Part Seven
Part Seven:
Sunday morning, Hermione sat in an empty house. Ginny had a quidditch match and she and Harry had left in the still dark hours of the morning. She’d woken Hermione, who had spent the night asleep on the couch, to ask if she wanted to tag along, but Hermione couldn’t imagine being around people yet. Everyone would ask, would want to know who she’d matched with or those who didn’t know about her breakup would ask about Ron. Hermione could barely handle her own questions. Of course Harry had offered to stay behind with her, but she was tired of feeling like a child that needed minding. She was the brightest witch of her age, wasn’t that the saying? She would not let a simple thing like her impending marriage to the man who made her teenage years a living hell turn her into someone that needed constant comfort. So she’d refused. But once the house was quiet, the street lights still glowing a faded yellow through the front windows, the quiet made her ears buzz. Her mind felt rigid, pulled taut like it might snap if she kept trying to use it. What she needed, she realized, was a distraction. Specifically, a distraction that didn’t involve any hard thinking or feeling.
First, of course, she tried reading, but her eyes skated over the pages without taking anything in. She went as far as to bring out one of her worn favorites, the first wizarding book she’d ever bought, Hogwarts, A History. When she opened it, she was back in diagon alley for the first time. Her parents, who were as new to the world of witches and wizards and she was, were staring wildly around. The witch who was assigned to help them had waited patiently as Hermione’s mother ran her fingers over the wall they’d just crossed through, feeling every brick until she was sure it was solid. And once she was finished, they were led through the crowds to Flourish and Blotts. Now, Hermione wondered if the witch had brought them there first because it was the most muggle place, maybe she was trying to ease them in. It was a good choice, because every Granger loved books. When they got home that evening, feet aching, Hermione had been allowed the rare treat of taking a book to bed and had chosen Hogwarts, A History. She read it under the covers, flashlight pointed to the pages, running her fingers over the beveled leather cover as she read. Ever since, it’s been the thing that brings her the most comfort. She’d read it countless times in her Hogwarts years, brought it with her in the months on the run from Voldemort, taken it when she’d traveled to Australia to try and find her parents. It’d been with her always, and it had always worked to ease the weight whatever the outside world was pressing against her. This time, though, as she read through a thorough description of the castle’s design, Malfoy's face kept swimming into view. She read about the origin of the moving staircases and heard his taunting child voice as he first taught her the word now carved into her arm. She skipped ahead to the paragraph on the astronomy tower and saw the way his smile twisted cruelly when she’d answered a question wrong, the whispered mocking as they left class. When she got to the section on the grounds, she could practically feel the way her hand had stung after she’d slapped him in third year. After that, she gave up reading, tossing the book down onto the couch and heading for the kitchen.
By the time the sun was finally starting its ascent, the clouds shifting from purple to a muddy gold, Hermione had washed all the dishes, scrubbed the baseboards, swept out the ashes from the fireplace, and given ever surface a good dusting. She was just getting ready to tackle the cobwebs along the molding when the post arrived. She heard the flutter of owl wings as the bird left the mail on the porch for her to get, flying away before she’d even stood up. There was a quidditch magazine on top, which Hermione didn’t bother to look at. What she wanted was the Prophet. She was hoping for some big expose about how everyone was being matched terribly and the Ministry was nullifying the whole thing, but before she could have her hopes dashed, she spotted a cream envelope poking from the bottom of the stack. She pulled it free and saw her name written across it, but it was addressed to the burrow. Clever as the owl was, it had brought it here, but it did mean that it wasn’t a letter from Ron. Of course, the penmanship of her name alone would have been enough to tell her that. The H and the G had somehow both ease and flourish. A small part of her was still hoping he’d write, if only to find out who she’d matched with. Wasn’t he the least bit curious? She set the rest of the mail down on the edge of the couch and ripped open the envelope. Her heart stuttered and her breath caught as she recognized the Malfoy crest along the top of the stationary.
Granger,
We have forms to complete. Come to the manor, any reasonable time between now and Wednesday is acceptable.
Malfoy.
Malfoy. Forms. She had to read it twice before the words sunk in. The forms in question were part of the matching packet. She’d eventually read through the thing last night. There was an “intent to marry” form they would both need to sign, but she had expected them to do it on Thursday in the grand meeting room. She hadn’t ever expected him to reach out before. In fact, if she was being totally honest, she was hoping he would back out. They hated each other equally, but apparently he was as determined to stay as she was. Once the shock of the note wore off, she read it again and rolled her eyes. “Come to the manor,” what an ass. If he wanted these forms signed so badly, he could come to her. Or he could at least ask. Demanding her presence was such a Malfoy thing to do. She glanced at the clock, it was barely past eight, on a Sunday. Far too early for a reasonable guest to show up at his door. Hermione, without letting herself think too much about it, snatched her matching packet from the hall table, clutching it along with his letter the rest of the mail forgotten, she pulled out her wand and apparated before she could lose her nerve.
She landed on the edge of the path leading to the house. The looming gate, twisting metal snakes wrapping up its bars, was open, white gravel leading up the incline. Steeling herself, Hermione marched forward, shivering against the wind. She kicked herself. It was November and she hadn’t thought to bring a jacket. She always brought a jacket. Even in the tepid warmth of May she never left home without a coat tucked under her arm. And yet, here she was, the gravel crunching like frost under her feet, as the gnarled tree growing to the left, all stick and no leaf, bent in the wind that made her cheeks sting. The house was lit in several rooms, one on the ground floor even had the window open, the wind catching gossamer curtains and tugging them back and forth over the sill. She wondered if there were anti-intruder wards, if Malfoy already knew she was coming or if she’d catch him totally off guard. Surely he wasn’t expecting her until this afternoon at the earliest. Maybe he was hoping she’d put it off, drag it out until the final moments. She stopped short, halfway between the gate and the house as a new thought emerged. Once again proof that acting without thinking was a recipe for disaster. What if Malfoy was going to try and get her to leave the country. It seemed like just the Malfoy thing to do. Obviously he was as angry about the match as she was, or maybe horrified was a better word. But he was far more prideful than she was. Hermione reasoned that, since he wasn’t one to willingly leave his familial home or disgrace his line by giving up magic, the only other option would be to convince Hermione to abdicate from the engagement and allow him to be re-matched. Another gust of wind knocked her forward a step and she took it as a sign to keep moving.
But she’d slowed her pace considerably, no longer in a rush to storm the steps of Malfoy Manor. She had to prepare herself. Would he try to bribe her? Clearly he had enough money. Although, bribery implied that he thought of her as an equal, so it would most likely be thinly veiled threats. A worry began circulating, Malfoy wouldn’t hurt her would he? She suddenly wished she’d left a note for Ginny and Harry, no one knew where she was. She found herself reflexively gripping the scar. The last time she was here, Malfoy had watched as she’d been tortured. Was she walking herself directly into a revival of that particular performance? She took a steadying breath. The Ministry was well aware of her match, and surely they would have some sort of investigative protocol if someone’s match ended up missing or dead just before they were set to be married. All the same, as she reached the bottom of the stone steps leading up to the carved doors, she gripped her wand tightly.
She must have been right about tripping a ward, because before she could even raise her free hand to knock, there was the loud click of a lock being pulled from its place and the door swung open. She jumped slightly, moving half a step back. She was expecting Malfoy, his face the angry, pinched expression of their youth. Instead, though, she lowered her gaze to find a house elf.
“Miss Granger is early.” The house elf said. She was wearing an apron, well an apron that looked fashioned out of a patterned tea towel, that was streaked with flour. A bit of it was on the elf’s cheek as well. Hermione had known, of course, that the Malfoy’s had house elves. Dobby had once been a testament to how horribly they were treated within this place. “Is the Miss coming in? Or are you waiting outside for Master Draco?” The elf asked, and actually began tapping her bare foot against the marble floor of the entryway, as if Hermione was keeping her. Ducking her head in apology, Hermione quickly moved through the door and let the elf close it firmly behind her, sliding a deadbolt into place. She wondered why bother locking a door when the grounds were magically protected, but before she could dwell too much on it, the rest of the entryway caught her attention. She’d been here before, when they’d been kidnapped, but it’d been night and there’d been far too much going on to give any glance to something as unimportant as décor, but now she let herself look. The entryway, which opened up to a number of hallways with mostly closed doors and a grand staircase curving up to the upper levels, was almost entirely white marble. There were swaths of rich colored curtains adding softness to the walls, but in between she could still see the cold stone. It was an entry that, without a doubt, conveyed wealth. Not just wealth, but the exorbitant wealth that comes only with generations of power. The elf cleared her throat loudly, and Hermione found that the elf was now all the way across the entry hall, at one of the far doors. Hermione hurried, shoes clicking against the floor.
“Miss should wait in here. Don’t touch things.” The elf’s eyes were narrowed as if she was expecting Hermione to shove Malfoy treasures into her pockets at the first opportunity. She wanted to respond, to be as snippy as she was feeling, but Hermione just kept reminding herself that this elf had been raised, probably from birth, in this terrible house that viewed Hermione as unworthy. Hell, maybe Malfoy had given the elf explicit instructions to treat her as poorly as possible. So instead, she held her tongue and tried not to mind it when the elf let the door close a little too harshly once Hermione was through it. The room she’d been left in appeared to be a a run of the mill sitting room. There wasn’t much Hermione could have even stolen if she’d been so inclined. The walls were filled with nature paintings, all of them similar enough that she’d bet they were painted by the same Malfoy ancestor. There was a fire burning, and a set of couches that faced each other, each upholstered in a deep brown velvet. Now that she was here, in the Manor, waiting for Malfoy to make his appearance, a bit of her earlier bravado had worn off. She was still angry, angry at him for summoning her and angry at the Ministry for putting them in this situation in the first place, but the nerves were beginning to creep in. Instead of sitting, where she’d having nothing to do but stare at the door and wait, she moved over to the line of windows on the opposite wall. The dark curtains were pulled shut, but they tugged apart easily. The sun cutting through the little haze of dust coming off them. This must not be a regularly used space that not even the elves kept it well dusted. Then again, Hermione reasoned, in a house as large as this there were probably a dozen of these types of salons throughout the halls. This was, probably, just the closest to the door. Malfoy wouldn’t want her lingering.
Outside the window she’d exposed, the glass slick with condensation from the heat of the room, was a garden. This time of year it was mostly bare, dark earth with the sporadic red berried shrub, but Hermione could see how far it extended down the hill. Rows and rows of what was sure to be beautiful in bloom. The garden ended as the slope increased, and a tangle of wild trees ran along the edge of what may have been a stream, Hermione couldn’t tell from this distance. Either way, she imagined it would be quite a peaceful place to read in summer. If only it wasn’t connected to a house as nightmare inducing as this.
As if on cue, she heard footsteps approaching, she turned from the window, the curtain sliding shut just as the door to the sitting room pushed open. The contrast from the bright outside to the firelit room was so stark she found herself blinking rapidly, her eyes adjusting. It took a moment for the tall, hazy figure in the doorway to become clear. Malfoy was taller than she remembered, then again it had been years since she’d seen him. He loomed in the doorway, dressed in a navy turtleneck and dark trousers, which made the paleness of his skin and hair seem nearly luminescent.
“Granger.” He said, barely a greeting and more of an acknowledgement of her presence. He was tense, coiled. His jaw was tight, arms crossed over his chest. She half expected to see his eye twitching. But it wasn’t. Instead his eyes were calculating, cold and harsh as they raked over her form before settling on her face.
“Malfoy.” She returned the greeting. Neither of them had moved, Hermione still with a hand on the curtain and Malfoy halfway through the door. It was a stalemate, she realized. One of them would have to cave first. She thought of the thing her mother had told her every first day of school, including the day they’d dropped her off at King’s Cross. Start as you mean to go on. And Hermione meant to stand firm. She had spent six years of school trying to just avoid Malfoy and his lackeys. She’d been young then, afraid that anything she said would simply make the torment worse, would draw others in sharks to the smell of blood. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, the war had seen to that. And she would happily stand silent in this room until they both turned to dust if it meant keeping the upper hand. With Malfoy it had always been war, marriage would be no different.