Asked to Wait
While the general public had forgotten about the muggle girl taken in by the Malfoys nearly a decade ago, there were a select few that still knew of her existence.
Mostly pureblood heads of house and their mistresses, or ministry officials in high positions. Anyone whom Lucius could use to amass more wealth and power.
Once he is certain that he has the mudblood girl in hand, he parades her in front of these men, forcing her to show her abilities off like a prize mare.
Hermione swallows down the burn of shame with each meeting.
But of course, Lucius Malfoy always finds a way to make Hermione’s existence more humiliating.
The last Decennium before she is due to start her formal magical education finds Hermione trussed up and presented to far more than drunk wizards.
The table is set for thirty. Each gleaming china plate perfectly lined up along the deep green tablecloth. Each place is set with every frivolous piece of silverware ever invented and four glasses for a ridiculous number of libations. None of which Hermione is old enough to take part in.
“What are you doing dawdling in here?” Narcissa asks, having just finished instructing the house elves on the evening’s menu.
It will be hours before guests arrive, but Hermione’s stomach is already tight.
“I was instructed to find you so that you might approve of my attire,” Hermione answers, gritting her teeth and gesturing to the robes she had found waiting for her in her bedroom. They are lovely. A soft green with a deep sage belt that ties at the side and hangs towards the floor.
“They look fine. It is your hair I am concerned with,” Narcissa says approvingly, walking in a slow circle around Hermione.
“Can’t I wear it naturally?” Hermione asks, hating the tight pins Narcissa has forced upon her before.
She often charms Hermione’s hair straight, tying it up atop her head in some complex swirl. She hates the smooth locks almost as much as she hates Lady Malfoy’s hair. Narcissa’s perfect pale hair. Never a hair out of touch.
“You shall wear the diamond coronet as well. For a bit of light,” Narcissa says, ignoring her question.
“What if I don’t want to?”
“And you’ll carry the yule log. It is a great honour, as you well know,” Lady Malfoy says.
She never answers Hermione’s questions if she doesn’t have a satisfactory answer.
And so few of her answers are ever satisfactory.
“Yes, Lady Malfoy.”
Finally, an approving smile.
“Go take it off and then we will have tea in the West gardens.”
Hermione does as she is bid, as always. Though she dons the pair of jeans that she had bought so many months ago in London, knowing Narcissa will hate it.
When she emerges in the gardens, Narcissa rolls her eyes and ignores her choice of clothing.
“Bosky has already poured the tea.”
“Thank you, Bosky,” Hermione says, though the elf is nowhere to be found. Hermione knows that he can hear her. They all can.
“I thought we would be taking today off,” Hermione says after her first sip of perfectly brewed English breakfast.
“It is important that none of our guests see into your mind.”
“And these guests are powerful enough to do so?” Hermione sips from her tea.
“I will not risk otherwise, and you will not either.”
With that edict, Narcissa slices into Hermione’s mind.
She will see nothing. It has been two years since she last broke through Hermione’s walls.
Still, she tries everything she can before she gives up. Even going so far as to thinking of Hermione’s parents in her own mind and pressing it against Hermione’s subconscious.
Hermione had stolen her parents' faces from Lucius’s mind. Along with the few moments Lucius had spent in her childhood home. Hermione scoffs as she shows Narcissa her own spiteful memory. It is the only warm moment she can remember with the witch. Being coddled in her crib. Another memory that is not her own, but one from the very person she is sitting with.
“Good,” Narcissa offers a fraction of praise, withdrawing quickly. Just enough to feed the part of Hermione that still craves her captor’s kindness.
Hermione’s tea has gone cold, so she heats hers and Narcissa’s and they both sit in the quiet air of winter. It is no difficulty for Hermione to keep the bite of the wind away from their spot in the garden. If she wanted she could create a tornado to pick up the tea cups, the table, and Narcissa while sipping her own cup.
“Severus tells me that you have been worried about next year.”
Hermione shakes her head, though she is sure it is clear on her face how she really feels. Of course Hermione is worried. She is supposed to open the Chamber of Secrets. Let loose a monster she cannot control. At least not with Parseltongue. No matter how many times Tom writes messages in the journal insisting that she study it, Hermione hasn’t bothered. Perhaps it is the only rebellion she can think of in terms of doing what Tom asks.
“Lucius and I have spoken about it. Should you wish, we will write to several of the other magical schools. The American, or the French.”
“I will attend Hogwarts. I will open the chamber and allow the beast to kill so that I may reunite the Dark Lord with his soul. I will not shirk my responsibility just because your life is more comfortable without him in it.” Hermione uses as much vitriol as she can manage while also feeling like she might vomit.
Narcissa inhales sharply.
“You're too young to understand what it would mean. To take a life. To… to bring him back.”
“And yet Lucius thought Tom’s diary was a fine thing to give me before I could read or write. I am the heir of Slytherin. So made by his last blood heir when your husband killed my birth parents.”
Narcissa doesn’t meet her eye. She at least feels guilty for what her husband had done. Understands that Hermione has plenty of reasons to hate her.
“You don’t have to do it so soon. You could wait.”
“And hear his voice in my head everyday reminding me of his edict? I’ll be lost to madness before my third year.”
“So wait until your second. You should have a year where-”
“Where I can pretend to be like everyone else?” Hermione finishes the sentence.
“Where you can learn who you want to be. Away from this house and his power. You are a powerful witch. You don’t have to bend to him.”
Technically, nothing she says is a lie. But it rings of falsehood.
“Your husband disagrees. He knows what I must do.”
Narcissa snorts.
“You don’t believe in the prophecy,” Narcissa says, as though a reminder.
“No. I don’t. But the Dark Lord killed my parents. Lucius has given me the diary. Tom himself urges me to do his bidding. So I will be pushed towards the future that has been foretold by the acts of your husband and his Dark Lord.” Hermione mocks Lucius with her tone, but Narcissa doesn’t reprimand her as she normally would.
“Will you at least think about waiting? For Draco?”
Hermione bites back her smile.
Of course Narcissa would think to ask that of her. Her earlier objections make more sense now.
“How long? How long would you ask that I ignore our Lord so that your precious son can enjoy quidditch matches and pumpkin juice?”
She at least has the decency to look shamed by Hermione’s words.
“As long as you are willing.”
Hermione loves Draco. Though she loathes herself for it, she can’t help it. He is her only living friend. The only person alive who chooses to spend time with her.
She doesn’t want to do as Tom asks. She doesn’t want to kill anyone. Ever. She never wants to be like Lord Malfoy. The reason someone doesn’t get to live their life happily.
“Will you help me stave him off?” Hermione asks, thinking more of her husband than the Dark Lord himself. While the piece of Tom that lives within the diary is demanding, he can’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to. Her mind is much too strong for that.
A sharp nod changes everything.
“Then you must start tonight. Remind your husband that he has plenty of power. That his authority is far-reaching. That he doesn’t need to eliminate a threat that doesn’t exist. Because as of right now, the only threat to Lord Malfoy is me. And as you and I both know, I am trapped beneath his thumb.” For now.
The words sink in slowly. Narcissa comes to see the girl they have created. Seeing perhaps for the first time what her disdain has moulded Hermione into.
“I expect you to be ready at six o’clock,” Narcissa says, standing up and leaving her teacup full on the table.
Hermione glances down at her dress and fidgets with the bow, pulling one side so it is the same length as the other side. It is a pretty colour, but she isn’t very comfortable. It has a horrid bone that curves along her spine and forces her posture into an unnatural line.
“Is it alright?” She can’t help herself from asking when Narcissa swirls into the dining room, this time dressed as well.
Narcissa takes a long moment to scrutinise every part of Hermione’s appearance before speaking.
“It will do,” Narcissa says, her face just as tight and pinched as always.
Hermione is grateful that she passes muster. It will make it easier for her to blend in with the walls. At least until whatever spectacle Lord Malfoy has planned.
“Just try to remember not to speak unless spoken to,” Narcissa instructs.
“Yes, Lady Malfoy,” Hermione lowers her eyes to the pinching shoes she’d put on with ire.
Lucius walks through the door behind both witches, adjusting his suit cuffs.
“Ah,” he says, pleased. “You’ve done a lovely job, my love.”
Narcissa beams, taking her husband’s cuff between her nimble feelings and setting it in place.
“Where is Draco?” She asks.
“He’ll be along in a moment,” Lucius replies.
Hermione wonders if she should be doing something other than standing awkwardly off to the side. Though, that is often her role. Stand by and be quiet.
“I do hope Tiberius isn’t late. It will set off my entire menu,” Narcissa comments, straightening an already perfectly set plate.
Hermione can’t help but set a fork at the opposite end of the table on a diagonal with her mind. Just a bit of mischief to help the night seem less unbearable.
When Draco comes through the doors, a miniature replica of his father, Hermione knows she will need to exercise a lot of personal control. Merlin forbid a stray comment lands her with her palms pressed into Lucius’s desk.
“Whoa,” Draco says when he spots Hermione. “You look like a princess.”
Hermione blushes and wishes he’d kept quiet as both Lucius and Narcissa are now glaring at her.
“Draco,” Lucius scolds.
Draco looks abashed, but he smiles behind his parents backs.
Hermione does look a bit like the princesses from the stories in the library. With the diamond coronet on her head and the green robes, she looks more like a pureblood than she ever has before.
Of course, they all look like royalty. Narcissa is wearing an emerald encrusted tiara and Lucius’s dress robes have a sash that stretches across his chest, pinned with accolades Hermione is sure he hasn’t earned.
Hermione is grateful when Popsy appears, informing them that the first of their guests have arrived.
“Best behaviour,” Lucius mutters to Hermione, his brow arched.
“Yes, Lord Malfoy,” she answers.
Undersecretary Flout is the first to arrive, with his girlfriend, not his wife.
Hermione watches as he greets Lucius as though they are the closest of friends when in reality, both men hate each other.
Another reason why she hates the games Lucius plays.
“And who are you?” Flout asks, grinning wolfishly at Hermione.
“Our ward,” Lucius answers, his hand falling on her shoulder. A rare contact between them. Lucius prefers to keep his distance, either with his punishing rod or his pompous cane.
“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Flout asks. “What’s your name, Dear?”
Hermione wants to ignore him. In fact, she wants to bring the chandelier down on his head.
Instead, she pastes a pleasing smile onto her face and offers him her name.
“Hermione?” He asks, bewildered. As though his first name isn’t Buster. “What an odd name. I didn’t know you had a ward, Lucius.”
And just like that, Hermione is finished with her role in the conversation. At some point, likely after the meal, she will be made into a spectacle. For now, she just wants to get to her seat without offending anyone.
Several other people arrive and the parlour fills with guests that Hermione imagines even the most gifted muggle writer couldn’t conjure in their own minds.
A Parkinson with a horrendous moustache and the highest heels Hermione has ever seen.
A prince with not one, not two, but three flasks hidden on their person. He is a buffoon with no social grace but title and blood status that allows him entry to parties like this one.
And Hermione’s favourite, a halfblood with tired eyes and the longest black cloak any person has ever been able to pull off.
Severus had arrived in the midst of things, immediately stealing to the side of the room, grabbing a drink from a floating serving tray. Hermione wishes she could join him, ask him about the Polyjuice potion they’d started nearly a month ago now. Soon enough she’d be able to try it. She’d collected a long blonde hair from Narcissa’s salon.
Hermione settles for standing and waiting for dinner instead, smiling more than she has all year so as to appear as the lovely girl everyone expects her to be.
Even though no one speaks directly to her, Hermione can hear them all thinking about her.
She was obviously bright and she spoke as though she were an aristocrat.
A pureblood surely, several guests had whispered to one another. But whose child was she? Why didn’t they know her?
It carries on in that manner through the first course.
“And you?” The buffoonish Prince asks, pointing his fork at Hermione.
She blinks and then glances at Lady Malfoy.
“Our ward, Prince Jacoby. She came to us as a babe, orphaned,” Narcissa answers on her behalf.
Orphaned by your husband.
“A pretty little thing. A witch?” Jacoby asks, still looking at her.
Hermione nods, quite proud of her magical abilities.
“Yes,” Narcissa says, stilted.
“What sort of accidental magic has she displayed?” Jacoby finally turns his attention away from Hermione, having realised that she will not respond.
“It was funny actually,” Narcissa waves a hand, more jovial than Hermione would think. Afterall, the first time Hermione displayed accidental magic, she nearly burned the manor down.
She doesn’t remember it, but Hermione had been told of her destruction constantly. How dangerous it was for them to take her in.
“She was just a baby really and she woke in the middle of the night, had a nightmare the poor dear, and she lit up the whole room.”
Never happened.
Hermione is certain that if she had ever woken in the dark she would have laid there, quietly. She wasn’t a fussy child. She was never allowed to be.
Besides, if she’d done it alone in her own room in the wing of the house that Narcissa had banished her to, how did Narcissa know what happened?
“Who were her parents?” Prince Jacoby asks.
Narcissa pales slightly.
“They were Muggles,” Hermione answers, smiling sweetly.
The table goes quiet.
“Our Dark Lord, may he come again, brought this girl up from the filth of her birth and gave her the opportunity to serve all of us in the pursuit for a pure and powerful wizarding society.” Lucius gives a good speech. Distracts from the shock that he has a muggleborn witch under his roof.
Hermione bites her tongue to avoid saying anything else.
Every pair of eyes bores into her and she can feel them judging her birth.
Her family.
“Why did you take her in?”
Hermione doesn’t notice who says it.
She is more focused on the look Lucius is giving her.
And then, in a flash, she floats everything in the room.
People shriek and laugh with delight and Hermione tries not to let any of the knives float into any of their bodies.
“Her power is the way that she will serve,” Lucius says, grinning at the impressed guests.
When she lowers them back to the ground, she stands up and excuses herself, her throat thick with the burn of humiliation.