Courting Miss Granger, Chapter One Rewrite
Title: The Malfoy Marriage Contract (A Rewrite of chapter one of Courting Miss Granger)
Rating: Between PG and PG-13
Summary: Hermione finds herself on the receiving end of one of the worst marriage proposals ever solicited.
Length: About 1300 words.
Author's Note:
Like many out there, my early writing is both my baby and a thing to be feared. A scary baby, if you will, that you both want to coddle and hide behind your back, so no one can see it, even if you do get the occasional passerby who coos at it. ...Where am I going with this metaphor?
So here's the thing. I wrote a tiny rewrite. Went all out, changing anything and everthing I felt like changing, to the point that I ended up with a final product that isn't even compliant with the other chapters and yet is compliant with DH. Hooray for compliancy issues!
I haven't touched this in awhile. I wrote the beginning last May, maybe? Then wrote some more a few weeks ago. Never really did get to the end of the chapter. It's short and ends abruptly on a line about cheese. But I like it. And no, I'm not planning a complete rewrite. Once is plenty.
And so, this was mostly written for the sake of peace of mind. My peace of mind. Yeah. And because it was fun. :-P
Hermione clutched her wand in one hand and the vinaigrette stained envelope in the other, her purse looped over her shoulder. Her attention went to the maître d’. “Do you have a reservation?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I’m meeting someone here.”
“Very well. If you’ll give me the name of your dinner companion, I will lead you to your table, otherwise you may take a seat in our waiting area.” The man’s collar was crisp, and he wore the wizarding equivalent of a tuxedo.
Hermione closed her eyes briefly, took a small breath, and opened them again. “Draco Malfoy. I’m here to meet Draco Malfoy.”
The maître d’ nodded. “Right this way, madam.”
…
Hermione had been eating her lunch in the backroom of Flourish and Blotts when an owl had swooped through the parcel receiving entrance and dropped an emerald green envelope directly into her bowl of salad, sending a kidney bean flying through the air.
Hermione had grumbled, given the impatient owl one of the pieces of chicken from her salad, and turned back to the envelope. To Miss Hermione Granger, proclaimed the pearly green writing now blurred with olive oil, vinegar and pepper.
It was probably an invitation to yet another of her friends’ weddings. Ever since the war, it was as if everyone had gone into a baby boom frenzy. Everyone had been getting married left and right. Harry was married to Ginny, who was expecting. Ron already had a one-year-old with a woman named Eliza.
Ron. Hermione and Ron had broken it off when he had alarmed her by proposing two weeks after the Final Battle, only days after Fred had been put to rest in the ground.
Hermione turned the envelope over, unable to think of anyone who might have still been left on her list of single friends. She’d been to at least fifteen weddings over the course of six years. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the true number had been closer to twenty-five. She’d lost count after she’d caught the tenth bouquet.
She didn’t recognize the bright silver wax seal. After opening the envelope, she flipped the heavy cream-colored parchment open.
Dear Miss Granger,
There is something of supreme importance I must discuss with you at once. Please, if you have any decency in your heart, then please, meet me at six o’clock at Basil Garden on Diagon Alley.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
…
And so Hermione found herself being directed to a candlelit table in the farthest corner of the most posh restaurant in the whole of Wizarding England.
Malfoy didn’t look up as she approached, and she sat down silently, resting her fisted wand on the table. He was studying a yellowing piece of parchment, which looked as if it were about to crumple into dust at any moment. She cleared her throat.
“Granger,” he said, looking up.
“Malfoy,” she said, nodding in recognition.
He carefully moved the parchment to the side before smiling dishearteningly at her. “Tell me, Granger. If you had the choice between a wedding and a funeral, which would you choose?”
Hermione cocked her head to the side, frowning. “I suppose I’d choose the wedding, though I’ve certainly been to enough of those to last a lifetime…. Why?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes were bloodshot, long gray shadows directly beneath them. “It’s my birthday.”
Well, whatever she’d been expecting him to say, that had not been one of them. “Many happy returns?”
“I certainly hope so,” he mumbled. He moved his elbow onto the table and rested his pointed chin in his hand. “Do you know how to read Middle English?”
Hermione shrugged. “I can translate it without too much difficulty.”
Malfoy nodded and very carefully handed the parchment to her. The script was small and elegant.
In mariage the Malfoy sone be yiven at five and twenty winter old to a woman, wedde not, of no nacions straunge, and of namore a yeer old nor yong than bar he. The housbande of her he must be by six and twenty yeers eek he gain….
Hermione looked up. “So, let me get this straight. You need to get married to someone who’s not married, not foreign, and within a year of your age by the time your twenty-sixth birthday comes around?”
Malfoy wasn’t looking at her. “It goes on to say that if I don’t, I’ll be put under a curse that, more likely than not, will result in my death. Nice ancestors I’ve got, huh?”
“Nice indeed.”
“Best birthday present in history,” he muttered.
Hermione studied him closely, noting the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He looked exhausted, and he was looking at her with what might have been boredom if not for the fact that he simultaneously looked as if he were about to vomit. Suspicion gripped her, making her feel nauseous as well. “What am I doing here, Malfoy?”
He took the parchment back from her. “They’re married, Granger,” he said, repeating her use of their surnames. “Every last one of them, with a few exceptions.”
She really didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed. “Exceptions?”
“Death…. Extenuating circumstances…. You.” The “you” came out of his mouth as a sarcastic growl. “And of course you’d be the only one to still be single.”
“What are you getting at?” she snapped, though she couldn’t say she didn’t know.
“What I’m getting at, Miss Granger, is that we’re getting married before the end of the year, whether you like it or not.”
Hermione stood. “And why should I agree to the worst excuse for a proposal since Adam and Eve?”
“Sit down.” It wasn’t a command so much as a plead, though his voice was completely flat. Despite herself, she sat, glaring at him. “I’ve asked myself that question approximately a million times over the last ten hours, and it seems I’ve got two options. I can play off your guilt, your role as one of the few truly decent individuals in this world, or I can threaten you. Your choice.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How dare you, you little worm! Threaten me? I-”
“To be completely fair, it wouldn’t be me who’d be threatening you. It would be my father. Much as he despises the thought of tainting the family bloodline, he’d rather taint it than end it. I die, and he won’t exactly be pleased, if you know what I mean.” Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off again. “I, for one, much prefer the former option. You are a decent human being, and no matter how much you dislike me, you wouldn’t let anyone die just to placate your discomfort.” His hand clapped over hers. “Don’t let me die,” he grunted, squeezing her fingers so tightly she had to grit her teeth.
And then something happened to make the anger coursing through her come to a pause. His blood-red eyes were watering, and he didn’t flinch at all when a tear openly ran down his cheek.
“Don’t let me die,” he whispered. His grip relaxed, and she pulled her hand free.
“You aren’t leaving me many options.”
The faintest hint of a smirk twitched his lip, though his eyes were still brimming. “A wedding or a funeral. My options are your options. Quid pro quo.”
“I see.” Hermione crossed her arms. Something for something. A life for a life, a death for a death. “For the time being, it looks as if I’ll have to accept your generous ultimatum,” she said with a snort.
His shoulders relaxed visibly, as did the lines around his eyes. “Wonderful.”
“But I wouldn’t use the word fiancée yet, if I were you,” she warned.
He smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He raised a single finger in the air, and as if on cue, two menus popped into existence in front of them. “Order anything you’d like, short of the Limburger sampler. Or the Stinking Bishop,” he added, almost as an afterthought, his nose curling.
To think he could be objecting to stinky cheese at a time like this, not that she’d be likely to order them anyway.