Warning: Use of swearing in this chapter.
"Draco, my dear boy, please, tell me how you've been. Your mother said that you were doing perfectly well, but I want to hear it from you."
Draco sat in his chair in one of the sitting rooms, stiff as a board, trying to keep his breathing steady. Even hearing the man's voice conjured up memories steeped in blood and despair like a stage magician pulling flowers from a hat, one after the other after the other. But he had to keep calm, had to keep it together. He would not cower before Lucius Malfoy ever again.
"Everything is going well. I'm ahead in all my classes. There really isn't much to tell you."
"Father," Lucius growled. "There isn't much to tell you, Father. Show some respect to your elders, boy. I've been gone for not even a year, and already your manners are not as they once were. Although, one cannot blame you for that, of course. That old bat McGonagall isn't for to run a school like Hogwarts. Favouritism is not becoming, remember that, Draco. If only poor Severus hadn't been stupid and gotten himself killed because he couldn't stop pining for some useless Mudblood; he would have made a passable headteacher."
"That's, enough, Father. McGonagall is a fine Headmistress, and she is more than capable. And there is nothing wrong with dying for love. It's better than being in prison for listening to a psychotic maniac."
"Careful now, Draco, about how you speak regarding the Dark Lord," Lucius said coolly.
"Why? The wizard's dead. And nothing I just said was a lie. I'm not like you, father," Draco shot back.
"Indeed. I would never have spoken to my own father so disrespectfully. It's almost like you're glad I'm stuck in this hole."
"I didn't say anything of the sort," Draco replied, elbows resting on his knees.
"My dear boy, you don't need to say anything. Its in your eyes, plain as day. You're angry, Draco, and I suppose I can see why, but really, I'm your father and you have to appreciate that I was only trying to keep you safe. I did what I thought was best for the family."
Draco's blood began to heat, temper coating every nerve. "First of, I don't have to appreciate anything. Secondly, what you thought was best resulted in me almost killing Albus Dumbledore and fighting in a war. I could of died. Mother could of died. He was in our house, he violated us, all so you could get back into his good graces, get scratched behind the ears like a good little dog."
"Silence! I will not stand for this! I am your father and you will listen to me and you will show me respect. Just because I am not, there, Draco, does not mean that I can't meddle in your life."
"What," Draco ground out between clenched teeth, "is that supposed to mean, father?"
"It means exactly what the words imply. That I have eyes everywhere, and I am not happy with some of your choices lately, son. Well, all of them, if we're being honest with each other." Lucius grinned, ever the smug Malfoy holding all the cards, keeping Draco forever in the dark to his evil machinations.
"What, exactly, are you dissatisfied with, father?" He wouldn't give the man an inch, not one shred of evidence, if he did indeed know about Hermione.
"For starters, you left poor Blaise out in the cold, after all those years of supposed friendship. Poor chap must have been so hurt, after being so humiliatingly rejected. And why was that? I never quite found that out."
Draco didn't let out the relieve breath he longed to exhale, didn't let a single flicker spread across his features at Lucius's words.
"People change, father. They grow apart. Besides, didn't you teach me that everyone in your life is but a mere weapon, laying in wait to be used by your enemies at their earliest convenience?" Draco drawled.
Lucius's eyes gleamed in triumph. "You're learning, Draco. I must say, I'd feared you'd gone soft after the War. I can clearly see my concerns were unfounded. Tell me, do you still believe in the other lesson I taught you? The most important one?"
"Family above all?" Draco asked, although he knew that wasn't what his father was referring to.
"No. About Mudbloods."
Draco couldn't help it. He'd kept it in the first time, but at the sound of it from his father, the tone... Draco flinched.
"Something wrong?" Lucius purred, a cat with a particularly juicy mouse under it's paws.
"We don't use that word anymore," he replied, voice barely above a murmur.
"Your mother said as much. Said something about adapting to the current wizarding climate if we are to survive. But like you said earlier, I would rather die, and die being true to myself and what I believe, than live a hundred years of a lie, talking to Mudbloods, fraternizing with them. They are not people, Draco. They are unnatural, abominations, and they should be eradicated. How can you not see that? How can you not see that our lives would be so much better if they did not dwell among us, stealing what is ours. Did you know that that Granger girl, Helen or whatever her name is, well, people are saying she could be Minister within the next ten years if she goes into the Ministry. A Mudblood? Ruling us? Tell me, could you live like that, with her making decisions about how we live our lives, what we can or cannot do? Tell me, would you be fine with that, Draco?"
"Her name is Hermione," was all Draco said. All he allowed himself to say. Because he had to protect her, at all costs. Although his mind was roaringa t him to defend her, to change is mind and sing her praises until his voice was hoarse, Draco knew that it wouldn't change anything. Nothing could ever change Lucius Malfoy.
"Of course, she's in your year, isn't she? Still doing better than you? Oh, how you used to go on about it. Glad to see you've grown out of that."
Oh, he knew. He knew, didn't he?
But just in case he didn't. "Yes, she is. She's a war heroine, the golden girl of our age. Of course all the teachers adore her, favour her. She's a hero of the people."
Yes, she was a hero. Yes, all the teachers respected her. But that wasn't it. Hermione was naturally gifted, simple as. She had such a ghost for knowledge, for putting puzzles together and breaking them up again. Like a child experiencing the world anew, Hermione looked at learning with such wonder. He'd once laughed at it, mocked her for her bookish nature. Now, now he treasured it, seeing that look in her eyes.
"But not of our people, Draco. But I'm not here to talk about the Mudblood. Tell me, have you thought about courtship letters yet?"
If Draco had had a drink, he would have spewed it across the room. "What?" was all he could stutter out.
"Proposition letters. Really, do try to keep up with me, Draco. You'll be graduating soon, following in my footsteps. I must make sure you marry of my name. I'll have to help you; Merlin knows you'd only mess it up if you tried to do it yourself. You're absolutely helpless."
Before Draco could open his mouth, Narcissa Malfoy barged into the room like an avenging warrior goddess, door hitting the opposite wall so hard the wood dented.
"He will do no such thing!" Narcissa bellowed.
Draco's hands clenched into fists in his pockets. Parchment brushed up against his skin. Discreetly, Draco dug into his pocket at took out the note. Hermione's handwriting, as familiar as his own face, unfurled before him.
Remember that I'd walk into Hell, so long as you were with me, with a sarcastic remark and your winning smile. I'd face any challenge, so long as I had you. Because you have a lion's heart in you, that beats as fiercely as my own. Don't let him tell you otherwise.
Hermione.
PS: If he does anything to hurt you, I will go to Azkaban myself and stick my wand where the sun doesn't shine. Or I could just make fun of his hair.
She truly knew him, didn't she?
Only Hermione could mix a pep-talk note with humour and make it sound convincing. And he knew she'd do it, too. Knew that she'd do that for him. But Draco had seen enough violence for a lifetime, and he did not want her to stoop to her father's level.
Draco tucked the note back into his pocket, squaring his shoulders as he did so and meeting his father's gaze in the fireplace. He shouldn't have let a talking head get the best of him.
"Mother's right, father: I will not be accepting any letters, nor will I sign any marriage contract. I'm my own man, and you cannot make me give up my inherent freedom to choose who I want to spend my life with, not whoever you think will make the Malfoy name look good, or restore whatever glory you think we've lost. I gave up so much for you; but I will not give up my chance at a happy life. I am not some cow that you can just sell at market in hopes of paying the rent."
He'd been spending too much time listening to Hermione's Muggle fairytales.
Lucius' eyes narrowed. "Really, Draco, must you be so dramatic? We can discuss this at a later date. Now, I know that you're not graduating yet, but I wanted to set some ground rules in regards your placement at the company. Obviously, I'm sure everything is in absolute shambles due to my absence, but I'm sure you could sort it all out if you grease the right wheels. You'd have to hide the less legal aspects from prying eyes, but that won't be too taxing, hopefully. Perhaps pay a clandestine visit to the Ministry, see what you can reclaim of our old stock."
"No."
Draco turned.
His mother was unnaturally still, but her eyes were blazing brutal rage, promising death if Lucius' said another word.
"Excuse me?" Lucius demanded.
"No," Narcissa repeated. "Draco will not be taking over your 'company,' if one could even call it that. Draco will choose his own profession, not be tainted by all that Dark Magic crap you sold, all the disagreeable dealings you made with criminals and the like. I will not have my son go to Azkaban merely because you want him to carry on your legacy. What about what he wants? You haven't even asked him! You simply expect it of him, because that was what was expected of you, and your father, and you whole miserable lot of you."
"Narcissa, my love, you cannot hope to understand such things," his father said, trying to placate her.
"Why?" she demanded. "Tell me why."
"Well, because you're a woman," he replied, as if she was being ignorant just to annoy him. "The world of business is for men, Malfoy men."
"I see." Narcissa didn't move. "But let me ask you this. Who gave birth to our son, Lucius? Who was it?"
"Narcissa."
"That's right: me. I gave birth to him, looked after him, every single day. Most of the time, you were gone, or off with your little fanclub. But I was with him. I was there for every cold, every scraped knee. I taught him to read, tutored him when the ones you hired couldn't cut it. But you, you were the one he looked up to, the one he wanted to be like. And I was never angry at that, don't mistake me. I was glad, glad that he loved you, but he only loved the side of you you let show. Until he went to Hogwarts, until you put so much pressure and expectation on him. My sweet boy, and you took him from me, and made him into you. But he survived it, survived you, and he is so much better than you, than me. He is a good man, and I won't have you squander that. So now, you and I are going to have a conversation, and it won't be pretty, husband, but you need to hear it. But Draco doesn't."
Narcissa faced him, undimming love in her gaze. "Draco, go upstairs."
"Mother," Draco began.
"Draco," his mother said. "Please."
Draco got up from the chair. He turned to the image of his father and said, "If you upset her, I will never forgive you. Never."
Draco left the room, door closing behind him with a click he seemed to feel in his very bones.
Well, that went well.
Not.
Hermione opened the library door. The sight of her alone seemed to ease something in him. She didn't say a word, just grabbed his hand in hers and dragged him up the stairs to her room.
He let her.
Hermione pulled the duvet from the bed in one swift motion.
She left the room, only to return with some cushions, likey from the armchairs dotted about the library.
Then she got out a blanket from somewhere and wrapped it around his shoulders.
He hadn't even realized he'd been shaking so hard. He tested his forehead against hers, letting her calm settle into him like a stone dropped in water.
"Accio sweeping brooms," she said, and two brooms sailed up the stairs and into her awaiting palm.
She left yet again and returned with a piece of gardening twine from one of the kitchen drawers.
Hermione levitated the duvet into the air, wrapping the twine around the two brooms.
"Hermione, what are you doing?" Draco conjured enough energy to ask.
"Building a tent."
Draco pulled the blanket more tightly about his shoulders. It still smelled like her, like fresh roses and cinnamon and ink and old parchment.
"And why are you building a tent in the middle of your room?" he inquired.
"For fun purposes."
Hermione stuck the two brooms under the duvet and got out yet another blanket, laying it on the floor underneath.
"Don't you talk about him like that! He is our son, not some pawn for you to use!" Narcissa screeched from downstairs. She could have cast a Silencing charm, but Draco suspected that his mother wanted him to hear their conversation, to know what was said so that he did not feel like he was being left out in the dark. Some part of him wished she had.
Hermione gripped his hands in his own.
He couldn't look at her.
"Hey, Draco, it's okay. I'm right here. Everything's going to be okay. We'll fix this," she soothed, leading him over to the tent. She knelt down among the scattered pillows, looking up at him with nothing but faith. She looked so small, sitting there as he towered over her. Something precious and delicate worth keeping, worth protecting. Although she didn't need it; hell, she protected him most of the time. Like now.
Draco got under the tent.
He could still hear his parents downstairs, but only just, as if he'd stepped into a bubble only for the two of them. Draco rested his head beside Hermione's, staring at the underside of the duvet.
"I used to build tents all the time with my mother," she told him quietly. "Sometimes, when she had a day off and dad was at work, we'd build a tent in the living room and watch the telly together. Half the time, they never stayed up, and we used to use a curtain pole, but I thought the brooms would be sturdier given the weight of the duvet. Larger surface area and all that."
Her gaze darted over his face, but she looked away quickly, fingers running over the tassels on the cushions. "Then one day, we just stopped. She was always busy, or was asleep from pulling an extra shift. I think it was when I started showing signs of magic. It was like I was different somehow, and she didn't know how to act around me. But I still treasure those memories, of when it was just me and her in our tent, a sea of soft toys and books and tea sets. When I felt safe, and loved, and like nothing bad could get in, so long as we stayed there. But the bad always gets in, eventually. Nothing lasts forever, and all tents eventually collapse on you."
Draco gripped her hand. "True. But not if you build them right. Not if you make your tent anywhere, and look after it. Your hope can sustain anything, so long as you sustain your hope."
Hermione smiled. "That was beautifully eloquent."
Draco shrugged. "I have my moments."
Hermione turned onto her side, never letting go of him. "I'm so sorry, about what he said. If he'd actually been in the room, I would have throttled him senseless."
"That," he chuckled, "I would pay good money to see. But it's okay. I'm more angry about what he said in regards you. No one talks about my best friend like that. No one," Draco said fiercely.
"Thank you, but I don't need you to fight my battles for me; you're fighting enough of your own," she told him.
"I know, but you have to admit, I would look very majestic with a sword, riding on a gleaming steed and kicking the crap out if anyone who so much as looks at you wrong. It would make a great cover photo for the Quibbler, or Witch Weekly."
"As if anyone would buy that. But speaking of swords and steeds," Hermione reached across him, her hair tickling his cheek as she pulled back her arm. A massive book was in her hand, the paperbacks cover worn and the corners curling. The Chronicles of Narnia. "Look what I've got," she exclaimed.
"Is that your one?" Draco asked.
Hermione nodded. "Indeed. It was at my old house -which I charmed so no one would by it- and I asked Harry to pick it up for me. It's all seven books in one. I guess, after we talked about it this summer, I wanted some of that whimsy and adventure and excitement I got from reading them. But I think you need it more than I do."
She placed the book in the space between them.
Draco pushed it back towards her. "Read it to me."
"What?"
"You heard me, Granger: read it to me. Please."
"I've never read aloud to anyone before. You know, unless it was for research or to remind someone of whatever school rule they were breaking," she murmured, her admission barely a gentle breath warming his cheek.
He tried to not shiver. Tried, being the operative word.
"There's a first time for everything," Draco reminded her.
Hermione relented. "All right. Where should we start? At the beginning?"
Draco grinned. "The beginning is never as good as what comes next. Let's start with Wardrobe."
The two shared a look of understanding, for they were both thinking of their own story together: how the beginning had been awful, but the middle was so much better.
"As you wish," said Hermione, opening the book and skimming the pages, as if she herself had often skipped to this very story.
"Are you ready?" she asked him.
"Wait."
Draco sat up, fluffed the pillows, laid back down, stretched, itched his elbow and then drew Hermione closer, so that her head was on top of his chest, the book resting beneath her chin. He spread the blanket across them both.
He still hadn't let go of her hand.
"Are you quite finished," she drawled, eyebrow raised.
"Yes."
"Alright." Hermione cleared her throat.
Draco closed his eyes.
"Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent away from London during the war because of the air raids. They were sent to the house of an old Professor who lived in the heart of the country..."
Hermione, Draco thought, had a lovely voice.
It was barely five o clock in the afternoon, and already the sky was midnight black. Exhausted from her row with Lucius, Narcissa trudged up the stairs, using every effort to out one foot above another.
Hermione's door was partially open.
Curious, Narcissa took a look.
Asleep in some sort of tent, Hermione's head rested on her son's chest, an open book still lying in her hand. Her other was clasped in Draco's, like two children lost in the woods, afraid to let go and be swallowed up and forgotten.
Her fight with her husband was worth it, to see the two of them together, like two halves of a whole, finally together. It was worth it to see Draco smiling as he slept, to see Hermione burrow her head just that little bit farther, as if comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Without making a sound, Narcissa entered the room and tucked the blanket around them more tightly, picking up the book and using a corner of the blanket to mark her place, since both women detested people who put books face down.
Narcissa left the two together, as they would always be.
Right?
Author's Note: Wow, that was a whirlwind to write. Of course, I don't own any Narnia material, and of course that opening belongs to C.S. Lewis. I've been waiting to write that scene for so long, it feels strange to know that you'll be reading it. What did you think? Was Lucius as awful to Draco as you expected? Was the banter everything you'd hope it would be? This chapter is so incredibly special, because it also try 25th chapter. I never thought that I'd get this far, and I have all of you to thank for it. I'm sorry to leave Dramione there, but the next chapter will be a Weasley and Lovegood family look-in, and all sorts of shenanigans will ensue.
Happy 4th of July!
All my love, Temperance Cain
