Sometimes the Dragon Wins

CHAPTER 10 - UNWELCOME GUEST

The Past is like a funeral gone by,
The Future comes like an unwelcome guest.
Sonnet. May-Day.

-Sir William Edmund May

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It had been another daunting broom flight. Pansy had discovered that Harry was ticklish by accidentally brushing her fingers across his stomach in an attempt to find a better grip. He had giggled like a girl.

Literally.

She'd capitalized on that weakness for a few seconds by attacking his armpits vigorously, but they had almost plunged to their deaths as Harry lost control of the broom.

She'd subsided moodily - she didn't fancy dying - and had contented herself with gazing at the landscape skipping beneath them.

She'd lost interest after the hundredth adorable thatched farmhouse though. London had appeared beneath them for a few moments in all its smoky splendor, and she'd marveled at the Muggle civilization again but Harry had cajoled the broom above the clouds to avoid making a spectacle.

With nothing but clouds to look at, she'd resorted to moodily thinking about what Helena had told them. She still didn't trust that woman, and neither did she trust her brutish husband. Nathan Thor might have invented new curses at the mention of Voldemort's name, but he'd been Voldemort's best friend for god's sake.

A wizard never changed its robes, the old saying went. Pansy had never much liked idiomatic expressions, but this one was easy enough to understand. Wizards rarely ever changed sides. Neither did normal people. If you liked coffee and alcohol and dancing until 5am, you weren't likely to switch over to tea and humbugs and cross stitching. (Unless of course you aged fifty years in a very short time.) And if you were Voldemort's best friend, you were not likely to be the next recipient of the Nobel peace prize. That's how she understood it anyway.

But if you were gabbling about clouds having silver linings and love being better than money, well, that made no sense at all.

Mind you, who would have ever thought she'd be zooming above the clouds with her arms wrapped around Harry Potter's waist?

Perhaps people changed after all.

Or perhaps she just didn't want to be taken captive, and perhaps she didn't want Harry to take the Dark Mark. How strange. She'd always thought she'd wanted a Death Eater. But she didn't want Harry Potter as a Death Eater. It would just be so wrong.

They were probably close to the Malfoy beach home by now.

"I think we're almost there!" she yelled into Harry's ear.

"Thank you!" he yelled back, turning around to grin at her. "I think my ears were freezing off but you've made them warm!"

She smiled back automatically. 'He is really cute,' she reflected as they dived through clouds again. 'Not as muscular as Draco, or as impossibly perfectly handsome, and not devilishly please-rip-my-clothes-off-now sexy, but his lopsided smile and friendly eyes were definitely kissable. He looked like a cute, thin version of the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Who would have ever thought that a thinner, cuter, Pillsbury Doughboy would be her dream boy?

She contented herself by holding onto his undough-like waist as tightly as she possibly could.

"Is that Brighton?" Harry yelled.

Pansy looked down. Indeed. The ocean frothily lapped at white pebbled shores invaded by so-called civilization and houses.

Harry chose a little deserted stretch of beach to descend onto.

Pansy jumped off as soon as the broom landed, intently relieved that the ordeal was over. She wondered whether she had any hair left, the wind had whipped it so.

"So eager to get away from me?" Harry teased.

She smiled again. "Its not you. It's the terminal velocity."

He chuckled. "And here I thought you were the most adept Chaser on the Slytherin team."

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you enjoyed that? It was too cold."

He smirked. "Well, your hands were keeping me rather warm."

And then he looked appalled with himself.

Aww, how cute. He was embarrassed with flirting.

He stared at the pebbles under his feet studiously.

"So, are you tired?" he asked nervously, kicking a stray pebble.

"Not really," Pansy said. "Just cold. Do you think there's any place we can get warm?"

"Any place other than the Malfoy beach house?" he asked worriedly.

"I doubt that will be warm," Pansy said dryly. Not if Narcissa Malfoy had been in it anyway. That woman turned human beings to cold bastards and buildings to igloos. Or at least, that's how Pansy perceived it. She'd met Draco's mother once and, well, she didn't have fond memories of the encounter.

"Well, I've never been in Brighton," Harry said. "But I think if we look around, we can find someplace warm. Maybe a pub." He looked up from his scuffed boot. His sweet Pillsbury eyes were hopeful.

"Or a club."

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Hermione was rather aware that her mouth was hanging open.

She shut it with a snap, causing Crabbe to glower at her.

For all its splendor on the outside, Malfoy Manor was a place of stylish beauty at the core. Instead of eye-hurting dimensions and beautifully chiseled statues, and crunchy white gravel, plush Persian carpets on dark wooden floors dulled the sound of their thumping shoes. But beautiful stone walls and enormous tapestries and Renaissance paintings did not dull the thumping of her awe-struck heart.

Every corner of the manor, nay castle, was an interior decorator's hearts desire. The subtle mix of contrasts on Rubens paintings competed with the intricate weaves of Chang dynasty carpets. Pressed ceilings gave way to vaulted archways. Heavy velvet curtains allowed glimpses of a peaceful courtyard through wooden windows.

"Yeah, it's okay," Malfoy shrugged when William complimented him on his home.

"It's more than okay," Hermione bristled.

"Shh," he cautioned.

They were standing outside a pair of double doors. Hermione could intuitively tell that it was the library. She was psychically in tune with all the books in the world, and she fancied she could feel the pages of knowledge whiling away behind those slabs of wood the Malfoys referred to as doors.

"The deal is," Draco said, glaring at all four of them, "That we get the books and leave. And that we shut up while we do that."

"Okay," William said reasonably. "What books are we looking for?"

"Prophecy books on the Dragon," Draco hissed.

"Why?" William asked.

Draco pushed the door open exasperatedly.

And froze.

"Draco."

It was a soft, almost soothing voice. Not perhaps a voice that reeked of home-made treacle tart and forced sing-a-longs around the piano, but it certainly wasn't a threatening voice.

And yet Draco paled, clutched his hands and produced an almost rude, terrified "Urp" from his finely chiseled mouth at the mere breathy intonation of his name.

The speaker was, of course, Narcissa Malfoy, and she was reclining in a splendid ochre leather armchair in the enormous library.

Hermione paused to consider the Mistress of Malfoy Manor, too entranced to even gape at the wall-to-wall books, or the full length Turkish carpet under her feet.

Narcissa Malfoy's name was certainly justified. She could definitely afford to be full of herself. Hell, she was a goddess.

A full, pouty mouth, a dignified nose, and intense gray eyes threatened to disappear behind curtains of hair so shiny that Hermione could have probably seen her reflection in its strands if she wanted to. Her blue-gray robes were tailored to cling, to emphasis, to show tantalizing glimpses of leg and dignified back and...

'I'm glad she's not my mother,' Hermione thought.

What teenage girl with ungainly limbs and strangely sprouting acne would have been able to handle having such a mother?

The cool, cat-like stare was shifting to her now. Hermione investigated the majestic leather bound books in the shelves with sudden aplomb.

But even that wasn't as interesting as the promise of a real-life soap opera.

Narcissa stroked one manicured fingernail. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?" she drawled.

Draco assumed the pose commonly known as "rabbit caught in headlights."

"Erm, err, well you see, erm..."

It was terrible to see him helpless.

And vindicating, of course.

He floundered some more until pity overcame spitefulness.

"We're here for a school project," Hermione said. This was true in some respects. Project: obliterate the new principal, Voldemort, Britain's very own home-grown Dark Lord.

"Yes," Draco grabbed the opportunity. "School project."

And then he resumed the expression most often referred to as "fish out of water."

"We're doing a project for Arithmancy," Hermione clarified. Now that was a full-blown lie. She decided to embroider on it a little. "We're doing three-dimensional magical calculus and we decided to study an architectural example to calculate algebraic vectors and dimensions."

The rooms occupants greeted the statement with a collective gaping mouth.

Draco was first to recover. His brow smoothed. His eyes filmed over with foggy thunderclouds and his upper-lip arched into a fine smirk.

"Yes. We were wondering if we could do a few Trigorythm spells around the house, calculate the Uncertainty charms and Polynomial variance and deduce the overall vector velocity. I hope you don't mind mother."

"All right," Narcissa said regally. "I'd like to watch, if you don't mind. I haven't seen an Arithmancy book since university."

Oh no. They were screwed.

Draco didn't even wince. "Oh mother, I have been rude. I haven't introduced you to Pansy before."

Hermione, who had desperately been perusing all her Arithmancy notes in her head looked up confusedly. Pansy? Where was Pansy?

Draco's arm closed around Hermione's waist like a metal clamp about to dispose of an ailing car. He steered her forward with a brittle smile. "This is Pansy, mother."

Oh. She was Pansy? She made a mental note to remember that. Obviously the name Hermione Granger didn't fill the Malfoys with affection.

"Pansy," Narcissa said, without smiling. "You had blue eyes the last time I saw you, in first grade."

"Oh," Hermione tittered. "I was at an experimental stage. It was just a contact color charm."

"Well, your mother and father's eyes are blue, as I recall. Why do you have brown eyes?"

Damn this woman.

"They've always joked that I'm the milkman's daughter," Hermione said feebly. "But my great-uncle Osawald had brown eyes, so I suppose I got them from him."

"How are Harold and Celeste?"

"Who?" Hermione asked.

"Your parents darling," Draco said, practically elbowing her kidneys into a different position.

"Oh, yes of course. They're, err, fine."

Narcissa glared scornfully. "I shouldn't think they are. Your uncle passed away two weeks ago, didn't he?"

"Well, of course they're sad but..."

"Pansy's tired mother," Draco interrupted. "Don't cross-examine her."

The mother investigated her face and body without smiling once. She looked up finally. "You're Draco's girlfriend then?"

Hermione simpered in reply. Might as well play Pansy correctly. It was bloody hard not to simper under that iron-wrought gaze anyway.

Narcissa sniffed. "Fine. Let's have something to eat first."

"The house elves are bringing sandwiches," Draco said.

"Sandwiches?" Narcissa snapped, as if he'd said something disgraceful. "I think not. We'll be having dinner in the long dining room in an hour. And I'd like to see you all in some proper clothes." She got up and stalked out of the room, easily conveying the impression that they were mere dust motes beneath her feet.

"You can let go of my waist now," Hermione said.

Draco glanced at her in confusion and then seemed to notice that he was grinding her hipbone to a pulp.

He let go and Hermione rubbed her hip. It was going to be bruised.

"Well, that wasn't so bad," Draco said. "I guess we have an hour to find the books we need and then we can bugger off."

"Aren't we supposed to have dinner with your mother?"

"No," Draco said coldly. "You have been misinformed."

Hermione glowered. "I distinctly remember her saying that..."

"Your memory is faulty," Draco snarled.

"No, she heard right," Crabbe said helpfully. "And she said we should dress nicely. You have any robes I can borrow?"

Draco's voice could have obliterated diamonds. "No Crabbe, I think you must have misheard me. My mother is a misogynistic bitch. We will not be having supper with her."

"But you said yes," Crabbe persisted.

"I never did."

"But you didn't say no."

"Do you treasure your teeth, Crabbe?"

Crabbe gave the matter some thought. "Well, they're a bit uneven, but at least they're nice and white."

"If you want to avoid the whiteness spilling over with blood, I'd suggest you shut up and help me find some bloody prophecy books now."

For once, Hermione decided not to argue. Draco was a boy on the edge, and she definitely treasured her teeth.

"Do you treasure your teeth, Draco?"

It was low. It was smooth. it was most definitely female.

Hermione hadn't spoken, which meant that it was either a provocative house elf or Narcissa Malfoy.

Why couldn't it have been the first option?

Mistress Malfoy glided into the library as if her legs didn't even exist.

"Why aren't you going to have dinner with me, Draco?" she asked smoothly.

"Why are you eavesdropping mother?" Draco asked sulkily.

"I believe its time for a little private conversation," Narcissa said. "Pansy, Vincent, Gregory, William, out please."

Draco's expression was smooth and unreadable, but his leg was shaking. Hermione found herself obeying. She did an about-face that would have made a die-hard drill sergeant proud, and marched out of the room with the rest of the Slytherin cronies.

The door slammed behind them. She stared at Crabbe, Goyle, and William's faces. They seemed confused. And awkward. And guilty.

They'd left their buddy in there to confront the mother of doom.

Presently the sound of raised voices made them all shift their feet.

"I feel bad," Crabbe said contemplatively, as a woman's voice pitched to a screaming point.

There was some more screaming - all female - and then there was a large thud and a painful yell.

Hermione gnawed at her fingernails.

A few moments later, the door opened, and Narcissa Malfoy glided through serenely.

"I'll see you all at dinner," she informed them. And then she disappeared.

Hermione rushed through the library door to confront the awful sight of books strewn around the floor. Their bindings were bent. Their pages were creased. It was terrible.

Draco was lying against the one bookshelf, nursing a bloody jaw and adding to the generally distressing state of the room.

She reluctantly went over to him.

"We'll be having dinner with my mother," he said stiffly as she squatted next to him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Mentally? No," he said sourly. "But physically, I just did a healing spell. I'm very good at them. Lots of practice."

Hermione watched silently as he impassively dabbed the blood away with a handkerchief.

So self-sufficient. So detached.

"Why did she do that?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," William said, also coming closer. "Was it about you not having dinner with her?"

Draco shook his head dismissively. "No, it was about the menu."

"The menu?" Hermione echoed.

"We couldn't decide on kingklip or sole." He looked utterly serious. "I prefer kingklip myself."

"Is that the main course?"

"No, just the starter," Draco said tiredly. "Thankfully we didn't discuss the entire menu. I would have been in St. Mungo's by now. God, parents are so full of crap."

"Yeah, I know my dad gets real mad if I stay out late," Goyle said comfortingly. "He makes me pick up all the dog pooh."

"My aunt pretends to feed me to the dragons if I forget to feed them."

"My mum makes me exercise whenever I wear anything orange," Crabbe added.

The all turned to Hermione inquiringly.

"My mum's a..." She trailed off. No. She was not going to share that with a bunch of Slytherins. As soon as the adventure was over they'd tease her and mock her about it at school. "Nothing," she said firmly.

Draco sighed. "I wish my mum was a nothing. She'd at least seem less obvious in my life. Now come on. We should probably get dressed before my mother turns us over to Voldemort as sexual slaves," Draco sighed, getting up from the floor.

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Hermione felt decidedly silly. She'd been forced into a lavender gown and had almost been throttled by a diamond choker that would have made Elizabeth Taylor wince. Her hair was up in a style that heavily suggested "beauty pageant wannabe." She only needed a tiara and a sash to complete the look.

It would have been fine if she'd been going to, say, a drag queen show, but they were only having dinner, for god's sake. She cringed at the thought of Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and William laughing at her ridiculous get-up.

Formal wear and jewelry around the house worked on Narcissa Malfoy, because she was older and part-Veela and disgustingly graceful.

But Hermione merely looked like a 13-year old who had raided her mother's closet and her make up kit.

"Just a little less base," she pleaded.

She wouldn't have looked quite as pathetic if it hadn't been for Nappy, the mascara-enforcer in the Malfoy-home. She was a house elf, and one who believed in make up as much as Hermione believed in oxygen.

As a result Hermione's eyes were liberally coated with lavender eye shadow. Her eyelashes were crusted over with mascara (which had the general effect of making it look as if a spider had settled over her eyelids) and the elf had decided that a mauve lipstick would be fetching. It was revolting, really.

"Missy looks lovely," the elf crooned.

"Yes, Jerry Springer would love me on his show," Hermione muttered.

"Missy must look beautiful for our special guest," the house elf added.

"Yes, well, you'll think about freedom and liberation, right?"

"Only if I can take my hair curlers and lipstick along."

"Oh, I say you could be a hairdresser!" Hermione exclaimed. Another thought occurred to her.

"Who's this guest?"

Nappy twittered excitedly. "The master who wants to marry you!"

Hmm. Someone wanted to marry her?

Oh yes, of course, she was supposed to be Pansy. Someone wanted to marry Pansy?

She couldn't play dumb though. Or, at least she couldn't pretend not to have prior knowledge about the possible wedding.

"Oh him," she said casually. "I, err, haven't seen him in quite a while."

The elf glared at her reproachfully. "Missy has never seen him, Scary Mistress says."

"But he wants to marry me?" Hermione examined her clownish reflection in the mirror.

"Missy's father wants it to be so," the elf said. "It will be a great day when you accept."

Hermione looked at the elf warily. She obviously couldn't showcase her ignorance and ask who the mystery suitor was. She frowned at herself, an impressionist painting (full of smudges and undefined lines) if Gauguin had favored purple.

"Well, lets go and meet him, shall we?"

The elf escorted Hermione through mazes of beautiful corridors. Other house elves with less elaborate hairdos bearing bowls of seafood soups, shrimp, crab salads, and elegantly arranged platters of sole scurried past into an appropriately narrow, long room furnished with an enormous table and a multitude of dining chairs. An orchestra playing Dvorak's Wood Dove symphony on an assortment of cellos and violins were nervously gathered in the corner.

Hermione smirked at the sight of a disgruntled-looking Crabbe and Goyle in too-tight dress robes. Draco, of course, looked magnificent. It seemed velvet robes and bored expressions were en vogue today.

Narcissa Malfoy was sitting at the head of the table, politely conversing with a rather thin, but attractive gentleman.

The suitor, Hermione surmised. Nappy the house-elf tugged her forward. Draco looked up from where he'd been desecrating random pieces of sole and grinned in delight, no doubt revelling in her garish lavender get-up.

Hermione scowled and investigated the suitor. He looked oddly familiar - high cheekbones, greying dark hair, blue eyes... hmm, not bad. A little too old for her, of course, but at least Pansy's father had arranged someone decent.

Aforementioned suitor looked up and into her over make-upped eyes. He stood up smoothly. "Pansy, I presume?" he said in gravelly [grave] tones.

"Yes," Hermione said primly, imagining that she was playing a role in Pride and Prejudice and trying hard not to notice that Draco was biting his under-lip.

"You have indeed grown-up Miss Parkinson. I'll be wanting to see more of you." The man leaned down and kissed her hand gently. "Lord Voldemort, at your service."

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, the chapter all the ff.net people have been waiting for is up next. Sorry about the long absence, and thank you to the people who yelled at me about not updating quickly enough, much appreciated. Escpecially thank you to the reviewers. I'm much too lazy to name you all, so I'm not going to name anyone, but thank you.