The Taking of Tea
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
2,922
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
15
Views:
2,922
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter Eight: To His Coy Mistress
CHAPTER EIGHT: TO HIS COY MISTRESS
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot drawing near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vaults shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity.
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
The rest of dinner turned out to be painfully awkward, with Remus skirting around the issue of the Halloween dance—being chased, as it were, by Ginny the whole way ‘round. Hermione excused herself immediately after dinner, saying that she had lessons to plan and papers to grade, though it was painfully obvious to everyone that she was simply embarrassed by Remus’ polite rejection.
Back in the safety of her rooms at Hogwarts, Hermione looked over the essays she’d already graded while treating herself—and Ginny—to a mental lambasting. Of course he wasn’t interested. She knew he wasn’t interested. Maybe he preferred other werewolves, or maybe the old rumors were true and Tonks had indeed broken his heart years ago. With a sigh of profound self-pity, Hermione slammed the papers in a desk drawer and stood up, deciding to get ready for bed.
She had changed into her pajamas when an owl tapped at her window. Hermione let it in; the bird was a large eagle owl, enormous yellow eyes rotating in its head to take in its new surroundings. Hermione took the small scroll tied to its leg and put Crookshank’s dish in front of it in return—the familiar growled from his place by the hearth, affronted at being made to share his tuna. The owl bent its head down, rolling its eyes about like a myopic reading the newspaper. Then it gave a small “hoot” of disinterest, spread its wings, and flew out the window from whence it came. Hermione shrugged and opened the missive:
To: Professor Hermione Granger
Re: Retrial of Mr. Draco Malfoy
Please appear at MoM no later than two p.m. tomorrow afternoon. Report to level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to receive schedule for your testimony in retrial.
Isabel Quigly, secretary to
Elder Griselda Marchbanks
Hermione rolled her eyes and tossed the letter into the hearth. A perfect end to her evening.
As soon as her afternoon class had ended, Hermione left Hogwarts, then apparated to a convenient alley in London. A pile of blankets came to life and began shouting.
“Hey! You—what,” the pile revealed a dirty face and hand, which cooperated to inspect an empty bottle with suspicion. “You just, just…” Hermione rolled her eyes and pointed her wand at the bum.
“Obliviate,” then walked on, past a falling-down pub and into a red phone box, where she dialed “62442” and was greeted by the Welcome Witch’s voice.
“Please state your business.”
“Griselda Marchbanks has requested my presence at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Hermione replied, and in response a silver badge appeared, bearing her name and stating the purpose of her visit. She taped the badge to the shoulder of her robe and let the phone box carry her down to the atrium of the MoM. She walked to the security stand, where Eric Munch was scratching his five o’ clock shadow and flipping through the pages of a Quidditch magazine.
“Wand,” Munch said, not bothering to look up from his magazine. When he’d registered the wand he looked up, his face reflecting mild surprise. “Well if it isn’t Hermione Granger. Why, I remember you… what’s got you at the ministry?” Hermione frowned, a clear indication that Munch ought to mind his own business.
“It’s a rather long story,” she told him, then passed him by for the lift to level two.
Once there she knocked on the office door that read “Madam Griselda Marchbanks, CDMG, APMO, fbBB, Wizengamot Elder.”
“Come in,” came a strong, low alto, and Hermione obeyed.
An ancient woman dressed in plumb-purple came around to the front of her desk, shaking Hermione’s hand so vigorously that her wrinkled jowls shook from the force. Her hair was bone-white and fell to her waist in a long braid.
“Professor Granger,” Griselda began, revealing a Cork accent, “it’s a pleasure, though I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances. This retrial’s an utter waste of—” the old woman stopped herself with a sartorial grin. “Well never mind. I’ve some forms for you to sign. Normally I’d have Isabel simply send them, but I wanted to meet the great potions mistress in person!”
Hermione raised her groomed eyebrows; usually this kind of flattery involved dinner and dancing.
“I think your praise may be too high, Madam Marchbanks, but thank you.”
“Nonsense!” Griselda replied, “I thought S.P.E.W. was brilliant!”
Hermione smiled complacently and wished, not for the first time, that her failed S.P.E.W. would never be mentioned again.
“I’m all for the rights of magical creatures, you know. Campaigned for goblin rights myself in the sixties…but I’m going on. The paperwork, yes,” she said, apparently to herself, and turned to begin rummaging through the parchments blanketing her desk.
Nearly an hour later, having made several promises to come round for lunch, Hermione left Griselda’s office, deciding she’d rather climb the stairs than wait for the lift.
Where, by decidedly suspicious coincidence, she knocked head-on into someone coming the other way.
The smells of rich myrrh and earthy jojoba, along with the starch of pressed robes, pressed briefly to her senses before she topped backwards from the force of impact. Throwing out her arms in a fruitless attempt to break her fall, Hermione felt the brutal sting of her elbow slamming against the marble steps. The force of momentum kept her sliding, until her tailbone stopped her movement with a noise that sounded too much like the crack of bone.
“Miss Granger.” A shantung voice said, and Hermione looked up to see Lucius Malfoy. His expression looked for all the world to be one of concern; groomed brows were raised above slate eyes which held none of their usual malice. “Let me help you.” He said, taking careful hold of her hips, and Hermione caught the woodsy smoke of Russian tea on his breath. Feeling quite dumbfounded, she did nothing to stop him, nor did she utter a sound until he took hold of her arm, and she yelped in pain.
“I’m sorry.” He murmured, settling her gently back on the stair, which caused a spike of pain to shoot up her backside.
“Damn it.” She said, feeling hotly embarrassed at the nature of that injury.
“I beg your pardon?” Lucius replied, a smirk nestled in the corner of his face.
Hermione frowned up at him. Admittedly, she was no great warrior, but her arm hurt like hell, and her rear wasn’t faring much better. She clenched her teeth against the pain, and Lucius squatted down on his haunches before her.
“Are you badly hurt?”
“I think my arm may be broken.” She said, cradling it with other. “And my…”
“Yes, I gathered that. I think I’d better apparate you to hospital.”
“No, no, a bruised backside’s hardly worth that. But if you could take me to Hogwarts—to Madame Pomfrey,” she said, immediately regretting it. He could just as easily take her straight to Voldemort, and she reached into her robe for her wand in response.
“Relax, Miss Granger,” he told her. “In another circumstance I might whisk you off to my den of iniquity, but not now. It would hardly be chivalrous, given your state. Besides, people are watching.” When he winked, she touched the back of her head, searching for signs of a concussion. His laugh was warm and molasses-thick, and after putting a hand carefully about her waist, they disappeared with a loud “crack.”
The reappeared at Purge and Dowse, Ltd., where the dummy at the window display suggested they try Artifact Accidents—a staircase was close enough to an artifact, the dummy supposed. Dilys Derwent, in her hideous lime green, listened to Hermione’s recounting of events and began to laugh hysterically, even going so far as to slap her knee.
“And in front of Lucius Malfoy, no less!” Dilys exclaimed, once she’d taken Hermione into a small room, healing her broken arm and bruised tailbone without ceasing her laughter.
Lucius was waiting for her just outside the doors of the hospital ward. With the pain lessened, Hermione’s ability to think clearly had returned, and she was able to wonder what in the hell was going on with Malfoy. First their encounter in Hogsmeade, and now this; it was absolutely bizarre.
“Feeling better?” Lucius inquired solicitously.
“Much, thanks.” She answered, looking at him hard in an attempt to discern his intentions. But it was useless, as his face betrayed nothing.
“Good,” he said, quickly pulling her to them before they both disappeared.
A/N: the poem opening this chapter is an excerpt from Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress"
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot drawing near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vaults shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity.
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
The rest of dinner turned out to be painfully awkward, with Remus skirting around the issue of the Halloween dance—being chased, as it were, by Ginny the whole way ‘round. Hermione excused herself immediately after dinner, saying that she had lessons to plan and papers to grade, though it was painfully obvious to everyone that she was simply embarrassed by Remus’ polite rejection.
Back in the safety of her rooms at Hogwarts, Hermione looked over the essays she’d already graded while treating herself—and Ginny—to a mental lambasting. Of course he wasn’t interested. She knew he wasn’t interested. Maybe he preferred other werewolves, or maybe the old rumors were true and Tonks had indeed broken his heart years ago. With a sigh of profound self-pity, Hermione slammed the papers in a desk drawer and stood up, deciding to get ready for bed.
She had changed into her pajamas when an owl tapped at her window. Hermione let it in; the bird was a large eagle owl, enormous yellow eyes rotating in its head to take in its new surroundings. Hermione took the small scroll tied to its leg and put Crookshank’s dish in front of it in return—the familiar growled from his place by the hearth, affronted at being made to share his tuna. The owl bent its head down, rolling its eyes about like a myopic reading the newspaper. Then it gave a small “hoot” of disinterest, spread its wings, and flew out the window from whence it came. Hermione shrugged and opened the missive:
To: Professor Hermione Granger
Re: Retrial of Mr. Draco Malfoy
Please appear at MoM no later than two p.m. tomorrow afternoon. Report to level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to receive schedule for your testimony in retrial.
Isabel Quigly, secretary to
Elder Griselda Marchbanks
Hermione rolled her eyes and tossed the letter into the hearth. A perfect end to her evening.
As soon as her afternoon class had ended, Hermione left Hogwarts, then apparated to a convenient alley in London. A pile of blankets came to life and began shouting.
“Hey! You—what,” the pile revealed a dirty face and hand, which cooperated to inspect an empty bottle with suspicion. “You just, just…” Hermione rolled her eyes and pointed her wand at the bum.
“Obliviate,” then walked on, past a falling-down pub and into a red phone box, where she dialed “62442” and was greeted by the Welcome Witch’s voice.
“Please state your business.”
“Griselda Marchbanks has requested my presence at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Hermione replied, and in response a silver badge appeared, bearing her name and stating the purpose of her visit. She taped the badge to the shoulder of her robe and let the phone box carry her down to the atrium of the MoM. She walked to the security stand, where Eric Munch was scratching his five o’ clock shadow and flipping through the pages of a Quidditch magazine.
“Wand,” Munch said, not bothering to look up from his magazine. When he’d registered the wand he looked up, his face reflecting mild surprise. “Well if it isn’t Hermione Granger. Why, I remember you… what’s got you at the ministry?” Hermione frowned, a clear indication that Munch ought to mind his own business.
“It’s a rather long story,” she told him, then passed him by for the lift to level two.
Once there she knocked on the office door that read “Madam Griselda Marchbanks, CDMG, APMO, fbBB, Wizengamot Elder.”
“Come in,” came a strong, low alto, and Hermione obeyed.
An ancient woman dressed in plumb-purple came around to the front of her desk, shaking Hermione’s hand so vigorously that her wrinkled jowls shook from the force. Her hair was bone-white and fell to her waist in a long braid.
“Professor Granger,” Griselda began, revealing a Cork accent, “it’s a pleasure, though I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances. This retrial’s an utter waste of—” the old woman stopped herself with a sartorial grin. “Well never mind. I’ve some forms for you to sign. Normally I’d have Isabel simply send them, but I wanted to meet the great potions mistress in person!”
Hermione raised her groomed eyebrows; usually this kind of flattery involved dinner and dancing.
“I think your praise may be too high, Madam Marchbanks, but thank you.”
“Nonsense!” Griselda replied, “I thought S.P.E.W. was brilliant!”
Hermione smiled complacently and wished, not for the first time, that her failed S.P.E.W. would never be mentioned again.
“I’m all for the rights of magical creatures, you know. Campaigned for goblin rights myself in the sixties…but I’m going on. The paperwork, yes,” she said, apparently to herself, and turned to begin rummaging through the parchments blanketing her desk.
Nearly an hour later, having made several promises to come round for lunch, Hermione left Griselda’s office, deciding she’d rather climb the stairs than wait for the lift.
Where, by decidedly suspicious coincidence, she knocked head-on into someone coming the other way.
The smells of rich myrrh and earthy jojoba, along with the starch of pressed robes, pressed briefly to her senses before she topped backwards from the force of impact. Throwing out her arms in a fruitless attempt to break her fall, Hermione felt the brutal sting of her elbow slamming against the marble steps. The force of momentum kept her sliding, until her tailbone stopped her movement with a noise that sounded too much like the crack of bone.
“Miss Granger.” A shantung voice said, and Hermione looked up to see Lucius Malfoy. His expression looked for all the world to be one of concern; groomed brows were raised above slate eyes which held none of their usual malice. “Let me help you.” He said, taking careful hold of her hips, and Hermione caught the woodsy smoke of Russian tea on his breath. Feeling quite dumbfounded, she did nothing to stop him, nor did she utter a sound until he took hold of her arm, and she yelped in pain.
“I’m sorry.” He murmured, settling her gently back on the stair, which caused a spike of pain to shoot up her backside.
“Damn it.” She said, feeling hotly embarrassed at the nature of that injury.
“I beg your pardon?” Lucius replied, a smirk nestled in the corner of his face.
Hermione frowned up at him. Admittedly, she was no great warrior, but her arm hurt like hell, and her rear wasn’t faring much better. She clenched her teeth against the pain, and Lucius squatted down on his haunches before her.
“Are you badly hurt?”
“I think my arm may be broken.” She said, cradling it with other. “And my…”
“Yes, I gathered that. I think I’d better apparate you to hospital.”
“No, no, a bruised backside’s hardly worth that. But if you could take me to Hogwarts—to Madame Pomfrey,” she said, immediately regretting it. He could just as easily take her straight to Voldemort, and she reached into her robe for her wand in response.
“Relax, Miss Granger,” he told her. “In another circumstance I might whisk you off to my den of iniquity, but not now. It would hardly be chivalrous, given your state. Besides, people are watching.” When he winked, she touched the back of her head, searching for signs of a concussion. His laugh was warm and molasses-thick, and after putting a hand carefully about her waist, they disappeared with a loud “crack.”
The reappeared at Purge and Dowse, Ltd., where the dummy at the window display suggested they try Artifact Accidents—a staircase was close enough to an artifact, the dummy supposed. Dilys Derwent, in her hideous lime green, listened to Hermione’s recounting of events and began to laugh hysterically, even going so far as to slap her knee.
“And in front of Lucius Malfoy, no less!” Dilys exclaimed, once she’d taken Hermione into a small room, healing her broken arm and bruised tailbone without ceasing her laughter.
Lucius was waiting for her just outside the doors of the hospital ward. With the pain lessened, Hermione’s ability to think clearly had returned, and she was able to wonder what in the hell was going on with Malfoy. First their encounter in Hogsmeade, and now this; it was absolutely bizarre.
“Feeling better?” Lucius inquired solicitously.
“Much, thanks.” She answered, looking at him hard in an attempt to discern his intentions. But it was useless, as his face betrayed nothing.
“Good,” he said, quickly pulling her to them before they both disappeared.
A/N: the poem opening this chapter is an excerpt from Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress"