In These Silent Days

Chapter 7

"I apologize," he says through gritted teeth. Draco glares down at the table, fingers tracing an abstract pattern on its surface.

"This was ridiculous and unnecessary."

"I know. My mother also made her displeasure quite plain."

"Did she hex you?"

"No, but I think she heavily considered that route."

Hermione reads through a few more politely-worded pleas for her time and attention. She notes the careful details Narcissa works in, phrases like, "My husband is unfortunately detained that day," or "Lucius will be unable to join us."

Easy enough to figure out how the Malfoy patriarch still feels about Hermione's presence.

"Your mother seems quite determined to get to know me. And I suppose I can no longer be so rude as to refuse her."

"You weren't rude," Draco says quickly. "You don't owe her anything."

"Do you want me to come to dinner with you this weekend?"

"Only if you want to and you have no prior engagement."

"Not what I asked you."

"Yes."

"Then I will. And," Hermione stands and walks determinedly to her study, "I'll be writing to your mother myself to tell her so."

Curiosity holds her mind hostage all week in the lead up to dinner at Malfoy Manor. Will Narcissa be as welcoming as her letters? How does this more mature, thoughtful version of Draco act around his parents? Will anything trigger unwanted memories of torture or imprisonment? Given what happened to her there years ago, her recollection of the house itself is hazy at best.

But as she clasps a set of cerulean robes, Hermione is surprised to experience a sense of calm.

The same cannot be said for Draco. Pacing in front of the fireplace, he gives her a sort of jerky nod in greeting. "Good, you're ready, you look nice. My parents will greet us immediately, I'm sure, and then the adjoining room is where we'll dine."

She's never seen him so flustered. He's almost babbling. "And we'll Floo in so we don't have to go through the front entrance. The dining room is in the West wing and faces the back of the estate and—"

She can see what he's trying to do and the kindness surprises her.

"—my mother will insist on after-dinner tea in the adjacent parlour where she'll no doubt give you an unwanted history on every décor choice. I promise we won't leave those rooms, unless you're dead set on seeing the library, but that's in—"

"Draco. I'll be fine. It's only dinner at your family's home."

"Right, of course." Her reassurance only has him looking slightly less troubled. "I must warn you, don't expect my father to—"

"I expect nothing from your father. Nor do I fear him."

"Well, don't expect him to say anything at all tonight. I don't want you to feel slighted if he pretends you don't exist."

"Better to be ignored than openly hexed," Hermione mutters.

Before they go through the Floo, Draco puts a hand on her arm.

"If at any time you feel the way you did at the Museum gala, we'll come back home."

In the face of such sincerity for her well-being, all Hermione can do is nod.

Her blonde, statuesque in-laws are the first thing Hermione sees once she spins out of the Floo. A portrait of wealth—of wizarding aristocracy—in their fine, black silk robes, they would appear somber but for the lush, decorative elements covering the entire room behind them. This room at least is warm in tone, creams and dark browns, though made stuffy by all the lavish accoutrements of gilded furniture, wall-sized tapestries, and countless busts and vases.