...One Month to D-Day...
Hermione was exhausted. It was a kind of physical and mental weariness she had only ever known during those months on the run, right at the very heart of the war when she had feared for her life and her friends with every fibre of her being. While fear had abated, her present circumstances were taking a similar toll. She had never really considered, back when the whole mess had started, just how much of a personal cost it would be. She had only thought about the outward consequences, the things that people would say. But now she knew just how high that cost was. She was weary from the constant bickering with Malfoy, and the endless stream of horrible things he said to her. Her defensive walls against such barbed remarks had been in place for years, and she clung to them in the heat of the moment. It was at night though, while she was home in the safe knell of her flat, when the toll became clear.
She couldn't bear the thought of him knowing how hurtful he was, or how the sting of his barbs nestled and festered. She was tired of pretending it was all okay, the sleepless nights, perpetual arguments with her friends, and the desire to cry in frustration and anguish at her pitiable situation.
Perhaps if the man, Malfoy, had some redeeming qualities, she might have coped okay, she might have battled through. But the thought of spending any more time than necessary in his company bewildered her, because she had begun to wonder whether the quiet time she used to collect herself would be taken away too. Then all of her explosive feelings would bleed out in the day to day business of it all.
Then he would know. It shouldn't matter if he knew the effect he had. After all, that was why he said those things, to hit the mark. But she couldn't bear the prospect of him seeing her crumble to it all. Her dignity was at this stage intrinsically linked with her sanity. It was one of the few things that had carried her through.
Whatever about Malfoy though, the person she was most angry with was herself. After all, she had allowed this to happen. Absurd self-righteousness and ambition had led her down a path that common sense should have told her was dangerous. Why had she not listened to instincts that were so well honed?
It was a question that haunted her, because she truly could not understand now, with the benefit of hindsight, just what she had been thinking all those months ago.
She wasn't a stupid, naive girl. And yet she had been, somehow. Her mistake was far greater than those of most stupid and naive girls she knew. She who had always prided herself on her sense and ability to sidestep the traps before her.
Hermione also knew that, in the overwhelming scale of it all, she had given up far too much ground to the Malfoys. She had let them bully her repeatedly, unfathomably. She couldn't change the past, but her reflections upon such things had caused her to push back her shoulders and refuse to be bullied any further.
She would not be the one to continue making sacrifices while Malfoy benefited from their arrangement. That realisation had been like a blow to the gut, and it had happened right after that horrendous afternoon by the fountain. She had decided that enough was enough.
She had to go ahead with it all; that was a fate she was tied to. But the way in which she went about it all was still very much in her control. She hated that she had somehow lost sight of that important fact.
Time had seemed to run away from her, such that they were now down to weeks until the wedding. Yet as difficult as it had been, in many ways she felt far more like herself now. Reinvigorated, almost. That take charge, take no prisoners attitude which had served her well was back. Thank Merlin for that.
She had told them, Draco and his mother, that she would call the whole thing off – repercussions be damned – if some concessions weren't made immediately. The first of which was that in the absence of her own mother – something she tried not to think about - Mrs Weasley and Ginny would both be heavily involved in the preparations for the wedding, regardless of Narcissa Malfoy's dictatorial plans to commandeer the whole thing. The expression on the latter's face had been like she'd just swallowed lemons. So really, not all that different to normal.
Draco, in his inimitable style, had told her, "Granger, I don't give a fuck who is involved, just let's get it over with." He'd then turned to his mother in exasperation, "I'm not going to prison just so you have the right to pick bloody ornaments."
Really, if it were left to the two of them, it would have been done in secret with no one the wiser. Mores the pity, she thought.
He did sneer though, at the prospect of the Weasley's on his front lawn for the ceremony. Narcissa's stare had been imperious when she asked, "Why are they to be involved, and not your own mother?"
Hermione blinked at the time, the question quite taking her unawares. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked errant questions about her parents. She tended to side-track them when she could though, because the topic was acutely painful.
"I don't have parents anymore… the war…" She always left it there, and let people come to their own conclusions. Naturally they always assumed that her parents had died, and she would almost prefer people to think that. Especially people, like the Malfoys, whom she wouldn't trust as far as she could throw them, which considering her lamentable hand eye coordination, wasn't very far.
This wasn't the case, though. Her parents were still very much alive, settled in Australia with their successful dental practice, living a life in which she had no part. It was partly for their protection that she kept up the guise with all but those who knew her best. The fact was that she had gone back for them after the close of the war, when it was safe to bring them to England. She could still recall the way she had felt when they didn't recognise her even after she attempted to lift the powerful memory charm.
She had known then that she had to say goodbye. She would never risk causing permanent damage just so that she could have them back again. It was the selfless thing to do. But the memory of her happy youth, her mother's soft words and her father's indulgent smiles made the loss beyond anything she could describe. It seemed unfair to her that she was forever the one to make such personal sacrifices.
She chose to focus on the fact that they were happy, that they no longer had the knowledge that their daughter lived so far out of their own world as to make them feel like strangers. And she wasn't alone, she was fortunate enough to have another family: a huge one that had accepted her from when she was only young. The Weasleys were generous with their affection beyond words.
Of course she never said all of this to the Malfoys when the question was raised, and Narcissa for once didn't have a barbed response. In fact, her expression was rather shadowed as she looked at Hermione. The latter could only suppose that the woman's innate maternal instinct overrode her general disdain for Hermione on that occasion. Draco had looked at her strangely, but then she tried not to think too much about his thought process.
Interactions between the two of them had been incredibly tense since their run in at the fountain. She suspected he didn't want to get into an all out brawl about it either, as argumentative as they were usually. They were both conscious that they had to put up with each other for the time being, and she supposed they were doing it to the best of their abilities.
While she was making her best effort to disregard his less amiable qualities, the option of outright avoiding him was nonexistent. She had seen him every other day, over brunches and dinners and shows. She'd been to shops and seamstresses, fittings and what not so much so that all she seemed to be talking about were cakes and lace and flowers. And really she didn't care two figs about any of these things! She just wanted to get back a sense of normalcy.
All of these preparations were one thing, but there was an element that was worse, one she dreaded above all else.
The dancing lessons.
They were a trial beyond anything she had ever endured. When she cast her mind to pinpointing the aspect she most disliked, it was a struggle.
The instructor, who clearly shared Hermione's future mother-in-law's opinion of her, was forever lamenting her lack of grace and finesse. Hermione was forever lamenting the odious man's sharp tongue.
Phillias Strup was all flourishes and clipped enunciation, high affected tones and disdainful glares. He was also, as he was wont to remind her at every opportunity, foremost in his field. Whatever his skills at teaching dance might have been, Hermione rather thought his ability to make even the most graceful swan feel like a dowdy strumpet far exceeded them.
And although Hermione had never declared herself as the aforementioned swan, she had always considered herself to be quite graceful and in possession of impeccable manners. She was, after all, her mother's daughter and graciousness was important, even to Muggles.
Whilst she had never had formal dance lessons, she had done rather well with the short teaches of the formal mode before the Yule Ball in her fourth year. Granted that was a long time ago, but once Hermione mastered something, she rarely ever forgot it.
According to the delightful Monsieur Strup, which Hermione was loath to call him as he was, categorically, not French, she was little more than a rhythmically challenged bundle of limbs.
"Miss Granger," he would say, "Why are you— you're hunching! HUNCHING!"
His frequent muttering, and the repeated dabbing of his sweat-free brow with a lacy confection was making her all the more tense.
She supposed she could deal with him, however annoying the man might be. It was the constant swirling about in Malfoy's arms that was the major issue. It didn't feel right to have his palm on her lower back, his hips so close to her own.
If he was as perturbed by the whole thing as she was then he didn't show it. Indeed, he was doing splendidly, a fact which aggravated her further, because she knew she would do just fine if she didn't have to dance with him. It made her uncomfortable and tense.
In any case, she had the distinct impression that he'd been forced into lessons of this sort from a young age. No doubt dancing also had to do with upholding the family name. Yet more values which she found utterly incomprehensible.
One would have thought that so many months of exposure to him, in such close a proximity, would have made him seem less grating. All it did, in fact, was serve to remind her that this was the man she was expected to spend her life with. Absurd.
She had always known that the Wizarding world was intrinsically archaic and that the pureblood lines as old as the likes of the Malfoys turned their noses up at modern notions deemed to be distinctly Muggle in nature.
Divorce, as she had learnt, was possible nowadays in the Wizarding realm. There were many stipulations involved in applying for them, and they were notably very rare in situations that didn't involve marital relations with an actual Muggle. The concern for Hermione was that consent was required from both families in addition to the two parties. While Hermione felt very confident that Draco would rather withstand the shame of a divorce than spend his life with her, she didn't think his parents would be quite so liberal on the topic.
It didn't make much sense to her when she mapped it all out, because she was fairly certain they would expect Draco to have children, to pass on the family name and all that business. They certainly wouldn't want a half-blood child polluting their lines, and in any case it was a moot point because she would be as virtuous as a nun before ever jumping into bed with Draco Malfoy.
On the basis of that alone, she could only hope they would be swayed. And if not, well she would keep searching. In the meantime, she intended to keep her head up high and try not to let them all drive her insane. That was, of course, if she even made it to the wedding… after all, another lesson with Monsieur Strup was likely to do just that.
This was her fourth lesson and she had hoped her last, but based on the disgruntled expression on the man's face she somehow suspected otherwise. Hermione felt the weight of her partner's hand slide up from the base of her spine and press between her shoulder blades.
When she cast him a strange look he responded archly, "You heard him, Granger. You're hunching."
"You're too tall," she muttered irritably. Not that this fact had anything to do with it; discomfort was the actual cause, but she was loath to say as much.
He made a noise that seemed somewhere between a snort and a laugh, which made her raise her eyebrows at him.
"It's hardly my fault you're small." He dropped his hands from their position and pressed his palms around the circumference of her waist. Her gaze flew up to his, the breath leaving her at the unexpected feeling of his hands so firmly on her in that way.
It wasn't the same as when he had her hand wrapped in his or his other on her back, because that was formal and necessary. He didn't usually touch her unless it was forced. It was like a secret consensus between them.
And he was right, with his hands there wrapped about her, she felt very small indeed. She hated that reminder. His grey eyes were intent for a second and then he let go of her as though he'd been burnt.
"Did I tell you to stop?" It was the dance instructor again. She could have thanked him for his rude tone at such a strange moment.
Malfoy let out a breath that sounded distinctly amused. "You know, it's rather enjoyable watching you get shirty with someone else for a change."
She arched a brow with him, comfortable with the return of the status quo. "Fearful you'll lose your place as the most irritating person in my life?"
A quirk lifted the corner of his mouth, "I really doubt there's any risk of that, don't you?"
If it weren't for the fact that the vast majority of the time he was downright offensive, she could almost say he was amusing on occasion. Almost. And very rarely. Still though, she supposed there had to be something that drew a girl in. A girl like Astoria, came the unbidden thought.
Perhaps he had some heretofore unknown charm beneath all of the layers of superiority, sarcasm and entitlement.
Or perhaps, and Hermione suspected this might be the more likely case, the girl in question was simply too stupid to fully grasp what he was saying when he spoke to her. Either way, whether she realised it yet or not, Hermione's absurd decision making had probably saved her from a very large mistake.
She glanced at Malfoy again. "No, you're quite right. Whether it's the arrangement of your features, or just every time you open your mouth... I can't decide. Either way, you are just naturally gifted in the art of irritation."
She smiled sweetly as the amused smirk slid from his mouth.
The warm flames of the hearth and the comforting familiarity of The Burrow was like a balm to Hermione's fraught nerves. She was sitting over a cup of tea and some of Molly Weasley's delicious homemade biscuits and thoroughly enjoying every moment.
Molly and Ginny had both been wonderfully supportive ever since the announcement of her impending marriage. She knew that they were both concerned, could read it in the clear blue of their matching eyes at every turn, but whatever their thoughts they held them in. Instead of following in the path of brash argumentativeness like both Harry and Ron, they were trying their best to be supportive.
Hermione was rather surprised by this turn of events as neither of the Weasley women were noted for their tact, but she was grateful nonetheless. She could only suppose that they were trying to fill the void of her own mother, who wouldn't be there to fuss over her daughter as she otherwise would.
And in spite of her very great aggravation toward her closest friends, she could hardly deny that she understood where they were coming from. After all, if Ron had turned around one day to announce his betrothal to Pansy Parkinson or Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione would never have believed it. In fact, she'd have fought tirelessly to find out what was going on. In some ways she was grateful for their concern, thankful even.
Still, she had no answers for their repeated questions, and found the constant arguments and interrogations to be a headache. So while she knew that Molly, Ginny and even Arthur were very disbelieving of the whole thing, she appreciated the way they tried their level best to respect her choice and simply help out. Whatever was being said behind her back about it she didn't know and couldn't raise the energy to think too long on something so beyond her control.
"Hermione, dear," Molly called her attention away from such thoughts. "I wanted to ask you something…"
She cast her gaze toward the Weasley matriarch, noting her hesitation.
"Mum wants to know if you would like to wear Muriel's tiara," Ginny piped in.
Hermione felt a burst of warmth low in her stomach. In truth she would only have thought that offer would be extend if she and Ron had ended up together. She knew what the tiara meant to Molly Weasley, who only ever offered it within the family. Her smile was a little tremulous when she said, most fervently, that she would love to.
"And never you mind what Narcissa Malfoy has to say on the matter," the older woman said, now up to bustle around the kitchen.
She grinned. "I don't care two figs."
As far as Hermione was concerned, the tiara was exquisite and if she was being forced to marry a man she abhorred then she was going to do it her own way, wearing something that had meaning to her. And more importantly, she wanted it to have meaning to her friends, because they wouldn't rest in trying to figure it all out if they believed for one minute that she wasn't happy.
With a quick glance at her watch, Hermione bid goodbye to both women. It was one of the very few afternoons she'd had to herself in the past few weeks and she planned to make the most of it.
She had arranged to meet up with Anthony and she had no intention of being late.
The wind whipped around her hair and tickled her skin; the freshness of it was lovely, though. She relished the chance to soak up the solitude and the freedom. After the orchestration that was her entire engagement and the subsequent claustrophobia she had repeatedly experienced, these quiet moments were a delight to be cherished.
Hermione was sitting on a bench in a little children's park not far out of London. It meant nothing to anyone but the people who lived on the neighbouring streets. Hermione knew it well because it sat right opposite to the dental practice that her parents had owned all through her youth. When she was eight or nine and infatuated with sitting on the swing set and reading a book, her parents would take turns on lunch breaks to push her, letting her feet fly high up in the sky.
She came here sometimes when she didn't want to be found. It was funny watching all the other children and wondering if any of them would be like her, swept up into a world beyond their reckoning.
There was something to be said for the simplicity of Muggle Life: the stability and the security of it.
"Hermione," the low and warm voice made her look up. Anthony strode across the lush green grass underfoot, and she admired how he looked in the pale gleam of the sun.
"Anthony," she said by way of greeting.
She had asked him to come and meet her for several reasons. The first of which was that she felt she owed him some sort of explanation. Of course, there wasn't really anything she could say, but he had proffered the branch of friendship and she planned to grasp it with both hands. The second reason was that she had a burning desire to flagrantly disregard Draco's strictures about whom she could spend her time with.
It wasn't the first time that she'd seen him since the tea party; it was impossible not to bump into him at work, but that wasn't really an appropriate time to chat. And she knew that he felt a little uncomfortable around her now. That was pretty understandable given the circumstances. This was why she had asked him to come and meet her here, and had been very relieved when he had finally agreed.
She had no intention of them being spotted, of course, but she planned to let Malfoy know in no uncertain terms that he was not to boss her around.
"I wish we didn't have to meet like this… in secret," her companion said.
She shrugged. "I've been hounded by reporters, and frankly Draco's mother doesn't trust me very much. I wouldn't be surprised if she had people following me about."
"Is that how this is going to work?" He raised a brow. "Us being... friends, I mean. All this sneaking around?"
She blew out a sigh and kicked at the tufts of grass underfoot.
"It's not fair, I know, but everything is so crazy at the moment that I think it might be for the best." She paused, "At least until after the wedding."
He gave her a sidelong look, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose it could be fun, meeting up behind Malfoy's back. Forgive me, but I find the idea of pissing him off quite appealing."
She stifled a laugh. "Yes... he does have a special knack for bringing out that instinct."
"In you as well?" he queried with a slight grin.
"Oh, me most of all," she replied easily.
She knew she could never tell him in uncertain words how things were with Malfoy. Not that he seemed entirely without his own set of suspicions, which were probably fairly on the money. Still, he was one of the few people that she felt didn't need to believe in the hype about her future marriage. She couldn't fake it around everyone in any case, and she selfishly enjoyed the uncomplicated nature of his company.
"I assume you still won't tell me what's really going on, so how about we just don't discuss it? I don't really fancy chatting about Malfoy anyway."
She grinned. "I think that's an excellent idea."
They chattered on for what felt like hours, discussing inane things with an ease that hadn't been there before, back when there had seemed a possibility of something more between them.
And when he gave her the briefest peck on the corner of her mouth to say goodbye, she was quite surprised she didn't feel the swooping of butterflies she might otherwise have expected.
It was almost ironic that in the wake of the dreadful mess that her life had become, one thing had been improved in it all. A real friendship with Anthony was, in fact, a very lovely thing to have indeed.