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Charity	By : Attitudinal Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 6819 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I make no money off of the writing of this fiction. Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling, and all recognizable characters and places belong to her.

Chapter List
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Chapter three

That… that… BASTARD!

Hermione fumed, stomping around her flat, looking for something else to throw. Hopefully something that would make a satisfying crunch as it hit the wall; a sound akin to what she imagined Draco’s skull would make if and when she bashed it in. Her enchanted broom and bin were very busy tonight; sweeping up every last shard of destruction she left in her wake. Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen; he was probably hiding out under some of the heavier furniture.

“Prick!” she shouted, grabbing the pillows off of her bed, and throwing them to the ground, stomping on them for good measure. There was precious little on her dresser; and now that she could find nothing else to break or throw in her fit of rage, it burnt itself out, fizzling out like a dying ember.

Crookshanks crept out from under the bed, and crawled into her lap, amidst the destruction she was sitting in. Hermione tiredly grabbed her wand, and went about setting everything to rights; making the bed, and fluffing the pillows back up. In the kitchen, she righted the chairs she’d turned over, and repaired the plates that she’d dashed on the hardwood floor. The living room was worse still; the throw pillow Molly had made her for Christmas was laying, destroyed on the sofa; the lamps were knocked over, and all of her pictures were either cracked, or laying, destroyed on the floor. Hermione repaired everything as best she could; the only thing she couldn’t get quite right was the pillow. She sighed sadly; she’d take it to Molly for repairs.

Once everything was presentable once more, Hermione felt a strange tugging at her chest. Her lip curled in disgust, it was the oath, pulling her towards the bathroom to wash up.

Apparently even it thought that it could work her over like she was nothing. She ran her bathwater, but the magic wouldn’t even let her wait till it was piping hot, forcing her with almost-but-not-quite-painful chest constrictions to enter the lukewarm water.

“Fuck!”

Hermione wanted to leave her hair as was; there was no way she’d allow Draco the satisfaction of her best.

The oath had other ideas. Hermione had never taken a wizarding oath before; apparently, one was to do their very best with the task they were given. She filed the information away for later. She scowled even harder as she worked conditioner and shampoo into her hair, and combed through it, until it hung in soft golden curls. Cursed gryffindor honor code.

After rinsing her hair gently, she dried it with a blow dryer; drying spells just made it all the more unmanageable. She didn’t even try to defy the oath this time; she knew it wouldn’t work. The wheels of her mind began turning again; grinding fiercely, looking desperately for a way out.

She’d agreed to help him with his ruse, until he admitted he no longer needed her help, and to adhere to the misogynist, archaic, and racist pureblood norms. He’d never forbidden her to talk about the oath, or the agreement. Perhaps… maybe she could shame him into relinquishing his hold? No, that wouldn’t work, too much negative backlash. And besides, she was a gryffindor, she'd do what she promised, even if she'd promised an ungrateful bastard who's shit eating grin could make her nauseous.

She’d just have to watch and wait.

Hermione’s feet, without her permission, carried her to her closet, and she selected a plain silver evening gown. It wasn’t anything particularly special, but she couldn’t very well wear the dress she’d worn to the ball.

Wait… how do I know that?

How could she possibly know that it was inappropriate to wear the same dress to two events? Wizarding Oaths were definitely something that she was going to look into after she’d beaten Draco to death. She supposed the only upside to this entire horrid affair was that the oath had given her some bare-bones knowledge of pureblood social rules.

Lovely.

Hermione gritted her teeth, and forced herself to calm down. What good did being upset do? She'd already made the oath, there wasn't any way she could back out of it now. She slipped the dress on, and was immediately pulled over to the dresser, and applied appropriate make-up, and pinned her hair up. A loose, messy, bun; leaving out just enough hair to frame her face.

Forced to look pretty for an execution.

The alarm wards she’d set around her floo went off, and she growled, taking her time to transfigure the color of her cutest kitten heels to compliment the dress. She strolled into the living room, and opened her floo connection. Draco Malfoy stepped out, immediately giving her the once-over.

“That won’t do at all,” he murmured, and Hermione felt her hands balling themselves into fists. Before she could say “prick”, his wand was out, and making adjustments to her clothing. He tightened the bodice of her gown, and removed the straps; added more layers, making it look fuller. He added one last layer of shimmering lace about the heightened waistline of the dress. Hermione blushed, as much of a dickhead as he was, he’d done a good job. She caught sight of them both in the round mirror above her fireplace, and gasped quietly. They did look good together.

No! He tricked me!

Her anger returned with a vengeance, and she whipped her hand out towards his face, only to hit air as he stepped back just in time.

“Tut, tut, Granger. I would think you’d be a little more greatful.”

“You’re a prick.”

“What a mouth on you,” he drawled, tracing the line of her throat with a single finger. She swallowed nervously. “Come,” he ordered, and he grabbed her arm. “Let’s be off.”

Instead of stepping through the floo, he apparated her away. Hermione didn’t like apparation, she detested the uncomfortable squeezing sensation that gripped her chest, and she almost always felt as though she were dying.

They appeared in the foyer, and Hermione clutched her chest, breathing deeply to avoid the nausea. She felt fingers lifting her chin gently, and her breath hitched.

“Granger, get a hold of yourself.”

Hermione reminded herself she was in a pretend relationship with a complete dickhead.

“Are you alright?” genuine concern colored his voice, and she felt off kilter. Those gray eyes bored into her, and she swallowed, nodding. “Then we’ll go over a… how is it said, game plan?” he didn’t wait for her agreeing-nod. “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, try not to contradict me. They’re all used to lies and schemes, so they’ll smell our deceit like bloodhounds. We’ve been courting—not dating—for at least two months, I didn’t want to bring our relationship public because of your status—don’t look at me like that, Granger, I meant social status, not blood status. Allow me to order for you, because it will make our relationship seem more solid. If you are not in physical contact with me at all times, most wizards in the room will assume that our courting is not advanced, and that you may be approached.”

Most people would have found the onslaught of information overwhelming, but Hermione simply filed it all away for access when needed. “Alright, Malfoy.” She said, rolling her eyes. Some of this was simply common sense, but she’d keep that bit to herself. Anything these people could use to make themselves feel more important, they’d take. Hopefully soon her life would return to normal.

He wrapped her arm around his, and led her through a grand archway, where at least a hundred other purebloods waited, watching the door like hawks.

This night was going to suck.

~

Draco carefully lead Hermione into the lounge room, where pre-dinner cocktails, and hors d'œuvre’s were being served. A house-elf immediately served him one, and he looked expectantly at Hermione.

“I don’t want one, thank you.” She said tightly, her mouth pursed. Draco frowned, and leaned into her, as though whispering something romantic, and secret.

“If we’re going to pull this off, then you’re going to have to…improve your acting skills.”

She scowled up at him, and Draco sighed. Perhaps he might have chosen an easier partner…

“Who says I even want to pull this off, Malfoy? I just don’t want to be involved in directly supporting slavery. ”

Draco snickered, his passive icy mask back in place after a moment. “Directly involved in…Merlin, Granger, you’ve quite twisted everything, haven’t you?” he drawled quietly, stroking her cheek. She shuddered under his touch, and he smiled snarkily. “Jotts, come here, won’t you?”

A small wispy looking house-elf appeared beside them, carrying a tray of fruits, cut and enchanted to sing like birds.

“Good evenings, Master Draco, sir.” It said, bowing low, until it’s floppy ears touched the ground.

“Ah, I was wondering If you might clear something up for miss Granger. Do I mistreat you?”

The elf’s eyes widened in horror and disbelief. It’s mouth dropped open as it shook it’s head emphatically, glaring at Hermione.

“No, sir, master Draco treatses me very well! Never threatens with clothes!”

The elf popped away, and Hermione stood next to him, sputtering. “Would you like a drink now?” he purred, watching her face redden, as she reached for the champagne flute silently. As she lifted it to her lips, she muttered something that sounded remarkably like: “Shove it Malfoy”, but he couldn’t be sure.

He walked her a little further into the room, and tried to ignore her stiff awkward steps. Almost immediately, they were swamped by tide of curious and disdainful guests, who proceeded to drown them in questions. Acantha being at the forefront.

She’d worn a pale yellow gown, that dipped low in the front, and even lower in the back.

Could you advertise a little more successfully?

“How long have you two been courting?” she asked, feigning sweetness. The other women nodded emphatically, while the men seemed to be lasciviously eyeing his date. He felt a strange tightness in his chest at this.

“Two months,” Hermione replied shortly, smiling icily at the other women; their faces contorted with momentary jealousy. “And a wonderful two months it’s been.”

Draco patted her hand. “Hermione has been wonderfully tolerant of our secrecy as of late,” he drawled, staring pointedly at Nott, whom he’d spotted at the back of the crowd. The enchanted grandfather clock at the northern end of the lounge room announced dinner, and the guests each filed out to the dining room. Draco was no exception, and Hermione took extra long strides to keep up with him.

He pulled her chair out at the forefront of the table, where, as tradition stated, all of the Pureblood families sat, in order of importance, money, and influence. Naturally, as it was his home, Draco sat to the right of the head of the table; that chair was left empty, in honor of his jailed father. Narcissa sat to the left, with Euphemia, and her obnoxious daughter. Hermione was seated to his right, and he waited for all the other guests to sit, and silence themselves. He stood, tapping his wand against his glass.

“As I’m sure you have all heard, I am officially announcing the commencement of my Courtship with one Hermione Granger.” He pretended he didn’t see her lip curl with disgust out of the corner of his eye at the mutterings of “mudblood” that passed through the quiet hall. “I do deeply apologize for this, but I must renounce my pending courtship of Acantha Francesca Giltharkin, in light of recent events.” Everyone clapped, but Euphemia, who looked scandalized. “With that, you must all eat and be well among the company of such powerful allies,” he stated, and a round of prim applause sounded again. Draco sat, and heard Hermione release a large sigh. He pinched her.

“You can’t do that, it’s not proper!” he hissed, feigning a peck on the cheek. She kicked him under the table.

“So? It’s not like I know any of these things!”

Draco ordered for the both of them, regardless of Hermione’s silent protests. She kicked at his shins, and pinched him, but he couldn’t have cared less. He’d reprimand her later for her misconduct, but now, it seemed, most people were buying it.

“I’d like to toast to you,” a cool, icy voice floated from across the table.

“Ah, Euphemia.” Draco said, cutting into his food. “Please, commence. ”

She stood, her black gown shimmering in the light of the enchanted candles. “I would like to toast heir Malfoy’s excellent choice in women,” she began, and Draco felt his stomach drop. “Miss Granger is exceedingly smart, talented, famous, which certainly belies her class status. Hear!” she said, sitting down. Hermione’s anger radiated off her in waves, and had she a little less control, Draco assumed that every glass in the room might have shattered.

“Calm down,” he whispered, and she glared at him, biting her lip. “Thank her for the toast.”

“What?!” she hissed, and Draco winced. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. Euphemia had made a backhanded comment, which Hermione couldn’t refute without arising suspicion. “That…woman insults me in front of all these people, and I can’t do a damn thing about it?” she whispered, and he could see her fingering her wand under the table. He tried to place a calming hand on her thigh, but she jerked away, glaring at him. “I don’t even want to be here, Malfoy, I’m certainly not going to be insulted while I’m at it.” She whispered, standing. She turned to the older woman, who looked quite pleased with herself.

“Thank you so much for the kind toast,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, and made her way to the powder room. Acantha jumped up to follow her, and Draco clenched his teeth. Whatever happened in there, he certainly hoped Hermione had the sense of mind to go easy on Acantha.

A few moments later, they both emerged, Hermione sitting smugly next to him, and Acantha blushing, and biting back tears.

No matter how he pressed, she wouldn’t tell him what she’d said, only that Euphemia would have quite the shock when she opened her purse.
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