Perished Dreams

Perished Dreams - Chapter Four

The Rose Room

Chapter Four: The Rose Room

Hermione looked around her at her new accommodations. It was a young girl's dream of a room. It was entirely in gold, blue and white. Admiringly she stared at the midnight-blue velvet curtains, matching the silk of the four-poster perfectly. The same pattern, that of roses, was everywhere, from the cushions on the sofa to the creamy wallpaper, where enwrought blue and gold roses created the impression that they were in a secret garden filled with magic. She was strongly reminded of her moonlit stroll the night of the Yule Ball.

"I...We call it the Rose Room," Narcissa said quietly. "I have always thought it a beautiful room, but if you want, you can of course have another."

"No! I mean..." Hermione looked embarrassed from her outburst. "It's just that this room... it's so...so..." For once in her life she failed to find words.

But Narcissa merely nodded understandingly. "I know. It's so peaceful. You never want to leave." There was a touch of sadness in her voice. Looking away it seemed as if she were pondering something. Then she raised her head and stared determinedly at Hermione. "Miss Granger, there is something I have to ask you."

Here it comes, Hermione thought tiredly. This is where she will enquire what intentions I have with her beloved son, and then very politely let me know that she would rather see him with a Blast-Ended Skrewt than me. I ought to have known that this seeming congeniality was too good to last.

Narcissa looked very uncomfortable, nevertheless she proceeded. "Does my son intend to rape you?"

Hermione wouldn't have been more surprised if Narcissa had chosen this moment to start tap-dancing on the table while confessing her secret love for Professor Flitwick. Of what she had seen of Mrs. Malfoy, she seemed the type of mother whose son could never do anything wrong. And she couldn't help wonder when the term "rape" had penetrated the strange and secluded world of upper-class Slytherin women.

Hermione remembered the shock of discovering how very male chauvinistic the Wizarding World was. This was due to the fact that wizards and witches lived so much longer than Muggles. Old-fashioned attitudes and conservative opinions still lived in their minds, because they had had fewer generations to process them in. Therefore their society did not develop in the same pace as the Muggle world.

For those who associated a lot with Muggles, that be Muggleborns, half-bloods or merely people like the Weasleys, this did not particularly affect their lives. But in the pure-blood families, and especially those who took pride in being just that, the moral code was approximately that of the late eighteenth and the early nineteenth century. And since this group of people was the one with the heaviest political influence, so was the legal. Surprisingly enough had Lord Voldemort's rise to power neither modernised the women's role nor created an improvement of their rights...

These well brought up women were generally cherished and overprotected in such a degree that certain facts of life remained to them unreal and never spoken of taboos. Therefore hearing the wife of Lucius Malfoy use such a term was nearly as shocking as hearing the ladylike Narcissa being so blunt.

"You must excuse me if I have offended you," Mrs. Malfoy's voice was low and apologetic, "but anyone can see that my son is infatuated with you (Hermione cursed herself for the warm feeling these words brought to her stomach), and that you are not entirely enthusiastic about his emotions. And men," she smiled softly, "although I must admit rarely think of my son as belonging to that category,-"

"Neither do I," mumbled Hermione.

Narcissa shot her a sharp look before she suddenly smiled and continued unperturbed, "in times like these do not necessary have to consider what the object of their affection and other-" she hesitated, searching for the right word.

"Urges?" suggested Hermione.

"Yes," said Narcissa, smiling gratefully, "feels about their attention. Don't get me wrong, Miss Granger, I love my son. There's probably not a thing in this world I would not do for him. But I would have been nothing but a fool if I had assumed that just because he to me will always remain my little boy makes him incapable of doing things others in his situation might."

Hermione needed some time to sort out those sentences. Then she said, in a slightly bitter tone of voice, "You can rest assured, Mrs. Malfoy, that your son has no desire whatsoever to include me in anything that concerns his "urges". He very directly said so. The only reason he brought me here was that he felt that I was a walking menace to myself. And..." here she hesitated slightly, "I think you do him wrong if you believe he is violent of nature." Hermione thought back on all the things she had said and done to provoke him just the last couple of hours, and on the time she had slapped him at school. Already then he had surely known enough curses and held enough power to make her life an inferno of pain if he wanted to. And yet he had never hurt her. "Of what I have seen of Draco, he does not strike me as the type who considers violence a solution. Except from when he kills and tortures people, that is."

"That be as it may," Narcissa said, her voice now sounding strangely choked, "but what do you feel about him?"

Hermione raised her chin and said with a determination born out of her confused emotions, "Nothing. I can hardly stand being in the same room as him. In fact I wouldn't have been in this place if I had had a choice." She stopped talking abruptly, realising what she had revealed. Frightened she threw a look at Narcissa, shocked by how ghostly pale her hostess had suddenly become. There was no trace of humour in her face now. "You weren't supposed to know that. Please don't tell Draco I said anything. I think that may cause him to leave his pacifist principles." Getting no response, she said in a pleading tone, "I realise that you do not have any reason to want to do me a favour, but can't you simply..."

These words seemed to shake Narcissa out of her stupor. "Of course I won't say anything, dear." She sent Hermione a weak smile before turning away from her and walking slowly over to the window. However, she appeared not to be looking so much at the star filled sky as at something that was entirely in her own mind. Looking weary, she said in a low, tired voice, "I have very limited influence over my son, Miss Granger. It has been a long time since he sought my advice. If I could persuade him to release you, I would. Unfortunately I cannot. But if you ever feel that there is something I can do to ease your situation, do not hesitate to let me know."

Narcissa's sincerity somewhat surprised Hermione. The seriousness with which she regarded the situation seemed to be a little out of place. Wonderingly Hermione noticed that Narcissa's eyes held an expression which reminded her strongly of the one Harry used to get when someone had mentioned the last task of the Triwizard Tournament in the years after Cedric's death.

Before Hermione could reply, however, the tiny house-elf in the green kimono walked in. "Master is walking to yours room," she said in a near whisper, her big green eyes wide with fright. It was obvious that being part of this conspiracy was very much against her wishes. "You is to hurry! Master won't like this, no, master won't like it at all!"

Narcissa looked as if she pretty much had figured that out by herself, but she merely said, "Thank you, Blinky." Hurriedly she excused herself to Hermione and bade her goodnight.

All this she did in such haste that she had nearly reached the door before Hermione without interrupting her could say, "Goodnight, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Call me Narcissa, dear." A strange expression dawned on her features.

"Don't worry about it." Hermione tried vainly to smile; "I know that Muggleborns don't call Malfoys by their first name."

"Oh, no, it's not that, dear. It's just that it's been a very long time since I last said that..." Enveloped in thought and a shroud of melancholy Mrs. Malfoy took her leave.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Draco walked impatiently down the corridors of the Manor. As soon as he had sent that house-elf off, he had started searching for Hermione. Of course, since their residence covered the area of a small European country, this was a Sisyphus task. But he was determined to find her even if he would be an old, white-haired man by the time he got to put his hands around her little impertinent, disrespectful neck.

Noticing the decrease in Slytherin symbols, he realised that he was in the part of the Manor that his entire life had been the domain of his mother. In an ordinary household it could have been described as her private recreation room. However, there was nothing ordinary neither about the Malfoy's or their exceptional wealth, so Narcissa had actually got a part of the house to herself. Not even his father usually entered here. Of course, that might be because he found the lack of snake symbols and displays of old torture instruments discouraging.

Instantly he understood that this was the logical place for Hermione to be. After randomly opening a few doors, he smirked triumphantly by the sight of the slender body enwrapped in silk sheets. He approached the four-poster silently, not wishing to wake or alert her.

For a moment he just stood still and enjoyed the sight of her. Draco had seen, known and bedded many beautiful women in his life, many of them far more beautiful than Hermione. But not one of them had given him the same sensation as Hermione did every time she looked at him, said something, or very simply was there. It was as if whatever he felt had nothing to do with the fact that she had developed into being remarkably beautiful woman, but had more to do with something that lay deeper than the shell of her outward form. Something that irresistibly drew him to her and insisted on fulfilment.

As his admiring gaze closely examined her sleeping form, she stirred and opened her eyes. It had happened to sudden to give him an opportunity to conceal his presence, so he braced himself against her usual contemptuous stare.

However, instead of staring at him with loathing, her whole expression softened, and she smiled lovingly. He gaped disbelievingly.

Lifting her arms towards him, she murmured tenderly, "Harry."

Comprehending that Hermione still was in whatever untroubled dream she had, and unable to resist the invitation, he bent down, thinking that it might be worth dying at the age of 17 to have someone looking at you like this.

In his life, no one had ever touched him like that. The women he had slept had been attracted either by his good looks, his fortune or his power. They had always been nervous of displeasing him, to do something that would cause them to lose the benefits they achieved by dating him. That be money, esteem, him as a trophy, or simply... him. He was after all dead sexy. And apart from his magical abilities, fate had also bestowed on him certain other talents. They had been too busy to try to keep his interest to submit to such affectionate, lingering caresses.

But the way in which Hermione's fingers threaded through his hair, as one hand slipped underneath his shirt, was not only passionate, but loving. Perhaps it was this that had always fascinated him so about her, her great capacity for love. When she loved someone, it was completely and forever. Take Potter, for instance. Even when it was clear that Lord Voldemort would succeed in taking over the world, and he could do nothing about it, Hermione had stayed by his side. Everyone else in Gryffindor (apart from Weasley, but Draco did not find him remotely interesting) had pretended not to be more than mere acquaintances of the pathetic fool. Instead they had done their best to achieve the Dark Lord and his supporters' benevolence. But she, until the very end, had been there for him for comfort and support. And more, apparently, he thought as her lips replaced her hand on his chest.

For a short second, he wondered how it would be like to have her feeling that way about him. Not just behaving like this because she believed him to be Potter, but look at him, Draco Malfoy, with the same display of emotions. To know that no matter what he did, in his failures and in his successes, her feelings would remain unchanged. To have someone he did not have to play a charade with, who would accept him completely, and love him, always.

Potter had had all this, he thought, sneering. The want to hurt something, someone, which automatically followed thoughts of that stuck-up bastard made him reach out for what was closest by. But before his hands could touch her in a hurtful manner, his expression softened and he stroked her cheek lightly instead.

The Boy Who Lived was dead, he reminded himself. Potter would never more create problems. Not for anyone, and especially not for him. With a jolt he realised what the death of that worthless do-gooder must have meant for Hermione. She had been left alone, without anyone to defend her (a snort followed the idea of Weasley being of use in this - or actually in any - respect), with no refuge.

After so carelessly openly declared their companionship for the world, the irresponsible guy had just gone and died! Draco shook his head in disgust. With a shudder scenes of the treatment of female opponents of the Dark Lord flashed before his inner eye. It was only sheer luck that Lord Voldemort had not decided to make an example out of her, or that she had not fallen into the hands of one his remorseless cohorts, he contemplated, conveniently forgetting that that was just what she had. Hermione deserved something better than a man who endangered her with his very presence. She deserved someone who could treasure her, spoil her, and take care of her, forever. Someone with the power, influence and position to shield her from the worries of the world and make her every dream come true. Except those about Potter, he thought as his lips connected with hers.