29

Chapter 29

Sunday 09 March 2003: AM

"Macdolas – your ruddy hat looks perfectly fine! If you don't stop fussing you'll be left behind," Draco's exasperation with the vain little coxcomb is edging into aggravation.

"Ignore Draco, Mac – he doesn't understand the intricacies of getting the tricorn exactly right, does he? You look perfectly darling," Hermione soothes as the manservant bridles.

"Darling, my arse," Draco grouses, pretending not to notice Hermione's sparking chocolate eyes and pursed lips. "I absolutely refuse to allow that idiotic sabre scabbard – where did you even source that? You'll slice off one of our fingers in transit! I suppose I should be glad you didn't order a loaded flintlock musket as well." He snatches the contentious sword and tosses it into the corner of Hermione's lounge room with a discordant clatter.

Macdolas fiddles one more time at the gold frogging on his replica British Redcoat soldier's outfit, wide mouth sulky. "Master Malfoy does not care about authenticity of attire, but Macdolas is ready, sir," he stiffly concedes. He clicks together his knee-high black leather boots to emphasize his statement.

Fucking finally. Draco thinks better of vocalizing the thought as Hermione's glare grows fiercer. He settles for rolling his eyes and firmly clasping her right hand in his left, while Macdolas holds her other. "We're Apparating to my usual spot inside the gates of the Manor. Ready?". At their nods, he closes his eyes and fixes the familiar location in his mind.

Opening them moments later, Draco steadies his witch as she wobbles slightly, bestowing a quick kiss on the crown of her tamed russet hair. "Alright, Granger?".

Hermione smiles and takes a deep breath. Worry brews anew in his mind. He'd stupidly forgotten to ensure that Lucius won't be attending the brunch… surely his mother is smart enough to know not to include him? He resolves to simply Disapparate them, should his father be anywhere nearby.

The day is clear, with just the faintest veil of high scudding clouds. The Manor is bathed in pale sunlight, lending it a friendlier air despite its dark Gothic majesty. Draco lightly squeezes Hermione's small hand, taking a moment to admire the pretty picture she presents in her pink and white floral maxi-dress. Tiny buttons run down the bodice below a v-neckline and puffed sleeves that are ruched just above her elbows. She wears a soft damask open cardigan and his old black peacoat, a modest gold oval locket dipping past the hollow of her throat. Her ochre curls are drawn back in a low ponytail above her nape.

Shaking off his own nerves, Draco smiles down into her apprehensive face. "This way, Granger. The conservatory is to the rear." Macdolas marches beside them, still fidgeting at his apparel.

"Macdolas – what do you intend to say to Ruibby today? Have you taken our Friday discussion into account?" Draco queries.

The house elf nods vigorously. "After brunch is served, Macdolas respectfully asks Ruibby to take a turn with him about the rose garden, for the purposes of refreshing exercise and polite conversation. He comments on the agreeable weather and enquires after the good health of her family," he recites, ticking off the salient points on his knobbly fingers. "Macdolas may offer the lady his arm but keeps a proper distance in accordance with respectful rules of etiquette."

Hermione cocks her head. "Mac, have you been watching the 'Pride and Prejudice' videos whilst I've been at work?". Her tone is benevolently amused.

Macdolas halts his steady tramping, his seedling-green orbs anxious. "Master Malfoy tells Macdolas that Grace Lady Granger doesn't mind and encourages the practice – does Macdolas overstep? Oh! The disgrace he brings!".

Draco thwarts the self-punishing forehead slap with a quick seizure of Macdolas's thin wrist. "Enough of that – I haven't watched you twiddle that ludicrous hat for fifteen minutes just to witness you squash it. Hermione, do you mind that I gave Macdolas permission to continue watching your series?".

"Not in the slightest, Mac dear. I'm tickled pink that you've been so inspired by it. You may watch it whenever you wish," Hermione warmly reassures the fretful sprite.

"Grace Lady Granger is too kind," Macdolas simpers. "Macdolas decides the Master Bingley and the Miss Jane Bennett closely resemble Macdolas and Ruibby, and Macdolas resolves to take a leaf out of Master Bingley's tree in his courtship rituals!" he beams proudly.

"It's a leaf out of his 'book', squirt," Draco corrects with a grin. "And you fit the bill of 'redheaded and staunchly optimistic', I'll give you that."

Macdolas is undeterred. "The Master Darcy and the Miss Elizabeth Bennett remind Macdolas of Master and Her Grace – though Grace Lady Granger is more beautiful and wise. And Master Malfoy is not as rich," he pipes up as an afterthought.

Draco twists his mouth in a wry grin. Pert little punk. He decides against retorting as the gravel path leads them to the set of four stone steps below the conservatory's French doors. Though the glass-paned building's exterior is coloured a dark grey, Narcissa remodelled the inside to be decorated in whites and soft greens when she first came to the Manor as a young bride.

Pulling open the right hand door, Draco ushers Hermione and Macdolas to precede him inside, before closing it behind them. He helps Hermione to remove her overcoat before hanging hers and his on the nearby coat rack. The temperature inside is balmy and humid. Lush greenery dominates the outer borders of the large space, while an oval table covered in an Irish linen and lace tablecloth is positioned in the centre of the main room.

Narcissa gracefully rises from her wooden chair at the head of the table. "Hello, Draco darling. So pleased you to have you here, Hermione. Please, be seated." The lady of the Manor gestures languidly to the chair at her left.

"Macdolas, would you care to assist Ruibby with bringing out the brunch dishes, please? She's in the kitchen. Thank you." The steward snaps his fingers instantly after hearing the request and Disapparates on the spot.

Hermione murmurs a quiet greeting and perches on the allotted seat while Draco pushes it in for her. He ignores his mother's wave at the chair on her right and instead sits beside his girlfriend, reclaiming his handhold. A minor tightening around the corners of her eyes and mouth are the only signs that his mother is displeased with his small act of disobedience. Draco folds back his smirk.

"What a lovely dress, Hermione – those colours harmonize marvellously with your complexion," Narcissa compliments the younger woman.

"Thank you – I bought it at Mark's & Spencer three years ago," Hermione's lips quirk upward as she tests his mother's fashion snobbery.

"It's a timeless style, and suits you well," Narcissa rejoins without missing a beat.

Well, she's certainly striving to be welcoming and charming, Draco ponders. Hopefully, this isn't the calm before the storm.

"Mother – where's Lucius?" Draco is unable to stop his eyes roaming the verdant expanse.

"Rest easy, Draco – he isn't hiding behind a potted palm, waiting to leap out and cackle," Narcissa cuttingly rebukes. "Lucius is in his study, brooding: and there he shall remain. I thought it best to not exacerbate Ms Granger's understandable reservations in returning to the Manor. Perhaps Hermione could attend a future Friday dinner, should she feel comfortable in doing so," Narcissa suggests with a small smile.

The woman by his side remains silent, but Draco feels her tension in her handgrip and in the slightly hunched set of her shoulders.

"Don't push it, please, Mother. I believe Hermione is anxious enough about today's interaction." Draco shuffles his chair a little closer, debating about whether they should simply leave now and be done with his mother's crafty scheming.

"I'm alright." Hermione's voice is strong and even as she addresses Narcissa. "However, I would like to know the purpose behind your invitation, Lady– Narcissa." She gazes steadily into his mother's sky-coloured eyes.

"Heavens, dear – do get straight to the point. I'd forgotten how… forthright you Gryffindors are wont to be." Narcissa leans back in her seat, keenly scrutinizing the young couple before she speaks again.

"Hermione, I asked you here today to formally welcome you to our home and family… and to apologize unreservedly for the terrible treatment you experienced here, in the past. I cannot excuse my behaviour – nor do I expect forgiveness – but I wish you to know that I sincerely regret my part in causing you harm, and in perpetuating the evil of blood purity and the foul tyranny of Vold– the Dark Lord. I am sorry."

She falters on the last sentence, repeating it in a husky whisper. "I am deeply sorry."

Holding his breath, Draco is relieved to hear Hermione's matter-of-fact correction.

"His name was Voldemort – and he is dead. Or more accurately, forever stuck in Limbo. Harry told me that his last glimpse of the self-made inhuman demon formerly known as Tom Riddle was of a bloodied, squalling, distorted, child-like avatar. I like to remind myself of that pathetic shrunken image, when my nightmares pay a visit."

Inclining her head slightly, Hermione adds, "I accept your apology… Narcissa. Though my trust in the sincerity of your motives is yet to be earned." There is a thread of steel in her voice, of which Draco heartily approves.

"Of course. I hope that you will allow me the time in which to secure it," his mother nods in return. The two witches eye each other speculatively.

Narcissa is the first to resume conversation. "Tell me, how long have you and Draco been seeing each other? I am fascinated to learn how you re-connected, after all these years," she prompts, flicking a narrowed glance at Draco.

"That's none of your business, Mother," Draco interjects, as Hermione simultaneously offers, "Three weeks unofficially, one day officially."

Oh, fantastic. Like his wily parent won't gleefully and ruthlessly dissect that clanger until the cows come home. Draco readies himself for the beginning of the interrogation, knowing that sooner or later his cunning mother will pump him mercilessly for every scrap of information about his incredible alliance with the 'Golden Girl'… he fervently hopes he can avoid the gruelling third degree today.

The sound and sight of Ruibby manifesting into the room (bearing two balanced silver platters loaded with aromatic foodstuffs) is most welcome. Macdolas appears behind her, carrying two more platters; he wears a huge adoring grin on his face as he shadows Ruibby's efficient transfer of the meals to the tabletop. The male elf's beam sobers whenever Ruibby turns in his direction, although Macdolas's poker-face needs much more fine-tuning.

"Looks delicious – thank you, Ruibby," Draco praises the teeny housekeeper. She prims her mouth but deigns to give him an acknowledging bow as she arrays the antique porcelain tea set just so.

"This is the complete Royal Albert Serena bone china set," Hermione marvels, stretching a finger to stroke a delicate flowery tea cup in wonderment.

"Oh – you're a collector? That is tremendous," Narcissa eagerly encourages.

"Hardly! No, my mother is the enthusiast, she has a small treasured assortment… she used to take me to garage sales and antique fairs, always hoping to bag a hidden bargain," Hermione quietly laughs, staring wistfully at the fine china.

"Well, it's delightful to have the opportunity to use it in congenial company." Ever the consummate host, Narcissa smooths over the pensive moment. "And look – it almost matches your dress! How serendipitous," she smiles.

The house elves have nearly completed their shared task of conveying and arranging the comestibles to the table; Macdolas makes a final check of the steaming tea in the vintage pot before stepping back slightly.

"Would Mistress Ruibby care to take a turn about the rose garden with Macdolas, he deferentially requests?" the manservant holds out his gangly hand to his little blonde counterpart as he bows before her.

"Ruibby graciously endorses Macdolas's invitation," and she lays her tiny hand atop his palm. Macdolas looks as though he's just single-handedly won the Quidditch World Cup. He carefully moves Ruibby's fingers into the crook of his elbow and nods triumphantly to Draco.

"Master Malfoy and Lady Malfoy and Grace Lady Granger, we please take our temporary leave with your permission?" he squeaks in undisguised joy.

"Of course – we need no servers," Narcissa agrees. "Enjoy yourselves." Ruibby demurely curtseys as they exit the room, the corners of her lips twitching upward.

"They're awfully cute together," Hemione ventures. "Do you think your romantic advice will bear fruit, Malfoy?" she turns to smirk at him, mocha eyes twinkling with hope and humour.

Somehow, Draco finds enough fortitude to resist bending forward and kissing her pretty rosy lips. She is so exquisitely sweet and beautiful – I can't comprehend how she is here, with me… with my mother. He forgets to reply to her query as he loses himself in exhilaration and niggling disbelief.

"Draco, Hermione asked you a question," Narcissa reminds. "I myself have confidence that the little munchkins will soon consolidate their obvious bond." She applies herself to pouring them each a cup of tea.

"If Macdolas can keep his mouth shut for more than two minutes, they may yet have a chance," Draco qualifies. "He's his own worst enemy."

"Like another young male I know," Narcissa mutters sharply. Draco glares back, briefly opening their shared Legilimency bond to send her a silent message: Don't undermine me or my choices in front of my very new girlfriend. Please. I'm uneasy with this meeting as it is. Do you wish for her to bolt, and for my extended absence?

Of course not. I will behave. Sorry, darling. An expression of rue crosses Narcissa's genteel face before she resets her composure, running her pale fingers through her long strand of perfectly homogenous lily-white pearls (it is one of her few emotional 'tells', Draco remembers).

"Sugar and cream, Hermione?" She supplies both at the younger witch's acquiescent nod. "Do tuck into this splendid repast – the staff have outdone themselves."

Draco's nerve-suppressed appetite returns as he looks at (and scents) the extensive array of tempting dishes. Belgian waffles with fresh strawberries and powdered sugar; ramekins of coddled eggs and crisp wood-smoked bacon strips; blintzes stuffed with ricotta cream, accompanied by small pots of sour cherry sauce and golden honey; creamy mini quiches containing shredded ham, cheddar, and spinach; a large plate of sliced and balled seasonal fruits; and a warmed baguette with yellow pats of butter.

No wonder Hermione's expressive brown eyes have near bugged out of her head – there is enough food on the table to feed a dozen.

"Are you certain we have enough brunch options, Mother?" Draco facetiously inquires, winking at Hermione as he speaks. Her lips button as she bites away her smile. "Here, have some blintzes, ma petite – they are exceptional," he uses the silver tongs to select the best-looking crepe triangles and places them upon her plate, before drizzling them with sauce and honey, respectively.

Continuing to offer Hermione a sample of every available dish, Draco does the same for his mother, before he serves himself a portion of each. The mood is amiable, enhanced by the warmth of the artificially-controlled environment and the near-noon daylight streaming through the myriad glass panes.

"Tell me, Hermione – do you enjoy your work at the Ministry? I understand you're currently working in the Wizengamot Administrative Services division?" Narcissa projects genuine interest, sipping at her dainty cup of Oolong tea.

Hermione dabs at her mouth with her chalk-white linen napkin. "Yes – I'm finding my current role rather limiting, actually," she divulges, casting a quick peripheral look at Draco. "The Ministry seems to delight in an overuse of red tape, to the detriment of effecting swift and progressive policy change. It's not my supervisor's fault – Mrs Sandore is extremely supportive – but I suspect the upper echelons are reluctant to shake up a system that is still tenuously cobbled together, after the catastrophe of Voldemort's insidious coup."

"Quite disappointing," Narcissa agrees. "Do you have ambitions to eventually attain the position of the Minister for Magic, Hermione?".

Sighing, Hermione expostulates, "Not any more. After the War, I was short-sightedly swayed by the unnatural euphoria of victory, and by the many grand assurances of my aptness for the top job – I should have known better.'

"Really, I have always wanted to use my skills to make a meaningful, positive difference to others' lives. Unfortunately, I don't think that my current career path is the way to realize that objective… Draco has helped me to see that I've been 'wasting my life pleasing other people' – I think that was the phrase he used?" she gently ribs the tow-headed wizard beside her.

Narcissa tuts her disapproval. "Draco – really? That's a brutal thing to say to one's paramour."

"No, he was right," Hermione defends, before Draco can open his mouth to justify himself. "And he followed that eye-opener by explaining that he was incredibly frustrated by my blindness at seeing how 'extraordinary' I really am," she paraphrases Draco's words with a grateful smile in his direction.

"Much better," says an appeased Narcissa. "Have you given any thought to a change of career?" She takes a fastidious bite from a melon ball.

"I'm still considering my options, at this stage… I'll need to do some extensive research," Hermione demurs.

"Well, the Manor's libraries are always open to you, Hermione. We have a centuries-old collection just crying out for regular readers; and I'm certain Draco has already informed you that the Dark materials were comprehensively removed and/or destroyed."

Hermione's surprise is evident by her raised brows. "Thank you, that's most kind," she slowly answers. "I do have a few subjects I'd like more information about…"

"Excellent. If it's not too daunting, perhaps you'd like me to give you a short tour of the main bibliotheca before you leave? It's not far from the conservatory. And you have my guarantee that my husband shall not disturb you in any way. You may select whichever tomes you wish – Draco will arrange to have them safely transferred to your abode, won't you, mon fils?" Narcissa urges.

Draco checks Hermione's candid countenance before he nods his agreement; she appears a tad edgy, but mostly excited about his mother's crafty lure. Hook the bookworm early in the piece and keep her close with a huge lending library. Well played, Narcissa. Well played.

"I would like that very much – thank you, Narcissa." Hermione is practically bouncing in her seat at the prospect.

Sighing internally, Draco resigns himself to spending far more time today at his ancestral stomping ground than he'd anticipated. Mostly he is aggrieved because he'd envisaged spending their Sunday engaged in much more… mutually gratifying pursuits. He loses more than a few minutes in contemplation of those decidedly sensual activities, lips unconsciously curving as he fantasizes –

"Malfoy, why do you have that weird leer on your face?" Hermione whispers, tugging gently on his hand to garner his attention. He murmurs the answer into her right ear, aware that his mother is tracking their muttered exchange.

"Ask me later, Granger… you'll enjoy my answer, and the physical presentation that follows." Draco delights in her rosy cheeks and flushed décolletage.

The remainder of their brunch passes quickly. They have managed to consume just under half the opulent buffet; Ruibby and a puffed-up Macdolas appear on cue to clear away the spread as Narcissa pours them all another cup of tea (after casting a heating charm on the cooled liquid).

"How was your walk?" Hermione asks the petite pair. Ruibby blushes a little, halting in her gathering of used crockery to adjust the tiny yellow rosebud precariously tucked behind her elven ear, beneath the gathers of her ivory mob cap.

"Invigorating it was, Grace Lady Granger; Ruibby thanks Her Grace for her interest," the maidservant warmly confides. Macdolas grins like a Cheshire cat, somehow constantly keeping his moon-eyes on Ruibby as he efficiently clears the table.

Draco debates calling out Macdolas for shamelessly appropriating one of the early rose blossoms, but Hermione's tiny head shake stills his rebuke.

At least the little knave chose well, since yellow roses signify friendship, joy and caring. Perhaps the headstrong house elf is finally reining in his penchant for reckless overstatement, after all.

One can but hope.

French translation:

'Mon fils' - 'My son'.