iii. the house of malfoy

                                    

                                          
Dread filled Hermione's veins when she heard the approaching tap, tap, tap of his walking stick striking the floor.
                          
It was such a pretentious thing, Hermione thought, his need to strut about with a walking stick like he was the bloody king of England himself. Or one of those white-feathered peacocks on the grounds. She often daydreamed about taking the blasted thing in her hands and cracking it in two over her knee, though these daydreams never moved past the act itself—never included the consequences such a move would reap. There would be consequences, too. Hermione guessed she probably wouldn't survive breaking Lucius Malfoy's concealed wand into pieces.
                          
Across from her, Jamie Ingham, the Malfoys' older Muggle-born ward, heard the same tapping as Hermione and quickly straightened in his chair as he flipped through the text before him and lowered his head. Draco, at the head of the polished table, either didn't hear his father coming or didn't care, because he continued to slouch and play with the miniature broom in his hand, sending it sailing around paper obstacles, his school books forgotten on the side.
                          
Mr. Malfoy entered the dining room through the far archway, dressed in his usual Wizarding garb, robes black and his vest royal purple with gleaming, golden buttons. He looked quite prim—puffed up and stuffy, Hermione's mind provided in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Elara Black—and as she watched him through her lashes, she saw his mouth curl into a sneer.
                          
"Draco," he barked, startling the pointy-faced boy. "Sit up."
                          
The younger Malfoy did as told, his cheeks flushed pink, and Hermione fought down her satisfied smirk. She must have not been as discreet as she thought, because Mr. Malfoy rounded on her and extended one long-fingered hand, waiting for Hermione to glance up and meet his unimpressed glower. "Your work, Miss Granger."
                          
Hermione gave him her incomplete essay on Dr. Ubbly's Oblivious Unction, and Malfoy skimmed the topic, tutting under his breath.
                          
"Pedantic at best. A shallow analysis reflective of a shallow mind. My, my. I must write the school and ensure you really are the best student of your year. I find that highly suspicious."
                          
Color invaded Hermione's cheeks, but she didn't tear up. Draco snickered—and Mr. Malfoy rounded on him now, his cane striking the table with a heavy thump that caused all three students to jump. "If you've time to laugh, Draco, you've time to better your own assignment. I seem to recall you were sixth in your year, boy."
                          
Draco paled and shrank as he fidgeted with his books, not quite meeting Mr. Malfoy's eye. "Yes, father. But it's not my fault!" he grumbled. "Two of them were Ravenclaws! And Nott. He's such a bookworm. And—." He glared at Hermione. "Granger and Black cheated."
                          
Mr. Malfoy scoffed, a noise as pompous as his own appearance. Jaime sank farther into his chair like he wanted to disappear into it, and Hermione wondered what his rank had been. "Granger is a Muggle-born, and Black is a ridiculous, thoughtless girl who has little regard for the time and effort of others," he spat, his tone as vicious as it ever was when Elara came up in conversation. That one of her best friends could hassle and aggrieve Malfoy so much when Hermione couldn't brought her private joy. "That you could be so easily surpassed by either shows your lack of conviction. If you don't prove yourself more capable, Draco, I will rethink my offer."
                          
Draco instantly pulled his books closer, both horrified and elated, a look Hermione couldn't rightly understand. She looked to Jaime for assistance, but he hadn't lifted his head from his work and pointedly refused to acknowledge all of her friendly overtures. They'd exchanged a handful of greetings over the summer, half-heard grunts or vague, distrustful looks on Jaime's part that Hermione didn't understand—just as she didn't understand Draco's suddenly smug mood.