. She walked—no, floated—through the doorway.

A mirror dominated the wall before her, stretching across the sink, which held several deep basins all furnished with golden taps. Narcissa's touch was here, too—the towels were the same shade as the comforter, a combination of light orange and rosy pink. Her trembling fingertips touched the fabric; it was lusciously soft. Opposite the sinks there was an enormous bath, sunk into the floor, lined with taps all the way around. She was irresistibly reminded of the Prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts, but the taps here seemed much more delicate, and carved with little writings which she supposed labelled their scents. To the right of the sinks, there was a deep shower, lined on the bottom with stones similar to the ones in their dormitory. A changing screen—again wrought in colours of gold and peach—stood on this side of the room as well, a few articles of clothing hanging there casually, as though awaiting her.

She turned slowly. Draco was watching her with a mingled expression of anticipation and concern. "It's hard to tell what you're thinking," he grumbled.

"It's...amazing," she said faintly, bracing herself with a hand against the sink. "And far too much. She did this for me?"

He nodded. "She likes to make a good impression, and decorating is one of her favourite things. She's always wanted to design a room for a daughter, you know. Sons don't tend to care what things look like. So I'm not surprised that it's even grander than she promised. I also wouldn't be surprised if she was trying to overwhelm you a bit, so try not to look like you've been hit by a train when we go down to dinner. She'll take it as a sign of weakness."

"She's very talented," Hermione said, her voice still faint. "It's beautiful. I love it."

He was suddenly smiling. She realized that she'd rarely seen him so relaxed; was it because he was home? "I dare say she'll be pleased," he said. "I'll leave you to freshen up for dinner." With a parting smile, he left. She heard the door, so many paces from where she stood, close softly behind him.

With slow, trembling movements, she removed her scarf, her mittens, her coat, and found a coat rack she hadn't noticed before standing near the door into her bedroom. After placing them carefully on the stand, she went to the vanity table, noticing that Draco had left her trunk at the foot of her bed. "Somehow," she murmured to herself, "I have a feeling I won't be wearing any of those clothes while I'm here."

To confirm her suspicions, she took a seat and opened the first drawer in the vanity, the one which stretched across the table length-wise. A soft gasp escaped her lips. Neatly organized against the deep emerald velvet were a myriad of beauty products, all of them in the precise shades which were compatible with her skin, hair, eyes and lips. She closed the drawer with a snap, and opened the next, on the left. This first one was full of earrings, most of them quite delicate masterpieces, nearly all dotted with shimmering jewels. The next was neatly organized with bracelets, and she could tell that some would match the earrings in the previous drawer. The final opened on many rings, again of matching qualities. With a deep breath, she opened the swinging door that lined the drawers on the left; the long space dangled with beautiful necklaces, pearls, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, gold, silver...

Her hands shaking, she closed the door. The eyes in the mirror before her were both awed and frightened. It was then that she noticed a slip of parchment, tucked between the wood and the mirror. She reached forward to free it, and unfolded it. The script was elegant, small, and pleasing to the eye.

Miss Granger—

I wish you to be as comfortable as possible during your stay. Please take advantage of the clothing and supplies I have left for you. I daresay you'll find them all to your liking.

Narcissa Malfoy

"She's nothing if not hospitable, eh?"

Hermione started; she hadn't heard Draco come in. He had removed his cloak, and was revealed to be wearing a crisp black suit, accentuated beneath by a dark blue shirt and a black tie that brought out the blue in his eyes. She felt her heart jump to her throat again; he was gorgeous. She struggled to clear her mind, to answer the question he'd posed. "I'm scared to look in the wardrobe, or the dresser," she confessed in a small voice, her eyes tearing from his. She felt a blush seep into her cheeks as she replaced the note on the vanity table. Her embarrassment at her own embarrassment deepened; she felt suddenly too warm with him occupying the room with her, and vastly incapable of thinking straight. Her next words were so cobbled together that she could barely make them out. "This is more grandeur than I've seen in my entire life, put together."

He chuckled. "You'll adjust. Come on, dinner will be ready by now."

"Should I..." She hesitated, her fingers flitting out to touch the note again, the embarrassment abating a bit as something like panic began to take hold. "Should I wear something she's chosen for me down to dinner? I don't want her to...take offence..."

"No, no. Save it for the morning. She thought your pearls looked lovely." She gave him a startled look. He shrugged. "Sometimes it's helpful to read minds. She likes to pass information to me that way at times, when it would be wrong to say them aloud."

"Master and miss."

Hermione stood hastily. An ancient house-elf stood in the doorway. "Dinner is served," he croaked. "Mistress Malfoy asks Craxus to fetch you."

"Thank you, Craxus, we'll be right along." The elf vanished. Draco grinned at her astonished look. She decided that she liked him so relaxed, so pleased; did Hogwarts really have such an embittering effect on his personality? "Yes, since my father's left, they all rather enjoy the place," he told Hermione in an undertone as they strolled into the hallway and toward a different set of stairs than they came up; these were not quite as grand. "My mum's become very sweet on them."

They emerged at the bottom into the warming light of a hundred candles, and Hermione, with increasing pleasure, happy to forget that his presence at her side was making her heart flutter irregularly, took in the scene around her.