Everything was prim and proper; everything had its place. Nothing went uncategorized or unsorted. There were rules and regulations of what one must and must not do. There were certain dressing habits that one must particularly avoid. There were certain gestures one must use at dinner, and certain gestures one must use at breakfast. There were certain pieces of silverware one must use.
And Hermione Granger absolutely, completely hated it.
Why? Well, for a first, there was a problem with this sodding corset she had to wear. It made her breathless and dizzy, almost unable to think. She didn’t like that very much. Not at all.
Second, there were these bloody bloomers she had to wear. She hated to think it, but she missed her knickers terribly.
Another thing was that they put so many sodding hair products on her hair that it didn’t even feel like hair. It felt like a barn animal’s hay, crisp, dried, and ready to go, but at the same time soft, tumbling down her shoulders in a beautiful manner.
That was what she was sulking about now in the dining room of the Titanic, trying to drown out the sounds of the chatter that went on there, things she could care less about--poker, the Titanic, recipes, America, the Titanic, music, dancing, balls, cotillions, the Titanic, immigrants. Oh, had she mentioned the Titanic?
These people were absolutely nuts for the ship. It was just a sodding ship, a boat with fancy additions that was supposed to sink in three days anyway! She drowned out the worthless chatter, trying, as usual, to think cleverly, come up with some sort of plan.
"She’s the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history," Bruce Ismay’s voice droned, startling her from her plans of escape. "Our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews, here, designed her from the keel plates up," said Ismay, gesturing towards Mr. Andrews.
"Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay’s. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale and so luxurious in its appointments that its supremacy would never be challenged," said Mr. Andrews in his thick Irish accent. "And here she is, willed into solid reality!" he stated, pounding the table to show his point.
"We’ll both have the lamb, rare, with very little mince sauce on it," Cal told the waiter when he came around asking what they would like to have. Molly chuckled quietly. "You like lamb, right, Sweetpea?" Cal asked Hermione.
Inside, Hermione seethed angrily. It was S.P.E.W. all over again! They were killing innocent creatures! "With sausage," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.
Molly chuckled a little louder. "You gonna cut her meat for her, too, there, Cal?" She laughed at her own little joke. Cal glared at her. "Hey, who thought of the name Titanic? Was it you, Bruce?" she asked, wisely changing the subject.
"Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size, and size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength," he said proudly.
Hermione smirked, remembering something she had read before, and came up with a clever retort. "Do you know of Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you," Hermione said, smirking. Molly looked like she was having a very hard time trying not to burst out laughing.
Ruth stared, mortified, at Hermione. "What’s gotten into you?" she whispered crossly.
"Excuse me," said Hermione quietly, getting up from the table.
As she walked away, she heard Ruth apologize and Molly converse with Cal. "She’s a pistol, Cal. I hope you can handle her," she said.
Cal sneered icily. "Well, I may have to start minding what she reads from now on, won’t I, Mrs. Brown?" he sneered.
"Freud, who is he? Is he a passenger?" asked Ismay.
Hermione made her way out to the deck and stared at the water. The water rushed by and the sun sparkled as the rays of light bore down upon her. Hermione felt something pulling her, something looking her way. She looked straight ahead and below her.
No way.
Malfoy was sitting there. Except…it wasn’t Malfoy. Old brown breeches with suspenders and a white button-up shirt replaced the fine clothing that he usually wore.
For once in his life, Malfoy looked like a peasant. But it still was Malfoy under it all. A shock of windswept platinum blond hair across his face made him look…almost handsome. The same cold, icy-blue eyes drew their cold gaze to her cinnamon ones.
Well, that ruined everything.
He stared at her, dumbstruck. A million emotions ran through his face--confusion, pride, anger, bitterness, frustration, and something more, but she could not decipher it. As soon as the emotions had come, they went. After all, it wasn’t like a Malfoy to show any sort of emotion except for smugness or pride.
Hermione glared at him. What was he doing here, anyway? She hated to think of the possibility that when she had gone back in time she had taken him somehow.
No. That couldn’t be it.
Then how did he get there? All the logic was gone from her brain, which was absolutely brain-fried trying to figure him out.
The classic Malfoy smirk crossed his face and he stared at her, not breaking eye contact. Smugness crossed his face, like he knew something she didn’t.
Hermione didn’t like that. Not one sodding bit.
She looked away, but out of her peripheral vision she could see another man waving his hand in front of Malfoy’s face. She just barely heard his voice.
"Oh, forget it, boyo. You’re more like to have angels fly out of your arse than to get next to the likes of her," said the man in an unmistakably Irish accent. It was Hermione’s turn to look smug.
They think Malfoy likes me, Hermione thought, holding back a snigger. People in this era were really not that bright after all. Couldn’t they see when someone hated another person?
Hermione looked away, smirking to herself. Suddenly, someone touched her shoulder and she jumped. Turning around, she saw Cal looking worried.
"It was truly rude to storm out like that, Sweetpea," he said. "I can’t imagine what on earth John Jacob Astor and the Countess are thinking right now," he said worriedly.
Hermione lifted her head in a snooty way and said something she actually meant. "They need not be concerned with my affairs. I can do just fine without their thoughts or guidance," she said coldly.
"All the same, Sweetpea, you should come in. Your mother is not very happy," he said.
Oh, great, thought Hermione. Facing the wrath of Ruth was something else to worry about. Maybe much more important than what Malfoy could be doing here.
But what was he doing here?
She wished she knew.
*****
She knew how Rose felt now; it was not just some illusion on the screen, telling her. She was experiencing it for herself, and to put it in Rose’s own words, "I saw my whole life as if I had already lived it, an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. I felt like I was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull me back, no one who cared, or even noticed." Of course, Hermione realized now that she had lived her life like this, as Ruth had when the ship sank.
She had made her decision.
She didn’t want to live this life anymore. Maybe if she died some way here, it would take her back to her own time. Who knew? Why waste time wondering what could’ve been when you have an open option in front of you? She would rather die than stay in this living hell.
She ran onto the deck, out into the open, savoring the sharp, icy-cold air, her heels clicking on the wooden deck. She wasn’t sure if this would get her back to her time, but she was willing to try. She stopped at the railing and leaned over, looking down into the rushing seawater. Daringly, she climbed up onto the rail until she was completely over it, facing the sea, which was frothing beneath her, as cold as ice.
"Don’t do it." A husky voice penetrated the icy air behind her.
She narrowed her eyes as she realized who it was. "Stay back! Don’t come any closer!" she growled.
"Come on. Just give me your hand. I’ll pull you back over," he insisted.
She shuddered to think of touching his hands. "No! Stay where you are," she argued, gasping for breath in the cold air. She felt rather than heard the silence. "I mean it! I’ll let go!"
"No, you won’t," he whispered breathlessly.
She turned around and stared into the face of Draco Malfoy, outraged. "What do you mean, no, I won’t? Don’t presume to tell me what I will and will not do! You don’t know me!" she sneered at him.
"Well, you would have done it already," he stated.
Hermione glared at him, infuriated at his logic. Why wasn’t she coming up with clever retorts like she usually did? "You’re distracting me. Go away!" Hermione said angrily.
"I can’t," stated Malfoy softly. "I’m involved now. You let go, and I’m going to have to jump in there after you," he said, beginning to take off his jacket.
Why would he care if she fell off the end of a huge ship? Wouldn’t he rather have it that way? After all, she was nothing more than a filthy mudblood. "Don’t be absurd. You’ll be killed!" she said, rolling her eyes and not really caring if he lived or died. Something inside of her told her to not let him jump in there after her, whatever the cost.
"I’m a good swimmer," he said.
Hermione rolled her eyes again. Right. As if being a good swimmer could help you on a who-knows-how-many-story ship with icy cold water at the bottom. Like he was really going to survive that. "The fall alone would kill you," Hermione argued.
"It would hurt. I’m not saying it wouldn’t," he said. The nerve of him! How could he just stand there looking bored while they discussed what could happen if he died? "To tell you the truth, I’m more concerned about that water being so cold," he said, smirking.
Hermione seethed inside, wanting to yell at him for really no reason at all. "H-how cold?" she asked, her voice quavering.
He seemed to sense that she had a little bit of fear in her and smirked again, this time wider. "Freezing. Maybe a couple degrees over," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "You ever…uh…been to Wisconsin?" he asked randomly.
"What?" she asked, taken off guard.
"Well, they have some of the coldest winters around. I grew up there, near Chippewa Falls," he said, reminiscing. What was he talking about? Hadn’t he grown up in England, just like her? She puzzled over this, but then realized that he must have been given an almost complete new memory of growing up whenever he came to the world of the Titanic. "I remember when I was a kid, me and my father went ice fishing out on Lake Wissota. Ice fishing is, you know, where you—"
She cut him off, outraged at him thinking she didn’t know what ice fishing was. She was a muggle-born, for Merlin’s sake! "I know what ice fishing is!" she snarled.
"Sorry," he said, rolling his eyes. "You just seem like, you know, kind of an indoor girl," he said cheekily. What was that supposed to mean? Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but he continued. "Anyway, I…uh…I felt through some thin ice. And I’m telling you…water that cold, like right down there," he said, pointing down to the frothing waves beneath them, "it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body. You can’t breathe, you can’t think—at least not about anything but the pain. Which is why I’m not looking forward to jumping in there after you. But like I said, I don’t have a choice," he said. She turned towards him, hesitating. "I guess I’m kind of hoping you’ll come back over the rail and get me off the hook here," he said gently. Malfoy? Gently?
Four words--no way in hell.
But of course, she couldn’t say that. It wasn’t ladylike.
"You’re crazy!" she said, opting for a less logical retort.
"That’s what everybody says. But with all due respect, miss, I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship here," he said quietly. This so did not seem like Malfoy. What was with him? "Come on," he pleaded. "Come on. Give me your hand. You don’t want to do this." Hermione looked over her shoulder, staring him in the face and gazing into the most brilliant blue eyes she had ever seen. She could’ve gotten lost in them all day, but she snapped out of it and gave him her hand. He helped her face him and sighed with relief. "Whew! Close one! I’m Jack Dawson…" He trailed off, staring at Hermione.
"Rose Jean DeWitt Bukater," Hermione breathed.
"I’m going to have to get you to write that one down." He chuckled. She smiled and laughed softly. Malfoy stared at her curiously and recognition dawned on his face. "Granger?" he asked in disbelief. She didn’t say a word, only nodded gravely. She was pondering a question she had. Why had Malfoy suddenly been nice before, but now was rude to her when he found out who she was? A tiny voice in the back of her head told her that maybe it was his real personality, but she shrugged off that absurd thought. Whoever thought of a nice Draco Malfoy? Hermione’s head was whirring with thoughts, but all sense of logic was gone, replaced by confusion and wonder. "Come on," said Malfoy, holding out his hand, offering to help her over the rail. She took his hand and he tried to help her over.
That was when everything began to go wrong.
At once, her hand started to slip from his, losing grip. She screamed a blood-curdling scream. Malfoy grabbed onto her waist, trying to pull her up. She felt a tingle run through her body, but she ignored it. She screamed again as he started to lose his grip. She knew it was the stupidest thing to do, and she knew what was coming.
"I’ve got you! Listen! Listen, I’ve got you!" he kept yelling. That didn’t stop her from screaming. Finally, he succeeded in pulling her over the rail and they both landed awkwardly, with him on top of her. He tried to move so the crewmen didn’t get the wrong impression.
Too late.
"What’s all this?" asked one of the crewmen suspiciously, observing my heavy, scared breathing and Malfoy’s worried face. "Stand back and don’t move an inch!" yelled the crewman. Malfoy shook his head, obviously not happy that they took it the wrong way, but was still calm as the Master-at-Arms appeared and handcuffed him. Soon Cal and his manservant, Lovejoy, appeared.
"This is completely unacceptable! What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancée?" Cal yelled at Malfoy. All Malfoy did was look away. "Look at me, you filth!" Cal demanded.
"Cal!" Hermione said, now a little frightened and meaning to explain what happened.
Cal just ignored her and kept shouting at Malfoy. "What do you think you were doing? We’ll bring in the—"
Hermione cut him off, positively screeching. "Stop it, Cal! It was an accident!" she screeched.
"An accident?" he asked snidely, sarcasm etched in every outline in his face.
"It was! It was stupid, really. I was leaning over and I slipped," she said, defending herself, all the while looking at Malfoy. His face told her it wasn’t a good enough excuse, so she continued, hoping to do this right for once. "I was leaning far over to see the—uh—the—" Why was her mind suddenly so blank at this time? Why?
"The propellers?" Cal offered.
"The propellers," Hermione agreed, feeling like an idiot. "I was leaning over to see the propellers and I slipped, and I would’ve gone overboard if Mal—Mr. Dawson here hadn’t saved me and almost went over himself," she explained.
"You wanted to see—she wanted to see the propellers!" snorted Cal, raising an eyebrow.
"Like I said, women and machinery don’t mix," stated Colonel Gracie.
"Was that the way of it?" the Master-at-Arms asked.
Malfoy nodded. "Yeah, that was pretty much it," said Malfoy.
"Well, the boy’s a hero, then. Good for you, son. Well done!" said Gracie, beaming down upon Malfoy.
Cal looked over at Hermione and took off his overcoat. "Look at you. You must be freezing," he said, putting the coat around her shoulders. "Let’s get you inside."
Gracie stopped them. "Perhaps a little something for the boy?" he reminded Cal.
"Of course," muttered Cal lazily. "Mr. Lovejoy, I think a twenty should do it."
Anger stirred inside of Hermione. Malfoy had saved her life and Cal was rewarding him with something as cheap as twenty dollars! "Is that the going rate for saving the woman you love?" she asked him cheekily.
"Rose is displeased. What to do?" he sneered. "Oh, I know." He walked back over to Malfoy. "Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening, to regale our group with your heroic tale?" asked Cal lazily.
There was a moment of silence. Then Malfoy replied, "Sure. Count me in."
"Good. It’s settled then," said Cal. "This should be interesting," he said, smirking as he and Gracie walked back to Hermione. Together, they went back into the ship’s interior, leaving Malfoy alone with Lovejoy.
About two things, Hermione was absolutely sure.
The first was that Malfoy had been sent back as Jack.
The second was that Malfoy had changed greatly and she wasn’t sure if that was for better or for worse.