I was presenting an assembly for kids grades 3-8 while on book tour for the third PRINCESS ACADEMY book.
Me: “So many teachers have told me the same thing. They say, ‘When I told my students we were reading a book called PRINCESS ACADEMY, the girls said—’”
I gesture to the kids and wait. They anticipate what I’m expecting, and in unison, the girls scream, “YAY!”
Me: “'And the boys said—”
I gesture and wait. The boys know just what to do. They always do, no matter their age or the state they live in.
In unison, the boys shout, “BOOOOO!”
Me: “And then the teachers tell me that after reading the book, the boys like it as much or sometimes even more than the girls do.”
Audible gasp. They weren’t expecting that.
Me: “So it’s not the story itself boys don’t like, it’s what?”
The kids shout, “The name! The title!”
Me: “And why don’t they like the title?”
As usual, kids call out, “Princess!”
But this time, a smallish 3rd grade boy on the first row, who I find out later is named Logan, shouts at me, “Because it’s GIRLY!”
The way Logan said “girly"…so much hatred from someone so small. So much distain. This is my 200-300th assembly, I’ve asked these same questions dozens of times with the same answers, but the way he says “girly” literally makes me take a step back. I am briefly speechless, chilled by his hostility.
Then I pull it together and continue as I usually do.
“Boys, I have to ask you a question. Why are you so afraid of princesses? Did a princess steal your dog? Did a princess kidnap your parents? Does a princess live under your bed and sneak out at night to try to suck your eyeballs out of your skull?”
The kids laugh and shout “No!” and laugh some more. We talk about how girls get to read any book they want but some people try to tell boys that they can only read half the books. I say that this isn’t fair. I can see that they’re thinking about it in their own way.
But little Logan is skeptical. He’s sure he knows why boys won’t read a book about a princess. Because a princess is a girl—a girl to the extreme. And girls are bad. Shameful. A boy should be embarrassed to read a book about a girl. To care about a girl. To empathize with a girl.
Where did Logan learn that? What does believing that do to him? And how will that belief affect all the girls and women he will deal with for the rest of his life?
At the end of my presentation, I read aloud the first few chapters of THE PRINCESS IN BLACK. After, Logan was the only boy who stayed behind while I signed books. He didn’t have a book for me to sign, he had a question, but he didn’t want to ask me in front of others. He waited till everyone but a couple of adults had left. Then, trembling with nervousness, he whispered in my ear, “Do you have a copy of that black princess book?”
He wanted to know what happened next in her story. But he was ashamed to want to know.
Who did this to him? How will this affect how he feels about himself? How will this affect how he treats fellow humans his entire life?
We already know that misogyny is toxic and damaging to women and girls, but often we assume it doesn’t harm boys or mens a lick. We think we’re asking them to go against their best interest in the name of fairness or love. But that hatred, that animosity, that fear in little Logan, that isn’t in his best interest. The oppressor is always damaged by believing and treating others as less than fully human. Always. Nobody wins. Everybody loses.
We humans have a peculiar tendency to assume either/or scenarios despite all logic. Obviously it’s NOT “either men matter OR women do.” It’s NOT “we can give boys books about boys OR books about girls.” It’s NOT “men are important to this industry OR women are.“
It’s not either/or. It’s AND.
We can celebrate boys AND girls. We can read about boys AND girls. We can listen to women AND men. We can honor and respect women AND men. And And And. I know this seems obvious and simplistic, but how often have you assumed that a boy reader would only read a book about boys? I have. Have you preselected books for a boy and only offered him books about boys? I’ve done that in the past. And if not, I’ve caught myself and others kind of apologizing about it. “I think you’ll enjoy this book EVEN THOUGH it’s about a girl!” They hear that even though. They know what we mean. And they absorb it as truth.
I met little Logan at the same assembly where I noticed that all the 7th and 8th graders were girls. Later, a teacher told me that the administration only invited the middle school girls to my assembly. Because I’m a woman. I asked, and when they’d had a male author, all the kids were invited. Again reinforcing the falsehood that what men say is universally important but what women say only applies to girls.
One 8th grade boy was a big fan of one of my books and had wanted to come, so the teacher had gotten special permission for him to attend, but by then he was too embarrassed. Ashamed to want to hear a woman speak. Ashamed to care about the thoughts of a girl.
A few days later, I tweeted about how the school didn’t invite the middle school boys. And to my surprise, twitter responded. Twitter was outraged. I was blown away. I’ve been talking about these issues for over a decade, and to be honest, after a while you feel like no one cares.
But for whatever reason, this time people were ready. I wrote a post explaining what happened, and tens of thousands of people read it. National media outlets interviewed me. People who hadn’t thought about gendered reading before were talking, comparing notes, questioning what had seemed normal. Finally, finally, finally.
And that’s the other thing that stood out to me about Logan—he was so ready to change. Eager for it. So open that he’d started the hour expressing disgust at all things “girly” and ended it by whispering an anxious hope to be a part of that story after all.
The girls are ready. Boy howdy, we’ve been ready for a painful long time. But the boys, they’re ready too. Are you?
I’ve spoken with many groups about gendered reading in the last few years. Here are some things that I hear:
A librarian, introducing me before my presentation: “Girls, you’re in for a real treat. You’re going to love Shannon Hale’s books. Boys, I expect you to behave anyway.”
A book festival committee member: “Last week we met to choose a keynote speaker for next year. I suggested you, but another member said, ‘What about the boys?’ so we chose a male author instead.”
A parent: “My son read your book and he ACTUALLY liked it!”
A teacher: “I never noticed before, but for read aloud I tend to choose books about boys because I assume those are the only books the boys will like.”
A mom: “My son asked me to read him The Princess in Black, and I said, ‘No, that’s for your sister,’ without even thinking about it.”
A bookseller: “I’ve stopped asking people if they’re shopping for a boy or a girl and instead asking them what kind of story the child likes.”
Like the bookseller, when I do signings, I frequently ask each kid, “What kind of books do you like?” I hear what you’d expect: funny books, adventure stories, fantasy, graphic novels. I’ve never, ever, EVER had a kid say, “I only like books about boys.” Adults are the ones with the weird bias. We’re the ones with the hangups, because we were raised to believe thinking that way is normal. And we pass it along to the kids in sometimes overt (“Put that back! That’s a girl book!”) but usually in subtle ways we barely notice ourselves.
But we are ready now. We’re ready to notice and to analyze. We’re ready to be thoughtful. We’re ready for change. The girls are ready, the boys are ready, the non-binary kids are ready. The parents, librarians, booksellers, authors, readers are ready. Time’s up. Let’s make a change.
Prompt: Draco is under the false impression that Hermione is cheating on him.
It didn’t come as a surprise. It truly didn’t. Their’s wasn’t an arrangement she had wanted; it had been something she had had to choose, for the greater good, or something like that. It hadn’t been fair, he knew, but his parents had made the offer and she had agreed, and that had been it.
So yes, Draco wasn’t surprised in the least. But he was dismayed. She had never been openly hostile towards him since their agreement, but lately, they had gotten along rather nicely, if he had to say so himself. At first, she had been withdrawn and quiet, saying only what needed to be said. She slept curled on her side, at the very edge of the bed. She was gone before he woke up, asleep before he did. She always left him covered plates of food in the kitchen for dinner, but she never ate with him. In fact, for an apartment she had been adamant on having, she never spent time in it if she could help it.
He didn’t know when things started changing. Was it the one day when he apparited home earlier than usual and found her eating dinner? Was it when she stumbled upon him watching one of those muggle moving stories on her weird machine? Was it when they were both down with the flu and he had tried to summon his old house-elf to cook for them? Or when he had found her magic box which knew everything?
It had been slow, gradual, but Granger warmed up towards him. She started talking to him, actually talking to him about her day at work, about the crazy witch from two floors down who thought it was okay to barge in demanding a divorce settlement from her husband even though Granger was not a divorce lawyer. She started asking him to help her chop the vegetables, and they ate together in front of her picture box, sometimes watching stories- movies- until they fell asleep. He remembered that winter day when he’d finally mustered up the courage to kiss her. She’d kissed him back, before laughing and throwing her arms around him.
That had been six months back. Things had stayed more than wonderful between them in that time. Or so Draco had thought. So yes, he was dismayed.
He hadn’t thought much of it when the first bunch of flowers had arrived at their house addressed to Granger. He had just assumed it must have been a secret admirer. Or a work thing. Then the second bunch of flowers arrived the following week. A different kind. Exotic, expensive looking. She took her flowers to her private study, the one which was warded and charmed. The one she used only for work, to store high profile files about her cases. But she was so delighted every time a bouquet arrived with a little envelope attached that he could barely stand not to barge in and throw the damn flowers into the fire.
Finally, he decided enough was enough. If someone was trying to woo his wife, he deserved to know. So he did the only thing he could think of. He pretended to leave for work, waited for her to leave for work, then returned home to try open the room he was not allowed into.
It took him three days, but finally, the door was open, and Draco found himself in a huge greenhouse. He was floored. Not only had she been happily receiving strange plants from a strange man, but she was growing them. In their house. Draco could feel spots dancing in front of his eyes. Huge, red spots that flickered on and off. He could feel his throat tightening, making it almost impossible to breathe as the disappointment and heartbreak settled in. Then something grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him back.
Draco woke up to Granger’s hair tickling at his face. Then her huge eyes and the rest of her face loomed into view.
“Draco!” she cried, and he was smothered by more hair. “Thank god you’re awake.”
The weight lifted off him and she sat up, wiping her eyes as she did so. Why was Granger crying? Why was he asleep? Last he remembered, he had been extremely upset and overwhelmed to find out she had been growing plants from another man in their apartment. Was that why she was crying? Was she sad that he was sad? Or was she sad he had found out? Was she going to leave him no that he knew?
“Arr- are you going to leave me?” He croaked. He was still feeling lightheaded with the weight of his discovery.
“Leave you?” Granger furrowed her eyebrows. “Where?”
“For the man who is sending you the plants.”
“What man? What are you talking about, Malfoy?”
“Your admirer. The one who keeps sending you flowers every week.”
“My... Draco, I have been buying plants off the internet.”
“But you can’t buy real plants on the- the internet.” He knew vaguely about the internet. The Google was the internet. You could look up things but things didn’t physically appear from the internet.
“I should have told you,” Granger shook her head. “Its just very hush-hush now, the whole project. I’m working on a project for the department of mysteries researching non-magical poisonous plants. I had no idea my getting plants bothered you so much, Draco.”
“So..” Draco said slowly, “You are not going to leave me?”
“No. Of course not! Why would you even think that?”
“I know you would never have married me if my parents-”
“But I did, didn’t I?” He felt her brush his hair back from his face, and a cool towel pressed against his forehead. “And I’m happy I did. I didn’t want to, at the time. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you, Draco.”
He should have known better, Draco thought with a grimace.
But the thing was, Granger was the smartest witch of her age. Granger knew things. Obscure facts. Which great Wizard had battled against which muggle superpower in which year. She knew how to garden. She crocheted.
So when she’d said she would give him a haircut, he simply hadn’t considered she couldn’t. Now he had a glaring bald spot right above his forehead, and a smaller one to the right, above his ear.
He couldn’t to understand how she had so catastrophically failed to cut his hair with a charmed muggle contraption she’d insisted she’d used at least a dozen times.
“I don’t see why you are so upset, Draco.” Talk about the devil and there she was.
“Really, Granger? You can’t be that dense.” Draco glared at Granger through the mirror. “But wait, I seem to have miscalculated how smart you are.”
“It was an accident,” she said with a sigh, leaning against the door frame and running a hand through the thick mane of her hair, which was still attached to her head. “I already told you-”
“That you’d charmed it with an anti-hair growth charm? Or that you’d never cut hair with it?”
“Draco, you know I didn’t do this on purpose.” she reached her hand to brush her hand through his hair, unsuccessfully trying to flatten his remaining hair to hide the bald spot. “I’d really forgotten about the charm. I used it for my legs, you know, and-”
“Granger, shaving your legs isn’t the same thing as giving a hair-cut.” He shrugged off her hand and turned to face her.
“It would look better if you would just shave your head.”
“No.”
“Draco, you’ll be really handsome-”
“No.”
“You can definitely pull it off-”
“I-” said Draco through clenched teeth, “Don’t- want- to- be- bald!” He pushed past her in a huff and went straight to bed, tugging the comforter over to his side.
“Honestly, Draco, you are just overreacting.”
“Why don’t you try shaving your head, Granger? It would go well with your cold heart.” He pulled the covers over his head and snuggled deeper into the bed. He heard her sigh again before the bathroom door shut and the sound of the shower running drowned out her voice.
He was still too upset to sleep when she came out of the bathroom. He heard her feet tip-tapping about the wooden floor, lightly humming an off-key tune. How had he trusted someone who couldn’t sing to cut his hair? T
Finally, the bed shifted under her weight, and he felt her get under the covers. Childishly, he pulled the covers further towards his end even as they pooled on the floor on the side of the bed.
“Come on, Draco, you can’t be that mad.” He felt Granger’s fingers tap lightly against the covers. “Draco.” She tried again when he wouldn’t budge. “Look at me.”
Suddenly, she yanked the covers off of him, and Draco was forced to look at her, towering over him like a giant, her lips curled into a smile, and her uncontrollable mane of hair conspicuously absent. “So, how charming do I look? Does it go well with my cold heart?”
“What the fuck did you do, Granger?” He scrambled up on the bed and grabbed her by her shoulders, eyes scanning frantically across the expanse of her very bald scalp.
“I figured we’d be bald together.”
No. Draco thought in dawning horror. Not all that beautiful hair. He’d always liked her hair, even as he complained about it. It was bad enough that she’d cut his hair.
Now neither of them had hair.
“Don’t look so aghast, Draco. It’s going to grow back. Just like yours will.”
What if Touka had realized her mistake when she saw that Haise was actually struggling with Kaneki in his mind and how much of a hypocrite she was because she thought bringing him back would bring him pain, but in reality, he was really in danger of being dove? And she was allowing him to suffer? So she did what she should have and he told her about Hinami.
It’s unclear to me if you are talking about one of my fics or canon. Almost everything I’ve written has Kaneki suffering. Would you elaborate?
He finds her in their summer garden, lurking among the weeds in the middle of the night like the thief she is. He doesn’t know who is more surprised when their spell-work light up the night enough for them to recognize each other. Surely, it must have been him. It is his garden. She would have been an idiot not to expect him in his own garden.
For a split second, he is too shocked to say anything. Granger. In his Summer House. In the middle of Autumn. Then he catches the shadow that is her wand moving, and he fires a curse at her, barely dodging her spell. “Petrificius Totalus!” He yells just as she screams “Expelliarmus!”
[AO3]
Part I
Draco
.
Now
It isn’t coercion if she is a willing participant. That is what he tells himself.
He wonders if she had chosen the embroidered gold she is wearing, or if it had been chosen for her. For whatever reason, he is glad she’s not wearing a deeper colour. Her skin already looks pale in gold. In a more contrasting colour, she would look even more sickly.
“Here,” his mother uncorks a small vial and hands it to her. “Drink.” She hands a second vial to him. “You too, Draco.”
Granger doesn’t move. “I’m fine,” she says.
“You can’t go out there looking like you are about to faint, Miss Granger,” his mother says gently. She reaches to tuck a strand of Granger’s hair into place, and Granger flinches as his mother’s fingers brush against her ear. “It’s a Calming Draught mixed with a few drops of Tempus Affectio.” Having secured Granger’s hair to her satisfaction, his mother steps back and admires her work. “Drink it, children,” she says again. “I will not have this look like a farce.”
Granger sniffs the potion and then watches as he drinks his. Then she gulps it down in one go and hands the vial to the waiting house-elf. The reaction is immediate. Her cheeks warm up to a healthier glow, her shoulders relax, and she looks more comfortable than he had seen her in a long time. When she turns to look up at him, her eyes shine and her lips curve into a smile.
He wonders whether his mother gave him the same potion she gave Granger, because when he returns her gaze, all he feels is the churning in his stomach, and a weird sense of detachment from the calming draught. All the same, Draco forces himself to smile.
The wedding is beautiful, just like his mother wanted. Granger smiles at him throughout, and blushes at the right moments. Her eyes are warm, welcoming even, when he takes her hands in his. And she smiles at him as Severus Snape binds them together, as the tendrils of magic snake their way around their conjoined hands, as she opens her mouth and repeats her vows, as the enchanted camera snaps away.
This is how they will be immortalized; young and in love, in a gazebo crawling with roses.
This is how she saves him.
Before
.
He finds her in their summer garden, lurking among the weeds in the middle of the night like the thief she is. He doesn’t know who is more surprised when their spell-work light up the night enough for them to recognize each other. Surely, it must have been him. It is his garden. She would have been an idiot not to expect him in his own garden.
For a split second, he is too shocked to say anything. Granger. In his Summer House. In the middle of Autumn. Then he catches the shadow that is her wand moving, and he fires a curse at her, barely dodging her spell. “Petrificius Totalus!” He yells just as she screams “Expelliarmus!”
His spell hits her in the chest as hers hit his wand. It flies out of his grasp and lands harmlessly beside her already frozen figure.
She comes to with a groan. Then, she seems to notice the wand pressed against her temple, and her eyes travel up the arm holding it, widening when they land on his face. Then she notices her binds and start to struggle against them.
“Did you really think, Granger, that you could sneak up on me in my own home?”
“This isn’t your home,” she says, casting her eyes wildly around and thrashing against the binds tying her.
“And yet, here I am,” he sneers.”How daft have you become?” Mudblood. The word is on his tongue, and yet, he can’t bring himself to say it. It makes him even angrier and he digs his wand into her temple. “What,” he hisses, “Are you doing here?”
“This isn’t England,” she whispers, “This can’t be your house.”
“I asked you a question, you little-”
“Draco,” he looks up to find his mother, hand resting on the door-frame, hair disheveled from sleep. Before, Narcissa Malfoy would never have been seen with a hair out of place. But that was before. Before his father had been taken away from them. Before the Dark Lord had chosen Draco. Before his aunt had been murdered. “What is going on here? Who is there?”
Granger stops thrashing at the sound of her voice.
“It’s Hermione Granger, mother,” he says.
Now
.
He knows the potion has worn off the moment she stops smiling. But Severus is, and always has been, meticulous with his dosage, so it is of no consequence when the facade drops. The four wedding witnesses, Foreign wizards who did not know them, but would remember what a lovely, english wedding it had been when asked, years later, who had been present for the ceremony, had already left. His mother had already retired to her quarters, and Severus had apparited back as soon as the ceremony was completed.
It is just the two of them, and a hallway lined with windows. It should not feel claustrophobic, but it does.
“Your rooms are down the hall from there,” he tells her, pointing. “Mine is at the other end.”
“I don’t need rooms here,” she says,”I’m not staying.”
“Right,” he stares, “So you’re going to go back to Potter and Weasel in those robes?”
“I don’t need ‘rooms’ to change my clothes,” she snaps, glaring at him. “I’ve already done what you and your mother demanded. I need you to hold up your end of the deal and that is it!”
“I never asked you for this, either,” he says coldly. Any pity he’d felt for her earlier is gone. “You think I want to be tied down to someone like you?” He sneers at her.
“No,” she says after a pause, “But you were desperate enough to agree.” Then she turns on her heel and walks down the hall towards her end.
Mudblood, he wants to snarl after her. Filthy, rotten Mudblood.
Before
.
“Potter’s Mudblood?” Mother sounds bewildered, “How on earth did you find her?”
“In the garden.”
“Was it just her?” she asks, coming around to face Granger.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Well,” Mother sighs, “if it isn’t our lucky day. What brings you here, Miss. Granger?” She asks Granger as she lowers herself to a lounging chair across from her. “Draco, take your wand off the poor girl before it throttles her.”
Draco retracts his wand and backs away, but keeps it trained on her. Just in case. Granger’s own wand rests comfortably in his robe pocket, but you never know how adept someone is with wandless magic. Especially someone like Granger.
“Well?” Mother raises an eyebrow when Granger refuses to answer. “Do we need to call the Dark Lord?”
Granger visibly pales. But she seems to have gathered herself enough when she says, “You would have already called him if you were going to.”
“What are you doing here, girl?”
“You won’t call the Dark Lord,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “You’re out here, the both of you, in the Welsh country side while Death Eaters run your Manor House.”
His mother’s knuckles whiten against the arms of her chair. For a moment, Draco thinks she is going to curse Granger, but all she says is, “You are a smart girl, aren’t you?”
“I’m smart enough to know that you are in hiding,” continues Granger. “I know what he ordered your son to do. I know he’s unhappy that Malfoy failed. I know your husband paid the price for it. And Bellatrix is dead. You have no place beside your Dark Lord. Not anymore.”
“I’m impressed,” says Mother with a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. “But even if all that nonsense was true, what is to stop us from killing you?”
“Because Tom Riddle is losing,” says Granger, “And you stand to win by joining us. I’m offering you a way out.”
“And how, pray tell me child, are you going to do that?”
“If you cooperate with us, the Order can protect you. You don’t need to-”
At this, Mother bursts out laughing. “Protect us? Protect? Like how they protected my cousin? I think not. Your lot can hardly protect yourselves, and they will not waste their time with the likes of us. Not now, and not after the war.”
“We have safe houses-”
“I’m sure. And how many of those get taken down every few weeks? They are not going to put Draco and I in a safe house. How stupid do you think I am, Miss. Granger? They will send Draco right back to the Dark Lord.”
“They won’t-”
“He will have to be a spy. And if he is lucky enough to survive this war, then what? Azkaben? House arrest? All our gold locked up and the Manor taken away from us as collateral?”
“I will vouch for you,” says Granger. “If you remain true to our cause, I will personally vouch for you. So will Harry. We will make sure you are not put in Azkaben.”
“That,” Mother shakes her head, “is not enough. Not for the sacrifice you are asking of us. We could kill you right here and deliver you to the Dark Lord. We could use you to lure Potter here and give him to the Dark Lord. In fact,” she glances at Draco, “Don’t you think that is the better idea, Draco?”
“It is, mother,” Draco knows his mother is bluffing, but Granger doesn’t. Her eyes widen in horror at the words. He can see it in her eyes. The fear. Then she sets her mouth into a firm line.
“What do you want?” Granger says after a beat.
“Collateral,” Mother answers, mouth curving into a smile Draco knows only too well. He isn’t sure he likes it.
“Collateral?” Granger echoes.
“I want something that won’t go away after the war. Something that will ensure the safety of our family,” continues Mother. “A promise, of sorts, that will ascertain that the Malfoy name is not buried in dust.”
“You want us to make a vow?” Granger’s voice has raised a pitch. She looks like she doesn’t quite trust what she is hearing.
“No,” Mother shakes her head, “I want you to make a vow, Miss Granger.”
“Me?”
“You,” Mother nods in affirmation. “To my son.” She glances at Draco. “I want you to marry my son, in exchange for our cooperation with your side.”
“What?” Granger sounds as incredulous as Draco feels.
“Mother,” he hears himself saying, “What are you saying?”
“Shush, Draco,” Mother says calmly, “You marry my son. Willingly. You make it appear real, now and up until a year after the war. Help re-brand the Malfoy name. No story is as touching as that of true love. My son- spoiled, pureblood brat, finds love with non other than the muggleborn everyone loves to love. A story of redemption through true love.”
Draco feels faint. In front of him, Granger is vehemently shaking her head. “No. No way. You,” she points her finger, first at Draco, then at Narcissa, “you people are loathsome, disgusting maggots. You will never-”
“Now, now, Miss Granger. There is no need for name calling. A simple no should be enough. I am tempted to throw you in the dungeons right now, and send word to Potter about your imprisonment.-”
“-you just try-”
“But I feel it would serve us all better if you took some time to consider my offer-”
“-no way in hell-”
“I am not asking you to give up your life. I am simply asking you to marry him, in name if not in soul.-”
“-am I agreeing to-”
“You need not bother keeping up appearances out of the public’s eye. And you may separate, amicably, of course,-”
“-this disgusting-”
“Mother, stop.”
“-after we have re-established our family name.”
“-farce. You are-”
“Think of what we have to offer, Miss Granger. We can offer money to your cause-”
“I am not a prick!” Draco yells, “I don’t even want to marry you, mudblood. Mother, this is madness.”
“Hush, Draco,” Mother’s eyes are still on an enraged Granger. “One week’s time, Miss Granger.”
Now
.
He doesn’t know how it happens. Just that Granger is the one to reach out first, her eyes red from crying, her hair a wild bird’s nest around her face. Perhaps it would have ended differently if he hadn’t happened to be walking down the hallway the moment she stepped out of her room. If he hadn’t seen her blood-shot eyes and red nose and walked towards her. If he hadn’t opened his mouth and asked her what was wrong.
“Thinks he’s all that,” she’d hissed angrily, “such a prick.”
“Who?” he’d asked. But she hadn’t wanted to talk about it, hadn’t wanted to tell him what happened.
Before he knows it, she is closer, too close, and her arms are reaching for his, and he forgets to ask who, or what or how.
She is gone before he wakes up, perhaps had never fallen asleep. He gets dressed, and trudges to her room, but there is no answer. She probably isn’t even there, he thinks.
It occurs to him that she’d never told him why she was so upset. Granger isn’t the sort of person to throw herself at anyone, lest of all, someone she openly despised. It must have been something big that had made her act the way she had last night. He vowed to ask her the next time he saw her.
He doesn’t see her for months.
Before
.
Granger sets off the wards three weeks after the deadline his mother had given her. This time, Draco isn’t as surprised to discover her as he had been the first time. Her appearance, however, startles him.
Granger had always had a disheveled look about her, from the bird’s nest she called hair to the rather undignified muggle clothes she supported when they were not required to be in uniform. But this- this creature who grips his arms and leaves bloodstains on them is wild.
“You said you have healers,” her voice shakes when she speaks. “Please, you have to help me. You have to. I’ll do what your mother said. I don’t care.” She sobs. Her face is matted with blood, and a rivulet of crimson runs from an open cut on her face. Her clothes are soaked, and he can smell the rot of refuse mixed with blood.
“You’re not making sense, Granger.” he untangles his arms from her fingers.
“You have to help. He’s dying,” she says, “I left him outside the perimeter, I couldn’t bring him in because of the Fidelous charm. Malfoy. Please. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“You were supposed to give your answer weeks ago.”
“Please.” She is starting to sound hysterical now. Draco steps back to avoid her soiled hands as she reaches for him again.
“Who’s dying, Granger?”
“Ron.”
Now
.
He finds her on the second floor, next to a wall that had been reduced to dust and stones. She whirls around, wand already aimed at him, a curse already on her lips.
“Granger,” the sound of his voice makes her pause, “It’s me.” He holds up his hands to show her he had no wand, and slowly reaches one hand to remove his mask.
“Malfoy.” she lowers her wand to her side. He doesn’t know if it is the dim light of the castle casting everything in ghastly shadows, or whether she really looks gaunt and sickly. He can’t tell.
He can hear the sound of battle around them. Screaming, cursing, crashing as everything falls apart. Then, a deafening voice sounds above them all.
“Harry Potter is dead!” Declares the voice triumphantly. “Lord Voldermort has won.”
Draco feels his own face mirroring Granger’s terror as the Dark Lord’s voice booms around them. As if in a trance, Granger steps towards him.
“Malfoy,” she says when she is close enough for him to hear her over the victory speech. “I’m pregnant.”
He isn’t hearing right. He can’t be.
“I know we never talked about this. About your side winning.” It isn’t his side, he wants to tell Granger. He had never been on that side, but his mouth won’t move. “About what will happen if he won. But you have to- please, you have to promise. You have to- its your child too.”
She takes his hands, holds them together in hers as they had at their wedding ceremony. “Please. Promise me no harm will come to this child.”
“I..” still, the words wouldn’t come to him.
“Malfoy. Please.”
“I promise.” His voice is a whisper. He doesn’t know how this could have happened. Any of it. That night, just that one night.
He hadn’t seen her for weeks.
“Thank you.” she drops his hands and steps back. Her cheeks are sallow, her eyes hollow, as if she had neither been sleeping nor eating.
“Granger-” he begins. He isn’t sure what he is going to ask her- whether the baby was his, or how she could be sure there was one. Later, he is glad he doesn’t. Glad that the silver stag arrives as it does, floating in up the staircase behind her like a ghost.
The patronus isn’t meant for him, so he doesn’t hear the message. He only see how her shoulders sag in relief and her face breaks into a smile even as she wipes her eyes.
“We won,” she says, looking at him, “We won, Malfoy. Voldermort is dead.” She gives him a wide, toothy grin and dashes down the corridor after the patronus.
Later, they all gather in the Great Hall to mark their victory and count the dead. Draco holds his mother in his arms as she cries. “Its over Draco, darling. We can go home now. We will be safe. Oh, Draco, I’m so glad you are here.” She doesn’t talk about how they will both stand trial for their time with the Dark Lord, how his father would never set foot at home, and he doesn’t tell her about Hermione Granger carrying her grandchild.
Across from the room, he sees Granger sitting beside the Weasley girl, arms around her. The Weasley family is spread out around them, and Potter, too, sits amongst them, too solemn for a person who had just won a war.
He should have known better, Draco thought with a grimace.
But the thing was, Granger was the smartest witch of her age. Granger knew things. Obscure facts. Which great Wizard had battled against which muggle superpower in which year. She knew how to garden. She crocheted.
So when she’d said she would give him a haircut, he simply hadn’t considered she couldn’t. Now he had a glaring bald spot right above his forehead, and a smaller one to the right, above his ear.
He couldn’t to understand how she had so catastrophically failed to cut his hair with a charmed muggle contraption she’d insisted she’d used at least a dozen times.
“I don’t see why you are so upset, Draco.” Talk about the devil and there she was.
“Really, Granger? You can’t be that dense.” Draco glared at Granger through the mirror. “But wait, I seem to have miscalculated how smart you are.”
“It was an accident,” she said with a sigh, leaning against the door frame and running a hand through the thick mane of her hair, which was still attached to her head. “I already told you-”
“That you’d charmed it with an anti-hair growth charm? Or that you’d never cut hair with it?”
“Draco, you know I didn’t do this on purpose.” she reached her hand to brush her hand through his hair, unsuccessfully trying to flatten his remaining hair to hide the bald spot. “I’d really forgotten about the charm. I used it for my legs, you know, and-”
“Granger, shaving your legs isn’t the same thing as giving a hair-cut.” He shrugged off her hand and turned to face her.
“It would look better if you would just shave your head.”
“No.”
“Draco, you’ll be really handsome-”
“No.”
“You can definitely pull it off-”
“I-” said Draco through clenched teeth, “Don’t- want- to- be- bald!” He pushed past her in a huff and went straight to bed, tugging the comforter over to his side.
“Honestly, Draco, you are just overreacting.”
“Why don’t you try shaving your head, Granger? It would go well with your cold heart.” He pulled the covers over his head and snuggled deeper into the bed. He heard her sigh again before the bathroom door shut and the sound of the shower running drowned out her voice.
He was still too upset to sleep when she came out of the bathroom. He heard her feet tip-tapping about the wooden floor, lightly humming an off-key tune. How had he trusted someone who couldn’t sing to cut his hair? T
Finally, the bed shifted under her weight, and he felt her get under the covers. Childishly, he pulled the covers further towards his end even as they pooled on the floor on the side of the bed.
“Come on, Draco, you can’t be that mad.” He felt Granger’s fingers tap lightly against the covers. “Draco.” She tried again when he wouldn't budge. “Look at me.”
Suddenly, she yanked the covers off of him, and Draco was forced to look at her, towering over him like a giant, her lips curled into a smile, and her uncontrollable mane of hair conspicuously absent. “So, how charming do I look? Does it go well with my cold heart?”
“What the fuck did you do, Granger?” He scrambled up on the bed and grabbed her by her shoulders, eyes scanning frantically across the expanse of her very bald scalp.
“I figured we’d be bald together.”
No. Draco thought in dawning horror. Not all that beautiful hair. He’d always liked her hair, even as he complained about it. It was bad enough that she’d cut his hair.
Now neither of them had hair.
“Don’t look so aghast, Draco. It’s going to grow back. Just like yours will.”
“Thank you for taking the initiative to invest in the welfare of magical creatures.”
“My pleasure.”
“I must tell you though. I was very surprised when you reached out to me. You, of all people. I... don’t mean to sound judgmental, but, why are you really doing this, Malfoy?”
“It may have escaped your notice, Granger, but I, too, am human, and thus, require sustenance.”
“Come off it, Malfoy, don’t be so dramatic. You know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just answer the damn question, Malfoy.”
“What question? Ooh! Granger, the lobster is marvelous. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to try it?”
“I’m fine, Malfoy. Stop changing the topic.”
“Who is changing the topic?”
“Why are you investing in my research?”
“Because I care for your cause, obviously.”
“Well, I’m not sure you do.”
“Then why would I be investing?”
“Because you have an ulterior motive.”
“Come on Granger. Can’t I do something from the goodness of my heart?”
“No.”
“You know me, Granger. I’m a philanthropist.”
“Actually, Malfoy, I don’t know you.”
“Well, then, no time like the present to get to know me, yeah? Are you sure you don’t care for the lobster?”
“Stop this.”
“If I knew muggles cooked so well, I’d have started going to muggle establishments years ago.”
“Why are we here, Malfoy? Why did you insist on a muggle place?”
“Because they have excellent seafood.”
“Honestly!”
“So Granger, how about we go and see one of those weird moving muggle pictures after this?”
“Movies. They are called movies.”
“Fine. Why don’t we go and see a movie after this?”
“Why would I go and see a movie with you?”
“Because that is what people do on dates.”
“This isn’t a date, Malfoy.”
“I’m sure we can amend that. I’ll even buy you flowers. Or jewelry. How about that? Would you like that necklace we saw on the way in?”
“Malfoy, stop it.”
“I think it’ll look absolutely stunning on you.”
“Stop being weird, Malfoy.”
‘I’m not being weird. I’m hitting on you.”
“Stop this- this charade.”
“This isn’t a charade.”
“You don’t even like me Malfoy.”
“But I do like you.”
“No you don’t. So stop this- whatever this prank is-”
“Granger, you never listen.”
“-I swear if Harry is in on this-”
“I’ve been trying to tell you I like you for the past three months.”
“Nope.”
“Granger, are you okay? Why do you look so red.”
“You- you’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“But-”
“Why do you think I send you roses every week?”
“To get back at me.”
“Why would someone send you roses to get back at you?”
“I don’t know. You weren’t happy about the House Elf bill.”
It had started out like this: Granger in an awful muggle wedding dress, too frilly for his taste, mind you, and himself looking smart as ever in a set of Sir Grecian dress robes.
Then there was that awfully cramped apartment of hers with just one room. One room! Ha! He’d expected a library, at the very least. But there had only been a bookshelf. It was bare and white with more glass than walls, really, that he’d wondered at how Granger maintained any sense of privacy.
“Quaint,” his mother had said, and he knew it was the politest thing she could find to say about the place.
And so began the obstacle course of trying to navigate through his marriage in the tiniest box he had ever lived in. It was fine, he’d tell himself as he tried to sleep in the glaring light from the dining room table. It was fine, he’d tell himself when he bumped his elbow inside the muggle shower-box. It was fine, and surprisingly, Draco found that it was. Before long, he could navigate through the room without accidentally tripping over things, he could sleep to the tap tap of Granger’s pen against the table. He found that he only minded slightly that Granger took more than half of the bed.
But when they got back from the Healer’s office a few months later, Draco had to put his foot down.
“We are moving,” he declared, “This room isn’t big enough for another person.”
“It’s an apartment, Draco.”
“I only see four walls and one exit. It’s a room, Granger.”
“Not all of us grew in a castle, Malfoy.”
The house they finally managed to agree on was much, much smaller than he would have liked. It had only two floors and just three bedrooms, one kitchen, a living space that doubled as a dining room, and no private garden. No gazebos. Not even a small pond or a Quidditch pitch. It was no place to raise a child in, but Draco did agree that the house was much spacier compared to their previous one room, and it was located in the beautiful countryside, and yes, he could play Quidditch in the empty field next to the lake ten minutes away from the house.
Granger settled into the house like a cat does to an empty box. She made quick work of their front yard, turning out the sparse ground into a bed of flowers and a small vegetable patch. In the mornings, he woke up to the smell of freshly baking bread, or cakes, or cookies, because Granger had taken a sudden liking to baking. In the afternoons, all the little neighbourhood ladies sat in their living room, munching on Granger’s baked goods and gossiping with voices that should have been too frail to gossip. At night, he tossed and turned in their empty bed, waiting for Granger to finish up her work in the small library they had made of the third room.
He had never thought he would, but Draco found himself missing the small room he’d lived in before. He missed always having her around, he missed doing different thing in the same room, side by side. He missed how close the small space had brought her to him. This house with its three rooms and gossiping visitors seemed too large for just the two of them.
He need not have worried. Soon enough, the house was ringing with the noise of not one, but two infants, who took it upon themselves to compete in screaming matches in the early hours of morning. Then they became old enough to direct their screaming into words. Gradually, the house seemed too small for the four of them, especially if he and Granger wanted any quiet at all.
“The Manor is all yours’,” his mother told them, “Why don’t you move in? You and Hermione won’t need to worry about finding daycare for the children anymore. You can’t keep flooing them over to Molly Weasley or me every morning.”
“Your mother is right, you know,” Granger said one night, from the twin bed across him. Tonight, the children had decided that it was simply unfair that mummy and daddy got to sleep in the bigger room. “Maybe it’s time we moved into the Manor. It would certainly be more convenient for everyone. We wouldn’t need to get up so early in the morning, or wake the children up at night when we come home late.”
“Are you sure?”
“Does your family really keep white peacocks?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m sure. Besides, I’m tired of having to lug books back from the library.”
It was with a heavy heart that Draco agreed. Malfoy Manor had stopped being home so long ago, when the Dark Lord had decided he rather liked the looks of it and given himself an open invitation to the house. He knew that the first memory Granger had had at his house hadn’t been pleasant either. So he was surprised when Granger suggested the move.
Rose and Hugo loved the old house. They adored the white rabbits and peacocks Mother kept as pets, loved their grand, separate bedrooms, and simply how much mischief they could get into in a house of that size.
Granger settled into Malfoy Manor in much the same manner as she had to their first house. If she recognized the room she had been tortured in, she gave little notice. Perhaps that was partly due to the fact that he had taken upon himself to tear down the room and completely change its entire design and purpose shortly after they had decided to get married. She loved the kitchen in the manor, although it would be a bit of a stretch to say she could cook as well as she baked. Still, the house elves humored her.
Best of all, Granger loved the library that came with the house. It was there he would find her at the end of a busy day, curled up on one of the armchairs with a mug of steaming cocoa in one hand a book propped open against her legs.
Home, Draco had come to realize, was less of a place than the people you had in your heart.
If you asked Rhaenys and she was to be completely honest, she would say that her favouristest person in the world was Balerion. After that, it was Mother and Father. After that, it was Lady Ashara, then Grandmother Rhaella.
Baby Aegon didn’t even make it on to her list.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like the baby. She liked him fine. It was just that he was so fussy. He cried all the time. He wanted to be held all the time. But he didn’t like it when Rhaenys held him. He didn’t like it when Balerion licked him. Oh, no. Prince Aegon would only be held by Mother, be rocked to sleep next to Mother, and would not let Rhaenys so much as pinch his cheeks before he began to howl like something evil was coming for him. It would make Mother sigh and say, “Rhaenys,” like it was her fault. It made their Septa drag her out of Mother’s room kicking and crying because she hadn’t done anything. She’d only tried to hold him.
Back when they were on Dragonstone, at least there were other people. At least it wasn’t just Mother and her and baby Aegon and their septa. Here on the ship, it was terribly lonely. The ship’s crew were nice to her, but most of them were too busy to spare her any time other than to say, “Out of the way, little Princess,” or “You’re going to get thrown into the sea running like that, little Princess,” or “Go to your mother, Princess Rhaenys.”
Back in the cabin, Mother was so busy with Baby Aegon that she had no time for Rhaenys at all. He would start crying the moment Mama hugged Rhaenys. He would cry if Rhaenys snuck into bed beside Mother and him. He would cry if she so much as spoke. He would cry, and cry and cry.
Sometimes, Rhaneys wanted to throw him over the side of the ship and into the waves.
“He’ll play with you when he gets bigger,” Mother said. “He’s just small now, sweetheart. And he doens’t like the sea.” Rhaenys didn’t like the sea either. But did Rhaenys wail like a harp player’s harp all the time? Was Rhaneys so mean to her brother?
No.
Rhaenys did none of those things. Rhaenys kept out of the way. Rhaneys kept Balerion out of the way and didn’t let him out onto the deck where he might fall into the sea. Rhaneys slept alone, without Mother to sing her songs and hug her to sleep, with only Septa snoring in the bed across from her.
Why could no one see that Baby Aegon was the problem, and not her? If Father was here, he would see it. He would take her in his arms and tell her she was his girl. He wouldn’t let Baby Aegon manipulate him into pushing Rhaenys away. He would wonder at how big Balerion was now, and he would kiss Rhaenys on the forehead and tell her all about the Dragon Wars.
Hi! Thanks for the ask and sorry for the late reply.
2. I think the favourite piece I’ve written(and completed so far) would be Oblivion because it is a bit different from my other stories and definitely a little longer(the longest I’ve written, in fact). It could have been much better if I had only taken the time to delve into the story a little more and expand the middle and especially the end. But to do that would have taken time, and I might have ended up letting it sit in my drafts for a long time, so I’m glad I published it :’)
31. As for my favourite canon characters to create content for, when I first started writing fics, I started with Harry Potter, followed by Naruto. But Tokyo Ghoul is the fandom I’ve created most content for. I loved writing Kaneki and Touka when the Manga was on-going, but it has reached a sort of saturation point now that the manga is over. I’m currently enjoying writing Draco Malfoy, although I’ve not yet written much for the fandom.
“My mummy,” says Rose importantly, “does not like roses, Malfoy.” She shakes her head disapprovingly at the bunch of roses he has placed on the counter.
“Really?” Draco raises an eyebrow at her direction. “What does your mummy like, then?”
“She is an inter-inter-lackshual. Mummy doesn’t need roses.”
“It’s a shame I bought these then. Maybe I should chuck them in the bin.” Draco reaches for the roses.
“No!” Rose shakes her head and stands on tiptoes to place her hands on Draco’s. “You can’t throw them away! That is wasteful. Mummy hates people who are wasteful.” She looks at him reproachfully.
“What should I do with them, then?”
“You could give them to me!” Rose says, as if the idea had just occurred to her, “I could put them in my doll-house. And near my window.” She beams at him expectantly.
“You want the roses?”
“Only because mummy hates roses and you mustn’t waste them.”
“I know for a fact that your mummy loves roses.”
“She does not.”
“Does too.”
“Does not.” Rose prods Draco with her finger, as if to further prove her point.
“Aren’t you her little Rose?” Draco asks, squatting down to her level and ruffling her hair.
“That’s stupid, Malfoy,” she says, angrily brushing away his hand. “I’m not roses. I’m a girl called Rose.”
“Your mummy is still getting these roses.”
“She will hate them,” Rose crosses her arms and glares at him.
“You can have one rose.”
“I don’t want one rose.”
“How about two, then?”
“I want ten.”
“You can’t have ten.”
“Five roses and that is it.”
“Seven.”
“Fine.”
Draco picks up Rose and places her on the counter, and watches as she picks out seven of the biggest rose from the bouquet. He helps her wrap them up in paper and watches as she runs out of the room, a small bouquet of roses in her hands.
“Mummy!” he hears as her steps fade up the stairs. “Mummy! I got you a gift! Mummy, Happy birthday!”
Yep. That little girl was going straight to Slytherin.
His memory is in bits and snatches, like burnt out ash in the wake of a huge fire, or the debris left behind by a tsunami, washed of everything and anything that made sense.
This was an idea my friend and I came up with a long time back. I was searching for something fluffy to write as well, and this went with both of the prompts I had.
(I took the prompt quite literally here.)
AU, Ayahina, Touken
Excerpt:
“I forbid you to see him!”
“You forbid me?” Touka didn’t know whether to laugh or slap Ayato across the face because this whole thing was getting waaay out of hand, “You, forbid me?”
“Yes!” Ayato replied hotly, glaring daggers at her.
“I’m your legal guardian Ayato, you can’t forbid me to do anything.”
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