Chapter 2: The Glitz and The Glam
7 May 1929
WEDDING OF THE DECADE:
THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY
By Rita Skeeter
It is difficult to imagine Miss Granger and Lord Malfoy with anyone other than themselves. They glow together, and shine like the stars in the night sky. However, as unbelievable as it sounds, the divine couple were not always together. In fact, the beginning of their love story reflects that of star-crossed lovers.
Right now, you're probably thinking, "Holy fuck, Rita might be on to something factual for once!" But that would be incorrect. Per usual, Rita is entirely of course, despite the somewhat accurate star-crossed lovers comment.
While the rest of Great Britain was enthralled in the whirlwind romance between Lord Malfoy and either Miss Parkinson or Miss Greengrass – still unknown which! – we failed to notice Miss Granger and Mr. Theodore Nott, Jr. Yes – Miss Granger was rumored to be romantically involved with Lord Malfoy's best mate! The engaged couple has since dispelled such rumors, but one glance at old appearances show Miss Granger constantly on Mr. Nott's arm.
Mr. Nott, when pressed about his relationship with Miss Granger and Lord Malfoy, said "I couldn't be happier for them. I love them both and want nothing but the best for them. Personally, I always believed they were endgame. Well," he chuckled. "Maybe not always." What a gentleman! Evidently, Mr. Nott has no hard feelings toward the future Lord and Lady Malfoy. It is interesting, though, that Mr. Nott remains unmarried and has been spotted with Miss Granger on more than one occasion.
Will Mr. Theodore Nott be our next beloved bachelor?
Or… is he fated to suffer in his unrequited love for Miss Granger?
Nevertheless, it is clear that Miss Granger's head will not be turned. Since the moment Miss Granger first appeared publicly on Lord Malfoy's arm, announcing their relationship, only the warmest intimacies have been witnessed between the pair. For both Miss Granger and Lord Malfoy, their love has blossomed. Just over four years later and the couple glows as though their honeymoon phase never ended. Perhaps, it hasn't!
Is she joking?
Is she fucking serious?
It's genuinely comedic for Rita to claim my head will not be turned by anyone other than Draco when she initially proposed to the British public that I was secretly in love with not only one, but two other men (one mentioned in this bloody article, and the other conveniently left out). Rita believed I was involved in a bloody love square. At first, I thought it was simply because a love square sold more than a love triangle, but now I know differently.
I fucking hate shapes.
The rumors she slyly reference are none other than the ones she wrote in the early days of my public "relationship" with Draco, as well. Obviously, Theo and I were never romantically involved. For fuck's sake… The other man, however, I cannot completely plead innocence with.
Oh, bloody hell, and don't even get me started on our never-ending honeymoon phase.
Draco and I weren't on good terms until roughly a year or so after we split up, meaning that during our first year in the spotlight, every intimate touch or smile was a façade. The "warmth" she, and apparently all of Britain, witnessed was purposefully curated by Narcissa and Draco. The only reason I even went along with the whole bloody thing was because, frankly, I was lost. I didn't know who I was nor who I wanted to be.
That quickly changed, of course, once I met Tom.
Though, I am currently writing my vows to Draco so, as fast and hard as I fell for Tom, it wouldn't last. Not that I knew that in the beginning.
15 September 1925
Hermione clutched the rich red satin in her fists and carefully descended the stairs. Luckily, this dress was better suited for her figure, and it didn't cut off her circulation or her breathing. A massive improvement on the gowns she'd been forced to wear the past nine months, and it was all thanks to Daphne's clever eye. Though, Hermione didn't know the other woman very well, it was clear Daphne Greengrass was extraordinarily talented. Her adjustments to the couture dress were marvelous.
"Why don't you pursue fashion?" Hermione asked her during one of the final fittings for this sleek red number.
Daphne scoffed, "My mother would never approve,"
She frowned.
"Your mother," Hermione mumbled. In general, there was no discussion of any other parental figures among the Death Eaters outside of Narcissa. Furthermore, it wasn't as if Daphne – or any of the others – were young and impressionable. In fact, two of them were parents themselves. "Daph," she ventured. "You're not a child. Do you really need to listen to your mother's opinion on what you should or shouldn't be allowed to do?"
Daphne pressed her lips into a thin line. "Don't you think I know that, Hermione?" She snapped. "It may be 1925, but women are just as repressed in society as they were nearly one hundred years ago. I'm an unmarried woman, and, as far as I'm concerned, I will always be an unmarried woman. My life is not mine; it is my parents." She huffed, pausing her work to glare at Hermione. "Just because your parents aren't overbearing and demanding that you follow society's rules for women, does not mean those rules don't exist. You may be above them, Hermione, but not every woman is," she warned, arching a golden eyebrow.
"But," spluttered Hermione, unable to grasp Daphne's hesitance to break the glass ceiling. "You are a highly educated, accomplished, and talented individual."
"Yes," snapped Daphne impatiently, "…and?"
Hermione stuttered incomprehensibly.
Daphne sighed, "It's cute that you think that changes anything."
Jarred from her reverie, Hermione nearly tripped as she came around the corner. She stepped into the foyer to see half of the household exchanging anxious glances and shrugging tense shoulders, and quickly stepped back into the corridor. Hermione counted to three slowly, to ensure none of them had seen her, then strained to listen in on their hushed conversation.
"Draco, my child," hissed Narcissa. "Have you ever considered that this could be a trap?"
"Of course, I have, Mother," he replied exasperated. "It's not a trap; it's a favor." He flicked a light over the cigarette dangling from his lips and inhaled the bittersweet nicotine. From his furrowed brows, Hermione could tell his mind was working overtime trying to identify ever possible outcome and weigh them against the reward. Whatever this so-called favor was, she thought, it must be extremely worthwhile because he appeared to struggle immensely.
"You can't seriously be considering this," his mother went on, snapping her fingers in his face. "He may not be your idol, but that doesn't mean he isn't bright." She shook her head, reaching for a crystal decanter to refill her glass. "You can't do it. Absolutely, not. It's ridiculous."
"You're quite right," he agreed, nodding slowly. "I can't do it."
Draco's grey eyes, clear and piercing, settled on Theo across the circle of people standing about. Narcissa, noticing the emphasis in Draco's statement followed by the subtle nod from Theo in response, waved her glass in the air between them.
"No." Narcissa glared at the two of them, "No."
Theo, however, chose to ignore her. This took Hermione by surprise because, under normal circumstances, Theo would never blatantly disregard Narcissa's opinion. He and Narcissa were the only family members to ever question Draco's decisions, but this must be an exceptional circumstance because Theo didn't so much as utter a single protest. The two men exchanged a series of hand gestures, and facial expressions, that meant nothing to anyone else; it was their own secret code.
"Will you two bloody speak if you're going to go through with this suicidal plan?" Narcissa fumed. She tipped the remainder of the spiced whiskey down her throat, then topped off her glass again. "You'll need more than just Theo if you're going to pull this off successfully."
"I know," said Draco.
Theo eyed Greg and Vince on either side of him – Draco nodded mutely – then arched a dark eyebrow pointedly at the wall of corridor Hermione hid behind. She panicked, struggling to steady her heartbeat.
"No," replied Draco aloud, earning a narrowed glare from Narcissa. He sighed, catching her expression, then added, "He wants Potter to go with them."
"Oh, fuck no," grunted Narcissa.
Draco lips stretched into a sly grin; he chuckled under his breath at his mother's reaction. Theo, meanwhile, rolled his eyes and held up his palms defensively. "Relax," he announced. "I was actually referring to the entire New Order, not just Potter."
This earned a severe reaction from Narcissa, which prompted Draco to bite down on his bottom lip to refrain from outright laughing. Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth to stop any noise from giving away her eavesdropping.
"Well, why not?" Theo pressed, crossing his arms over his lean chest. A stray ebony hair – curled because he hadn't applied enough styling gel – fell onto his forehead. "You said you wanted more men, and they have more than enough men."
"Not the men I want," countered Draco, pausing to inhale a puff of smoke before going on. "I need men I can trust for this." He waited for Theo to argue this point. He didn't. Draco nodded, pleased, then sniffed, "Besides, you and I both know they wouldn't agree to this anyway."
"Fucking democrats," muttered Narcissa from the sidelines, sipping idly at her whiskey. "Voting on every bloody decision," she shook her head. "It's a wonder they get anything done."
Theo huffed, "Fine. Then who else?" He stared at Draco for a long while, both of them communicating in code again. "We'll need a fourth man just to keep an eye out if you want to do this as discreetly as you say."
Draco nodded. He exchanged a few glances with Narcissa, leaning in to whisper something Hermione couldn't catch. She tried to read lips and barely made out Montague but nothing else. She cursed under her breath, desperate to know what she missed. Luckily, Greg chose that moment to chime in.
"Graham can't come, he's busy running the schools and training Malcolm to take over the tracks." Greg said, shuffling uncomfortably under the glare he earned from Narcissa. Though, Draco and Theo's heads snapped up at Greg's commentary. He gripped his newsboy cap in his grubby hands and tried to decipher their facial expressions. "What?" He finally asked, blinking between them. "What did I say?"
"Malcolm," breathed Theo. A small, sly grin broke out across his face. "Why didn't we think of that? He's old enough now to get his hands dirty, isn't he?"
"No." Draco corrected, holding a hand up and pointing back and forth Greg, Vince and Theo. "I swore to Marcus that I would keep his little brother out of this shit. He can come as look-out but under no circumstances does he risk taking a bullet. Understood?" All three men facing Draco nodded, and they all breathed a sigh of relief.
Narcissa pursed her lips, muttering, "That little shit,"
Malcolm, Hermione pondered. She couldn't recall ever meeting the young Flint, though if Draco was serious about keeping Marcus' brother out of Death Eater business, then she supposed that was why. Hopefully nothing would happen to him, but from the uneasiness sculpted into their shoulders, she couldn't help but fret.
"This is going to backfire on us, Draco," warned Narcissa with a disapproving glare.
"It's alright," he assured her. Draco dubbed out the remainder of his cigarette in a nearby crystal ashtray and regarded her confidently. "I've taken extra measures to ensure everyone's safety should this go awry. From now on, there will be plenty of new faces around the Manor to secure our numbers. At least, until the danger passes,"
Narcissa scoffed. "Until the danger passes," she repeated. "That'll be the bloody day."
It looked as though the group were about to disperse, and although Hermione knew Draco wouldn't tell her the contents of their conversation – especially if he wouldn't trust Harry with it – she still wanted to test him. Their relationship was icy and rocky, but every now and then she caught flashes of the old Draco she loved.
Perhaps, this would be one of those times.
"What is going on? What happened?" She asked, stepping into the foyer. When no one answered, nor spared her the tired look like they usually gave her when their conversation didn't concern her, Hermione grew irate. She cleared her throat and crossed her arms. "What the fuck happened?"
"An opportunity has arisen," Draco told her without shifting his gaze away from Theo. "Let's go," he added, gripping her arm and tugging her out the front door without another word.
Buckingham Palace was as elegant and haunting as Hermione remembered it to be; the guests dressed their finest fabrics and their coldest smiles. The chandeliers showered the spacious rooms in a golden glow, and every woman dancing beneath them twirled and dipped, letting their necks sparkle and shine. Hermione liked to play a little game with herself – mostly because she loathed talking to anyone else, especially her date – where she tried to estimate the cost of the jewels on the posh women. Generally, she used her own diamonds for reference, which was only slightly upsetting.
Amidst analyzing the massive rocks dangling from a baroness' ears, a cough from behind interrupted her train of thought. Turning to address the guest vying for her attention, Hermione plastered a sickly-sweet smile across her rouge lips.
"My, my," the man tutted. "Do you greet everyone with that pained grin, or did you reserve it just for me?" The flirtatious tone took Hermione by surprise, and she nearly lost her footing upon offering her hand for him to kiss. When he did, his blue eyes struck her, and his lips lingered too long on her knuckles to be considered strictly polite. "You must be Miss Granger," he trilled, looking especially proud of himself.
Hermione arched a pointed brow.
The Malfoys were already considered high society long before Draco became eligible for lordship, but when he did announce his intended change in status – as well as his aspiration to run for parliament – the Malfoys entered the bourgeoisie. The past few months, Hermione stood respectively on Draco's arm in all of his societal events. Typically, she didn't bother conversing with anyone she didn't already know which, unfortunately for her, were genuinely unintelligent people.
Mr. Bagman – soon to be Lord Bagman – and Mr. Lockhart – who wouldn't become a lord anytime soon – were generally her conversational companions.
This man before her, however, did not appear to be on the same level as any of the others at these events. While he did sport an exquisite three-piece suit, it clung to him unlike anything she'd seen before (except, of course, on Draco). It was intriguing, at the very least. Hermione could not lie to herself and pretend as though he wasn't dangerously attractive, either.
From the way he leaned casually against the banister to the way her name dripped from his crooked lips, she was entranced.
Suddenly, a thought popped into her head.
"You must be Lord Riddle."
"Please," he said. His ocean blue eyes glinted, sending shivers up her spine. "Call me Tom."
"Tom," she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. It was sour, yet sweet. "I apologize for missing our meeting the other week," she said. "I wasn't feeling well." A lie. Hermione had felt perfectly well, but Draco insisted she not accompany Narcissa to the meeting, and now she knew why. Draco must be threatened by this beautiful, powerful man.
"A terrible shame," he replied. "I was so looking forward to meeting the woman who continues to confound the British public." His mouth quirked upwards into a smirk, and Hermione swallowed. He was bold. "Tell me, Miss Granger," – "Hermione," she cut in – "Hermione," he corrected, daring to wink at her. "Tell me," he repeated, "How does it feel to be the most envied woman in all of London? I imagine it can be rather lonely," he added.
Hermione followed his blue gaze across the crowded room to where Draco's silvery hair glowed beneath the lights. She coughed to cover the brashness of the accusation and tried to play it cool. "Oh, no," she insisted. "It's not lonely so long as I have Draco."
"And do you," Tom pressed, "have Draco?"
"Why would you say that?" Hermione countered, careful to keep her pitch at an appropriate level.
Tom lifted his ebony eyebrows, and Hermione's eyes caught on the dark curls styled perfectly atop his head. "I am very adept at reading people, Hermione," he informed her calmly. Tom paused, then added under his breath, "Except for you."
Tom gestured for them to take a turn about the room, and Hermione followed behind him after a moment of hesitation. An icy sensation crept its way into her senses, alerting her that Tom was a dangerous man. Then again, Hermione mused internally, catching a silver glint across the room, she was all too familiar with dangerous men. Did she dare engage in another one's games?
One swift glance at the deep blue of Tom's eyes answered her question.
Yes.
Yes, she did dare.
"So," said Hermione. "What brings you this this illustrious event? You look like the sort of man to have more important places to be." At that, Tom smirked down at her. Walking next to him, Hermione realized just how tall he was; he towered above her similarly to Draco and Theo, but the way he held his head high gave the illusion that he was taller than either of them.
Tom paused to let Hermione through the doorway first. They finished circling the room and exited into the hallway outside. The rich, garnet carpet overlaid across the dark wood reminded Hermione of Malfoy Manor. There were paintings, portraits, and various priceless artefacts decorating the space as well. Though, from the interwoven letters of K and G, along with much more gold throughout the décor, it was clear they were in Buckingham Palace, not Malfoy Manor.
She surveyed the way Tom pretended to study the advanced landscape of a Rubens painting when it was clear his eyes were focused elsewhere. Conscious of the satin shaping her curves, Hermione fought to keep her posture and breathing under control.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Tom asked, prompting Hermione to avert her gaze from his chiseled jaw to the painting before them. "The way the Virgin reaches for the heavens; likening her assumption to the first glimpse of the bright and burning sun after a dark and debilitating eclipse," he mused. His clear blue eyes settled on Hermione, whose cheeks were beginning to flush under his gaze. "Do you see the inclusion of Saints Mary and Martha?" Tom gestured artfully toward two of the figures crowding under the rising woman. "What do you make of their presence?"
Hermione understood immediately what Tom meant by his question. He knew precisely what the presence of the two saints represented, and why they were a key contribution into comprehending the message of Rubens work. She, of course, was hardly uneducated.
"The Assumption of the Virgin," she stated, nodding to the golden plaque beneath the impressive painting. "The original fable tells of the Virgin being carried up to the heavens, body and soul. The apostles brought by angels to her death bed to assist in her burial," Hermione paused. "The sisters, Saints Mary and Martha, however, are not from the original tale. Their presence is an added signature of Rubens; his take on the fable."
"Hm," breathed Tom encouragingly.
Licking her lips, Hermione went on. "They symbolize an active life, full of prayer and good fortune."
"The metaphor, the heavenly glory of the Virgin as the sun, is brilliant." Tom exhaled. A small smile stretched across his lips, and Hermione found herself imagining if they would taste as sour and sweet as his name. Tom glanced down at her, a smirk evident behind his eyes. "It reminds me of someone," he added elusively.
Hermione fought against every fiber in her body not to flush.
She cleared her throat softly and gestured back toward the main ballroom. "We should make our way back, don't you think?"
Tom stared unblinkingly at her. For half a breath, Hermione wondered if he would be bold enough to disagree. Would he dare to contradict her and whisk her away to study more Baroque paintings, and, perhaps, each other? Hermione blinked, reigning her thoughts to more appropriate ones.
"Yes," he eventually agreed. He offered her his hand, which she took without hesitation. His warmth surprised her; for someone with such cold, piercing eyes, his arm was comforting and inviting. Tom lead her swiftly through the hallway, back towards the main entertainment space. "We wouldn't want your precious Mr. Malfoy to notice your disappearance,"
Nor who I disappeared with, she sighed internally.
Summoning the devil himself, Draco stood tall and defiant under the impressive arch when they turned the corner into the ballroom. He said nothing at first, and Hermione knew his silence was far worse than his biting words. She disentangled herself from Tom and crossed the stiff air between the two men to stand beside Draco. Hermione inhaled and exhaled painfully.
"Lord Riddle," drawled Draco with a sinister smile. "What a pleasure to see you again." He, however, didn't sound pleased at all. "Thank you ever so much for keeping my angelic date company," added Draco. The reference to angels, however intentional (or unintentional), struck Hermione as more than simple coincidence. Fearing Draco's capability to have eyes and ears everywhere, she glanced nervously at Tom to see how he would handle the veiled threat that followed. "I trust," said Draco icily, "Lord Riddle, you and Miss Granger and got along quite well?"
"Swimmingly," taunted Tom.
Hermione's eyes bulged, taken aback by the pure lip.
Bold, ambitious, and dangerous. If Hermione wasn't careful, she would find herself in a dearly perilous predicament. Tom's irresistibility was increasing every second. His ability to remain calm and unafraid against Draco was extraordinary, and she could not help but compare the two men.
Draco stood tense with his jaw locked shut, while Tom flashed a quick grin at them before excusing himself to find a good seat. The moment the other man left them alone, Draco whipped around to face Hermione. She arched her dark eyebrows and dared him to cause a scene in front of the influential – highly attentive – bourgeoise.
He inhaled sharply, closed his eyes, and then snapped them open, blowing hot air out of his nose.
"Don't," he hissed, "give Rita another fucking reason to suspect our relationship."
Hermione narrowed her eyes, "What bloody relationship, Draco? Hm?" She hissed, "This is a fucking joke, and unless you plan on actually giving a damn about me, or even trying to, don't you dare fucking lecture me about this mess you've gotten us into. If you don't give me a reason to stay – which working for your company is not – then don't be shocked when I leave."
She pushed passed him, clipping his elbow, emboldened enough by Tom's bravery to find some of her own.
Draco caught her arm, pulling her back to him and fitting her waist between his iron grip. His grey, stormy eyes trailed across her face momentarily before he dipped his head to whisper in her ear. His deep tone sent shivers up her spine. "You think," he murmured, lips brushing against her cold ears. Hermione bit her lip, "that I don't care about you?"
"You have a funny way of showing it if you do," she retorted under her breath. Hermione embraced him for the sake of their onlookers before breaking away and sauntering off toward the other women waiting for their men to receive their new titles.
Later that evening, back at the Manor, Hermione was sitting with a novel and trying to tone out Pansy and Harry's bickering. Winky came through the door with a gleaming silver tray of tea with Dobby quick on her heels with another tray piled high with biscuits. Hermione blindly put the book atop the others she brought in from her bedroom and crossed the sitting room for a cup of tea. Daphne, head bent over a sketch pad – still denying any pursuit in fashion despite her constantly drawing – clipped the end of the pile of books and sent them toppling to the floor.
"Oh," she gasped, her golden ringlets falling loose from her bun as her head snapped up.
"It's alright," assured Hermione, returning to her favorite armchair by the hearth. She waved away Daphne's attempts to help and cradled the books to her chest, settling them back on the side table one by one.
"You missed something," said Harry, appearing at her side with a handful of chocolate biscuits and piping cup of tea of his own. Since his hands were full, he pointed to a corner of the rug with his eyes.
Following his line of sight, Hermione plucked a postcard from the floor. She frowned. Hermione had never seen this note before, and she had not noticed it among her novels, though she supposed it could not have come from anywhere else. When she flipped over the unfamiliar mountainous range and read the other side, Hermione dropped the card as if it was on fire.
"What is it?" Harry pressed, making himself comfortable in the armchair beside hers. "Is it from your parents?" He asked.
"No, no," she replied. "It's not them."
Her parents were still well and enjoying an early retirement in Australia as far as she knew. Harry, of course, was one of the few in the Manor to actually want to talk to her about her real life so, he knew all about them. Not having parents of his own, Hermione believed, led him to become overly invested in everyone else's (except Narcissa). The others didn't ask Hermione about her life before she became Penny. To them, it was better to pretend it didn't exist, and that Hermione Granger had begun as Penny Clearwater had ended.
"Then, what is it?" Harry asked again, propping his round glasses further up his nose imploringly.
Hermione blinked and read the note again. Obliviate. That could be from no one else but Neville bloody Longbottom. "It's nothing," she supplied. "Leave it alone," Hermione snapped as an afterthought, knowing how adamant Harry was about getting to the bottom of things. She shot him an exasperated glare, shooing him away and tucking the note in Anna Karenina before placing it neatly atop the pile.
"Fucking hell," groaned Graham, entering the room and immediately hanging his suit jacket up on the coat hanger. Like all of the other Death Eater men, a gun strap clung to his back and draped in front of his suit vest. "It's been a long bloody week, I'll tell you that," he complained, procuring a cup of tea, several plain biscuits, and collapsing on the loveseat between Daphne and Pansy.
"Oh, your poor thing," crooned Pansy. "Do you want Daph and I to give you a proper massage?" As she asked this, her pale hands wound themselves around his neck, and her thumb applied a bit of pressure to his trapezius muscles. "How's that?"
Graham blinked, frowning.
"Pans," he began, "Are you – are you serious right now? That would be bloody lovely – Fuck, you have no idea how stressful it's been at the orphanage – Ouch!"
Just as Graham had foolishly gotten comfortable, seemingly believing better of Pansy's intentions, she dug her thumbs into the back of his neck and shoved him onto the floor. Graham tumbled and gracefully popped himself up without spilling any of his tea. He scowled.
"What the actual fuck?"
Pansy shrugged, stretching her legs across Daphne's lap in Graham's absence. "Next time," she said with a sly smirk, "Find somewhere else to fucking sit." Daphne laughed aloud and caressed Pansy's leg affectionately.
Graham, thoroughly offended and embarrassed, ordered Dobby to fetch a bottle of whisky. He poured enough of the spiced liquor into his teacup that, even from across the room, Hermione's nose wrinkled at the scent. She was still adjusting to being sober, but constantly reminded herself it was worth it; it would pay off.
Hermione was thinking more clearly, and seeing everything in technicolor, which would only prove to be advantageous in the long run.
The three others began slowly altering their contents in their teacups from English breakfast to spiced Firewhiskey. Graham, draped across a sofa facing the two women, went on complaining about his hellish week. Apparently, as his loud outbursts were difficult to ignore, Graham had been suffering on all ends, not just in work. His wife, Marietta, was constantly pestering him to help around the house and watch their children more (which Hermione thought was fair enough, though she didn't voice her opinion). Daphne and Pansy scolded him for leaving Marietta to all of the domestic work, leaving Graham even more irritated with them.
"You're not even going to pretend to take my side in this?" He gaped.
Pansy and Daphne exchanged a curious expression, then snickered. "No," they replied in unison. "Why would we?" Daphne added as well. "I still don't see why you don't bring her around here." She went on. "It's not like Marietta is that dull. She must have some idea as to what you do for a living, and how legal it is. Or illegal, for that matter." Daphne cocked a golden brow accusingly. "Besides, Narcissa may despise sharing the Manor with her and your three cretins - "
"Four now," Graham corrected.
Pansy nearly choked on a laugh, earning daggers from him.
"What I'm trying to say," continued Daphne with an exasperated sigh, "is that they would certainly be welcome to live here. I've heard Kreacher can be a wonderful nanny too," she said matter-of-factly.
"Please," snorted Graham. "I don't want my heathens to end up like Draco."
"There could be worse outcomes, Montague," came a new voice. Draco strutted through the entryway, whispering something in Winky's ear as he passed her. A few moments later, she returned with a new teapot and teacup, pouring him one and receiving a rare appreciative smile from Draco. She beamed, then scampered away (probably to brag to Dobby or Kreacher). "Where are all of the chocolate biscuits?"
"Lord Malfoy demands his chocolate biscuits," sneered Pansy under her breath. "Where art thou chocolate biscuits!?" She cried theatrically. Hermione bit down on her inner cheek to refrain from laughing at the mockery of his newly acquired title. D-Day had arrived, and Pansy was not one to waste a perfectly executed ridicule.
Draco flipped her the bird, then frowned at the plain, caramel, and honey biscuits left on the silver tray.
As his hardened gaze scanned everyone in the room, starting with Pansy, Harry's jewel-toned eyes slid guiltily across to Hermione. She stifled a giggle as he stuffed the remainder of the chocolate biscuits he swiped in his mouth and forced them down just in time to plead innocent as Draco's grey eyes fell on him. They narrowed slightly, then moved on to Hermione.
She stilled, catching a shift in his dark grey hue. His eyes lit up silver for a brief moment before he cleared his throat and leaned artfully against the hearth. Hermione was reminded of how strikingly attractive Draco was – with his translucent hair gleaming in the poor lighting and his figure filling out his pinstripe suit expertly – but scolded herself.
Hermione swore to herself the ball was in his court, and that it would remain firmly in his court unless he decided to do anything about it. If he was even serious about caring for her.
Harry leaned toward her, diverting her attention. The two of them, somewhat separate from the others in the room, talked about their work. Hermione didn't have much to say other than how much paperwork there was. Luckily, this time, she wasn't technically chained to a desk by a pompous middle-aged man.
Conversely, Harry had quite a bit to talk about. He told Hermione about his most recent triumphs against Fudge. "He's been letting me lead investigations," he said, elbowing her playfully. "How long did it take you to get him to trust you like that?"
She shook her head, "You're a prat, Potter. You know bloody well he never trusted me to lead anything other than proofreading completed files before audits." She sighed, catching Draco's eye and continuing at a lower volume. "The only assignment Fudge entrusted me with was Malfoy's case, and that turned out to be a total setup."
Harry offered her a fleeting sorrowful look, then broke out into a cheery smile.
"Still," he said, shrugging. "Look where it put you and how far you've come from the old Hermione Granger."
Hermione grimaced at first, shaking off Harry's encouraging mini speech, but then his words sank in. She was far advanced from the woman she used to be all those years ago. Badass, street smart, and overcoming every obstacle thrown her way, Hermione was a force to be reckoned with. However, her wonderful realization was quickly interrupted by shouts and screams flooding the room.
Theo was the first face to emerge through the door, followed by Greg and Vince holding up a leaner, younger man. Behind the ensemble, Narcissa marched into the room barking orders at everyone.
"What the fuck happened?" Draco demanded right away.
His grey eyes scanned the scene, analyzing every minute detail, then he shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The contents of the coffee table were quickly scattered across the oriental rug, which Hermione expected to hear Narcissa moan about. The entire household held their breath at the men lowered young Malcolm Flint onto the coffee table and blood trickled across her precious floor.
"Oh, fuck the rugs," she snapped, glaring at them.
Her clear eyes settled on the bullet wound in Malcolm's upper arm, and Hermione understood the wary glance she shot Draco after eavesdropping on their conversation this morning. Draco, though, didn't look mad. Instead, he looked remarkably calm if a little disappointed.
Malcolm whined and groaned as everyone fell into the routine of doctoring him.
Pansy and Daphne worked with Winky to provide clean, damp towels and take the bloodied ones away. Graham and Theo held Malcolm down, often murmuring jeers or reassurances in his ear. Narcissa paced the room, lighting a cigarette and ripping through it. Harry and Hermione stood by, waiting for any commands to be thrown their way. Greg and Vince left the room and came back with a medic kit and a fresh bottle of vodka.
Hermione swallowed.
"Theo," said Draco after a quick glance. "Give me your blade."
Theo took off his newsboy cap and split the seam effortlessly, then handed the embedded blade to Draco with a curt nod.
"Malcolm," grunted Draco, slapping the young man's cheek to get his attention. The dark eyes that reminded Hermione unhelpfully of whose younger brother this was, met Draco's steady gaze. "Mac," he said again, a bit softer, "You'll be fine. Listen to me," he half-shouted, "Relax."
"Have you ever done this before?" Malcolm questioned.
Draco's lips quirked upwards into a sly smirk. "Only a dozen times," he scoffed.
"And that was just on me," said Theo with a conspiratorial wink.
Malcolm choked on a laugh, which lasted only a second before his face contorted with pain again.
"Oi," added Theo. "Draco is the best man for this," he assured Malcolm. "You don't see any of us fighting to take his place, do you?" Malcolm glanced around, seemingly noticing everyone looking over him for the first time and nodded slowly.
Hermione noticed the slack expression across Draco's face and recognized it as genuine shock. Theo's words, perhaps, were deeper than he intended them to be. She caught the shared expression, as well as a wink from Theo, and imagined Theo knew exactly what he was saying.
"It'll be over before you know it," continued Theo, effectively distracting Malcolm. Draco was readying himself to slice into Malcolm's arm and extract the bullet, flashing a few hand movements at Theo to encourage him to go on. "One time," he laughed. "Draco took a bullet from between two ribs. One inch from the heart." He paused, then tilted his head devilishly. "Mind you, it was a horse, and the horse did die."
Malcolm choked on another laugh – Narcissa smacked Theo upside the head – but the story had done its job. Draco, as the ringleader and father figure for young Malcolm, wordlessly commanded Greg and Vince. All three of them worked miraculously well to repair the wound in Malcolm's upper arm and retrieve the bullet. Hermione winced, digging her nails into the back of Harry's hand as Malcolm groaned and screamed.
Finally, the metal clanged against an empty ashtray, and everyone let out a unanimous sigh of relief.
The room returned to its previous carefree air, with everyone drinking, eating, and chattering loudly. Hermione walked with Harry to where Theo and Draco stood by the fire. She only partly listened to them. Instead, eager to avoid Draco's presence nearby, she strained her ears to listen to where Narcissa grilled Malcolm. He pressed a dry towel against his arm as Daphne arranged the sewing kit beside him.
"What the fuck has Draco told you, hm?" Narcissa hissed. "Children stay out of the gunfire. Especially a bloody Flint!"
"I'm not a child!" He countered, grimacing. "I'm fucking eighteen years old, Mrs. Malfoy," – "Narcissa," she corrected impatiently – "I have to maintain my reputation."
Narcissa slapped him across the cheek.
"Hey," she snapped. "Grow up, Malcolm. Your brother didn't take a bullet for his fucking reputation. He didn't die for that, and certainly didn't fucking want you to have the kind of life he had. You hear me? Soon, Draco will be in a higher position of power. We have money. There is no bloody need for you to go risking your young, precious life for a fucking reputation." Narcissa seethed, fixing a killer glare at the young man.
In the moment of silence between them that followed, Daphne took the opportunity to instruct Malcolm into a better position for her to sew the wound shut.
"You are a fucking idiot, Malcolm," exhaled Narcissa. She shook her head and paced the length of the sofa he stretched across. Daphne knelt at his side, concentrating intently on her work. "Three inches to the left and that precious bloody life would be gone." She stormed off toward Pansy, passing Hermione and muttering under her breath, "Bloody hell."
Daphne cleared her throat, then leaned in close to the young Flint.
"You have got nothing to prove, Mac," she assured him. "Nothing."
The next morning was the same as every Saturday for the past three weeks. Hermione stretched her limbs across the silk sheets and waded in the warm bath Winky set for her. Then, she dressed in Narcissa-approved suits; today, she opted for a peplum-style grey pinstripe that was insanely flattering on her waistline. Finally, after attempting to tame her wild curls into a passable chignon, Hermione would find her way to the dining room for a quick cup of tea and breakfast.
Narcissa, whom which Draco clearly inherited his timeliness from, strode through one archway with a stoic expression and said nothing as she selected an apple and passed through the other archway into the next hallway. Hermione took this as a sign that the meeting was about to begin, as Narcissa was never tardy, and hurried to swallow her buttered toast before following the other woman.
Hermione navigated the maze of the Manor easily and emerged in a large meeting room on the third floor. She took a seat across from Narcissa on the long cherry wood table; seconds later, Draco entered the room and took the seat at the head of the table, squarely between Hermione and Narcissa. Even though the two women now ran his company, it was still… well, his.
Draco oversaw everything, despite legally stepping back from running it for the sake of preparing for his new role in the House of Lords.
"So," he began, "Let's get started."
It was a standard, and, in fact, slightly boring conference. Hermione chimed in when necessary, but for the most part Narcissa and Draco did the talking. Blaise, who had just arrived back at the Manor that morning from his business in Birmingham, spent the better part of an hour going over numbers for various funds the company backed. Evidently, Draco's company was incredibly generous toward the poor and disabled community.
"We're still in the green as far as this quarter goes," commented Blaise with a flick of his pen. He circled several large sums before passing a piece of paper to Draco. "I would say we should be a bit more careful with investing in international property and trades next quarter. They can be unpredictable, but an old friend of mine in America says their stock market would be a gold mine should we ever consider investing in some of its companies."
Draco grunted softly, then tossed the paper past Hermione to the woman sitting on her left, his company's solicitor. She surveyed the numbers skeptically, but then nodded furiously. "Excellent. These figures will be marvelous for your future campaign to join parliament. The people love someone in power who gives back to them, and you, Lord Malfoy, have done just that since the company first transferred to your hands." She took one last glance at the paper – probably memorizing the figures – then handed it back to Blaise. "Clean."
Blaise nodded appreciatively.
Madam Hooch – the first doctor Hermione met who did not want to go by her formal title – was a shrewd woman. Her eyes, gold flecked and acute like a bird, did not miss a single bloody thing. Which meant, more than anything else, that these meetings regarding the future and wellbeing of Malfoy Company Limited were all above board.
It also meant that there was always a second meeting directly after the first.
At the end of the very tiresome conference, Madam Hooch approached Draco regarding the potential backlash of the number of women outweighing the number of men on his executive board. Hermione took the opportunity to flee the room. She descended the stairs nearly two at a time and didn't exhale a single, solid breath until she collapsed against the tan leather seats of Narcissa's beloved Bugatti.
Half an hour later, she and Narcissa arrived at the Cavalier and waited outside for the others. However, Theo poked his head out and waved them in. "Already moved the peasants out of the main space," he told them. "We're all here. Only waiting on Draco."
"It's not like him to be late," muttered Narcissa with a glance back at the car. Draco insisted on them going on ahead of him. Neither had questioned it, but now it seemed silly that they hadn't.
Inside Theo's posh pub, every single chair, booth and table remained empty (though littered with glasses) except for one. In the corner, sitting comfortably around one of the enormous booths, were the main members of the second meeting. Hermione slid into the end of one side, grinning at Theo beside her. Next to him was Graham and Blaise. Narcissa selected two chairs, polished them with a rag from behind the bar. She sat in one, propped her legs up on the other, and lit a cigarette before tossing the pack to Theo.
Astoria was typically present at these family meetings and was the entire reason – aside from Hermione's newly acquired status as COO of Malfoy Company Limited – that Hermione was even allowed to attend them. Hermione had never actually attended a meeting with Astoria since she had been away for months, but it was still strange not having her around. It certainly made Hermione discover her self-confidence without the other woman behind her to remind her it was there.
Lost in thought of her best mate, Hermione almost missed Draco appearing beside her and nudging her further into the booth so that he could sit on the end. She moved, dazed, before she even realized what she was doing. His palm flattened against his perfectly tailored trousers, and his pinky brushed up against her thigh.
Hermione inhaled sharply.
Draco's lips quirked upwards into a ghost of a smile, then he motioned for the family meeting to begin.
"Can I begin this family meeting with a proposal?" Narcissa said, obviously not asking for permission. To prove her point, she went on. "I say from now on we find somewhere else to meet." Her pale eyes narrowed at the sticky table between them, and Hermione smirked in agreeance.
"No offense, right?" Theo pressed, relaxing back against the leather upholstery of the booth.
Narcissa lifted her eyebrows as if to respond with What do you think, Nott? and his shoulders shook as he laughed. "Fuck off," he muttered under his breath, smiling through the quip. In return, Narcissa smirked and tipped an imaginary hat to him.
"It's your son's idea anyway," stated Theo. He reached behind Hermione to clap Draco on the back. "He thinks it's a brilliant idea to be seen mingling with the common folk."
"It's good for politics," supplied Draco with an exasperated sigh.
Most likely, Hermione pondered, it was actually Madam Hooch's brilliant idea. "Well," she scoffed without thinking. "If this is your campaign for socialism, Draco, perhaps next time you won't wear a suit worth more than Theo's pub."
"Oi," snapped Theo in a knee-jerk reaction. Narcissa's smirk grew wider, Graham whistled lowly as he tipped his drink to the back of his throat, and Draco's grey eyes darkened infinitesimally. Hermione blinked. For a second, she was perplexed and wondered if there was any point in attempting to apologize for her outburst, but then she simply shrugged; her expression stoic.
She wasn't wrong.
"Right," said Narcissa, speaking up in the absence of Draco's leadership. "First item on the list is this," she placed a small, flattened bullet on the center of the table. "Cut out from Malcolm Flint's arm yesterday." Her eyes scanned the booth. "What happened? What the fuck went wrong?"
Hermione's ears pricked. This must have something to do with the favor she overheard them plotting the other morning, which was precisely what she predicted when Malcolm was bleeding out over Narcissa's carpet last night.
Draco shook his head. "No." He plucked the bullet, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, then met his mother's eyes. "Not in front of her."
The obvious her in question was Hermione.
"And why the fuck not?" She argued.
"Because," countered Draco. He chose then to avoid eye contact with her, driving Hermione's temper up the wall. "This is a family meeting. This issue concerns family, of which you are not."
Hermione inhaled sharply, "And whose fault is that, hm?" Draco continued to avoid her glare. She searched the faces of the others and noticed none of them seemed openly offended by her presence among them. "If you weren't ready to fucking trust me with anything, then why the hell am I working for you, Draco? Why the fuck am I here?"
He hesitated, then murmured, "I didn't want you in these meetings, remember?"
She fumed. "I knew it," she hissed, wishing she was in the position to storm out of the bloody pub. "I knew you weren't fucking serious yesterday." When she did shift to move, expecting him to gladly step aside for her to exit, however, Draco didn't budge. Instead, he curled his hands into a fist around the bullet and finally met her brown eyes.
"Fine," he said calmly. "Fine."
Then, miraculously, he carried on with Narcissa's first topic of discussion as if he hadn't just thrown a minor tantrum about her presence at the family meeting. Fucking men, she mused internally.
"I thought you said Flint wouldn't get hurt," reminded Narcissa with an icy glare. "I thought you said he would stay out of trouble."
Theo groaned simultaneously with Draco, then spoke up. "He was supposed to stay out of trouble. I had a firm talking to him, but of course the bloody git didn't listen." He shook his head, adding under his breath, "I wonder where he bloody gets that from."
Draco held up a hand to stop his mother from replying with a smartass quip. "I told Malcolm to stay out of it, that he was only to be lookout. Obviously, he didn't listen." Draco's grey eyes darkened. "I hoped he would be ready to groom into the Death Eaters, but clearly that's not going to happen. He's not ready."
"Not ready?" Narcissa scoffed, exhaling a cloud of smoke between herself and her son. "He claims to have shot at least two men. Both with much better aim than the one who shot him. I think he's plenty fucking ready," snapped Narcissa. "It's just a matter of trusting he won't go and get himself bloody killed with his big mouth the next time you get called for a favor."
"A favor?" Repeated Blaise with arched ebony brows. "What kind of a favor?"
Theo and Draco exchanged glances; their eyebrows furrowed, jaws clenched, and Hermione found it hard not to notice Narcissa's particularly smug expression over their uncomfortable expressions. With the mention of two deaths already, it was difficult to believe the favor was not gang affiliated.
"There was a man in Camden," began Draco between inhales of smoke. During a long pause, Blaise sat up and paid closer attention to the uneasy glances shared between Draco, Narcissa and Theo (clearly the only ones among them completely in the know). "I was called for a favor. In order to secure my position of power, once I joined the House, then I had to uphold some of my old promises to the nation. Namely," exhaled Draco, "the promises I made to rid the city of its vermin."
Blaise and Graham blinked.
Hermione succumbed to another outburst in the wake of Blaise's silence and called out, "Someone's called you to dispose of IRA members lurking about the city?" Her brows furrowed. "I don't recall hearing about them returning."
"Not the IRA," said Theo, chewing his lip. "Not this time, anyway."
Theo looked expectantly at Draco who, after a beat of hesitation, finished his whiskey and announced, "A senior member of the House of Lords asked that I… dispose… of a man in Camden because of his ties to the communist party."
Graham, Blaise, and Hermione, in unison, shrieked, "What?"
"It was a specific opportunity," mused Narcissa.
"Listen," started Draco with a hardened gaze at the others. "It was supposed to be an easy target, nonetheless, and should have resulted in a swift, clean result."
"It would have been bloody easy if Malcolm hadn't shouted about killing the fucking man from the top of his lungs the minute that we entered the building." Sniped Theo. A deep frown turned his lips upside down, and his pale skin flushed slightly with well-tamed anger. "Half of the bloody communist party was on us before we reached the top floor. It's honestly a bloody miracle we made it out with as little injuries as we did," he muttered.
Graham shook his head disapprovingly, meeting Draco's grey eyes. "That boy needs educating, Draco, for fuck's sake."
Draco dabbed the last half of his cigarette out. "It was a specific opportunity that would be impossible to refuse. It was delivered to me in confidence. It was a favor from a senior member in parliament, later sanctioned by a high-ranking judge and the Scotland Yard. This senior member knows of my connection to the Death Eaters, unfortunately, and used it to get what he wanted. My hands were tied."
Hermione gaped, dumbfounded. "Someone in the House of Lords knows you are the leader of the bloody Death Eaters?" Draco nodded his assent, and Theo hung his head. "He knows you are the leader of a gang?" She emphasized. Once again, Draco nodded. Hermione took a moment to process this, and as she did so, Graham spoke up.
"So, either way, you're fucked." He said. "You do his favor, and possibly any others in the future, or he releases that information to the press." Graham shook his head, tapping his fingers against the hard wood of the table. "Or," he continued. "You don't do his favor, and possibly any others in the futures, and he still releases that information to the press."
To that, Draco and Theo both nodded. They replied simultaneously with, "Correct."
"Bloody hell," whistled Blaise.
Narcissa's smug expression had dropped a while back, and now she sat with her arms crossed and lips pursed. A stream of grey smoke rose to the ceiling of the pub from the cigarette abandoned between her fingers. "Fucking idiots," she mumbled.
"Well, fuck," said Hermione. "What can we do about that?"
"Precisely," agreed Draco without glancing her way. He fiddled with the rim of his glass. "Precisely."
There was a hushed conversation among everyone in the family meeting. Blaise and Graham chattered nervously about the predicament this now placed not only Draco in, but also the other members of the Death Eaters. Their anonymity in London afforded them the luxury to continue with their careers, and inclusion in the social elite, as if their allegiance to the Death Eaters – the very existence of the gang, as well – didn't exist. Narcissa and Theo, meanwhile, complained about Malcolm and how they were going to possibly steer the young Flint into a mindset of higher intelligence, and soon.
Hermione, amongst the whispers, turned her head toward Draco.
"Who is it?"
He didn't turn his head, nor did he blink or give any indication as to having heard her. Knowing that he did, though, Hermione didn't let up. She inclined her head more to obscure the rest of the table from his vision. Now, he had no choice but to look at her.
"Are you going to tell me or not?" She pressed.
Draco sighed, "You already know who it is."
It was a wonderful autumn's day for a picnic. The fact that it was a Tuesday had thrown Hermione off a bit at first, especially when everyone cleared their schedules to attend – children and all – but she accepted it as another strange celebration of the Malfoys and brushed it off. The air was crisp and clean; the lawns of Hyde Park were scattered with falling leaves.
"Here go!"
Hermione took the proffered orange leaf from the toddler with a smile and laughed as he ran off to retrieve another one. She added it to the pile beside her with her free hand, cradling the newborn closer to her chest with the other one as a strong wind chilled their faces.
"Here," said Marietta. "Take this." She tucked Hermione into a plush, wool blanket and grinned as her newborn son cooed in Hermione's arms.
"He's beautiful," she breathed.
"Thank you," replied Marietta. "He's the most well-behaved of all of them," she admitted, adding, "so far, at least," with a shake of her head. On cue, her second youngest returned with another gift for Hermione. This time, though, Marietta took the leaf and set it down. She stood and scooped up the child, swinging him about before directing him toward Graham. "Go tackle Daddy!"
The young boy, who probably didn't need much encouragement – or any from what Graham told them – charged toward his father as fast as his tiny legs could carry him.
"He's the spitting image of Graham," confessed Hermione with a shy smile.
"So are the others," mused Marietta. She sighed, glancing away from Graham and her other three children to the one fast asleep in Hermione's arms. "I hope this one turns out more like me." She sighed. "I love them all to death, I really do, but it's not fair how strong his genes are."
Hermione laughed, "I know what you mean." The other children, all boys, were just like Graham; they lived to tease, to play, had brown curls, and would one day serve the Death Eaters. Hermione hated bringing this up, of course, and quickly changed the topic of conversation away from Marietta's family. "So," she chirped. "What do you think of Vince's new bird?"
"You know," replied Marietta, tilting her head. "I never thought Vince would settle down. I never pictured him getting married or having kids, none of that."
"He still might not do any of that." Hermione pointed out. "They're only dating."
"That's true," she agreed. "I can't say I'm thrilled the one woman he did end up dating is a member of the New Order, but then again, if he's happy, I'm happy. He deserves it."
Which, Hermione could not agree more. If anyone deserved to be foolishly happy in love, it was Vince. He'd been through the ringer the past few years and never had anyone other than Greg to share his burdens with. All of the lads were close, it wasn't like Greg as all Vince had, but he was certainly the closest to him. Now, luckily, Emmeline had entered his life and completely turned it upside down.
"What do you think of the New Order?" Marietta pressed, eying Hermione skeptically. She clenched her jaw, aware that Marietta and Millie, Greg's wife, disapproved deeply of her close relationship to Harry. It was unfair, she thought, since he was quite literally the only bloody member she tolerated.
Saved from providing an answer, Hermione's name was screamed across the expansive lawns, causing several heads of the outing to turn. Expecting to be called for a private word, Hermione handed the newborn boy back to Marietta reluctantly. She would never admit it aloud, but she looked forward to seeing Marietta for that one reason. Holding her newborn son reminded Hermione of the one she was supposed to have, and despite how despairing that sounded, it was surprisingly nice to sit with him.
"Hurry back," said Marietta as Hermione stood to leave. "He sleeps soundly when you cradle him."
Though, perhaps, Marietta already knew this.
"Hermione!"
All of the earlier calls for her name had been somewhat muted by the howling wind and distance. This shout, however, was very distinct – and unexpected.
"Astoria?" She replied, bewildered.
Sure enough, the petite brunette was bounding across Hyde Park toward Hermione; her sage green eyes lit up the moment Hermione recognized her voice. The two women collided somewhere in the middle of the picnic, and Theo's laughter was easily audible from where he stood at the bottom of the hill with Draco and Blaise (the only three not playing with the children).
"Astoria!"
Hermione bit back tears as she embraced her best friend. Her hold on the other woman was so tight she was sure Astoria's pale skin would bruise, but she didn't loosen her grip. It had been five long fucking months since she'd been able to hug her. It had been just as long since Hermione had been able to talk to Astoria as well because she took off for god knows where for fuck knows how long. However, now that they were back together, Hermione found she couldn't find any words. Her tongue sat thick and useless in her mouth, and it took everything in her not to let the others see her cry or breakdown.
It was as if the past few months came crashing down on her in one insurmountable tidal wave of emotion.
The last time she'd seen Astoria was when she was still confined to her bedroom and subject to the whatever Draco decided was best for her. Not having Astoria to lean on in the dark months following the miscarriage, Hermione felt lost. No amount of alcohol could lift the clouds of sorrow that followed Hermione wherever she went.
In Astoria's absence, during a long and grueling summer, Hermione was forced to not only stand up for herself, but also find herself again and wake up from the nightmare that had become her life. It took until she looked in the mirror one morning and truly could not recognize herself.
Who was this strange woman staring back at her?
Who was this coward?
For no one – fucking no one – would have imagined Hermione Granger would evolve into a sad, belittled woman. There was no denying she had suffered, but she was a fierce, strong, and brave woman. No matter how many times life had kicked her down to the ground before, Hermione rose up every single time. She leaped, bounded, and soared above her adversities.
When confronted with the impossible task of infiltrating a notoriously corrupt gang, did she falter? Absolutely not. When threatened by men over and over and over again, in every sense of the word, did she back down? Fuck. No. When challenged with the most difficult decision of her life, did she lose sight of what felt right? Never.
So…
Will she allow that decision to haunt her and seal a perilous fate? Not if she had any say in it. Will she dismiss her intelligence, capabilities, and strength ever again? Over her dead body. Will she fall into the clutches of depression and let it swallow her whole? Not today, Satan. Not today.
In the past five months, since the last time she embraced or confided in Astoria, Hermione blossomed out of the dark and dangerous hole she found herself in; with every fiber in her being, she pushed back against her adversaries and won.
Hermione felt anew, like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning.
She felt alive.
And through the most difficult turn back towards the light, a set of blazing blue eyes guided her – Tom's eyes.
"I have so much to tell you," she murmured in Astoria's ear before finally letting go.
Astoria pulled back slightly, enough to meet Hermione's eyes, and smirked. "I bet you do." With a quick step to her left, Astoria looped her hand in Hermione's and revealed a tall, slender man standing behind her. "It seems as though we both have a lot of catching up to do." She paused, pinching Hermione. "For now," she went on, "this is Oliver Wood."
"Hello," he greeted in a thick Scottish accent. "It's a pleasure, Miss Granger."
Hermione blinked, shocked. Realizing she hadn't spoken – and was embarrassingly gaping at the handsome Scot – she suddenly jerked into motion, following automated manners. "Hermione," she smiled, throwing her free hand out for the dashing man to kiss. He did so fleetingly, only enough to be polite, before resuming his position.
Oliver Wood stood tall, much taller than either Astoria or Hermione, but his charming smile and boyish brunette curls quickly portrayed him as a sweet lad. Unlike Draco – or Tom's – striking features that immediately flagged a woman's (not Hermione's, obviously) better sense, Oliver raised no easily discernable alarms.
"Astoria tells me you're quite the brains of the Death Eaters," he winked.
"Was," corrected Hermione with a sad, half-smirk.
Astoria frowned. Her dark eyebrows furrowed slightly, drawing attention to her pale green eyes. She elbowed Hermione roughly and scolded her. "Still am," she amended once more. Rolling her eyes, Astoria shifted to lean her head casually against Hermione's, then beamed at Oliver. "Told you she would say that, didn't I?"
"That you did, Greenie baby," chuckled Oliver with a devilish grin.
Hermione blinked, registering the flirtatious tone between them. She stepped away from Astoria, almost reluctantly but also reflexively, and sputtered incoherently. A finger pointed lazily in the air between Astoria and Oliver, but Astoria only pursed her lips and pushed Hermione away playfully.
"It's an inside joke, Hermione, relax," then when she thought Hermione wasn't looking, Astoria winked at Oliver. "Now," she said, regaining a proper tone she could have only learned from Narcissa, "tell me all about this wonderful transformation you've undergone. May I add," she said, poking Hermione in the ribs, "that you look incredible. It's no wonder Draco can't take his eye off of you." She teased.
Hermione and Astoria walked off, neither giving Oliver a second glance (though, he would have been gone by then if they had as he had already beelined toward the men) and settled themselves on one of the empty blankets.
Marietta sat with her baby, now accompanied by Daphne. Pansy ran around the lawns with Graham, Vince and Emmeline in what appeared to be a game of coppers and robbers with the children. Greg and Millie were snogging behind a tree and, evidently, working toward making another baby. As for their only child, she was currently being taught to walk – and kick – by her lovely Uncle Malcolm. Oliver, not shy in the slightest, joined Blaise, Theo and Draco in conversation away from the screaming children. Harry was at work, which was only proving more useless as time went on. Narcissa was smoking a cigarette on another blanket with a newspaper open to page six in front of her, though behind her sunglasses, she was watching everyone closely instead of reading.
It was odd, having almost everyone out and about on a fine September evening, and it didn't make much sense to Hermione until Astoria pulled a small package wrapped in brown paper out of her designer coat.
"Here," she breathed. "I made everyone promise not to make a big fuss. For the most part, they agreed right away, but Daphne took a bit more convincing," laughed Astoria. "You know how much they all loathe celebrating despite their distinguished reputation for doing it." Hermione took the small package and eyed it carefully. Astoria rolled her eyes. "It's not going to hurt you."
Still, Hermione hesitated.
"Bloody hell, Hermione," she groaned, taking the package back and ripping it open for her. Astoria gleamed at the tiny ring. "I know they haven't fully trusted you to carry your own weapons anymore," she stated. "Not that it would be highly encouraged for a woman in your position beside a soon-to-be member of parliament, but I thought it unfair you have nothing."
Hermione recognized it instantly and beamed. A purple poison disguised as a beautiful amethyst gem, and it fit perfectly.
"I – Thank you," she replied. "But – I mean – Why?"
Astoria sighed, pursing her lips. "Don't act like you don't know it's your bloody birthday, Hermione. It would be unbelievably rude for me, as your best friend, of course, not to know when your birthday was or get you anything. Again, I did make the others promise not to do anything absurd. I know how you hate that sort of fuss," she confessed.
"But – I told all of you that my – well, Penny's – birthday was the fourteenth. How did you - "
She cut her off with a wicked smirk.
"I have my ways," responded Astoria elusively.
That night, Hermione stayed up until a ridiculous hour talking to Astoria in her bedroom. She supposed she could have simply rolled over and fallen asleep next to the other woman – both of their slim figures would have no trouble fitting in Astoria's queen bed – but Hermione desperately wanted to stretch out in her own bed. Since sleeping alone, something she didn't think she could grow accustomed to after sharing a bed with Draco for so long, being in her own bed never felt more liberating.
The stairs creaked beneath her bare feet despite the added care Hermione took to tip toe through the Manors winding corridors.
"What are you doing up so late?"
Hermione shrieked, falling back against the wall for support as her knees gave out beneath her. In the dark corner, among the shadows, stood Draco. His silvery hair gleamed as he stepped into the dim lights lining the hallway.
"Bloody hell," she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. "What the fuck are you doing creeping around like that at night? It's absurd, and, frankly, you're lucky my instinct wasn't to swing at you."
Draco shrugged, "I wouldn't blame you if you did."
Hermione, utterly at a loss for words, shook her head as if to shake the image of him standing bare chested in front of her out of her mind. She padded down the last three steps before leaning against the wall.
He was blocking her path to her bedroom.
"What do you want?" She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest. Hermione was thankful that she hadn't changed into proper nightwear because it would have been that much more difficult to hold her ground when he looked at her like that if she was in a silk slip.
"I wanted to wish you a happy birthday," he stated.
She nodded, pointedly eying the corridor he stood in front of. "Great, thanks." Still, he didn't move. As much as Hermione wanted to shimmy past him, she knew if she tried that he might reach out for her arm or waist. She wasn't entirely certain she was ready for that; the whiplash of his behavior still stung. "Is that it?" She prompted.
"No," Draco admitted. "Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday today? I thought it was days ago."
Hermione couldn't see why that mattered; it wasn't as if he had done anything particularly thoughtful then.
"That was the birthday I made up for Penny."
From the twitching around his mouth, Hermione could tell Draco was furious with that answer. She didn't know what else he was expecting, though. Not feeling remorseful for the unintended betrayal, Hermione sighed loudly.
"What do you want from me, Draco? What did you want me to tell you, hm? When?"
He stared at her.
The minutes ticked by, and the silence enveloped them both. Then, finally, Draco's silver eyes fell from her face.
"I don't know."
"Well," countered Hermione. "I don't, either."
"Goodnight."
He took off, taking the steps two at a time as he bounded up to the second floor. Hermione groaned inwardly and stormed off toward her bedroom. Lying awake that night, until the sun peaked through the curtains, Hermione replayed their brief interaction over and over again.
It plagued her, the flash of pain, like a bolt of lightning, in the dark and mysterious storm that was his eyes; they were as unreadable as they were an open book.
"Goodnight, Draco," she muttered to herself.
A/N - I sincerely apologize for how long this chapter took to post! I was traveling earlier in the month, then I got sick. Now, however, the story will move much more quickly so, expect updates more frequently, like with the prequel. Also, I cannot thank you all enough for the wonderful feedback on the first chapter of this sequel! I am truly over the moon and cannot wait to go through another journey will all of you. There is so much more to come xx
Chapter title is from Ed Sheeran's song Take Me Back to London featuring Stormzy, Aitch and Jaykae. It comes from the lines where I'm from trap shit, let a twelve gauge drip / yeah, it's sick how it fits in my hand / I don't mix with the glitz and the glam
