Hello everyone! Before beginning this chapter, I wanted to acknowledge that I am well aware with the problematic nature of Draco as a character and Drarry as a ship. I, personally, am more of a Hinny shipper, and I am not the kind of fan to put Draco on a pedestal.

Nonetheless, this fic includes Drarry because (1) I felt it fit the "impossible love" nature of the premise perfectly, and it allowed me to explore the trope from more than just the 'class differences' angle in a way Hinny would not have; (2) developing the character of Draco beyond canon was a writing challenge I have wanted to undertake for a while; and (3) I am always excited to try my hand at writing for new ships :).

I hope Drarry doesn't deter you from enjoying this story, and please know that I hear ya and I hope I can do good by the ship! As always, thank you for reading and for your comments. They are always duly appreciated no matter their subject.

Rosebury Grounds was, by excellence, a magnificent estate, but at no time did the estate swank more profusely in its own splendor than when it played host to one of the majestic social events which periodically graced its halls. And tonight was one such night.

The house had put on its best and boldest colors to host a welcoming dinner for its guests, and as ever, it spared no luxury in boasting its enchantments for anyone who stepped foot within it, be it servant or nobleman, who played a part in the dinner that had commanded such grandeur in the first place.

Tonight's dinner was the pride and joy of its hostess, Lady Amelia Granger, not just because of the evident opulence of the house she called her family's, but because the guest list was equally as radiant. The Malfoys, from the Earldom of Ashcroft; Lord Sirius Black III, from the Earldom of Grimmauld; Lord and Lady Macmillan, visiting from Scotland; Amos Diggory, the cultural attaché to Hong Kong; and his counterpart in India, Ajeet Patil, along with the respective families of each of the diplomats. As the guests waltzed along the drawing room, clad in their most elegant gowns and tailcoats and mingling among themselves, it was readily admitted that Rosebury Grounds positively dripped with distinction, tonight being one of those nights that would situate the house as one of the most distinguished ones in the country.

And, hidden in the library, Hermione Granger —daughter and lady of the hosting house— was taking no part in it.

She hated these balls. They were any damsel's dream, but she hated how she was expected to stay among the ladies as they discussed the most superfluous things, hated how she was practically barred from engaging in intelligent topics of conversation that would make her seem unladylike, hated how pompously unlikable the guests were, hated how the events were poorly-disguised pretenses to try to find her a wealthy husband.

And, with her mother avidly hunting for a moment in which Hermione was innocuously standing by some eligible bachelor to 'introduce them', Hermione had already had quite enough and dinner hadn't even started yet.

The library was her refuge, and instead of flitting about like the socialite her mother insisted she be, she was sunken into one of the deep red armchairs that furnished the room, nursing a short glass of scotch in her hand. Disconnected from the social demands of her house and her position, her thoughts were elsewhere occupied as her gaze browsed the endless shelves of the bookcases lining the walls. Unusually for her, she wasn't cradling a book in her lap: instead, she let her eyes comb the spines of the thousands of tomes. What she was searching for, not even she was sure of, but all she had thought about since Ron had helped her through the tunnel the other day was that she was indebted to him, and repayment must come in the shape of a book recommendation. The trouble was picking one to recommend— one that would showcase that she was well-read and not just literate for show, one that would make the handyman swallow his smug words about rich people in libraries, but also one that she knew he was sure to enjoy.

Damned be, just this once, the extensiveness of her father's selection!

The heavy door to the room creaked open, and Hermione was quick to crouch below the armchair's tall back to conceal her presence.

"It's me," a soft voice appeased her, and Hermione relaxed. She knew who it belonged to.

"Harry, what are you doing in here?" she said, pulling out her legs from under her and slipping her feet back into the uncomfortable heels she had discarded onto the rug. She stood to meet him, still holding the whisky.

Harry stood at the far end of the library, by the grand windows with the lush drapes, beside the little table where the crystal jug of scotch —Lord Philip's drink of choice— was always kept with a few spare glasses. "I could ask you the same thing," he smiled at her as he opened the bottle and poured himself a drink like hers, "especially because ladies aren't supposed to retreat into their father's libraries and drink scotch. That's a man's thing."

His words were laced through with a humored irony, and Hermione smiled as she drew closer and stood by him. "Give thanks, Harry. If my father walks in and sees that you are drinking his favorite single-malt, it'll be me to take the fallout."

"Your father? A rageful man?" Harry followed along as he placed the closed bottle back and walked toward Hermione, glass in hand. "Ah, yes, because that is exactly the kind of character I perceive from him."

"Don't let the gentle face fool you. He's prone to fits of ire," Hermione pursued the joke, humoring the idea of her mild-mannered and soft-spoken father as a wrathful soul.

"I'll take your word for it. Cheers," Harry said, clinking his glass against Hermione's. They both took a long sip at the same time, then reclined back onto the wall into which the window was built.

Hermione knew that Harry hated these dinners as much as she did, though for different reasons. She hated them because she hated the doll-like standard 'ladies of her stature' were subjected to; Harry hated them because, having been raised middle-class by his parents before they passed, he had never developed the resigned taste for this superficial world that Hermione had had to learn to uphold if she wanted to keep her sanity. It was just as well, however, because this was their usual spot whenever Harry came round: they'd eventually meet in the library, have a few secret drinks that Hermione hoped to God her father had never taken stock of, and unwind with a chat that poked fun at the party until they were refueled and ready to venture back into the aristocratic jungle. Though Harry got along well with Orlando, he had become a steadfast friend to Hermione, and to rely on him to keep her sane —and keep her silent— during these balls was of incredible value to Hermione.

Tonight they reclined against the wall in silence, watching the fire crackle with a low, primal rumble in the ample marble hearth of the room. Because the library was otherwise unlit (Hermione found the relative darkness made a welcome break from the overly-bright chandeliers of the dining hall and drawing rooms), the fire flooded the library with a warm orange glow, casting dancing shadows along the surfaces of the room. Watching the shadows flicker over the spines of the books she had just been examining, Hermione thought to turn to Harry for a solution to her situation.

"Harry."

"Hm?"

"How does one go about choosing a book to recommend to someone?"

There was a brief silence. "Good question. I suppose my answer would vary based on what your intentions are. Is this a book you want to recommend for literary purposes, or so they can discuss it with you, or a book meant to expose a part of yourself? What is your intention?"

Hearing Harry phrase the act of lending a book so poetically, Hermione felt embarrassed in the truth of her reasons. She cleared her throat: "It's, uh, so I can get back at someone."

Harry chuckled a little. "Well, that's one I've never dealt with before. Can I get some context?"

"You're going to laugh at me."

"Just tell me."

"Fine." Hermione sighed and hoped her story, which was absurd to her in hindsight, would not seem the same to Harry. "I was running from one of my mother's ghastly wardrobe sessions the other day, in an atrocity of a dress, except this time she didn't let me go— she enlisted a search party to go after me."

"No way," laughed Harry. He was a frequent receptacle for Hermione's ceaseless complaints about her unbearable mother and her antics, so he was well-versed in the complicated subject of 'Lady Amelia and her relationship to her daughter'.

"Yes, I know. So I snuck into a woodshed to try to shake them off, but the handyman was in there..." As she spoke the words, she relived their memory: the musky smell of sawdust, the heave of her chest under the corset, the muscular arms rippling under Ron's shirt. She felt a furious warmth rush to her cheeks. Why was the mere thought of him making her blush? She shook it off and continued: "Long story short, there was no way I could get back inside the house without running into my mother or her cronies, and I knew if they caught me I'd have hell to pay before she had a chance to calm down. So he helped me sneak back into the house via a secret passage—"

"A secret passage?" Harry's eyes twinkled with childish interest.

"Let's not go on a tangent. Yes, a secret passage. But turns out, the man uses the passage to get into the library when no one's there and take a couple of books borrowed. He's particularly fond of Shakespeare, as he told me. He said it was because he thought no one would mind, seeing as apparently the rich only use their libraries for decoration." Now the familiar outrage she had felt when she had first heard that flooded back. "Can you believe it, Harry, that he said the rich only use books for decoration?"

But Harry was too busy laughing delightedly to himself, sharing not a single drop of Hermione's indignation.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Really, Harry, how funny is it to assume that us nobles—"

"Hermione," Harry halted her, "you have to remember that I am painfully middle-class, or at least brought up that way. It's my godfather who's noble. So forgive me for thinking this handyman has a spectacularly amusing gall at coming for the Earls of Rosebury like that." He snickered briefly, evidently still relishing in Ron's quip. "But I don't see how this connects to you recommending a book."

Hermione had gone on the very tangent she had sought to avoid, and so she was quick to pull herself back on track. "Ah, yes. So I told him I did read, so he said 'prove it', and apparently my proof must come in the shape of my recommending him a book I've read and I think he'll like."

"This handyman sounds like quite the character," Harry said with admiration.

"I'm sure you would get along."

"No doubt we would. But, back on the subject, I suppose the best strategy here would be to do exactly that, to pick a book that you liked but that you know he will too."

"How do I know what he'll like?"

"He said he likes Shakespeare, didn't he? There's got to be one he hasn't yet read."

Hermione sighed: Shakespeare may as well be endless, so that could not be the only criterion she followed. "I'm going to need more than that."

"Books are also pretty good introductions to people. Who knows? Maybe if you pick a book with a character you admire, or feel connected to, you might end up telling him more about you than you think. And that would save you a lot on the deeper introductions."

A book with a character I identify with. Hm. That was definitely a solid pointer, and one she would take into account when making her selection. "Thank you, Harry. That sounds like a good guide."

"Anytime. But don't expect this to be free of charge— you'll have me to recommend a book to as well."

"I should think letting you have my father's scotch at your will would be payment enough," Hermione smirked, glad to be back on familiar ground.

"Touché," Harry conceded. "And now, shall we go back to the party? We wouldn't want to arouse suspicions. Especially not when I'm now so aware of Lady Amelia's special gift for assembling search parties."

Hermione laughed and set the glass down with a crystalline clink. "Yes, let's head back."

Harry mimicked her and set his own empty glass down with the same glassy sound. Then, a few steps within distance of one another, they walked out of the library, feeling considerably more refreshed and readier to tackle the demands of English high society in its most difficult form.

Isolated at one end of the table, with Harry seated all the way across from her and Orlando sandwiched between two drowsy old lords a few chairs away, it only took a few minutes into dinner for Hermione to desperately need another library break. On her left sat Lady Macmillan, a chatty, plump woman who had talked her ear off throughout the entirety of the main course. On her right sat a tall, kind-faced man whom Lady Amelia had introduced as Cedric, Mr. Diggory's son. Her intent had been clear: as Cedric had woven off to make small talk with someone else, Lady Amelia had turned to her daughter and said through a forcedly sweet smile: "He's a nice boy, isn't he? And from a good family too, so well-connected…"

She couldn't have been clearer if she'd yelled it for the entire party to hear: Hermione was to think of Cedric as a strong marriage prospect, and that, undoubtedly, had been the sentiment behind the seating arrangement that had placed the two of them in neighboring chairs.

As dessert was served, Lady Macmillan gave Hermione a brief respite as she turned to her left and engaged with Lady Malfoy instead. The stick-thin, sallow-faced woman merely scrunched up her face in a more exaggerated expression of her customary sneer, but Lady Macmillan must have taken it as a smile, because it did not deter her. Hermione, however, was flooded with a wave of relief. Free from her interlocutor for a few moments, she turned to her other neighbor, who eyed her curiously as a spoonful of chocolate soufflé hung near his mouth.

Hermione realized she might have swiveled around in her chair a bit too quickly and awkwardly, so she cleared her throat and tried to diffuse the awkwardness. "So, Mr. Diggory—"

"Cedric, please. Mr. Diggory's my father," the man cut her short. He accompanied his words with a cordial smile, and suddenly, Hermione felt much more comfortable.

"Cedric," she said with a looser smile. "I'm Hermione, Lady Amelia's daughter."

"Trust me, she made that very clear when she was 'introducing me' to the party guests," Cedric said with a slight snort. Hermione's insides crept with embarrassment: leave it to her mother to ambush the poor man with the idea of her as a bride from the very moment he walked into her home. She could only imagine how hellish she had made the whole evening— and how lowly Cedric must think of her. Surely he must think Hermione had set Lady Amelia on him, too shy to approach him on her own. He was, after all, handsome, with a certain aloofness that might come off as standoffishness and might have necessitated the motherly wingwoman for other ladies— but Hermione was not one of them, and she was abashed at even the mere possibility of being taken for one.

"Mr. Dig– Cedric, I'm so sorry," she stammered, trying to clear her name. "It's my mother, she insists on doing these things, I don't know why—"

"You obviously don't want to marry me, don't you?" Cedric again halted her sentence in its tracks.

Hermione fell into stunned silence. She had been sure that Cedric was thinking she was some stupid floozy crushing on him, but without enough gall to admit it, and here he was, saying (accurately) the very opposite?

She opened her mouth to respond, but no words fell out, and her expression remained agape; however, Cedric again swooped in to reassure her: "It's okay. I don't want to either." He paused and his almond eyes widened slightly. "No offense."

"None taken," Hermione said, having regained her powers of speech. She felt a cramp crackle down her fingers: she had been bunching the cloth napkin in a tight fist, unaware of it. She unclenched her fingers and let the fabric fall back to her lap. She wriggled her fingers to coax some feeling back into them. "If anything, I'm relieved."

"Glad we are on the same page, then," Cedric said with another soft smile. He really did have a knack for placing people in comfort, Hermione thought.

"Sorry about my mother, though. She's obsessed with my marriage. Now that Orlando's of age and he's legally capable to be regent of the estate, she wants to get rid of me as quick as I can. Spare the expenses, and all that."

"Not too much motherly instinct, then, I take?"

"Never. But then again, nanny brought us up far more than she did, so I suppose the motherly instinct never had a chance to set in." Hermione scraped the edges of her soufflé mold to collect some of the lingering crumbs onto her spoon. "I also think she might want me out of the way so she can have Orlando all to herself. She might want to be the only woman around him until he gets a wife. If there is a reverse of the Oedipal complex, she has it."

Cedric guffawed, spewing a few crumbs out of his mouth and attracting the attention of their near neighbors. This made Hermione laugh as well, and the both of them pressed their napkins to their mouths to allow themselves to dissolve into snickering with as much propriety as the table commanded.

"The Oedipal complex," Cedric repeated as he put down his napkin when the fits of laughter had died down, still relishing in the joke. "I must say, it is pleasing to meet someone who keeps up with the scientific journals. That's not a joke for anyone to understand."

"Likewise," Hermione said, glad her joke had landed. "The Interpretation of Dreams is still fairly new. I'm pleasantly surprised to have a guest at the table who at least is vaguely aware of Freud."

"I could say the same," Cedric said in the tone of a genuine compliment. "I must say, Lady Granger, it is very pleasing to encounter a woman that reads."

"If it were up to my mother, I wouldn't read at all," Hermione huffed, looking away. "I imagine it must be nice— you must have infinitely more time to read without your parents pushing may-be-spouses upon you."

"Oh, they try," Cedric said nonchalantly. "But I think they know by now it'll be hopeless."

Hermione was intrigued. "How so?"

Cedric's eyes whizzed back and forth between Hermione and the rest of a table. "Can you keep a secret?" his voice dropped to a hush. Hermione nodded. Cedric spoke loudly enough that it allowed for inconspicuousness, since she wouldn't have to lean in to listen, but soft enough that only she would hear. "There is a girl in Hong Kong. A Ms. Chang. She's the daughter of the cultural advisor to the Governor, sort of the local version of what my father does there too. We've met in various functions since we were teenagers, and, well, I daresay I have no interest in anyone other but her."

If Hermione hadn't been relieved before, she was even more so now: Cedric's secret was as good as an ironclad guarantee that he would not allow Lady Amelia to pressure him into marrying Hermione (which she could have, even despite his unwillingness to do so), which meant she could still count on her liberty for some more time.

"I'm sure she's lovely," she said, giving him a smile that both indicated she was happy for him and she was relieved for herself. "If I am ever in Hong Kong, Cedric, you must introduce me to this Ms. Chang."

"I certainly will," Cedric said, the same relief evident in his expression. "Though I should hope, by the time you honor us with your visit, that her family name is a different one."

Hermione was not a romantic person by any conventional standard, but Cedric's words nearly made her swoon. That is what she wanted in a marriage, if ever she were to pursue one at all— unconditional, eager love, not the begrudging resignation of a union of convenience.

"Shall we retreat to the drawing room?" Lord Philip's voice rose from across the table. The guests readily complied: the men were the first to get up, undoubtedly to secure a place at the cards table, and though the women were slower to follow, soon the party was making its way en masse to the drawing room.

Hermione, however, no longer felt the urge to sneak back into the library in a flash: walking with Cedric courteously beside her, she felt reassured in having made a new friend and a new alliance against Lady Amelia, and suddenly the small talk that the drawing room would inevitably imply didn't seem so dreadful anymore.

If Draco were to make a mental list of the things he hated, post-dinner drawing-room socialization would be at the very top. The mood, sure, had considerably lightened after the routinely formality of dinner, but he still felt no urge to join any of the little cliques being formed around the space.

No, there was only one person he wanted to talk to, but he was elsewhere occupied by the window with Orlando Granger, presumably laughing at one of the younger boy's jokes. Draco had to admit: Orlando, an uncharacteristic friend for the sullen, sourly Malfoy heir, had an irresistible wit and a smile that was even more so. It was evident that he would make a fine Earl of Rosebury someday: his charisma dominated the room— and, Draco noted with some jealousy, Harry's attention as well.

Draco sighed and let himself fall back into the lavish pink sofa under the twinkling chandelier. He waved a footman over for a glass of wine, which he threw back in one gulp before setting the empty glass on the little mahogany table by the couch. His pale complexion was flushing with the rising alcohol already (dinner had seen him chug back two or three glasses to try to ignore how amenably Harry seemed to be getting along with one of those Patil girls), but Draco didn't care: Lord Black was more than a few drinks in by now, and besides, he needed something, anything, to keep his mind off Harry.

Off Harry, and off the fact that he had barely talked to him since their awkward, forced encounter in the hall when Harry had come in from riding and then walked away offering Draco that splendid view of his rear end.

Harry was such a tease, and Draco was on the verge of not being able to take it. So long as he kept drinking, however, he might be able to resist a little longer. But he stopped himself as he was about to wave the footman back: he had never drunk more than a few glasses in one night, and even those had been with a considerable amount of time between them. Draco had never been anything but stone-cold sober, and if he increased the pace of his drinking, who knows what could ensue? He didn't know himself drunk, and he had no intention of finding out what that was like on a night where Harry was this close by and he might do something he would not remember. No: if he was to make a fool of himself, he would do it in full conscience of it.

But if he couldn't drink, how, then, would he distract himself? Because he wasn't particularly keen on approaching anyone for small talk, but he also couldn't stay on this couch sulking forever, especially now that that same Patil girl that had sat beside Harry at dinner was sauntering over to him...

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes, seething silently on the couch with his back turned to the gaggle of nobles behind him (among which were, of course, Orlando and Harry). He could take it. Surely the Patil girl was just being polite, maybe it was Orlando she was coming on to... But soon a girlish giggle tinkled upward, and that was it: he'd go insane like this. He couldn't drink, he wouldn't socialize, and he couldn't stay on this couch like a statue, eavesdropping on a girl's puerile attempts to flirt with Harry. He needed out.

A brilliant idea came to him then, and he kicked himself internally for not having come up with it earlier. A smoke break! He'd simply step outside politely, walk a few steps outside the house, and lean back against the big stone walls with a cigarette in hand, exhaling grey smoke into the inky night. He could already savor it just from the thought: as his lungs intook and exhaled the nicotine, he knew some of this dreadful anxiety would stick and be expelled with it. Smoking always calmed him, and though his hand was bound to start out shaky at first, it would ultimately be better than staying here and torturing himself with the sound of coquettish interaction. Oh, Draco liked flirting— he just preferred it when it was directed at him. Especially by Harry.

He could almost taste the ashy cigarette on his lips already, and his legs ached to stroll out for a calming walk. All he had to do was reach inside his breastpocket, inside his dinner jacket, and have his fingers close around the cold metal of his—

Cigarette case. Where was it? The breastpocket was empty, devoid of the cool silver rectangle that was a comfort object for Draco in times of dire stress like this. What was he going to do now?

"Where is my cigarette case?" he said out loud, still patting himself all over in search of the case. A few curious heads turned his way and quickly turned away to resume their conversation. This only inflamed him: how dare they look away like he was fleeting entertainment, when he was in such a situation! "Where is my cigarette case?" he repeated, louder this time, and he was sure he heard the level of the party chatter drop in response.

"Draco..." his mother started calmly, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder, but Draco quickly tore away. "Draco, it's just a case, I'm sure it's here somewhere..."

"It's not," Draco said sourly. "It would be in my breastpocket if it was."

"Are you sure? Have you checked between the couch cushions for it?"

"Mother, I know bloody well where my bloody cigarette case should be, which it bloody isn't!" Draco expelled a barrage of swears, letting his hand back against the cushion in frustration. Now Harry and the Patil girl had stopped chatting, and Draco could see Harry staring at him quizzically. Oh, so this is what it takes to catch your attention, he thought venomously. Well, look on, Potter! That's all I'm good for, anyway, aren't I? Your pet?

"Draco," Narcissa hissed, evidently embarrassed at his outburst. "People are looking."

"Well, let them look!" Draco bellowed. The party lulled into a silence. Draco could not for the life of him pin down what was making him act like this. It seemed to be a buildup of everything: his father's coldness, stoking his own inadequacy; Harry ignoring him, playing it off like they'd never met; the dreary dinner by that dreadful Lord Macmillan; the isolation he was undergoing in this drawing room... And, of course, the goddamn cigarette case. That had been the detonator, hadn't it? The last thing he was missing to blow up? "Let them look, mother!"

Now his father had scrambled to his feet to join his wife and his son. "I do not know what you think you're doing," he said in a low tone that dripped with danger, "but you had better stop it while we're in company."

"Oh, company," Draco snorted. "I'm missing my cigarette case —which, need I remind you, is an heirloom of the Earldom of Ashcroft—, and you want me to care about company. Spare me."

"The heirloom doesn't matter," Narcissa said, acutely aware that the party was pretending not to watch yet doing so intently. "The heirloom doesn't matter, Draco darling, it's just a cigarette case—"

"IT'S MY CIGARETTE CASE!" Draco screamed. "It's my cigarette case, and it matters to me, because it should be in my breastpocket—!"

Narcissa wasn't the only one aware that all eyes had turned to the Malfoy family. Hermione, who had lost Cedric a while ago to the diplomatic inquiries of Mr. Patil, had been stuck once again with Lady Macmillan. Considering that the woman now had her piggy eyes fixated on the Earls of Ashcroft, this was the only chance Hermione would have to evade her again.

Quietly, being careful not to stray any attention from the Malfoys, Hermione slipped out of the side door of the mint-colored drawing room back into the library, where the hearth still crackled with the last of the embers.

The sound of chaos in the drawing room (this Draco boy truly did have a flair for the dramatic, and over a cigarette case–!) seeped in through under the doors, but the thick walls of books muffled the sound from disturbing her any further. She was back in her peaceful place, and though pouring herself another glass of scotch might be pushing it, she could now return to the original task that had pulled her to the library in the first place.

A book for the handyman. For Ron.

Her brief but pleasant conversation with Cedric had served to clear her mind, but now, she rewound through Harry's advice as she ran her hand over the shelves that lined the walls. A book you like, and he'll like too. The covers of the leather-bound books were cool to the touch. Something by Shakespeare. Her eyes scanned the letters printed on the spines, but no title called out to her. A book with a character you admire, a character you can see yourself in. She let her hand continue racing over the spines, her eyes darting along as quickly as they went, trying to seize onto the perfect book.

All of a sudden, she spotted it. Her eyes and her hand stopped over the book at the exact same time, and she couldn't understand why she hadn't thought of this one in the first place. It was perfect, everything she had been looking for. Her hand closed around the spine and she drew the book out with a light rustle.

Yes, this would more than do.