A Concerted Effort to Disagree
TWENTY-FIVE
standstill
The days tripped toward Christmas, and Hermione moved through them in a daze. They spent hours of time in the library, Hermione digging through the many massive texts there and stealing covert glances at Draco, who was usually similarly occupied; they roamed the grounds, stomping through the snow, sledding and having snowball fights; they argued, certainly, as much as was usual, but the edge of animosity had gone. It had turned to playful, if fierce, bickering.
There was a new edge, though, an edge of perpetual happiness, a smile that she caught on his face when he thought she wasn't looking, something that didn't even vaguely resemble a smirk. He was quiet about it, but he was happy.
She felt another edge, too, an edge of fear when she thought of returning to Hogwarts. They hadn't yet discussed how they would act around the school's population. They avoided speaking of anything too serious, yet, instead trying to adjust to the new connection they had found in one another. They certainly couldn't reveal the truth to its full extent. Here, at the Manor, with Narcissa happily staying out of their way—Hermione had heard distant humming coming from the woman's quarters, and was certain that she was pleased with everything—it seemed that the world ceased to exist. There was no war looking over their shoulders, there were no disgruntled friends, there was only the two of them, adrift, separate from the world, safe. And she was furious that it had to come to an end.
...
"Christmas!" a voice announced loudly, quite close to her head, and Hermione jolted awake.
She groaned, yanking a pillow over her head even as she felt Draco ripping the sheets and blankets from her warm nest. His warmth was gone, too, and she felt more annoyed about this; he was quite comfortable, and quite the space heater. "Christmas can wait a few hours," she groaned, as he pulled at one of her ankles. "Give me a blanket back, it's cold." Wearing only one of his over-large t-shirts and a pair of underwear, she was quite aware that the temperature in the room was not at all what it should be.
She felt something soft land across her lower back, and groped around to grab it. It wasn't a blanket, but her flannel pyjama bottoms, which she hadn't worn in a good few days. She had gotten into the habit of falling asleep next to him, and there was usually no need for that extra layer of warmth. "Come on," his voice said, whining a bit. "I want to open presents and it's rude to do it without you. You only have to come down to the floor, look, they're right here."
"No," she said stubbornly, keeping her head under the pillow. "You kept me up half the night." She heard his pleased snicker, but didn't have the capacity to feel embarrassed, only annoyed. "I need sleep."
"I have a present for you." His voice was reaching an exasperated pitch now. His footsteps padded closer, and he swept the pillow off her head. She pressed her face into the mattress, her eyes still shut tight. "Come on, I'll let you go back to sleep after. I promise."
She cracked one eye open suspiciously. "I don't believe you."
He offered her a large box, wrapped in bright red paper, tied off with a brilliant golden bow. "I know you're curious." He was smirking. She was beginning to find that expression of his endearing. The horror.
"You're evil," she told him, and sat up, reaching for the elastic band on her night stand to tame her hair. He watched this action regretfully; she had come to the realization that he liked her hair wild, as much as that shocked her. Slowly, regretfully, she pulled on the Gryffindor-coloured flannel and gave a huge yawn. He grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bed, towing her toward the fire. The warmth swept over her in pleasant waves, and she sighed in relief, taking the box from him when he pushed it at her again. "That's mine for you," she added, nodding to a large green-wrapped package with a slim silver ribbon wrapped around it.
He tore the paper off enthusiastically and lifted the lid; she delayed the opening of her own present to watch his reactions. Inside was a jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish, a large lump of his favourite mint-flavoured dark chocolate fudge from Honeydukes, a copy of the play cleverly titled Hélas, Je me suis Transfiguré mes Pieds, another book titled Handbook of Hippogriff Psychology, and a small, smooth black stone.
"Oh, brilliant." As she had predicted, he immediately broke off a piece of fudge and stuffed it in his mouth. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?" he added suspiciously, lifting the French text first. "You know I don't speak French."
"It translates to English on the inside," she said, leaning over to flip open the book and point at the smaller title beneath the French words: Alas, I have transfigured my feet. He let out a small chuckle. "And...well, yes, that one I really am making fun of you. Hippogriffs are seriously misunderstood creatures," she added severely as he shot her a look.
"So what's this, then?" he asked, picking up the smooth stone; she watched him turn it over and scan the runes that were engraved on the back side of the very flat stone. Each of the tiny symbols were dotted with particles of other gems and stones: serpentine, amber, jade.
"It's onyx," she explained. "The stone itself promotes protection and health. The runes and the other stones solidify the spell, and I put another on it so that it doesn't just fall out of your pocket and get lost. It'll tend to stay close to you."
He continued to examine it in interest while she turned to her own present and ripped the paper off the box. There was a thick tome within called Muggles Who Notice—"That's you," Draco pointed out, rolling his eyes—her favourite caramel-milk-chocolate fudge from Honeydukes, a white peacock-feather quill, which she suspected had come from one of the albinos roaming the grounds, and another smaller box. She lifted it from amidst the wrapping paper, untying the thin silver ribbon from around it before cracking open the lid.
A figurine, carved entirely from the smooth stone of a deep blue sapphire and laced with silver, hung from a delicate silver chain. At first glance, the figure was a lion, complete with exquisite detail and a wild mane, with the fragment of a ruby marking its eye. When she lifted it to turn it to the backside, though, it transformed; now the figurine was a detailed serpent, with an emerald lodged in the eye socket. The pendant was small but very fine, and obviously imbibed with magic. "It should help you not worry so much that it kills you," his voice said dryly, interrupting her inspection of it. "I think we might've been thinking along the same lines." Smoothly, he lifted it out of the box and deftly closed the clasp at her neck. The stone figurine was pleasantly cool against her skin, the chain long enough that it could easily be tucked beneath the collar of her shirt. "It also reflects that you can be a bit like a Slytherin, when you're feeling up to it. And you should be happy about that," he added severely when she shot him a dirty look. "Prejudice goes both ways, you know."
"I love it," she admitted, lifting the stone to look at it again. "And you're right, of course." He looked at her with momentary bewilderment before reaching for a few more of his presents, tugging them toward him eagerly. She noticed that he had quite a pile, and sighed, pushing a stray clump of hair from her forehead. Whether or not Narcissa's plans carried out, she would never adjust to the grandeur of the Malfoys.
There were more presents for her, as well. A pair of emerald earrings, set in silver, and paired with an emerald-and-silver necklace, came from Narcissa; a note tucked into the velvet lining of the box read, Congratulations—I was right not to underestimate you. There was a thick stack of several literary classics from her parents, who wished her a good holiday and hoped she was finding Malfoy Manor hospitable. Ginny, too, had sent her a book, a thick tome on obscure Transfiguration, and written in a hastily scrawled note that she hoped Malfoy was playing nice; the girl had accurately seen through the lie that Hermione would be spending the holidays with her parents. Harry had sent along a wizard chess set and a package of ice mice. I know you're terrible at chess, but it's good for you, he wrote to her, and she couldn't help but smile. Ron's present was a sampling of sweets from Honeyduke's, and a basic blaze box from Fred and George's joke shop. You're still my best friend, too, his ragged slip of parchment said.
Somewhere in the midst of their opening presents, a house-elf had brought along a plate of sticky buns and mugs of hot chocolate. Hermione took a bite while she watched Draco pull a particularly frilly present from his dwindling pile. "Oh, Merlin," she said aloud with a grin. "That must be from Pansy." He appeared suddenly unwilling to open it. "Go on," she laughed, taking a sip of her hot chocolate. "This will be brilliant."
Inside was a bag bursting with sweets and a paperweight in the shape of a large golden snitch—the wings fluttered leisurely. He picked up the small card within the box, read it, and stifled a snicker, holding it out for Hermione to read. Dearest Draco, I hope you enjoy the holidays. Perhaps there will still be some mistletoe at Hogwarts for us when we return? Love, Pansy. She nearly choked on her sticky bun and handed the note back, snorting with laughter. He appeared both embarrassed and irritated. "She's lost her mind," he muttered furiously, "and it's all your fault. Encouraging her like that."
"What else was I supposed to do?" Hermione choked out, still laughing. "Let her get furious at me and curse me?"
"You would have won," he grumbled, still irritated, and reached for some of the sweets in the package.
"Wait." She scooted toward him and picked up the bag of sweets, then sniffed it delicately. "Don't eat these."
He looked, if possible, even more annoyed. "Why the bloody hell not?"
"Love potion," she answered grimly, and he blanched. "It's Amortentia, I'm certain. Otherwise these chocolates wouldn't smell like freshly-mown grass, parchment, and..." She frowned. When she'd taken a whiff of Amortentia in her sixth year, the last scent had not been present, but she didn't feel like telling Draco that his cologne had suddenly been added to the mix. "...It doesn't smell like sweets to you, does it?"
"Not the right kind of sweet," he said, and leaned forward to take a whiff. "Burning wood, broomsticks, apples, brown sugar...Definitely not chocolate." There was a slight frown on his face as he looked at the sweets, and she was sure she knew why; the last two scents he had named were the major components of her perfume and soap.
Without further contemplation, but with a small grin at this revelation, she fed the package into the fire. "I don't think you'd much fancy running off after Pansy at the moment," she said as the flames devoured the sweets.
"No," he muttered. "I can't believe her."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, you can't? She likes you a lot."
"You like me a lot, and you've never tried to feed me Amortentia," he grumbled, staring in annoyance at the large paperweight.
"Perhaps I'm less desperate," she remarked, her lips curling in a small smile. "Or maybe just less...forward."
He looked like he was trying very hard not to fire off a retort to that. "What would she have done, anyway, when it had worn off?"
Hermione shrugged. "Guilted you into staying, or fed you more. Perhaps eventually she'd be convinced that you had fallen in love with her in return, and would stop feeding it to you in the hopes that she wouldn't have to any more." Like Voldemort's mum, she thought, barely suppressing a cringe. She shoved the thought away. Christmas at Malfoy Manor was not the time to be thinking of Horcruxes. No, she wasn't interested in thinking of Horcruxes at all right at the moment.
"Pathetic," he said, and pulled a few more presents toward him with a scowl on his face.
"Oh, cheer up," she murmured sadly. "I don't know what else you could have expected from her. She's terrified she's losing you to me. It must be quite insulting for her."
He managed a small smile. "Oh, yes. Because you're so much uglier and stupider than she is." He snorted. "Come on, Hermione, don't be daft."
"I'm not beautiful," she told him, frowning, and he snorted, but didn't comment, "but at least I don't have a face like a pug. That isn't what I meant, though. She's your kind. Pure-blood, Slytherin. Losing you to a Mudblood—a Gryffindor—would be quite a slap in the face for her."
"Don't use that word," he murmured quietly, tearing away the wrapping on another gift.
"What word?" she asked, popping one of the ice mice into her mouth and shuddering at the sensation. It was a moment before he responded; by then, she had managed to swallow, and the squeaking of her teeth had quieted.
"Don't call yourself 'Mudblood'." He flinched. "It sounds all wrong...oof!"
For she had launched herself at him, pinning him to the floor, and kissed him full on the mouth, her hands holding tightly to his face. Enthusiastically, he threw away the present he had been ripping open and wrapped his arms around her, giving a soft groan of pleasure.
Breathless, she finally pulled away; he sat up, still holding her tightly, so that she straddled his lap. "What," he asked, blankly, and she noticed that his eyes had darkened perceptibly with desire, "was that for?" She suddenly felt infinitely warmer herself, and knew that it had nothing to do with the proximity of the fire blazing next to them in the grate.
"You...you said that 'Mudblood' sounded all wrong," she said, sheepishly, squirming a little, as though to evict herself of his embrace.
He simply stared at her, holding her firmly in place. "You're easy to please, aren't you?"
"It's heartening," she protested. "You actually think of me as a person with feelings now. That's quite a jump from four months ago."
"It's quite clear that you have feelings," he said, his voice patronizing. "Most prominent of those feelings, anger and embarrassment." At this comment, she blushed. He leaned forward to press his lips to her neck. Her pulse immediately escalated. "And a bizarre fondness for me," he added in a mumble. She could feel his frown against her skin.
"Yes, that is astonishing," she replied sarcastically, but her voice was a little too breathless to be sardonic. "Seeing as you've been a horrible prat and dragged me from bed at an absurd hour, just in time to discover that Pansy's present to you is Amortentia-laced sweets. Yes." She snorted. "Very bizarre, that I like you at all."
He glanced up at her, amused. "You sound...annoyed." His expression was a bit contemplative. "But it's also a bit more than that, isn't it?"
"No," she snapped, now squirming to get off his lap. "I'm tired. Therefore, annoyed."
He held her all the tighter. "No, it's something about Pansy." There was a wicked smirk overcoming his lips. She felt the desperate desire to hit him, but reminded herself, just as desperately, that she would only regret it later. "Oh, dear," he murmured sarcastically. "You're not jealous, are you, lioness? She's moving in on your territory, after all." There was a gleam in his eyes that told her that he thought it quite amusing that Hermione Granger was jealous of another girl's advances on him, but there was another look that told her he was enjoying her possessiveness.
She gave up the struggle to get out of his arms, thinking of the pet name he'd bestowed upon her. He was still smirking. Lioness? She couldn't help but like the sound of that. He was embracing her Gryffindor loyalty. He was turning it into a pet name. Rather than be irritated, she, too, grinned. He was immediately disarmed; the smirk fell a bit. "So what if I am?" she challenged, reaching up to tousle her fingers through his hair. He automatically winced, but tried to smooth the expression over quickly. No doubt, he would have trouble adjusting to physical affection that didn't lead to sex—maybe it would be impossible. But then again, maybe he could adjust. Maybe he would even learn to do things like this in return. "She acts like you're hers, and you're not. You're not a bit of property to be shuffled back and forth between eager girls." She snorted. "And Amortentia? Please. She's insulting your intelligence. As if you wouldn't spot it!"
She could see his ego inflating, and decided to puncture the balloon before it went too far. "Creative nickname," she added in a murmur, a smirk turning up her own lips as she stared down into his now slate-grey eyes. "Lioness. What does it refer to?"
He scowled at her, and yanked her wild hair from her ponytail. "This untameable mane you've got, Granger," he said darkly, though the look on his face was clearly caught-out. "What else would it refer to?"
"Nothing," she said sweetly, innocently, and he growled, seeking his revenge with a well-placed kiss at the crook of her neck and shoulder. She gasped, automatically, unable to keep the sound in. He chuckled darkly against her skin. "No," she said, unsteadily, as his hands moved to her waist. "You promised you'd let me go back to sleep!"
"I lied," he snickered, his hands already teasing the hem of the shirt she wore.
"I won't," she said, firmly. "I'll fight you—mmm." She couldn't help the noise of pleasure that escaped her as his teeth nipped at her shoulder.
"No, lioness, you won't." He shuffled her into his arms, stood, and tossed her to the bed, where she landed with a squeak. Abandoning the rest of his presents, he stalked to the mussed-up covers, where she stared up at him, half-annoyed, half-anticipatory. "And if you do," he murmured, his voice pleased, "it'll be even more fun."
"You have more presents to open," she tried, desperately.
He didn't spare them a glance. "This is more interesting." His eyes smouldered. The silver was darkened with lust. She shivered. "You can go back to sleep after," he assured her, pulling his shirt off over his head. Her heartbeat escalated at the sight of his well-sculpted chest. "Malfoy honour."
She grumbled as he descended on her. "Malfoys clearly have no honour." But at the sound of his soft laughter, and the feeling of his lips finding hers, she did nothing to stop him, only pulling him closer, dragging him nearer. She didn't know when he would change his mind, or how long this would last; she had dreaded suspicions that the stress of going back to Hogwarts would be enough to end their bickering, happy, quiet little tryst. So, though she was tired, she would enjoy him while she had the chance.
"Happy Christmas," he added, as his teeth nipped at her ear, and she couldn't help but agree.