67.
The next day they took the floo to Malfoy's ancestral home in Wiltshire, arriving in the Great Hall with a flare of green and a cloud of smoke – him travelling first and Hermione following after, her stomach in knots despite having assured him repeatedly that she felt fine. They both knew she was lying, but he didn't press her on it, just shot her a look that made her feel warm inside.
If you need to go, at any point – mid-sentence even, he'd said, right before they'd left, then just say 'Christmas', and we'll go.
Hermione had laughed at the thought of using what had become their sex safe-word – very rarely needed, admittedly – during lunch at his parents', which she suspected had been his intent. But she had nodded and agreed, even as she'd insisted she'd be fine. It was only lunch. It was only a house. And the war had been a long time ago.
She couldn't help being nervous, but Hermione was determined not to let Malfoy's parents get the best of her. It was only two hours, anyway – and then they'd lied to his parents and said they had to get back to the Ministry. In fact, they were taking the afternoon off.
She smoothed down her dress and hair and shot him a worried look as they'd arrived in a – thankfully empty – Great Hall, dimly lit without the chandelier blazing, although still retaining a cold kind of grandeur. She wore a Karen Millen dress, because they always seemed to fit her well and look smart, even now that she was pregnant. It was a shirt dress in a floaty, draping fabric, with long sleeves, in a soft blue geometric print, which fell beautifully over her bump. As for her hair, Malfoy had charmed it that morning, and she'd let him twist a small braid in the front at each side, to catch the shorter, wilder locks, pinning them back with a few bobby pins.
"Do I look alright? Do I have soot on me?" He stepped in close, his eyes molten and expression filled with an inexplicable pride as he brushed his fingertips over the top of her head, and then dragged them along her jaw.
"No," he said, his voice filled with a wealth of meaning. "You're perfect." He smirked faintly, holding his hands out at his sides. "How about me?"
"Very dashing," Hermione said teasingly, although he really did look stunning, in a charcoal Edwardian sack-coat with pinstripe black and charcoal trousers, a light grey waistcoat, and a white shirt, completed by his cuff-links, and his golden snitch tie. "Extremely sexy. And entirely soot-free," she said, smoothing her hand over his lapel.
"Excellent." He smiled faintly down at her and ran his hand through his hair. "Well, the floo alarm will no doubt have informed my parents that we're here, so brace yourself. They're about to –"
A sharp crack sounded. "Master Draco. You is here!" a small, excited voice said, and Hermione turned and saw behind her a small, skinny house elf in a very stained pillowcase shift, wringing reddened hands together. There was a small, fresh bruise on its forehead.
"Oh," she said, dismayed by the state of it. It had clearly had been punishing itself.
"Oh shit," Malfoy muttered under his breath and grimaced. "Sorry, Granger. I should've warned you," he said quietly, and then louder, in a kind voice, "Hello, Mopsy."
"No," Hermione said, in a low, quick aside. "You've already told me about – well, I should have been expecting it." She just hadn't thought about it, with everything else going on. The elf turned its attention to her.
"Greetings, Miss Granger," it said, and Hermione smiled.
"Hello, Mopsy." She bent awkwardly, and held out her hand for it – she suspected it was female – to shake. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Mopsy stared at Hermione's hand, bewildered and Malfoy gave Hermione a long-suffering look.
"Mopsy, you're supposed to shake," he gently instructed the elf, who covered her mouth with both long-fingered hands and gasped, horrified.
"Mopsy couldn't!" Her huge, watery eyes turned on Hermione. Malfoy sighed heavily. "'Tis not an elf's place to shake hands, Miss. But then, is Mopsy disappointing Miss –?"
Oh good God. Sometimes house elves were very difficult to deal with. Hermione felt terribly for them, but they made it so difficult to help them with being as brainwashed as they were. "No, Mopsy, not at all. I'm quite happy," Hermione said hastily, and Mopsy looked relieved. The poor creature had probably grown accustomed to punishing herself for all kinds of minor infractions, given what Malfoy had said. Hermione hoped Harry hurried up with pushing for stricter enforcement of the legislation in the Hit Wizard offices, or she would have to get involved, and she was too tired and busy for that right now.
"Good. Very good. I is to bring you through to the drawing room, Master and Miss, if you will please follow Mopsy?" The house elf smiled at Malfoy as Hermione's stomach dropped out, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She swallowed hard. She felt like throwing up. It was so stupid. It had been decades ago. "Of course, you is already knowing the way, Master Draco," Mopsy went on, beginning to trot toward a doorway.
Hermione knew the way too. Malfoy was very still beside her, and she could feel the anger radiating off him as her hand went to her left arm, grabbing it, her thumb rubbing over where the faint scar lay silvered under her sleeve. She took a short breath and looked up – he was cold and expressionless, save for the telltale tightness to his jaw, and the twitch at the hinge of it.
"The drawing room?" he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. Mopsy halted and looked at him worriedly, fear in those bulbous eyes.
"Yes, Master," she whispered, and began to shake. Hermione began to suspect what was going on here.
Malfoy looked down at her, his expression not unreadable now, instead stark with apology. "I'm so fucking sorry, Granger. I should've known. I should've insisted we meet at a restaurant. My fucking –"
"It's fine," Hermione cut in, but her hand on her arm belied her words, betraying her, and his lips flattened as he took in the way she held it – she yanked her hand away far too late. His nostrils flared and he jerked his chin at her arm.
"It's not fucking fine. Look at y– fuck –" He turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose, anger sharp beneath the surface. He took a deep breath and let it out, looking down at her, his grey eyes dark in the dimly lit, cavernous hall. "You shouldn't have to go in there again. They're doing this on purpose, to be petty, and –" He broke off, clearly thinking some rather more unflattering things, his jaw clenched.
"Mopsy is supposed to bring you immediately, Master Draco," the elf said, slightly desperately, and Hermione could see tears standing in her eyes. "Please."
"No. We're not going to the bloody drawing room," Malfoy said grimly. Their as-yet unnamed daughter kicked sharply in her belly, a direct hit on Hermione's bladder, and she rubbed her bump soothingly – as if it would somehow do any good. Malfoy's eyes followed the movement, protectiveness radiating off him. "We'll go to the dining room instead. That's where we'll be eating lunch anyway, surely."
"But Mopsy was told to take Master and Miss to the drawing room, to be received," Mopsy said frantically. "If Mopsy does not, Mopsy is disobeying Master and Mistress Malfoy. But if Mopsy takes Master Draco and Miss to the drawing room, Master Draco will be upset…" She began to cry. Malfoy had put her in a catch-22, and either way the poor thing would have to punish herself. Good God. The war had been over twenty years ago, Hermione reminded herself firmly, and she was being silly. She stepped forward toward Mopsy.
"It's fine, Malfoy," she told him firmly. "You're going to upset Mopsy, and I'm not going to be responsible for her being injured more than she already is. So let's go."
He made a low, unhappy sound in the back of his throat but jerked a nod. "Fair point, Granger. Mopsy can deliver us, and then I'll tell my parents we'll have to relocate to the dining room early."
Mopsy looked relieved as she led them out of the Great Hall, through a lavishly ornamented corridor toward the drawing room. Hermione and Malfoy fell in side by side behind her, and she slid her arm through his when he offered. "You know, I really am fine, Malfoy," she murmured, as they strolled along. "It just gave me a jolt, that's all."
"You shouldn't be getting jolts when you're pregnant," he said, immediately, and Hermione sighed and elbowed him in the side, making him jolt, and then grinning at him as he stared down at her, startled. He relaxed a fraction at her grin, his shoulders unwinding at least half an inch.
"For Merlin's sake," she said to him, "the other day you nearly scared the living daylights out of me –"
"Not on purpose!" he interjected in his defence, and Hermione shot him a flat look as she finished.
"– By walking into the bedroom too quietly. I hope I can manage a fright, or I'm going to keel over soon," she finished, peering curiously into the rooms they passed, Mopsy leading them at a snail's pace, the portraits on the walls giving her very haughty, disapproving looks, and whispering things she assumed weren't complimentary. The house was lavish. Hermione hadn't remembered just how lavish – she'd been rather distracted at the time, and it had been long, long ago. The worst parts of it seemed so freshly vivid though. It was funny how memories came slamming back when the environment triggered them. It suddenly felt like yesterday.
"It's an entirely different kind –" he began, exasperated.
This time she interrupted him. "I know," she said, and squeezed his arm. "But I'm fine. Really."
"I hope you are," he said, rather grimly, as if he planned on hexing his parents if she weren't, and Hermione decided that pregnancy made Malfoy altogether too protective. He was like a dragon with a sore tooth. If he wasn't bristling with protectiveness, he was hovering with an unnecessary, suffocating degree of worry – and irritatingly, every time she pointed it out to him he looked genuinely remorseful and stopped for several days…only for Hermione to end up both feeling guilty for squashing him, and actually missing his infuriating fussing.
"But that's not the point, anyway," he said, pausing as Mopsy disappeared through a doorway to the left. "It's the principle of the matter too. I can't let them get away with showing you that kind of disrespect. If there's any hope of some kind of relationship going forward…"
"We need to draw strong boundaries going forward," Hermione finished, with a nod. She could understand that. "Fair enough, Malfoy." And she went up on tiptoes, swaying into him and kissing him lightly. "Come on then, let's go and lay down the law," she said brightly, all vim and vigour, and then took a deep breath – it was twenty years ago, Hermione, honestly, she told herself – and set forward determinedly, tugging him after her into the high-ceilinged, grand drawing room.
They hadn't changed a thing. Well, some of the furniture might have been different, Hermione supposed, but it looked just like her memories. Usually hazy, and filed away half forgotten in the back of her mind, but today sharp and painful. Her eyes went first to Malfoy's parents, who both stood from a matched pair of armchairs in front of the fire, a beagle at Lucius's feet, and then to the floor, in the middle of the room. She had wet herself there. Oh Merlin. She swallowed hard. Lucius and Narcissa's eyes contained the same horror that Hermione's probably did, only theirs were fixed on her belly.
Well, it was rather obvious – they were hardly announcing the pregnancy at this point so much as shoving it in his parents' faces. Hermione knew they should have told them earlier. Oh well. What was done was done. And at least Narcissa appeared to be more shocked than horrified. And Lucius had already smoothed his features to impassive calm, by the time Hermione's gaze returned to him.
"Master Draco and Miss Granger, here to see Master and Mistress," Mopsy announced, and Malfoy glanced down at Hermione, checking on her solicitously. She managed a smile and a tiny nod, and he smiled back, a tiny little twitch of his mouth meant for her alone.
"Mother, Father," he greeted them, as they crossed the room – Lucius in a very Victorian suit, looking as stately as ever, although his long hair was thoroughly white now, and Narcissa still platinum blonde, in a dove grey gown and looking older but still elegant.
"Draco my darling," Narcissa said, an uncertain smile on her lips as the older couple reached Malfoy and Hermione, the beagle prancing around their feet excitedly. She kissed Malfoy's cheek, and then turned her attention to Hermione. "And Miss Granger."
"Ms," Hermione corrected, with a diplomatic smile, exchanging perfunctory air kisses with the witch. "You're looking well, Mrs Malfoy."
"Thank you my dear. And you are looking –" She broke off, searching for words and coming up empty.
"I see there is an elephant in the room," Lucius said instead and Hermione's eyes flew to his face. There was the faintest nasty smirk at the innuendo, and Hermione could hear Malfoy grinding his teeth.
"Tread carefully, father," Malfoy said, entirely civil, his face as expressionless as if it had been carved from stone
"I'm just surprised, Draco. As is your dear mother, I'm sure. This does however explain the swift engagement." Lucius smiled thinly. "We don't want any bastards in the family, whether they're pure-bloods or…freshly minted half-bloods," he said with barely veiled disdain.
Malfoy looked terribly cold as he stared his father down – slightly taller than him, Hermione realised. "Yes," he said flatly, "we already have one bastard in the family. We've filled our quota."
Oh Merlin.
"Now then," Narcissa began uncertainly, but neither man was listening. Malfoy's jaw was clenched and his eyes were dark as thunderheads. It was like watching two growling dogs standing off, and Hermione had to admit she found Malfoy's defence of her ridiculously arousing. She would be quite happy to go straight home right now – his parents knew about the pregnancy now, after all. And he could take her home and then put her on the bed on all fours and fuck her hard and rough, primal and animal. Oh Jesus, what a thought to have while directing a fixed, polite smile at the room at large. Hermione gulped, her pulse racing, forcing herself to focus.
"Actually, I'm sorry to disappoint, but little Granger-Malfoy will in fact be a bastard," she interrupted, breaking the tension with a crack and dragging her brain back on track. Narcissa and Lucius looked at her sharply. "We won't be getting married until I'm back to normal." And here, she paused and patted her belly illustratively.
"Granger-Malfoy?" Lucius murmured with quiet horror, eyeing Hermione as though he'd never seen her before. She smiled brightly, ignoring the room behind them, and the thoughts of getting fucked until she made groaning, wailing noises that were highly undignified and made Malfoy insufferably smug.
"Granger-Malfoy, yes. Malfoy and I are planning on hyphenating." She slid her hand into Malfoy's, their fingers interlocking. "We haven't picked out a first name for her yet –"
"Her?" Narcissa murmured, a note of wonder in her voice.
"– But we were planning on following the Black family tradition, Narcissa." Here, she smiled at her future mother-in-law hopefully, as if looking for her approval.
"Oh," Narcissa said, and her whole demeanour softened, her sapphire blue eyes going misty at the prospect. "Oh, a little girl with one of the Black names… A half-blood," she said, almost to herself as making note of a flaw that damaged but didn't ruin a thing, and Hermione had to refrain from rolling her eyes. She would take her victories where she could – perhaps by the time the baby arrived, her blood would be less of an issue to the older witch. If not, they'd deal with that problem when they came to it. Hermione wasn't about to have her daughter disparaged because of her birth.
"But still," Narcissa allowed, and looked up at Lucius, a slowly dawning delight in her features. "A granddaughter, Lucius. Isn't that marvellous?"
He frowned down at her. Clearly he did not think it was marvellous in the slightest. "But –" he began, and something passed unspoken between him and his wife, and he shut his mouth again. And then he sighed, out through his nose much like Malfoy did when he admitted defeat, and nodded. "Yes, dear," he said flatly, the words wholly unconvincing. "It's quite the surprise."
Lucius's deflated acceptance of his wife's happiness marked a shift in the atmosphere. Malfoy failed to stifle his snort of amusement and his father glared daggers at him, grey eyes narrowed, while Narcissa smiled with a quiet satisfaction, although it was clear she still wasn't exactly thrilled that Hermione was Malfoy's choice of wife. "Come, sit for a moment while Mopsy and Flopsy get the dining room ready for lunch."
"I think Granger would rather go through to the dining room now, Mother," Malfoy cut in, seeing his chance. Hermione had to admit she would be grateful to be able to leave the room. She wasn't about to faint, have a panic attack, or anything particularly dramatic, but she did feel horribly tense, and a headache was blossoming behind her eyes. And she kept staring at that spot on the floor, as though a tell-tale heart were beating beneath the floorboards there. As if she could see the old blood spatters and the oddly shameful puddle of urine, both only old memories now, probably only remembered by her, and perhaps Malfoy. She didn't know. They'd never discussed the details.
"Oh Draco, she's your fiancée," Narcissa said, as if scandalised. It was like double vision; Narcissa, scandalised by Malfoy calling Hermione 'Granger'. Narcissa, not scandalised as a Muggle-born girl was tortured on her floor, but rather standing silent and pale. "Use her forename, for goodness' sake."
"I will call her what she and I both prefer, Mother," he said wearily. "And I also think Granger would prefer not to make polite chit chat in the room where she was tortured by Aunt Bella, even if it was years ago."
God, hearing him say it like that – so bluntly – was cruel. She knew he meant to lash out at his mother, but he hit a broader target than that. She flinched, and her fingers tightened on his hand as she took a sharp breath, her head properly aching now.
"Shit," he muttered. And then in front of his parents, he apologised. "I'm sorry, Granger." He slid the backs of his fingers along her cheek and their eyes met. His lips curved up just a fraction. "Do you need to Christmas?" he asked, his eyes like rain clouds full to bursting – dark grey and soft. She huffed a laugh as Narcissa and Lucius stared at them, excluded from this little moment.
"No, I'm fine, Malfoy. Just – don't fling it about, will you?" She gave him a tired look, a miserable throbbing behind the sockets of her eyes.
He grimaced apologetically. "I'll do my best," he said, gently making light. And then he took her hand again, his long, strong fingers weaving in between hers. "I suggest we go through to the dining room," he said to his parents, and there was a chorus of assent, Lucius looking sullen and snapping at the sweet little beagle to, "Stay, Atticus!" Hermione was rather disappointed. Atticus was probably the only member of the Malfoy clan present, aside from Malfoy himself, who she would actually like to spend time with.
Malfoy stooped and ruffled the dog's ears affectionately before they left the room, and Hermione idly wondered about pets. Probably not wise with a baby on the way, she decided.
A few minutes later they were ensconced in the dining room. Also rather cavernous with very few windows, the space appeared to make Malfoy feel rather disquieted in the same way that Hermione had felt in the drawing room. She wondered what had happened here during the war. They sat beside each other at the table, and Narcissa and Lucius sat opposite, the table already set beautifully, Narcissa murmuring something to a house elf that Hermione assumed must be Flopsy. She slipped her hand onto his thigh once they were settled, and he jumped half out of his skin and went ashen, and then shot her an abashed look.
"Sorry," he murmured as he captured her hand in his, and she made a note to ask him what the hell that was about when they got home. Flopsy exchanged Hermione's wine glass for a tall crystal tumbler, and offered her chilled pumpkin juice, and Hermione accepted graciously, although she'd prefer tonic – she had a feeling that the Malfoys wouldn't have tonic water and she didn't want to risk the elves being punished. Malfoy gulped his wine, eyes tight with tension and she felt worry stir.
The conversation turned to small talk as they waited for lunch to be served, and continued as they ate – mostly dainty morsels, and all delicious. Hermione shamelessly stuffed herself, and complimented the elves every time they popped up. Their chat was oddly polite and civil, although unavoidably stilted at times. It was rather bizarre, and not wholly unpleasant. Mostly Narcissa carried on airy, inconsequential talk while Lucius sat there looking like he'd rather be having tea with trolls. Malfoy wasn't much better, Hermione had to admit. The two men glared at each other across the table, Lucius slightly more sulky than his son. Malfoy at least responded to questions, and engaged in the conversation in between fits of glaring, his foot hooked around Hermione's ankle.
He was also still pale, tense, and jumpy. And drinking his wine much too fast.
At one point, as Narcissa directed the house elves and Lucius scowled into his glass of wine – his distaste was actually rather funny, leashed as it was by his wife's looks – Hermione leaned in toward Malfoy, her mouth to his ear.
"Do you need to Christmas?" she asked him wryly, her fingers squeezing his knee, and he pulled back enough to give her a weak, appreciative smile.
"I'm okay," he assured her, and her return look was doubtful.
"Are you sure?" she prodded, but he nodded, leaning in gratefully and kissing her cheek.
"I'm sure, Granger," he said, and it sounded like 'I love you'.
Inevitably, there was talk of marriage, and speeding up the process to avoid a bastard who wouldn't be legitimised until later. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather get married now, Hermione?" Narcissa asked. "You could use the gardens here at the Manor," she tried to tempt. "They're beautiful for events in spring."
"Use the –" Lucius began furiously and then snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack, obviously fuming at the idea of his family's precious gardens being used for marrying a pregnant, Muggle-born divorcée off to his son and heir. Hermione smiled at the thought, realising that she actually was tempted by the idea of an extravagant wedding in the Malfoy Manor grounds, while Lucius silently sulked. It felt like having her cake and eating it too.
"What are they like in autumn?" she asked Narcissa, smiling her small, pleased smile at Lucius who looked like he wanted to explode, and Malfoy slid a worried look her way as he downed his third glass of wine. She was sure he had to be tipsy by now at least, and she wished he'd slow down.
"Granger…" he said warningly, and she shrugged, wry. They hadn't discussed venues yet.
"Still stunning," Narcissa said with pride. "Although obviously rather less lush. Some of my roses bloom in autumn, but most are already finished flowering by then, although I do have a greenhouse where they go longer." She looked pleased to be talked about her gardens – clearly they were a passion of hers. "But the hedge maze is still pristine, many of the trees have lovely colours to them, and we have plenty of evergreens, beautiful herb gardens, and shrubberies."
Malfoy snickered; they'd worked their way through the three major Monty Python films a few weeks ago. And he was definitely affected by the wine, Hermione decided. He'd hardly touched lunch, so he had nothing in his stomach to cushion the alcohol. He kept looking toward the centre of the long table and swallowing hard, as though he were trying not to throw up.
"I do love autumn," Hermione said. "And it's when Malfoy –" she fought the urge to say 'your son' or 'Draco' to assuage Narcissa's preferences "– and I reconnected. At the beginning of the school year. It would be nice to be married then."
"In the school holidays," Malfoy suggested, deciding to contribute to the conversation again as he set his empty wine glass down. "So the children can be there, whether it's a weekend or not. Maybe just before school begins, at the end of August?"
"That sounds lovely, but you will be heavily pregnant by then, my dear," Narcissa said, in caution.
"Oh no," Hermione said, lightly. "Not this autumn. Next autumn."
"Oh. I see," Narcissa said with delicate disapproval, her lips thinning. She paused just long enough to telegraph said disapproval, and then forced a smile. "Well, better late than never, I suppose."
Malfoy sighed, and poured himself more wine, his shoulders hunched halfway up around his ears. Hermione considered Christmasing, if he wasn't going to. But then the conversation shifted as the house elves brought out an array of dainty desserts, and things smoothed out again – strained but manageable, and lunch transitioned into a garden tour. Hermione suspected that Narcissa was still trying to tempt her to agree to a spring wedding. The gardens were beautiful – the roses in particular were flourishing, some of them already beginning to bloom. And whether thanks to the wine, the change of venue, or both, Malfoy was more relaxed as they strolled along arm in arm in the spring air, chatting about Narcissa's precious roses while Lucius stalked ahead with three beagles at his heels, his expression dour.
Of course, Hermione had to use the toilet urgently, before they flooed home – she would've held on, but given they'd been wandering the gardens for sometime, she'd already been holding on for a while, and they were closer to a bathroom than they were the floo.
Deep in conversation with his father about some business investment, Malfoy waited in the conservatory while Narcissa showed her to the bathroom – just past the doors to the very appealing looking library. Hermione had thought Narcissa had returned to the conservatory, only to come out, happily relieved, to see Malfoy leaning against the wall opposite. Long and lean, he looked more appealing than even the library in his charcoal suit, his hair slightly ruffled by the breeze outside as he held a finger up to his lips, hushing her before she could speak. She raised one eyebrow, curious, and he nodded meaningfully toward the library doors, just barely standing ajar now.
Oh, they were eavesdropping, she realised immediately, as the sound of Lucius's voice wafted out of the library. She wasn't entirely sure this was a good idea. Malfoy's eyes were gleaming and his pupils contracted, an over-bright air hanging about him as he listened, holding a hand out to her and drawing her close to his side when she took it.
"Hiring our garden out to be used for –"
"It's not hiring. And he's our son, Lucius. And she's carrying our granddaughter. I know that it's hardly ideal –" Hermione rolled her eyes "– but don't you want to see them properly married?"
Malfoy kept leaning on the wall, having captured Hermione neatly, his arm around her waist. So she leaned against him and they both eavesdropped like a couple of kids – and she just knew they would hear no good of themselves. That was always the rule of thumb with eavesdropping, wasn't it? But she listened anyway because she could see she wasn't going to be able to budge Malfoy easily, as tipsy and obstinate as he was. And besides, if he could put up with her constant lists, obsessive over-preparation, and long hours at the office, then she could put up with his weird, unhealthy dynamic with his parents. That was what love was.
"A half-blood granddaughter!" Lucius snapped derisively.
"Oh honestly! You know, you know full well that your great, great grandmother was a Muggle-bo–"
"Narcissa! That is a scurrilous lie, made up to discredit –"
Narcissa cut Lucius off with a laugh. "Oh dragon dung! It is not. But –"
"But –"
"But my point is, the family married pure-bloods again from that point on, and swiftly that little hiccup was forgotten. This could happen here as well. We just need to make sure that this child does that, and the Malfoy name and the Black line can carry on. Scorpius is a sweet boy –" oh dear, Hermione thought with a sudden flash of panic "– but he's, well…"
"A poofter," Lucius grumbled, and Hermione recoiled even as Malfoy paled and straightened, anger etched into his features. Shit. He looked about ready to go in there and hex his father. She grabbed him by the wrist, and coaxed him a ways down the corridor with the greatest of difficulty, using mostly pleading facial expressions, whispers of please, and thrusting her bump out – using the baby as a most efficient weapon, and she wasn't sorry for it. Love involved supporting each other in their quirks, yes, but it also involved reeling in the other person when they started to go too far, as well. And confronting his father would do no good right now, in the state he was in.
"Malfoy, no. Don't. You're going to get into a duel, and that'll help no one, Scorpius least of all."
"What then?" he snapped angrily, radiating a stiff, furious rage. She sympathised; she'd be raging too in his position, she imagined. "What will fucking help?"
Hermione had her mouth open, rather pathetically about to suggest a strongly worded letter, and then suddenly realised why Malfoy made most of his important communication with his parents indirectly, or via letters. They were just entirely too infuriating to deal with in person.
"Let's go home," she said, side-stepping the question. "Nothing's going to bloody well help and you know it. So let's go home."
"Granger, I can't just let them – he called my son a fucking –" He couldn't say it, breathing hard, shaking.
"Of course he did," she said bluntly. "He's a cunt."
"What?" Malfoy boggled at her. Her swearing was usually mild, and 'cunt' reserved exclusively as a non-clinical term for her vagina, during sex. He probably hadn't been expecting her to say the word rather loudly in his parents' house today.
"I'm not about to repeat it, Malfoy." She smiled, just for a second. And she stood there between him and the library, arms folded across her body in that small space between the bottom of her breasts and the beginning of her bump. "But he is. And marching in there and challenging him to some duel is just pointless and childish. You may as well march off and punch a tree, you'd achieve just as much."
"Well then he wouldn't be injured," he grumbled under his breath, but she could tell her use of the epithet had startled some of the immediate, thoughtless anger out of him. He was thinking again, and hopefully in control. "And I would."
"Hm, true. But you wouldn't be potentially up on charges for assault either. And I wouldn't be disappointed in you." She shot him a look.
"Low blow, Granger." But it had worked. His lips curled up faintly, a weary amusement encroaching on his anger, and his hurt.
"I'll use the tools at my disposal," she retorted, backing him up a few paces more.
"Mm, don't think I haven't seen you swinging that belly around," he pointed out, drily. "Wily witch."
"Well I can hardly tackle you to the ground. And using magic on you seems inappropriate somehow."
He gave a short, strained laugh. She'd backed him down to the corridor through to the Great Hall now, if she remembered the layout right. "How kind of you."
"Look, he's a bastard. And he's not worth it," Hermione said, rubbing her belly as the baby kicked sharply, getting her right in the bladder. She gave him a sympathetic look. "Best to just go grey rock."
"Grey rock?"
"Oh good God, that's right." Sometimes now she almost forgot he didn't know Muggle references. "Malfoy, I have a whole internet's worth of 'how to deal with difficult family members' for you," she said wryly. Her hand settled on his forearm, and he swayed forward a little, toward her. His eyes fluttered shut, as if her touch was a balm.
"I can't imagine they have anything on 'how to deal with an ex-Death Eater father who still holds to his prejudices, except you're tied to him by business enterprises and your sodding mother, who you still hold out hope for'." He said it in all one breath, and opened his eyes just a slit, lashes thick and so pretty that she's briefly, distractedly envious.
"Maybe not precisely that, no." She grimaced, her hand sliding down, and her fingers curling in his. "Come on, Malfoy. Let's go home. Before the pair of them come out. You can owl them an angry letter later – or even come back another day if you like – but you've had too much wine and you're upset, and I saw you at lunch. Something's wrong."
He sighed, and looked terribly sad. "I don't need to run off, Granger. I'll go and tell them we're leaving now." She opened her mouth and he shot her a look, and then leaned in and kissed her temple. "And I'll be good and won't hex him. We'll take our leave perfectly politely."
She nodded, and watched him stride past her, trusting him utterly. Malfoy hardly needed any managing, she thought; he was shockingly easygoing, compared to the expectations she'd originally had of him. He was self-aware and introspective, and he knew his own flaws well enough to keep them in line better than she could with her own. But Hermione was gratified to know that even when he did need a little managing, he was leagues easier than Ron, who would have gone storming off into the library slinging hexes anyway, bodily moving Hermione out of the way in some misplaced desire to play the hero again. Whereas, even tipsy, angry, and generally unsettled, Malfoy listened to her.
Merlin, she loved him.