prompt: snowed in
It was snowing in their common room.
Hermione didn’t sleep. Darkness toyed with her every night until she succumbed to the dusty lamp above her shoulder.
There was always a book on the bedside table. Soft leather covers with cracking spines, second-hand shop prices penciled on the top right corner of the title page; always under ten quid because post-war Hermione did not have the luxuries that her former self used to do.
Bleary-eyed restlessness kept her up consistently, unveiling highly unusual nocturnal activities in her shared dorm.
If someone had told her who would be Head Boy in eighth year, she may not have returned to Hogwarts. He would be cruel and condescending and completely unbearable. But Draco turned out to be a decent roommate. Tidy and polite and quiet, he kept to his room, and covered most patrol shifts, giving her ample time off.
Only, he was a profoundly dramatic sleeper.
Hermione raised the covers to her chin, shielding herself from a gust of snowflakes falling from the ceiling.
Forever in a state of apathy, Draco’s emotions were guarded heavily behind stony mental walls. Except for when he slept. Last night, their rooms trembled in the wake of a roaring wind storm. Hermione’s History essay flew across the floor, quills and bobby pins and sweet wrappers tornadoing around the rug. The night before that, the temperature dropped so low, her breath clouded; the trembling fern on her windowsill shed three leaves. Separated only by a thin wall, Hermione experienced the brunt of Draco’s unruly magic night after night.
She’d contemplated waking him, conjured a list of pros and cons. He would be embarrassed. He might lash out. But his unconscious was too heartbreaking to stomach. Every night was cold, chaotic, a shade, or many, uncomfortable. Leaving him alone would be a disservice to them both.
Clumsily, she wiggled into yesterday’s socks, tugging them above her knees. The carpet was damp beneath her feet. She wore cotton shorts and a tank, her blanket tucked tightly around her shoulders.
She paused behind his door.
Boys were always more agreeable after sugar.
She detoured.
Minutes later, Hermione crossed the corridor’s frosty white floors, mug in hand, entering Draco’s room without knocking. Snow melted into a layer of glimmering wet upon her shoulders.
Draco slept on his side, hugging himself, brows furrowed.
Hermione called his name once, quietly, and again, louder, when he didn’t stir.
Draco blinked drowsily. Then shot up like a spark. The triangle of light flooding the doorway illuminated the panic on his face.
“It’s only me,” Hermione said sheepishly, trying to sound soothing. “You were having a bad dream.”
He frowned, his hair sticking up in all directions. He was shirtless.
Hermione’s pulse quickened. “Uhm… I brought you hot chocolate.” She gestured awkwardly to the lion-head mug in her hands, cocoa-scented steam swirling through the clean boyish scent of Draco’s room.
He followed her gaze, appearing more confused. The mattress creaked as he shuffled away, silver-scarred ribs expanding. “Did I wake you?” His voice was raspy.
Hermione wanted to tell him about the snow. About the way his dreams manifested into magic. But like each enchanted dream before, any indication of it was gone. Her shoulders were dry. The floors clean. The temperature had risen to castle norm, which was never warm enough anyway.
“I never sleep,” she admitted instead, resigned.
“Never?”
“It’s difficult. My head’s not a happy place.”
“Nor mine.” He relaxed a little, repositioning himself against the carved headboard, a generous gap of space stretched between him and the edge of the bed. He shot her a pointed look.
Blushing, Hermione hugged her blanket closely and crawled up beside him. She could have told him why she was there, but the words would not come. If Draco knew the truth, he would stop sleeping. They shouldn't both have to suffer.
“Will you stay up with me for a while?” she asked.
For once his eyes twinkled, shot with exhaustion, but unguarded. And interested? “Only because you brought me hot chocolate,” he said, nudging his chin in silent demand.
She rolled her eyes as she handed him the mug, hiding her grin.
His throat pulsed as he swallowed slowly, licking his lower lip. Their fingers brushed when he handed it back to her. His skin was warm.
Hermione took a small sip.
“I thought you would be the shittiest roommate,” Draco admitted a while later, eyes fixed carefully ahead. “I thought—Hermione Granger? She’ll preach rules any time I toe out of line and hog all the bookshelf space and be condescending twenty-four hours a day. I nearly didn’t come back.” He met her gaze. “But you surprised me.”
A spark of awareness shot down her spine.
He took the hot chocolate back, drinking from exactly where her mouth had been, a sneaky smile curling the edges of his lips.
They sat until dawn, bickering but not seriously. Laughing, but sleepily and more out of politeness. They were just getting to know one another. There were awkward gaps, moments of wordlessness, ceaselessly thinking ‘what do I say next?’. But there was always a next, even if it took a while. A thoughtful next. A next that led to a longer conversation, and a longer one after that. Thighs brushing, then pressing, shoulders caving towards one another. Eventually, Hermione’s blanket encircled them both, her head resting upon his shoulder.
Drowsily, she told him, “Yeah. You surprised me too.”
For the first time in weeks, Hermione experienced the sensation of waking from a deep sleep.
xx
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Courtship 17: Ceremony
The knot is tied
Read on AO3
She didn’t sleep well, the night before her wedding. Her childhood bedroom was cleared out and all the shadows were strange. They seemed sharper now, darker. They threatened to swallow her. All her clothes were out of her closet and out of the dirty clothes hamper. There was nothing on her dresser except the makeup she’d need for tomorrow. All the usual clutter of her life was gone, either packed up to go with her, shoved away in drawers, or in the trash. A room this clean felt empty, maybe dead. A skeleton picked bare of flesh.
Energy born of nerves and excitement filled her up like champagne bubbles. She tossed and turned in her twin-sized bed, trying to get comfortable, trying to relax enough to sleep. Masturbating might have helped, but Mr. Gold had forbidden her to touch herself if he wasn’t present.
If only he was! Miss French flipped over onto her stomach. If Mr. Gold was here, if she was trying to sleep next to him--in his bed that would be her bed, in his house that would be her home--well, he wouldn’t allow any restlessness in his plaything, would he? He would wear her out. He would use her until she couldn’t do anything but sleep. He would fuck her into a coma and keep fucking her in her dreams.
Soon, she promised herself. Tomorrow night was her wedding night. If she knew Mr. Gold, he would exhaust her. Everything would be alright once they were together. Once they were married, once she belonged to him, once she was really Mrs. Gold. Then everything would be perfect.
She just had to make it until then.
****
In the morning, she showered and did her hair. She used all the expensive products and lotions and cleansers that would have been unthinkable before she’d started dating Mr. Gold. Hell, before she’d gone on that first date, hot water had been a faraway dream. Now she luxuriated in steam scented with expensive shampoo. She rubbed her feet with a brand-new pumice stone and exfoliated with a coarse mixture of salt and orange-scented oil. No more of Miss Trudine’s homemade crap.
She lathered herself in foamy shaving cream--as she had every day for the past two weeks--and took a razor to her legs, armpits, and pussy. If she wanted Mr. Gold to eat her out, she had to keep herself clean. Repeated attempts had made it a lot easier to find and remove the pesky, wiry hairs grew between her legs. Yet she never shook the feeling that she wasn’t bare enough. There always seemed to be more faults she had to eliminate, more parts of her that Mr. Gold would find distasteful.
She would figure it out. Mrs. Gold would be good enough. She would deserve her husband. Mrs. Gold would cut away and burn every part of her that wasn’t up to his standards.
No matter how much it might hurt in the moment, his approval would be worth the price.
Primped and perfumed, Miss French began to dress. For her wedding, she’d bought a white corset that pushed her boobs up to her neck. The matching thong was basically a just white silk triangle on a string. It covered nothing, which was exactly what she wanted. She put on a white garter belt and a pair of white thigh-highs. They clung to her legs, tight and silky and delicious.
Technically, her wedding dress wasn’t meant for a wedding. Storybrooke didn’t have a dedicated bridal shop, and there hadn’t been time to have something made or even order a dress from a catalog and have it mailed in. Fortunately, Modern Fashions always carried a scant collection of prom dresses.
It was white, at least. The entire dress was covered in beads and sequins--all white and silver and crystal. She would sparkle like a movie star on a red carpet. Like everything else in her new wardrobe, her wedding dress was short and tight. One sleeve went all the way down to her wrist--conveniently covering the last yellow traces of her bruise--but her other arm was completely bare. It showed off her shoulder and a good bit of cleavage. Overall, it had the same allure of the purple-blue dress she had worn on her first date with Mr. Gold. Back then she had been a thousand times more innocent than she was now in snow white.
She stepped into the dress and brought it up to her waist. She slid her arm into the one sleeve and found the zipper on the back with her other hand. But when she pulled, the zipper didn’t move.
A white-hot arrow of emotion pierced Lacey. This was why people had bridesmaids. This was why a woman was supposed to have friends and family she could rely on to be there for her on the most important day of her life!
The jolt of rage was enough to get the zipper to pull up. Miss French breathed. Shallow breaths--the dress was tighter across her ribs than the corset--but breaths all the same. She had to learn some self-control. This was nothing to get upset over. Miss Trudine and Miss Woolverton had made their choice. They had decided she wasn’t worth helping. She just had to accept the fact, and move on with her special day.
Besides, she had zipped her dress up by herself. Her hair looked just as good as it would have if Miss Woolverton had worked on it for hours. She was immaculate and she had done it all on her own. That just proved she didn’t need them anyway.
****
She still needed practice to walk in her tall white wedding heels. Carting her bags down the stairs a few times did the trick. She set everything in a neat row outside, by the side door, well out of sight of the shop. Moe was in there, frantically filling out Valentine’s Day orders. He knew she was leaving today, but that didn’t mean they needed to see each other.
Mr. Gold had told her that their appointment at City Hall was at three. His employee, Dove, would come by at two to get everything.
“Everything” was seven shopping bags of her new clothes and jewelry, two bags of makeup and skin and hair products, and one bag of books and mementos--things she didn’t want Moe to find if he ever went into her room. Not that he would. It would be too much work for him to clean out her old stuff himself. The garbage bags full of clothes she had wanted to give to Janine were still up there.
Once her things were outside, she couldn’t very well leave them unguarded. The French’s neighborhood wasn’t exactly rough, but a line of open shopping bags would be a tempting target for anybody. So she lingered in the doorway, wrapped up in a white woolen coat and white leather gloves she would probably never wear again after today.
At exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, a long black car pulled up in front of Game of Thorns. It was even bigger than Mr. Gold’s Cadillac. It took Miss French a minute to recognize what it was.
“He rented a limo?” She asked Dove when he came out. “Or did he already own one?”
The tall man gave her a brief nod. “Mr. Gold didn’t know how many companions you’d have with you. He wanted to be prepared.”
“Oh,” Lacey said softly. “Right.”
Without another word, Dove picked up the shopping bags, two in each hand, and took them over to the limo’s trunk, leaving her alone on the sidewalk.
It made sense of course. She hadn’t told Mr. Gold that all her invitations had been soundly rejected. It was a lovely gesture, to provide transportation large enough for her whole family. In a perfect world, it would have been a treat for everyone. Janine and Mara would have squealed, they would have felt like celebrities. Chloe would be excited just because they were excited. Uncle Manny would tell them all the ways a limo was better than any other car. Maybe Aunt Terri would smile a little, maybe some light would come back into her eyes. The best she could expect from Dad would be an approving nod, but that would be enough.
In a perfect world. If they could all be together.
Her eyes burned, but she couldn’t cry. It was too early in the day for her makeup to be ruined. Instead, she blinked the tears away and took a breath. The air was so cold it hurt her lungs and that was just what she needed.
All her luggage was packed. Dove held the limo door open for her. She was just about to step into the car when a familiar figure turned the corner to their street.
“Uncle Manny?” Lacey whispered.
Holy shit, it was him! He was here! She wanted to run to him, but her heels were already too precarious. Instead, she stood in front of the limo and waved.
“Uncle Manny!” she shouted. “You came!”
When he saw her, her uncle picked up his pace, doing a half-jog with his hands in the pockets of his coveralls.
“Ace!” He smiled as he got closer. He gave a brief nod to the looming shadow of Dove. “I’d hug you, but I can’t get motor oil on all that white.”
“Why are you wearing something with motor oil on it?” she laughed. “Don’t you know how to dress for a wedding?”
Manny’s smile froze. He didn’t say anything. His large eyes watched her face like an anxious dog.
“Oh,” Miss French said softly. She took as deep a breath as she could manage. “I see. What else could I have expected?”
“I’m just here cuz your dad needs someone to drive the delivery van, since you’re…” He gestured at her outfit and the limo.
“Since I’m getting married?” she asked tartly. “An event for which I just might want at least one family member in attendance?”
He shook his head. “Lacey, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that!” she snapped. “You’re the one that always said love means never having to say you’re sorry. Doesn’t that mean not doing things you need to apologize for?”
“Yeah, and that goes both ways.”
Her white gloves gripped the edge of the limo door. “I’m not going to apologize for marrying Mr. Gold. It isn’t wrong.”
“Is it right?” He asked softly. “Honey, do you really think this is the right thing to do?”
She clenched her jaw.
“It’s my only choice,” Miss French said in a tight whisper. “Being with Mr. Gold is my best chance.”
Mr. French nodded sadly. “I can’t stop you,” he said. “But I can’t support you. Not about this. Not about him.”
He turned to go into the store.
“We’re gonna have shrimp!” Desperate, Lacey tried a new tactic. “Shrimp cocktail, passed around by waiters. A-and surf and turf, and a live band, an open bar. It’s gonna be a good time!”
Her voice broke on the last word. Silently, he turned around to look at her.
“Dodici’s” The word blew away in the cold winter wind. “At seven. Please come.”
Uncle Manny sighed, and turned away again.
****
The interior of the limo was a cave of black leather. Two rows of lights ran down the long ceiling, but the dim yellow was darker than the cloudy afternoon outside. All the seats were on two benches, one in the back like a normal car, and one going longways up the side. Her whole family could have fit in here. It could have been a real party. Instead, Miss French sat in the center of the back seat, alone.
Before they drove off to City Hall, Dove showed her the various amenities: The button to raise and lower the partition that separated the driver from the back, the phone she could call him on if she had instructions. There was a sound system for music, ways to change the colors of the lights, and a bar with champagne in a bucket of ice.
She took it all in with polite nods. She should have been dazzled by the luxury, the expense, but right now she didn’t have the heart for it.
The best she could do was accept a glass of champagne when Dove offered to pour her one. It was bitter--dry--and the bubbles popped like pins inside her mouth. The alcohol and that slightest touch of pain worked together to help her relax. She slumped in the overstuffed seat, her legs sprawled out in front of her.
They drove on Main Street to the good part of New Town. City Hall sat within walking distance of Mayor Mills’ house. Through tinted windows, she saw people on the sidewalks stop to stare at the fancy car. Marco the handyman coming out of the hardware store, the patrons in the diner, a group of kids bundled up to play in the park--all of them gaped at her.
Miss French sat up a little straighter. She waved at everybody through the window, but they couldn’t see her. Well that wouldn’t do. This was the happiest day of her life, she was on her way to become Mrs. Gold. People had to see what that looked like.
Heedless of the cold, Miss French rolled down the window. She stuck her head out and smiled like a prom queen. When they stopped at Storybrooke’s only traffic light, she leaned out further and waved at the other cars.
“I’m getting married!” she shouted to everyone and no one.
Somewhere in this town, there had to be someone who’d be happy for her.
****
On a Saturday afternoon, City Hall was almost empty. She didn’t see anyone as Dove guided her to the office of the Municipal Clerk. The clack of her heels on black and white tile echoed through the halls. Was there anyone else in the building right now? Had Mr. Gold pulled some strings to make sure it was open at all?
When they got to the office, Mr. Gold was already there. He looked wonderful, even more elegant than normal. His suit was pure black, sharp and crisp. He wore a dress scarf under his lapels, black and blue paisley, threaded through with gold. His cobalt pocket square was intricately folded, as though to mimic a boutonniere. She’d told him she didn’t want flowers, so he wasn’t wearing any. His tie was the same rich blue color, stuck through with a golden tie clip.
He stood in front of a gray metal desk where a beleaguered civil servant was straightening stacks of papers and manila file folders. The miserable-looking little man was trying to look busy so he wouldn’t have to confront the reality of being alone in a room with Mr. Gold.
Miss French smirked at that. If people couldn’t be happy for her, at least she could be happy at their discomfort.
Mr. Gold grinned when he saw her.
“There you are,” he said.
“Miss me?”
“Not anymore.” He reached out his arm and pulled her in for a quick, possessive kiss. “I’ll never have to miss you again after today. You’ll be mine forever, dearie.”
Miss French beamed at him. Her groom, her husband. Forever.
Mr. Gold pulled her aside, so they could be away from Dove and the clerk. He pulled a long box out of his suit jacket. “I have something for you.”
“More gifts?”
“Technically, one of these is supposed to be borrowed.” He offered her the box and she took it.
The box was red velvet, and opened on a hinge. Inside, laid out on a black satin pillow, were more pearls than Lacey French had ever seen in one place in her life.
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God,” she whispered. She looked up at him. “Mr. Gold…”
He smiled slyly, pleased with her adoration. He took the box and lifted up some of the pearls. It was three strands banded together with a gold and diamond clasp. Mr Gold took her bare arm and laid the bracelet against her wrist. The pearls were cool to the touch, or maybe her blood was running so hot that they just felt that way in comparison.
“As I said, one counts as borrowed.” He picked up the other set of pearls, this even longer than the first. He stood behind her and wrapped them around her throat. When clasped, they fit snugly, more like a choker than a necklace. Miss French could only manage shallow breaths. “And the other is old.”
It took her a moment to register why that was important. When it finally clicked, she chuckled.
“Old, new, borrowed and blue,” she recited the old rhyme. “I didn’t realize you were superstitious.”
Mr. Gold shrugged. “Only about things that don’t really matter.”
Miss French was too overwhelmed to wonder what he meant by that. She ran her fingers over her bracelet. The pearls had yellowed slightly with age, giving them a lovely golden luster. Each one was just a little misshapen, a little short of being a perfect sphere. Mom had said that was how you knew they were real, a natural stone and instead of a manufactured bead.
Mom knew a lot about pearls. They were her birthstone.
She took as deep a breath as she could manage, dug her white-painted fingernails into her palms. Somehow, she hadn’t thought about Mom all day. Of all the people who weren’t here with her, this was the absence that hurt the most. The mother of the bride should be there for the wedding.
People might tell her that her mother wouldn’t approve of this marriage, but they didn’t know. Maybe Mom would have understood, if she was here, if she could see how happy Mr. Gold made her daughter. Lacey would never know, but she could hope. Maybe Mom could have convinced the others, or at least Dad. The perfect world--the world of happiness and togetherness--would have been the one with Mom in it.
But even if Mom could be happy for her, even if she supported them and blessed them with her whole heart, it didn’t matter. She was gone. Forever.
“It’s funny.” Miss French spoke softly to keep her voice from breaking. “My mother used to say it was bad luck for a bride to get pearls. Something about them being a symbol for tears.”
“Every pearl a man gives his bride on their wedding day is a cause he’ll give her for weeping in their marriage.” Mr. Gold didn’t deny the superstition, just gave her necklace a pointed look. “It’s not too late to change your mind, my dear.”
Miss French shook her head. “I want to marry you,” she told him. “I want to be with you, and I don’t give a damn what anyone says, living or dead.”
Mr. Gold gave her a satisfied grin. “That’s my girl.”
****
The process of getting married was surprisingly simple. In front of the sad little clerk, Miss French and Mr. Gold separately filled out their intention of marriage forms. Then Mr. Gold paid a paltry fee and he received their license.
“Um.” The clerk made darting looks between Mr. Gold, Miss French, and Dove. “Is there a second witness?”
“Is that really necessary?” Mr. Gold asked.
“Um, yes? Legally, there has to be two, or else the marriage license is invalid.”
“And we can’t have that,” Mr. Gold said dryly. He turned to her. “Are you expecting any of your friends and family?”
“No,” Miss French said simply. “No one’s coming.”
Brusquely, Mr. Gold turned to Dove. “Find someone.”
Without a word, Dove left the office and went out to the rest of City Hall.
“I’m sorry.” Miss French looked down at her new/old bracelet. “If my family wasn’t so--”
“Well, you’re better than them.” Mr. Gold cut her off before she could find a word to describe her family. “They are little people in a little town and you want more than they can even dream of. Don’t be ashamed of it.”
For the first time that day, Miss French felt warmth in her heart instead of her eyes. He was right. Mr. Gold understood her in a way that no one else could, not even people she’d known her entire life. Being understood, being accepted, being told to have no shame--that was more of a gift than all the wealth and luxury in the world. That was why she was going to marry this man.
A moment later, Dove came back, followed closely by the lanky figure of Dr. Hopper. The psychiatrist had his dog--a friendly Dalmatian named Pongo--on a leash.
Mr. Gold sneered. “Leave that animal outside, please.”
Dr. Hopper’s face turned as red as his hair. “I-I can’t just let him alone in City Hall,” he protested weakly. “What would Mayor Mills do if she found him?”
“Turn it into a fur coat,” Mr. Gold muttered too low for anyone but Miss French to hear.
She snickered. “I guess you don’t like dogs, huh?”
“I don’t need a slobbery, mindless beast to jump in my lap and demand my attention. That’s what I have you for, dearie.”
Miss French burst into giggles so pervasive she covered her mouth with her hand to keep the other men from seeing. She leaned in to whisper into her groom’s ear. “I’ll be your bitch any day of the week, Mr. Gold.”
He made a low noise in his throat and put his hands on either side of her waist. “I know you will,” he whispered back.
That exchange seemed to improve his mood. He waved Hopper up to the clerk’s desk and didn’t say another word about the animal.
“Mr. Harlan here is a notary,” Mr. Gold indicated the city clerk. “And as such, he is able to officiate the wedding as well as file the license. Shall we get on with it?”
The little man nodded and began to read some words off a typed sheet of paper. His voice was so weak, Miss French didn’t bother to listen. She spent the ceremony looking up at Mr. Gold. He held her wrists in both hands, a grip that went tighter every minute the clerk droned on. They didn’t exchange rings, they were already wearing them. Miss French voiced her consent to marry Mr. Gold, her agreement to go along with whatever romantic bullshit the state of Maine thought a marriage was. Their marriage would be different, of course. It would be like nothing this world had ever seen.
They said, “I do.” They kissed. The sad clerk said they were man and wife. The license was signed by two witnesses and returned to the city.
It was done.
They were married.
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