Chapter Twenty-Nine
They went to dinner, after all.
Draco did not ask Hermione to come with him – he sent a house elf to give her a note when she got home. She had no protests, though: She appeared at the foot of the staircase in a fashionable, black and white pinstriped dress at 15 minutes 'til six, just as he'd told her. She said nothing to him, merely gave him a look up and down at his outfit, silently approving, and nodded to the fireplace.
They Floo'd to Malfoy Mansion slightly early, just as Draco's mother had always taught him to do.
Narcissa met them in the entrance hall. She looked her son up and down, just as Hermione had done, and approved of his attire. A smile cracked across her face at Hermione's choice in dress, especially noting the subtle ruffle that went along her neckline with approval that went beyond acquiescence.
Lucius arrived slightly late to the dinner table, his face neutral, as if he did not have any guests at all. While an outsider might have felt uneasy with such cold mannerisms – as Hermione surely did – Draco felt himself right at home. In fact, having his father silent and withdrawn was the way he preferred him.
Hermione, on the other hand, had never thought in her wildest dreams that she would be in such an awkward predicament. Before the summer, the last time she had been so close to Lucius Malfoy, the same Manor they were having dinner in at that very moment was being used as Voldemort's base…
The thought seemed to foreign and strange now. As if last year had been a dream – but it wasn't.
Draco, too, was lost in his own thoughts. Dinner that night was Cornish hens: One of his favorites. Yet, he seemed to have lost all appetite. He picked at his food, occasionally taking a bite without tasting anything.
He took a long drink of his wine, gazing into the glass – mesmerized by the deep red. He drained most of the cup and the burgundy color with it, leaving behind a rose-colored liquid that was at first pleasing to the eye.
He longer he gazed into the glass of wine, the easier it became to remember; The rose-tinted wine seemed to move in the glass, like flames. The flames twisted themselves into serpents and chimeras and other dark beasts – Fiendfyre.
The Room of Lost Things came to memory… he could see vividly, as though it was happening at that very moment, the fire licking and devouring the many lost items that Hogwarts had collected over the years. Potter was grabbing the diadem off the bust with the wig as though it were something precious – perhaps it was, Draco had never found out. Crabbe had been lost in that fire; Draco remembered being remorseful. He and Goyle hadn't talked since that day: Perhaps it was some unknown and unspoken agreement.
And suddenly, Draco felt ashamed.
He remembered Potter swooping back on the broomsticks to grab him – to save his life after he'd tried to thwart him. Hermione had been on the back of the broomstick with Weasley that day – still a couple, as he had been positive they would have remained.
He did not speak for the rest of the meal and could not look at Hermione, even if he'd wanted to.
Narcissa pulled Hermione aside at the end of the meal, linking her arm through her daughter-in-law's like they were good chums and that one had not tried to kill the other the previous year. Hermione noticed the Malfoys still hadn't purchased a new chandelier.
"Sit down, dear – we won't be overheard here," Narcissa offered, gesturing to a stiff-looking armchair with a gaudy print.
Hermione doubted her mother-in-law's words, but figured she might as well listen to what the woman had to say.
"I think I just need to come straight to the point," Narcissa decided. "I wanted to apologize."
Hermione was taken aback – not only was this the last thing she had expected, but… how unlike a Malfoy!
"Yes," Narcissa agreed, noting Hermione's astonished expression, "I know. A Malfoy does not apologize. Or DID not. Things have changed since then, however. You won't see me walking around and befriending Muggles – but I think it is time we purebloods learned a little humility."
Hermione, still astonished, was not completely convinced, despite the sincere expression on Narcissa's face.
"I believe we got off to the wrong start," Narcissa continued, possibly noticing Hermione's incredulity, "with that Fenrir Greyback business over a year ago. I see now the… error of my ways. Even if it is hard to admit mistakes – I know one was made. Had I known you would eventually become my daughter-in-law…" Narcissa shuddered.
In the back of Hermione's mind, she felt still a little sick to her stomach. As Narcissa had put it, having Fenrir Greyback kill her would have been no big deal had she not been a pureblood – and set to marry her son. Hermione wondered how much of the prophecy Lucius had shared with his wife… and if all of it wasn't just a big performance.
She decided to make a bold move.
"Let me ask you something. Does this apology have anything to do with the prophecy?"
Narcissa blinked a few times in what appeared to be very real confusion. "Prophecy? Which?"
"The one that says it's going to rain and snow until your son and I conceive a child with 'the mark of destiny on it's face'," Hermione answered matter-of-factly, carefully observing Narcissa's reaction.
The older woman thought a minute, seeming to reach within the depths of her mind, finally coming up empty-handed. "Are there some other terms to this prophecy?" she queried politely.
Hermione was floored: It seemed Narcissa knew nothing about her husband's plans...
.
.
Meanwhile, Draco was sitting in a very similar armchair to the one Hermione had seated herself in; Gaudy, uncomfortable and back-achingly stiff. It did not concern him much, however – he was focused solely on his father, whose back was to his son in one of the family libraries.
"How are you finding the mansion, Draco?" Lucius questioned, still not facing his son.
"Grand," Draco answered monosyllabically.
Lucius turned, "You know it was your grandfather's."
"I do know."
"The grandfather whom you were partially named for…"
"There is another reason you've brought me here."
Lucius eyed his son, as if measuring him up.
"'Six months of rain, six months of snow… the world will slowly begin to flood until the child has been conceived with the mark of destiny upon its face'," Draco quoted, watching is father expectantly, trying very hard to make his countenance seem as relaxed as possible; It was important Lucius did not know he was tense.
Lucius smirked, "I can't get much past you anymore, my son." Draco was silent; Lucius paced. "Indeed, that IS why I asked you here." Lucius gestured to the library window where outside, it was pouring rain, "This is not the kind of weather I anticipate seeing for much longer. Do you understand me?"
"There's more to it, even if you don't want to talk about it," Draco replied, keeping his cool. "You might have succeeded in marrying me off to my former childhood enemy – but there is no way in hell I am ever going to sleep with her."
Draco rose from his seat. He had stopped growing a year or so ago, about two or three inches shorter than Lucius – it had never bothered him before, but in this moment, Draco dearly wished he had at least an inch on his father. He wanted to look DOWN to Lucius, in that moment.
Lucius's expression did not change: He stared at his son with something akin to indifference.
"You remember when the Dark Lord fell and all I wanted to do was be sure of your safety?"
Draco's eyes narrowed.
"I wish only to look out for your best interests, Draco."
"Forgive me if I perceive that to be a bit of a stretch."
Lucius did not reply for a long while. Draco slowly made his way over to the library desk, where three books were lying open, two about the art of necromancy and one about the brewing of a complex potion Draco was not familiar with. He quickly memorized the title, knowing he probably had a book back home about it.
Back home… it sounded so pleasant just then.
"I wish to speak to you and your wife, together," Lucius said abruptly.
"You know you're going to do whatever you want, anyway."
Lucius looked at his son as though he hadn't just been insulted by his own kin. He threw some Floo powder into the fireplace and called on Hermione and Narcissa, stating his purposes. Draco could hear reservations in his mother's reply and vaguely wondered what the two women had been talking about.
Hermione appeared in the library moments later, smoothing out her dress and brushing soot off her arm.
"Have a seat," Lucius offered Hermione, gesturing to a slightly more comfortable-looking chair.
Draco did not trust the look on his face.
.
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Author's Note: Alright! Finally, we can start speeding things up a bit!
As usual, thanks a ton to MyLookOfDenial., AerintheWhiteKnight, ebbe04, tfobmv18, margaritama, phlowergirl, gitgit, sureynot, InvisibleLilacNights, and RIPJameSiriusLupinTrueMarauder for the reviews!
margaritama - Well, Draco and Hermione are an interesting pair. I do love them so very much, and out of respect for their characters, things just naturally need to move slowly. But don't worry. I did a poll earlier in this fic and it seems everyone wants a happy ending for our duo. So happy it shall be!