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Charity	By : Attitudinal Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 6824 -:- 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 four

Hermione was at that moment imagining ramming a pole through her own skull.

It will be messy, but at least I won’t have to sit for another polite fifteen minutes listening to—

“Quite right, dear, I do believe that you should simply turn your head. If Dimitris is straying, it’s for your own good.”

“Yes, after all, you are getting on in years, and it wouldn’t do for you to make a fuss. He is a man after all.”

Hermione’s nails were biting into her palms, and she smiled falsely, nodding. If only her brain would let her ignore the crude, archaic horror of a conversation going on around her. If a woman’s husband cheated, it was because she was unsatisfying or old, not because he was a complete pig. Her eyes drifted across the group of women, having tea after dinner had ended not an hour before. The men had all adjourned to the study, to talk about business, money, and all the women they’d slept with other than their wives.

She glanced at Euphemia, who was sipping her tea gracefully, and smirked, before hiding it quickly with her teacup. Acantha was seated next to her, and staring longingly at the biscuits, which she'd never reached for. None of the other women touched them either, and Hermione assumed they were simply there for show, or because it was tradition. The gears seemed to be turning in Acantha’s mind as she extended a quick and careful hand to snag a small biscuit off the tray.

Not fast enough, apparently, because Euphemia slapped her hand, hard. “We’ve just slimmed you down, dear,” she said, while all the other women listening nodded.

“You look wonderful Acantha!” one woman replied cheekily.

Euphemia continued. “I wouldn’t want to see you loose out to poor breeding, darling.” Her eyes lingered on Hermione for a moment, before she smiled. “Have I mentioned how lucky you are, miss Granger?”

Hermione smiled, hoping that her own body would disappear under the intense scrutiny from the other women. As it wasn’t an outright insult, she would just endure it, as she’d been doing all night long. “Thank you for the compliment.” She said tightly, smiling her best shit-eating grin at the horrid pair of them. As awful as Acantha was, her own mother had just insulted her in front of their entire social circle. No doubt they’d all been gossiping about Acatha’s “weight problems” for quite some time.

Again, Hermione had to hide her sinister grin with her tea. Euphemia would be quite surprised when she opened her delicate purse to retrieve something.

The ladies toilets were deserted and silent, and as Hermione cleaned off her hands with the lovely scented lavender soaps, Acantha came to stand beside her, opening her purse to apply makeup.

“Oh dear,” she muttered. “I’ve brought mother’s purse again.” She turned to look at Hermione, sneering. “You won’t last long,” she said coldly, preening in the mirror. “I’m of higher social standing, breeding, and class; there’s no way that any pureblood in their right mind would court you.” Her voice was dripping with false sweetness, and she flicked her wand at Hermione’s face, the blush brush sweeping over the apples of her cheeks. “You could use some color,” she snipped, and packed up.

Hermione had had enough; there was nothing she wanted more than to be home, with her cat, researching. Instead, she was tolerating insults from women who’d married just out of Hogwarts, with no aspirations other than to make the cover of Gnome & Garden. She flicked her own wand unceremoniously at the purse, which jiggled a bit as the hex took hold. The next time Acantha opened it, she’d receive a face full of—Shite! It was Euphemia’s purse!

Oh well. Her horrid mother would get a lovely face full of bat-bogeys. Perhaps then they’d learn to be kinder to people who were more adept at spellwork.

Hermione sighed. It had been petty of her, but now she was glad. Acantha at least, could be redeemable if she escaped the grip of her mother. Euphemia would continue to be a stone, cold ice-bitch for the rest of her long life.

How unfortunate.

“Miss Granger, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you meet Draco? As I understand, you run in very different circles,” the question would have been innocent, but for the nasty smirk on the woman’s face. What was her name? Oh yes, Farrah. Hermione easily translated the question in her mind. ‘How did you trick a pureblood into your dirty clutches?’

“Oh, it’s absolutely no trouble,” she said, placing her tea down on the mahogany table before them. “We’ve known each other since school, and recently, we began meeting for lunch, and eventually, he began courting me in secret, because we didn’t want the tabloids covering us all day.” Hermione repeated this robotically, recalling Draco’s words just as they were to be separated.

“Just tell them that we’ve been recently meeting for meals, and began courting. This will be the most important part Hermione. They’ll question you, and demean you, don’t think they won’t. It’s because you’re new, and also, well…”

“I’m a mudblood.” She said unflinchingly.

“Well, that as well. But they will be cruel.” He said, something akin to worry coloring his voice.

“So essentially I’m going to be psychologically hazed.”

“Yes, something like that.”

Farrah smirked. “Oh yes, most definitely. Probably due to his status, don’t you agree?”

Another woman, in an ugly puce dress that complimented her little, spoke up. Hermione believed her name was Dinah. “Most certainly. Miss Granger seems to have snared the best of them!” Her ensuing smile was also painfully false. The clock chimed eleven-fifteen, and all the women set their cups down, bidding each other painfully fake goodbyes, and promises of tea-times to come.

They of course, avoided Hermione, pretending she didn’t exist. Just as she went to leave the room, a light tug on her dress stopped her. A petite girl, with tanned skin and jet black hair was behind her, looking about nervously. “I-I would v-v-very much like t-t-to meet you f-for tea, m-m-miss G-Granger.” She said, and Hermione was relieved to see a genuine smile for the first time since she’d arrived.

“And I you, miss…” Hermione paused, having forgotten her name.

“Chryssa R-R-Rueworth.” They shook hands daintily, and Hermione waited in the hallway for Draco, thinking that perhaps not all purebloods were quite so bad. He emerged, opening the study doors in a cloud of cigar smoke, an unpleasant expression gracing his face. He immediately took her arm, led her to the foyer, to bid the other guests goodbye.

“How was it?” he murmured through a tight lipped smile, while waving goodbye to his apparating guests.

“Like having my insides gutted with a rusty spike, and then sutured with fishing line,” Hermione replied seamlessly, smiling and waving as well. Draco had removed his outer robes, and was standing in a beautifully tailored waistcoat; cream with dark stripes. His silver pocket watch chain hung just enough out of his pocket to not be tacky, and his hair was brushed back perfectly.

She shook her head, and returned her eyes to the last of the guests, who were climbing into their carriages. When the last of them had trickled out, Draco’s arm dropped to his side, and he sighed.

“Mother’s already gone up to bed, would you like a drink?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied hurriedly, picking up her skirts to hurry after him, his long strides easily three of her own steps.

Once in the study, he poured her a glass of sherry, and handed it to her. “Was this Lucius’ study?” she asked, pointing a single finger at the portrait of the senior Malfoy on the wall, preening, and scowling down at her. Draco stiffened slightly.

“Yes. Now that he is… indisposed, I am acting head of the Manor.”

“I see.”

They sipped their sherry in awkward silence, Hermione staring into the roaring fire in the hearth. She absentmindedly hoped that there were charms against the fire spreading.

~

Draco seemed to have this problem his entire life.

He’d think words, string them into sentences, and most likely, if he spoke these sentences aloud without thinking about them first, it got him into trouble.

After he and Hermione had finished their sherry, he poured them each a second, and then third glass, and things were fine. Awkward, silent, and tense, but it wasn’t as though that wasn’t his normal home life when his father had been around.

And then he’d opened his mouth, and inserted his well dressed, and expertly manicured foot into it.

“Granger, whatever did happen to those parents of yours?”

Immediately her grip on her glass tightened, and she said nothing at first. “They’re in Australia. Safely obliviated.” And when he hadn’t taken that as a cue to change the subject, he nodded.

“Well, it seems the Weasley matron has adopted you as one of her brood, so you’ve still attained a family, of sorts.” It had been comforting in his mind, but as soon as it left his lips, it sounded cruel, uncaring, and callous. Perfect for speaking to strangers, but not so perfect for speaking to Hermione. He glanced up at her, to see if she’d caught it, and when her glass shattered on the floor, he knew she had.

“Excuse me?”

“I simply meant—”

“I’ve had enough.” She said, rising steadily, and collecting her small handbag, and strode towards the door. Before she walked out, however, she turned around. “You are scum, Draco Malfoy. Money, and infamy do not a decent wizard make. You treat others as though they’re on a totem pole, and those at the bottom are the ones you can manipulate like slaves. Nowhere at Hogwarts did they teach people to be such absolute pigs, so I can only assume you’ve inherited this lovely trait.” He opened his mouth, but she quieted him with a silencio, and continued. “You dole out favors to people you deem worthy, and then tell them they should be grateful of your charity. Yours is the kind the world could do without; arrogant, self serving, greedy pricks who only care about what you can squeeze out of each other with their status. Your type of charity is something the world could use entirely less of.”

The sound of her heels clicking on the marble floors faded, leaving him alone in the warm study.

He couldn’t ignore her tirade this time.

This time it actually hurt.

~

That prick.

Hermione realized that she was spending a lot of time angry as of late. It probably wasn’t good for her, but what else could she do, when she was forced to chum around with Draco bloody Malfoy? She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, he spent most of their school days teasing Harry for not having parents, what made her think he wouldn’t do the same to her?

I wonder if they’re all right.

Her anger folded in on itself.

Hermione prided herself on her ability to withstand the urge to cry.

When Ron had told her she treated him like a child in their relationship, and that he thought they’d be better off as friends, the tears had welled up, but she’d kept them in; smiling, and agreeing.

It had saved their friendship.

Or when the annual services for all of their friends felled in battle came ‘round, her cheeks stayed mercifully dry. Similarly, when Ron announced his engagement (which he later broke off, leading Hermione to think he was simply a commitment-phobe), she never once visited the bathroom to dry her eyes.

Even when she learned that her obliviated parents in Australia had adopted a little girl, and named her Persephone.

She’d never retrieved them because she didn’t want to face them. Their accusing eyes, after she’d promised never to use magic for harmful purposes. Asking why she couldn’t let them stand by their one of a kind daughter.

No. Best to let her fade into the background. If Hermione was anything, she was self-sacrificing. How else would she have allowed Harry and Ron to take the credit for so much of her hard work, and feel no regret? Her parents deserved a daughter who could be part of the family, not stuck between worlds like a martyr. In order to minimize her own pain, she kept a single picture of them on the mantelpiece, and at least three large albums worth of pictures in a basket by the sofa.

The alarms for the floo went off, and immediately her mournful expression became vengeful. Hermione removed the wards, and waited for the king of pricks to waltz his way in, and then she’d bash his skull in with the fire poker. She levitated it above the floo, so that when he came through, she’d give him a nice conk on the head.

“Hello, ‘Mione!” A well dressed Pansy Parkinson entered the room, and Hermione scrambled to keep the iron poker from ramming into her head at top speed. Instead, it crashed to the ground beside her, and Pansy only looked mildly surprised. “Expecting someone else?” Pansy had grown into her face, her black hair shortened to a pixie cut, and a short, fluffy black skirt adorned her waist. Over that, she wore a faded lacy white tank, and a blazer. Hermione knew this outfit well, it was Pansy’s favorite date-outfit.

“Uh, yes,” she sniffed, resisting the urge to wipe her eyes. “Would you like a cup of tea, or something?”

“Certainly or something, Hector was boorish, plain, and above all, had terrible taste in liquor.” Hermione got up from the couch, her blanket falling to the floor, where Crookshanks nested in it immediately. They’d met at some sort of function, where neither of their groups of friends had shown up. Amidst the sea of unfamiliar people; Hermione had approached Pansy, who had given up on making her miserable, in favor of having someone to talk to.

They’d gotten along better than expected, and while she disliked Ron; she got along famously with George. Hermione went over to her liquor cabinet, and sighed as she was shouldered out of the way by Pansy, who selected a bottle of wine that they’d been working on.

“How was Malfoy Manor?” she asked casually, and Hermione choked on her wine.

“You know about that?!”

Her friend looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “How could I not, my mother was there? I heard you put something very nasty in Euphemia’s purse.” She snickered. “Serves the old cow right. Her daughter was a heifer anyway.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “Don’t call her that! Her mother is an awful, evil woman, but it’s not Acantha’s fault she’s so…horrid.” She paused. “How do you know all of this? It only happened a few hours ago!”

Pansy pointed to herself. “Pureblood news network. Word travels fast. And my mother shared a carriage with Euphemia, who opened her purse to reapply some lipstick. Face full of disgusting bogeys. Fortunately, my mother never liked her much anyway.”

Hermione had met Pansy’s mother. Luckily, as she’d said outright, “You’re a good enough girl, for a muggleborn. I’m old, set in my ways. Don’t get Pansy into too much trouble, will you?”

“I see. So who else knows about tonight?” it was hard to keep the edge from her voice.

“Everyone. I’m sure Skeeter will have written her article by now, regardless of the fact that she wasn’t even there. The Prophet’s celebrity section will be sure to cover it too. If you wanted to be less conspicuous, perhaps you should have gone with not-Draco-Malfoy.” Pansy polished off her glass of wine, and poured herself another.

“Pansy, I was going to tell you—”

Pansy snorted, although her smile was genuine. “You most certainly were not, but I’m not stupid. How did he weasel you into this? Blackmail? Money? Draco was a twit in school, but if he thinks he’s going to pull one over on me, he’s gone completely soft.” She finished, taking a sip, and swirling it around her mouth before swallowing.

“I don’t know what you’re—” Hermione cut herself off. If Pansy had figured it out for herself, there was no harm in telling her. “The rat-bastard made me take an oath. He wants me to help him fool his mother into thinking we’re courting long enough to get off his case, and then I’m out.”

“Doesn’t he know you’d have helped him anyway?” Pansy’s eyes were bright with laughter, it was good that she held it in; Hermione’s pride couldn’t take much more kicking.

“I wouldn’t have helped him anyway!” Pansy lifted an eyebrow. “Fine, I would have. But the point remains that he is lying scum, and now I’ve got to help him, regardless.”

“Well, first we have to get you some higher heels.”

“What?”

“We’re going shopping. If you’re ‘dating’ Draco, then you’ll need a more expensive wardrobe than that. Oh, hush, I’ve been trying to take you shopping for years.” Hermione pursed her lips.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” she said stubbornly. “I don’t want to be courting Draco. It’s a lie. It’ll be over in a few weeks anyway, what’s the point?”

Pansy sighed, as though she were imparting vital information. “Because, if you want people to think it’s real, you’re going to have to work at it. The Malfoys are egotistical; Draco would never let his fiancée walk around in anything less than bank breaking, on principle.”

Hermione gasped, and choked a little. “B-but that’s an enormous waste of money!”

“For anyone else, you’d be right. But, for a pureblood, and especially a Malfoy, if you have it, spend it.”

“I don’t really have the money to shop right now. We can transfigure some of my older clothing—”

“My treat.”

Hermione felt her hackles rise. If there was one thing she wasn’t, it was a charity case. Especially when that charity benefitted one Draco Malfoy.

“Oh, cool your jeats, consider it charity. I want to dress you, I’ve been begging you forever.”

“It’s jets, Pansy. And no, I won’t consider it charity. My clothes are perfectly fine.”

A mischievous smirk rose on her friend’s lips, and she couldn’t help but feel as though something was amiss.

“You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Pansy said innocently, swishing the wine in her mouth. Hermione took off like a shot down the hall to her bedroom, and threw open her closet doors.

Nothing.

All her clothes were gone. Nothing was left, even in her dresser; except her tightest pair of jeans, and the sweater Pansy had gotten her for Christmas. She hadn’t worn it yet, but it seemed she’d left her no choice.

“I can’t believe you—”

“Well, now that you’re out of options,” her friend replied, playing with an errant lock of hair. “I suppose we’ll just have to go.”

A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews, I can't tell you how inspiring they are for me! They just make me want to write, and write, and write. I read every review I get, and when I have time, I'll do like, a thank-you section for all of them. :3 I usually don't update so fast, but I'm inspired! If you're reading the story, please leave a review, they mean so much to me.
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Charity