A/N: I didn't notice that this was such a short chapter until I uploaded it to Sorry about that! I'll try to get the next one up a bit sooner than usual to make up for it. Happy Memorial Day weekend for the Americans (I guess it's not such a cheerful holiday in itself, but getting Monday off and an excuse to grill are cause for celebration)! Also, do I have a multinational readership? That would sure be exciting.
Read, enjoy, review!
ON TO
Chapter Six:
It was relief to hand over Bellatrix Lestrange's wand despite the necessity of hiding the entire transacting from the eyes of Hermione's nearby student. Even though she had only been carrying it for a day, the feeling that it was tainting her with its evil past had grown so bad so quickly that she had experienced monstrous nightmares when she went to sleep. The hazy memories from her dreams sharpened for the brief moment that her fingers touched the plain length of wood, and she heard insane laugher echo through her brain.
The headmistress's cousin thanked her in a few words and then disappeared into the crowd. Hermione stared after her for a little while, admiring the woman's stealth. She lost sight of her in under a minute. Behind her, Guillaume was giving directions to a group of young women, Irish by the sound of them, giggling and whispering to one another.
"Corcoran's," one of them was saying a little too loudly, as if increasing the volume of her voice would make it easier for Guillaume to understand. "You know, a pub. Where they serve beer."
Guillaume's furrowed brow smoothed over as comprehension hit him. "Corcoran's! Yes, I know where there is a Corcoran's at Saint-Michel. Do you know how, euh, how to go to Saint-Michel? I can…" He traced a pattern in the air with his index finger. "… show on a map."
The girl giggled and shot mischievous looks at her friends. "Jesus, we forgot the map." Her eyes slid to Hermione with a speculative expression, one eyebrow raised. "She wouldn't mind if you came with us, would she? Just to show us where it is, nothing funny."
Guillaume bit his lip and looked at his tutor. "Euh, I do not think…"
"Go ahead," Hermione interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Class is finished for today." He would have an ample opportunity to practice English at least, and she could enjoy a fag earlier than she had expected and leisurely walk back home, time she would use to process the day's events.
A cool breeze sprang up as the sun began to set in earnest. Crowds overflowed the pavement and darted in and out of erratic traffic. Horns blared, a few people cursed, and a siren sang its two-note cry several streets away. She passed boulangeries and patisseries, stopping occasionally to admire the elegant and colourful creations under glass. As usual, the sight of all those rich sweets led her to wonder how French women never seemed to grow fat. Not only did they enjoy the breads and cakes, but also the wine, the cheese, the chocolate…
She turned onto a wide avenue where most of the food shops were replaced by boutiques, especially those selling shoes. She looked down at her own feet and frowned. Lucius had insisted on a complete transformation and barely agreed to let her keep her old clothes in the shopping bag she now held. Part of her – a very small part – liked the attention and the lavish spending, but mostly the episode had annoyed her. She had justified it to herself with a hope that she might coax him into sharing some of that promised information, but nothing had come of that.
And though he had never quite said anything offensive – at least, not on that particular day – he was always managing to insult her. His insistence that they visit Dior said that he was embarrassed to be seen in public with her as she usually dressed. His surprise at actually tolerating – nay, enjoying – her company said that he had expected her to bore him to tears. His compliments on her intellect seemed to highlight what he saw as the deficiencies of her friends.
Her feet started aching when she was less than halfway back to her flat, which only served to sharpen her resentment at Malfoy's sudden intrusion into her life. She stopped in the middle of the street to remove the strappy shoes and slip on her worn sandals with cracked brown leather and soles moulded to her feet.
"Much better," she breathed. The headmistress could talk about maintaining a 'rapport' with the man, but that did not mean that she had to accept insulting gifts from him. She made a resolution to return the clothes to him as soon as possible. In fact, she knew where he lived and could probably stop over there before returning home. It was not on her way, but it would only take a quarter of an hour or so to reach it via the metro.
Wearing comfortable shoes and having thus made up her mind, Hermione could feel her irritation slipping away, replaced by the mellow satisfaction of a warm evening bearing no pressing responsibilities. A little ways down the avenue, she could see a metro stop. It was not on the correct metro line but a mere two stops away from it. She could have walked that distance, but with her resolution in mind, she was impatient to carry it out.
Hot, stale air and overripe odours greeted her as she descended underground. An eclectic crowd filled the tunnels, some hurrying to their destinations and others playing music in the corners for change. The train was so full that she was forced to stand close between harried, sweaty strangers. Out of consideration for her fellow passengers, she never smoked on the metro and wished they would return the favour by minimising the amount cologne they wore and increasing their usage of antiperspirant.
She returned to the surface in time to see the last rays of the sun and a fiery sunset where buildings did not block out the sky. It was only when she began climbing the stairs to his room that she realised that her plan had not allowed her an opportunity to change out of the clothes she was going to leave at his door. With a sigh, she turned around to head back to the lobby to search out a toilet where she could change. Finally back in her normal attire, she started once more up the stairs and plodded her way to the fourth floor.
She looked out in the hall, nervously at first, then walked over to his room and paused. Was she really going to do this? What sort of statement was she trying to make here anyway?
"Just do it," she muttered and dropped the Dior bag with a loud rustle. There. At that moment, her mobile ring. It scared her out of her wits, causing her to jump and then curse. An unfamiliar number, this time French, appeared on the little screen.
"Allo?"
"Ma chère fille, what are you doing?"
Anger resurged through her tired body at the sound of his amused voice and the warm tide that swept through her. 'Dear girl' indeed. "I'm not your 'chère fille' Mr. Malfoy, and I'm not your mistress. I can't accept these things you bought me."
A long pause followed her outburst, and Hermione became increasingly and uncomfortably aware of the strangeness of the situation: two people talking on telephones, close enough to speak face-to-face if not for the door separating them.
"Very well," he said at last in a much cooler tone. "I understand. Forgive me for having offended you."
Click. Well.
An air-conditioned breeze brushed her skin, and she shivered. While it seemed unbelievable that she had actually hurt his feelings – that he possessed any feelings to hurt – she nonetheless felt uneasy and vaguely guilty. No, that was ridiculous. She had insulted his vanity, his pride… a high sin when a Malfoy was the victim. Or if he really was affected, he could add it to the list of reasons he hated Mudbloods. To wit, they were:
1) A disgrace to the name of wizardkind
2) Inferior Muggle-born spawn
3) Corrupting influences on the children
4) Miserable ingrates who did not appreciate high fashion
She returned to her flat in a pensive mood which continued as she prepared and ate supper. Regretfully, she fended off invitations from her flatmates to go out with them. She had class early the next day and needed her sleep. They left and came back less than half an hour later with clinking shopping bags and declarations that they were too poor to go out and had instead decided to bring the party to the flat.
At their begging, she relented and drank of mug of the cheap wine they had purchased and smoked and played cards with them, nursing her single drink as they poured and re-poured. Their friendly banter was soothing after Malfoy's dry – if sharp and occasionally funny – conversation and subsequent coldness. It was also a relief to speak French after a full day in the capital of French speaking nothing but English. They pressed her to stay longer, but finally she tore herself away to finish her nightly routine and fall into bed.
