THE LOAN

Chapter 3

Hermione sat by the large window that looked out onto a garden that reminded her of home. Not Hogwarts. She'd blossomed at that institution, been at the top of her class, but it had never exactly been home. Never home. Home to the bratty Pureblood kids who thrived under the cool shadow of the "special attention" showered on them, sure. But not to her. Never to her.

She was pulled out of her reverie when Draco passed her a cup of chamomile tea, something she'd begrudgingly agreed to after hearing the news he'd just delivered to her - anything to soothe her frayed nerves.

'Drink,' he instructed, unbuttoning the button holding his waistcoat together and gracefully sliding into the chair opposite her. 'You'll feel better.'

She raised her brows at that, and sipped at the piping hot liquid, sighing as it blazed a fiery trail down her throat.

'So, the condition isn't permanent, is it?' she enquired, gingerly placing the cup on the mahogany table before her.

'We don't know for sure,' he admitted, looking away, rubbing a thumb over the ring that sat proudly on his finger, embellished with the Malfoy crest. 'We haven't stopped treatment, obviously.'

'Treatment?'

'Hunting for a treatment,' he corrected himself. 'There's an entire team of highly qualified intellectuals – and myself – looking into the matter. We're trying to find a cure.'

'And how much time do you have?'

He said nothing for a beat, just stared right back into her hazel pools of curiosity and perhaps some concern with an unflinching resilience. 'I don't know,' he finally said.

'I'm sorry,' she said, then, and was even quite surprised to hear the words coming from her mouth. 'I'm sorry for prying too much,' she winced. Apologies had never been too easy for her. 'And I hope your wife gets better in no time.'

He nodded, and drained his cup in one long swallow, clearing his throat uncomfortably after he did so.

'Malfoy? If you don't mind me asking, what brought about her comatose condition? I mean, it's really quite rare for people in the wizarding world to enter into coma; it happens all the time with Muggles, not quite that often out here, though, and especially not for as long as eight months. How'd it happen?'

He rubbed a finger against the side of his forehead before shrugging. 'An unfortunate accident. We'd gone skiing in the Alps. She had a rather nasty fall. I wasn't around to cast a cushioning charm.'

'Well, I'm sure Astoria was capable enough of casting one herself, wasn't she?'

'People,' he interrupted rather sharply, shooting her a hard look. 'People lose their wits, Granger. Minds go blank. That's what happened to her.'

She set her mouth in a firm line, unsure of what to say next. It was obviously a very delicate subject for him, and she didn't really know how to approach it. She figured the best thing to do would be to leave him alone.

She took hold of her cup in one hand, wincing at how hot it was against her skin, much to Draco's amusement.

'You don't have to leave if you don't want to,' he replied politely, obviously catching on to what she was about to do next. 'I was about to set off on some business myself, so if you'll please excuse me.'

She nodded again, and sighed as he left, running her fingers through her hair. She sprang up, then, as a sudden thought struck her, and bounded out of the little room, hoping to catch Malfoy before he disappeared off to somewhere.

She'd just rounded the corner when she heard indignant muttering coming from a room, so she paused, and couldn't help but overhear what was said next.

'You heard the Master, Dumpy,' Missy, the house elf, croaked. 'Not a word about the Mistress's condition to Ms. Granger. Mistress hurt her head in a skiing accident. Remember that.'

Hermione's eyes widened but before she could say anything, a warm hand touched her shoulder, and she let out a yelp at the sudden contact.

'Looking for something, Ms. Granger?'

She turned and found herself face to face with Narcissa Malfoy.

'Oh, wow, Nar – I mean, Mrs. Malfoy, um, not really, I just –'

'Just happened to have lost your way?' the woman questioned, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow so far up that Hermione was transfixed by its perfection.

'Miss Granger?'

'Oh! Um, not really,' Hermione replied hastily, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

'I see,' Narcissa replied disdainfully. 'Well, I think I've chanced upon you at an exceedingly wonderful time. I'm ready for breakfast, and I would like it if you joined me.'

'Breakfast? I'm not very hungry, actually, I –'

'Very well, then, I'll meet you in the dining room in ten minutes. Wash up a bit, won't you, dear?'

-X-X-X

'Ms. Granger, do you mind? The butter, please.'

They ate in silence after that, just the clinking of cutlery against plates, and Hermione moved the porridge in her bowl around, her eyes boring holes into the innocent dish.

'So, Ms. Granger, Draco told me you were quite the student at Hogwarts.'

Hermione looked up apprehensively, her face a mixture of surprise and distrust.

'Did he, now?' she finally said, as Draco drained his glass of water, loosening his tie.

'Why, yes, he's always had the nicest of things to say about you, haven't you, Draco?'

'Have you, Draco?' Hermione quipped, rubbing a finger at the base of her throat.

Draco raised an eyebrow at his mother, who shot him a calculated glare, before she reached for a glass of orange juice she pretended to be vastly interested in.

'Yes, um,' Draco said, uncomfortably. 'The nicest things. Always.'

Hermione snorted. 'Were these "nicest things" said before you made my teeth grow till the ground, or after?'

'Ms. Granger,' Narcissa interrupted. 'Children…make mistakes, I'm sure you don't hold anything against –'

'Sorry for the reality check, but children aren't the only ones who make mistakes, and my very presence here is proof of that. And as for holding anything against anyone, I assure you, Mrs. Malfoy, the Ministry cares a rat's arse about my personal opinions. So it wouldn't matter if your son was Hitler incarnate; I'd still be stuck here, and I still wouldn't have any choice but to do his bidding.'

'Look, Granger, no one's asking you to do my bidding-' Draco started saying, but was interrupted by the stern raise of his mother's hand.

'Yes,' she said, her eyes akin to cold, dark winter. 'Draco did tell me how stubborn you were. Well, dear girl, there's a difference between stubborn my stupid, and Hermione Granger, proclaimed brightest witch of her age, seems anything but the latter. Consider this meal the extension of an olive branch, Ms. Granger, an olive branch from the Malfoy family to you. The advantages, should you choose to accept, would be endless, even after your "job" here is done. Should you, however, make the grievous mistake of turning it down, you can rest assured that, well, you do want to be given the chance to actually hold your baby, don't you?'

Hermione gasped, and Draco winced.

'That being said, I also wouldn't go around the manor, eavesdropping, it is, after all, considered extremely rude, and you're just a guest. It would do you well to remember that.'

Draco furrowed his eyebrows at that, and opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione cut him to the chase.

'Dear Narcissa, you're as much a guest here as I am, or has your darling husband kicked you out of your country home for good? If yes, the least you could do is help with things around here...I don't know, maybe loan your womb to your son? After all, the fate of your bloodline depends upon it.'

'Why, you little –'

'Save it, you twat,' Hermione spat. 'I don't have to listen to this.'

She threw her plate to the side and jumped out of her seat, then saluted the older woman with her middle finger, and stalked away, just stopping at the door to say, 'Consider this my official declination of your olive branch.'

-X-X-X-

Hermione sank into the comforting grasp of the ottoman in her room, and swung her legs over to rest on the coffee table in front of it. She didn't know why, but as she'd been climbing up the stairs to her room after her little spat with Narcissa, and opening her door, she'd wanted nothing more than to see a letter lying on her bed. She certainly hadn't been prepared for the nothingness that smacked her in the face when she entered her room. She'd grimaced and proceeded to step into the shower fully clothed, a decision she regretted as soon as the water hit her body, but it had been too late then, and try as she did, she hadn't been able to move. She'd let the stream run over her in torrents, until she couldn't breathe, and shivering, she'd shucked off all her clothes, then walked back into her room, pausing before the full length mirror that adorned the wall facing her bed.

She'd sucked in her stomach and then released the breath she'd been holding in, before she inhaled deeply, and watched her belly expand. She'd held, then, and run a lingering hand over her abdomen, and a solitary tear had escaped her.

'Nobody cries for the mudblood,' she'd whispered then, and turned away from her reflection as if the very sight of herself burnt her eyes.

So she sat, in an oversized bathrobe that hung off her limp frame pathetically, clutching at her head in a desperate bid to drown the voices in her head. But the one she couldn't seemed to was Narcissa's, and suddenly, the threat of not being able to even hold her firstborn seemed very real; not a part of just any distant future, but a part of her distant future.

'Come in,' she croaked, when someone knocked at her door, and her eyes flitted up to see who it was.

'I've come to apologize,' he said, walking towards her seat with a sense of determination she'd never noticed in him before. 'She's my mother, yes, but she was out of line,' he concluded, standing by the little table, his hands shoved into the pockets of his charcoal trousers. 'And I'm sorry.'

She snorted at that, and moved her legs from the table, staring at the door he'd just shut.

'She's not going to bother you anymore,' he said, and she looked at him them.

'What, has she died?'

'Watch it,' he replied, curtly. 'She's gone back. And she will return, yes, but she will not speak to you again.'

Hermione nodded then, and got up to pour herself a glass of water.

'Could I have one, too?' he asked, oddly at ease, perching himself at her table.

'Your house,' she shrugged, and walked over to hand him his.

She remained silent as he drank half of what she'd given, and kept the glass next to him, clearing his throat.

'I poisoned that before giving it to you,' she said, simply, and watched in a sort of morbid fascination as he turned pale.

'Just kidding,' she whispered, shaking her head and crossing her arms. 'Although, I could have, you should really not be drinking anything I give you.'

He cracked a smile, then, and shrugged nonchalantly. 'You and I both know you're incapable of that.'

She scoffed, and made to move past him when he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

'I mean it, Granger,' he said softly, and the sunlight hit his eyes, which shone like a cluster of diamonds, and her heart ached. 'I really am sorry.'

She said nothing and he didn't demand an acceptance, but he didn't let go of her arm, and his thumb didn't stop brushing circles against her skin.

He stared, captivated by the gooseflesh that erupted in the wake of his touch, and she shut her eyes, waiting for it to stop.

'I'm still ovulating,' she suddenly said, and she didn't know why she said it – she could only think of the life she'd left behind and how much she wanted to go back home.

He looked at her then, retracting his hand, and she dropped her arms to the side, looking down at her toenails, making a mental note of the fact that they were in desperate need of a trim, and through the curtain of her hair around her face, she faintly registered him reaching for the tie that held her robe together, and her breath caught.

-X-X-X-

A/N – Really sorry for the late update, I had my finals, and they lasted for a MONTH!

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