Chapter 10
"I’m not suggesting the world is good, that life is easy, or that any of us are entitled to better. But please, isn’t this the kind of thing you talk about in somber tones, in the afternoon, with some degree of hope and maybe even a handful of strategies?" - The Definitive Version, Richard Siken
_
Draco pushed open the restaurant’s door, adjusting the lapel of his suit as he approached the maître d’. The young woman smiled enthusiastically as soon as she spotted him, greeting him before he could introduce himself.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Malfoy, bienvenue à la Ghost Orchid , ” said the woman in an atrocious imitation of a French accent. Draco curled his lips in disdain, watching her blonde ponytail bob at each word. “My name is Lavignia. Your companion is already waiting for you!”
“Merci Beaucoup , Madame Lavignia, c'est un très beau restaurant, ” said Draco, pronouncing each word carefully. He smirked when the woman’s face flushed in embarrassment.
Draco walked in the direction the maître d’ pointed him towards, taking in his surroundings. The Ghost Orchid was as high-end as his mother had described. Its white and gold walls were adorned with charmed paintings of the most exquisite plants and flowers in wizarding Britain, and the main dining area was made up of a small array of round glass tables, ensuring the guests privacy and exclusivity. As he walked, Draco noticed that the ceiling lamps were shaped like the restaurant’s namesake, yellow flickering light peeking from between white petals. It was a charming establishment, but the highly romantic atmosphere made him itch to turn around and go home.
Draco spotted Daphne’s dark hair immediately. As he approached, she looked up at him, as if she had sensed his presence, lifting her hand in a shy wave when her eyes met his. Draco smiled carefully, reaching the table in several quick steps.
“Hello, Draco,” said Daphne, standing up to greet him with a quick peck on the cheek.
“Hey, Daph, how have you been?” said Draco, pulling out the chair across from her. He sat down, his gaze focused on the gold vase placed between them.
“I’ve been alright. I hope you don’t mind, but I already ordered some scotch,” she said, making him look up. She offered a teasing smirk. “I figured we’d need the liquid courage.”
“I don’t make a habit of drinking,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But you’re right. I didn’t take you for a fan of scotch, though. Every time we hang out you and Pansy favor any disgusting sugary beverage you can get your hands on.”
“I tend to go with the flow, but I don’t discriminate when it comes to alcohol,” Daphne rested her chin on her hands, slightly leaning over the table.
Draco hummed, watching the waiter approach them. He greeted Draco in a more subdued manner than the maitre’d, and with much better French, setting the glasses in front of them and pouring a generous amount of scotch. “Are you ready to order?” he asked.
Draco glanced at Daphne -- he hadn’t had a chance to look at the menu, but it wouldn’t bother him if she went ahead. She only shook her head, and the waiter smiled politely before leaving.
“This place is a bit overkill, don’t you think?” said Draco, hoping her reaction would give him an indication of where she stood. Daphne had invited him, and suggested the place, but he didn’t want to come out and say he thought the entire thing was more awkward than it was worth.
“What? The low, golden lights and the abundance of flowers aren’t sufficiently romantic for you, Draco Malfoy?” she said, chuckling when Draco frowned. “I would’ve suggested The Three Broomsticks, but a pub doesn’t really screams first date, does it? And my mother-”-
“Your mother has been pestering you about this, too?” asked Draco, taking a sip of his drink.
“Just like Narcissa, I imagine,” said Daphne. She wetted her lips, looking uncertain for the first time since he had arrived.
“Look, Daphne-” he paused, searching for a gentle way to say it, “you’re a lovely woman, and anyone would be lucky to get your attention, but I don’t really--”
Daphne held up a hand. “I’ll stop you right there. Our discomfort over this entire thing is obviously mutual.”
“I’m glad we got that out of the way,” sighed Draco in relief. “I would’ve said it when I replied to your letter, but our mothers are very relentless women.”
“Tell me about it,” nodded Daphne. She took a large gulp of her scotch, then grabbed the bottle to refill her glass. “Do you want more?”
“I barely drank my first glass,” he chuckled. “I hope my presence hasn’t already driven you to drink.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I think of you as a friend, even if we’re not that close. I’m just a bit anxious. Like I said, my mom has been pushy, and I was kind of worried you were actually interested--”
“Rest assured, I’m not,” said Draco with a bemused smile. He grabbed the menu for the first time and read over the selection. “Oh, the Rosiers try too bloody hard. An entirely French menu? Could you get more cliche?”
“They do love to flaunt their French roots. As if it wasn’t the same for most of us.” She set down her half-empty glass. “I do agree it’s over-the-top, but I heard the food was good, at least.”
“The lamb does look nice,” said Draco, then signaled for the waiter. “A bit overpriced, though.”
“Since when do you care about money, Draco?” asked Daphne. “I never saw you hesitate to drop money on a number of useless things, let alone food.”
“I’m just saying, they have some gall to rip us off for inauthentic French cuisine,” he replied. “Maybe you could make a snide comment about my frugality to your mother. It’ll be enough reason for her to tell you to run for the hills.”
“As if.” She clicked her tongue. “Unfortunately, she knows very well the Malfoys aren’t hurting for cash. Our mothers have been talking a lot lately, haven’t you noticed? They have a standing date for tea every Tuesday afternoon.”
“I heard,” said Draco with a sigh. As soon as the waiter appeared, he rattled off his order, waiting as Daphne did the same. Once the man left, Draco turned to her again. “Listen, do you think there’s any chance this’ll die down sooner rather than later? I think if I stall long enough, my mother will probably give up. She never cared about my love life before, so I’m not sure why she’s interested now.”
“She knew you and Pansy dated, didn’t she?”
“Pansy and I were children, Daphne, and we fizzled off quickly,” said Draco. “She didn’t seem too interested. Which is strange, considering she started dating my father when they were in Hogwarts.”
“Didn’t all of our parents?” Her green eyes glistened. “Just because they all tied the knot by eighteen doesn’t mean we have to follow their footsteps. I’m barely twenty-two, and I have no intention of getting married any time soon.”
“Bloody hell,” he said, “your mother is already talking about marriage?”
“Isn’t yours?” asked Daphne, biting her lip in aprehension. “When I say she’s been pushy , I’m not joking, Draco. She subscribed me to Witch Bride, it’s not exactly a subtle hint.”
Draco shuddered. “My mother hasn’t tried that one yet,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But I should’ve guessed it was coming. Everyone in our circle except you, me, Pans, and Theo started courting right after the war.”
“She’s been dropping little hints for years,” said Daphne, “but now that your mother is involved, I think she’s gotten her hopes up.”
Draco exhaled loudly. “I really don’t have time to argue with my mother about this,” he groaned. “I’m going to have a final conversation with her tonight. She’ll know that we tried with this little date, and I can emphasize our incompatibility.”
“I don’t think that’s going to work, Draco.” Daphne paused when the waiter approached with their meal, offering him a dazzling smile when he put their food on the table. She waited for him to leave before continuing. “I know my mother, and when she sets her mind on something it's impossible to change it. I even tried to talk to my father about it, but he’s in agreement with her.”
“My mother will listen to me,” said Draco confidently, sounding more sure than he felt.
“That's great for you,” said Daphne, “but I know my mother won’t listen to me. My parents are very traditional people, Draco. Especially my mother.”
“We’re purebloods, Daphne,” huffed Draco. “Tradition is everybody's middle name.”
He watched Daphne delicately nibble her c oq au vin, dabbing her mouth with the cloth napkin. Draco agreed with his mother -- Daphne was the embodiment of the Pureblood standard. Her grace seemed natural and effortless, but Draco knew it had been drilled into her from the moment she was born -- be polite, say thank you, take small bites -- there was no room for her to be anything else.
“There are no Greengrass sons, Draco,” said Daphne, her expression faltering. “My parents love Astoria and me immensely, I have no doubt. But the Greengrass family is patriarchal, and always has been.”
“So they’re eager to marry you off because there isn’t another man in the family?” asked Draco, trying to bite down the urge to say how ridiculous it all seemed to him. Every pureblood family had its own traditions, but still.
“It’s more than that,” she said. “You know that my family has a chair in the Wizengamot, correct?” She waited for him to nod. “It’s been vacant since my grandfather passed away over a decade ago. My father won’t take it, and Astoria and I can’t because we’re female. But with no one in the Greengrass chair, it’s been hard for my family to be as politically influential as we were before the war. ”
“Your parents want to make a business transaction,” said Draco dully. And I’m the one they’re recruiting for the job. “I have no interest in or patience for politics, Daphne. That should be enough to cross me off your daddy's list of suitors.”
Daphne sighed, pushing her half-eaten plate away from her. Draco did the same, leaning forward in the chair to give her his full attention. She seemed concerned for the first time, tucking a strand of golden brown hair behind her ear. Draco drummed his fingers against the table as he waited her out, then sipped his scotch, the liquid burning down his throat as he swallowed.
“If it’s not you, it won’t be long before they find someone else,” said Daphne finally. “Can you imagine me having to court a Rosier? They make your family look unpretentious, no offense,” she said, waving a hand at his scowl. “But just look at this place.”
“Screw the Rosiers,” chuckled Draco. “I heard Enoch Rowle is fresh out of Azkaban, maybe you could owl him. Or maybe the youngest Selwyn? I think Zander turned nineteen not too long ago, that’s not too bad of an age gap. You're too young to be considered a cougar.”
“Draco, I don’t want to marry any of those men,” said Daphne. She shuddered, her cheeks flushing., “In fact, I don’t want to marry any man,” she admitted.
“That’s unusual, but not unheard of. Isn’t the oldest Fawley daughter unmarried? It’s not the most scandalous thing to ever happen in pureblood circles.”
“Feye Fawley has the mind of a twelve-year old in the body of a woman in her thirties,” said Daphne, looking offended. “She needs a caregiver, not a husband.”
“The Fawleys do treat her like she’s worse than a squib,” agreed Draco. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. You probably can’t avoid marriage forever.” He knew, as much as Daphne did, that being married was less about their happiness and more about the survival of their pureblooded heritage.
“I’m not saying I don’t want to be married,” she said insistently. “I’m saying I don’t want to be married to a man.”
Draco guzzled the rest of his scotch.
“That will be a problem,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t care, obviously. But I expect your family will.”
Daphne glared at him. “I’m not telling just anybody about this, alright? You’re the only person besides Astoria who knows, Draco, I trust you to be discreet.”
“Do you think I give a damn about gossip, Daphne?” he said, offended. “There's nothing for me in it, I'm not going to sell you out.”
“I know,” she said. She sighed. “It would be fine if I wasn’t a pureblood.”
“But you are,” said Draco.
“My father would disown me without a thought if he knew about it,” she continued. Her expression was neutral, but her shaking voice betrayed her feelings. “I love my family, and I want them to be proud of me. But my mother would never look at my face again. They wouldn’t let me near Astoria.”
“So what’s your plan, exactly?” asked Draco.
“I could pretend, you know? I could court with someone long enough for Astoria to get married. She’s turning seventeen in less than four months, and she’s always been interested in the youngest Carrow, gushes about him every time he returns from Beauxbatons. She wouldn’t even be unhappy, Draco, my sister is different from me,” sighed Daphne. “She wants everything that my mother does. I’m their focus now because I’m the oldest, but that’ll change once Astoria is old enough.”
“Except I don’t see many lads feeling content with being strung along for who knows how long, only to be dumped at your convenience,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. She raised her eyes to look right at him. “Except for you.”
“What are you proposing?” asked Draco, who already knew what she was about to say.
“We could court,” said Daphne in a serious voice. “Only for appearances, of course. To appease our parents. It’d be a win-win, Draco.”
“Do you understand how mad my mother would be if I made her believe I was seriously dating you and then went and broke things off after a while?” Draco shook her head. “I’m sorry, Daph, but that’s too messy.”
“Come on, Draco,” pleaded Daphne. “We’ll make sure to tell them we’re just dating, no need to promise intent of anything but that. And I’ll take the blame when the time comes. You can tell her I strayed, or can’t have children, or anything else that’ll make her glad you got rid of me.”
“I don’t know, Daphne. I get your point, but it seems too risky, especially if your mother is talking about weddings before we even went on the bloody first date,” said Draco.
“But it won’t be for long,” she said quickly. “Like I said, Astoria will enter an official engagement with Carrow as soon as she’s of age and he returns home for good. My father will have the wizard he needs to represent the family, and my mother will get a grandchild to focus on. They’ll be too thrilled with Astoria to care about what I’m doing, and I might not be here, anyway.”
“You’re going to leave the country?”
“America is much more liberal than Britain.” She shrugged. “It seems like a good place to go. Not permanently, of course, but at least for a little while.”
Draco grabbed his empty glass, staring at its crystal facets as he considered his options.
“If we are going to do this, we’ll have to be careful about what we tell them,” said Draco, twirling the glass in his hand.
“Of course,” agreed Daphne. “We’ll do just enough to make your mother happy, and for me to stall my parents until I think of a long-term solution.”
Draco weighed his options. He knew that Daphne would get more out of their deal than he would, but it wasn’t without its benefits. It would sooth his mother’s worries about his future, guaranteeing she’d let him out of her clutches for however long their fake courting lasted. He’d have a built-in excuse to leave the house. And maybe his mother would actually be happy for a change.
Unexpectedly, Draco thought of Granger. It’d been only a couple of days since she’d dragged him to Muggle-land, but it felt like a lifetime ago. He’d bet a thousand galleons she would be appalled at Daphne’s suggestion, the bleeding heart that she is. Granger would tell Daphne to ignore her parents and be herself, and she’d push Draco to be courageous about setting boundaries between him and his mother.
The thought made him suppress a smile. Granger couldn’t navigate her way through pureblood politics if her life depended on it. She was naive. She didn’t realize that snakes didn’t bow to a lion’s roar: they crawled their way out, stalling until it was the right time to strike. It was what set Granger apart from every woman he grew up with.
Draco finally set the glass down the table and signaled for the check. Before the waiter reached them, Draco offered Daphne a sly smile.
"Well, I guess I should start calling you girlfriend.”
_
Twenty-four hours later, Hermione stood in front of her bathroom’s mirror, cursing under her breath as she struggled to tame her curls into something slightly more presentable. Years of brushing off her classmates’ offers to teach her basic beauty charms were finally coming back to bite her. What she wouldn’t give for a bottle of Sleakeazy’s.
She gave up, setting her wand on the corner of the sink before leaving the bathroom. “Haaaarrrryyyyyy,” she called, flouncing down the hallway to his room.
“In here,” he said loudly. Hermione didn’t bother knocking, pushing open the door to find him adjusting the sleeves of his formal robes. Harry turned to face her, “Why aren’t you dressed?” he groaned. “We’re going to be late. In fact, I’m pretty sure we already are.”
“You clean up nicely,” said Hermione, leaning against the door frame. “When does Ginny get here?”
“She was supposed to be here an hour ago,” said Harry, looking at his watch, “so I’m guessing she’s taking as much time getting ready as you are. Aren’t the English supposed to be punctual?”
“I doubt she’s struggling like I am,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Stop being so fussy, you know how these things go. They say it starts at seven expecting everyone to arrive at eight. Will you tell Ginny to come to my room when she gets here? I need her help with my hair.”
“What’s wrong with your hair?” he frowned. “Leave it like that and just put on your robes.”
“You’re such a boy, Harry,” said Hermione, smiling at him. “Just tell her what I said, will you?”
“Alright,” he said, “I’m going to use the Floo to check on her, but please, I beg you, go get ready. At this rate there won't be a party for us to go to.”
I wish that was the case, thought Hermione, When she returned to her own room, she closed the door behind her and carefully grabbed the dress robes she had placed on her bed before showering.
As she slipped the gown over her body, Hermione felt a twinge of insecurity. She’d successfully avoided most formal events for the past few years -- going meant unwanted attention and small talk with people she hadn’t met, yet felt certain they knew her intimately from whatever they read in the media. It was always disconcerting. She doubted St. Mungo’s anniversary celebration would be much different.
Hermione stepped inside the bathroom again, adjusting the dress around her body as she turned to check herself out in the mirror. The dress was a pretty thing, something that had been in the back of her wardrobe for so long she had forgotten even buying it. It was made of navy blue silk, conservatively cut: tight at the waist but loose around the hips. Its neckline, a subtle vee, came together just above her breasts, and the hem stopped just at her ankle. Long, slim sleeves cloaked her arms to her wrist. The whole dress was spangled with silver crystals, flowing down her body like liquid crystal. Every time she moved, little sparkles scattered across the floor and adjacent wall. Maybe it was too much.
“Merlin, that’s a pretty dress,” said Ginny, announcing herself as she entered the bathroom, “you look like you’re wearing your own galaxy. Harry said you needed my help?”
Hermione turned to greet her. Ginny wore a long-sleeved red satin dress. The gown had a slit running up its right side, exposing one toned leg. Her lips were painted deep red and her long locks were swept to the side, falling in waves down her cleavage.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” said Ginny, retrieving her wand from the holster attached to her tight. “My goal was to make Harry swallow his tongue when he saw me, and my mission was accomplished. Now, about you, do you want your hair up or down?”
“What do you think?” asked Hermione.
“How about a knot?” Ginny didn’t wait for a response before waving her wand in a figure-four, braiding Hermione’s curls and tying the braids neatly in an updo. She expertly ran a finger through Hermione’s baby hairs, letting two loose curls fall in each side of her face. “Now I think Ron will be the one swallowing his tongue.”
“Oh, Ginny,” sighed Hermione. “Thank you, my hair looks beautiful. You made it look so easy.”
“It is easy, you just don’t care to learn,” said Ginny, checking Hermione from all angles before deeming her work finished. “Let me put some makeup on you? I know you have some in here, we bought a bunch when we went to that Muggle shop in Manchester.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but closed it after Ginny narrowed her eyes at her. She sighed, allowing her friend to paint her lips, fill in her eyebrows, and apply mascara to her lashes.
“I think that’s enough,” said Hermione, stepping back as Ginny lifted her arm to apply silver glitter to her eyelids.
“It’s more than I thought you’d agree to.” Ginny shrugged, turning to put the array of products back in their designated places. “Now, let’s go before the boys get tired of all the waiting.”
“Ron is here?” asked Hermione. “Is the entire Ministry going to be at this party?”
“What do you think, Hermione?” chuckled Ginny. “This is the first formal event we’ve had in months. I know that at least most of the DMLE got invited. Harry made sure. Apparently Robards taught him the importance of networking.”
“Oh did that, he?” muttered Hermione under her breath. “Hughman made it sound way more exclusive when he forced the invitation on me,” she said, following Ginny out of the room.
“Who is that, again?”
“He’s the MRC director.”
“Oh, right, did you mention him before?” asked Ginny, her voice trailing off as they entered the living room.
Ron was sitting on the sofa, locked in a stare off against Crookshanks, who was seated in front of him.
“Hey, Ron,” she greeted him, nudging her cat away with her foot. Her friend jumped at the sound of her voice, turning abruptly towards her. Ron didn’t say anything as he took her in, his lips slightly parted and a dazed look in his blue eyes.
“Okay,” drawled Ginny, glancing from Ron to Hermione. “I’m going to get Harry so we can go.”
Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to follow Ginny. It had been a long time since Ron’s attention made Hermione feel anything other than awkward. But, it felt nice to be looked at like that.
What would Malfoy say if he saw her dressed like that?
A shiver went up her spine. Stop it, Hermione.
“You look amazing,” Ron finally said, stepping closer to her.
“Thank you,” she said.“Are you excited for the party?”
“Sure, I guess. It’s free drinks and free food, what’s not to like?”
Hermione smiled. “You? Motivated by free drinks and food? I never could have guessed,” she said. “This event is more than an excuse for us to take advantage of taxpayers' money, Ron. St. Mungo's 400th anniversary is a big deal in the wizarding community. It’s the oldest wizarding hospital in Europe.”
“If you say so,” he said distractedly. “Did I mention that you look amazing?”
“You did, and I said thank you,” said Hermione. “Didn’t you bring a date? I know you got a plus-one.”
“Harry told me you were going, so I didn’t bother asking anyone.”
“Ron,” she said, “I’m representing the Mental Rehabilitation Center. This is basically a work function for me.”
“You’re not going to be working during the entire party,” said Ron. “I bet we can steal a few alone moments to catch up, like I asked you a while ago, remember? And maybe we can dance a little bit?”
Hermione tugged at her sleeve nervously. “You know that the press will be there. We wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea.”
“What would be the wrong idea?” asked Ron. “Everyone knows that we’re close, I doubt they’ll be surprised to see us together.”
You know exactly what I’m talking about , thought Hermione. “Oh, you know how people like to read into things,” she said.
“Hermione, I just want--” he started, but got cut off by Harry and Ginny’s reappearance in the living room. He let out an exasperated sigh. “Now you chose to be ready?”
“Yes, mate. Finally!” said Harry, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. “We’ll floo in first and then wait for you guys at the entrance, okay?”
Hermione nodded, watching as they headed towards the fireplace. She waited for the couple to disappear before saying to Ron, “You can go first.”
Ron hesitated a beat before grabbing a pinch of the powder, turning his body towards her. “Will you save me that dance?”
“I’ll try,” she lied, “but I can’t make any promises.”
He didn’t seem satisfied by her words. He gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes before turning and throwing the emerald powder into the fireplace. Hermione tried to ignore simultaneous pangs of guilt and apprehension -- she hated pushing Ron away, but she knew she had to put her foot down. And she knew that he wasn’t going to be deterred so easily.
Hermione stepped inside of the fireplace, rattling off the address out loud. With a puff of smoke, she was gone. Maybe she would be busy enough to avoid denying him again.