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Charity	By : Attitudinal Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 6818 -:- 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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A/N: I tried my best with characterization. Any tips, comments, or suggestions, please leave a review! :3

-Charity-

“I think I’m going mad,” she said, sipping her martini as though this was every day conversation. “I most definitely am going insane.”

Maybe it was every day conversation; for her, at least. She had to have been—by his count—mid forties, a raging alcoholic, and judging by the white marks around her wedding band, on her third or fourth marriage.

“You’re not going insane, mother,” he said, removing the martini from her hand, and draining the glass himself. “I hope you’re not, anyway, because that kind of thing is hereditary. Wouldn’t want anyone to think we had bad genes.”

She smirked, her perfect teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “Then I suggest you get married, and find a lovely, suitable young witch to take the stress off your poor mother, darling. I cannot fathom why you can’t take a step into your father’s shoes.”

He tensed reflexively at the offhand comment, but forced himself to relax. It wasn’t as though she had actually been to any of the revels; though the thought of them made Draco want to be as far away from his father’s polished dress shoes as possible.

“Yes mother.”

Draco rose from the table, and carelessly tossed the napkin that had been sitting in his lap onto his empty plate. “Good night, mother.”

“Good night, darling.”

~

Fucking vampires, Draco seethed to himself, his calm and pleasant expression belied by the rage beneath. The busty red-head—who’s mother his mother occasionally had tea with— was about as interesting as staring at an old bronze knut, and just about as bright.

“I was terribly worried that I wouldn’t find anything interesting to do this week, and when my mother told me that you were interested in courting me, oh, I might have fainted!”

her high pitched voice grated against his nerves. He sipped his mimosa gently, trying to take it easy. This was only brunch. He was under no obligation to contact her again. The woman—he’d forgotten her name already—leaned forward to grasp his hand, and in the process, nearly spilled out of her too-small sundress. He watched her chatter away, mind wandering, waiting for her to polish off the last of the strawberry scone she’d been nibbling at for the better part of an hour.

Almost… almost... there!

She’d popped the last bit of it into her mouth, and immediately, Draco requested the check, by tapping his wand quietly on the table, once. The red-head’s face fell. He could see in her face that she wanted to ask him to stay, but for a woman of her status, it would be improper. He smirked. She also wouldn’t call on him, she’d have to wait for him to floo her parents, until she could see him again.

It wouldn’t be happening.

Draco smirked to himself as he rose from the table, grabbing his gray blazer. Sometimes he loved pureblood society.

The red-head whimpered, and he sighed, irritated. “Perhaps we will see each other again…”

“Acantha.”

“Acantha.” He repeated boredly, turning and strolling out of the shop. It was a lovely spring day outside, and Diagon Alley was brimming with people. Acantha was better suited for someone like Blaise, he decided, making a mental note to floo his friend at some point that evening. Blaise wouldn’t mind fucking her, even if she was loudmouthed.

It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t have her mouth plugged up anyway.

Suddenly, Draco stopped in his tracks. He’d been meant to court Acantha because there was an event this evening, wasn’t there? Something he was supposed to go to, for whatever reason. Making his way to the apparation point, Draco frowned. It wouldn’t do to show up sans-date, would it? He already dreaded the shrill remarks his mother would make, upon her discovery that he had abandoned his date before the evening.

He appeared just inside the foyer, and a house elf removed his jacket. It scurried away, carrying his clothing, and he heard the hushed voice of his mother in the next room. He assumed she was on a floo-call.

He was right.

The green flames were bright against the marble flooring, and the shadow of his mother’s stiff form reached the wide, arching doorway.

“I deeply apologize for Draco’s behavior,” she said, as he leaned against the wall, staying out of sight. Whether or not she knew he was there yet was still in question. There was another woman’s voice in the room, cold, and clear.

“It’s quite alright, Acantha told me of the event in question. She was simply upset to see him so busy, Narcissa. I assume he had business to attend to?” The threat was clear in her voice; the Malfoys had only just finished re-polishing their reputation; they couldn’t afford more scandal. Lucius was still in Azkaban, and both doubted he’d ever be released.

“Oh yes, it seems it slipped his mind to mention that he had an important appointment today. I believe it’s something to do with our investors. Wizards work,” she lied smoothly, sipping her tea silently.

“The question is, or rather, the question should be not whether Draco meant to commit such a heinous faux-pas, obviously he meant Acantha no harm. One must wonder, however, if Acantha is meant to still accompany Draco to tonight’s ball?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. I shall speak to him when he returns. He would be delighted to have such a lovely witch grace his arm.” She glanced back at the door, a frown momentarily gracing her perfect features. “I so value our talks, though I must be going. I shall see you this evening, Euphemia?”

“Of course. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The fire became embers once more, and his mother whirled on him, her eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

“Draco! How dare you leave that poor girl there alone? It’s not proper! You were to escort her there, home, and then return for her promptly at nine-fifteen!” She scowled at him.

“That ‘poor girl’ had less capacity for learning than a niffler; it’s a wonder she graduated with the year below even me,” he said smoothly, throwing himself onto the chocolate brown ottoman before the fireplace, and kicked his shoes off. “I won’t be taking her to the Spring Ball. I won’t even be going,” he said casually, watching his mother fume.

“You’ll go, even if I have to imperio you into it. This family has sacrificed so much, for all the wrong reasons,” she said icily. “I will not see my family name fall below that of even a Weasley because you’ve been spoilt.” She drew her wand, and before he could grab his own, it was also in her hand. “Make me an oath that you will take Acantha to the ball.” He frowned, and scowled, turning away from her to watch the flames. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, you make me an oath this very moment, or I shall remove your name from the family roster!” Draco swallowed sharply. He was only twenty-eight, removing his name from the seventy-meter-long family roster would disallow him from entering the manor without his father’s expressed permission, empty his holdings, and further drag his family name through the muck.

His mother was serious. She’d never threatened him before, only sat back and averted her eyes as Lucius applied his own brand of mental and physical discipline.

“Fine,” he grumbled, and put out his hand.

“Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy swear to safely accompany Acantha Giltharkin to the Spring Formal Ball, held this year here, in Malfoy Manor, as her suitor? And to act appropriately while doing so?”

“I swear.”

The magic swirled around them, crackling with power and anger. It lifted his mother’s perfectly tamed hair around her face, and he swallowed again, thickly.

“Do you also swear to act as a proper liaison between the house of Malfoy, and the entire wizarding community during this time?” Narcissa’s mouth was set into a hard line, and she gripped his hand tightly.

“I swear, mother.” He said, trying to sound placating. Her features softened a bit, and she let go of his hand, satisfied. She turned on her heel, pale pink dress fluttering behind her.

“You have exactly seven and a quarter hours to figure out what you will wear, and how you will present Acantha. Remember to wear something which compliments her, Draco, dear.”

And she swept silently out of the room.

~

The Spring Ball was a pureblood tradition, taken back up almost three years after the Dark Lord had been killed. Now of course, Ministry regulation required that anyone be allowed to attend; although thus far, the only ones brave enough to attend with low status had been a few half-bloods, Potter, and Weasley. At least that was bearable; and they never stayed long. Just long enough for the freckled abomination to stuff his face; and for Potter to rub in the faces of half the populace that he was famous, and then they would bow out ever so gracefully.

It didn’t help that half of the pureblood population was scrambling for a place at Potter’s feet; which just irked Draco more.

Tonight, there was an exceptional number of people present, filling the ballroom with brightly colored dresses, and dark dress-robes. Acantha clung to his arm like a tumor, tittering away about something she obviously thought he found interesting. He excused himself to get more wine for the both of them, and immediately felt the oath pulling him gently backwards, toward her. He narrowed his eyes, and fought it for as long as he could, making conversation, and pouring the wine as slowly as he could, before finding her once more, where she dug her manicured claws into his suit.

Bitch.

“Oh look!” she said shrilly, and he winced. “There’s Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley! Oh, dear, we should speak to them, shouldn’t we? It’s only appropriate!” she whispered loudly. Draco nearly snarled. They weren’t engaged, or courting; she was simply there to look good, possibly to fuck at the end of the night, if he could stand it.

“Of course,” he growled, biting back his harsh tone, and smiling down at her. The crowd parted easily for him, and he approached the boy-who-didn’t-bloody-die, and his vacuum friend.

“Oh, mister Potter, I’ve just been dying to meet you!” she squealed, extending her hand for him to kiss. Draco smirked. It was about time someone shared his pain. “Acantha Giltharkin! So pleased to make your acquaintances,” she said flirtily, extending her gloved hand to Ron as well. He swallowed whatever finger food had been occupying his mouth, and kissed her hand as well.

She let go of his arm, and Draco immediately took a step away, to make sure the blood flow had time to return before his leech of a date turned back to him. Wait a moment. She was conversing with other men, which meant that if she gave him permission to leave, he didn’t have to stay for one more second.

Draco took another step backward, but instead of beginning to speak to Acantha, he bumped a warm body lightly.

“I apologize,” he said immediately, turning to right his guest. Tan, creamy skin greeted him, along with gently curled honey-brown hair. Whoever this was, they were a great deal shorter than he, he thought to himself. Dark, almond eyes raised to meet his, and his expression slackened only slightly.

Hermione Granger?

Her hair was loose, hanging beautifully around her shoulders. Little make-up, and only a pearl necklace, and still she was… breathtaking. Her dress was a pale lavender gown with an empire waist; accented by a shimmering layer of sparkling fabric, which draped down from the clean waistline of the gown itself. She wore no gloves, as was popular with pureblooded ladies of most stations, and she was staring at him.

“Malfoy,” she said tightly, nodding respectfully. Her voice broke him out of his trance, and he sneered.

“I wouldn’t have thought to see you here, Granger,” he said softly, watching her stiffen. “Didn’t seem like your type of…venue.” He fell back into old habits, baiting her.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m only here as a favor to Harry and Ron. I’m sure you’ll be glad when your party is rid of its imperfections.” She said airily, and turned her back on him. Draco then remembered his previous plan, Acantha attached herself to his arm again, purring up at him.

“Such a lovely party, darling!”

I’ve only know you a bloody day, you leeching whore—“I agree.”

He watched Hermione’s figure fade into the crowd, and wondered when it was that he’d last seen her. Commencement, most likely.

He sighed painfully. There was no one else who Acantha was willing to talk to, so Draco figured that he’d have at least four more hours worth of numbness in his left arm.

~

Impossible.

Harry and Ron had told her specifically that Draco never went to the Spring Ball. As long as they’d been making appearances at it, they claimed they’d never seen him.

Bloody liars.

Hermione’s heart was still racing, her mind a complete mess. It was lucky, she supposed, that she had developed such a cold and aloof persona—mostly for work purposes— otherwise, she would have never made it out of there without embarrassing herself. Everyone was already looking down their noses at her, she didn’t need to make a fool of herself as well. She had escaped to the ladies room, and was now leaning quietly against the door, breathing slowly.

If she went back out there, she would embarrass herself with her irrational fear of Draco Malfoy, and Malfoy Manor. If she stayed in here, the boys were bound to forget, and leave without her. There was another hour left of her obligated time, and she knew she couldn’t spent it in the toilets. Hermione straightened her dress, and opened the door a crack. Everyone seemed to have taken no notice of her distressed flight, so she stepped out, snagging a flute of champagne from a passing house elf.

Swallowing it nervously, she jumped at a hand on her shoulder. She turned and squinted at the handsome face in front of her. Someone from her year, she assumed. Not her house though… Slytherin! But who?

“Oh, h-hello,” she said, trying to regain her composure. The man lifted her hand to his lips, smirking.

“Hello, miss Granger, I trust you’ve been well,” he said lasciviously, giving her the once over.

Nott! Theodore Nott!

“Ah, yes, I have, Theodore, it’s wonderful to see you,” she lied, snatching her hand away from his lips as soon as it was remotely proper. He didn’t notice.

Theodore Nott had bee notorious back in Hogwarts for bedding almost as many girls as Draco Malfoy, nearly all the same girls, too. Lately, though, he’d started a number of charitable foundations, aimed toward “less fortunate” muggle-borns, and half-bloods. Hermione nearly rolled her eyes at the thought.

“What’s become of you?” he asked silkily, offering her his arm. Hermione didn’t take it.

“I’m with the Ministry,” she said carefully. “I’m the head of the Runes Application department.” The disinterest in his eyes was apparent. It was fine, Hermione loved her job.

“I see. Putting all those classes to work, eh?” he said, winking. He gestured to the ballroom floor. “Shall we?” Hermione wavered. What could it hurt? She gingerly grasped his hand, and they began to sway slowly, Hermione fighting against his strength to keep a comfortable distance between their bodies. Nott frowned, and she glared at him. The silence was deafening.

“I hate these functions,” he said, faking a yawn. “Full of all the wrong people, no interesting conversation,” He said slowly, smiling down at her predatorily. “Say, have you ever seen the Malfoy Library?” he asked, and Hermione was on her guard immediately. However, her love of books was clouding her judgment. She had heard all about the famous Malfoy library…hundreds of thousands of rare books, unseen by anyone outside of their circle. Books that had been written and dictated by Merlin himself, of which Hermione had seen only copies.

Hermione’s palms itched.

“I’ll wait to see it, thank you,” she said, fighting her desire to see that wondrous room. Nott looked genuinely disappointed.

“It won’t take a moment,” he urged, and Hermione thought again about his record. He’d never actually been a Deatheater, but he’d never openly opposed them either. A fence rider.

“I’m sure it’s not alright for you to take me there. It’s not your home,” she said cautiously. His blue eyes brightened mischievously, but the bibliophile in her wanted very much to even touch the books in question.

“I’m very close with Draco,” he said nonchalantly. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Hermione gave in.

“One look, Nott,” she said sternly, and followed him out of the ballroom, unaware of the stern gray eyes watching her retreating form.

He was almost too fast to keep up with, even in her kitten-heels, Hermione decided, padding after him down the long hall. He stopped in front of a set of large doors, and pushed them open; revealing row after row of books, which seemed to stretch forever in every direction. She ran her hands lovingly over the spines, and smiled softly, taking one in her hands, and beginning to flip through it.

It was better than Hogwarts!

She didn’t start at the hand on her shoulder, but when it was replaced by lips, she dropped the book, and pushed Nott back.

She’d know he’d probably have dark motives, but…this was pushing it.

“Thank you for showing me,” she said coldly, and headed towards the door. He caught her wrist, and panic rose in Hermione’s chest. “I’ll be getting back now.”

“Leaving so soon?” he said lowly, his mouth raised in a lascivious grin.

“Let go of me!” she shrieked, and he frowned, grasping her wrist tighter.

“Nott. She asked to be let go, I don’t think this is very… becoming.” A voice drawled from the doorway. Draco was standing there, looking completely calm, wand un-drawn.

“Come, Malfoy, you of all people understand—”

“That rape is punishable by law? Yes.”

Theodore looked panicked, and dropped her arm like a sack of grain.

“Out, Nott.”

Theodore left obediently, leaving the two of them alone, in the dimly lit library.

“Thank you Mal—Draco.” She said, rubbing her achy limb.

He looked at her blandly, although, Hermione noted, he wasn’t quite as good at it as his father was. His eyes still held a trace of his emotions; they weren’t blank slates.

Frustration, anger, and…worry? Had he been worried about her? Why? They hadn’t spoken in years!

“Don’t read too much into it, Granger. We don’t need your rape splashed across some tabloid, undoubtedly by Rita Skeeter.” Hermione’s thankful smile dropped at his words. “Besides, I’d have thought you’d know better than to follow some shady fellow, all for the promise of books.” He snipped, and Hermione's expression changed to one of rage.

“I’m so glad you thought so, because I don’t know what I’d have done if I didn’t know what you thought of me, every moment of every day. I was ever so worried for a moment that I didn’t know what you thought. Thank you, I appreciate it.” She said snidely, gathering her dignity, and walking past him.

“You’re welcome, Granger,” he said softly, padding after her. “Nott is slime, and though his actions are… reprehensible, they reflect directly on my house. I’d appreciate if you didn’t share this with your…” he sniffed distastefully “friends.”

Hermione snorted. As if she’d be telling Harry and Ron that her momentary lapse in judgment caused her to be assaulted by Theodore. She’d never live it down, and worse, they’d be even more persistent in their badgering of her to leave the Ministry, and settle down somewhere nice, homey, and boring.

“It’s safe with me,” she muttered darkly, and they re-entered the ballroom together.

“Hermione! Where have you been?” asked Ron suspiciously. “It’s time for us to go.”

“Oh, thank heaven. I was just… mingling.” She said lamely, knowing that it was a paper thin lie. Luckily, Ron had spent the entire night, including that very moment, distracted by Draco’s date, so he didn’t notice her obvious falsehood.

The air outside was cool, and Hermione bid her friends farewell, and apparated home, where she immediately stripped, and hung the dress up in her closet. Crookshanks wound his way around her ankles, and mewled loudly.

After donning a large nightshirt, and grabbing a glass of water, she slid into bed, for the first time, grateful for Malfoy’s ever irritating charity.
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Charity