Part Eight
Part Eight:
They stood in their stalemate for several long, silent seconds. His jaw ticked, Hermione’s frown deepened. Hermione thought they might have been stuck like that forever, two opposing statues, if an ember in the fireplace hadn’t snapped loudly, drawing both their eyes and breaking whatever spell had held them fast. A log had shifted in the fire, sending a burst of sparks up against the stone. Hermione wondered if they kept every fireplace in the home lit. It seemed the type of wasteful decadence a Malfoy was prone to. Perhaps they had an elf whose only responsibility was hauling firewood around. The fire settled back into its regular pattern of flames against the logs. With the moment over, she let her hand fall from the curtain, clutching the matching packet with both hands. Malfoy’s eyes flicked down to the papers and then back up to her face.
“So, Granger,” He said, shoulder leaning into the doorframe. “Are you going to tell me why you aren’t picking out floral arrangements and save the dates with Weasley right now, or shall I start making guesses?” Hermione’s stomach lurched. She was expecting the cruelty, of course, but the direction of his questioning knocked her off balance. She didn’t realize that her relationship with Ron had been widely known enough that it would have reached Malfoy’s ears. Then again, he’d addressed the letter this morning to the Burrow, so it must have been more than an educated guess. Guess or no guess, she couldn’t think of anyone in the world she’d want to talk about Ron with less than Draco Malfoy. How many times over the years had he mocked her for her school girl crush on Ron? He’d begun before she herself had even realized it was a crush. She could just picture his expression if she told him they weren’t together anymore. Not that it really mattered now, because even if they had been together before, they clearly wouldn’t be come next week.
His posture loosened slightly, mouth twisting from the hard line to the sort of impudent smirk she remembered well. He’d locked on to her discomfort, she realized. It was always a skill of his, to hone in on whatever thing she most wanted to avoid. “Let’s see,” He said, in mock concentration. “If I was a betting man, I’d wager that once he was faced with the prospect of being shackled to you for life, he went ahead and turned in his wand before he even finished reading the Ministry release.” Hermione felt her cheeks get hot, the anger a tangible blush. She wasn’t going to dignify him with a response. Her relationship, or lack thereof, was none of his fucking business, that was for sure. He was undeterred by her silence, moving further into the room to flop down onto one of the couches, propping a leg up onto the coffee table.
“Or,” he continued “Is it just that the ministry doesn’t consider Blood Traitors to be Pure Blood enough to qualify? But that wouldn’t fare well for Potter and his Weasley either, and I doubt they’d do anything to hurt our Golden Boy.” Hermione felt her anger rising, a low boil. This is what he wanted, she realized. He wanted her mad. Maybe that was his plan, to prove how miserable they’d be so that she’d rather give up her magic than be stuck with him. It was tempting. She took a steadying breath and reminded herself of last night’s decision. This would only be temporary. She’d find a solution that let her keep her magic, and her friends, and not keep Malfoy. She just had to buy herself a little time. As much as she may have wanted to, slinging insults back and forth wouldn’t get her any closer to where she needed to be. So, with the resignation to choose the higher road for this particular interaction, she moved close enough to toss the matching packet onto the coffee table by his foot. She stayed standing, letting the empty couch stand between them like a tufted barricade. Sitting across felt too intimate, but this way, at least, she could see his face clearly. She was loath to admit it, but here in the dim room with the gold light from the fire licking up his throat and catching on his cheekbones, she couldn’t deny that it was a nice face. Sharp, and cruel, yes, but if he were a better man, she’d probably even call it a handsome face.
“Just sign the forms, Malfoy.” She said, before her mind could betray her any further. He made no move to reach for the papers.
“Did I hit a nerve?” He asked, grinning a pouncing cat kind of grin, like she was the prey. “You’re the one that came here, no need to be snippy.”
“You’re the one that summoned me.” Hermione spit. “Which, by the way, I didn’t appreciate. I’m not a dog you can whistle for.” He hummed at that as he finally reached for the papers, sounding almost bored as he flipped through them.
“Yes, it does seem like the Ministry is making that point very clear with this whole marriage law, aren’t they?”
“If it’s so terrible for you, you could always opt out. I bet there are loads of places you could go live and hate muggle-borns to your heart’s content. If money’s the issue, I’ll happily pay for your Portkey.” He scoffed at Hermione’s mention of money.
“I think we both know which of us would need a loan for an international Portkey.” He said, not looking up from the page in front of him. “Speaking of your financial destitution, should I assume that in this section here,” he tapped on the page, “we will be selecting the Manor as the place of residence.” Hermione stiffened. She’d looked over the paperwork, but not closely enough apparently. It was obvious, once he mentioned it, that the Ministry would expect them to live together, but that had all felt rather abstract until she was here in this house. The thought of staying here, of having to sleep here, felt like a practical joke instead of her sad reality.
“You know what they say about assuming.” She managed to get out, her voice sounding a bit strangled, even to her own ears.
“Shall I write the Burrow then?” He said, clearly calling her bluff. “We’ll all live together with Weasley's parents? Care for them as they age?”
“I’m living in Grimmauld Place, actually.” She said, so uncomfortable with the image of Malfoy sitting at the Weasley’s table that it just slipped out. His eyes sparkled at the piece of information, the smirk returning.
“Ah, so things with Weasley were cold before the announcement then? Interesting. But my point still stands.” He said, “The Manor has plenty of space in which to avoid each other, and there is absolutely nothing I’d despise more than constantly running into you in a little row house.” Hermione hated to admit it, but he had a point. Not only was Grimmauld place a temporary solution for her, but as disgusting as she found this place, it was certainly big enough to avoid Malfoy for as long as she needed to find a loophole or a reversal of the law.
“Fine.” She muttered. “As long as I get a room as far from you as possible.”
“Obviously.” He snapped, and scribbled onto the page with a quill he seemed to pull from thin air. “Do you still have that terrible cat? It’ll have to stay upstairs, my mother is allergic.”
“That’s fine.” Hermione said, distracted by the mention of Narcissa Malfoy. After Lucius’ trial, there had been precious little in the press about Narcissa. She’d sort of just faded away, dissolving sugar in the rain that no one really paid much mind too. Hermione, on occasion, had seen a piece about Malfoy in the gossip magazines. Some little story about the Slytherin’s of her year as they tried to assimilate back into wizard culture. But there was never a word about Narcissa. Harry had received a letter from her, back right after the war, but beg as they all might, he never told them what was in it.
“Granger!” Malfoy snapped, and Hermione realized he’d said her name several times before she’d been pulled from her train of thought. “You have to sign this too.” He said sharply, waving his wand and the papers floating into the no man's land between them. “It’s the part that certifies we’re signing the intent to marry of our own free will.”
“I’d hardly call it free will.” Hermione muttered, more to herself, as she brought her wand to the page to leave her magic signature in the space provided.
“Like I said, I’d be more than happy if you didn’t sign.”
“I could say the same to you.” Hermione said, folding the signed forms back along their creases from the envelope. She was surprised at how little fight he was putting up. Sure he was being snarky, but compared to what she’d expected, this was nothing. It’s almost like he wasn’t trying to convince her to opt out and leave. But that would be a crazy thought.
“What?” Malfoy asked, as he pushed himself up off the couch. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m just surprised you actually signed it.” Hermione said, “I’m a Mudblood after all.” The word stung against her tongue. She watched his expression as she said it, but it was like staring at stone. Nothing moved, not a twitch of the eyebrows, not flattening of the lips, not even a blink. She pressed harder, her curiosity overtaking. “In fact, you’ve made it clear over the years that I’m your least favorite of all Mudbloods. All people even, perhaps. So I just don’t understand how you would ever let yourself get trapped with me. Not when there are exit options available to you.” His eyes narrowed, just the tiniest big, a tightening around the edges that made miniscule wrinkles feather out towards his eyebrows.
“I could ask you the same question.” He said slowly. Hermione shrugged, trying to force a level of casualness into her voice that she wasn’t feeling.
“I trusted the Ministry, and clearly there was some catastrophic mistake. And I’m trusting that in time it will all be made right.” His eyebrows rose at this, mouth opening slightly in shock. Was he really not expecting her to fight this, even after the marriage was finalized? “You on the other hand, give off more of a ‘run away when it gets hard’ kind of vibe. So why are you toughing it out now?” Before he could answer her, if he’d been planning to answer at all, there was a crack from the opposite side of the room and the same house elf from earlier appeared, the flour finally wiped off her face. The elf bowed her head in apology.
“Terribly sorry to interrupt, Sir.”
“Out with it.” Malfoy said sharply and the elf’s head bobbed again.
“Breakfast is ready, Sir. The Mistress is requesting a tray in her room, but Pip doesn’t know if Master Draco would like the table set for two or if Pip should set aside a tray for later.” The elf, Pip, shot Hermione a look that very much said she didn’t want to have to lay her a place for breakfast. Hermione agreed with that.
“One place is fine.” Malfoy said quickly. “We’re done here anyway.” First he summoned her and now he was dismissing her. Hermione wanted to slap him. How long could she possibly survive in this house without murdering Malfoy? She doubted she’d last long. The elf disapperated and Hermione glared at the spot where she’d been.
“I won’t put these in the post until tomorrow,” Hermione said, giving the folded papers a little shake “just in case you change your mind about all of this and want to opt out.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Malfoy said, moving past her, back to the doorway. They were mirrors of their earlier standoff, Malfoy in the door, Hermione at the window. “I may hate you, Granger, and you are definitely the worst of all Muggle Borns I’ve had the displeasure of meeting, but at least I know what I’m getting into. What’s that saying?” He said, tucking his wand back into his pocket and taking a step backwards through the door and into the hall. “Better the devil you know.” And then his back was to her and he was stalking down the hall towards the sound of dishes clinking. Pip sounded busy, and no other elf appeared to escort her out, so she fumbled with the lock on the front door herself. She was so distracted on her walk back down the path towards where the anti-apparition wards ended, that she barely even felt the icy wind. He’d called her a devil, Hermione wasn’t surprised by that. The thing that had left her reeling, surprised enough that she had to take several steadying breaths before apparating for fear of splinching, was that whatever else was going on with Malfoy, given the opportunity, he hadn’t called her a Mudblood.