Jaded (Rewritten)

Chapter Twenty: I Choose You

Draco was sipping his morning coffee when he received an unexpected visit from his mother. He wasn't surprised in the least; he knew she would find a way to remind him about the impending dinner at the Manor. "Mother, what a pleasant surprise," he drawled, though his eyes remained on his cup.

"Have you read the Prophet?" Narcissa asked urgently, skipping the pleasantries entirely.

Draco finally looked up, noticing her worried expression. "No. Why?"

Narcissa pulled out a chair and sat down, her hands clasping her silk handbag tightly. "I think you should read it first," she replied.

"I don't have time to read the paper, Mum. I'm leaving in ten minutes to pick up Hermione so we can apparate to the Ministry together. Just tell me what's written in it that dragged you all the way here."

"Rita Skeeter wrote an exclusive about Hermione and the Weasley boy."

Draco felt the coffee go down the wrong pipe, causing him to sputter and cough. Narcissa cringed slightly and handed her son a napkin. "Here you go."

Draco snatched the napkin and wiped his lips, his grey eyes flashing with immediate alarm. "W—what?"

"The evil wench didn't write much about Hermione; it was mainly about the boy and his... philandering ways," Narcissa said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "It appears he impregnated Irina's daughter—Millicent, if I'm not mistaken."

Draco went rigid. "That was in the paper? All of it?"

Narcissa nodded solemnly. "It was. That's actually the reason I came here. Your father and I wanted you to know that we will understand if Hermione does not feel up to coming over for dinner tonight. Under the circumstances, the public scrutiny might be too much."

"I'll have to ask her," Draco replied, his voice low and dangerous. He stood up, tossing the napkin onto the table. "I'd better go right now and check on her."

Narcissa also stood up from her perch, smoothing her robes. "Go on, then. Let me know what you two decide, alright?"

"I will," Draco promised. He leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his mother's cheek. "Goodbye, Mum."

༘⋆

"Hermione! Where are you?" Harry called out loudly, his voice echoing through the flat.

"Kitchen!"

Harry made his way toward the back of the flat and saw his best friend reading the Prophet. He mentally cursed, approaching the brunette with cautious steps. "Uhm—"

Hermione lowered the paper, peering over the top of it with a raised brow. "I know why you're here at this hour, Harry," she said dryly.

Harry adjusted his glasses, searching her face for any sign of a breakdown. "How are you feeling?"

Hermione folded the paper neatly and placed it beside her plate. She grabbed her morning tea and swiveled her chair toward him. "Would you believe me if I told you that I'm alright?"

"It depends, actually," Harry said, walking toward the breakfast bar and bracing his hands on the counter. "On whether you're telling the truth or not."

Hermione cracked a smile. "You've been my best friend for more than a decade, Harry. I'm quite sure you can tell my fibs from my truths," she challenged before taking a slow sip.

Harry cocked his head, staring at her intently. After a long moment, a look of immense relief crossed his face. "Damn. I was worried for nothing."

Hermione giggled as she set her cup down. She tapped her fingers on the folded paper, her expression thoughtful. "For once in my life, Rita Skeeter didn't demonize me. It's a little disconcerting, but I can't say I'm not thrilled to be the 'victim' for once rather than the 'scarlet woman.'"