Chapter Text
PART I.
GOOD INTENTIONS
It was a much more polite refusal than the one she had expected. After all, she wasn’t a common unwanted customer. She was the unwanted customer, who just this year had organised two famous campaigns calling for a boycott of this very restaurant. As a result of her action, the Round Table had lost many wealthy regulars. Including the Nott family, several members of whom were on the make in media and politics. None of them wanted to risk their freshly cleared names for a perfectly cooked steak.
The owners of the Round Table prided themselves on the fact that, despite the changing times, they strictly followed all wizards’ traditions, even those no longer deemed proper. Apart from a few wizard employees whose work required direct contact with customers, the staff consisted entirely of elf slaves or Non-Humans whose forms of employment were not legally regulated. There were no official client guidelines; however, only those who had the appropriate affiliations and connections were allowed into the restaurant. Not to mention, jokes about Muggles and Muggle-borns were a part of the daily agenda there.
“I have a reservation,” Hermione said.
The receptionist didn’t even blink. He was still wearing a polite facial expression, but his gaze revealed his real thoughts. She could have confunded the door (enchanted to repel any Muggle-born), but that didn’t change the fact that in this world she hadn’t been anonymous for a very long time. Thanks to Rita Skeeter (and a few other journalists who at least didn’t point it out maliciously), everyone knew her blood status.
“Under what name, Madam?”
“Malfoy,” she replied without hesitation. “Or Fawley.”
The receptionist bowed over the magic guestbook. The royal blue elegant livery he was wearing looked expensive. It didn’t crease or wrinkle like Muggle clothes. Hermione instinctively straightened her own robe. The pearl dress she’d been wearing at Neville’s wedding seemed snobbish enough to blend in with the crowd when she’d looked at herself at home, but now she wasn’t so sure of it.
“Sorry, Madam, the reservation is for two particular wizards, and it does not include any witch —”
“There’s been a late change,” Hermione interrupted, tightening her grip on her wand. Confundus could have worked with the door, but the staff probably wore stronger protective charms. Not to mention, Hermione wasn’t a child any more. Some time ago, she realised how disgusting it was to use this type of magic on living beings. Yet she’d already been forced to use it once that day. “Mr. Fawley won’t show up, I’m his replacement.”
“Unfortunately, neither Mr. Malfoy nor Mr. Fawley informed us about such a change to the reservation. Please, be so kind as to wait a moment. We shall reach out to Mr. Fawley and —”
“No need to trouble him,” Hermione broke in hastily. “I’ll just wait for Mal — err, Mr. Malfoy. He’ll explain everything.”
Or he’d scowl and tell the staff to kick her out, given that he’d ignored all twelve letters she’d sent him this week. She hoped she would get to the table before she had to confront him, but it was rather wishful thinking. She should have been glad she had managed to get inside without being cursed. Unlike Mr. Palmer (a wizard for only three generations), who had once tried to eat brunch here. The door handle had dissolved his hand and part of his forearm (the owners had got away with a story about an incompetent specialist restoring their protective wards).
She moved away from the reception area but didn’t sit on any of the thin-legged velvet armchairs perched further into the gold-drenched foyer. She was afraid that if she stepped back from the doorway, she would overlook Malfoy. The receptionist came across as somebody who would hide Malfoy from her on purpose.
She slipped her coat off her shoulders, and the movement in the huge mirror next to her caught her eye. She knew the outfit was bold, especially by the prudish standards of the wizarding world. Maybe even too daring to be called, in all conscience, smart. If anyone had asked her, Hermione would have certainly denied it, knowing that such things shouldn’t have mattered to her, but she couldn’t lie to herself. The choice of this outfit was not driven by decorum. Or at least not only. What genuinely drove Hermione was the desire to show her school bully that there was nothing about her to denigrate and mock her over any more.
However, at Neville’s wedding, Hermione had been a few pounds lighter. On a slim body, all those cutouts had looked only slightly less indecent than on the shop mannequin, and even Neville’s grandmother had admitted that Hermione had looked really nice. But now the shiny, pearly straps were too narrow to give her breasts a safe shelter, and the slippery material hugged her backside so tightly that it left very little to the imagination. There was a significant difference between a bold, stylish outfit and a slutty dress. Somehow, those few inconspicuous pieces of cake and bowls of ice cream that helped her deal with the recent stress turned her tasteful robe into the latter. And the last thing Hermione wanted was to look like a Muggle prostitute in front of Draco fucking Malfoy.
The enchanted reflection turned around, giving Hermione a perfect view of her backside. She could have sworn that the dress hadn’t been even a quarter as vulgar when tried on at home. (Although she had to admit she hadn’t looked at herself too closely, relying on the old photos from Neville’s wedding.) The mirror Hermione looked over her shoulder and gave the real one a seductive, predatory smile. Hermione was seeing something like this on her own face for the very first time.
She reached for her robe again, but didn’t have a chance to cover herself, as the bell at the front door rang that very moment. She instinctively looked towards it. She was standing directly in front of the entrance, so it was no wonder that her eyes met the ones of the entering blond wizard. There was no point any more in trying to hide the slutty dress and pretending to be a proper dull lady, so she stopped her attempts.
She hadn’t seen Malfoy for six years. Since the day she testified at his trial. Or rather, she hadn’t had any closer interaction with him because of course, they had attended the same parties, but they had never spoken to each other. She couldn’t remember ever being closer to him than a room’s length away. Hermione made sure to keep Ron out of trouble, and that meant avoiding Malfoy (not that she was complaining, she didn’t crave his company either).
There were also those breakfasts when his lousy gob ruined the sweetness of her morning pancakes. He had to pay-off the Prophet a lot because it loved to write about him, treating his Death Eater past as something interesting and harmless. After the trial, he’d become the hero of several articles about a “reformed bad boy” (the authors ignored the fact that Malfoy was not cleared of all the charges against him). To make matters worse, readers quickly picked up on and coloured this narrative. At first, it was more like a joke, but eventually Malfoy transformed into one of the public’s darlings, although apart from his father’s money and the most irritating grin in the world, he had nothing to boast about.
He knew how to deal with the media, though. By acting the role of someone charming, playful and interesting.
“It doesn’t matter what you do,” Ginny used to say whenever Malfoy appeared in the Prophet. “As long as you’re attractive, lovable and don’t let anyone catch you red-handed, you can easily get away with almost everything.”
All of this gave her some idea of what to expect, and yet subconsciously, she still expected to see the cocky bastard with slicked-back hair from school. Or that boy with the gaunt face and hunched shoulders she remembered from the trial. Not the adult version of Malfoy from the newspapers.
Time was on his side. Although it was not a spectacular metamorphosis (as in the case of Parvati Patil who returned from a trip to Asia in the body of a completely different woman, literally). He still had the same sharp facial features, fair blond hair, a piercing gaze and pretty lips curled in a very familiar malicious smile. But somehow, everything looked better than the last time she saw him. Maybe because he was taller than she remembered and his body no longer reminded her of a teenage boy? The way he carried himself, as if everyone and everything was subservient to him, couldn’t be the reason for it, because she was familiar with that superior pose from Hogwarts very well, and it had never impressed her at all. Quite the opposite, actually.
He didn’t scowl at the sight of her, as he usually had at school. He didn’t show at all that he recognised her as he slowly eyed her up and down. Hermione felt goose bumps form on her arms. She resisted the need to fold her arms across her chest. Instead, she took a brisk step forward, and then another one and another, until she was standing in his way. Malfoy almost bumped into her, apparently believing to the wire that Hermione would meekly move aside before a collision. It wasn’t a comfortable position for her neck, but she didn’t back down. Malfoy focused his eyes on her face again. Something flashed in them, his lips quivered, and soon he was sneering in that familiar way, making her wonder if the reason he hadn’t reacted earlier wasn’t because he truly hadn’t recognised her.
“Your pathetic boycotts didn’t work out, so now you’re standing in the hall and deterring guests?” he asked mockingly, drawing out the syllables. “Maybe this way you’ll finally achieve something. The sight of a Mudblood makes many decent wizards lose their appetite. What luck, I’ve got a strong stomach.”
“You didn’t reply to my letters.”
“I don’t open anything with a Weasley name on it, Granger. Besides, I live in a decent house. My servants know where the place for a Mudblood’s correspondence is.”
He clearly enjoyed insulting her with impunity. Something like that might have hurt her if it had come from someone who mattered to her: Ron, Ginny, Harry... But in this case, well, the manner of speech reflected the cultural propriety of the message sender, not its recipient.
“That’s no longer my name.”
The right corner of his mouth rose even higher, deepening the dimple in his cheek and thus the disproportion between the two sides of the already crooked grin.
“Once a Mudblood, always a Mudblood. Did you know that in a traditional magical marriage, the weaker partner used to take the surname of the stronger one? In the past, they used to fight a duel over this. Did Weasley tell you about it, or did he decide on his own that he was the stronger one?”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“I don’t follow stupid wizarding traditions that glorify violence. Especially those —”
“Interesting. Have you decided to support the Muggle patriarchy, instead?”
“— that died out at least three generations ago,” she finished emphatically. “I want to talk.”
Malfoy sighed in mock regret. “You’re unlucky. I have an appointment.”
He tried to pass her, but Hermione was quicker. She managed to grab his elbow and stop him in his tracks. “Yes, you do. With me. Fawley won’t come.”
He chuckled.
“And here I was, thinking twelve letters were the peak of your desperation. What did you bribe him with?”
“Nothing. He just thinks it’s Tuesday today. He’ll call you tomorrow to apologise and ask to postpone your appointment.”
Fawley didn’t have the heart she could soften, so she didn’t even try. If she had failed, she would have had to modify his memory, and she knew from experience that Obliviate had far more unpleasant consequences than Confundus.
Suddenly, Malfoy leaned over her. His scent hit her. Not as strong as she expected. Most men’s cologne had this powerful, irritating fragrance that gave her a headache. Ron only used the hypoallergenic ones that didn’t actually smell. Hermione was somewhat surprised to learn that Malfoy’s were gentle enough not to repel her. They actually smelled nice. Probably because they cost a fortune. She’d heard that the most expensive magical perfumes were based on Amortentia to automatically evoke positive feelings in the one inhaling.
She resisted the urge to step back as he reached out and, without touching her skin, brushed some of her hair back to reveal her ear. He leaned in and said to it, “It’s very nasty magic.”
The warm breath warmed up something more than just her cheek. She had better lower the temperature quickly.
“I’m a very nasty witch, so it all works out.”
“Not as much as I would like to.”
He yanked his hand away from her grasp and walked up to the reception desk. He didn’t say hello. He only gave his name, as though it could open all doors for him. Well, it actually did. At least when it came to the Round Table, because as soon as Malfoy had closed his mouth, a large moon-shaped opening materialised in the wall. Malfoy stopped in the doorway, tilted his head slightly, and looked at her over his shoulder.
“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, Granger?”
Hermione caught the sleek receptionist’s eye and, unable to help herself, gave him a wide smile. The mask of politeness fell away. He looked genuinely terrified, as if he couldn’t imagine anything worse than letting a Muggle-born into the room.
As soon as they went under the golden, richly decorated portal, two identically dressed witches appeared at their side. One of them took their outer robes (Hermione handed over hers reluctantly, knowing that she was losing her only shield against unwanted glances), and the other led them to the table. Malfoy had booked a separate room for privacy, which wasn’t surprising, given that he’d thought he would be discussing his shady businesses with Fawley. But she’d still prefer one of those tables in the public area altered with damping charms. Sitting alone with Malfoy where no one could see or hear her didn’t sound like a wise thing to do. On the other hand, at least this way she could hope that her visit at the Round Table would go unnoticed. Besides, to be honest, she didn’t think Malfoy was a real threat to her. Even though he got away with a lot of things, he must have known that he was not as untouchable as many believed.
And, of course, he was still afraid of Harry.
The private dining room was obscenely large, given that there was only one round marble table and two heavy velvet armchairs reminiscent of a baroque castle. She couldn’t tell where the ceiling started, so it was probably enchanted to make the room look even more spacious. The walls and floor were covered with slabs of dark marble with a spider web of shiny gold dripstones; charmed to wander across the floor in a gentle, soothing rhythm. Hermione couldn’t identify the source of the light, but it must have been magically controlled, because after the waitress left, Malfoy waved his wand, and it became so bright that she could see the faint, single freckles on his nose. If she was able to see him so clearly, then her flaws must have been in plain sight for him.
“You’re dazzling me,” she said, shifting in the armchair and trying to find a position where her nipples weren’t at risk of popping out from — as she suddenly realised — the definitely-too-narrow strips of fabric.
She expected her voice to echo, but it didn’t.
“I like to follow the conversation on the interlocutor’s face.”
She wasn’t sure where he thought her face was since he was staring straight at her cleavage as he said it.
He dimmed the lighting, though. He reached for the menu, bound in shiny black leather, and began browsing through it with deliberate slowness. At that moment, Hermione became conscious of the fact that she’d forgotten to renew the nipple-concealing charm on her dress. She leaned further over the table and rested her elbows on the counter to hide them.
“You’re lucky I feel like eating a course that only this restaurant serves. I listen to you until I finish my meal and not a second longer. Although if you’re petitioning on Kingsley’s behalf, you’re wasting your time. Yaxley didn’t buy my support.” He tilted his head slightly to the side. Hermione noticed that not a strand of his hair moved, so although the fashionable hairstyle looked natural (unlike those times when he’d slicked it with some sleeky gel), it must have been a spell that held it in place. “He did, actually. But the point is, he didn’t have to. I would support him anyway. Unlike Kingsley, he has relatively healthy views.”
Hermione snorted.
Thanks to his father’s money and the unexpected fame that the Prophet provided him, Malfoy somehow had become one of the most important arbiters on the political scene, even though he meant nothing and was not involved in politics in the strictest sense. He was active in business, investing in various types of projects, getting richer and richer, and expanding his influence. As far as Hermione knew, he employed a team of people much brighter than him who made all smart decisions. All he had to do was sign the papers and the only thing he needed to worry about was satisfying his own whims. Two years ago, out of the blue, he had bought Chudley Cannons. Ron joked about even the players not wanting to play for such a shithead. That season, they had brought up the rear of the league for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. This must have discouraged Malfoy, as he’d quickly sold the club. Chudley Cannons returned to the top the next year. Without him.
Oddly enough, the Prophet did not mention this coincidence.
Malfoy’s political support meant not only a huge amount of money for the election campaign, but also widespread influence. Hermione was well aware of its importance. In the past, Kingsley had repeatedly used Harry’s fame like that. However, Harry’s obvious distaste for newspapers and the media, combined with several extremely unfavourable statements, led to a waning of his popularity. He was still mentioned on some occasions, such as the anniversary of the war or some significant changes in his life (like James’s birth), but few people cared what he thought these days. In fact, there were more and more sceptics who doubted that it was Harry who defeated Voldemort (and what was even more unlikely using Expelliarmus). Hermione often met with suggestions that Voldemort had actually been finished off by someone else who had shot him in the back with an Avada, and Kingsley had made Harry a hero because he’d needed him in his election campaign.
Only six years had passed since the end of the war, but in people’s minds, it might as well have been sixty.
During the first year after the war, they had thought they had finally won. They were under the impression that defeating Voldemort meant a triumph over pure-blood politics. However, even though the majority of the wizarding community did not support Voldemort’s actions and welcomed the news of his failure with open arms, it didn’t mean that they desired change. They had been in a privileged position for so long that it was no wonder some of them didn’t want to give up that for the sake of some stupid ideals of equality. Apart from radicals, no one may have wanted to kill or abuse Muggles, Muggle-borns or Non-Humans, but giving them the right to equal treatment was simply not in most wizarding families’ favour. Wizards quickly split into two camps: supporters of egalitarianism and followers of pure-blood ideology. Obviously, Malfoy was popular among the latter.
Hermione hadn’t retired from public life like Harry did. She was currently one of the key members of Kingsley’s campaign team. But she had never been liked, even as the saviour of the world. The wizarding community expected her to adjust to their way of life. Maybe they could forgive her a few reformations, but not a complete revolution. Although part of society understood the need for fundamental changes, the vast majority considered Hermione the wizarding world’s enemy. The nasty Muggle girl who had used deceit to get into their world, and now wanted to force them to live by Muggle standards (as if Hermione thought Muggles were so perfect!).
Kingsley rarely allowed Hermione to speak in public. Somehow, all of her words seemed to sound better when someone else said them. Usually it was him who presented her projects and ideas.
That didn’t stop Hermione from voicing her opinion whenever she felt the need. Which was very often, because — as her dad used to say with tenderness — a big mouth ran in her mum’s family.
That’s why she couldn’t just ignore Malfoy’s statement at this very moment, even though she probably should have.
“I cannot imagine how anyone with at least a little bit of common sense could support such a sick and backward ideology,” she remarked.
Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly and turned another page on the menu as if he was actually looking for something, even though earlier he had clearly claimed that he was going to go for a specific dish.
“It’s not my fault that you lack imagination and wits to understand something so simple.”
“You don’t really mean that. Your ego wouldn’t allow you to acknowledge that a dim-witted witch charms better than you.”
“And do you? Every year, I end up on at least one list of the most charming wizards in some rag. I haven’t seen you in any of them. On the contrary, I’m pretty sure last year the Right Wand named you The Most Annoying Hag of the Year.”
She rolled her eyes. “At least I don’t have to pay anyone to be listed. You know what kind of charming I’m referring to. Do you think you could beat me in a duel?”
“Sure.”
She raised her eyebrows doubtfully, trying not to laugh. “In a fair one?”
“I thought we were talking about a realistic scenario. I didn’t know you were into philosophy, Granger.”
“You believe that my magical skills exceed those of yours, Ron’s and other pure-blood wizards’. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have suggested before that I’m stronger than Ron. And at the same time, you think that Muggle-borns are an ‘inferior race of wizards’? That they shouldn’t take up senior positions? This doesn’t make any sense!”.
“Au contraire. Let me enlighten you.”
He finally looked at her, and since she was still leaning over the table, they locked eyes from a much closer distance than she was comfortable with. She fought the urgent need to look away.
“I don’t think being a Mudblood has anything to do with magical skills. A Mudblood can do magic better than a pure-blood wizard. You are proof of it. A Mudblood may be more intelligent than a pure-blood wizard and can have talents that they don’t. What’s more, I don’t believe that all Muggles are idiots. Frankly speaking, I don’t think any intelligent traditionalist believes in this shit. It’s a political ploy to buy mindless voters like Goyle.”
“So? What’s your problem? Are you so afraid that one day I will disempower you? Do you fear so much you will lose your gold and privileges as soon as Kingsley starts dealing with fraudsters like you? Can’t you openly admit that you and I are equal?”
He cocked an eyebrow mockingly. “We are not. I was born better.”
For a moment, she was just staring at him. Then she let out an uncontrolled giggle. “I was fooled into thinking that you were going somewhere with this gibberish.”
“I’m better at being in control,” he specified, as if that made any difference. “Do you know what epigenetic memory is, Granger?”
“Do you have superiority stored in your cellular memory? Your parents must have read you really great bedtime stories.”
“Certainly better than yours. In mine, the people in the pictures were not petrified.” He seemed very pleased with himself. She opened her mouth to tell him about films, but he didn’t give her a chance. “And yes. I do have dominance stored in my cells. Just like you do submission. Do you know why some people freeze when a carriage is rushing towards them?”
“Because it’s likely to be charmed the same way as the Knight Bus,” she mocked, knowing that this wasn’t the answer he expected from her. “They’re in no danger.”
He gritted his teeth. “Few means of transport are capable of avoiding an obstacle like the Knight Bus. It’s a very complicated spell.”
She sighed. She couldn’t help it. She still liked to shine, even if there was no professor ready to score her points. “It’s all because our ancestors lived among the tall grasses of the savannah. At the first sight of danger, they stopped so that the predator wouldn’t see them. It was such a traumatic experience that it unlocked the expression of a specific gene, which once unlocked was passed on to their descendants.”
“Exactly,” Malfoy said in a completely different voice.
She didn’t like how pleased she felt hearing it. She didn’t want Malfoy to praise her. Especially for saying things that supported his sick views. She wished she had bitten her swotty tongue.
“The same goes for Mudbloods and pure-blood wizards. Back in the days, when magic wasn’t a secret yet, there were no restrictions on magic performed on average Muggles as long as it didn’t cause death or permanent injury. What do you think happened to the Muggles who crossed wizards?”
“If they had met your ancestors, probably nothing good.”
Malfoy rewarded her retort with another sneer. “You are very naïve, Granger, if you think that only wizards like me are prone to violence and power abuse.” He returned his gaze to the open menu and ostentatiously turned the page. “Anyway, Muggles quickly learned that what protected them best from suffering was obedience. They passed this knowledge on to their children using cellular memory. This is the legacy you got from them, Granger. You may be a witch, and there may even have been some wizards among your ancestors, but your epigenetic heritage is a Muggle one. Therefore, no matter what abilities and talents you have, no matter how many pure-blood wizards you could defeat in a fair duel, no matter how powerful and brilliant you are, you intuitively feel that you are inferior to me.”
Hermione snorted.
“And because of this intuitive submission, I punched you in the face in the third grade? Is that the reason why I want to make changes in your political system, riddled with corruption and conservatism? Or maybe my submissive nature gave me the ambition and courage to stand up to fucking Voldemort?”
“No.”
He looked at her again. But her eyes couldn’t hold his gaze for long. He looked down. Hermione realised that the discussion had occupied her so much that she had forgotten about the nipples clearly showing under her dress. She had carelessly exposed them when she lowered her hands to the armrests. She considered crossing her arms, but that would be too ostentatious. On the other hand, she didn’t want to suggest that he was allowed to look, as it obviously made her uncomfortable. Weird. Until now, she had been sure that his attention would bring her nothing except stupid, childish satisfaction. She would have never guessed it sent unpleasant shivers down her spine.
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down under his fair skin. The grey eyes blinked, and a moment later they were back on hers. There was no trace of guilt on Malfoy’s pale face, not even a slight blush on his cheeks, even though Hermione caught him staring. Although, judging from the way he was looking at her, he may have wanted to be caught.
He ran his tongue across his bottom lip, leaving a shiny trail there. Hermione unconsciously repeated the gesture, feeling her throat have gone dry from talking. She reached for a crystal carafe of water sitting on the table.
“No,” he repeated. “You changed your surname to ‘Weasley’ because of this intuitive submission. Why would a witch like you give up her surname marrying someone like Weasley?” He spat out the last word with such contempt as if he hadn’t been referring to a war hero but to someone like Greyback (who also had been convicted of multiple brutal child rapes; one of those trials that Hermione had left in the middle, feeling nauseous).
“Because it simply doesn’t matter to me? And maybe I was tired of being asked by idiots like you whether I am a relative of Hector Dagworth-Granger.”
She took a large gulp of liquid from the glass. The lime and mint made the water taste wonderfully refreshing. Hermione almost immediately chastised herself for the thought. It doesn’t matter that the restaurant served the perfect water if slaves were responsible for it.
“And that’s exactly what differentiates you from any pure-blood witch, Granger. It would matter to them. No one gives up their family name on their own volition, because it’s degrading. This is why Mudbloods shouldn’t take up senior positions or have equal rights to us. How can you trust the voice and judgement of a wizard whose nature is to be submissive? How can you want someone like that to rule your country? A leader must be strong, steadfast and dominant. Otherwise, the nation he leads is doomed to failure.”
“Says who? This is not the description of the leader I would want for my country. But let’s assume I’m wrong about that and such a person would truly be a great leader. These are supposed to be traits that define pure-bloods for... what reason exactly? Do you also explain this with cellular memory?”
“Partially. Domination runs in our blood.”
Hermione chuckled with amusement. “That’s quite brave of you. Using the first person.”
“Domination runs in our blood,” he repeated. “Not only because our ancestors experienced encounters with Muggles that proved their supremacy, and passed the memory of this on to next generations. It is also about cultivating the tradition according to which wizards have chosen their spouses since ancient times. Do you know what two traits the English Celts particularly valued?”
And he smiled in a way that made Hermione assume the question was sheer courtesy, because they both knew that indeed, Hermione did know the answer. That made her feel rebellious. She twirled on her finger one of the curls near her face and said innocently: “Gentleness and trust?”
The stupid smile disappeared from his face. It crawled onto Hermione’s lips.
“Strength and beauty. This is what traditionalists have been looking for in their partners. This brings us to the fact that all members of pure-blood families have at least a dozen generations of power and domination in their genes.”
“You know, there’s one thing that really fascinated me about your speach.”
Malfoy raised his eyebrows slightly. “Only one? I’m disappointed.”
“You feel the need to rationalise your racism so much that you’ve gone so far as to seek answers to your prejudices in science. You select from it what suited your sick views and came up with something that, I admit, seems to make sense at first glance, but in fact it’s just a load of rubbish. You admit that I and every Muggle-born can have wizarding descendants, don’t you?”
Malfoy frowned, but as she suspected, he nodded slowly.
“So explain to me, if after so many generations of only Muggles in my family, the magic gene manifested in me, how do you know that I didn’t inherit, as you beautifully called it, epigenetic wizarding heritage, too?”
“Because they are two completely different things.”
“Really? Because to me, it looks like at some point you realised how silly your own views were, but because you are unable to admit, even to yourself, that you made a mistake, you are trying to find smart arguments at a push. How do you explain my ambition and utter reluctance to submit to anyone? I don’t feel submissive at all. Especially to you. On the contrary, I think you could lick my boots.”
He winced. “You don’t want to understand me, and that’s why you don’t, Granger. For example, during a theoretical crisis, would you give yourself the authority to act or would you wait until others decided that you deserve it?”
She brushed her hair out of her face impatiently. “It’s impossible to answer such a question hypothetically. Each situation is different, and this is such a generic outline —”
“Goyle wouldn’t even hesitate, Granger.” He closed the menu and asked with irritation, “Are you going to order anything?”
“No.”
“Did you take not only Weasley’s name but also his poverty? I want to see how bad your table manners are. I’ll pay for you.” He said it in such a tone that even if the problem laid in her finances, she would rather starve to death than let him buy her anything.
“I have money. This place abuses elves. I’m not going to eat anything that was obtained through slave labour.”
“It didn’t bother you at Hogwarts.”
“It did. But then I had no choice. I was a teenager, and I could either starve to death or force myself to participate in this awful custom. But now, as an adult, I have a choice. And I’m going to benefit of this right”.
“Whatever, Granger.”
No sooner had he made a gesture with his wand than the door opened, and the witch who’d shown them the way to the table walked through it. Hermione hadn’t noticed it before, but now she realised the witch was very young and pretty, just like the receptionist.
“Are you ready to place your order, sir?”
“Yes. For her…” Malfoy looked at Hermione, and his lips twisted in a malicious smirk. “…nothing. She’s not hungry.”
“I am against slavery, and the owners of this restaurant take advantage of slaves.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes and gave the waitress one of his smarmy smiles. “And that’s why she came to dinner here instead of Jolly Sam’s. There, forbid Merlin, she would be waited on. I’ll have the Rôti de côte de fléreur. Tell the chef the animal’s fur must be red.”
He looked at Hermione as if he expected her to comment on that. It wasn’t the first time Hermione had had to deal with a pampered snob, so his whim didn’t surprise her. Just last month, she’d had a business dinner with a wizard who demanded the shark fin stewed in mandrake juice, despite the widely known poisonous properties of such a combination. As he himself admitted, he liked to get a little nobbled before the dessert. (He said it in such a sleazy way that Hermione left before the dinner was over, worried about what, or rather who, was going to be the dessert.)
“And a bottle of red wine. Maybe something classic — let’s say Château Pétrus. Of course, the goblin-made one. Not the elf-made piss I got last time.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“No. I’ll skip appetisers and dessert, I don’t have company that would encourage me to do otherwise. Unless you changed your mind?”
He gave Hermione a mocking gaze. She shook her head. Rather for the waitress than for him.
“You don’t speak French, do you?” Malfoy asked after she’d left.
He reached for the carafe. Hermione noticed that in the meantime, he had rolled up his shirt sleeves. On his forearm there was the Dark Mark, as dark as it must have been the day it was burned. Most ex-Death Eaters let their embarrassing marks fade naturally after the war. Some people even tried to remove them (unsuccessfully) or hide them under other tattoos. But not Malfoy. He flashed his as if it were an expensive designer gadget. He had to extra darken it and improve its contours to be so visible without Voldemort.
To think that six years ago she was so sure that he regretted that part of his life, and he would want to get rid of every memory of his service to Voldemort. How naïve of her.
On Malfoy’s pale skin, the Dark Mark looked even more pretentious to her: darker and larger than she remembered, with a particularly ugly scaly reptilian head and a tacky skull, the likes of which Muggle children might find in their packets of crisps. It would be a laughable tattoo if it didn’t scare her so much. Sometimes she still had nightmares about it. About the same mark on the slender arm of a woman whose long, clawed fingers were gripping the handle of a silver knife.
She shook her head a little, trying to recall the question. Ah yes. Her French skills. “I know just a few basic phrases.” Malfoy clearly wanted to chat, but she figured she’d already wasted enough time on silly, pointless discussions to satisfy him. It’s time to get down to business. “I didn’t meet you because of Kingsley.”
“I know.” Malfoy took a sip of water from his glass. Hermione noticed vaguely that he was holding it properly: by the stem. “He’s aware there’s no point in sending a Mudblood to someone like me.”
“So why did you suggest the opposite earlier?”
He leaned back in his armchair and rocked his glass gently. Light sparkled on the crystal and on the signet rings adorning his slender fingers. He had annoyingly beautiful hands. The kind that the artists in Ginny’s kinky magazines liked to draw in the fingering pictures.
“I wanted to see your reaction.”
“To what?”
“To me saying Yaxley is a decent wizard. So? Why were you so desperate to meet me?”
Hermione took a breath and exhaled loudly through her nose. “Ron. Have you heard he’s in St Mungo’s?”
“No. I wish I had something to do with it.”
“He was cursed.”
“Very sad. What does this have to do with me?”
“The curse has the family seal on it. Yours.”
He laughed mirthlessly. He shifted so quickly that she flinched. He was now leaning slightly over the table, his head a bit crooked to the side, his grey eyes narrowing.
“And of course you concluded that I was behind it? Or do you think that my father managed to cast a curse from Azkaban, where you put him?” He drawled his last words angrily, as if he thought it was her fault that his father was a war criminal.
“No,” she replied, feeling a surge of strength at his loss of composure. “The curse was on one of the dark magic artefacts in an ex-Death Eater’s collection. The seal is at least two hundred years old, and the artefact’s magical trace indicates that the object had been lying there untouched for about half a century. Which excludes you from the circle of suspects. Ron was among the Aurors who searched the ex-Death Eater’s manor, and, well, he was unlucky to open a box that no one should have touched.”
“And you’re telling me this because...? Do you want to exemplify Aurors’ incompetence? Since your stupid husband is one of them, I’m not surprised by it at all.”
She gritted her teeth, holding back from responding to him with a similar insult. Given the current situation, it wasn’t the smartest idea.
“I need your help. In lifting the curse.”
Malfoy snorted. “You think it’s enough that some ancestor of mine cast it for me to know how to lift it?”
“Are you telling me that they didn’t pass this knowledge onto you using cellular memory?” she asked before she could bite her tongue.
“Very funny, Granger.”
“I heard that your family has a traditional ancestral library. If there are records of this curse anywhere in the world, they are supposed to be there. I would like you to grant me access to your collections or let me —”
“No.”
She became silent, surprised by such a definite refusal. They might not be friends, but they were talking about the life of the man who was not a complete stranger to him. Not to mention, she’d put in a good word for him six years ago.
“Have you already forgotten that Harry and I pleaded for your case? If it weren’t for us, your life would be completely different. Yours and your mother’s, because only Harry’s support saved her from sharing your father’s fate.”
“So what? Are you expecting a thank you letter? A bunch of flowers? If I’m not mistaken, my mother invited Potter to Malfoy Manor many times. It’s not my fault he turned down every invitation.”
Hermione winced. “It was a taunt, not a thank-you, and you know it. Neither of us would ever return to that place on our own volition. And, no, I don’t expect thanks. But since I need help now, I expect you to pay off your debt. Yours and your mother’s.”
Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. “What debt? I owe you, or Potter nothing. Nor does my mother.”
“Of course you do. We helped you after the war, and if it weren’t for us —”
“Granger, did my mother or I ask you or Potter for anything?”
She hesitated, then replied reluctantly: “Not directly, but —”
“Exactly,” he interrupted her. “Whatever you did, you did it of your own accord, because you obviously thought it was for the best. You may think otherwise now, but it’s not my fault. I did absolutely nothing to encourage you. You pleaded for my case because you thought you should have. I don’t remember you ever doing me any favour, and therefore I owe you nothing. Especially since I haven’t forgotten that all three of you, you, Potter and Weasley, testified against my father.”
She had no words for this insolence. Harry had testified that Malfoy’s mother had saved his life, although all she had cared about then was getting to her own son. At all costs, and conveniently for her, this price turned out to be saving the life of a war hero. Ron tried to talk Harry out of helping Narcissa Malfoy beat the charge. But both Harry and Hermione fell for her act as a suffering, loving mother. In the end, it turned out that Ron was right. No sooner had the newspapers stopped writing about her trial than Narcissa Malfoy became the patron and main founder of a kindergarten which “developed a traditional system of values”. From time to time, Hermione could read in the Prophet that according to Narcissa “some children are just more remarkable than others” and their educational methods “support the development of the right values.”
She tightened her fingers around the armchair’s edges. If she could go back in time, she wouldn’t have fallen for those hunched shoulders, the gaze of a lost boy, and the compulsive scratching of his forearm. Malfoy might have been just a kid back then, and perhaps he was lost, but even then, he was clearly a scumbag who didn’t deserve a second chance.
“So you won’t help me?” she asked, and even to her it sounded terribly pathetic. “Will you let a man die? I thought you weren’t a murderer.”
This was, of course, a huge exaggeration. Ron wasn’t dying, and according to the Mediwizards, the curse had been confined to his hand so quickly that it was unlikely to spread any further.
Malfoy leaned back and draped himself over the armchair comfortably. Hermione resisted the urge to lift her leg under the table and kick him straight in the exposed groin. Chaps like this really got under her skin. The men who tried to take up more space than they actually needed, as if they thought thus they demonstrated their power.
“I’m not killing anyone by just not giving a fuck about something. Don’t try these mind games with me unless you want to lose. Besides, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. What are you going to offer me, Granger? For my help?”
He was staring at her with a piercing gaze. Hermione didn’t want to play his game. If he was asking, there must have been something he wanted from her. “What would you like?”
He smirked, tapping his fingers on the armchair. The muscles on his forearm flexed, making the tattooed snake move.
“Maybe many things. Or maybe nothing. What’s your and Weasley’s favourite sex position?”
His expression didn’t change. He looked at her as if he’d asked her a normal question, about the weather or her favourite book.
“What?”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. In. What. Position. Does. Weasley. Usually. Fuck. You?”
“None of your business.”
“Yeah? And here I was, thinking you wanted my help…”
She hesitated. “If I answer you, will you help me?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe?”
Hermione clenched her fists. The Germans had the perfect word for a face like his. Das Backpfeifengesicht. A face that’s asking for a slap. “Missionary. Now will you give me access to your ancestral library?”
Malfoy tsked and shook his head. “It’s boring if you’re lying. Need some help? Do you like sitting? Standing? Do you prefer the doggy style? Cowgirl? Reverse cowgirl? I bet you’re often on top.”
“Yes,” she hissed, wanting to end this show as quickly as possible. She felt her cheeks getting red, which irritated her even more because Malfoy was as pale as ever and she wasn’t a thirteen-year-old brat to react like that. “I like being on top. Happy?”
“Mhm, I think this needs verification.”
“I can say for myself what I like and dislike, thank you very much.”
“I don’t question that. But don’t be so quick to choose your favourite packet of biscuits if you’ve only opened, how many? One packet? Two, if McLaggen wasn’t bragging and he did pop your cherry behind the One-Eyed Witch Statue? He said you had a cunt as loose as a divorcee, so Goyle and Crabbe started wondering if you could take them both at once.”
“What do you want from me? The diary of my sexual experiences that I would later find printed in the Prophet?”
“No. I would prefer something more practical. And personalised.” He swallowed, licked his lips, and offered: “Sleep with me, and in return, I will help you.”
This was wrong for many reasons, but the first one that came to her was: “You’re married. I’m married.”
“So? I’m not proposing to you, Granger. Come with me to Malfoy Manor tonight, let me fuck you, and I’ll let you use my library afterwards. How about that?”
“You must be kidding.”
“If it makes you laugh, but I’m not laughing.”
She didn’t manage to process his words when the food Malfoy had ordered appeared on the table. Juicy meat with crispy skin and an aroma so appetising that, before she could rationalise it, her mouth automatically watered.
“Want a bite?” Malfoy asked, clearly amused by her reaction.
This was enough to remember the origins of the dish.
“No.”
“Does it remind you of anyone?” Malfoy gestured to the plate in front of him.
“No.”
“It’s harder to tell without fur. Rôti de côte de fléreur isn’t too sophisticated a dish, but it tastes particularly sweet to me, because whenever I eat it, I think of your stupid cat. What was its name? Crookmuzzle?”
She wasn’t sure exactly what Malfoy had ordered. She knew that Rôti de côte meant roasted ribs, but the rest of the dish’s name meant nothing to her. Until now. Her bottom lip trembled.
“Crookshanks.”
“Its muzzle was crooked too. Has it died, or is it still alive?”
Her stomach twisted. Not because of hunger.
“Alive and protected by strong magic.”
Malfoy reached for the wine bottle. There were two slender-stemmed glasses, although Hermione hadn’t ordered anything. Watching Malfoy fill his own, she began to wonder if getting drunk wouldn’t help her get through this conversation. No elf participated in the production of this beverage, so if she drinks a bit, it doesn’t have to mean that she supports slavery, does it?
“Fancy a glass?”, he asked with a mocking smile, as if he’d just read her mind.
She scratched her nose, concealing her hand movement. “No.”
“Your loss.”
He put the bottle down and grabbed the cutlery. He supported the meat with a fork in his left hand and with a knife in his right one he cut off a small piece.
“I’m surprised you’re not feeling sick,” she said.
“Meat is meat. What’s the difference if it comes from a cow or a Kneazle?”
“The Kneazle is a domestic animal endowed with high intelligence. There is a difference between eating your pet and eating an animal raised for slaughter.”
“You’re such a hypocrite. Who decided that cows should be eaten and Kneazles should be petted? If a cow didn’t have so much meat, maybe it would quickly turn out that it has the makings of a familiar? You know there are some studies that show cows can suffer from depression. It doesn’t really matter what animal you’re eating. Whichever it is, you can be sure it had a painful way to your plate.”
He impaled the bite on his fork and, looking defiantly in her eyes, put it into his mouth. A small amount of sauce dripped down his lip. He wiped it off with his thumb and licked it clean.
“So?” he asked as he swallowed. “Will you take your knickers off for me tonight? Although,” he smirked nastily, “I’m not sure you have any.”
“No,” she said bluntly. “No, no and no. Maybe it’s funny for you and maybe you don’t care about your wife —”
“I love my wife. What makes you think I don’t?”
“You’ve just propositioned to me! You don’t make such offers to another witch if you care about your own wife!”
“Take it easy, Granger. It’s just sex. There is a difference between a deep emotional connection and a simple sex drive. I love my wife and I want to fuck you. It’s not a complex maths equation.”
“Does your wife calculate like you do?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You of all people should understand how marriage affects one’s sex life.”
“I would never, ever cheat on Ron. Just the thought of having sex with someone else disgusts me.”
Malfoy chuckled. “You may value fidelity, but I don’t believe Weasley is the only wizard who can turn you on.”
“I will never sleep with you.”
“Is that so?” He smirked. “Then I’m sorry, Granger, but as long as your legs remain closed to me, so does my library to you.”
“Fine,” she snarled furiously, and rose to her feet so abruptly that she had to hold onto the table to keep herself from falling over. Porcelain and glass clinked dangerously. “I’ll find another way. I don’t know why I believed even for a moment that there’s something human about you.”
”Right?” Malfoy said, cutting the meat nonchalantly. “As if you didn’t know me. Well, good luck. If you change your mind, you know where I live.”
She snorted, then turned on her heel and left. Or rather, she started trudging towards the door, aware that Malfoy had a great view of her backside. Wearing this dress was the worst decision ever. She should have put on a grandma’ish costume. That could have saved her from his disgusting proposal. On the other hand, if it weren’t for the dress, Malfoy may not have wanted to talk to her in the first place. He hadn’t replied to any of her letters.
When she finally grabbed the doorknob, her face was burning.
“I’ll let the elves know they can expect you,” came a voice from behind her.
“No need,” she replied, not bothering to even look at him. “I’ll never go back there.”