Save Fail

My Computer is on a Save Fail so I have been unable to save the beginning of a fic I began. So I'm posting it here just to have some kind of record of it.

He had no idea what to say.

There she sat, in her white linen hospital bed, engulfed by a gaggle of her red-haired offspring. Some of them had straight hair like the rest of the carrot-topped family. Some of them resembled their grandmother, and like Gryffindor lions and lionesses they sported unruly, recalcitrant manes. All of them were Weasleys, of varying generations. Her children and grandchildren, of course.

Speechless, he had every damned intention to pivot one-hundred and eighty degrees and march straight back to the nearest apparition point. For Merlin’s sake, what was he doing here?

“What are you doing here?”

Good question.

Draco sighed, and carefully turned on his dragon-hide boots – fresh from the box – to face the pride of crimson-maned lions gawking pointedly at him. Their gazes were almost accusatory as though he was an unwanted guest, and most likely, he was. The older of the Weasley children, the adults, were quick to judge with menacing glares sealed with bequeathed suspicion and hereditary enmity. They looked upon him with slight condescension as though he were the inebriated neighbour who occasionally stumbled drunkenly through the white picket fence and into the yard, crushing the meticulously trimmed gardenias. Or at least that’s what he assumed the Weasley hovel – correction, house – looked like. In all his years, he had never gathered the courage or the audacity to check.

“What are you doing here?”

The question repeated. It was the older Weasley, her son, the one with the horrid misnomer. Ah, yes. Hugo. Scorpius had mentioned Hugo a few times in the Ministry. Pain in the arse, that one. Like his father.

“I was invited.” Draco stated promptly, allowing a hint of his customary drawl to permeate his speech. Naturally, as a Malfoy he harboured an exceptional aversion to being unwelcome, or looked down upon. No one looked down upon a Malfoy. Especially not the Weasleys. Hugo responded with a dubious look. However Draco Malfoy was being far from mendacious. He was invited, by the only other person in the room that did not boast red hair. Hugo’s oceanic eyes immediately shifted towards his mother and her frail lips moulded themselves into an upturn quiver. Despite her feebleness, she accomplished the traces of a reassuring smile and an expression that conveyed it was safe to leave.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded solemnly and clasped his hand in hers. Reluctantly Hugo turned from his mother and led the herd out, meanwhile granting Draco a contemptuous front of bravado. Draco gritted his teeth to prevent himself from scowling at the boy.

“I don’t care if you’re Scorpius’ father. You hurt her and you’re dead,” he whispered as he left.

Like he said, pain in the arse, that one.

So the Malfoy patriarch and the Weasley matriarch remained staring at each other across the gulf of standard issue hospital linoleum and the silence that spanned in between.

He decided to break the silence.

“What, Granger?” He couldn’t bear to associate her with that name, and refused to call her anything else other than the name that was hers. His voice was gruff, clearly uncomfortable. At this, she broke into a genially radiant smile.