Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously.
AN: This was my entry for the Through the Ages mini-fest, my prompt was Regency era. It was written in a day since I stumbled upon this fest four days before the deadline and decided I was up to the challenge - I'm crazy like that!
Many many thanks to my wonderful betas : Postal Ninja, Riverrr, RedBlackHeart, and cinnamonbun24. All remainings errors are my own.
And of course, thank you QuinTalon for hosting this fest.
Enjoy!
« O France ! terre de gloire et d'amour ! »
De l'Allemagne - Madame de Staël
.
23 November 1813
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a good son, in possession of a noble legacy, must do whatever his loving and strong-willed mother asked of him.
Even if it conflicted with his own plans to be in Italy with his peers.
Hence Draco's predicament: he was bored.
He knew that Father had actually had to confound a few people to get tickets to this Première, but if it weren't for Mother, he definitely wouldn't be here.
He didn't care much for Émilie Bigottini, despite how pretty and sensual Blaise claimed she could be.
Blaise, who he was supposed to meet at his Villa's in a few days. Idiotic grand tour that had to go through France, so that his beloved Mother would express her longing to accompany him in the city of love.
The ballet was now starting, and he looked around instead of focusing on the stage. Dancers in tutus weren't usually part of his daydreams.
That's when he saw her.
Demure despite a last-season dress, more revealing than this season's, she looked avidly at the dancers, her elflock hair pulled into a bun of sorts on the top of her head.
She looked so out of place; why was no one bothered by her and her crazy hair? Shouldn't one follow etiquette to enter the Opéra de Paris? Couldn't she have done a proper chignon?
She didn't even have very much jewellery on: weren't they here to see and be seen?
Even he knew that. What was wrong with that muggle woman?
Oh. That was it.
Muggle.
She was a muggle.
Most of them were dim-witted... well, except for the odd one like this Émilie Bigottini, whose reputation preceded her. He could see the appeal of this beautiful woman, even from their private balcony.
His eyes averted from the stage and travelled back to the strange-looking woman.
She was a muggle.
He shouldn't look at her. He shouldn't entertain any thoughts about her and those pouty lips, and those small hands that wouldn't even fit around his…
He shouldn't.
Nevertheless, he spent the whole performance looking at her; how she nipped her lips, how she laughed, how she clenched her hands… Her face was an open book, which was so strange to behold; nobody around him wore their emotions on their sleeve like that.
He shook his head during the final round of applause, clearing his thoughts.
This damn ballet was making him crazy.
He'd stop by Beauxbâtons on his way to Italy. There, he'd meet beautiful, clever, poised witches.
23 December 1813
"What would you be reading, Miss...?"
She looked at him over her book, not even fazed by his random question.
She would have been a Gryffindor. Or maybe a Ravenclaw?
Draco had been so surprised to see her here, with her distinctive elflock hair, that he had gone over to her, forgotting all about his mother's Christmas present, and had tried to introduced himself. He just sat at her table when she didn't deign to answer.
Maybe she was mute. She couldn't be deaf, considering that she had been at the ballet, a month ago now.
Had it been only a month? He had travelled all over Italy, met great professors, and seduced quite a few lovely ladies, but here he was nonetheless, with the strange-looking girl from the ballet. Not so much a Muggle, then, if she was at the Griffon buveur's, and quite alone, it seemed. She couldn't be; there must be a chaperone somewhere. Or she didn't care, like with the farce she tried to pass off as an elaborate updo. But Draco was the son of Narcissa, and thus knew all about how a proper lady was supposed to dress and look. Maybe he should tell her. Help her.
Merlin forbid.
He watched her a bit more, in her periwinkle dress robes. But just like at the Opéra, she beamed at her pages and didn't seem to pay attention to anything else, least of all her clothing choices.
Draco frowned; he was used to women looking at him like this. But she was simply ignoring him. Could he somehow manage to make her look at him the way she did at her books?
He was contemplating ways of weaving himself into her afternoon of reading, maybe by ordering some more tea, when a shadow stopped by their table.
"My dear, I've just finished at Gladrags; do you wish to accompany me to the apothecary or would you rather go to Magillard right away?"
The stern woman shot him a severe look.
"Who would your acquaintance be?"
Draco shot up from his seat and bowed.
"If I may, I'm Malfoy, h..."
He couldn't finish; the brunette had closed her book, challenging eyes narrowed at him.
"I'd be delighted to join you; I do need some asphodel."
Her English was perfect. She wasn't at all French. She knew potion ingredients. Circe, could she be as intelligent as she appeared to be? And, by any chance, were they going back to London too?
The woman nodded towards him, a pointed look on her face:
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy."
And they were gone in a whirlwind of cloaks and brown curls before he had time to ask them a single question about their whereabouts.
7 July 1814
Try as he might, he couldn't take his eye off of her amaranthine dress.
It seemed he always came across her in impromptu places - Hogwarts library being a new development; first at the beginning of his grand tour, and here at its end.
She was holding yet another book, absorbed in her reading, oblivious to her surroundings.
He was no longer listening to the woman who was describing what they planned to do with the money his family had donated. He would willingly donate a whole vault to be able to admire that young woman reading peacefully.
Footsteps could be heard, and the same woman he had seen in Place Cachée came to a halt next to the brunette.
"Is Waverley to your liking, Hermione?"
So that was her name. Indeed, she did look like a Shakespearian character breathed into life.
Would she talk to him, this time?
She startled, and looked at the other woman, a full smile gracing her lips.
"Oh, I'm so happy I was able to get a copy earlier in Edin..."
She noticed him. Deep pools of chocolate met his rainy gaze.
With a knowing smile, the elderly woman approached him.
"Thank you for your generosity towards the school's library, Mr. Malfoy. I was delayed by some students; I'm sorry I couldn't meet you right away. I'm the new deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall."
She held out her hand and he shook it firmly.
"Indeed. I don't remember having any classes with you..."
"You wouldn't; it's my first year. I used to teach Transfiguration at Beauxbâtons."
He nodded politely.
"I've been there, during my grand tour. I have to say I'm rather keen on Hogwarts's castle but the French school did have its own charm."
McGonagall's smile returned:
"I'm rather taken with this new school, myself."
She nodded to an alley and extended her arm, palm up.
"Shall we?"
23 December 1815
It had taken quite a bit of time to track her, as she seemed to disappear to the Muggle world regularly. The Malfoys had some alliances with the Muggle aristocracy too, but he never encountered her at those events. Was she a Squib?
Deep brown eyes, elflock hair, small hands clutching a book, she was sitting quietly in front of an untouched teacup. Hermione.
He had already disregarded the rules of introductions once. Should he try again?
His mind wasn't quite made up by the time he was halfway across the street, in front of her secluded table. Her lace gloves were half-undone, her fingertips trailing over the pages with the utmost-reverence.
Her head shot up and she frowned. Then, recognition must have hit her, for she shot daggers towards him.
"I don't know you, Mr. Malfoy, nor do I care for your company."
Her voice was bland, polite despite her words. She obviously had been taught how to behave. If only he could learn her last name...
"Is that book of yours so interesting?"
"If you must know, yes."
She turned another page, dismissing him entirely.
"Would you be so kind as to tell me about it?"
"Don't make me hex you, Mr. Malfoy."
So, she was a witch. A strong one too, if she was that confident in her abilities. That was marvellous news.
But she didn't want anything to do with him. What a pity.
1 January 1818
He may have drunk more than his fair share at yesterday's party.
He had every right to do so; he was of age, so even Mother couldn't stop him any longer. Not after the disastrous last year he'd had, and his failed betrothal.
Astoria Greengrass, the lovely woman his parents had chosen and that he had faithfully been courting, had eloped with another.
He didn't love her, per se, but he had grown accustomated to her, and had been willing to try to make their marriage work. So much so that he had been avoiding the brown eyes he'd used to seek out.
He went to the garden, to wish his mother a good morning on the first day of this new year. She was sipping tea, reading quietly, regal as usual in her smaragdine dress robes.
The weather was perfectly mild as was customary for her greenhouses, and she seemed to enjoy sitting in the quietness after last night's fuss.
She closed her book upon seeing him, and offered him a cup.
"How's your head?"
He drank dutifully before answering:
"Much clearer than yesterday, thank you."
"You should find a better and more suitable wife for yourself, son."
He nodded. He should. That was his duty to the family.
"What are you reading, Mother?"
She smiled and her hand brushed against the cover.
"A new book about a mad man trying to create life. And it was written by a Muggle Lady, if you can imagine."
He thought of chocolate eyes, brown messy curls and a beautiful smile.
"Would it be approved, Mother, if I found a beautiful witch, with a beautiful mind, but..."
He attempted to finish his sentence but realized that he had no knowledge of Hermione's background. He could write to Minerva McGonagall, and maybe she'd be inclined to tell him, what with the generous amount of money his parents donated to the school.
His mother's fingers came to rest on his cheek, as light as a breeze.
"I just want you to be happy, my dragon."
17 October 1819
His mother had been quite persistent about their holidays in Stuttgart; they needed to be seen at the new capital. She had also mentioned wanting a change of scenery, surely more for his benefit.
As usual, he had stopped to pick up some of his mother favourite's pastries, when he saw her. Still the same innocence, the same brown hair in a tangled mess, clutching a book to her chest.
Hermione.
Should he talk with her? News of his failed betrothal had been everywhere. She would know. Would she pity him? Could he ask to court her?
She glanced his way and smiled politely, acknowledging him.
"Mr. Malfoy. I was on my way to meet with your mother. Minerva said that I was to meet her here. She appears to have been reading all my favourite novels too."
Draco couldn't speak.
"Is that so?"
She nodded.
"I was the one to convince her to fund the addition of some muggle books to the Hogwarts library."
"Could I... May I..." Marry you? Court you? Kiss you? The questions were on-going.
She appeared to be much amused.
"Yes, you can ask me all about them, now that I don't appear to be busy reading."
18 December 1819
"Is that the new book you went to get in Edinburgh earlier today?"
She smiled, glowing with pride.
"Yes, it is. Ivanhoe ."
She began a soliloquy about the story that she was already halfway through.
He was following the shape of her mouth and the way her tongue darted out to moisten her lips when she finally came to a halt in between the shelves of the Hogwarts library.
Draco recognized it as his cue to say something.
"Due to my family's background, I think I could actually tell you which parts are real history, and which parts are the author's bias."
"I believe I would rather like that."
She smiled and finally, he accepted the fluttering in his chest for what it was: some deep longing to be loved by her as much as all the books she carried. To be cherished by this woman, despite her name, her background, her origins.
Had this been the point of his grand tour; to seek love, find it in the oddest of places and cherish it when it blossomed?
"I think I'd like that too."
A smidgen of red tinted her cheeks, a rose-coloured belief that his grand tour had indeed brought him forth on the right path, a journey on which he at long last found a witch to continue his tour with – and books, it would seem too.