- NOT MY STORY! All credit goes to @morriganmercy on a03!
Hermione was drawn from her room on the sixth day by a strange sound. Well, not strange necessarily—she was fairly certain she knew exactly what it was—but it was strange that Malfoy would be producing it.
His door was closed, but the one at the end of the hall, leading into her parent's old room was open. She wasn't nearly as bothered by the evidence that he had rummaged through everything as she would have been on the first day; clearly he was intent on investigating the entire contents of the house.
But when she rounded the corner to the attached bathroom, she was brought up short by what she saw. Because, indeed, Draco Malfoy was using an electric hair dryer... on his face?
He was clothed in his usual uniform of white shirt and black trousers, and his hair was dry. But his head was tilted back and his eyes closed in apparent rapture as he directed the air over his face. It was such an odd and somehow strangely intimate display that Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away. As she watched, he directed the air down the length of each of his arms and over his chest and stomach. He seemed so pleased by the sensation that he didn't even look angry when he caught sight of her watching in the mirror.
"Look at this!" he shouted over the noise of the fan's motor. "Like a combined drying and warming charm! But prolonged!"
Hermione nodded, feeling some foreign sensation building up in her chest. He pointed the dryer at her then, and she squinted against the sudden burst of hot air in her face. It wasn't until the giggle spilled past her lips that she recognized the sensation as laughter.
Horrified, she reached out blindly, fumbling for the off switch. The sound died immediately, and she dropped her hand quickly from where it was wrapped around Malfoy's on the handle. He gave her a look that indicated he found that reaction to be incongruous with the number on the chalkboard downstairs, but she didn't care.
"How did you know how to use this?" she asked out of genuine curiosity.
He reached over to the wall and removed the plug from the socket. "These things are attached to lots of items around the house." He tapped the metal prongs. "The light goes out of the lamps if you remove it from the wall."
Hermione was somewhat impressed. "Anything with one of these plugs runs on electricity," she explained. "It's kind of like magic, but it's channelled through the walls of the house. That's why the light switches are on the walls, too."
Malfoy nodded, looking appraisingly at the electrical socket. "Clever."
Hermione's gaze dropped to the assorted items he'd removed from the bathroom cupboard for inspection: a curling iron, a tray of assorted nail lacquers, about fifty sample toothbrushes, and a box of tampons.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, gesturing vaguely at the counter.
He shrugged. "I'm learning about Muggles."
"But why?"
When she met his eye in the mirror, he smirked.
"Well, my wife was raised by Muggles, for one."
She rolled her eyes.
"And I'm currently living in a Muggle house, for another. I'd like to be comfortable here."
She glanced back up at that, and he shifted on his feet. "As much as possible anyway."
She wondered suddenly if he missed the Manor. Then she wondered why the fuck she was wondering that.
"Well, I'll, erm, leave you to it, then," she said, backing quickly out of the overheated room.
***
Despite the fact that Hermione was supposed to be endeavouring to get more comfortable with Malfoy, she still spent most of the day locked in her room researching. Actually consummating the marriage was still Plan B, and she wasn't giving up on escaping the entire arrangement until it was absolutely necessary.
She was flipping slowly through a heavy volume, the sound and aroma of freshly mown grass drifting in through the open window, when she heard a twittering hoot.
A feathery blur was just visible as she glanced up, and then an envelope dropped onto her head.
"Hello, Pig," she said fondly, reaching out a hand to the little owl. He lighted upon it at once, weighing no more than an equal volume of marshmallow fluff, and let Hermione scratch a finger beneath his beak. After a single quiet second spent with his eyes closed in enjoyment, Pigwidgeon gave another little hoot and fluttered down onto the bedspread to hop with impatience.
"Okay, okay," Hermione said soothingly, picking up the letter.
She recognized Ron's writing at once and skimmed quickly over the page.
Hey, hope things are okay. I'm not sure if this is good news or bad, so I'll just get straight to it. Everyone that Harry, Gin, and I have been able to find in the first round fit the political pattern.
-Dennis Creavey (MB) is in the newest class of trainee Aurors and he married Astoria Greengrass (S28) yesterday.
-Harry ran into Hannah Abbott (S28) in Int'l. Magical Coop. on a case and she is set to marry Justin Finch-Fletchley (MB) tomorrow.
-Hannah told him Susan Bones was matched with Leonard Smith (older brother of that git Zacharias) and they're both half-bloods.
-Ginny works with Terrence Higgs (HB) in Games and Sports and he's been paired with Cho Chang (HB).
-The only potential outlier is Dean. He's been out sick for a few days, or so we thought. Turns out he's been matched with Millicent Bulstrode (S28) and didn't want to tell anyone. As you know, he's not sure of his blood status, so there's a chance that it doesn't fit. Or it's a weird kind of confirmation that he's Muggleborn. Wouldn't that be mental?
Anyway, we'll keep asking around. Have you found anything? I guess you'd Floo if you had...
Let us know if you need anything.
Ron
Hermione sighed, rubbing a hand over her eyes. She would be hard-pressed to say whether it was good news or bad, too. The matches between half-bloods didn't refute the conspiracy theory, but they didn't really support it either. Half-bloods made up the vast majority of the wizarding population, so statistically the majority of matches would be between two of them. But the potential of three pairings between someone of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and Muggle heritage within the first round was definitely suspicious.
She said as much in her reply to Ron before thanking him and asking him to pass on her appreciation to the others. Pigwidgeon had just disappeared over the neighbouring rooftop when Hermione heard the obvious sound of Nilly arriving and departing from the kitchen downstairs.
She ignored it because, surprisingly, she really wasn't in the mood to fight, and several minutes later, her traitorous stomach gave an unmistakable gurgle of curiosity about what delicacies the elf may have brought for Malfoy's dinner.
She was deeply ashamed of the fact that she had snuck downstairs in the middle of the night to sample two of the custard eclairs, but holding hands with Malfoy had been stressful!
Plus, she didn't want Nilly's work to go to waste.
Bracing herself for the disgustingly smug expression Malfoy would undoubtedly adopt at the sight of her, Hermione drifted down the stairs. She would just see what was on the menu; no harm in that.
She poked her head into the kitchen and oh, motherfuck, it was chicken piccata.
Malfoy was currently slicing through what appeared to be an impossibly tender chicken cutlet, and the tantalizing aroma of a fresh and briny lemon sauce hung like perfume in the air.
He glanced up at her entrance, and all the preparation in the world was inadequate for the smarmy delight painting his features.
"Oh, I'm so sorry to have started without you, sweetheart." He laid his cutlery carefully on the edge of his plate. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Please don't call me that," she said through a fixed smile. She slid into the place he had set for her with all the grace of someone who was currently pissing on their principles. All for a few measly capers.
"Wine?" he offered, holding the bottle over her glass. She pursed her lips, and he gave her an indulgent smile. "It's not elf-made."
"I think you're lying," she replied.
He made a sympathetic hum. "Yes, that does seem like something I would do, doesn't it?"
She sighed as her eyes dropped to his own glass. The wine was white this time, perfectly chilled according to the slight condensation, and apparently lightly effervescent; a thin stream of bubbles was rising steadily from the center of his goblet. Hermione had never seen anything look so enticing.
"You could always call Nilly and ask her," he suggested.
Hermione shook her head. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a right prick?"
Malfoy grinned. "Yes."
"Very well," she sighed, gesturing for him to pour it.
As soon as he lifted the bottle away, Hermione grabbed the glass and drained it in three large gulps.
His brows rose sharply, but she waved for him to fill it again. "I have a very low tolerance for dealing with pricks."
He made a choked sound, and Hermione's cheeks flushed. "I-I didn't mean it like that."
"Of course not."
She stared determinedly at the glass as he poured it, and it was with the utmost restraint that she stopped herself from immediately finishing it again. Neither of them spoke, which left the spectre of her having to deal with his prick someday soon looming over the table.
She didn't meet his gaze again until she had served herself a portion of the chicken and a little pile of linguini.
Circe's tits, it was good. She hated herself a little bit for every bite, but she tried to focus on how pleased Nilly would be if she knew how much her Mistr—how much she, rather—was enjoying it.
Hermione didn't even pretend to have the strength to protest when Malfoy Summoned two little dishes of panna cotta from where Nilly had apparently left them on the counter. The pudding was topped with a dollop of lemon curd, and the first bite exploded with flavour on Hermione's tongue. She completely failed to stifle a whimper of delight.
"Something to share with the class, Hermione?" Malfoy looked nearly beside himself with glee at her downfall.
"Why does it have to be so good?" She pouted openly as she shoved another bite past her lips.
"Because Nilly wants the best for her new Mistress, of course."
"Don't..." Hermione whined. "I feel terrible."
"Really?" he said as she savoured another bite. "You look like you're enjoying yourself to me."
"I'm good at faking it."
Malfoy made the choking noise again, and Hermione dropped her spoon. "I didn't mean it like that!"
"Good," he said, hiding what she was sure was a smirk in his napkin. "Because that won't be helpful for anyone at this point."
She braced her elbow on the table and covered her eyes with one hand. Manners be damned.
"Fucking hell," she muttered into her wine glass.
"Yeah," he agreed.
She peeked at him through her fingers and realized he was finished with the meal. Once she swallowed the last sip in her glass, she was, too.
He eyed her speculatively and then placed one hand on the table. "Well. Shall we...?"
Hermione's cheeks were permanently hot at this point, but she reasoned that was mostly from the wine. She shook her head.
"I have a better idea."
***
Hermione bit back a smile as Malfoy inspected the television. He paced back and forth in front of the black screen, peering at his reflection before poking his head around the back to look at the cords.
"It must have some purpose," he mused, running a hand through his hair. "It has a... plug." He looked over his shoulder to where she was seated on the sofa, and she nodded in confirmation.
He tapped his index finger against his lips. "But what does it do?"
She clicked the power button on the remote in her hand, and Malfoy toppled backwards over the coffee table as noise and colour burst into the room from the screen. He fell wedged against the sofa, his legs still bent over the wooden surface.
Hermione snorted a laugh, but he was too preoccupied with staring wide-eyed at the moving pictures to notice.
"What is it?" he breathed, shuffling around until he could crawl up onto the sofa next to her.
"It's called a television."
He nodded slowly, and then glanced at her. "How did you—I didn't see your wand?"
"It has its own," she said, holding the remote out to him. He took it gingerly, and she showed him the button to change the channel.
"Brilliant," he murmured, swishing the remote dramatically as the image on the screen changed with every press. Hermione thought about telling him that he only needed to point the remote at the TV, but he looked so fucking stupid waving it around that she felt happier than she had in weeks.
She noted that Malfoy must be left-handed as he held the clicker, which meant that his right hand lay innocently on his leg a few centimeters from her own. Hermione bided her time, and when he seemed to settle on a nature program featuring a family of foxes, she casually slipped her hand under his.
He glanced down at her touch, but she kept her eyes fixed on the screen. Even as she felt his gaze move to her face, she looked resolutely forward.
After a moment, he shifted his attention back to the show, and she let out a shallow breath as he adjusted his fingers and relaxed into her grip.
Okay.
So they were holding hands. Again. Hermione reasoned that it was slightly more intimate because the back of her hand was resting on his upper thigh rather than a table, but it was also less intimate because they were looking at the TV instead of each other. Not that they necessarily needed to look at each other to have sex—dear God—but that was beside the point. They were only doing something they had already done the day before, and though Hermione felt slightly more comfortable with it this time, she also felt they really needed to be progressing more quickly with only a little over a week to go.
Making up her mind, she shifted slightly, tucking one leg up under herself and using the movement to sort of lean against Malfoy. He didn't react that she could see, so she stayed there, with her arm tucked under his, pressed against his side.
It wasn't uncomfortable. He felt solid and much warmer than she'd anticipated. Not that she had really thought about what he might feel like—and if she had, she would have remembered that men tend to run hotter than women by a fair few degrees—but really he was just so very warm.
After a few minutes, she could only conclude that prolonged exposure to his particular brand of heat was putting all sorts of ideas into her head. His hands were large. That wasn't really an idea per se, but it was something she hadn't noticed before. Even when they had held hands last night, she hadn't been aware of it in a conscious way. But now, all she could think about was how his hand was dwarfing hers and that it was just as warm as the rest of him... and what it might feel like for that big, warm hand to be on her thigh instead.
Figuring that was as good a next step as any, Hermione slowly extricated her fingers from where they were twined with his and guided his hand until his palm slid flat over the top of her denim-clad leg. Malfoy looked down again at the change, and she couldn't resist peeking as well. His fingers lay curled against the inside of her thigh, and as she watched, he stretched his thumb back across until his hand was spanning the entire width of her leg.
And then he squeezed.
She sucked in a sharp breath, and when she glanced up, he was smirking.
"Everything all right, Hermione?"
"Y-Yes, fine," she stammered, looking quickly back at the TV. "That just... tickled."
He hummed. "I'm sure."
His hand inched higher and she shot to her feet. "I think that's enough for one day," she blurted, backing slowly out of the room. "That felt like a two, don't you think? Certainly more than a one. We can try for three tomorrow?"
"Whatever you want, Granger."
She bristled at the poorly concealed humour in his voice. "It's not what I want—"
He arched a brow, and she abruptly abandoned that dangerous trajectory.
"Well, anyway, I think it's working, so, erm, thanks. And... goodnight."
She bumped into the doorframe and hastily turned to scamper upstairs. Hopefully he could figure out how to power off the television on his own.