Chapter Four
It was not until Sunday night that Hermione realized that she would have to face the outside world the next day – she could not, nor did she want to, avoid her job. Her job was possibly the last thing in the world that made sense to her, and come tomorrow morning she would be at her desk in her office doing her job, Marriage Law and Draco Malfoy be damned. So, after a weekend of astutely avoiding the growing pile of mail that had been gathering on the floor by her door, Hermione sat down with it and a large mug of tea and set about reading it.
She set the newspapers aside immediately, because she was not interested in what the press had to say about her, or about Draco Malfoy. She would look at it eventually, but not now. Crookshanks appeared beside her, interested in the crinkly newspapers, and started to systemically tear them to shreds at her feet.
She dove into the letters. The first letter she picked up was from Molly Weasley, as was the second, third, and fourth. All of them obviously avoided the auction and the Marriage Law, but instead focused on Hermione's wellbeing. Molly wanted to make sure she was eating, sleeping, and taking care of herself. Each letter ended with the same thing:
Owl me back, we love you very much. – Mummy Weasley
Hermione felt a wave of guilt that she had clearly worried Molly, who was the closest thing she had to a mother anymore. She made a note to answer Molly that evening.
She continued to dig her way through the pile of letters, slowly drinking her tea as she went. She set aside letters she needed to respond to and used her wand to incinerate any letters that came from any newspaper. She would not be responding to comments or accepting any interviews, thank you very much.
The last two letters in the stack were the most interesting. The first bore the seal of the Marriage Department, and was a lengthy reminder of her duties from this point on: a marriage within three months and an heir within two years. If there were no heir, the marriage would be dissolved and her ministerial duties would be fulfilled. She scoffed and set it aside, then picked it back up and set it on fire. She watched it twist and burn in midair, ashes magically disappearing before they hit her carpet.
She moved on to the second letter. She knew before opening it who it was from. The dark stationary alone would have been enough for her to guess, but the wax seal emblazoned with a very large and ornate M completely gave it away. It was the Malfoy family crest, and the letter had to be from Draco Malfoy.
She tore open the letter with her lips pursed together, ready for all manners of vile anger directed at her. She noticed immediately that it was dated the previous Friday, the day of the auction.
Granger,
It's Draco Malfoy. I'm writing to see how you are, and to see if you'd like to have dinner with me on Friday evening (next Friday. Not this Friday, obviously. I'd fear for my physical safety if we had dinner tonight).
I would also like to extend my gratitude to you for your anticipated cooperation in this matter. I understand that this is likely the last thing you would want, and I give my word that I will attempt to make this as painless as possible. I would appreciate the same from you.
There was no closing. Malfoy's spindly handwriting on the paper was stilted, with a few dots of extra ink that was a clear sign of hesitation. Hermione snorted, because it struck her that Malfoy may have really been nervous while he wrote. The hesitation, the formality of introducing himself, the attempt at humor, the strange and very Malfoy-esque 'thank you' that was hidden somewhere in there. Draco Malfoy was actually nervous. That was hilarious.
As she considered how to – or even if she would – answer Malfoy's letter, Hermione drew herself a bath. As the tub filled with hot water, she idly flicked her wand side to side, depositing unmeasured oils and bubbles in until she felt like it may have a chance to relax her. She sunk into the water, submerging herself up to her chin, and then to her nose, and closed her eyes. The next three months would be a test to her patience and emotions, and the two years after… Hermione didn't even really want to think that far ahead.
Harry seemed to think that Draco Malfoy was redeemable, because he had said as much at the man's trial and also to Hermione in private in the weeks leading up to his own testimony there. Hermione had not agreed with him at the time, and did not agree with him now. She recognized her own bias in the situation – it was not Harry that had been brutally injured and interrogated at Malfoy Manor, and it had not been Harry that had spent years being bullied by Malfoy and his friends only for their blood status. Hermione was certain that Draco was and always would be a prejudice cockroach. She slid up in the tub, so her mouth was above the water.
"I am going to marry Draco Malfoy."
The words were foreign and wrong, unpleasant as they rolled off her tongue. She tried again, repeating the sentence a little louder. Repetition did not make the sentiment any sweeter.
She knew that change was possible, because she had seen it all around her since the end of the War. She was an intelligent witch, and she knew she was doing herself no favors by making this more difficult than it would have to be. If his incredibly awkward letter was anything to go by, Malfoy seemed to feel the same way. If they both cooperated, it may not be as torturous as it could be.
But this was Draco Malfoy. This was her freedom that was being taken from her. She would not lose it quietly.
When Hermione arrived at work the next morning, she walked from the Floo to her office with quick, purposeful strides. Her hands were full of paperwork, her gaze was trained steadily ahead, her back was straight and her shoulders were back, and she left no room for anyone to stop to talk to her.
She had finally looked at the shreds of newspapers that Crookshanks had left on her floor the night before, and it was as bad as she thought it would be. "Ex-Death Eater Bids on the Golden Girl," and "Gryffindor Princess Hermione Granger to Wed Death Eater Malfoy," were two that stuck prominently to her memory. She had no doubt that everyone she walked by knew what had happened, and she was not going to address it at work. Work was her sacred space. It would not be ruined by Draco Malfoy. There would be no mention, no discussion, no reminders of Draco Malfoy at her job.
Except for the obnoxiously large vase of roses that were sitting on her desk when she walked into her office. There were at least two dozen red flowers, a box of chocolates, and a note that took up almost the entire surface of her desk. She stopped short in her doorway and glared at them. They were on her papers!
After she had moved the bouquet from her desk to a small side table and settled herself in for the day, she forced herself to look at the card. Her jaw was clenched in annoyance as she read.
Granger, hopefully these flowers and chocolates brighten your day. They're Muggle chocolates. I am unsure how they differ from Wizarding chocolates, but I'm sure you'll tell me on Friday. When we go to dinner together. At seven.
"Not happening," she muttered aloud, tossing the card into the bin. She dropped her forehead to her desk with a loud groan of exasperation and then forced herself to sit up and begin her day.
A glance at her calendar reminded her that Harry and Ron were both in the field that morning, in Eastern Germany to investigate a sighting of what locals claimed were Death Eaters. All Death Eater sightings had to be investigated by Aurors, and Harry and Ron took it upon themselves to do much of the investigating. It wasn't that they did not trust their teams, but more that Harry felt he had a duty to handle as much of it for himself as he could. He had told them once that too many people had risked their lives for him before, and he was done with it now.
She whittled away her morning going through the paperwork on her desk, sorting intelligence reports into credible or non-credible categories, grouping similar complaints together to investigate as a whole, and delegating assignments to the Aurors office. By lunchtime, she was starving and Harry and Ron were due back. She had just stood walk to their office when the boys let themselves into hers.
"Boys," she greeted, sitting back down in her chair. She was relieved that she would be able to avoid wandering around without much purpose, because she did not want to speak to anybody about the Auction.
"'Mione," Ron greeted, holding up a paper bag. "We've got lunch."
They carefully cleared a spot off of Hermione's desk and set up their little lunch buffet. Hermione was eternally grateful for her friends, because she was sure it was no coincidence that lunch was from her favorite Muggle café down the road. As they ate, Harry and Ron filled her in on their romp around the Eastern German countryside and their brief meeting with the German Minister of Magic.
"Report originally said that they thought there had been two Death Eaters living in the deeper forest," Harry explained. "When we got there, we talked to a few of the locals in the Wizarding village, but all they could say is that they had caught traces of dark magic while they were foraging. It wasn't much to go on, I didn't think it was very credible."
"Until we talked to this little Muggle boy in the next village over," Ron interrupted. "He said he saw two men in dark robes. One with dark hair and a beard, the other he said looked like 'a big scary wolf man.'" The words hung quietly in the room, and Hermione swallowed and set her food down.
The fate of Fenrir Greyback had been a mystery. At the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had been certain that she had hexed him off of Lavender Brown's mangled body, and that he had fallen down one of the craggy cliffsides that Hogwarts sat upon. But the body had never been recovered, and with how quickly werewolves healed… Hermione had no way of knowing for sure that Greyback had died that day.
Now, it seemed there may be some sort of proof that he had not.
"I just don't know what they'd be doing there," Harry murmured, looking thoughtfully at his sandwich. "It's a tiny village, less than a hundred witches and wizards and awfully close to a Muggle town. There weren't any attacks, just the aura of dark magic and the Muggle kid sighting."
In the years following the War, there had been a spattering of attacks across Europe that mimicked the kind of attacks that Death Eaters had been making before the War. They had no pattern, no rhyme or reason, and nothing was ever stolen or looted. The Ministry opinions on the attacks were split – some were convinced that they were straggling Death Eaters or a resurgence of new Death Eaters, and others thought they were wayward wizards trying to kick up trouble in an unstable Wizarding world, knowing they likely wouldn't be caught.
"We'll do what we've been doing," Hermione said decisively. "Following the reports, investigating, and waiting for them to pop up again." She paused. "Do we have any idea who may have been with Greyback?"
Ron shook his head. "Lots of Death Eaters with unrecovered bodies matching that description. Could be any of them." He glanced up and noticed the large bouquet of roses, which Hermione had mostly forgotten about by that point. "Are those from Malfoy?!"
Hermione looked over at them and scowled, rolling her eyes. "Yes," she confirmed, and used her wand to summon the box of chocolates over to the boys. Ron's eyes lit up as they hovered before him. "These, too. Have at it."
Ron was in the box in an instant and had multiple chocolates in his face a moment later. Harry cocked an eyebrow at Hermione in amusement, reaching to take one for himself. Hermione had one, too, but wouldn't allow herself more than that. It felt like letting Malfoy win if she admitted that she did enjoy the Muggle chocolates.
"Give my fanks to Maffoy," Ron garbled around a mouthful of coconut filling. Hermione and Harry both erupted into laughter.
On Tuesday morning, Hermione found another two-dozen roses perched on her desk. She gaped, annoyed and astounded. She hadn't even answered his last message! After relocating the roses to the same table that the bouquet from yesterday was on, she picked up the card that accompanied them.
Granger, enjoy these flowers and this gift certificate. It's to a Muggle spa. I have no idea what it does, but I'm sure you'll figure it out. According to Blaise, it's a beauty thing. It's for you and your friends (the redhead and whatever one married Weasel). Maybe use it before Friday – the day that we will be going to dinner.
The fact that Malfoy had someone running out into the Muggle world with Muggle money to obtain a Muggle gift certificate to a Muggle spa was astonishing to her. Besides the fact that Malfoy had deigned any of his gold worthwhile to convert to Muggle money, he was clearly doing some sort of research to figure out what in the Muggle world would be applicable to gift.
His less than subtle reminder about Friday did a wonderful job of taking Hermione from somewhat awed by his apparent thoughtfulness for her Muggle heritage to being downright annoyed at his bullheaded insistence. She hadn't even accepted the invitation yet, and she certainly would not be getting her nails done for it.
Until she found herself at the spa after work with Ginny and Cho, getting her nails done. She wasn't sure how she'd been talked into this, but after mentioning the certificate to Ginny in a brief message she had owled her that morning, Ginny had somehow managed to manipulate her into going right after work.
"I've never been to a spa," Ginny had whispered when they walked in. "And a Muggle one, no less!"
"This is quite nice of Malfoy," Cho offered shyly as they had their toenails painted. Ginny nodded absently, watching in awe as the polish was applied to her toes. In the Wizarding world, there were spells and potions to decorate your nails. Ginny and Cho were fascinated by the Muggle way.
"It isn't nice," Hermione answered. "It's manipulative. He's trying to bribe me."
"You could let it work," Ginny suggested, tearing her eyes away from her teal toenails. "This whole process would be less strenuous if you'd just play along."
Hermione glared at her friend. "Play along?" she snapped. "There's nothing playful about this. I'm marrying him in three months, and then after that…" she trailed off, flushing bright red. After that, it would be a child and everything that came with having a child.
"He's putting in a good effort," Ginny argued, ignoring Hermione's obvious embarrassment. "He's trying to communicate with you, he's giving you gifts. Have you even answered him?"
"He's bribing," Hermione reiterated. "He's throwing objects towards me like I'm one of his Slytherin girlfriends." The woman painting her nail glanced up in confusion and Hermione bit her tongue, remembering that they were in Muggle London.
"Yes, it's a bribe," Cho agreed. "But… it's a well-thought one, I suppose? He's going out of his way to get you things that, erm… are part of your heritage?" she looked at the lady painting her nails and then at Hermione, trying to get around using any Wizarding-specific terms.
Hermione said nothing. It was true that Malfoy was trying to incorporate Muggle items into what he was giving her. But was he doing that because he was trying to learn, or because he was trying to manipulate her? It remained to be seen.
Granger, you haven't responded to any of my owls but no matter – I trust you've enjoyed the gifts I've sent you so far. I hope you find this one equally flattering, and I am eager to see you in it on Friday night, when I pick you up at seven, for dinner. Which you will be attending. Friday night, at seven. Just in case the other times I've told you haven't stuck.
Yours inevitably.
Hermione was horrified to realize she had actually laughed aloud at this note. She couldn't tell if Malfoy was being sarcastic, rude, or actually trying to be humorous, but it had been a little funny.
The gift accompanying the note was yet another bouquet of roses and a large and intimidating black bag with gold lettering that read "La Boutique Magique" on the side. It was a Wizarding luxury clothing store that had opened in Paris – Hermione had read about it in the Daily Profit when it had opened and scoffed at the ridiculousness of it. There was a six month wait to get an appointment to see a stylist there, and the prices were criminal.
She took away the first layer of fancy tissue paper and extracted a beautifully constructed garment bag from the nest of remaining paper. She used her wand to hold it aloft, and unzipped the front to reveal a floor-length teal gown, made of soft silk and organza. The neckline was a frighteningly deep V and the back scooped. The sleeves were long and sheer. The entire dress was intimidatingly beautiful.
"This is getting ridiculous," she murmured, pulling the dress out and holding it in front of her.
"What is?"
Hermione whirled towards the door and saw Ron leaning against the frame with one eyebrow raised in amusement. Hermione looked to the dress and flicked her wand, quickly whipping it back into the garment bag which folded in on itself and deposited itself neatly into the bag.
"Draco is," she answered, exasperated. "I've nowhere to put a third set of roses and now this dress, which is gaudy and expensive."
"So he's Draco now?" Ron asked.
"Merlin, no," Hermione sighed, running her hands through her hair in agitation. "It was a slip of the tongue, I'm a bit frazzled this morning Ronald."
"Couldn't imagine why," Ron answered smoothly. "Sounds like you had a nice relaxing evening at the, er… spa? Whatever that is. Cho said it was very nice, went on and on about it last night – was quite happy to show me her toes." He winked.
"Enough, please," Hermione begged, covering her ears. "I don't want to know. What did you need?"
"Nothing," Ron answered. "Just wanted to check in with you. Gin said you were a bit out of sorts last night."
"Yes, I'm sure I was. Your sister and wife are trying to convince me to cooperate with Malfoy, and I refuse."
Ron chuckled. "Mum thinks you should cooperate, too. If you were wondering."
Hermione blanched.
"Why in the world is everyone suddenly on Draco Malfoy's side?" she demanded, throwing her hands up and stomping around to flop down into her desk chair. "Especially your mother!"
"I think it's to make it easier on you, Hermione," Ron answered patiently. "To let you know that they're there for you. That we are there for you. And him, since he'll be around I guess." He scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. "He's also owled Harry and mum. A few times. To see what you like and stuff."
"Of course he has," she answered defeatedly. "Of course. Fine, I'll play it your way. I'll be nice to Malfoy."
"Oi," Ron said defensively. "I didn't say play it nice. Don't put that on me."
"Get out," she said, though there was no heat in her voice. "I know at this point you're trying to avoid getting me the field reports from Germany because you don't want to write them." Ron chuckled – guilty as charged.
On Thursday, there were no roses waiting for her. There was no gift. There was no note. Hermione had entered her office with trepidation to see… nothing. She was shocked to realize that she was actually a little disappointed.
But, she reasoned, if she had spent an entire week trying to get an answer from someone and they ignored her, she'd probably give up too. She felt a twinge of guilt and looked at the bouquets of roses that were now all precariously balanced on the small side table. They were beautiful. The chocolates had been good. The spa had been nice. The dress was beautiful. Draco had even gone through the effort of trying to contact her friends and Molly Weasley for advice. What Ginny had said was true – he was trying, as irritating as it had been at first.
Hermione considered for the first time that she was not the only person struggling with this. On a large scale, she may have been one of the luckier witches and wizards that had been bid on. Draco Malfoy was her age, she vaguely knew him, and she doubted sincerely that he would cause her any severe mental or physical harm. She was certain that there were others who were currently preparing to marry complete strangers, people who did not know them, who were older or younger than them, who had ill intentions.
On a smaller scale, she figured that Malfoy must also be struggling. The last few years had not been easy on him, from being manipulated into becoming a Death Eater to the havoc that his family's involvement with Voldemort had wreaked on himself and his mother. He had been put on trial, it had been highly publicized, and he had been hounded by the press and by the law for weeks. Now, assuming he still struggled with his feelings regarding blood purity and family, he was facing a break in the Malfoy tradition, the destruction of his familial line, and a major personality crisis over having a half-blooded child.
Not that Hermione felt particularly sympathetic towards him for any personality crises he was having about blood purity. She could understand the rest of it, though.
Perhaps she had been a little hard on him. As many people had pointed out to her, this was not ideal for either of them.
With that in mind, Hermione sighed in resignation and reached for her quill and parchment.
Malfoy, I will see you tomorrow at seven.
The last few days had been incredibly trying for Draco, and pushed him well beyond the boundaries of his comfort. He was lucky that Blaise seemed to not have a problem wandering around Muggle London with his fiancé, otherwise he would have never acquired the gifts that he had sent to Hermione. The gifts which he had barely received a response for.
"Women are infuriating," he declared as he strode into his mother's study and dropped into the chair by the fireplace. He threw his head back angstily, and Narcissa looked up from her book and sighed.
"They aren't really, darling," she soothed. "Have you heard from her yet?"
"Yes," he groaned. "Barely. Just that she'll see me tomorrow. And you've no idea how much money I've spent on her." Narcissa rolled her eyes fondly. She had known that Draco was trying to acquire something to win Hermione's affections because he'd been spending a lot of time in their library and speaking with Blaise about Muggle artefacts, but she'd respectfully stayed out of her son's business until he came to her. She didn't want to add pressure to an already difficult situation.
"What have you sent her?" she asked patiently.
"Six dozen roses. Muggle chocolates. Something called a gift certificate to some… beauty parlor? I'm not even sure what it was."
Narcissa laughed and shook her head. "Draco, those aren't going to do anything. They're terribly impersonal, although the Muggle things are a very nice touch."
"This whole business is impersonal," Draco snapped, frustrated by how relaxed Narcissa seemed. "What am I meant to do?"
"Any man could give her what you've given her so far. Make it something special, dear," she suggested. "I'm sure she can see the effort you're putting forward, but remember that she is the one who is cornered. Try to show her that you are really trying." His mother paused for a moment. "I had a thought."
"A thought?" Draco prompted. Narcissa stood and approached one of the wall portraits, with a wizard that Draco was fairly sure was a great-grandfather on the Black side. She pressed her palm to it and muttered a quiet incantation. It swung out, revealing a safe set into the wall. A puff of dust bloomed outwards as the safe door opened and Narcissa sneezed, waving her hand to clear the dust from the air.
"She'll need a ring, obviously," Narcissa said, reaching in and pulling out a small velvet box. "It's tradition that Malfoy men give their mother's rings, but mine is… Tainted, I think." She could not imagine Hermione Granger wearing the frightening and imposing ring that she worn on her finger. It had been Lucius's mother's, handed down for generations, and it was an unwieldy, heavy thing. It also reeked of dark magic, though it hadn't been enchanted in quiet some time.
Draco agreed with his mother's assessment of her ring. She had stopped wearing it long ago and Draco didn't even know where she had hidden the thing. He'd never liked it, either. It had always looked wrong on her pale, slender hands. Too cold, too imposing. His mother had always been too warm for it.
Narcissa handed the ring box to Draco and flicked her wand, sealing the safe and portrait back into the wall. She waited expectantly for her son to open the box.
Inside was a beautiful ring, one that Draco had never seen before. It was a large diamond set in the center of a ring of smaller oval diamonds, resulting in an almost floral appearance. It was made of gold, and while obviously antique was not outdated.
"It was my grandmother's," Narcissa told him, looking over at it and smiling. "I had wanted to wear it but Lucius refused. The tradition, after all." Her smile turned wistful for a moment. "You don't have to use it, but if you wanted to give her something of ours, something to welcome her to our family… It's up to you."
Draco nodded, still looking at the ring. He was entranced, not by it specifically but by the thought of giving it to someone. His younger self would have foolishly considered Pansy, Astoria Greengrass, or one of his other classmates. Someone that he would have thought worthy at the time. Now, though, he could not imagine giving it to any of the vapid girls he had courted. This was special. The ring was special.
"If you're alright with it," he said quietly. "I do think she'd like it." He didn't know why he thought that, but he could. He could imagine it on her finger, a visual proclamation of his claim to her and her claim to him. A strong sense of desire coursed through him, surprising him. He cleared his throat and looked up at his mother.
She gave a slow, reassuring nod and kissed him on the forehead.