Chapter Eight

The Uncertainty

A shadow moved into the field of splotchy brightness behind her closed eyelids. With a sigh, Hermione felt her shoulders sag against the soft grass upon which she lay. She didn't open her eyes, as she knew—or thought she knew—who it was.

"Granger," Draco said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice.

Of course they'd send him to fetch her. It seemed ever since the day of the Grangers' memorial—near a week ago now—every chance they got, Narcissa and Dahlia were sending them off together for some reason or another, as though the 'children' didn't recognize that for what it was. Once the elder witches' friendship had been firmly reestablished, Dahlia had made no secret of wanting her old friend's aid in hosting this infernal ball, and Narcissa made no secret of how eager she was to accept. Funny, before all this, Hermione hadn't even been sure Narcissa Malfoy possessed a single warm bone in her entire body, yet in that moment, the pale-haired woman's genuine smile had positively lit up the parlor.

She supposed she should simply be grateful that only two of the three Malfoys made themselves such a constant presence in the Dagworth home. The very thought of Lucius Malfoy still unnerved Hermione a little—even brought to his lowest by the Dark Lord during the Second Wizarding War, that man had a certain air about him. A constant edge. If not intimidating in that he was fully capable of browbeating some unsuspecting party to tears with only a few, stinging choice words, then in that he seemed ready to snap and unleash the weight of his burdens in a fierce, lashing curse so primal it did not need a name to call upon its magic.

Grateful, yes. So grateful she chose to stop thinking of such grave observations and focus on the day, itself. Not the dreaded upcoming ball, not the constant influx of visitors to her new home quickly becoming part of daily life, not Draco's still-scary father.

"You do know that's no longer my name, right?" she asked in a subdued voice.

"Huh. Is that what all this recent fuss has been about? I hadn't noticed." He exhaled a quiet laugh. "Figured there's only a limited window of time left for me to get away with calling you that. Trying to make the most of it."

"Going to miss it?"

"Maybe. A little."

She smiled, simply enjoying the hush of the expansive grounds and the warmth of the sun on her face. "Never pegged you for the sentimental sort, Malfoy."

The wizard laughed again. "Oh, shut it, you."

"What do those wretched women want now? I suspect it's their fault you're standing in my sun?"

"You'd be right, of course." There was a rustling in the grass beside her and a soft, breathed oomph. She pictured Draco dropping himself to the ground and stretching out to lie back not far from her. "Something about a final fitting? Your dress robes for the ball need to be perfect, apparently."

"Of course they do."

When she proceeded to not move a muscle, there was rustling in the grass once more. She opened her eyes, shielding them from the direct sunlight with a crooked arm in the air. Draco had, indeed, sprawled in the grass so that for a few moments there, they'd been resting with their heads side-by-side in the springy green blades. Now, he was propped up on his elbows and staring down at her, his expression questioning.

Frowning, she asked, "What?"

"Our mothers are both expecting you and you're just, what? Not going to go?" He shrugged. "It's only . . . those are two witches whose wrong sides I would not want to be on."

"Bah." She waved dismissively with her other hand. "I'm not 'not' going, I'm just not going yet. It's been mad house in there all bloody week. I simply need a break, is all."

"By not insisting you go back—"

"Which you're not," she interrupted him to point out.

Shaking his head, he smirked. "Which I'm not. But by you . . . choosing to take your time, and me not insisting you don't, you're making me an accomplice in your tardiness."

The witch smiled. "Well, you could always at least try to insist."

"I'm smart enough to give up soon as I know a battle is lost, Granger." He oomphed right back into the grass and clasped his hands behind his head. "The property's rather large, maybe I'll just tell them I had trouble tracking you down."

"That's the spirit, Malfoy."

He snickered and the pair lapsed into a lazy silence for several peaceful minutes.

Yet, it was that lazy, peaceful silence between them that—rather suddenly and inexplicably—bothered her. Oh, sure, they were both trying to make the best of the awkward situation their mothers had foisted upon them, but this . . . reticence, this easy acceptance, the simple matter of them not arguing, was just so not them.

"Malfoy?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think if we . . . if we'd been raised like this, we might've actually been friends?"

He sighed. "Probably. We're not that dissimilar after all, are we?"

"Stubborn, judgmental, short-fused . . . ." Hermione shrugged. "And that's just the good qualities."

"You're horrible," Draco responded, humor edging his voice. "You're not wrong, though. Just horrible."

She laughed, but sooner than she could let her eyes drift closed once more, there was a distinct popping sound from somewhere nearby. Wincing, she looked toward the noise.

There stood Saphie, her long-fingered hands propped on her tiny hips in a very former-nursemaid fashion. "An' here Saphie thought Miss was off somewheres, but here Miss is with the boy."

"Now we're in trouble," Hermione said with a sigh as she and Draco pulled themselves to sit up.

"Also," Draco started, frowning, "did she just call me 'the boy'?"

The witch pursed her lips to hold back a grin as she stood. "I'm sorry, Saphie. We really didn't mean for Mum to have to send you, we just wanted a moment of quiet."

"Well, Saphie supposes that makes sense. Miss never did like fusses, even when she was so, so small."

Hermione couldn't help but feel equally warmed and saddened whenever Saphie so effortlessly connected their shared past and present, as though the section in the middle—where they were separated from one another—simply didn't exist. It made her wonder how elves actually perceived the passage of time. Clearly it must be different from how humans and other, shorter-lived creatures—

"Granger!"

Giving herself a shake, she looked up at Draco. "What?"

"You were making your deep ponderings face. Thought if you didn't break out of it, we might be here a while."

She hadn't even realized she'd been looking outward in a bit of a daze as she let her mind run off. Perhaps she was in need of a nap, it had been a rather long few weeks. "Oh." She ignored that he recognized her 'deep ponderings' face, after all, they'd known each other for years, such recognition couldn't possibly be significant in any sort of . . . emotionally complicated way. "Right, sorry."

"Well, then, Miss and the boy will hurry along, now."

"Yes, Saphie," they pair answered in unison. Hermione had to hold back a laugh at how much they both sounded like scolded children.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, there you two are."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione halted mid-stride in the foyer at her mother's voice. Whatever was so urgent about a ruddy fitting for dress robes?

"Honestly, Mum. The ball is next week. I'm sure there's plenty of time to—"

"Oh, no, my darling. This isn't about that." As Dahlia and Narcissa waved their children toward where they waited in the open doorway of the sunroom, Hermione's mother stopped. She pressed a finger to her chin. "Well, it is, but it also isn't."

A pensive scowl playing across her features, Hermione looked over at Draco. Apparently sensing the weight of her gaze on him, he turned his head, his eyes meeting hers in something like confusion.

He shrugged, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, don't look at me. When they sent me to get you, it was only about the fitting."

Shaking her head, Hermione held in a sigh and continued on toward the sunroom. The elder witches returned inside, entering ahead of their children. Was that the hoot of an owl? At this time of day, that sound could only mean one thing. Post had arrived.

That simple notice left Hermione fully expecting her mother to hand over her Hogwarts letter for her final year when she stepped into the room. Typically the letters arrived earlier in August than this, but given that the school had just finished recovering from the damage done in May during the final battle of the War, Wizarding Britain had expressed sympathy, as well as a general understanding and forgiveness about their late sending. Narcissa and Dahlia resumed their seats around the fine lead crystal-topped table and each held up a familiar parchment envelope.

"Oh." Draco blinked, frowning in unpleasant surprise. "Didn't think they'd send my letter here."

Hermione offered him a shrug as she took her envelope from Dahlia's delicate hand and immediately set to breaking the red wax seal holding it shut. "I remember there were times Harry's letter arrived at the Weasleys' house, even when no one else should've been aware that's where he was. I think there must be some kind of charm or enchantment the headmaster—or headmistress, in Professor McGonagall's case—uses in order to direct the start of term letters accordingly."

"It's so interesting how even though you technically weren't the one who raised her, she speaks exactly like you did when we were younger, Dahlia" Narcissa observed aloud, her voice soft and thoughtful. "Rather like listening to an encyclopedia with a voice box . . . but more pleasant, I suppose," she tacked on with a faint grimace colouring her pale, flawless features, clearly realizing her words could be construed as less than flattering.

Whether or not Hermione considered the comparison an insult seemed a moot point as her mother laughed—a rich, warm sound—and waved dismissively. "You know, I had thought the same thing, but I wasn't certain if it was simply that I wanted to imagine the similarity between us. Thank you."

Hermione, for her part, pressed her lips into a line, her gaze darting back and forth between the elder witches. The comparison to Dahlia Dagworth when she was younger was sweet, the comparison to a talking encyclopedia not so much.

Returning her attention to the letter in her hand, Hermione slipped it free of the envelope and unfolded it. Draco followed suit shortly thereafter.

"Oh . . ." she said after a moment of skimming the careful, neat calligraphy scrawl.

Her tone raised the hairs on the back of Malfoy's neck. His letter only half-unfolded, he eyed it warily before turning his head to look at her. "Oh?" he echoed.

She nodded, but it was a stiff, somewhat lifeless motion. "I suspected they might do this in light of the War's events, but I didn't actually believe it was going to happen."

Snapping open his own letter finally, he read over what troubled Granger. Draco nodded in much the same way she had, his grey eyes dull for a moment. "Oh," he said again.

Their mothers exchanged a worried glance at their children's reactions to what should be simple start-of-term letters and supply and reading material lists. "Whatever is the matter with you two?" Dahlia asked for the both of them.

"Nothing is really . . . really the matter, I suppose, but . . . ." Hermione didn't quite know what it was about this information that bothered her so. Maybe it was that the one thing she hoped would remain unchanged after everything in her life that had been upheaved with this revelation about her parents' true identities was her time at Hogwarts. Maybe it was the simple idea of going through that uncertainty all over again. The first time around, she'd been a nervous wreck. Of course, she'd been new to the Wizarding world then, a Muggle-born among those raised with magic as part of their daily lives.

A child under the impression that it meant so very much.

"But?" Narcissa echoed, her pale blue eyes wide with concern as she shook her head expectantly. "What is it?"

"She's right," Draco said, his voice hollow as he refolded his letter and slipped it back inside its envelope. "It's nothing, really." Yet, even as he agreed, there was a feeling in the pit of his gut to match his voice. What would this mean?

"Oh, Dear Lord, such melodrama!" Dahlia reached over and tugged the letter from her daughter's fingers, the movement quick but gentle. "Teenagers."

She turned so that she and Narcissa could read its contents together, even as she voiced the words. "Dear Miss Dagworth—well, I don't suppose I should surprised the faculty is already in the loop—as we welcome our students back for another year at Hogwarts, we are obligated to inform you that at the Welcome Feast, there will be a Resorting of the returning student body. While we understand this may seem inconvenient for some, the dreadful times we have endured together recently have tested all of us in unexpected ways. Additionally, for the first time in the school's history, Slytherin House will accept Muggle-born students. Please find your supply and reading lists below, sincerely Headmistress Minerva McGonagall."

Dahlia refolded the letter, arching a brow. "Well, Slytherin House accepting Muggle-borns. About time."

Narcissa's reaction was somewhat . . . different than her friend's. "Oh dear," she said in a whisper, her gaze distant. "I can see this ruffling some feathers."

There was a deep furrow in Draco's forehead as he imagined the reaction his father would have to this news. He tried not to imagine what would happen if the Resorting set Draco in a House other than Slytherin.

Hermione seemed far away in that moment, too. She hadn't expected any kind of personal note from her favorite professor, despite that she thought they were close for teacher and student, and she suspected Professor McGonagall wanted to speak with her very much about all this Dagworth business. But the Hogwarts letters were generic, so the lack of any deeper sentiment did not bother her. No, it was the Resorting. Sure, maybe she could end up in Ravenclaw, finally, and Warn Dagworth would beam. But what if not that? These 'dreadful times' they'd all endured . . . . Hermione had deceived and plotted behind allies backs and studied the Dark Arts, all for furthering their goals. All to suit an ambition.

She swallowed hard as she ran through the notable traits of each House in her head, as though she needed a reminder of which of them mentioned ambition.

She wasn't a Muggle-born, not really, but after being raised as one, she still felt herself one. Still felt like the House noted to prize ambition and tradition was an off-limits thing, filled with the sort of foreboding only read about in horror novels. Still didn't think of someone who belonged in this opulent world wherein Houses and blood status even mattered.

In her heart, Hermione Granger—not Dagworth, Granger—was still a Muggle-born. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, potentially . . . potentially being one of the first Muggle-borns in history to be sorted into Slytherin House.