"You have qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what—not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything like it—but beyond what one fancies might be. "
—Henry Crawford, Mansfield Park, Jane Austen
In a prettyish bit of woods, a doe cuts through the underbrush, just as the sun peeks over the horizon. The creature casts a long shadow, which outpaces its harbinger by several yards. The young thing is startled away by the raucous smack of boots in the grass as a young woman descends from the embrace of a knobby oak, the eldest tree on the estate, out-lived only by thorny rose bushes; they stopped flowering long before the weather began to turn (and are, in the gardener's estimation, several decades old and therefore, too spiteful to die).
Exhaustion plagues Hermione. The house was up until all hours the night previous, and their caustic amusements floated up to the attic until the moon itself tucked in. She rose as soon as dawn broke. Her morning writing routine was upset by the fact that she couldn't focus on the story; when she sat down to crown Lancelot the pirate king, the thing felt... foolish. Hermione gave credence to many childish things, but never turned that glass on herself. Which is why she opted to take a turn up to the ridge of oak trees, and why she now hastens back towards the great house. Her brunette curls fly about, secured only by two combs off her temples. It is a temperate November morning, in which one has no need for a coat or gloves, so long as one remains in motion. Besides, it takes very little energy to invigorate one's hands. A simple incendio, a few minutes of curling each finger into the little flame, and her hands are perfectly cozy. The only sign of cold in her is the pink in her cheeks. There is as much productivity in a walk than in an interlude at her desk. Maybe even more.
Hermione swishes her switch through the charmed fuchsia (which encroaches the arbor over the garden gate), bursting the little blossom in a shower of petals. For the briefest moment, it is as if the flowers are made manifest from the tip of the hickory. It is a wand of a kind, whose only magic is in the way it spurs on her young horse. If I am possessed of a Patronus, and they are indeed as corporeal as it is claimed in Scamander's Fundamentals of Charms, perhaps mine is a little dappled thing like Cordelia, she thinks.
She rounds the corner of the stables, and is confronted by a formidable figure in a fine riding suit, which is woven in every fashionable shade of azure. The visiting Lord's surprise to see her is evident, though his face does not seem to betray annoyance. He seems rooted to the spot.
She forgot him, forgot them all, for an hour or two. Yes, for those hours betwixt sleep and discovery, she was blessedly alone.
"There you are, Miss Granger," Lord Zabini chuckles, all astonishment. "Freed from your dovecote, I see. Walk you all this way unaccompanied?" He balances his cherrywood pipe between his thumb and forefinger.
Against her will, the tease inspires a breath of a laugh. "No sir, for I had the sunrise, and the mud to attend me." Hermione skirts around the man. She needs only to saddle Cordelia-she can do it by herself, now-but the stable is empty of all occupants. Not even the mule is braying behind her gate.
"Ah, you'll not find your horse in her pen," he calls. "She's had rigorous exercise this morning."
"I... beg your pardon?" She blinks at the man, which only spurs him to laugh once again. He points.
Miss Granger's head follows the gentleman's survey, only to fix on the crest of the hill. Two figures gallop at speed across the green, and the shining silver mane of her beloved Cordelia glints in the dewy morning light. She's not mine. A horse cannot belong to anyone, we only shelter them as best we can, give them a comfortable home, some exercise when they are due. Were she honest with herself, Hermione might remark just now that Cordelia is the only creature who has patience for her, and seeing her carry another rider is unbearable. Especially because Ron purchased Cordelia for her particular use.
"Oh... Miss Granger. You had your heart set on a morning race, did you not?" Lord Zabini steps beside her, a hair's breadth from her shoulder. Instead of the mocking tone, which always hangs from a Weasley's lips like an elegy to her obscurity, his voice takes on a rather different tune: sympathy.
Sympathy, like a fire, gives rise to a healthy flush. "I've taken my exercise by way of the hedgerow, my lord-"
"Good gods!" He rumbles with amusement. "That title yokes me in far too much importance this early in the day. 'Zabini' will do. All my friends use it, for all occasions."
His posture is civil and casual, canted towards her with his arms clasped behind his back. The corneas of his eyes are gilded in a circlet of copper, and when she does not persist, the corners crinkle into a gentle smile. Gods.
"Zabini." She tests the Italian surname on her tongue.
"Does it suit? Madame Granger?"
"Cor," she coughs. "Don't let Mrs. Weasley hear you."
"Miss, then." His congeniality serves much like a cup of cocoa for the pang of being forgotten by Ronald, but the longer she goes on standing there with a Lord, the smaller she feels. She doesn't like being looked at. This gentleman peers with purpose.
She clears her throat. "Nobody around here bothers with a dignified title for the likes of me, Zabini. You may call me Hermione, or not dignify me with any consideration, whatever."
When his lips pull away from his teeth-pearly and straight, perfect, of course-she wonders how the lord of a grand, distant estate (Miramar, as it is known, which is by all accounts a vision of Grecian marble) came to be standing beside her, calling her by her Christian name.
Blessedly, she is saved from hearing him say it. The crunch of gravel beneath black boots diverts his attention behind them, where the Captain approaches with three rifles hung over his arm. He is attired in the opposite fashion from Zabini; with his greatcoat catching every swirling current, the fair-haired man cuts a stoic and imposing figure. He bears no expression whatever, but slows when he catches sight of Hermione.
"Look what I found, snooping around the stables," Zabini announces, offering his elbow as if to present her to his approaching friend. "A delightful little rabbit."
Captain Malfoy inclines his head. He chose a new chapeau for a morning hunt, and the brim shadows his face. "Morning," he manages.
In lieu of taking Zabini's proffered arm, she drops at the heel in what must appear to both gentlemen to be a clumsy curtsy, but neither one deigns to raise an eyebrow. The Captain thumbs over his shoulder. Zabini turns to Hermione.
"Miss Granger, you've been fine company, but I'm afraid I am being pulled away for more barbarous activity."
She couldn't help herself. "I did not take you for a hunter."
"Never shot a thing in my life, and I don't intend to start," he chuckled, eyes glinting. "We great men must make amusements where we can, and scaring up pheasants for my friend, here, is good fun. Which is why I must leave you to your invigorating walk. Miss Granger."
Indeed, several more men turn up at the assertion: Frederick and George lead the pack of brothers in a stampede, complete with barking dogs snapping at the ankles of their horses; around the curve of the front drive, Mister Potter trots on a black thoroughbred, with the reins of a white charger in hand. Mister Weasley follows on foot with his own horse, Anglia, and a burlap bag slung over his back. From the East, Ronald is beaten to the steps of the manor by Miss Parkinson on Cordelia. She throws her head back and laughs with all of her teeth showing. Ronald doesn't seem in the least miffed to lose what is clearly a race. Whenever Hermione had the chance to beat him, he always belly-ached about it for the rest of the day, insisting on a rematch, a do-over, maybe if they just switched horses-but for Miss Parkinson, to lose is to win. The joy on his face is a stab to the heart.
She tries to duck into the stables before anyone else can take notice of her, but no such luck-Ronald sees her and kicks his leg over the horse's head to dismount (which he did to annoy her because in her skirts, such a maneuver is impossible. It is his one superiority to her skill on a horse, and he did it to rankle her). His face as he hastens towards her does not seem regretful for abandoning their plans.
"Hermione! We're going to follow behind them. Come with us!" He reaches her in a few short strides, but she shakes her head.
"There aren't enough horses."
"Zabini's walking, so I'll do the same. You can take Alistair-"
"And anyway," she says, shouldering past him, "I am needed to help prepare breakfast. Mrs. Reynolds asked me for my help, and I am loath to let her down. I gave her my word."
He catches her elbow, but then thinks better of it, casting a glance over his shoulder at who might see. Oh, Ronald. "I didn't think you'd mind. She wanted to ride, see the estate-"
"Good luck! I hope you catch all the birds. I'll see you at breakfast." The arrow of unspoken anger lands squarely in his chest. Her heart squeezes to hurt his feelings. They have any audience, and she doesn't want to mortify him any more than her wounded pride will allow.
"Is Miss Granger joining us! Oh, thank heavens, another lady to complete our party!" From atop Cordelia, Miss Parkinson gives a convivial wave, which Hermione supposes she means only to increase Ronald's favor. Favor she has won by being pretty to look at. Hush, green-eyed monster.
"Enjoy your hunt," Hermione calls back with as much good will as she can muster.
Before another member of the party can insist on her joining them without meaning it in the slightest, Hermione darts through the small door, which leads from the side drive into the servant's wing. She shuts the door to the kitchen a bit too hard behind her, startling Mrs. Reynolds and sending up a puff of flour.
"Merlin's ghost, Hermione."
"Sorry," she grumbles, tossing her spencer over a hook on the wall. She plucks her apron from its usual hook and ties it at her waist.
"You're up early this morning. Riding with the young master?"
"That was my intention," she sighs. Mrs. Reynolds is part-way through her bread recipe, and nearly to the step where she requires Hermione's strong, young hands to knead the dough. Hermione dips her hands into the wash basin and scrubs under her nails with a small brush.
"Ah."
"Mrs. Reynolds... yesterday, Ronald mentioned something that made me think."
The woman snorts. "I shudder to think what that might be."
"Well..." Hermione dries her hand on her apron, and the cook slides the bowl across the counter in readiness. It's sticky, but Mrs. Reynolds tosses a layer of flour over the marble. Hermione peels the dough up, and commences kneading.
"He mentioned the idea of my having a wand."
"He offered to procure you such a thing? Wasn't that very idea banned by the Missus when you nearly burned the entire attic up-"
"He suggested that I could obtain one, that having one would make quick work of my chores, and such."
Mrs. Reynolds leans against the sink, and folds her arms. "Aha. And... the young master hired the carriage to take you post-haste to Ollivander's, all the way in London, to purchase just such a wand with his meager allowance, against his mother's wishes?"
"Mrs. Reynolds..."
"D'ya know that he was in my kitchen before the sun rose preparing a basket to take out this morning?"
Hermione pauses her ministrations to the dough. She stares at the lump of Mrs. Reynolds' secret recipe, (which she only shared with Hermione in the last year, and only after much pleading and promising not to share it with anyone else) and tries to make sense of those words.
"He's after Miss Parkinson, and make no mistake," she chuckles.
"Maybe." Her voice comes out as a mere squeak. The dough before her takes on the very shape of a face, though whose she couldn't decide, and she digs her fingers into it ruthlessly. Mrs. Reynolds pries her hands from the task.
"Dear, sweet girl. If the young master intended to choose you, out of all the eligible young ladies, and lift you out of obscurity, he would make certain you weren't banished before supper service is begun. You'd have gone to that posh school, and come home speaking French on holidays. You'd have a wand." The kindly cook, who has long been more mother than matron of the kitchen (at least to the girl living in the attic whose mother died when she was too young to remember), doffs her young ward on the chin, leaving a puff of flour behind. "Surely you know that."
Hermione's eyes fill with tears, but she nods. Mrs. Reynolds embraces her, then.
"Between us... I should like to see the Missus' face the day she realizes that she plays second fiddle to another woman. She will assume the pallor of a rotten cabbage. It's a race to see which brother will marry first..."
She laughs, but Hermione finds she can't quite take joy in such a thought. Especially after the cook's assertion that she won't be that woman. Still. It is a wonder that the one person who sees her-not as a young woman in her care, not as a childhood friend, not as a burden, and certainly not as a rabbit-is also the only person in her life who isn't reliant on magic. The whole of the Weasley's pride themselves on being the pinnacle of blue-blooded magical society. The wisest in their household, in all of Burrow Lodge, is their Muggle cook.
Hermione rubs Mrs. Reynolds' back in gratitude. "Oh, Mrs. Reynolds. I'm a little fool."
"Tosh. You're a brilliant young thing, and you've plenty of life ahead of you. There will be more young masters ready to break your heart, and no mistake," she teases, better securing one of Hermione's hair combs. "A lovely thing like you is sure to be admired wherever she goes."
"For that to come to pass, I would have to go somewhere," Hermione laughs.
"Now that is a very fine idea! What about Mrs. Longbottom, your friend from church?" She is indeed a friend from that time, back when the Weasley's trotted her out like a show pony and testament to their charitable nature. Luna Longbottom, nee Lovegood, is always sweet to her, no matter how long they go between seeing one another. They have never been confidants, but Luna has always been kind.
"She's in Lyme, now that Neville's received his commission and paid off."
"Perhaps a visit to the seaside would suit?" Mrs. Reynolds takes back her bread, which hasn't been as thoroughly kneaded as she prefers, and forms it into its final form before baking.
"The whole of this family was just there-"
"You. Just you."
"I cannot just invite myself to stay!"
"Hermione, dear. You may write to a friend who cares about you and express your desire to see her again. An invitation is sure to follow. I never saw you so dour as the day she married that young sailor! Save today, I think."
"How is one supposed to look when the only other person who thinks well of you goes off and does an absurd thing like getting married?"
Mrs. Reynolds chuckles. "Yes, how very dare she fall in love, and with a lieutenant, no less."
"Do you know... other than Luna, you're the only friend I have."
"Oh, my. That is grave."
The cook winks, then, and places her bread into the oven to bake. She distracts from Hermione's building ennui by putting her to work on frying the sausages, and no more is said about Ronald, Miss Lovegood, or what little Hermione has in the way of true friendship.
A little while later, a little note materializes in her pocket.
The hunt was miserable. I deserved it.
- R
Like that, she forgave the young master… even if he did deserve a bit of misery.
The hunting party does not return in time for breakfast, which leaves Hermione to take the meal with only Mrs. Weasley and Ginevra. It is a kind of torture akin to being rotisseried over a low fire, which is too cool to burn, yet dizzying. She succeeds in ignoring the petty cordiality with which she is regarded by both women, but their conversation soon turns to the guests of the house, and Hermione is dragged in against her will.
"I wish their friend had not accompanied them," Mrs. Weasley says, with her mouth full of buttered bread. "I said it when Miss Lovegood married that man and I'll say it again: the Navy brings men of obscure birth to undue distinction."
"Mama, Captain Malfoy's father was a gentleman of some renown," Ginevra protests, much to Hermione's shock. "His blood is as blue as ours. He chose to enlist of his own volition."
"He does not use his title?" Hermione asks, earning a constrained glare from Mrs. Weasley.
"He entailed away his estate to families of men who died during the war," Ginevra explains. "His land was parsed up, the manor house turned into a hospital, and he lives elsewhere. His only income now is from his captaincy, and he rejects using any other title. The only fine company he keeps now is Zabini and Mister Potter."
"Yes, well. He is severe." Mrs. Weasley clicks her tongue.
"Oh yes. Quite. But he is Harry's friend. Do try to be civil, Mama."
"He is not so severe," Hermione says softly. Both women's eyes track to her.
"What would you know?"
"It's not as if you've spoken two words to the man!" Ginevra titters with laughter at such an idea.
Mrs. Weasley's face twists in a devilish grin. "Oh, but she has. I believe she means to get him alone again!"
"Naughty Hermione!"
"He asked me about the library!" Hermione's entire being blushes, because he hadn't asked her such a thing. Instead, he followed behind her as she fled from Mrs. Weasley's cruelty, and offered up the handkerchief which now is hidden beneath her pillow. She doesn't know why she concealed it there, except that her bed is the safest place to weep when it is required, and the place she most often feels compelled to.
"Father doesn't want you in there," Ginevra scoffs. "I hope you told the Captain as much."
"I don't believe the Captain would like being spoken about in this way."
"You're not at liberty to say what the Captain likes," Mrs. Weasley spits.
Hermione pushes back from the table. "Excuse me," she peeps. Tears threaten again, to be so ruthlessly cornered with insinuations that are so far from the truth as to be slanderous, against herself and a man about whom she knows little. She sniffles as soon as Mrs. Weasley excuses her with a nod and an arched brow.
The conversation continues as if she was never there, and she hears the tail end of it.
"Zabini, on the other hand," Ginevra continues, "finds himself showered in all the fortune that his Italian father can languish upon him, and has no wealth won on his own merit..."
Hermione escapes into the hallway and nearly collides with a tall person. Her heart drops into her feet at the sight of the brown greatcoat, and the owner's hands grasp her arms to steady her.
"I apologize," she whispers. For them, for crying, for blundering about like a bull in a china shop. For the ridicule he likely overheard. She cannot stop the tears as they escape. She might have held them back, if she hadn't run headlong into the man she just defended to her guardian. Mortification moves her. Captain Malfoy's face is hard and unmoving, but as he is known to do, he submits one of his blessed handkerchiefs.
"For your collection," he murmurs. He wastes no time-as soon as her fingers close around the cloth, he turns on his heel and strides down the hall, in the direction of Zabini's booming laughter. At the door to the library, he pauses and looks back at her with those deep, slate eyes. She sharply inhales.
"Captain! Mister Potter has a glorious idea for Christmas-"
The Captain's attention is diverted, and Hermione takes the opportunity to hide in her upper room until lunch.
A week passes in the style best becoming a manor house with rich guests-there are many more morning hunts, more missed breakfasts, and even more attention from Zabini just at the moments Hermione least wants to be observed... and another new phenomenon arises. Miss Parkinson addresses her, and invites her on walks through the garden, and joins her for embroidery. Suddenly, Hermione is not kithless two minutes but Miss Parkinson is at her side, confiding some little thought or another. The most interesting thing of all is that Miss Parkinson often requests that Hermione be her only companion, even slighting Ronald for company.
It is on the seventh day of the visit when Miss Parkinson convinces the entire household that they should spend a lavish evening together, complete with entertainment-up until then, the group generally dissipated in the evenings: men to their billiards and pipes, and women strewn about the house doing whatever pleased them (which is why Hermione manages to conceal herself away just after supper each evening). The elder five Weasley brothers are out for the evening, having been compelled to London for a gathering of their alma mater, so the party is more or less an agreeable bunch.
They all dress in their finest clothing of a Sunday, and Miss Parkinson pays devoted attention to Hermione. She is invited to borrow a peach dress of Pansy's, permitted to address the young woman by her first name, and demanded to sit beside her at dinner. Pansy doesn't make demands like Ginevra; every suggestion is an invitation-would you like to use my glass, Hermione? I do not mind. I could help you with your hair, but only if you want. She is affable, kind, with a deliberate directness, which leaves Hermione reeling for purchase.
Pansy uses her curling rods on Hermione's hair, and pins it up into a fetching coiffure, adorned with baby's breath, which she asked Hermione to help her pick in the garden. She loans her pearl drop earrings, and a silk shawl that she fancies a bit too ivory to flatter herself, but which is perfect on Hermione.
Hermione's locks are always unkempt, pulled back just at the sides, un-tameable by pins-until in the capable hands of Pansy. When they descend for dinner, Ronald makes a startling accurate impression of a codfish, and Zabini declares Hermione 'an angel among angels'. Hermione accepts the compliments as they flow, but only because Mrs. Weasley and Ginevra's countenances sour with each one.
Supper is eaten, which is done in half-light at Pansy's urging. Afterwards, they gather all together in the great room for entertainment-whist, music, and too much sherry when all is said and done. Hermione is enlisted to turn Pansy's pages at the pianoforte. Ronald beams at them, and Pansy offers him a shy smile over the sheet music. Mrs. Weasley wrangles Mister Potter and Zabini into whist with Ginevra, leaving Mr. Weasley to fall asleep in his chair. The Captain perches himself beside the fireplace, and strikes a match to light his pipe. He does not look away from the fire as Pansy begins her song.
She has the voice of a lark, and quick fingers, which make easy work of the tune. It is one of Hermione's most favorite pieces, and she says so. Pansy slides down the bench before the second verse, and insists that Hermione join her on the low keys.
"Are we to hear both ladies, this evening?" Zabini gasps.
"We beg for an audience, don't we Miss Granger?" Pansy nudges Hermione with her shoulder, making Hermione blush.
"In truth, I live in fear of an audience-"
"Come, none of that. No false modesty! Mister Weasley languished over your accomplishments, and I must experience them for myself."
Hermione is an excellent pianist, beyond the merit of Miss Parkinson. She would never say so, but it is evident as the women begin their unrehearsed duet. Pansy gives her deference. Their competing crescendos clash only in their consideration for the same tones, and disregard for the length of the other. Miss Parkinson's melodies hang on the will of her resonance, of her vocal instrument, while Miss Granger's originate from the skill of her fingers in partnership with her foot on the pedal. Hermione does not sing-though she can, and loves to for this piece-because the eyes of all make her feel choked by attention. In the end, the two women manage to find a partnered cadence. Hermione is left, by the final notes, feeling quite like she's floating. Pansy grips her hand in delight, and everyone gathered claps to some degree, excepting the Captain. He crosses his arms, and when the movement catches Hermione's eye, he bows. Zabini bounds to the grand instrument, to pay his compliments.
"I hope we may have the pleasure of hearing you play every evening, Miss Granger."
"Only if she likes, you pillock," Pansy teases her cousin. "Miss Granger is not to be bullied, on my orders."
"I wouldn't dare." The gentleman extends his hand to Hermione. "Please sit by me, Miss Granger. Tell me all about yourself, if you will. I'm dying to know how such an angel came to live amongst us mere mortals."
Of its own volition, Hermione's hand floats up to his, and she allows herself to be led to the couch-a long way from her usual private corner chair. Pansy wanders to Ronald's side, and says some soft words to him. His eyes land on Hermione and he beams proudly, nodding to whatever sentiment Pansy has shared. Hermione's cheeks are permanently flushed.
"Well?" Zabini asks.
"You've frightened the poor creature," Pansy chastises. "Give her a chance to recover."
"Hermione's not used to being looked at," Ronald remarks warmly.
"I'm afraid I have mortified you." Zabini pats her hand, which he will not relinquish to her. "You need not trouble with me."
"Mister Weasley is right," Hermione admits. "I find this all quite overwhelming." Zabini does not push her further. In fact, he returns her hand with a gentle bow and a smile, and strikes up a new topic with Ronald, something to do with the population of fish in the lake. Pansy takes her seat beside Hermione.
"You're enduring our pestering with aplomb."
Hermione smiles. She speaks softly, so only her companion may hear. "I admit that... nobody in this house cares two figs for me, save Ronald."
Pansy frowns. "The Weasley's are not kind to you."
"They are as kind as they are able."
Just then, the feather-light touch of a gloved hand brushes against hers on the sofa cushion. He is not looking at her, not listening, not regarding her at all, but Zabini's hand is pressing into hers. Pansy's gaze alights on the gesture and her dimples deepen. She says nothing about it, and Hermione retrieves her hand from the danger of the kind comfort, but is trapped between two people who seem to care an awful lot about her feelings... with little idea why that might be.
"Come," Pansy whispers. "I need your advice." She is radiant in an opalescent white silk gown and silver cut steel diadem with matching earrings; Pansy appears to be glowing from within, dewy and effervescent in any light. It is a credit to her beauty that she is also kind, lively, and affable. She extends her hand to her friend, and Hermione takes it readily. The further from the Lord, the better.
The young women traverse the room with no design on hastening, and both nick a glass of sherry from Mrs. Reynolds when she brings in the cart. The cook gives Hermione's elbow a squeeze, and she is bolstered. Hermione can feel eyes on herself and Miss Parkinson, but dares not seek the watchful source until both women are seated on the window bench. By then, the only person who marks them is Mrs. Weasley, but her head snaps back to the game of whist as soon as she realizes Hermione caught her.
"I am aflutter." Pansy presses her gloved hand over her heart. Her eyes track over the expanse of the Turkish rug, to the couches where Ronald and Zabini are in conference with Captain Malfoy, who deigned to sit himself down. When she is satisfied that they aren't being observed, Pansy takes a courageous sip of her sherry.
"You must suspect by now how very much... entranced I am by the youngest Mister Weasley. You need not say a word-I know my feelings are too obvious to be masked. I do not know if he feels the same. You are so dear to him. Has he... mentioned me?"
There is no conversation that she would rather participate in less than this one. Hermione's heart plummets. She wills her face to remain passive, her voice not to choke. What does she want for him, if not herself? Kindness, to be sure, and beauty in a wife, which Pansy Parkinson possesses in spades. Someone to challenge him, to ride with him-to outpace him, even. A woman worth knowing.
So much the better if she could foster a friendship with his wife. Would it not be a comfort to know he is happy?
Her hands prickle. Blessedly, her eyes restrain the welling threat of tears, and she does not boil her wine in its glass.
"He has."
Pansy's cheeks turn pink. "Did he seem to do so with fondness?"
"Well," Hermione says, sipping her own sherry for a moment, "Ronald knows no strangers, you see, and is well-liked wherever he goes, but... yes, when I hear him speak of you, he does so with a certain preference."
"Oh!" Pansy covers her mouth. "Bless you for saying so, Miss Granger. Hermione. I am so grateful for your perspective. I know no better judge of character than yourself."
"Surely Ronald has given you some idea of his feelings?"
Pansy is bashful. "He is cordial, and kind, but always and in every way considerate. In Lyme, he never seemed to stray far from my elbow, always ready to assist me into the carriage, or offer his opinion on ribbons. I wish he had a propensity for reading, but then again, I don't believe he could sit still long enough to indulge in a book."
They shared a quiet laugh behind gloved fingers. "Perhaps he need only be assured of your affections," Hermione murmured. "He is severe on himself. Even the happiest of men need some encouragement."
"Oh, Hermione. I do desire we may be sisters, and that I may think of you as family in just such a way that he does."
Hermione casts a look at the couches, and finds that all three men have turned an eye to the conspiring pair: Captain Malfoy in his black velvet coat and crisp trousers, Lord Zabini in Emerald and gold, and Ronald in a burnished bronze jacket, which would be garish on any other man with auburn hair, save him. The third man nods and raises his glass pointedly to the raven-haired woman at her side. Pansy returns the inclination, and sips so he might see the moue of her lips. Hermione looks on in quiet passivity, while the two sides of her heart tear in opposite directions.
The closer Christmas looms, the closer Hermione becomes to her new friend. It is Pansy Hermione confides her consternation with Mrs. Weasley's incessant pestering. The woman is even permitted to read from the 'Od Boys, though Ronald requests to be present while she guesses which characters are representative of the real Weasley family.
And in another regard, she finds herself always the subject of Zabini's attention. Somehow, very likely as a result of his persuasive candor, Hermione is allowed to sit in the library... Mister Weasley even insists upon it. Several days before Christmas, while Pansy is out with Ronald and a goodly portion of his brothers on a hunt for a Christmas tree, Hermione hides herself in Grecian stories, of which Burrow Lodge possessed many.
The soft clicking of hard-soled boots signals the entry of a companion. She does not look up, but a hand reaches over her shoulder-deep, olive skin and sleeved in burgundy-and she knows that Zabini has sought her out. She is not altogether bothered by the idea. He plucks the book up, and he sits beside her. He glances at her briefly to gauge whether or not she will allow an imposition, but when Hermione says nothing, he clears his throat.
"Never was such a goddess witnessed, in Sparta or Thrace, never such a queen with hair like golden fire. Olympus trembled to behold her, Zeus himself bowed before her. Helen. Helen of the cliff side, Helen of the depths. Helen, Helen, for whom he would take a dagger a thousand times in the heart, Helen who would be his downfall." Zabini's eyebrows raise in pique.
"You read well," she murmurs. In truth, she wants him to read it again-slower, roll the words over his tongue and languish in them. He is a fine reader, and it is no surprise. It seems that every word from Zabini's lips is cherished.
"Thank you." He hands her back the book, and she hugs it to her chest. "Are you a fan of the romantics, Miss Granger?"
"I'm ashamed to say that I am."
"Why ashamed?"
"It is... childish, is it not... to be drawn in by them?"
He tilts his head as he considers the sentiment. "We none of us are immune to romance."
"Aren't we?" Her voice comes out like a soft breath. Zabini smirks as if he won a confession from her.
"My cousin isn't, if her mooning is any indication."
"Think so?" Hermione recognizes that familiar stab in her gut, the reminder that Ron will never choose her, and yet... she is now so fond of Miss Parkinson that it is not a loss. If anything, the potential match feels like a gain, especially to have a woman amongst them all who likes her. Once again, Zabini's outstretched palm appears in her vision. He takes her hand and squeezes it.
"How droll you must think us," he says. "Wealthy magical society is quite boring. I'm sure you've seen your fill."
"On the contrary. I have been quite diverted these last few weeks."
"Forgive me... are you the only Muggle in this household?"
Hermione's face must betray her utter devastation to be asked such a thing, but then-how would her magical propensity ever come up? Pansy insisted that 'accomplished ladies don't lift a wand for matters beneath their station,' and nobody in the party bothered to demonstrate their own magical prowess. It is the privilege of the rich to squander their magical abilities, take their wands for granted, hold back their nature...
"I misspoke-"
"How would you know? It's not as if I have a wand. I did not attend Hogwarts. I live as a squib, for all intents and purposes." Hermione stands, but Zabini holds fast to her hand.
"They are very cruel to you." It is a statement, not a question. "I should like to see what charms Miss Granger has up her sleeve."
"None of note."
"You are... out of practice?"
She clenches her teeth, attempting to pull her hand away, but to no avail. "It has been insinuated that the less I speak, the more worthwhile I am."
"Let me guess: 'you're not to speak unless spoken to."
"They must have told me such a thing when I was a young girl, but I find that one needs to have something substantive to say, to warrant obedience."
"What substance do you require, Miss Granger?"
"A hungry mind. An easy countenance. General affability without devolving into foolishness-"
"Such a knight, indeed. I wonder at you knowing such a creature."
"I haven't met a person yet who warranted it."
His mouth quirks up. "Yet you cow to Mrs. Weasley's whims with all the readiness of a little finch in a cage." It's meant to tease, but the subject bites.
"Self-preservation doesn't require obedience-only compromise."
"You compromise yourself for her?"
"No. I compromise with myself not to hex her with every word that crosses her lips."
"Ah. You show restraint."
The words spill from her before she can stop them. "You haven't the faintest idea how right you are. Because I have no family, I thank her. But because I have no family, I believe I have every right to my own heart." She looks away. "Forgive me for speaking so candidly."
"You are the crisp night air, Miss Granger. Refreshing and disobedient, in all your charms."
Hermione allows him to hold her hand, then, because for once, she has a choice.
"Do you believe Pansy and Ronald are a match?" she manages. Zabini's smile softens, but it does not bely pity.
"They possess complimentary airs. He could do worse than my cousin, who has taken a shine to you. I do not think it will be long before an attachment is formed."
She nods solemnly. "When he takes orders in a few months..."
"Orders? Is... is Mister Weasley intending to join the clergy?"
"Yes. Has done since he was a boy," Hermione says, with some confusion as to his surprise.
"Gods. Pansy. A curate's wife. It is not what she imagined, but-"
"I think there are worse things than a life of passion and contemplation."
Zabini squares himself to her then. He is now far too close to her, but he doesn't give her any indication of being a threat to her. "Right again, Miss Granger. You have a habit of that."
"Of what?"
"Proving me wrong." He bows over their clasped hands, faintly brushing her knuckles with a chaste kiss, and leaves her to reel unaccompanied. Her hand tingles long after he has gone.
It is well into the evening when Hermione tip-toes past the den, where few of the men are holed up to let the last of their tobacco burn down, and she overhears a strange discourse. There are only two voices, but it soon becomes clear to whom they belong: Captain Malfoy (who is adept, now, at disappearing during the daylight hours) and Lord Zabini. She can't help herself. Hermione presses herself to the wall outside the room.
"...There was a degree of love, to be sure. But it's nothing. It is over."
What is over? And... with whom? She wonders at how little she knows of the man, though he has an open countenance as if he keeps no secrets at all.
"You're confident in that."
"Who do you take me for?" Zabini chuckles. "I am as sincere in my affections as the day I first laid eyes on her."
"You and sincerity keep little company."
"You wound me. Am I not allowed a diversion?"
There is a long pause before the Captain answers. "Of a kind."
"What do you think of her?" Zabini asks lowly. Hermione flattens herself to the wall for fear that he is aware of her presence, just beyond the door.
"I do not think of her at all." Captain Malfoy's voice is curt.
"Come now. I find her diverting. Even if she has the eyes of a doe for our friend."
Pure mortification fills Hermione and she must press her mouth to silence an involuntary groan. Why must I be so transparent, so obvious? Mooning as I do over Ronald, so much so that Lord Zabini has noticed and marked my affection.
The Captain sniffs. "One does not find what one does not seek. I neither seek such a woman, nor mark her. She is as God made her, and I thank him for it. A little prettiness, I'll grant you, but no subtlety to speak of. But the maker pays no heed to my whim, and neither should you, Zabini."
No breeding. So little breeding that the Lord took me for a Muggle. Ah, but I am better for it. Better even than you, Captain.
"I find her to be an angel. Certainly a mite more affable than Pansy."
"Weasley adores her."
"I wonder, Draco."
"Hmm."
"What sort of woman could earn a kind word from you?"
Hermione pales. When he did address her, on the few occasions she has heard him speak, Captain Malfoy has been kind. Not in the same fashion as Zabini, but... direct. Without an ounce of judgment. It is a testament to his honor. Surely Zabini knows his friend better than that.
"Not an angel, I'll warrant." Zabini's words feel almost territorial, then.
"Gods forbid you fall in love with her, man!"
Her heart beats in her throat. Love. In Love? With her? Oh, Merlin, no. No, No… It wasn't possible-they had only been acquainted a short time! Hermione hears the floor creak and she gasps, darting for the stairs so she won't be seen.
A hand darts out and grabs her wrist. She whips around to liberate herself and wants desperately to cry at the sight of him.
"Hermione! I've hardly seen you all day!" Ronald's face glows in the light from the candle he grasps in his other hand. "What have you found to occupy your time?"
"I was reading. In the library."
His eyes widen. "How did that come to pass?"
The moment he learned that I was prevented from the room, Zabini had become angry, and stormed off to the old Master's den to give him a piece of his mind. It was frightening. And disorienting, to be advocated for in such a way.
"Lord Zabini insisted that my banishment was unreasonable," she explains, "and your father gave up his sentence. I believe he puts stock in the Lord's opinions."
Ronald blinks in shock. "Oh. Well... that is kind of him."
"Yes."
"He dotes on you, I think." What is that in his tone, just then? That little bitter punch on quite.
"He's a gentleman," she agrees, though she won't give any outward credence to the idea that Zabini or anyone else dotes on her. Save Pansy, whose affection is clear. "And I am grateful that all our guests should be so congenial."
"As am I. Look." Ron pulls the tail end of a ribbon from his sleeve. The silk, silver and luxurious, was tied neatly around the handle of his willow wand. "Do you not recognize it?" It was a token from the black-haired woman, from the night she had confessed to Hermione her dear feelings for Ronald, it could not be otherwise.
"Have the words been said between you, then?"
He shakes his head. "On Christmas, I shall ask her. I hope she will accept."
Hermione presses his arm. "She will. Ron…" She sighs, and shivers with the notion of releasing all her hopes for him. He sets his candle on the post and covers her hand. "I hope you'll be happy together."
"Your approval of Miss Parkinson is the only one that matters. Hermione… I love you so dearly, and you've blossomed among our friends. I hope you feel it, too."
"I… I do."
Ronald pats her hand. "Alright. I've kept you long enough. Sleep well. I'm told we're going to Hogsmeade tomorrow for a bit of Christmas shopping, and no-don't pull a face, Hermione Granger, you won't get out of it!" He laughs when her face twists into a scowl.
"I will be made to follow behind like a puppy all day," she sighs.
"I won't let that happen, and neither will Miss Parkinson." Ronald takes up his candle again. "Goodnight, Hermione."
"Goodnight."
Ronald's soft slippers make little sound as he leaves her for the comforts of the family's wing. She watches the light from his candle disappear down the long corridor. He's going to ask her to marry him. Hermione sinks onto the bottom step. If she doesn't go upstairs, doesn't lay herself down, doesn't close her eyes… it will not happen. Right?
She won't lose him to marriage, which will take him from this house, her one ally amongst a sea of judgment.
What need has Lancelot for the pirates, now?
"Oh. Little dove. Lost your way in the cold?"
Hermione peers at the leather toes, which come into view at her feet.
"Come," he whispers. Zabini helps her stand. "Your hands are warm. There is no chill in you to speak of."
Hermione smiles, though she feels no hint of humour. He spoke of love... "I'm rarely cold."
"I thought not."
"May I bid you goodnight, my Lord?"
"Ascend you into the heavens once more, Miss Granger. Would I could pursue, but alas-" an adept, feather-light kiss alights her hand- "I have no wings." He cannot help the grin which fills his face, and its infectious energy passes to her mouth, too.
She points down the corridor. "Get you thence."
Zabini lets his flirtatious front slip into shyness, and his voice quiets. "Say you'll walk with me. To the hedgerow and back, tomorrow morning."
"Then you'll go?"
"Then I shall leave you to dream pretty fancies."
Hermione sighs dramatically, which only encourages his handsome face in its joy. "I will walk with you. After breakfast, and if you do not desist from pressing my hand this instant, then I'll withdraw my agreement."
"You ask great patience from me."
"As well I should." You are dangerous. Women would do well to be on their guard with you.
He relinquishes her hand and steps down. "Pleasant dreams." He bows deeply, and when he rises again, he is sanguine. "If I feature in any of them, you might tell me on the morrow."
Gods. "I never remember my dreams," she says.
"Alas for me." He waits. She lets her desire to leave settle against the stair rail. It is entirely overwhelming to hold oneself up under the ruthless gaze of a wizard with nowhere to be, and he fishes his wand from the inner lapel of his coat.
Wordlessly, the man conjures a piece of parchment. With a flick, the paper folds itself inward, and he raises it to her eye level.
"Give it a little breeze," he murmurs. She purses her lips. All it takes for a reaction is a small puff of air, and the paper inflates. He snaps his fingers. The tiny paper balloon glows, rising upwards.
"To guide you." He conceals the wand. "Quick! Before it gets away." Sure enough, the lantern has turned the bend of the staircase. Hermione shakes her head and beats a hasty retreat. She arrives at the top floor without touching the steps, it seems-flying as fast as the wings of panic and mortification can carry her, with the light from Blaise Zabini's lantern to lead her-but once her bedroom door is shut... she smiles. The lantern extinguishes itself, and alights in her palm when she offers.
When her cheek finds purchase on the cotton pillow, tears do not fall for the revelation that Ronald intends to engage himself with Miss Parkinson. She does not think of Ronald right away, not until she drifts into sleep. In her dream, he turns away from her, leading a woman with black hair away atop Cordelia.
The love of her pitifully short life takes something from his coat pocket-a little journal with a marble flyleaf-and tethers it to the basket of a hot air balloon. Fire ignites, the balloon sails high, well out of her reach.
Author's note: Thank you so much for reading! Happy Christmas, and joyous Yule. :)