Chapter Five: The Performance

...Two Months to D-Day...

Hermione had never been an especially good liar; this came, she supposed, from an innately honest nature and pragmatic attitude. She had always been a firm believer in tackling one's obstacles head on. This was something that was clearly so intrinsic in her mentality that those who knew her well were acutely aware of it. In fact, Ginny had once told her that this refusal to use her feminine wiles – whatever that meant – was a key reason why her relationships hadn't worked out thus far. Mystery was important, she'd said. Hermione wasn't sure she knew how to be mysterious.

In any case, she never really placed a lot of stock on this advice, being that it went against the grain, and that in truth it had been entirely unimportant to her. Until recently. Until it had become vital to the success of everything.

It was only now that Hermione could see the wisdom in those words, for a reason she was fairly certain her friend had never intended. With all of this borne in mind, she had something of an epiphany. After all, if there was one thing in life that Hermione insisted upon, it was success. It really didn't matter whether that success lay in the classroom, her office or her personal life. In this case, that success hinged upon convincing the world – as best she could – that she was in a relationship with Draco Malfoy, and that she wanted to be.

It was a steep task, she knew, for several reasons. Not least of all was the fact that she could barely tolerate him, let alone share looks of infatuation over the dinner table. She'd also never been in love before, not real grown up, adult love. She'd had her fancies and what not in her youth, but none of that was real. It wasn't what Harry and Ginny had, though they'd found it so young. In fact, she'd taken to watching their interactions rather closely of lat, much to the great consternation of Harry who had looked somewhat alarmed at finding her staring at him with quill and note book in hand.

Really, when she thought about it, it was somewhat remiss of the general writing public to have not put together some sort of manual for this situation, given the Wizarding world's archaic predisposition toward arranged marriages.

Without such aids at her disposal, she found herself reliant on the observations of Harry and Ginny, and indeed thought they were quite helpful. It was all in the softening of Harry's eyes when he looked at her, and the pretty way Ginny still blushed beneath his gaze. It was the little details, Hermione now understood, the gentle touches and whispered words.

When they looked at each other, it was like she wasn't there. Ironically there was an element of that in her interactions with Malfoy, in so far as they were so caught up in wanting to throttle each other to the exclusion of all others in the room. Somehow, shockingly, she didn't really think that was going to help.

They were getting a bit better at the charade though. In fact, Malfoy was disturbingly good at it. She supposed that came from his being the poster boy for Slytherin characteristics: deception and cunning. He'd thrown her off on more than one occasion by looking at her with something like affection – or at the very least without his perpetual sneer, which she rather thought amounted to the same thing - and touching her cheek, while leaning in to whisper softly in her ear.

To all watching, and there were many, it would have looked like sweet nothings. In reality, it was usually something disparaging about her hair, her clothes, her very being. The self control it took not to shove him away was causing severe strain on her muscles and her mind. She had never really considered herself to be a particularly violent person, and yet there was something about the man that had, from the first, caused such a visceral reaction in her. In all the years it had not abated.

Enduring it was a necessary evil though, what with all of the media attention surrounding their surprise engagement. They had known suspicions would be immediately aroused; they just had to do their level best to overcome them.

The first step, of course, had been at the preliminary hearing. The court had already heard the news of their betrothal through the Daily Prophet but confirmation was required. As Mr Astrophy had told them only a few short months ago, the case was immediately dismissed on the grounds that there was not enough evidence to go ahead. Hermione was only too conscious, though, that should they delay the wedding too long, it could rear up all over again. Certainly if the delightful Rita Skeeter could have her way. In fact, Hermione wouldn't be at all surprised to discover the wretched woman was having her watched every minute of the day.

As for the Ministry, they welcomed her back to work, all jovial chuckles and thumping handshakes. Of course no one had believed her to be up to anything unbecoming. Best to have the ugly business all cleared up, they'd said to her, rather patronisingly. There had been suggestions, however, that she cut back on her work a bit. Working a minimum of 50 hours a week was something apparently only appropriate for those who had nothing to go home to. She tried very hard not to be incensed by that.

As far as Hermione was concerned, the more time she could spend in her office, and the less time at tea with Narcissa Malfoy discussing fabrics and hors d'oeuvres the better.

The woman was in full orchestration mode; it made Hermione wonder whether she even slept. On the surface the matriarch might have seemed like any doting mother, keen to throw herself into planning the wedding of her only child. And indeed, that was probably how it appeared when, on a few slightly traumatic occasions, she had insisted on dragging Hermione around town in a flurry of shopping for bridal things. She was under no illusion though. If Narcissa could have it her way, the whole ceremony would be performed in a cave with no lighting and only a slight odour of mildew so that the woman could pretend it had never happened. She didn't really care about what ornamentations should line the aisle. She might have if Draco was marrying someone she approved of, or indeed someone of whom he approved. But no one was more conscious of the necessity of the performance for this charade of a marriage to be successful. After all, by her own hand, her son's life depended on it.

And so, in addition to beginning the preparations for what was to be a very short engagement, she was also planning the show that was Hermione and her son's relationship. They had to be seen everywhere, she said both imperiously and, to Hermione's extreme vexation, frequently. Her lip would curl with distaste on each occasion before she surveyed Hermione with something akin to resignation.

As though Hermione was the problem in this whole situation. She tried very hard not to let it get under her skin that this intolerable woman clearly thought so lowly of her. Hermione was accustomed to a certain degree of respect from people, regardless of whether or not they actually liked her.

To make matters worse, there had even been one extremely uncomfortable occasion when Hermione had been summoned to breakfast with the Malfoy clan. The very idea of sitting over crumpets and kippers with any of them had struck her as completely absurd. Yet, possibly more concerning, was the degree to which she was becoming accustomed to the dragging of her feet on their highly polished floor boards, of being in the horrible house and around those horrible people in general. It was just so very wrong, when she stopped long enough to think about it. In any case, that particular breakfast happened to be the first occasion on which she sat in the same room as Lucius Malfoy in years. Somehow she had managed to separate the mother and son from him and everything he represented.

He had been sitting at the head of their obscenely long dining table, partially obscured by a copy of the Daily Prophet. She'd twitched the entire time, sat opposite her very smug looking fiancé.

Finally the haughty older man had looked up momentarily to reach for his tea, before casting his gaze in her direction. "You are aware, my dear," this was directed at Narcissa, in his carefully enunciated tone, "that there is a Muggle-born at the table?"

Hermione hadn't really known how to deal with this comment. After his wife's assent, he went on to mutter something about women and their projects, like the time his wife had arranged a little garden of geraniums on the front lawn, and allowed a very young Draco to keep a stray cat. Hermione supposed that to him, in this scenario, she was the stray cat.

Fortunately, for the most part, Lucius Malfoy kept entirely out of her way.

If only Draco could do the same.

The problem with that, of course, was that despite the fact that she knew he disliked her inherently, he also received a frustrating level of pleasure from her discomfort. And he was keenly aware that he had the most to lose from their arrangement falling through, while she suffered endlessly with its every success. It seemed to Hermione that, against his will, he had stumbled upon the best possible way to torment her, and he meant to make the most of that given their situation.

At present they were at a gathering held by Marionette Plume, the fussy and very old widow of a wealthy pure-blood who had been famous for his books on the changing structures of magical plant life. Mrs Plume was equally famous but, in this case, for her high teas. It was considered something of a privilege to attend. Hermione knew this because she had tried to convince the old bat to contribute some of her very many galleons to the S.P.E.W. project on more than one occasion. She had then discovered that Mrs Plume, in addition to be being quite domineering, was also very uninclined to support anything that might see her glorified servants removed from her.

Whoever would make the scones, she'd asked in horror. Given her present company, Hermione should have been accustomed to the complete lack of sarcasm with which that response was accompanied.

In any case, the rotten woman was a dear friend of the Malfoy family, particularly Narcissa, and so they were frequent attendees of the frothy affairs. As loath as she was to admit it, there was something to be gained by the association, if only that it opened up new sources for her to seek out supporters of her cause. Of course, the down side was that many of the attendees were staunch advocates for the old ways, as they were so reverently described.

The afternoon was dragging endlessly, and it felt to Hermione as though they had been there for hours. After the initial introductions, for which she was forced to stand by Malfoy's side and throw him frequent fond glances, she had been left to her own devices.

So now she stood by the window in one of the parlours, tuning out the sounds of tinkling glasses and affected laughter. The view afforded was rather lovely, the grounds pristine and lush in the warm glow of afternoon sun. She took a deep breath, and pressed a palm to the fine silk of her dress. She didn't feel at all herself. She didn't look at all herself either, which was probably exactly Narcissa's intention. Hermione may have consented to coming to this event, but not to the wardrobe approval that the interfering woman clearly believed she was entitled to.

While Hermione was never one to back down on anything, there was something so politely domineering about the older woman that seemed to catch her out every time. She was painfully elegant, something Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever mastered. Certainly, she had impeccable manners, courtesy of her parents, and she would never raise poor attention to herself. However, physical appearance and dressing for these sorts of luncheons had never really been her concern.

She was a girl who stuck quills in her hair and had ink smudges on her fingers.

Malfoys didn't have ink smudges, nothing to mar their pearly skin. It was a constant reminder that she was nothing like the Malfoys at all. And she'd never felt more out of place than when she was in this world, when she could be sitting over tea and cakes at Molly Weasley's kitchen table chatting with her friends instead.

"Hermione..." She turned quickly at the voice, its warm but uncertain tones, which she recognised immediately. She hadn't seen Anthony Goldstein at all since that horrible evening when Malfoy had announced their engagement. He'd been avoiding her of course, she didn't blame him.

He looked lovely in the early afternoon sunlight. His golden hair glinted and his small and slightly uncomfortable smile tugged at something within.

"Oh, Anthony... I... how are you?" she finally asked, not really sure what to say. She was thrilled he was talking to her, that he was here: simply so that there was someone she knew other than the Malfoys. In fact, her discomfort was probably exactly why he had approached her. He was just so decent like that. "I'm sorry... about-"

He shrugged, his palms sliding into his elegant trousers. "It's fine... I won't confess I understand but..." He cast her a quick and more assured glance, "We're friends, right?"

She grinned, relief singing through her veins. "Definitely."

She felt warm beneath his gaze, which lingered perhaps more than it should. "You look lovely," he finally said.

That was true. Narcissa had refused to let her out until she'd been done up appropriately. A hand lifted self-consciously to brush the softly swept curls that framed her face. "Thank you," she said.

"I thought it best to keep you company... you looked a bit," he shrugged again. "And Malfoy's over there talking to Astoria which will probably set some tongues wagging..."

Her gaze flew over in search of whom Anthony was referring to. She saw them immediately, standing in a corner – extremely close together – and talking to one another. The girl, Astoria, was fair skinned, dark haired and lovely. Hermione couldn't help but note the way Malfoy was looking at her, softly like she was some delicate flower to be cherished. Ridiculous to think that Draco Malfoy even had that look in his repertoire.

Anthony clearly thought she was upset by the sight of them, understandably given the circumstances, so he was obviously trying to distract her. "The, uh... the fountains are lovely to the left of the estate. Have you seen them?" She shook her head and he graciously asked if she would like to take a stroll.

She couldn't have been more thrilled with the prospect of a brief reprieve. So she accepted his arm and allowed him to guide her to the side door. If Hermione had been paying more attention she might have noted the matching pairs of grey eyes tracking her every step.

They strolled in amicable silence along the narrow path that led the way. The sun was warm and glorious on her bare arms, and she grinned widely at her companion as they ambled along. He was right of course, the extravagant fountain was beautiful to behold, and she relished the sound of the rushing water.

"Hermione," Anthony finally spoke, and she detected the serious note to his voice. She pressed her hands against the smooth stone of the fountain, and cast her gaze to him.

"Yes?"

"I..." he paused."I've been watching you and I can't make sense of any of it." His hand rose to rub his neck, as though to signify his confusion.

Awkward, she thought. She was fairly certain she knew where he was headed. He didn't skirt around the issue though, which she found infuriating given how slowly he'd moved on all other accounts.

"You don't love him, do you?" She made to interrupt and he held up a hand. "Don't say anything... I just... you don't look happy and," he paused and took a breath, "I think, of anyone, I have the right to say it."

She sighed, because it was true. He definitely deserved the honesty that she couldn't give him. "It's just – it's very complicated, Anthony... but if things were different, if I weren't with him..."

Hermione was well aware that she shouldn't be saying things like that, things that gave an impression contradictory to her actions. But she had reconciled herself to the fact that there would be some who just wouldn't believe her.

He nodded slowly. She could only suppose that whatever she had said was enough to satisfy his own suspicions.

They stood there for a while, lapsing into chatter about inconsequential things, and she wondered about what he had said, his observations. He, like his friends, could see something other than the charade. She supposed it didn't really matter if they did, as long as those opinions were kept relatively quiet. But she hated the thought that he knew she would marry someone with ulterior motives. It left a rather unsavoury taste in her mouth, and Hermione had never quite gotten over her concern with how she was perceived.

"We should probably head back now," he said finally. She didn't want to though; that room with all the flowers and sickly sweet perfume was far too stuffy. So she told him to head on without her and that she would follow in a minute.

He pressed warm lips to her cheek, his blue eyes regarding her in a way that made her wonder. She watched him as he left. Her thoughts were in freefall.

Of course this didn't last for long. Heaven forbid she have a moment to herself.

"Lovely spectacle you made there." She whipped her head around to see Malfoy walking towards her, the line of his shoulders tense and his gaze narrowed. Just what she needed.

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned away from him to watch the rippling movements of the running water. She was startled when she felt his firm grip take her elbow and spin her around to face him. He stood very close, his fingers searing her skin and his eyes boring into her own.

She made to pull her arm from his grip but, while gentle, it was firm. "What is your problem now? And would you please stop man-handling me."

He shook his head as he looked at her, as though she was the absurd person in this scenario. "You just embarrassed me in front of everyone. Walking off for a little interlude with Goldstein? Exactly how do you think that looks?"

Her eyes widened and she spat back at him, incensed at his hypocrisy and at the whole situation. "Probably the same way it looked when you were gushing over… Astoria, I believe her name is."

He pulled back, startled, but recovered with the frustrating swiftness she was growing used to. "We were only talking... you actually left!" He leaned closer, an open palm falling to rest on the stone behind her. She could feel the heat of the sun and him searing through the thin fabric of her dress. "Let's get one thing straight... you'll not humiliate me like that again."

That was it, she thought. She'd had enough of the bullying from him and his mother, all because of this situation.

She shoved him, her hands balled into fists against his chest. "You don't have the right to dictate what I do! Stop making one set of rules for yourself and another for me."

His nostrils flared as he stared at her, and she could see the tiny flecks of dark grey in his ashy gaze. When he spoke it was in a whisper that caused the fine hairs to dance across her nape. "I do, actually. Whether I like it or not, I'm being forced to marry you... one of the only privileges afforded me is the right to tell you not to see someone again. Take Goldstein for example."

She gasped at that, at the sheer audacity of him. "You-"

He raised a hand to tug at her hair gently at first, and then he tangled several thick strands in his grip, pulling back so that her chin was tilted and her neck exposed. She swallowed, and he lowered his face, so that all she could see was his mouth hovering closely. "Don't test me, Granger. I mean it."

He released her and stood back in one swift movement, stalking away before she could regather her faculties. Small pebbles had broken out across her skin, and she brushed her palms over her arms to keep from shivering. She was a strong woman, had always stood her own against other men, and especially him, but somehow it was different now.

She was roaring inside, with the almost undeniable urge to either cry in frustration, or jump on his back and start slapping him endlessly. Denying both options, she took a deep breath instead and called out his name.

"Malfoy. Malfoy, wait." His frame stopped and she huffed as she trudged toward him. She was not about to let him leave her out here, having to follow on like some simpering woman who had just been reprimanded. "We can't let it look like we've had it out."

He turned to cast her a look and she could see it took a lot of self restraint. He raised a brow. "Why ever would they think such a thing," he muttered.

"Look... I didn't mean to embarrass you, or whatever you seem to think. I just needed some air... this is... difficult." She was quite impressed with this olive branch, with her maturity. He certainly didn't deserve it.

He looked down at her and his lip curved slightly. "Of course, I should have realised... civilised society, not something you're used to... seeing people eat with cutlery instead of their hands must take some adjustment."

He even managed to say it with something akin to sympathy, a tone one might perceive as thoughtfulness if they weren't so keenly aware of his mastery with an insult.

"You're an absolute prat, you know that? On a scale beyond measurement," she muttered as they walked side by side toward the main parlour.

"Why, thank you, Granger." He even gave her one of his smirks as he held the door open, allowing her back into the hungry lion's den, full of waiting eager eyes.

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

As she stood in that room, by his side, sipping wine and trying to smile, she suddenly felt very small in the gaping hole that was her future. She wanted nothing more than to be rid of all of them. She would be, somehow. She was absolutely determined that some way, somehow, she would find a way to rid herself of this situation. That she had to marry him was undeniable, but beyond that it was fair game as far as she was concerned.

The very minute Hermione got home to her cosy flat, she was going to start looking into breaking marital contracts, because she did not want to spend one more day married to the brute than necessary.

He may have thought that his intimidation tactics signified the end of their conversation, but he was wrong. He didn't like her talking to Anthony because he couldn't bear the thought of people thinking his fiancée was going behind his back, no matter that he didn't care two sickles about her. Well, he could think what he wanted; she was going to continue being friends with Anthony regardless.

Indeed this thought was foremost in her mind as she stood in that sunny room, with weight of someone's eyes upon her. She didn't need to cast her gaze in that direction to know they belonged to the slender and very pretty brunette with whom he had been talking.

She doubted very much that he intended to stop talking to the lovely Astoria either.