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The Dragon S Bride by Rizzle-VUQaboHN
The Dragon S Bride by Rizzle-VUQaboHN
By: Rizzle
7th year. Draco & Hermione awaken in a Muggle hotel room, naked, hung-
over and tattooed. They also happen to be married. Thus begin a desperate
search for a solution to their sticky situation.
Status: complete
Published: 2009-05-28
Updated: 2009-06-17
Words: 225164
Chapters: 61
I have a love/hate relationship with this story. It's the first completed
multi-chaptered story I wrote in the first ship I ever considered myself
to belong to. I wrote nearly the entire thing, over the course of nearly
five years, in secret, during lunch breaks at my various workplaces
(sometimes, in an actual broom closet). I wrote it for myself, for
readers, but mostly, I wrote it to prove that I could write fanfiction if I
bloody well wanted to (I couldn't write it freely because of problems
in my personal life).
Chapter One
Saturday morning
Draco
[7am.]
Where the fuck am I, and why does my head feel like two horny,
rampaging Hippogriffs have been pounding about in it all night?
Obviously.
[8am.]
Nice.
Hermione
[8.30am]
I hurt. Everywhere.
[10.30am]
Water.
Am tremendously sore…
Graduation party…
First, he was in a hotel room, and not a particularly nice one at that.
The drapes - drawn, thankfully - were a lurid shade of lime green, the
carpet was nondescript brown shag and the few pieces of furniture
were either made of plastic, chipboard or some hideous alloy of the
two.
Second, he couldn't help but notice that the room was in absolute
shambles. A chair was overturned in a corner, one leg had been
almost entirely snapped off. It swung drunkenly in the light, dusty
breeze created by the whirring of the ancient air conditioner
overhead.
It wasn't until he turned his head to greet the lucky recipient of his
inebriated attentions, did he make Observation Number Three.
And that wasn't all. As sense and sensibility returned to his body and
brain, respectively, Draco registered the fact that Granger's hand
was currently wrapped around his equally nude, upper thigh, in an
unmistakably familiar gesture.
It wasn't until the glitzy gold clock on the wall ticked over to forty past
ten in the morning, did Draco finally acknowledge the sordid fact that
he had engaged in sexual intercourse with his recently graduated
fellow classmate. And not just any old sex either. It appeared that
they had humped the stuffing out of each other, judging from the
state of their accommodation.
Pushing aside the sudden, belated waking of his penis (and all other
logical thought processes), Draco examined the sleeping girl beside
him with a fascination that was nearly unholy.
Granger lay on her side, towards him. Her long hair was a tangle of
mellow, cognac-colored curls, partially obscuring her face. The
sheets were twisted around her legs, wrapped around a slender
thigh. She slept like a wrestler in the throes of a championship
dream. The rest of the blankets were pillowed under her cheek.
Indeed, it looked like she had stolen most of the bedding, while
Draco had commandeered the pillows.
Merlin's painted toenails. If word got out that he'd been dipping into
the Muggle-born bane of Hogwarts, his housemates were likely to
pelt him with rotten fruit upon his return to school. After all, they may
have just attended their graduation ball, but there was technically a
full two weeks left of school before the year officially ended.
And yet she had slept with him, all the same. And unless a
particularly nasty bout of Imperious had been involved, it looked like
she had dropped her tightly starched knickers quite willingly, too. A
part of Draco was eager to Disapparate from the dismal hole in the
wall they had managed to procure, and report his scandalous
escapade to his classmates. Another part of him, however, was
beginning to remember.
Draco was acutely aware that he was still intoxicated from their
previous night's binge. He blamed the devil's brew then, as he
placed his hand against her shoulder, wanting to remember more
about the ways he had touched Granger's lightly freckled, golden
skin. His palming of her shoulder was instantly met by her burrowing
deeper against his side. She pressed her slightly open mouth
against the skin on the curve of his shoulder and sighed in her sleep,
sending Draco's already groggy brain into a tailspin. His erection
twitched insistently against his abdomen, demanding to be seen to,
as was often the case most mornings.
Granger's skin was cool to the touch, and so very soft. She furrowed
her brow in her sleep, pursing her lips slightly. Her right hand
remained between their faces, palm up and fingers curled. She
looked innocent in sleep, and that thought sent a fresh wave of
arousal spearing through Draco.
Quim was quim, Draco told himself, and from the extremely eager
state of his penis, this one had been rather good.
He was vaguely aware that a snotty little voice at the back of his
head had been shouting for some time now, "Hey! You're looking at
Granger's tits!"
Yes, welcome back brain. Where were you six hours ago?
There it was again- vanilla and roses. But there was also sweat, and
the unmistakable musk of sex. Feeling fortified, Draco hitched her
leg up further over his hips. With a careful hand, he reached once
more between their bodies and slowly guided his cock between her
legs. The sensation of his own hand on his aching flesh was
heavenly enough, but once he had tucked it snugly against the
damp, curls between Granger's thighs, the sensation was
heightened.
She was well prepared for him; sticky, coated with her own lubricant
and what Draco assumed to be his previous contributions to the
cause. This worked well to his advantage as it provided a smooth
glide right into the heat of her.
Draco's eyes rolled back into his head as he grunted softly. All the
stupid, tacky words he had heard associated with the female sex
sang through his head. Granger was incredibly swollen, and tight
beyond description. Glove, velvet, snug, grip, pull, tug, friction,
suction, cunt. It all applied.
Another memory dislodged itself from the repository, this one even
more pristine that the rest. Granger seated astride on the chair that
now lay broken, her curly head bobbing up and down over him, his
slow, steady instructions as his hands fisted in her hair, as he used
her mouth with more care than he would have normally shown with
his partners.
"Ow," she whispered in a raspy voice, her brow now furrowed. She
licked her lips in exactly the same manner Draco had done minutes
earlier. Her eyes were moving rapidly under her closed eyelids.
For some unknown reason, which didn't bear thinking about at that
point in time, his mother's voice sounded in his head.
"These dalliances with every pretty, young witch you happen upon
will not last." Narcissa Malfoy had told him the previous summer.
"This period will pass, whereupon you shall find yourself a witch of
good standing."
Well then. Best to get the first part over and done with, Draco
decided. Ignoring what was developing to be a headache of epic
proportions, he flipped Granger onto her back, simultaneously
sinking his cock an inch further inside her.
It took a bit of willpower not to fall on her, cover her mouth with a
hand and rut until he exploded. The muscles of his biceps felt like
jelly, and it took some effort to still the quivering of his arms.
What goes in must come out, and oh… bloody fucking oath, that felt
ever so brilliant.
His lower body was too fatigued to engage in any rhythmic, deep
thrusting. It was less than artful, but it was still bliss. Another two
movements were all it took.
Draco bit down hard on his lower lip and miraculously emptied more
of himself into her.
"Get off," Granger rasped. Her eyes had gone so wide Draco was
able to make out the tiny flecks of gold around the irises.
"I think I just did," Draco said, and then might have slapped himself
at his lack of tact. It wasn't that he cared about being polite. That
would have required too much energy.
Perhaps she might consent to going back to sleep for oh… another
hour or two? She had gone quite rigid under him. It felt like he was
lying on the clay dummy they used to practice resuscitation spells on
in sixth year Charms. Gone was the welcoming softness, but the
warmth was still there.
In fact, the blush on her face was so pronounced; she looked liable
to spontaneously combust.
"Get off me. Now," she repeated, more forcefully this time. The
petrified house elf look was gone, replaced with a familiar Head Girl
glare.
The girl may have been a shrew, but she was damned good lay. He
couldn't ever remember feeling so wiped out after a session. His
cock had gone quite soft now, though her frantic wriggling beneath
him was causing all sorts of pleasant jolts of friction.
A few seconds later, the door re-opened, and a hand darted around
to grab the brassiere hanging from the doorknob.
Not in the least bit perturbed, Draco pulled the tangled sheets over
his midsection, closing his eyes just as he heard the shower turn on
in the bath.
Hermione was doing her best to ignore the large, heart shaped
mirror over the pink vanity. The shower was running on full blast, but
she was not yet under it. She waited until the room was sufficiently
saturated with steam before passing a flat palm over the glass and
wiping away the condensation.
Her eyes passed dispassionately over the dark circles under her
eyes, taking in the pallor of her face and the redness of her lips. Her
lips were naturally bee-stung, but that morning, they were nearly
double in size. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, seeking out
the tiny splits and tears with her tongue. There were whisker burns at
the corner of her mouth and under her right ear lobe. With a hand
that shook slightly, she reached up to touch the red patch on the side
of her neck. She pushed her steam dampened hair off her face. Her
makeup was smeared. The remnants of her stay-fast mascara
added to the rings under her eyes. All trace of lipstick was long gone.
It looked like she had lost a small pearl stud earring as well.
Hermione thought her eyes looked duller than usual, but then they
had never been a vibrant colour. Brown eyes were utilitarian, in her
opinion. Nothing at all like Harry's startling, catch-your-breath green
or Ron's chameleon hazel, or Malfoy's scalpel silver.
Malfoy.
Gah! She couldn't even bring herself to even think it, although she
recalled articulating in fine detail what she wanted from him five or
six hours ago. Malfoy had obliged her, and then some. Muscles she
didn't even know she had were twitching deep inside of her, coming
back to life now that she was awake. There was a dull cramp in her
lower belly, not unlike the discomfort she sometimes got during
periods, but different, at the same time. It was a pity that she wasn't
fortunate enough to suffer from memory loss after a binge.
Hermione didn't drink very often, and had only got severely drunk
two or three times with the boys, and once over New Years with her
cousins. There were the dreaded hangovers, usually, and the
chucking up that invariably came after sharing a bottle of Tequila
Tapatio with a well meaning Ron and Harry.
The face in the mirror stared back at her with a forlorn expression.
Graduation, drinks and euphoria had culminated in the worst lapse of
judgment she had committed since turning herself into Millicent
Bulstrode's cat in their second year.
And yet there was regret . Over what, she wasn't certain.
She had thought about what she would miss the most about
Hogwarts. The more she watched her classmates, the more restless
she became. Suddenly, the thought of packing up her much loved
Head Girl's room and making a more permanent move back into her
old room at her parents' house over the summer seemed nothing
short of depressing.
Maybe it had been the sight of Harry, smiling for the first time in
weeks, as a pretty, blonde, Hufflepuff whispered in his ear. Or
Seamus Finnegan bravely risking Ron's wrath by snogging
enthusiastically with Ginny under the streamers. Parvati Patil gave
new meaning to the term 'alight with happiness' when she flitted
about the Hall, showing off her newly acquired engagement ring. No
matter that she and Justin Finch-Fletchly had broken up and gotten
back together four times that year.
And Hermione had stood amidst it all, dizzy with nostalgia and a
strange melancholy, surrounded by more than a hundred of her
classmates, and yet completely, inexplicably alone .
She made her way to the punch, and there she remained for the next
two hours. Morose and maudlin.
Three or four non-alcoholic drinks later, she noticed Draco Malfoy.
Her fellow prefect was lounging at the far end of the Great Hall, to
the left of the wide doors. He was watching the crowd with an
unreadable expression, arms folded across his chest, dressed in
finely-tailored formal robes in shade of tactile black that sucked the
candlelight in the room towards him.
She watched him for a long time. Everyone watched Draco Malfoy. It
was hard not to. He was a prefect, and he was Captain and Seeker
of Slytherin Quidditch. Academically, he was ranked among the top
five students in the school, tying with Padma Patil from Ravenclaw,
and sitting three and a half points below Hermione herself.
Over the years, Draco Malfoy hadn't changed much in the way of
personality, but he had grown up in other ways.
There was no logical reason why Hermione had chosen that night, of
all nights, to allow her mild physical interest in Malfoy to run
unchecked. She was only a girl, she supposed, a teenager with the
requisite barrage of hormones pulling her in this direction or that.
Usually, she kept a tight leash on her more impractical impulses. Her
feelings were unchanged about Malfoy, but she still found it
remarkable that a person could find another to be so attractive, and
yet so unpleasant.
To her amazement, she had found herself putting one foot in front of
the other, as she walked across the Great Hall towards him, holding
two glasses of punch and wondering where her unusual bravado
was coming from.
He dressed to the left, she noted, judging from the way the slight,
bulge resided on the left of his trouser delta. Her face was on fire as
she thought this, but that was ok because there was only candlelight
in the Great Hall and everyone else was too preoccupied to pay her
much heed.
On a whim, she tried to picture what that part of him would look like.
Pale, like the rest of him, except flushed with pink. She wondered
about the feel of him. The heat and the weight, the sensation of
running her thumb across a moist, blunt tip. She imagined him
closing his eyes, his mouth forming a silent 'ah'.
But no, surely Draco Malfoy was not so plebeian as to actually show
real emotion, even during sex. Even on a celebratory night such as
that. As a prefect and Head Girl, she was allowed unrestricted entry
to common rooms and other nooks and crannies around the castle
frequently visited by stealthy students. She had heard the whispers
and the smothered giggles.
Her mouth had gone dry as she approached him, wondering why her
common sense seemed to have deserted her. A melting, pulsing
sensation unfurled lower down her body, equal parts nervous arousal
and the realisation she was carrying out some sort of personal
challenge.
Their eyes met. He held her gaze for a brief moment; before his
stare dipped lower to inspect her person with routine insolence.
They spoke. Beginning with thinly veiled insults disguised as banter.
Seven years of practice had made them exceedingly good at this.
The talk progressed to prefectorial matters. He played with his wand
as he spoke, twirling it with his long fingers.
It wasn't until she asked him about his plans after school, did he
realise she wasn't just there to check up on duties with the only
prefect who wasn't completely blotto.
He had looked stunned for a few seconds and Hermione could fully
appreciate the absurdity of the situation. Her confidence waned with
each thundering heartbeat.
Malfoy stared at her, his grey eyes picking up details and analysing
them with great speed. He had frowned slightly, suspicion and
amusement settling over his fine features for a fleeting moment. But
then he smiled. Not a smirk, not a leer, not gloating, but a slow,
knowing smile to charm the fangs off a vampire.
He inhaled lowly, rising to his full height, which was nearly two heads
taller than her.
All that was needed, Hermione now thought, with wry amusement,
was the commentary:
Behind door number one, Miss Granger, are safe, semi-erotic
dreams in your own bed, your own sheets and a giggle with your
girlfriends in the morning over how you almost propositioned Draco
Malfoy! But behind door number two, if you would be as bold as to
open it, is a one-way ticket to hell and all the sulphur and brimstone
you can handle. Hot? Yes. Punishing? Most assuredly. But the devil
has eyes like an ancient glacier and the most beautiful hands you've
seen on a person. And even though you hate him and everything he
stands for, you want something this evening only he seems capable
of providing…
Malfoy, cursed mind reader that he was, had seemingly allowed her
these doubts. He waited quietly for her troubled expression to clear
before offering her his arm. He was largely the same arrogant son of
a Death Eater he had been since first year, and yet there was a
maturity about him that had completely bypassed other boys. Draco
was a man completely at ease in his skin.
She may have scored the highest NEWTS in over a century, but
Hermione Granger called herself all sorts of fool as she put her
memories on pause, and stepped under the scalding hot shower
spray in the Pepto Bismol - coloured hotel bathroom. She winced at
the intensified stinging of the numerous sore spots over her body.
Grabbing the soap and a face towel, she set about attempting to
wash away the remnants of the previous night.
There was a smile in his voice. "The stick I managed to knock loose
from your arse last night."
She had planned to break the Big Bad News to him in a civil manner,
but that idea was soon thrown out the window.
"You miserable, in-bred, wasteful excuse for a wizard," she told him,
gritting her teeth.
He tossed the sheet away and got to his feet. Hermione felt her
advantage all but whittle away. God, the boy was tall. It was hard to
maintain your equilibrium when you were in the same room as an
annoyed, snarky, tall, son of a former Death Eater.
"Get off your high horse Granger," Malfoy said wearily, as he located
his shoes and set them on the dresser. "In the real world, yes, even
the magical world, people have sex. That's how we make little
wizards and witches."
The hair on the right side of his head was sticking straight out, such
that it was nearly parallel to the ground. He must have slept on his
left, because the hair on that portion was pressed flat to his scalp. All
in all, he was as dishevelled as she had ever seen him, but for some
reason, that served to make him all the more intimidating. The
veneer of pure blood civility and manners was gone.
All that was left was Draco Malfoy and his horrible personality.
"Malfoy," she began, in a voice that was brittle with nerves, there's
something you should know."
Draco Malfoy was a fair boy, but he must have lost two shades of
colour in the space of a heartbeat.
She might have relayed the plan she had already formulated while in
the shower, had he not decided to suddenly turn into a psychotic.
Malfoy grabbed onto the front of her robes and hauled her to him
hard enough to cause her teeth to click together painfully. She swore
and kicked out at him, her toes dangling a centimetre off the carpet.
He didn't respond to her sarcasm, but he did set down on her feet.
The scowl on his face was so fierce Hermione imagined it might
have caused even Viktor Krum to throw up his hands in defeat and
swallow a happy pill.
Hermione nodded, rubbing the back of her neck where she was sure
a rather nasty towel burn was forming.
"They had a tattoo place on the second floor of the pub. You wanted
to look inside. We went in and I'm not quite sure how it happened,
but we ended up-"
Her gasp of outrage was probably heard three blocks away. She
took a step forward, fully intending to smack him in the face, or
failing that, injure any other part of him. Her hand reached within
three inches of his cheek before he caught her wrist.
"You got away with that when we were children, but slap me again,
Granger, and I'll break your fingers. Do you understand?" he
threatened.
Undaunted, she swung one small foot around, contacting hard with
his right shin. He grunted in pain and twisted her captured arm
behind her back. The strength that had made her knees delightfully
weak the night before was now sending her into a rising spiral of
panic.
With her arm still locked behind her, he pushed her face first onto the
bed, and tossed the hem of the bathrobe over her head. Her
indignant shrieks were muffled by the mattress. It wasn't until she felt
his warm fingers on her hip did she cease her struggles. He was
cursing rapidly in at least three languages.
There was a dragon tattooed into her hip. Not a western dragon, but
a sleek, serpentine Oriental done in bright, silver ink. Enchanted of
course, given that it sparkled like diamond dust on her skin. It was
not a small or insignificant marking either. The dragon's elegant,
tapered head began just below her right hipbone, its scaly body and
long tail wrapping around her upper thigh and disappearing into the
crease where her upper torso ended and her legs began.
The tattoo gave the impression that the creature was making a slow
slither up her body.
Of all the things they could have done while drunk and out on the
town, they had gone into a seedy back alley tavern cum tattoo
parlour, and endured the short marriage ceremony and much longer
inking of skin.
The blasted charm was going to take a bit of clever magic to undo.
Granted he was no expert on Incredibly Stupid Spells, but from what
he knew, marriage tattoos constituted blood magic and as such were
notoriously difficult to remove.
Not unlike the Dark Mark, Draco thought, with a sigh. Only two Death
Eaters had ever attempted to remove said Mark and currently, only
one was alive to tell the tale.
"Oh no, you don't," he chided softly, watching as her back arched to
reduce the pressure on her tendons. He realized he was probably
hurting her and loosened his grip.
Draco settled his thumb over the spot. It was a perfect fit. It didn't
surprise him that sex with Granger had been so volatile. There was
nothing calm and pleasant about their relationship, either in bed or
out of it. It wasn't until he brushed his knuckles against the curls
between her legs did she flinch and turn her head to glare at him.
Her white thighs were flushed, and as gently as he was touching her,
his fingers till left a faint, red trail.
"Are you quite finished?" The sentence could have chilled butterbeer
at fifteen paces.
Quite finished, Draco silently agreed, with resignation. And now back
to our scheduled matinee, entitled, 'I Woke Up Married To A
Mudblood and All I Got Was A Bloody Tattoo '.
Abruptly, he got off of her and went to retrieve his robes and
trousers. Granger sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving, until he
picked up his wand from the dresser and walked towards her.
Draco rolled his eyes. "I have yet to cast my first Killing Curse, and
you're flattering yourself if you think I'd use it on you," he said,
buttoning his fly.
Only she wasn't paying attention to him. Her eyes were now fixed on
the mirror behind him. She then transferred her stare to his face. He
might have described her expression as smug, which was very un-
Grangerlike of her.
Feeling the hairs on his arms stand on end, Draco twisted around to
have a look.
They wrapped around him, the tips of the long, intricately tattooed
feathers ended on either side of his ribcage. One wing was broken
and folded in slightly. It could have been quite the work of art, if it
didn't represent everything that was nausea inducing.
Despite the situation, the researcher in her found it odd that Malfoy
should have a set of wings, albeit broken ones, while she had been
marked with a dragon. To her growing annoyance, her knowledge on
magical tattoos was minimal. This was compounded by the fact that
the topic itself was overshadowed by Voldemort's Dark Mark and any
real interest in the area was often regarded with a healthy dose of
suspicion.
Through the mirror, she gave him a look that suggested he spoke the
extremely obvious.
"Of course, when it's all over, you don't have to Obliviate yourself if
you don't want to. I understand if you'd like to keep some of the
memories." He smirked at her.
"It would be just like you to be that delusional. It might be news to
you to know that I usually find you disgusting, Malfoy. Last night was
a mistake, and you bloody well know it." She might have spat at him
if she had been close enough. Regrettably, she had chosen to sit out
on the third year, projectile-spitting sessions conducted by Ron,
Harry and Dean Thomas, over the North Tower.
From the looks of things, namely the vein standing out on his right
temple, Malfoy didn't take kindly to backchat.
"You're a rotten liar, Granger," he said against her neck. "And I hate
liars." He pushed her ankles apart with his foot. Once her legs were
sufficiently parted, he shoved aside the edges of her untied bathrobe
and slid a hand down her belly. Hermione blinked fast and hard,
hoping to blur the image displayed in the mirror before her.
It was like watching a car crash, horrible to behold, not the least
because it was happening to her.
She wasn't exactly wet, most of it was dampness from her shower,
but it was the act that shut her up. She looked mortified. Someone
with more experience might have retorted with a couple of choice
comments about the bulge in his own robes, but Hermione remained
silent, her eyes mutinous and downcast.
A creeping suspicion hit Draco then, but he soon dismissed it.
Nobody who could give a blowjob the way Granger did could have
possibly been a novice. She was a quick learner, granted, but she
wasn't that quick. Idly, he wondered whom she'd practiced on before
him. Potter? Not likely. Vanquisher of wizarding villains he may have
been, but the boy was probably afraid of the shadow his erect cock
would cast. Krum? Perhaps. Weasley, more likely. Like knew like,
and Draco had often pondered that there was more to the freckled,
perpetually grinning moron that met the eye.
"Keep saying that and I'll show you exactly how repellent I can be,"
he promised, as he withdrew his fingers from her and made a show
of wiping them on her bathrobe.
It was probably killing her to be at a loss, both for words and for
logic. Those were her defences, Draco realised. In that respect,
perhaps they weren't so different after all. He used words too, only to
greater effect.
A quick glance at the wall clock revealed that it was close to noon.
They had wasted enough time. If they were going to find a discreet,
effective and most likely expensive solution to the tattoo charms,
they were going to need help.
The look that Draco gave her was dread squared to the power of
infinity. "To see my father."
Chapter 4
Chapter Four
More than a few sixth and seventh years had forgone breakfast in
favour of a few extra hours sleep. The ones who had managed to get
themselves showered, dressed and somewhat organised were
nursing sore heads and churning stomachs as they gathered for
breakfast in the Great Hall.
Ron Weasley had not gone to bed as yet, having consumed twice
the lethal adult dosage of black coffee. As such, he was bug-eyed
and chatty, chewing quickly on a piece of toast as he spoke.
Harry Potter was slumped over on the table, head pillowed on his
folded arms. His hair appeared to be making a token effort at being
tousled. It too appeared tired and withdrawn. At first glance, he
looked to be asleep, but for the occasional groan. He was in no
mood to rise to Ron's less than subtle teasing.
Ginny snatched the napkin from her brother and slapped it down in
front of Harry.
"Cheer up, Harry," Ron said, folding his bread in half. "I'm sure Alice
Crowley is an understanding sort of girl."
"I'm never drinking again," Harry said. He fingered the napkin with a
desolate expression. " Ever ."
"I doubt Alice would have noticed anyway, Ron assured. "Harry, pass
the eggs, please. No, no, the other one! I like my yokes runny."
Harry distractedly set the platter of fried eggs before his friend. "Oh.
She noticed, all right. I mean, I really intending to do anything, but
then she started getting very… familiar with me. God, the news has
probably spread all over Hufflepuff by now."
Ron opened his mouth, ready to deliver another bout of reassurance,
but was interrupted by the noisy arrival of Seamus Finnegan.
"Morning!" boomed Seamus, throwing open the Great Hall doors and
walking over to sit with his classmates. The seventh year Gryffindor
was sporting orange-tinted skin, indicating that he had just received
a dosage of Pomfrey's patented headache banisher. This of course
explained his good mood. For optimum results, the draught was
often administered with a mild cheering charm.
"It's lying dormant until I graduate," Ginny told him. "Start singing,
Finnegan, and Merlin help me, I won't be responsible for what I do to
you." She was fingering her butter knife with deadly intent.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "What shocking hypocrisy, Ron. I have six
brothers, it's not like I haven't seen a-"
Ron slapped a hand over his sister's mouth. " You're supposed to be
sweet and pure. Mum would have my head otherwise. Accordingly
you have most certainly not seen one of those," he said, very clearly,
as if proper enunciation would make it true. "Neither will you see, er,
one until you're at least thirty."
Ginny shoved her brother in the arm, whereupon Ron took to staring
at Neville again. Harry, meanwhile, had found his first smile of the
day. "Good to see I'm not the only one having troubles this morning."
"All hail Potter, the conquering hero!" called Dean Thomas, who had
just strolled into the Great Hall. Like Seamus, he too was glowing a
faint orange.
Neville groaned.
Ron was pushing warm madeleines into his mouth, two at a time.
"Sheaf at fer mums for the weekend. Letter came jhuff before you
arrived downstairs." A neatly folded letter was produced from under
Ron's plate and passed to Harry to read. "So much for protection
then," Ginny commented, watching with amusement as Tim
Gaggleby, a Hufflepuff Beater, narrowed his eyes at Neville and
slowly ground a meaty first into a large palm.
"Come on, you lot," Ron appealed. He pushed away his now empty
plate and then launched into a long, noisy yawn. "It'd be downright
indecent to mope about now. School's finished. Apart from
Voldemort and the odd bout of acne, life is sweet."
Life had a tendency of throwing you a sticky obstacle when you least
expected.
One year ago, she'd been happily consumed with the occasional plot
against Wizarding Evil, NEWTS, friends and the various
responsibilities that came with the appointment of Head Girl.
One day ago, she'd been reasonably happy, passably carefree, and
more importantly, single.
Curiosity might have killed the proverbial cat, but she'd be damned if
she was going to let it take her without a fight.
She sat across from Draco in the horseless carriage that would take
them on the fifteen minute journey from the tiny magical village of
Thimble Creek to Malfoy Manor. Their departure from the dingy
Muggle hotel in London had been a quiet, moody affair. The taciturn
silence had been welcomed at first. But now, it only served to amplify
the tension.
She wasn't particularly good at fibbing, although really, her time with
the boys ought to have made her a master in the concoction of
dubious truth. While Ron and Harry were adept at delivering
effectively gormless expressions, Hermione usually resorted to looks
of confusion, convoluted explanations and rapid topic changing,
whereupon the unfortunate inquisitor would often dismiss her out of
sheer frustration.
Harry and the others were probably flopped down by the lake about
now, beginning the lazy, post party recovery by soaking up the early
afternoon sunshine. They'd be playing Exploding Snap, chess or
possibly visiting with Hagrid. Ginny would be busy pretending to be
smitten by an extremely patient Seamus Finnegan, while avoiding
the troubled looks Harry would undoubtedly be sending her.
Of course, the tall, moody young wizard riding in the carriage with
her had a lot to do with her unease. She had studiously avoided
looking at Malfoy since they had climbed into the coach. But she was
facing the opposite direction to which they were travelling, and
looking out the window at the rapidly backward-moving countryside
was giving her motion sickness.
Their brief jaunt through Diagon Alley had been slightly amusing.
Hermione was glad that she had not yet sunk so far into panic that
she wasn't able to recognise the more comical details of their
situation. Malfoy had walked five steps ahead of her the entire time,
the hood of his travel cloak pulled down low over his pale face, lest a
passerby took note of the fact that a slightly dishevelled looking
Hogwarts Head Girl was walking beside him.
Twice, on the way to the post office, she had managed to lose sight
of him. And twice he had marched up to her, looking extremely
annoyed, roughly dragging her forward by her elbow, and then
stalking on ahead once again. Malfoy was treating her like a plague
victim at the height of contagion. It had been so tempting to pick up a
loose cobblestone at her feet and fling it and the back of his blond
head, that she shoved her knotted fist into her pocket to quash the
urge.
He had all but thrown her into the post office, shoved four sickles into
her hand and told her to "be quick about it". Hermione had given him
a look of what she had hoped was Extreme and Deadly Contempt,
flung the money at his rude person and then took her merry time
putting lies to paper.
She had emerged from the post office to find Malfoy already halfway
down the street, purposefully heading for the public Floo facility
located next to The Three Broomsticks. Gritting her teeth, she had
followed, like a surly lamb led by an unwilling shepherd. And from
there, they made their way to Thimble Creek, which situated south of
the Malfoy estate.
Hermione had always been fascinated by the rich history that
surrounded Europe's old wizarding manors. She chalked it down to
being born a Muggle, and the feeling of otherworldliness she got
every time she read about the really old families- the ones that could
trace their lines back at least a thousand years.
Take Thimble Creek, for example. For nearly four hundred years, the
occupants of the tiny, magical village had laboured for the Malfoy
wizarding lords, aiding in the upkeep of the massive estate- working
in the stables, attending to the gardens, grounds, orchards and
vineyards - an entire population in voluntary, paid servitude.
Alas, the once industrious little village had been nearly deserted
when she and Malfoy stepped out from the soot-choked fireplace of
the local watering hole. The few, elderly wizards present at the bar
had stared at them from over the rims of their steins. The looks
directed at Draco were far from friendly, and for one worrying
moment, Hermione expected a barrage of rotten fruit, or worse,
hexes.
But the villagers had kept to themselves, and she and Draco
boarded the coach to Malfoy Manor unmolested. If this unwelcome
treatment had affected him, he didn't show it.
So many things had changed in the past year. The Death Eater
Inquisitions had seen to that. The fortunes of the Malfoys had taken
a severe turn following Lucius's very public outing as a Death Eater.
With Cornelius Fudge forcefully removed from his post, it hadn't
been long before Arthur Weasley had stepped into the demanding
role of Minister of Magic. There hadn't been a nomination for the
position; rather, most other candidates of sound mind had valued
their longevity enough to steer clear of the post. Even before the
brass plaque bearing Arthur's name had been hammered into the
door of his office, he had already sanctioned numerous raids and
declared martial law for two whole months.
Under the new rules, and in exchange for 'sensitive and pertinent'
information that aided in the subsequent arrest of dozens of Death
Eaters and Voldemort sympathisers, Lucius Malfoy was made to
serve a sixteen-year house arrest term. No wand, no magic, no
friends and a rather nasty curse should he so much as stick his shiny
head out the window to check on the state of his withering begonias.
She had taken whatever she could Reduce and carry with her when
she left, but had chosen to leave her only child in the care of a man
many openly called a monster.
Hermione had almost felt sorry for Malfoy. Although he might have
garnered more sympathy if he hadn't taken to strutting around school
with his chin in the air and an ever-present smirk, silently daring any
one to bring up his family situation. Apart from the one tense
exchange with Harry at the end of their fifth year, he hadn't directly
mentioned Lucius to any of the Trio again.
Draco's suggestion to see his father had at first been met with
incredulity from Hermione. After all, it was slightly hard to forget that
this was the wizard who had plotted the demise of Muggleborn
children at Hogwarts, and the near lethal possession of Ginny.
This was the same man who had stood behind Voldemort and
watched as the Dark Lord attempted to murder a fourteen-year old
Harry, after already doing away with Cedric Diggory.
Here was the same wizard who had indirectly plotted her own
demise in the Brain Room at the Ministry.
She had scoffed at Draco, she had sputtered and then she had gone
silent, as common sense grudgingly caught up.
He had a point.
Neither was his father, for that matter. Lucius was a plotter and
opportunist, with little regard for morals. It was difficult to second-
guess people like that. Trustworthiness and Malfoys were not
comfortable bedfellows, and therein lay Hermione's unease.
With boys like Crabbe and Goyle, for example, a crude insult
delivered by Ron would usually result in a predictable open attack.
When the same was attempted with Draco, it often took weeks
before anyone would suspect that Ron's sudden, mysterious
outbreak of Giggle-Pox had anything to do with the brief, heated
exchange he had shared with Draco more than a month before.
He sat with his legs crossed, hands resting primly on his knees. On
any other boy, the pose might have looked effeminate, but on Draco,
he simply looked contained.
At some point over the course of the previous year, Draco Malfoy
had made the inevitable trek from boyhood to manhood. Oh, there
were still vestiges of his boy-self, if one cared to look for them. The
almost surly pouting of his lips, for example, or the delicate flush of
his cheeks when he physically exerted himself. His hair had not
darkened, as was the case with many other light-haired boys. It was
still a shade of blond so bright as to be nearly platinum. Hermione
suspected this had more to do with his breeding, rather than any late
physical development.
The silence inside the carriage was now nearly physically painful. If
she wriggled any more in her seat, Hermione thought she was liable
to develop calluses on her arse.
"How long since you've been home to visit?" she asked, the words
rushing out of her mouth before she had time to filter out any
unintended meaning.
She sighed. "I was wondering when I'd hear that word again."
"If you don't want to hear it, then don't give me cause to use it," he
told her. "While we're on the topic, I'll remind you to keep your mouth
shut around my father. I'll do the talking. Speak only when spoken to.
Try not to look him in the eye, if possible. I realise it might kill you to
do so, but don't ask anything. In fact, don't say anything. Try and be
respectful and we'll have little trouble."
Hermione snorted. Now this was insulting. "And here I thought the
Pope resided at the Vatican."
He finally looked at her. The breeze that had been blowing through
the open window caught the long fringe of his hair and carried it
across his forehead. He impatiently brushed it away. "What did you
say?" he asked her, his eyes narrowing.
Hermione startled slightly, feeling even more unsettled now that his
pale gaze was fixed on her. Nervous, and extremely thirsty, she
licked her lips. His eyes flickered momentarily to her mouth before
moving upwards to her eyes.
"Do you really have to make this any more unpleasant than it already
is?" she asked him quietly.
"Do you really think your father will know someone who can reverse
the spell?" She might as well have asked if castles were made of
stone, or if Quidditch was played on broomsticks. "No, Granger.
We're going to see my father to have a spot of tea and scones. He
so rarely gets to entertain these days what with being a prisoner in
his own home."
Hermione scowled. "I would just like to know how exactly you think
telling your father is a good idea!"
"Do you think it's a good idea traipsing around school reading about
how to remove illegal magical tattoos?" He gave her a narrow-eyed
look. "Though I suspect people like yourself have a certain level of
freedom the rest of us do not."
That much was true. Whatever could be said about Draco Malfoy,
ever since his father's deal with the Ministry, he had made it plain
knowledge that he wanted nothing to do with all things Voldemort-
related. Of course, many people speculated that this was the only
logical tactic by which to maintain his entitlement to anything Malfoy-
related.
The Ministry might have already helped itself to a hefty portion of the
family's money and holdings in the name of reparations, but there
was still a sizeable trust fund, several holiday residences and a
looming inheritance from his mother and grandfather. And then there
was Malfoy Manor itself…
But Malfoy was right, of course. They would have to do it quietly and
secretly. In any case, she doubted they would find a remedy at
Hogwarts. The counter-spell would most likely be something
homemade and illegal.
"I gather it's not to be a happy reunion for the two of you then? No
father-son picnics by the old duck pond*?"
She couldn't care less if Draco was having troubles at home. But the
subject of his father was an extremely raw one. Hermione felt she
owed him a snide comment or two.
It routinely amazed her how he could revert from cool and callous to
scary in the space of a heartbeat. Hermione quietly seethed. Nobody
spoke to her like that. Not even the other Slytherins dared to openly
insult the Head Girl. But then, they were not at Hogwarts, and she
was not within shouting distance of her friends. And despite how
atrociously Malfoy was treating her, Hermione couldn't help but
suspect that his black mood was due to the fact that he had more to
fear from his father than she did.
The carriage lumbered on, until the slate coloured stone of Malfoy
Manor finally appeared over an outcropping of trees. Hermione
released the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding in,
although forcing her hands to let go of the edge of the carriage seat
proved to be more of a challenge.
She had seen pictures of the house, of course. Everyone had. When
the Death Eater inquisitions had begun, the papers had gleefully run
a three-page spread on each of the alleged Death Eater residences
every week.
Malfoy Manor had been particularly interesting, given that it was the
second-oldest wizarding Hall in Britain. The mansion had also
housed the most comprehensive collection of Dark Arts artifacts in
Europe. All of which had been taken and catalogued. The more
suspect items had been destroyed, while the worst items were
stored in a Ministry vault due to the fact that nobody was certain
about how to go about obliterating them. Hogwart's senior Defence
Against the Dark Arts classes now involved an excursion to said
vault, where students were taken on a tour of the confiscated Dark
Magic items from various wizarding homes. It was a useful exercise,
in that it showed them exactly the sort of twisted minds they were up
against.
Seeing the Manor close up, Hermione noted that Lucius's house
arrest had taken a dramatic toll. Without the use of magic in the
upkeep of such a massive estate, the elements had run rampant.
Creeping vines that had once been decorative were now in danger of
suffocating the outer walls in a thick, green, smother of ivy. Dead,
rotting leaves littered the front grounds. The previously luxuriously
thick lawns were yellow and dead in places, and had grown tall
enough to cover a small child.
The Manor was moody, gothic and ominous, but Hermione thought it
beautiful. It reminded her of the old plantation estates in New
Orleans, the kind she had seen on her last summer holiday with her
parents. Draco's ancestral home was about twenty years away from
qualifying as truly decrepit, but even then, Hermione was certain it
would still have its allure. It wasn't hard to picture Lucius, Narcissa or
Draco living there. Surely no wizard or witch too plain or unassuming
could dwell in such a place.
Silver eyes met brown, and a brief look of silent, mutual fate was
shared. She suddenly has nothing to say.
Send him Bobotuber pus-spitting Howlers. Lower him into a pit with
rabid, blast-ended Skrewts. Set him against a Romanian Ridgeback
with a cranky disposition and penchant for barbequed Purebloods.
Hell, make him Neville Longbottom's personal slave for two God-
awful weeks.
Yes, Draco silently agreed with his Inner Goader, much too late.
Particularly since he and Granger were currently waiting in a moody
silence, on the front doorstep of Malfoy Manor.
Draco rocked on the balls of his feet, his clammy hands shoved in
his pockets. For a brief moment, he had entertained the fantasy of
chiming the doorbell, leaving Granger standing on the doorstep, and
making a mad dash for the carriage that was lumbering back
towards the main gates of the property.
As if reading his mind, he felt Granger slowly turn her curly head to
stare at him beadily, before inching almost imperceptively closer.
If she was scared, she was doing a bloody good job of hiding it.
Apart from the telltale wringing of her hands, which he knew she
tended to do when nervous anyway, she looked outwardly calm.
At one point he had been sorely tempted to gag her with her own
peach coloured satin and lace underwear. He had unearthed the
underwear from beneath a pillow in the hotel room and had
neglected to mention the fact, preferring to watch as she spent an
amusing thirty minutes ransacking the hotel room. He might have
handed the panties over if she had only admitted that they were
missing.
Once they arrived at the post office, he had felt charitable enough to
extend the hand of Companiable Silence by giving Granger a few
sickles to pay for the delivery of her letters. The ungrateful, puffy-
haired know-it-all had responded to his kindness by giving him a look
that ought to have curled the hair on his head. With a disdainful sniff,
she had tossed the money in his face and stormed inside the post
office, narrowly missing his smile of amusement.
The girl had the balls of a Gryffindor, he'd give her that. He had
watched her from outside the post office, lest she try something
monumentally stupid, like erupting into a crying fit in front of the
laidback, weekend crowd. For him, she had scowls, frowns and
death stares. For the jolly, portly, balding Postmaster who served her
behind the counter, Granger was all smiles and polite banter.
At least she was possessed of a range of emotions, Draco decided.
As opposed to Ron Weasley, for example, who took 'good nature' to
new and annoying levels.
Draco watched as she bit on the tip of her pink tongue for a moment,
pondering on what to write. It was muggy inside the building, and
Granger had pulled the hood of her cloak from her head. The
lightweight cotton caught and dislodged the jewelled barrettes from
her hair, causing it to tumble past her shoulders. She absently
gathered the curly mass over one shoulder as she wrote, wrapping a
curl around a nail-bitten finger.
For a girl who didn't seem to give two Knuts about what she wore,
Draco conceded that Granger was surprisingly feminine. It was easy
not to notice her light-footed gait or the subtle sway of her meagre
hips when she was consistently rushing about the castle, obscured
behind an armload of books or behind her standard-issue Head Girl
clipboard.
Really, she ought to have worn better clothes. The rags she took to
wearing while off-duty were no better than sack-cloth with armholes
cut into them- rough, drab, shapeless and uninspiring. Draco knew
about clothes. Along with a secret penchant for herbal shampoos
(his indulgence of the month was 'rosemary and hawafena'), it was a
trait he had inherited from his mother. Idly, he eyes assessed and
then dressed Granger in rich, russet coloured velvet robes. Low-cut,
to show off the smooth skin between her small breasts.
Or perhaps it was a case of the less clothing she wore, the more
distracted he got.
Granger didn't need a crystal ball to see into her future. All she had
to do was to observe her Head of House. Minerva McGonagall was
an exceptional teacher and a formidable Deputy Headmistress, but
she also possessed the sexual allure of a Flobberworm. This was
most unfortunate, seeing that witches generally lived longer than
wizards and reached their sexual prime comparatively later in life.
Or perhaps she had noticed what she was missing out on. That
might have explained her sudden interest in his 'services' on the
evening of their Graduation Ball.
Intriguing thought, that. Perhaps the golden girl of Gryffindor girl was
corruptible after all. Perhaps, with a bit of a nudge, he would be able
to-
Presently, there was a soft, scrambling at the latch on the other side
of the carved oak doors, which swung open to reveal a gnarled, old
house elf, dressed in a pink patchwork tea cosy.
"Good to see you again, Toolip," Draco said, not unkindly. He patted
the creature on her kelp-coloured head, as his eyes quickly scanned
the empty foyer.
It was cool, dark and dusty inside the manor, exactly the way Draco
remembered it. Sunlight made a valiant effort at pushing through the
grime-covered windows. A few muted beams of light fell onto the
black marble floor, minute spotlights showcasing the movement of
dust through the air. There was no furniture, but there were plenty of
empty, wooden crates lined alongside the curving staircase.
"And Master Draco is bringing a young Miss!" Toolip the house elf
turned to greet Granger, who seemed to be wholly occupied gawking
at the cavernous foyer. The elf dropped into a perfect, low curtsy,
arthritic old joints seemingly forgotten. "Welcome to Manor Malfoy,
Miss."
Draco rolled his eyes. The sooner she closed her gaping mouth and
shoved her eyeballs back into their sockets, the sooner they could
confer with Lucius.
"The house won't bite," said Draco, removing his cloak and handing
it to Toolip.
At this, she gave him a startled look, but managed to step past the
threshold and into the cool marble of the foyer.
"Where is my father?" Draco asked Toolip. The house elf was
currently staring at Draco's wrinkled robes with intense disapproval.
With Toolip leading the way, Draco walked ahead, and noted that for
once that Hermione seemed to have no objections at trailing behind.
There was an innate elegance to the elder Malfoy that Draco knew
he hadn't quite acquired as yet. Lucius was a lot like Snape, in that
respect. Whatever could be said about their Potions Professor, the
man moved like ink in water.
Lucius was similar, only more vital and more potent. And there was
also the fact that while Snape's motives were sometimes ambiguous,
the world now knew Lucius Malfoy to be scum of the worst sort.
Despite the fact that a wizard with a confiscated wand was about as
well regarded as a Knockturn Alley prostitute, Lucius was still not a
man to be trifled with.
Enter one Hermione Granger, whose marrying into the Malfoy name
likely qualified as trifling of the highest order, particularly if she ever
considered holding out on an annulment in exchange for a hefty
financial incentive. Though Draco thought he knew her well enough
to rule that possibility out.
For the past three years, it was Draco who set aside the Galleons
required for food and other necessities at Malfoy Manor. Lucius
might have been penniless, but his son was far from it. Draco
received a generous monthly stipend taken from the massive
inheritance his grandfather, Julius, had left him. In addition, his
mother sent him the odd lump sum payment in lieu of her carrying
out any actual mothering.
Money was thus never a problem. However, with the ban on magic
placed over the estate, and the eventual (and understandable)
desertion of staff who were unwilling to endure labouring without
their wands, there had been only so much Draco could do to
maintain his home.
Even with the aid of an extremely loyal and extremely elderly house
elf, manually working three hundred hectares of land was
impossible.
Draco didn't think his father blamed him for their situation.
Resentment, however, was something else. Lucius was not a
senseless madman, but desperation, disconsolation and very
expensive brandy had brought out the worst in him over the past
three years.
There had been a small sliver of worry that Lucius would use the
news of the marriage as an excuse to finally snap. If he did, he
wouldn't have been the only exiled wizard to take that route. Just the
month before, Cadmus Avery had gone on something of a homicidal
rampage through his own estate, decapitating three house elves with
an antique samurai sword before being blasted to oblivion by the
Aurors that had swooped down on old Avery's home.
Likewise, there were alarms over Malfoy Manor; charms and wards
laid into the very foundations of the stone and brick. The smallest
hint of dark magic would send Aurors Apparating in droves. Fat lot of
good that would do if his father decided to pick up the heavy, onyx
paperweight he kept on his desk and bludgeon Granger to death
with it. But that was highly improbable. Grisly murder was not his
father's style. Likely, the thought of soiling his prized Aubusson
carpet with Granger's blood would turn Lucius off to that idea.
Draco stood on said carpet now, having just informed his father that
he had recently gotten himself tattooed and married to the Muggle-
born, Gryffindor witch standing beside him. If all hell was going to
break loose, likely it was going to happen within the next few
minutes.
The older wizard stood in the middle of his study, still attired in a
blood red, raw silk dressing gown, despite it being three in the
afternoon. There was an empty, crystal decanter and a tumbler half
filled with cognac sitting on his desk. His hair hung long and
unbound, and a vein was steadily throbbing at his left temple. Not a
good start to things, Draco surmised, but there was little to be done
about that now.
Draco began with their escape from the graduation party, to their trip
to the Serpent and Stone, skimmed over the events of the tattoo
parlour and ensuing marriage ceremony, to their waking at the
seedy, Muggle hotel in London.
Not surprisingly, his father didn't once glance at her, not from the
moment Toolip had led them into the study, to when Draco eventually
came to the description of their tattoos. She might have been
invisible, for all the attention Lucius was paying her.
The only noise came from the dead leaves that were dragged across
the courtyard outside by the wind, and from Toolip's worried
muttering. Lucius remained unspeaking. With a slowness that was
maddeningly at odds with the visceral tension in the room, he slowly
smoothed back a strand of his long, silver hair, and took a sip of his
brandy.
Draco was already walking to the bookcase that lined the walls
opposite the fireplace. "Oh, there's a counter spell, you can be sure,"
he said. "In fact I'm certain there's a volume here on old-"
Lucius moved like lightning on ice. Hermione didn't even have the
time to cry out in surprise when Draco was violently wrenched
backwards by his father, and thrown with such force that he hurtled
into a small sandwich table laden with fine china and an untouched
lunch.
Toolip cried out and covered her face in her hands, her muttering
increasing in pitch and speed. Out of instinct, Hermione had reached
out in an ineffectual attempt to catch Draco, or at the very least,
divert his fall. But she was not quick enough, and he careened into
the finely wrought table, causing fine porcelein to smash and
silverware to skitter across the floor.
"Don't." Draco hissed, flinching away from her. At a loss for words,
Hermione let her hands fall loosely to her sides before turning to give
Lucius a look of loathing.
The animosity in the room was almost tangible. Hate hung in the air
like stale wood smoke.
Lucius put an end to it all. "Toolip, you will escort my son to his
chambers. I wish to speak with Miss Granger alone."
Draco spun on his heel to scowl at her. Hermione had gone so pale
that the few freckles over her nose stood out in marked contrast. He
then gave Lucius a look that she couldn't even begin to decipher,
before walking briskly from study with Toolip, and slamming the
doors shut behind him.
Lucius was seated at his desk, writing briskly on thick cream
parchment that probably cost more than anything Hermione had ever
used.
He paused in his writing to look at her, taking note of her fierce glare
and shaking hands.
That did not excuse what he did, but she hoped to God he was a
better father when he wasn't pissed.
It was uncanny how much he looked like Draco. But he was prettier
than Draco, if indeed such a thing was possible. Lucius was like a
Goya painting, Hermione decided, oftentimes disturbing in content,
but exquisite in its rendering. It was a sharp, jarring kind of beauty.
Draco's features, meanwhile, were decidedly more masculine.
Well. She had certainly pulled that out of her arse. If Ron were
present, he'd have hooted and slapped his thigh. It was galling to
think that Lucius assumed her to be a loose-knickered gold digger.
That wasn't very bright of him. Hermione was disappointed. She had
expected more. "I don't want your money. I want out of this marriage.
The sooner you provide us with assistance, the sooner I can leave."
Lucius was silent for a moment, studying her. He drummed his long
fingers on his desk. "Very well. I will provide the name of a useful
contact. He will locate an expert, in a manner of speaking, a person
who should be able to undo Fida Mia. Given that I am unable to
leave these premises, it will be left to you and my son to see to it that
his marriage is annulled post haste."
After being dismissed by Lucius, Hermione exited the room and shut
the doors firmly behind her, leaning heavily against the smooth
mahogany. She had barely managed to get her heart beating at a
somewhat normal rate when Draco took hold of her arm and
dragged her further along the corridor.
He had had an extremely quick shower and change, from the look of
him. His hair was dripping onto the collar of his white, long sleeved
cotton shirt. He was wearing jeans and a very troubled expression.
In the absence of the familiar comforts, she settled for the next best
thing, irking an already irked Draco Malfoy.
Oh, she was definitely spending too much time with him. His sharp
tongue was starting to rub off on her.
Hermione blinked in pain as the back of her head came into contact
with a gilt-edged picture frame. At the same time, a curious tingling
sensation assailed the skin of her hip and upper thigh, travelling
down her leg and running into the nerves at the soles of her feet.
Either her leg was about to go numb, or the silver dragon at her hip
had suddenly decided to come alive.
The latter was much too scary to think about without a library at her
disposal.
"Can't you have a conversation without putting me into some kind of
wrestling lock?" she spat out at him, digging her fingernails into his
forearm.
Draco took hold of her chin to force her eyes up to meet his. This
was the closest he had gotten to her since their tussle at the hotel
room that morning. Quite suddenly, Hermione found herself looking
directly into eyes that were as clear as a mountain spring, for all that
they were spitting venom at her.
"Listen, you stupid slag," he began, obviously not liking her flippant
attitude, "in two weeks, I receive enough of my inheritance from my
grandfather to never have to come back to this place. I'll admit that
you're not entirely to blame for this disaster but if you get in the way
of what I'm due, you'll be sorry."
Now this was news. Hermione stared at him, her mind turning over
and picking at this new information. "My God, you really do hate
Lucius as much as anyone else."
"I hate you," she said, and was startled to realise that she meant it at
that time. Draco cocked his head to the side and gave her a long,
measuring look. "No," he decided, shaking his head in a
contemplative manner. "Not really." And then he smiled, a slow
Cheshire cat grin that was all even, white teeth and dubious
agendas.
It was the smile he had given her when she had accepted his
invitation to leave the graduation party. As such, Hermione was
instantly suspicious.
It was like being caught in an icy breeze, brisk and startling, but not
altogether unpleasant. Especially if one was partial to cold weather.
But then an odd thing happened. His gaze began to gradually thaw,
until it nearly matched the great heat of his body that was seeping
through the thin material of his shirt. The warmth in his eyes was
something very new, something Hermione hadn't experienced from
him before.
It was summer, and it was hot, granted, but all of a sudden the heat
between their bodies became nearly overwhelming. The top half of
his shirt was wet from his hair, and was fairly plastered to his body.
The material was rendered nearly transparent, revealing the curve of
his collarbones, and the lightly muscled, contours of his chest.
"You're an evil bastard," she told him, with a defiant jut of her chin.
Hermione was left her slumped against the wall of the corridor, which
was where she remained until Draco knocked on the door of his
father's study and disappeared inside.
"Is there anything else you is needing, Miss?" Toolip inquired, jarring
Hermione from her morose thoughts.
She shook her head, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. It was
then that she saw the pewter mug of steaming potion that was
resting on the side table.
Toolip was busy removing two enormous frilled pillows from a large
sandalwood trunk at the foot of the bed.
"You must be drinking that before you is having dinner this evening,"
the elf instructed.
Hermione frowned, peering over the mug and sniffing at the steam
suspiciously. Lucius would have to think her an imbecile to accept
any potion brewed in his home. "The after?" she asked Toolip. "I
don't understand."
The old elf walked over to pat her on the arm. "Best to be taking it
today. If you miss a day, the one you is taking tomorrow is tasting
worse." Toolip wrinkled her crooked nose.
Floo ash, lotus root, mallowbark and senna flower, with honey for
taste. Otherwise known as the standard, 'old school', Contraception
Potion that all fifth years learned how to make. Most wizards and
witches used spells these days, but Hermione was next to certain
that neither she nor Draco had remembered to cast Contraceptus.
She groaned. What the hell was wrong with her? To not even
consider contraception? Gods, she was never, ever drinking again.
Alcohol was evil. It warped the mind and obliterated morals. Given
how far she was into her monthly cycle, it would have been highly
unlikely for her to conceive by Draco, but the potion was added
peace of mind. Especially for Lucius. And judging by the horrid
scene in the study earlier, Lucius's piece of mind was also Draco's
safety.
"Have you been working here long, then?" she asked, feeling slightly
uncomfortable as the elf continued to fuss over her in a motherly
fashion. No doubt Lucius had also given instructions to make certain
that Hermione drank every last foul tasting drop.
"Oh yes," Toolip nodded. "I is working here long before I is being
Master Draco's nanny."
Hermione choked on her second sip. "His nanny? I mean, you're still
his nanny?"
After three hours however, she finally gave in to the lure of the plush,
silk duvet, pushing aside the nagging voice in the back of her head
that berated her for accepting any comforts offered by Lucius Malfoy.
Sleep might have allowed her a brief reprieve from the stresses of
real life, but Hermione was still painfully aware that the next two
weeks were going to be very long indeed.
There were probably only a few people on the planet truly deserving
of that kind of sleep, and he was quite certain he was not one of
them. Despite the futility of it, Snape had retired early to his bed that
evening, ignoring the teetering stack of chicken scratchings his
students attempted to pass off as homework.
Age was catching up with him and lately he found that he could no
longer slash away with his quill into the early hours of the morning,
without the inevitable fatigue setting in.
The cold of the dungeons seeped into his bones more easily these
days. And the dungeons were cold, no mistake. It was as if all the
good humour, warm thoughts, sweet, fluffy good-naturedness in the
castle was like hot air, rising to coddle and smother the inhabitants of
the upper levels in a calming slumber. He'd give an arm and a leg to
sleep like a first-year Hufflepuff.
The soft swoosh from the fireplace beyond his bedchamber caused
Snape to sit up in bed. With a furrowed brow, he pushed aside the
thick bedcovers and reached for his wand from his bedside table to
cast Lumos. It was past midnight, but from the sounds of it, he was
about to receive a Floo transmission.
By the time Snape ventured out into his study, the late night caller
was waiting, suspended in the cool green flames of the fireplace.
"You don't usually turn in this early," said Lucius, by way of greeting.
Snape's lips thinned as the bitter tang of dread coated his tongue.
So. It was going to be one those nights.
"Ah," Lucius smiled, his head turning to the side, ostensibly to look
out a nearby window. "I wasn't aware that the prodigal werewolf had
returned. Is it a full moon tonight?" Lucius asked, in a conversational
manner. "I hadn't noticed."
Snape busied himself in the small portion of his kitchen that hadn't
been completely taken over by his ever-expanding laboratory. He
liked his coffee strong enough to burn a whole through the stone and
he preferred to brew it sans magic.
"No. I don't suppose it should," Snape sighed. "Idle banter was never
one of your strong points, Lucius. I'm assuming you interrupted my
rest for something important. Your Floo allowance for the week
extends to an hour, I suggest you be quick about it and tell me what
it is you want."
There had been a time when such a scathing remark would have
earned Snape a sneer from Lucius that might have withered the
petals off a daisy. But those days were past. Past but not forgotten,
apparently, judging from the ill concealed hatred sparking in Lucius'
eyes.
Snape might have found Lucius's fate amusing, deserved even, but
their histories were too closely entwined for him to assume a position
of moral superiority.
"I see," Snape intoned, his voice deceivingly languorous. "I'm afraid
you're going to have to be more specific."
Lucius responded by raising his hand and touched one long finger to
his ear. The message was clear. This was a conversation meant for
Snape's ears only. The request ought to have been impossible to
grant, considering that Lucius's Floo communications were
monitored. Regardless, there were ways to guarantee privacy. It
would require a report to Dumbledore in the morning, but that was
one of the perks of being a double agent- the professional liberties.
Snape brought his wand forth and cast the required incantation.
Lucius actually sounded wistful, which was also not something one
witnessed very regularly. Snape knew Lucius well enough to know
what the ever-so-slight slur in his voice meant. Definitely an evening
for the Pensieve, Snape mused. He pinched his brow.
"I'd appreciate it if you said what you have to say and be done with it.
I'm not in the habit of conversing with convicted, inebriated Death
Eaters at ungodly hours of the day. Not good for the reputation, you
realise."
"Then what has my cursed godson got himself into that he requires
Borgin's questionable assistance?"
Snape sucked in a long breath. How little Lucius knew about the
person that Draco had become, and at the same time, how
desperately he loved the boy. There was only one plausible reason
as to why Draco had risked the formidable wrath of his father,
instead of simply coming to see his Head of House.
If Draco had set out to garner his father's complete and unwavering
attention with this recent folly, he had certainly succeeded.
"Lucius, this is more than a mere case of bad judgment. Fida Mia is
irreversible! And you are willing to send them to the likes of
Emmanuel Borgin to counter it?"
"Au contraire dear Sev." Lucius folded his arms, a pointed look on
his elegant face. "There are ways, and then there are ways ."
Snape's eyebrows snapped together. "Dark Magic?" He snorted. "I
doubt Granger would consent to it."
Lucius remained confident. "I have spoken to the girl. She'll do what
she must to correct this monumental blunder, and for a price, Borgin
will assist them."
"Draco does not dislike the girl," said Snape, ignoring Lucius' overly
dramatic, choked expression. "If they are to attempt a spell reversal,
it's best they do it before he accustoms himself to this fact."
Snape paused in the act of reaching for his coffee cup. "Should he
have been?"
"I suppose it's not for lack of trying," Lucius shrugged, sounding as if
they were discussing such mundane topics as the weather, rather
than previous attempts at murdering bothersome children.
"As you can see, dear Severus, I may not lack the motive, but the
means are another matter. What is this other concern you have?"
"He will not join, nor will he experience any real temptation to do so,"
Snape confirmed, momentarily pleased with Lucius' take on the
matter. "But the recruitment will complicate current matters. Your son
is a prized commodity. Certain… factions might not be terribly
impressed with the boy's stupefying ambivalence to the Dark Lord's
cause. There may be repercussions, particularly if his marriage to
Granger comes to light."
"Ah. Now I believe it is your turn to say what you mean to say."
Snape was only too happy to oblige. "When are you going to tell him
about his mother?" he asked softly.
"Merlin's teeth, Lucius!" Snape countered. "His mother did not simply
expire from the shame of banishment. The woman consumed
enough opium to kill a Centaur. She's been dead for months. You
must tell him!"
Lucius's reply was whisper soft. "He does not need to know as yet."
Snape didn't see the need to soften his words. "No," he admitted.
"He would not miss you. And Lucius, you'd be wise to thank
whichever deity it is you occasionally blaspheme, that your son is so
much more than you are. And so much less, at the same time."
Lucius looked away, and to Snape's amazement, swayed slightly. He
looked completely spent. "He should have been ours' Sev. Yours and
mine…"
"Yes," Lucius agreed, his gaze thawing slightly. "You always were a
great, blundering oaf."
It was an old, familiar insult between them, one not used for many
years. The jibe was made all the more ludicrous given that adult
Snape was twice as fluid and as precise as when he had been
Draco's age.
Snape looked into Lucius' deadened gaze, beyond the haze of drink,
and found that he was still able to see remnants of the young man
he had followed without sense or reservation more than twenty years
ago. It was sometimes unnerving to watch Draco sitting in his class,
as the boy listened with rapt attention over a demonstration, or
stared into space, Lucius' trademark sneer stamped across Draco's
younger features.
So much like his sire, Snape thought. It was a worrying thought. But
thankfully for Draco, the ambition that had driven Lucius nearly to the
brink of obliteration had been diluted by Narcissa's complete lack of
personality.
Draco was decidedly cunning, and at times, malicious. But the boy
would never allow himself to be wielded as someone else's blade.
Like his mother, he was much too self-serving for that.
Not that Snape was a stranger to the allure of blind faith, to follow
without question, logic or sense. At seventeen, he had suffered
through the Dark Lord's initiation, buoyed by the supportive presence
of his mentor, an extremely enigmatic Lucius. A few years later, he
had stood amidst the crowd at Lucius's wedding, watched as Lucius
had kissed Narcissa Black's cold, red lips. Had watched as those
grey eyes had searched him out from the throng and bestowed upon
him a brief, achingly private smile.
Lucius' smile was slightly scary. "Ah Severus, I wouldn't do that. Not
again."
Snape didn't need to locate his pocket watch to know that the Floo
communication was up. The green flames were now more smoke
than fire.
Snape understood this and was suddenly quite glad that he was not
himself a father. Draco gave a whole new meaning to the term
'stubbornly tight-lipped'.
"My loyalties are to my godson first and foremost, but you will be
kept informed."
"Yes?"
"Call it a morbid curiosity on my part, but if you would answer a
question?"
"What would you do if you had your freedom again?" Snape asked.
"Take my son, willing or not, and run," said the former Death Eater.
"I would," Lucius said, his voice now sounding like an echo. "In a
heartbeat."
All that was left to mark the conversation was the sooty, coppery
scent of the fire, and the fact that Snape was wide awake, alert and
more shaken than he would care to admit.
He walked over to his desk and sat down. It was a fine desk, a claw-
footed, rosewood and mother of pearl creation that had been in his
family for three generations. It was the one of the few things in his
life that he felt a sentimental attachment to.
The outside observer would have noted that the desk had four
sizeable, brass handled drawers, two located at either end. But as
Snape tapped his wand at the centre of the desk and murmured a
brief incantation, a fifth, much smaller drawer appeared.
It had taken their combined efforts to locate the Fida Mia journal from
the shelves. According to Pince, Tallowstub's account was the only
book on the subject to be published in the last three hundred years,
and to Hermione's frustration, it read more like a collection of
anecdotes and informal observations rather than being a rigorous
piece of research.
Judging from the thick layer of dust covering the small, purple-
leather bound book, it was obvious that previous students had
perhaps not found the subject to be as stirring as other more
macabre, historical spells.
In fact, the Hogwarts Librarian could perhaps be said to hold the key
to the evidence of the trio's prolific body of work over the years. If the
often-thwarted Snape were to ever seek incriminating evidence as to
the friends' dubious extra-curricular activities, he only needed to look
at Hermione's borrowing records.
The spot was her corner of the library and a haven for the
perpetually conspiring. It was hard to speculate about the number of
times she had sat at the table with Ron, Harry or Ginny, whispering
at each other over a great stack of books…
Turning her attention back to her task, Hermione shook off her post-
graduation nostalgia like water from a wet coat, and continued
reading.
The spell was hardly a benign thing. Like Chinese Whispers, Fida
Mia had been distorted and misshapen over time, molded and recast
again and again by those who found new use for it. This was a fate
common to spells, as Professor Binns would often tell them.
- Two parties may undertake Fida Mia, i.e. two 'initiates'. Typically,
one is dominant (liege), the other submissive (servant).
- 1800. Fida Mia, the marriage spell was developed by the Hendricks
family (numbering some thirty six members) and marketed as a
fashionable marriage alternative to 'staid' wizarding marriage vows.
And less than a hundred years later, the spell was declared illegal in
Britain, but was still practiced in parts of Eastern Europe.
-…. erotic euphoric bliss during and immediately after the process of
marking. This state may last anywhere from hours to weeks.
From what she had gathered so far, the magic had been woven into
and around her and Draco from the very first movement of the
tattooist's needle. Regardless of whether it had started out as an ill
conceived thrill seeking idea or whether they had knowingly meant to
undertake Fida Mia, the spell was binding and inescapable once
commenced.
Draco's tattoo, by far, had been the more intricate of the pair. Twice
over the past three days, Hermione had attempted to sketch it. And
each time, she had chucked her drawing pad aside in frustration.
It wasn't her artistic skills letting her down. Rather, it was the fact that
on paper, Draco's wings simply did not look convincing. No amount
of careful shading or contouring with her little stick of charcoal
helped. On paper, the inky, black wings were flat, lifeless and
seemed completely, well… wrong.
She recalled how Draco had lain down on his stomach on the
tattooist's table, wearing only his finely tailored, dress pants. Pants
that were so dark, they had sucked what little light lantern light there
had been in the small room and stood out in startling contrast
against his pale skin.
He had been nursing a bottle of Ogden's when they walked into the
makeshift tattoo parlour, and had magnanimously handed the bottle
over to Hermione, with the precise instructions for her to consume at
least a third of its contents by the time she was to have her turn
under the needle.
"For the pain," he had explained pointedly, with a disturbing amount
of anticipation.
Despite the fact that he was well and truly sotted by this point, his
tongue had been as sharp as usual. He had pulled a face at the less
than sanitary state of the studio, questioned the sterilization process
used on the equipment and then made a few choice predictions
about the likelihood of him receiving splinters from the rough,
wooden table he had to lie on.
As it turned out, she did not speak a word of English. Neither did she
speak French, German, Latin, Italian, Spanish, Gobbledegook or
anything else they threw at her. The pleasant sound of clinking
Galleons, however, seemed to overcome any communication
barriers.
With her frightening dentition still on display, the crone had directed
Hermione to a battered old couch in the corner of the room and
proceeded to work on Draco with obvious glee. No doubt that the
sight of such fine, well-paying, pureblood flesh, spread out on her
decrepit workbench was a rare treat.
But Hermione found the sight of the beads of dark red liquid welling
up on his skin to be strangely stirring. She held her breath as she
watched, not wanting to interrupt or unwittingly contaminate what felt
like a very special ritual.
"Where'zer whiskey?" Draco had asked in a hoarse whisper. He
seemed to know she was there without needing to open his eyes.
"Drank it all," she lied, thinking she was being extremely funny.
Draco seemed to think so too. He opened his eyes, gave her a
dazzling, if slightly goofy smile, before reaching up to bury his fingers
in her long hair and tug her head down for a wet, sideways kiss.
To simply look at him, let alone to know him, Hermione would never
have guessed him capable of such a kiss. It was his antithesis.
Warm, welcoming, genuine and extremely gentle.
It had been the kind of kiss to make a girl's knees weak for hours
after and cause her logic and intellect to apparently go into voluntary
remission.
The squalor of the tattoo studio had melted away and the stick of
rolled incense that burnt lazily in the corner imbued the room in a
heady, intoxicating haze. There had been more than just drunken
lust and teenage stupidity permeating the thick air in the room.
"Sweet," he had whispered to her, his thumb riding over her cheek.
His glib tongue had been on hiatus during the tattooing, lulled into
submission by the sheer force of the experience. And indeed it had
been sweet. So sweet and so powerful that they had taken off for the
first motel they found and proceeded to do the only thing that felt
natural at the time- consummate the union.
Draco had not been himself while the old woman has painstakingly
needled his skin, and neither had Hermione. It was exactly as
Tallowstub described in his book- a period of mind altering euphoria
that had reduced their considerable brainpower into that of a pair of
horny rabbits.
They had been lost in the moment, lured and lulled by the old spell.
The trouble was that moments did not exist on their own. Each was
inextricably, inescapably linked to the next.
And so here she was, days later, attempting to unravel the damage.
With a sigh of self-disgust, Hermione flicked quickly to the last
chapter.
And every time he looked pointedly at her from across the crowded
Hall and stood up as if to walk over to her, Hermione was quick to
make her excuses to her friends and exit post haste.
There were also benefits to being charged with the task of telling
prefects where to go and what to do via the wonderful, blessed
medium that was the Prefects Notice Board.
This turned out to be just one of the many disturbing side effects of
the spell. The more distance she kept from him, the better, Hermione
figured. Particularly since according to Tallowstub, the effects of Fida
Mia tended to be more marked when initiates were in close proximity
with each other.
At first, the only noticeable effect had been an incessant tingling on
her skin. It wasn't exactly unpleasant. Rather, it could best be
described as if someone was blowing softly along her hip and inner
thigh.
But there were other 'discoveries' she didn't care for. Not one whit.
The previous morning, for example, she had awoken in bed with the
oddest sensation. It wasn't until she had felt her hand fumble south
of her belly and slip past the elastic band of her knickers to grope at
what was quite obviously not there, did she have a mild and
horrifying epiphany.
And then, there was Ron and Harry, and to a lesser extent, Ginny. All
of who were not oblivious to her less than cordial mood since
Sunday. No doubt, they attributed it to end of school angst, a malady
that many graduating seniors were experiencing. Lucky for her, there
was a contagious ennui in the air and so her own restlessness did
not seem so out of place.
One dramatic daydream had her dropping to the floor, bursting into
tears of shame as she begged them for forgiveness.
But it was simply not to be done. Not yet, and not like that, anyhow.
But until then, there really was no need for them to be seen together
any more than usual. And what was usual for them was five minutes
of bickering during prefect meetings or the odd, brisk, hallway
exchange.
This was her school, dammit! She was still Head Girl and she didn't
like having to dodge behind corners every time the pompous, blond
git walked through a doorway. Merlin knew there were already
enough lower form girls trailing and giggling like ninnies in his wake.
If only they had more time. If only he would agree to work through
their problem after school was finished. If only he wasn't so
distractingly good looking. If only-
"Whatever it is, you look riled enough to take on sixth year detention
for me this evening," said a smooth, slightly lilting, male voice.
Blaise Zabini was standing over her. His dark almond shaped eyes
were warm with amusement. The Head Boy's badge pinned on his
chest caught and reflected the sunlight that filtered through the lead-
light windows behind her.
She blinked up at him, but was quick to shut her book in what she
hoped was a casual manner. "How long have you been standing
there?"
"I stare at all books that way," said Hermione wearily. She pulled out
a chair for him. "You're not at lunch?"
Blaise declined the chair and instead, perched on the edge of the
table, crossing his ankles and stretching out his legs as he watched
Hermione pack up her notes. "I wanted to catch you before class.
You forgot to sign on next week's roster. Weasley was kind enough
to bark your likely whereabouts to me when I asked him at lunch.
Apparently I wasn't the only one looking for you."
Blaise blotted her signature before folding the paper with deft fingers
and pocketing it. "I'll survive, though I always have better things to do
than watch Dennis Creevey make calf eyes at Roberta Carstairs.
And you are allowed the occasional lapse, Granger. Especially since
school's just about over."
Or then again, perhaps not. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were
exceptions to the rule-- thick and blundering, as opposed to lithe and
fluid.
Blaise was nearly the same size as she was, perhaps just a bit taller
and was a sleek and coltish. Not so different from Draco, Hermione
supposed, except that Draco was probably more panther than
racehorse.
She had come to know Blaise well over the year. They worked well
together, a fact that was not overlooked by the Faculty. Within three
months of their instatement, McGonagall declared them to be the
most efficient school captains since Molly and Arthur Weasley.
Blaise was also quite easy on the eye, Hermione had to admit. He
had inherited the warm skin and dark, exotic eyes of his mother. In a
school comprised mostly of students of Anglo Saxon backgrounds,
his looks tended to draw admiring glances.
But while girls watched Blaise with warm appreciation, they tended
to watch Draco with something akin to reverence. No wonder the boy
had an ego so large it had its own climate.
There was also the fact that despite house differences, Blaise had
always been a dependable partner, if not friend to her. If she had to
fall drunk into the bed of a charming Slytherin, she could have done
much worse than Blaise Zabini.
This was not a surprise. Despite the lax attitude that many teachers
were taking towards seventh year lessons, Snape had been on a
mission to put the graduating seniors to what he referred to as 'more
productive uses'.
And strangely, the only person who seemed to put up with Snape
without complaint was Harry.
The events at the end of their fifth year had left a tangible mark on all
of them, but most especially on Harry. For some unfathomable
reason, Lupin had been hesitant to step into the role that Sirius had
previously occupied in Harry's life. And for reasons of his own,
Dumbledore did not force the case.
Harry never said much about the tutoring, but both Ron and
Hermione got the impression that on some level, Harry was
comforted by the fact that there was at least one person from his
father's generation, gently coerced or not, who was willing to be
more than just peripherally involved in his life. The thought of Snape
playing any sort of father figure role was bizarre, but Harry seemed
none the worse for it.
Blaise was now drumming his fingers on the table. "I believe the
phrase he used to describe us to Lupin was 'pampered, milk-fed
layabouts'. We're to do manual labour this afternoon," informed the
Head Boy, with enough disdain to make Hermione grin. "Even after a
year, I haven't got used to the fact that Lupin's a werewolf. Times are
changing."
"For the better," Hermione assured, as she accepted her book bag
that which Blaise had picked up and was holding out to her.
So. Wednesday afternoon Defence Against the Dark Arts with the
Slytherins. It was time to face her demons. Or more to the point, a
tall, blonde, grey-eyed demon who currently had the power to ruin
her reputation.
Of course, this was not exactly news to Draco, but he had the benefit
of the past three days to truly appreciate just how wily the puffy-
haired Gryffindor could be.
Student Heads and prefects were very busy people, granted. Most
especially in the final weeks of school when there was a seemingly
endless list of things to be done before Hogwarts closed for the
summer holidays.
Head Boy Blaise Zabini, for example, was a dark haired blur as he
zipped in and out of the Great Hall and Slytherin Common Room,
prefect helpers in tow. He was usually the first person in Slytherin to
be up in the morning, and with the exception of Professor Snape, the
last to retire to bed.
However, the school was not such a big place that two students
would be unable to conduct a brief conversation in private, in one of
the Castle's numerous shadowy corners if they needed to. Even still,
Draco had thus far been thwarted in every attempt to get close
enough to Granger to even whisper an insult.
For the past three days, Granger had either taken her meals in her
room or while she was on the move. Draco knew this because he
went into the kitchens to question the house elves.
And when he did chance to see her, she was never alone. If Potter
or Weasley weren't walking with her to and from classes, it was
Ginny Weasley who accompanied her. From the cheerful, vacant
expressions on her friends' faces, Draco surmised that they
remained entirely oblivious to what has transpired over the weekend.
Well, good.
The last thing Draco needed right now was a purple-faced Ron
Weasley challenging him to a duel in the Great Hall while Potter
finally made inevitable contact with his dark and scary side and
turned Draco into a pile of ash in front of the entire school.
It was always the quiet ones, as Pansy often said. Girls like Granger
always had a few skeletons in their closet. Draco didn't really know
why, but the thought of being afforded the status of mere 'skeleton'
didn't sit too well with him.
Other than her absences at meal times, however, no one would have
guessed that something was amiss.
It was near the end of lunch and as expected, she was not seated
beside Scar Head and his daft and many minions. Draco did
however note that Ginny Wealsey had walked into the Great Hall
carrying two, empty plates.
Ah-hah.
Edward Knox, a Slytherin sixth year, had delayed Draco on his way
out of the Great Hall in search of Granger. Such were the numerous
pitfalls of being devastatingly in demand.
"You might. If that new broomstick servicing kit your father gave you
somehow found its way into my room."
"I scored a hundred and twenty percent on that project Knox," Draco
had reminded.
It had been a pleasant day outside. A tad too warm, but thankfully it
didn't take too long to find her. Granger was lying on her back on one
of the wide stone benches scattered around the edge of the lake. No
doubt the granite had soaked up the warmth of the sun through the
afternoon.
He knew what he would see if she removed the book and looked up
at him. There would be dark shadows under her eyes, tiny blue veins
just below the surface of the pale skin of her face. Her Cupid's bow
mouth would be neither pursed nor worried. If he woke her now, she
would squint up at him, would blink at him in confusion for a few
moments.
Draco sighed.
He knew what it was like to crave sleep so badly that the small
pockets of uninterrupted relaxation in the daytime was all you had to
live on. Half the student population at Hogwarts was sleep deprived.
He had opened his mouth, then shut it and with a frustrated look
towards the sky, stalked back to the castle in a fouler mood than
when he had left.
What he really wanted to do was to shake her awake and plan their
eventual meeting with Emmanuel Borgin. Borgin was a busy man
and it would be necessary to make an appointment at least a few
days in advance.
It had been small surprise that Lucius had volunteered Borgin for the
task. The man was well connected and more knowledgeable about
the movements of illegal merchandise than the Ministry would have
been comfortable with.
And it wasn't as if Draco had all the free time in the world to chase
after Granger either. Slytherin House was in an absolute mess and it
was all that he, Blaise and Pansy could do to motivate the younger
students to adopt a more responsible approach. The Common Room
was filthy, students were blatantly smuggling all sorts of contraband
into the castle and to the embarrassment of the entire House, a
grand total of seven Slytherins that term had been cited for illegal
duelling at school.
All that effort might have been worthwhile if the book wasn't such a
stupid waste of time. There was, according to the author, no cure. No
remedy. No suggestions as to the existence of a counter-spell either.
"Rose?" Pansy had responded. "Is that why you've been sniffing the
air all morning like someone dropped a Dungbomb?"
"Yes, rose. Tea rose, I think. I'd appreciate it if you didn't shower in
the stuff. Too many open flames around the castle, Panse. You'd be
sorely missed."
Pansy had given him an irritated look. "Well I can tell you it's not my
perfume. Tea Rose is a bit too old fashioned for me," she said,
sounding slightly miffed that he would even associate her with it.
Niceness.
First, it was that incident by the lake, where he had passed up on the
perfect opportunity to shake Granger awake until her teeth rattled.
And then, early the next morning, a first year Gryffindor had taken a
fall at the second floor staircase and was bawling loudly enough to
make Peeves wither.
Granted the cut on her knee had been rather nasty, but on any other
day, he would have stepped right over the child on his way to
decapitate the Hufflepuff fourth year at the top of the stairs, who was
doodling on the wall with a Muggle felt-tip marker.
"I don't suppose you could stop that awful noise?" he had snapped at
the girl.
The last straw came when he checked the Prefects' Notice Board
the previous evening before bedtime, to find that he, Draco Malfoy,
had been assigned the role of overseeing fourth year detentions!
It was unheard of. Seventh year prefects never, ever took fourth year
detentions. They might have, of course, if fourth years weren't quite
so irritating.
From fifth year onwards, most detention-servers were too busy with
assignments and study to waist an entire period being unruly.
Teachers preferred taking these detentions themselves, allowing
students time to do their homework in exchange for a few productive
minutes of filing or sorting.
The two boys were occupied varnishing said desks, while the girl
was busy removing old notices from the board at the back of the
classroom. It was sweltering that afternoon, despite the cooling
charms Draco had liberally cast.
The boy looked up, scowling. He threw his oiled rag on the ground,
muttered something borderline profane and went to do Draco's
bidding.
"How long more do we have to do this?" whined the other boy. Draco
couldn't remember his name. Winston or Wimple. Or something.
"You'll work on those desks as long as I ask you to. If there's time,
you'll do the cupboards too."
"You can't make us do that," said Singh, with what looked to be the
start of mutiny. He stood up. "Professor Flitwick said we only needed
to do the desks."
"I can do whatever I bloody want. Get back to work or I'll turn you
into a toadstool."
The other boy piped up. "What? She's hardly done anything! And
she turned up late for detention too!"
"I'm partial to girls, you'll realise. Slytherin girls, especially. And the
only reason she's serving detention with you two is because you
were stupid enough to mention her name to Flitwick when you got
caught."
"You know what? I reckon it'd be nice to know who she's going to
choose to visit over the holidays. Singh or me? We've only been
waiting months to find out. I have to tell my parents so we can plan
the rest of the summer break!" whined Winston/Wimple.
The boy had a point, Draco thought. "Very well. Carmen, which boy
will you be visiting over the holidays?"
"What are you reading?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. She
was sticking out her non-existent chest at him and batting her
eyelashes vigorously enough to cause a mild breeze.
"Knowing your brother, I'd say he had much more stashed under his
bed."
"It is true what they say?" Carmen continued, her voice lowering,
"that you'll inherit even though your father's still alive? I heard
Millicent Bulstrode talking about it with Pansy Parkinson."
Draco had to admire her audacity. "Those two girls are terrible
gossips. I wouldn't believe half of what you overhear."
"You'll be needing a Lady of the Manor, regardless. To help you run
things. There isn't a wizarding lord under thirty who hasn't already
been married off. Well, unless you count Enrod Higgs." Carmen
looked thoughtful now.
"He's…"
She giggled.
"And where will your father go when his sentence is over? I hear he's
a horrible tyrant to live with."
Draco's gaze lost some of its warmth. "You're very nosy, Carmen."
She shrugged, but had the intelligence to look slightly abashed. "I
like to keep abreast of things. And you know Hogwarts won't be the
same when you leave."
Singh had been trying to get Draco's attention for the past two
minutes. But since the boy was calling him by his first name, as
opposed to 'Mister. Malfoy' - which Draco had previously advised, on
pain of death - Draco was quite happy to ignore him.
" Mr. Malfoy," Singh finally said, his fists balled at his side. "The bell's
already gone. Can we go now?"
The boys waited until Draco had signed their detention slips and
then left as if the Dark Lord himself was at their heels. Carmen
stopped Draco at the doorway to sign her slip. When he was done,
she handed him a shiny, green apple from her bag.
"For you," she said, "because you missed lunch to watch us."
Draco, who was very fond of green apples, pocketed the offering and
set off at a jog. He had defence class with Lupin and his fan club at
Greenhouse Four that afternoon. It was to be an outdoors lesson,
from what Draco had gathered.
Granger would be there, and she had better be prepared for what he
was going to say.
Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
It was not an ideal day for outdoor activity, but that was precisely
why the class had been gathered there. The weather had been
especially humid since morning, and the dark, grey-blue clouds that
hung over the castle had yet to follow through with rain. The air was
still and heavy, with not so much as breeze to stir the leaves on the
trees that bordered the forest.
"There she is," Harry said, inclining his head towards the
approaching Hermione. Harry was in comparatively good spirits that
day, having conducted a very successful Quidditch practice in the
early morning. It was Harry's express wish as graduating Gryffindor
Quidditch Captain, that the team maintain its sterling standards long
after his departure from Hogwarts.
Ron swatted at a sand gnat. "If you were clever, Finnegan, you'd
have started at the Library. But you're not."
Ron turned to look at her. Lavender had undone a daring two buttons
on her school blouse and was vigorously fanning herself with
Parvati's fluorescent pink notebook.
"There are some benefits," Ron declared, staring at the tiny, yellow
flower print of Lavender's bra, which was observable through her
perspiration-dampened, school blouse.
Lavender made a disgusted sound and folded her arms across her
chest.
Dean Thomas was frowning up at the sky. "Looks like rain though. If
Lupin doesn't hurry up, I'll wager we'll be soaked through before the
end of class."
Lupin was attempting to pull open the rusted greenhouse doors. The
recent damp weather had caused the wooden frame to expand and
the task of getting the lot of them into the cool shelter of the disused
greenhouse was proving difficult.
This was despite Dean and Seamus's frequent cries of "bend this
Professor!" or "how far can you hurl that?"
And unlike Snape, Lupin did this without the weekly threat of
poisoning them just to see if they could brew passable antidotes in
time.
The door finally gave way with the sound of scraping wood.
Presently, Lupin wiped his damp forehead on a handkerchief and
ushered the class inside.
"Right then," he gave them an apologetic look. "I know it's hot out
this afternoon, but Professor Sprout recently alerted me to a problem
and I knew I had to volunteer my seventh years for the task."
"Not to worry. We should still be done within the hour." Lupin sniffed
at the air. "Provided it doesn't start raining in the next five minutes…"
"What happened to the delivery bird, sir?" Dean Thomas piped up,
grinning widely.
Hagrid had been shooting down parasitic vampire bats for the past
two months in his bid to make a bat-skin cape for his paramour of
two years, Olympe Maxime.
It was testament to Lupin's skills in diplomacy that the class had put
up only minor resistance to his mixing them up when it came to
working in pairs. Girls with boys, Slytherins with Gryffindors,
numbers permitting.
But with both Neville and Draco absent, and Crabbe gone
indefinitely, Hermione was missing a partner. She approached Lupin,
who was counting pairs of gloves. He paused and looked up to smile
at her, except the smile seemed to have died before reaching his
face. He blinked a few times, and it might have been her
imagination, but she could have sworn he was… sniffing her.
"Professor?"
Hermione thought that was splendid idea. She was just about to
accept a pair of gloves from the teacher when the temperature in the
greenhouse took a sudden dip and her skin broke out into clammy
goose bumps.
She felt Malfoy a scant second before she actually saw him.
They hadn't been in such close proximity since he had deposited her
at the front steps of the castle on Sunday afternoon. Suddenly and
quite disturbingly, she could sense everything about him.
It was like stepping into his body for a few moments, making a quick
catalogue of discovery and then darting back out again. Malfoy, not
surprisingly was hot, sweaty, hungry and very tired. But there was a
tangible anticipation as well, just below the surface.
"Quite alright, Draco," Lupin looked to the rest of class. "Let's see…"
Hermione's gritted her teeth. Oh no. Please no… anyone but him.
"Good! Hermione is missing a partner!"
"It is, but the ones we're going after are only a few days old, so they'll
be no bigger than a head of cabbage. A quick, hard pull should
dislodge them, but take care to avoid their barbs," Lupin explained.
"It helps to sneak up on them quietly. They spend most of the
daylight hours sleeping, and tend to get aggressive when awakened.
Fascinating creatures, Tangleweed," he remarked, nodding as he
watched the monster in the picture smack the wizard over the head
with a tentacle and then attempt to pick him up by his ankles.
The rest of the class did not share Lupin's enthusiasm. Millicent
picked up a mouldy glove from the crate, made a loud 'ugh' sound
and then dropped it back inside.
"Pity you were just late. It would be too much to hope that you've
decided not to attend any classes this week," Hermione later
whispered to her partner, when Lupin began fielding additional
questions.
"And you've been avoiding me," said Draco, under his breath. He
was looking at her in the eye now, and as usual, Hermione felt her
composure steadily erode.
"Only just noticed, have you? I've been avoiding you for years,
Malfoy."
"True," Draco admitted, lowering his voice as they followed the other
students out of the greenhouse. "For Head Girl, you're appallingly
hard to corner when you don't want to be found. I might be cross
with you for assigning me to what even the junior prefects won't
touch, but there were some unexpected perks."
Lupin had been busy explaining to Pansy that a note from her
mother, no matter how quickly it arrived, would not excuse her from
the task that afternoon.
The expression on his face was almost comical. "Granger, I think you
can do the pulling."
Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
They were assigned to the northern face of the castle, along with
Ron and Millicent. Draco and Millicent walked ahead together,
keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Hermione was roughly able to
make out the phrases, 'new season line', 'St Barthelemy's for the
holidays' and something about Millicent's questionable taste in
boyfriends.
"Amazing how they can speak so much and say so little," Ron
muttered.
"Well for one you've been missing meals. And Lavender says you
were a bit snippy yesterday. Harry reckons it's probably the heat. Or
woman's stuff. Ginny always gets twice as annoying when she's
down with woman's stuff…"
"It's the heat, Ron," Hermione said, tiredly. "I'm fine, really. Just run
down."
They arrived at the edge of the forest, where a faint trail began and
winded deeper into the trees. It wasn't so much a pathway as a well-
trodden dirt track that Hagrid and Fang took whenever they ventured
into the forest. Hagrid had in fact shot down the delivery macaw not
far from where they stood.
"We'll split up. You two take the top of the path, Weasley and I will
stay on the bottom end," Millicent barked. "If there are no
objections?" It wasn't really like she was giving them options.
There were no objections. Ron gave Hermione a reassuring look as
she and Malfoy set off ahead.
It took her ten minutes to locate her first batch of Tangleweed. Malfoy
walked silently beside her, no doubt waiting until they were well and
truly beyond eavesdropping distance before speaking his mind. They
were relatively deep in the forest, deeper than most students would
have ventured during school hours.
With any luck, a female Centaur would gallop out of the trees,
declare Malfoy to be a too tasty mortal morsel to pass up on and
take him away, Hermione mused. The thought was actually rather
funny and she stifled a snort of amusement, while Malfoy gave her a
suspicious sideways glance.
She ignored him. The Tangleweed was her main concern for the
moment.
The creature resembled cacti, for the most part, and was a rather
pretty shade of violet, with deep purple barbs that were oozing a
thick, white sap.
Here we go.
"I'm going to, very soon. I'm just… I just have to plan a bit more first.
I've been doing some reading." Even to her own ears, her voice
sounded small and subdued.
"Give me the bloody contact and I'll arrange it myself. We'll have this
cursed spell undone in one visit, and at half the price."
"I'm not giving you the address, Malfoy. Your father gave it to me
because he probably doesn't trust you to initiate the meeting without
mucking it up." The Tangleweed had finally stopped its thrashing and
Hermione gladly tossed it into the bucket.
Hermione thanked God, for the umpteenth time that she had been
Sorted into a House where the first years were more concerned with
the correct and precise placing of Dungbombs for maximum effect,
rather than internal power struggles.
"I've made a draft," she finally admitted. Actually, she had made a
dozen drafts, but he really didn't need to know that.
He quit grinning. Now he was thinking, which was frankly worse. "Tell
me honestly, Granger. Do you really regret what happened?" There
was a telltale twinkle in his eyes which told her he was baiting her.
Hermione went red to the roots of her hair. Her embarrassment was
tempered by the fact that she could feel his gnawing anxiety. It was
balled up deep inside him, neatly obscured behind his colossal ego.
She wanted to hit him in the head in the hopes of shaking free any
threads of decency and compassion.
Honestly, he was turning her into some sort of violent, bipolar person
- tired and withdrawn one minute, enraged and aggressive the next.
"Fine, but if word gets out and it's all over the papers tomorrow, I'll
find some way to exact my revenge, Malfoy."
"Come now, it hasn't been all bad, has it? Where's that scholarly
interest of yours, Granger. Haven't you been experimenting?" He
waggled his blond eyebrows suggestively. The whole act ought to
have been ridiculously charming. But Hermione was wise to him.
"What with making deals with your crazed father, and getting
accosted and manhandled by you in dark corridors, I haven't had the
time," she spat at back him.
Malfoy feigned a look of innocence. "My tattoo's been doing all sorts
of funny things," he informed. He sat on a moss covered log and
pulled out a waxy, green apple from his book bag. Hermione
remembered then that he must have missed lunch because of
detention.
Hermione couldn't help herself. She was tired and irritable and her
gaze was too stubborn to control. Her eyes strayed to his
cheekbone, where all trace of his nasty, split lip had long since been
mended. The soft, sensual curve of his mouth was its usual quick-to-
smirk self. He bit hard into the apple, revealing an upper row of
perfectly straight, white teeth. A sliver of apple juice oozed from the
corner of his mouth, and he flicked at it with his tongue.
Suddenly she was rather sorry that fourth year detention had caused
him to miss lunch. Who would have known that Draco Malfoy eating
fruit would have been such a spectacle? She could probably charge
admission. Lavender and Parvati would request that he have a go at
giant lollypops. He'd welcome the attention, sitting there with a smirk
and his strong, pink tongue attacking hapless, helpless, candy.
Damn her eyes, which seemed to have a will of their own whenever
he was concerned. They strayed down to his mouth once more. It
was too much to hope that he would have a giant bit of apple stuck
in his teeth or some such thing, but his smile was flawless.
"Do you mean to say that your wings… move?" she asked, sounding
horrified.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Trust you to derive some sort of sick
pleasure from all this."
It's official, Hermione thought, with despair. I've lost the plot.
"There's a rather large tuft," Malfoy announced. "Have at it, then. I'm
not about to be outdone by Millicent and Weasley."
It was like swinging a hammer. The roots gave way more easily than
expected and a huge deposit of wet dirt went hurtling through the air,
whereupon most of it landed over Malfoy and his stupid, green
apple.
Hermione laughed in utter, evil delight. It was probably the first time
she had felt genuinely cheered since their return to Hogwarts.
He didn't look angry, rather it was the intense look she sometimes
got from Ron or Harry before they chased her and tried to do
something horrid like smearing treacle on her hair. The idea of Draco
Malfoy doing such a thing was beyond ludicrous.
Still, she wasn't about to take her chances. Swallowing her giggles,
she grabbed her bucket and trowel, and pressed on further down the
path.
Malfoy didn't immediately follow and Hermione spent the next few,
peaceful minutes trying to locate additional batches of Tangleweed.
There were none. She looked up at the canopy of trees. The foliage
was much denser now and it was unlikely that the lost saplings had
made their way quite that far into the forest.
She began to backtrack and soon spotted a shady clearing just off
the path, to her right. And slumbering in the middle of the clearing,
surrounded by an impressive crop of mushrooms, rotting logs and
dead leaves, was a healthy patch of adult Tangleweed.
Hermione dug her foot in the ground for more leverage, adamant
that no magical plant, incorrectly classified or not, was going to get
the better of her that day. With her left hand still maintaining a firm
grip on the plant, she attempted to reach into her pocket for her
wand, thinking that a quick Impedimenta would do the trick.
One of the tentacles snapped into action, latching onto her right
gardening glove and pulling it off. Another tentacle followed, and
without the protection offered by the glove, the thorns sank into the
tender skin of her wrist and latched on. On instinct, she pulled her
hand back, causing the barbs to break free from the tentacle and
embed in her skin.
It was like getting stung by a dozen bees, all in the one spot.
Hermione yelped, alternating between cursing and stomping her foot
on the ground. The Tangleweed seemed equally flustered and began
thumping its meaty arms against the earth in an intimidating fashion.
There was a brief, tense stand-off.
Malfoy tossed his things to the ground and then grabbed hold of her
wrist to have a look. He peered closely.
Hermione could smell apple on his breath. She frowned down at her
small, pink hand, held in his much larger, pale hands, so white in
comparison to the blood on her wrist. She was wearing a colourful
purple, resin ring on her right index finger that her youngest cousin
had given her earlier in the ear. It was a sentimental piece which she
treasured, but for some reason, now, she felt embarrassed by it.
That, and her ink-stained, bitten-down nails.
She was instantly cross with herself for thinking such things.
"Those gloves are useless. You'd think with the donations the
school's been receiving from the Governors, we'd be able to afford
better equipment," Malfoy was saying. He pulled out the embedded
barbs, ignoring her when she winced.
It was the same instinct that made her try and flatten Harry's hair
earlier. The only difference was that Harry didn't make her feel like
her stomach had become a nest of Doxies.
"Better?" Malfoy asked softly, so close that she could almost count
the flecks of blue around his irises.
"Malfoy," she said again, and this time he shook his head, as if he
didn't believe her. She made a protesting noise, smaller than she
would have liked.
She felt clumsy and uncoordinated. His nose bumped against hers
and his tongue slid past the clamped vise of her lips. He smelled like
books and apple and wood smoke.
His hands, which had held her to him like a steel brand against her
lower back were now relaxed as they slid up to cup the base of her
head just under her ponytail. Pausing the kiss so that they could take
in air, he moved his mouth down along her jaw to the soft, sensitive
spot just under her ear.
Scream, her brain urged. Shove him off and run back to the
greenhouse. There was a steady, whooshing noise in her ears which
she guessed was the sound of her blood rushing to her head. Her
soil splattered hands were clutching tightly at his back.
Abruptly, he stopped and pulled away. His pupils were dilated, and
his eyes were now as dark as the rain clouds that hung in the sky
over them. Feeling immensely light-headed, Hermione went with
him, not trusting her knees to hold her up. The look he gave her was
disturbing and intense. And angry. For a brief moment, he held her
against him, her forehead resting against his shoulder while they
both caught their breath.
He took a step away from her and this time, she did not follow.
She met his stare, letting her loathing bleed into her eyes. Everything
he did seemed calculated. His deceiving civility and the kiss that
followed had been an experiment, nothing more, a diversion to take
away the humdrum of daily life. Hermione was quite certain that if
she spent the next decade learning everything she possibly could
about Draco Malfoy, he would still surprise her.
They didn't speak on the walk back to the castle, which felt like an
eternity. She might have wondered why he would pass up on the
perfect opportunity to further goad her, but when she turned to look
at him, the dark scowl on his face waylaid any further thoughts on
the matter.
But even as Hermione waved back, Ron's face drained of all colour
as he stared in mute horror at the treetops behind them. Hermione
was vaguely aware that Millicent was shrieking and bolting for the
castle.
Feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, Hermione
turned around to have a look, but not before Malfoy knocked the
wind out of her. And Ron too, it seemed. He was dragging both of
them away.
"Malfoy wha-"
The reason for this was soon readily observable. In the trees behind
them, steadily growing in size and height, was the Dark Mark.
Hermione felt her blood turn to ice
They couldn't have been the only ones to notice it. The thing had
been launched high enough to be seen by at least half of
Hogsmeade and all of Hogwarts.
Lupin's wand was still sputtering red sparks when he arrived. He had
obviously alerted the rest of the castle. "Is everyone alright?" he
asked, his eyes taking quick stock of Draco, Hermione and Ron.
"Yes. You, Draco, Ron and Millicent were the last to return," Lupin
informed. He herded the group further away from the edge of the
forest, paying particular attention to Harry, who seemed intent on
staying right where he was. Ron remained resolutely beside him.
Lupin looked ropable. "Everyone, report to the Great Hall and to your
Head of House immediately, or you will face my intense displeasure.
Is that understood? Harry!"
"It's starting again," Blaise said softly, his dark eyes fixed to the sky.
The rain was coming down heavily now, blurring the image of the
Mark. It was almost like looking at a rippling reflection.
Harry was the one who answered. His expression might have been
cast in granite.
It took all of twenty minutes for the entire school to be gathered and
confined to the Great Hall, such was the efficiency of the prefects
and teachers in spreading the alert. Two years of occasional drills, at
the behest of the Minister for Magic, had worked well in preparing
the students for just such an eventuality.
The enchanted ceiling of the Hall mirrored the minor panic of the
people below, not to mention the fierce weather outside. The rain
was coming down hard and heavy now, sounding like a thousand
house-elves tap dancing on the rafters. People were shouting to be
heard, Heads of Houses most of all.
With the exception of Professor Snape, who had not yet arrived, the
other three Heads were busy checking students off their lists, making
sure that no one had been left stranded in a bathroom or in
detention.
Blaise Zabini took over the task for Slytherin, looking slightly harried
as he bellowed out the names of his house mates. Minutes later,
Snape all but flew into the Great Hall, black robes whipping behind
him, scowl more pronounced than ever. His dark eyes searched and
quickly located Draco's blond head in the crowd of students. From
across the Hall, Harry watched as the Head of Slytherin cocked his
head slightly; an almost imperceptible motion which appeared to
have nonetheless captured Draco's attention. Draco shrugged off
Pansy Parkinson's insistent queries and went directly to the
Professor.
"What do you suppose will happen to Malfoy?" Ron whispered to
Harry. Professor McGonagall had just checked both their names off
her list and was calling out for "Xavier, Catherine!"
"If Lucius has found some way to free himself from house arrest, I'm
guessing the Ministry will assume Draco knows something about it."
Harry hazarded, somewhat surprised at how steady his voice
sounded. His palms were still cold and clammy. It wasn't everyday
that one witnessed the Dark Mark in such close proximity to one's
self. Twice in three years was more than enough, thank you very
much.
Ron was squinting at Malfoy. "He looks like he's swallowed a pint of
castor oil."
"Ron," she motioned to him, "Dumbledore and your dad want to see
us!" She was nearly shouting to be heard, such was the din in the
Great Hall.
Harry dumped his school things into Seamus' arms. "Good. I'm
coming too."
"You are to remain here. This doesn't concern you yet, Harry."
This was apparently the wrong thing to say, given that Harry went
from being concerned to downright angry. He took immediate
exception to Lupin's words.
"This is neither the time nor the place," Hermione hissed at Harry.
"Come on Ron, we'd better get going."
Lupin nodded, as if the comment was meant for him too. His
expression was pained as he next spoke. "We'll speak about this
later. You will stay in the Great Hall or it will be thirty points from
Gryffindor. I'm not playing, Harry." It was the coldest command any of
them had ever heard him issue.
Not long after, Ginny made her away to Seamus and Harry. The
three of them watched, in an uncomfortable silence, as Snape and
Lupin conferred quickly, before escorting Draco and a whey-faced
Millicent Bulstrode out of the Great Hall.
Harry didn't answer, but instead stormed over to the Great Hall doors
and still deeply scowling, disappeared beyond.
Snape did not immediately offer up any information and Draco did
not immediately prod him. As he often told Draco, there were only
three places in Hogwarts safe enough to conduct a conversation with
complete security. One was Dumbledore's Office, another was
Snape's private quarters and the last was the Room of Requirement.
The Potions Master did, however, wait with Draco on the second
floor outside the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Hermione, Ron
and Millicent were already inside and in the process of being
questioned.
Draco found it eerie seeing the school corridors so deserted in the
middle of the day. After seven years at Hogwarts, he was used to
students milling to and from classes; the chattering, scuffing and
shuffling of feet. The distant activity in the Great Hall carried through
the old stone of the castle, sounding like muttering and whispers,
almost as if the stones themselves had awakened and were taking
interest in the recent events.
Filch passed by once, making a quick check around the lower half of
castle to pick up any stragglers. He gave Snape a nod, and Draco a
sneer, although to be fair it was hard to tell given that Filch's sour
look seemed to be a permanent affliction anyway.
The Caretaker's aversion to him was nothing new. Draco was used
to people being less than nice to him. As he often told Crabbe and
Goyle, he couldn't give a flying fuck what people thought of him as
long as they left him alone to do whatever he pleased. That was the
good thing about being a prefect - a private room and the ability to
give detentions to snotty children who so much looked at him the
wrong way.
He felt slightly ill now, realizing belatedly that the fight or flight
response he had experienced in the forest earlier was finally
dissipating, leaving the bitter, icy residue of recently experienced fear
in its wake.
God damn the girl. Bane of his week, his month, and given the way
things were going, his year.
In the forest, his first instinct before noticing the odd shift from Dark
Mark to Malfoy family standard had been to turn tail and run for the
castle in an attempt of self preservation to rival Millicent's.
But Draco knew this wasn't the truth even as he thought it. Actually,
his first instinct had been to grab Granger. And that realization in
itself was leading him down a prickly path he really didn't want to go
right then. He seriously doubted his life could get any more
complicated than it already was.
As far as he knew, there might have been some crack squad Death
Eater assassination team hiding in the bushes, itching to cast
Unforgivables at the girl Harry Potter loved like a sister, or perhaps,
better yet, at the son of the most notorious Death Eater traitor who
had very recently shagged the girl Harry Potter loved like a sister.
And oh! Some hero's sidekick Weasley turned out to be. When they
finally decided to give awards out for Superior Effort in Just Standing
About and Gawking Like a Moron, Wealsey was a sure thing for first
class honours.
There was a scene wafting in and out of his head. Blame in on his
perverse imagination. It was taking him some effort to shake loose
the made-up image of Granger's slight body lying on the damp
grass, her huge brown eyes vacant and empty in post Avada
Kedavra-death, her normally bee stung lips blue, and her injured
hand slack and open at her side. Gone was the perpetual 'don't-
hate-me-for-knowing-what's-best' look she wore like a damned
badge of pride. In its place was a frozen mask of accusation.
The lead weight in Draco's stomach seemed to drop further still, and
his hands were doing worrying things to his now-wrinkled school tie.
He continued pacing in front the gargoyle statue for a few minutes
more before finally giving his godfather and exasperated, expectant
and slightly desperate look. If the man wasn't going to say something
in the next instant, Draco swore he was going to throttle him.
Draco stopped in mid pace, sagging heavily against the stone wall. A
huge dam of relief burst inside him. He swiped at his face almost
absently. "Who else is in Dumbledore's office, then? Weasley's voice
hasn't broken yet, so I'm guessing that baritone I heard earlier is
someone else…"
Draco had effectively traded sixteen years of his life in exchange for
allowing his father to be imprisoned at Malfoy Manor. In return,
despite the rules that normally governed what happened to the
property of convicted Death Eaters, Draco would be allowed to
legally claim all that his family owned, when his father's sentence
was concluded. The contract had been drafted when Draco was
sixteen, which made in legally null and void in Wizarding Britain, if
not for Arthur's Law.
And given that the current Minister's most harped upon policy was to
push for greater integration among the various members of the
magical community, it seemed especially hypocritical for Arthur to
render a potentially influential young man like Draco Malfoy alienated
and subject to the whims of an unstable convict.
"This is taking too long," Draco muttered. They had in fact, been
waiting for only seven minutes, for all that it felt like an hour.
"You do know what happened out there, don't you?" Draco asked
quietly. He was used to Snape knowing about everything. Not that
Snape usually divulged what he knew on request. Draco was no fool.
He understood well enough that sometimes to be ignorant meant to
be protected.
Snape said nothing, thought the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke
volumes. Of course I know, you impudent whelp, but that doesn't
men always mean I'm going to tell you.
"Then can you at least explain to me how, in the name of all that is
magical, did Mosmorde change into the blasted Malfoy dragon?"
Draco persisted.
Millicent took one look at Draco before bursting into noisy tears.
"Mill…" Draco chided. The girl had lost an aunt, uncle and two
female cousins the previous year in a botched Death Eater capture
attempt and had never quite regained her usual, iron-hulled
composure.
I'm not one of your lost, little ducklings. Go play mother to Wealsey.
She kept on looking at him, the tiny frown line on the smooth patch
of skin between her eyebrows became more pronounced. Draco
glanced down at her injured hand, noting that someone had given
her a hanky to wrap around it. Lupin, probably. Or Dumbledore. It
was unlikely to have been Weasley, who tended to oblivious to life in
general.
Weasley took hold of her arm then, and dragged her along. He was
obviously eager to get going. Draco could hardly blame him.
It might have been his imagination again, but Draco thought he saw
something different, something new in Wealsey's eyes when the
Gryffindor twat had looked at him. There was loathing and suspicion,
of course. That was nothing new. Weasley always looked at him as if
he thought wealth and good table manners was a catching, lethal
disease.
The décor spoke of a man who had experienced much in his many
years; one who had accumulated a vast repository of memories that
he chose to remind himself of, through the many possessions that he
kept for display and tinkering.
"Looking more and more like your father every day, boy," commented
the portrait of the former Headmaster.
"I realise you probably have a few questions of your own, Draco, but
its best we get the preliminaries over with, agreed?" Dumbledore
said. He had put on his spectacles.
The bald, greasy little midget had changed little since Draco had last
seen him. He had obviously been promoted within the Ministry, given
that he was now accompanying the Minister on trips. Lucius had
always said that Ministry brown-nosers were to be mildly tolerated
because they often had their specific uses. It was a worry, however,
that Arthur Weasley seemed to take this one so seriously.
"Settle down, Coon, you know this is how he usually is," announced
the blue-haired woman.
She laughed then, which was unnerving given the tension in the
room. "The name's Tonks. Nymphadora Tonks if you must know, and
really, I'd rather you didn't. Just call me Tonks. We're cousins, Draco.
On your mum's side."
Snape cleared his throat. "Indeed. I believe you promised Mr. Malfoy
some answers. You might start with an explanation of how the Mark
came to Hogsmeade in the first place."
Dumbledore stepped in. "I believe Alastor would be the best person
to explain that to you, given that the spell is his brainchild."
The mild tone was replaced with soft steel. "Arthur? Any objections?"
"You've worked out some way to track wands, haven't you?" Draco
asked, immediately intrigued.
His seventh year advanced charms project had been to write about
the potential of magical sensor spells. The topic the class had been
asked to focus on was the sensor spells that were used at the
Magical Birth Registry, but Moody's concept was similar.
"And you can set whatever Marker you want?" Draco asked.
"No to what?" Draco asked, starting to stand up too, Snape all but
shoved him back into his seat.
"Come now, Professor. I can't be that much different from being the
leader of… what was his little group called again? 'The Inquisitorial
Squad'?" Coon looked pointedly at Draco. "You took Dolores
Umbridge's orders easily enough."
Draco took his que from his obviously furious Head of House. "They
were easy orders to take. Terrorising students isn't exactly new to
me nor is it particularly difficult. Besides, it was quite clear her reign
at Hogwarts was temporary."
"And you don't have any feelings of remorse for your behaviour that
final term? I'm told you even accosted fellow students under
Umbridge's orders."
Draco smiled sweetly. "Mr Coon, if I did, you're the last person I'd be
telling."
Tonks snorted.
"We're not asking you to spy for us, Draco," Arthur Weasley felt he
needed to clarified.
Nobody seemed to think it odd that Snape was the one to explain.
He did so without taking his eyes of Arthur Weasley. "It did seem
strange to me that the Minister himself should take time from his
busy schedule to be present at what the Auror Unit would classify as
a routine questioning." Snape expression was malevolent. "They're
not just here to question you about what happened in Hogsmeade,
Draco. Based on what I can only assume is one-sided information
and out-dated intelligence, they think you're the best person to 'tag'
Housemates you suspect as most likely to join with Voldemort."
"Oh," said Draco, at a loss for words. And then quite suddenly, he
was angry.
"To what? Redeem myself?" Draco interrupted, his voice heavy with
sarcasm. "Save the name Malfoy from further disgrace, you mean?"
his eyes narrowed and his voice took on a bitter, quiet note. He
stared at Arthur. "Do you think someone might offer your son a
similar outlet?"
"I really don't think he's being logical about this," Coon muttered to
Dumbledore.
"Why not ask Potter?" Draco suggested, "he hasn't saved or killed
anyone in all of six months. The murder and mayhem scene has
been a bit quiet lately. He might jump at the chance to play hero
again."
"I wouldn't presume to, given the fact that he's got the emotional
maturity of a terrapin," Draco snapped. "You'll pardon my saying so,
but working for the side of Good and Light hasn't exactly made Harry
Potter happy or well adjusted. You Ministry types have a habit of
screwing heroes over." Draco might have imagined it, but he thought
he noticed Dumbledore's eyes flicker to Snape for the smallest
moment.
Arthur Weasley looked pale and unhappy, but his eyes were flinty
with determination "I'm sorry Albus, but the others have approved
this."
"And how exactly would you like him to find out the necessary
information before using the spell?" Snape sneered, ignoring the
heavy look that passed between the Minister and the Headmaster.
"Would you have him ask his classmates if they plan on running to
Voldemort in the near future?"
"Be our eyes and ears in Slytherin," Coon responded. "That's all we
ask. Report any unusual activity in these final days at school and
more importantly, during the summer to follow."
Snape was not finished. "Slytherin House, both currently and among
our alumni is not what it used to be. It's scattered, divided. Alliances
and friendships are tentative, at best. What you want the boy to do is
near impossible."
"Your father will be moved to another location to serve out the rest of
his sentence, leaving you free to reside at Malfoy Manor. Your
original contract with the Ministry stands. Your father will still cede his
title to you when you graduate from Hogwarts next week, and you
will inherit what your grandfather left you."
Draco looked sceptical. "My father will die before setting foot in
Azkaban again, and if I'm not mistaken, he signed an agreement
with you to avoid that very fate." "It won't be Azkaban we'll be taking
him to" Coon explained. "We're in the process of arranging a secure,
comfortable location outside of Britain."
There was a very long pause, during which the only sound in the
room came from the whirring magical mechanics of Dumbledore's
many contraptions.
For one thing, no matter how muted her Lumos was, the strength of
the spell still managed to light up a five square meters of stairway.
Harry had mentioned something similar the previous term, with much
resignation.
Long gone were the days when it actually took a bit of thought and
practice to cast a Lumos that wouldn't snuff out after a few minutes.
Groping around in the dark was made a great deal easier, however,
when one was able to rely on one's excellent memory of the castle.
Suit of armour to the left, mouldy, old tapestry to the right, sixteen or
so meters of what should have been bare stairway except some
bright spark had left a pair of Quidditch boots on the tenth step
down.
Thankfully, the full moon was shining through from the tall windows
along the upper floor corridors, and so Hermione narrowly avoided
tripping over the offending footwear. Hanging on to the banister, she
allowed herself a few calming breaths, imagining - with a half
amused snort - the scene that could possibly have greeted students
in the morning. First year Hufflepuffs would emerge tousled-haired
and puffy-eyed from their dorms, only to run screaming at the sight
of their Head Girl, lying broken at the bottom step of the foyer, pink
bedroom slippers askew…
In addition, perhaps her baggy, old, Kermit the Frog t-shirt and a pair
of raggedy, too-long pyjama bottoms that had previously belonged to
her father did not constitute ideal attire for sneaking about. The t-
shirt snagged on a bit of rough stone wall, and she had been forced
to roll up the hem of her trousers to avoid tripping over.
With the amount of noise she was making, she was liable to be
discovered by one of the Aurors who were currently patrolling
Hogwarts grounds. There were six Aurors, in fact. Three more were
stationed at Hogsmeade, where they would stay for the remainder of
school term.
Granted, the old man still had enough secrets to keep scholarly
investigators busy for a few centuries, but he no longer practiced the
'need to know' edict that had been in place during Harry's early
schooling years at Hogwarts. Harry respected him for this, but
Hermione could well understand that blind trust was no longer on the
agenda. Not since Sirius died.
In the Great Hall, on that unfortunate Wednesday afternoon, a
thousand curious students had listened with complete attention as
Dumbledore relayed the truth of the events that had taken place in
the forest.
There were only about fifty different versions of the Dark Mark
sighting going around the tables, each as ridiculous as the next. The
truth seemed no less remarkable however, and at once, the students
began to speculate on the likely whereabouts of Lucius Malfoy's (by
now infamous) stolen wand.
By the end of it, more than a few people, teachers included, were
indeed relieved to know that there was still only one Malfoy at
Hogwarts, and that it was, thank the Gods, not Lucius.
Classes and all other extra curricular activities had been cancelled
for the remainder of the day. Hermione had not seen Draco until he
had walked into the Great Hall during dinner the following evening.
He looked fine. No sign of great stress or anxiety. Every hair on his
blond head appeared to be perfectly in place. The same cool
expression was there, though there was a sharpness to it now. It was
the same sort of challenging look he had sported for weeks after
Lucius had first been incarcerated in their fifth year.
Draco did not once look her way during the meal, which suited
Hermione just fine. She had other concerns, although eating her
dinner hadn't been one of them. Her appetite had been missing in
action since the weekend, and she was already starting to notice the
slackening at the waistband of her school skirt, and a feeling of
lethargy that had become constant.
Her attention span wasn't faring too well either. She had been
pushing a piece of baked potato around a pile of beans on her plate,
completely oblivious to the fact that Harry was being harangued by
another Gryffindor for the thirty points he had lost in disobeying
Lupin the previous afternoon.
"I think we have more important things to worry about than House
Points," Lavender had sniffed, sounding terribly grown up.
The tail end of the departing group came to a near standstill, leaving
Draco standing beside her. He sighed with irritation at the delay.
Hermione had experienced the distinct urge to fidget. All at once,
she had became acutely aware of him; his height, his body and that
clean, light, male scent that was intrinsically Draco. It had been
exactly the same experience in the forest when the main effect of
Fida Mia had reared its ugly head.
She cursed the fact that she could no more try to think or act
normally in close proximity to Draco Malfoy, than she could
spontaneously acquire Harry's supernatural talent on the Quidditch
pitch.
It was something friends would have done for each other. But not
with Draco. Oh no. He made that quite impossible. Any
demonstration of support on her part, no matter how platonic or
sincere, would probably elicit that same annoying, knowing glint in
his eyes.
He read too much into things. It was ironic, Hermione couldn't help
but think, that after years of lamenting the general thickness of boys,
she had finally come across one who used intuition like a weapon.
"Step on my heel again, Dodders, and I'll thump you," Draco said
rather tiredly, to the tiny, third year Slytherin behind him. Hermione
glared. It was not a normal day at Hogwarts when Malfoy didn't
make at least one younger student red with embarrassment or
anger.
He brushed past her, and it was then that she felt him shove
something into her palm- a small scrap of paper. She had
instinctively tightened her fist around it, hoping that her expression
did not register her surprise. The momentary bottleneck was over,
and the crowd was moving along once more.
After a final, quick word with McGonagall and Blaise, Hermione had
hurried to her room to read the note. It didn't seem odd to her that
she recognised his handwriting. She had certainly seen the same
bold, slightly slanted strokes on the blackboard in class enough
times over the past seven years.
We will send the letter tonight. Meet me in the Owlery after second
watch.
She had been slightly impressed with his persistence in bringing the
whole blasted Fida Mia fiasco to a quick end. God knew he certainly
had enough on his plate to be getting on with at the moment.
So when the Aurors' first scheduled patrol ticked over into 'second
watch' at roughly two am on what was now very early on Friday
morning, Hermione left Gryffindor Tower. Ten minutes later, after
narrowly avoiding the disaster on the steps, she arrived at the
Owlery located at the top of the West Tower.
The tall wood-rotted door to the Owlery was slightly ajar. With some
trepidation, Hermione pushed it open, half expecting the rusted
hinges to protest with many centuries of neglect. The bottom of the
door caught at the straw and other organic debris on the floor, but
thankfully gave way without too much noise.
"Ew," she exclaimed, when she trod on something moist and pulpy.
"You made enough noise coming down the corridor. By all means,
please continue," Draco hissed at her.
"Shush!" he scolded, looking like he was about to slap his hand over
her mouth.
She backed away warily. "That's what happens when you sneak up
on people!"
In actual fact, there was more light in the Owlery than there had
been outside. Sans ceiling, the moon shone over the circular room.
Hermione could by now make out the hundreds of pairs of keen, owl
eyes watching them with interest from as many perches.
"Yes," she said, patting the small wad of biscuit looking things in her
pocket. They were Lavender's. The packet had been labelled 'mouse
and cheese flavoured', with a brand logo that was a disturbing
amalgamation of the two.
Draco was dressed in his school robes, which was a little bit odd
seeing it was well after their prescribed bedtime. Hermione chalked it
down to Slytherins keeping very late hours. That or maybe he didn't
like wearing pyjamas when he slept, and…
And what? Her brain urged, with an annoying, mental, "Hmm?" Her
imagination was willing to go there, but she shot the hazy image
down almost before it came into being.
Draco then performed a soft, three-note whistle and held out his arm.
From the topmost perches, roughly three or four 'floors' from where
Hedwig rested, Draco's owl took flight.
Hermione stared. She also took another step back. "You call your
owl Pete?"
He was busy patting the owl. "A Familiar needs a name, Granger."
Yes. That was true. Though she had expected at least four syllables
and a tribute to some long dead pureblood wizard slash hero slash
mythological figure from antiquity.
"It's pointless for you to use an alias because Borgin will know Pete,"
he explained. She gave him an exasperated look. "Well did you
happen to bring some parchment and a quill to write a new letter?"
"This should do," he declared, taking out his own version of their
letter to Borgin. Hermione wanted to tell him if he had went to the
trouble of writing his own stupid letter than he really didn't need to be
scheduling secret meetings with her in the middle of the night, did
he?
So why was she there, then? Hermione gave him a curious look.
"I don't understand why we can't just use a school bird. Something
that's not so-" she stared at Draco's Raptorclawed bird, "-stand-
outish?"
He was giving her his 'are you thick?' look. Hermione knew it well
enough. He was also rather good at, 'I don't have time to explain',
'how very Gryffindor of you' and 'out of my way before I hex you.'
How awful. Hermione couldn't help thinking. She supposed that the
easiest way to intercept a message or parcel would be to simply
shoot down the courier (ala Professor Sprout's unfortunate delivery
macaw). Though she couldn't remember the last time she had heard
of an owl coming to such a nasty end. If she could find time in
between helping Dumbledore win a war, looking for post-Hogwarts
employment, and ending her accidental marriage to Malfoy,
Hermione decided that she might just pursue a campaign promoting
more humane treatment of all Familiars.
Draco gently attached the missive to Pete's leg via a slim, metallic
cuff, and then fed him the Owl Treats. Pete swallowed three in one
sitting.
"Safe trip," he whispered before launching the bird into the air.
The owl's wing span was impressive. As was his beauty. He soared
in a perfect circle once over the Owlery, before disappearing
soundlessly out of sight. They stood there in silence for a moment,
listening to the night time sounds and the faint whistle of the wind as
it passed over the top of the Owlery
Hermione was caught completely off guard. How did one explain
Kermit the Frog to a wizard? The answer seemed relatively simple.
One probably didn't.
"It's a Muggle thing," she ended up saying, feeling odd. Insanity, she
decided, was trying to explain the Muppets or Sesame Street to
Draco Malfoy, at two-thirty in the morning whilst hiding from a team
of ten Aurors who were likely to Petrify them before asking
questions.
"You made a reference to the Pope, and when I asked you what you
meant with your sarcastic little dig concerning my father, you
assumed I didn't know who the Pope was."
"Genius," he told her, nearly tapping her on the head for emphasis.
"Did you work that out on your own?"
She made a frustrated sound. "My God, you really are impossible to
get along with."
He folded his arms and stared at her. "Why, have you been trying to
get along with me?"
"You know, I'm glad Dumbledore told the school what really
happened yesterday."
Hermione wondered that she hadn't noticed how close they were
standing together. Her heart-rate sped up slightly when he brushed a
fluffy white feather from where it was resting on her collarbone. The
dragon that was tattooed onto her thigh seemed to be doing some
sort of slow, psychic glide up her body. The feeling was much too
bizarre to get used to, even after nearly a week of feeling it every
now and then.
"Gryffindors may make for good martyrs. But they're terrible liars. It
shows too much in your eyes."
"We should probably get going," she rushed out, remembering the
risk they were taking, and she didn't think this only referred to them
meeting outside of curfew. "The Aurors include the Owlery in their
rounds."
Peter Pettigrew was not big fan of nature. The many years he had
spent in Animagus form had seen to that. It was a real shame, Peter
thought, that the thrill, the sense of wonder and awe, that feeling that
you were one step closer to whatever or wherever it was all living
this came from tended to wane when you were compelled to live as
a rodent for more than a decade.
He had had his fill of living close to the earth, of hiding, scurrying and
doing all manner of unattractive yet necessary, rat-like things in order
to survive. These days, he liked to walk to get to wherever it was he
was going. 'Scurrying' had long become a dirty word.
What startled him now was the fact that the mere sight of Hogwarts
Castle was making him hunch over, twitch like crazy and, to his
dismay, scurry .
Old habits were hard to break, and it was apparent that school held
too many memories. Peter found himself hurtling along the edge of
the forest on feet that were much clumsier than those of his ratself.
Transformation would have made things smoother, easier on the
whole, but he was in a stubborn mood that evening.
He stumbled over a tree root. This was unavoidable seeing as he
was travelling in near darkness. He would not use his wand to light
the way until he was well and truly beyond any sign of human
habitation. Peter's rat senses, always just on the periphery of his
usual (and dull in comparison) human sense, rose to the fore. His
nose picked up the distant scent of someone's barbequed dinner
and his own stomach, not having experienced a decent feed in
several days, began to groan in earnest.
But Peter was hardly uninformed, and knew the tree to be much
more special. The Rowan had been one of Tom Riddle's earliest
experiments. The tree was magical, of course. Peter's rat senses
could detect that unmistakable taint coming from it, curling in the air
like invisible smoke, keeping small, furry, forest inhabitants well
away. It wasn't Dark or Light Magic, which had more of a bland,
metallic scent to his nose, but a type of cloying, old magic smell that
was difficult to describe.
The seed that spawned the tree had been sewn during an
auspicious time in Tom Riddle's third year. There had been some
Divination involved, plenty of chart consulting and very basic
Arithmancy to select the ideal spot in the forest on the ideal day. If
the fast-growing sapling had been a Herbology project, Riddle would
have come away with full marks and then some.
The project soon turned more sinister, however, when Riddle began
to nurture the young tree with regular offerings of his own blood,
diligently dripped into the dirt at the base of the tree every so often.
There were also charms, layers upon layers of simple but potent
charms that had aged like vintage wine over the years.
In a way, the Rowan was as much Riddle's creature as Peter himself
was.
It had taken them some real effort to activate the thing after so many
years and Voldemort himself could not offer any assurance as to
whether it would still work. The tree had been in magical hibernation
for over four decades and had nearly sapped the strength of three
grown men when their Master had repeated his old, childhood
commands. Since then however, the tree had been happily fulfilling
its purpose in a secluded, shady spot not two miles from where the
castle stood.
So far so sneaky.
Anyone who carried the Dark Mark upon his or her person could
linger beneath the welcoming camouflage of the tree's canopy
without being discovered. A team of Aurors could walk past in broad
daylight and see nothing more untoward than a rather young tree in
a forest full of ancients.
The brat, in actual fact, was petting and cooing at the tree. And was
it his morbid imagination or was that eerie creaking and wood-
groaning noise evidence that the tree was actually leaning toward
the child in delighted response?
"You're late, Wormtail," said the youth, whose face was caught in
shaft of moonlight.
Peter's heart rate sped up slightly when he took in the very familiar
and rather disturbing sight of Harry Potter. His green eyes were
eerily illuminated by the yellow flare of Peter's own wand. The
messy, black hair was as unruly as ever, the expressive Quidditch-
roughened hands that were stroking the trunk of the Rowan as if it
were an affectionate horse were a little larger and more robust than
Peter last remembered.
"I trust you managed to leave the castle undetected?" Peter asked.
There was a protocol for these types of meetings, whether the child
liked to remember it or not.
"The Dark Lord sends his regrets at the unfortunate incident in the
forest," Peter repeated the line as per his Master's instructions. The
brat snorted. "So he should. Fancy giving me a tainted wand to use!
I trust the persons responsible for stealing a marked wand in the first
place have been punished? I can't see our Master being forgiving in
this instance. To see the Dark Mark sullied by the symbol of the
Malfoy cowards…"
In any case, they had indeed been fortunate that the Aurors had not
got much further with wand-marking charms than the Dark Lord
himself. What the Aurors had managed to do was ensure that the
stolen wand smartly advertised its whereabouts every time a Dark
spell was used.
If Malfoy was aware of what had occurred, no doubt the traitor would
be rolling with laughter.
So far, their little Recruiter had done very well in covering any
inadvertent tracks after the unfortunate Dark Mark incident. There
would be no more room for mistakes. Not with only a week left
before the current batch of Death Eater candidates were too far
away to influence.
"Are we still to proceed as usual then?" asked the brat, who was still
wearing Potter's likeness. "I gather that is why our Master has
arranged this meeting?"
Peter did not skirt around the issue. "There were concerns about
your ability to continue with the plan given the… heightened Auror
presence around the castle."
The green eyes narrowed. "That whole business with the Mark
transforming into Lucius' damnable dragon has worked to our
advantage, Pettigrew. Not only has it had the desired effect on
people, but all eyes are firmly fixed on Draco now." The child gave
him a cat-like smile. "Half the school still thinks he had something to
do with it. The other half pities him."
"A fortunate distraction," Peter began, "but I was still sent to make
certain that you remain above suspicion. Our recruitment effort
would be severely jeapordised if you were to be compromised." The
child grinned. "Why Wormy, I didn't know you cared. Our Master's
recruitment effort will run smoothly, I assure you. Tell him not to
worry. He has me, after all, and we both know I'm the real prize."
That was partially true. Their side could use a few more monsters-in-
the-making like the one standing before Peter.
Peter handed the brat a small cloth sack. "Here are the portkeys, as
arranged. There are three in total taken from the Ministry." Faced
with the child's uneasy look at mention of more Ministry artifacts,
Peter was quick to reassure.
"These have been checked thoroughly and then checked again. All
the portkeys were found to be completely unmarked."
Now looking pleased, the brat dug further into the bag. "Excellent! I
like it when you bring me toys, Wormy."
The brat merely smirked and then held up to the moonlight, the
aforementioned Death Portal. It was a glass ball roughly the size of
an orange. Sloshing around within the ball was dark, viscous liquid -
Dragon's blood. A silver coin floated inside.
"There is one more thing," Peter added. To his relief, his young
companion put the deadly portkey safely back into the sack.
"Yes?"
"Our Master would like a gift, if you can manage it. Your future within
the New Order will be further confirmed if you can deliver Lucius's
son to us, alive."
Peter was not prepared for the sudden show of fury. "There is
nothing, nothing that Draco Malfoy can provide our Master that I
cannot! What that traitor's spawn can do, I can and wil l do better.
Surely our Master doesn't still plan on bringing him to our side!"
The brat still looked sceptical. "Why not go for Potter? I could get
close enough to make an attempt." The face of Harry Potter, with its
angular jaw and notable cheekbones seemed to shimmer and ripple,
like the surface of a disturbed pond. In its place was the heart-
shaped face with heavily lashed, dark eyes and a small, slightly
pouting, rose bud mouth.
Peter stared at Hermione Granger, realizing that Potter was not the
only one who had done a great deal of growing up in the past two
years.
"You will leave Potter alone for now. We have other plans for him."
The child nodded. "I like this new, improved Dark Lord. That whole
'get Potter' obsession was not at all attractive. The world is more
than just one boy."
Saturday Morning.
Ginny smiled kindly. "You're not the only one. Have a look around the
Hall. Everyone's sort of poking at their breakfast."
"Since never," Hermione said, lamenting that she couldn't enjoy her
food. She usually loved pancakes. "Must be a special treat for end of
year doldrums," She slide her plate over to Ginny and watched with
amusement as the other girl made quick work of the stack.
It could be that she was coming down with the flu. There was a bug
going around the castle. Ron had already started with the sniffles,
while Ginny was recovering from a sore throat. What with coughs,
colds and the impending end of a school year that shaped out to be
worrying but dull, the mood around the castle was ambiguous.
Ron generally did not approve of any of Ginny's suitors, having the
opinion that most men, him included, were perverted scum.
Further along the table sat Luna, who was once again sitting with the
Gryffindors. She was engrossed in animated conversation with a
slightly worried looking Neville. Hermione was vaguely able to make
out the phrases, 'only when it's dark, though' and 'never on a full
stomach'.
God bless Luna, thought Hermione, with a small smile. The girl had
never stopped inquiring about potential DA meetings, even though
the group had been on indefinite hiatus.
In fact, it felt like a lot of things had been on indefinite hiatus since
fifth year.
The monthly Order meetings held at Grimmauld Place had been put
on hold that month. With Dumbledore's reinstatement to the
Wizengamot and various other Ministry meetings hastened by Arthur
Weasley, the Headmaster was a very busy man. He was away that
morning, likewise Professor Lupin, though the school knew this to be
because Thursday evening had been the start of a full moon.
"Hmm," Hermione replied. Once she was satisfied that Harry was
occupied regaling Ginny with Quidditch highlights from the past year,
she said, "But we're not going to say it, Ronald. Thinking it is bad
enough."
"Yeah."
"That's a good thing, Ron." She watched him pour more syrup over
the pancake fort that was his breakfast.
"Boring and uneventful happens to be just how I like it. It means I
don't have to worry about you lot. Harry deserves a bit of peace and
quiet and I'm certain Dumbledore wouldn't begrudge him that."
Something was definitely up. It was then that Hermione noticed the
Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, Lisa Turpin and Hufflepuff Captain,
Zacharias Smith, at the entrance of the Hall. Both were looking
expectantly in Harry's direction. Both were looking excited.
Draco sat down. Harry obviously thought this a very odd thing for
Draco to do. His hand froze in the task of brining a spoonful of his
breakfast to his mouth.
"Is it too early in the day to hex someone, do you think?" Ginny
interrupted, to no one in particular. She had paused in the act of
stirring her coffee to roll her wand in her hands.
"Ah, Little Weasley," Draco leered at her. "You on the other hand, are
looking rather fit. I must say my team has been enjoying your
morning jogs around the pitch. It's the only reason the lazy sods are
willing to get up at seven am on a weekend, you know."
Ron went predictably red in the face. This was exactly the sort of
perverted scum-like behaviour he often warned Ginny about.
"Malfoy, stop staring at my sister and I'll smash your face in."
"You mean before you smash my face in," Draco corrected helpfully.
Hermione rolled her eyes. As was usually the case with Malfoy,
things were getting out of hand. Other students were already staring.
"Ron, shut up. Malfoy, if you have something to say to Harry, spit it
out. And in answer to your question Ginny, no, I don't believe it is
ever too early in the day to hex someone if they soundly deserve it."
Draco gave them all a bland smile. "I'm here to ask Potter if he and
his team of Quidditch berks would be interested in participating in a
friendly match."
Draco casually glanced down the table to where Neville sat, staring
at him as if he were a new Flobberworm that had just only appeared
out of the muck of Flobberworms that was the rest of Gryffindor
table.
She was so startled by this that she nearly dropped her tea cup.
Fortunately, the rest of the table were too occupied with the news of
an impending Quidditch game against an Auror team, no less, to
notice that Draco had successfully passed Hermione yet another
note right under everyone's noses.
Turpin and Smith were consulting the list of Auror players that
Madam Hooch was passing around with great seriousness.
"It says here that Henry Williamson is a Beater. My sister still tells us
stories about how he never failed to break a Keeper's nose at least
once a year…" Turpin informed them, sounding apprehensive.
"Lisa, am I right to assume that Beth Pennywise is too ill to put her
name down for Chaser?" asked Hooch.
Goyle too, was also unable to play. His broken leg was coming along
nicely, but it would not be up to scratch in time for the game, four
days hence.
"We only need one Seeker for the match," Turpin said, sensing
impending doom.
"Thank you Lisa, after six years of playing Quidditch and two years
of being captain, and being completely insane about the sport since
the age of three, I'd somehow forgotten that fact," Draco airily
remarked.
Hooch was looking very sympathetic. "I'm sorry Harry, but you've
been barred from playing."
"Say it, don't spray it…" Turpin muttered, dabbing at her face with
the back of her hand.
Harry began pacing about the small office. "I can't believe this! Do
you have any idea how dull it's been lately? This game is going to be
nothing short of brilliant, and I'm not allowed to play! If there's any
danger, it's all in Snape's imagination."
" Professor Snape," Draco corrected, looking like his day had just
been made.
"Er," Smith interjected. "Harry, there was that whole thing with Lucius
Malfoy's wand in the forest. Professor Dumbledore said that the
wand was most likely stolen by Death Eaters, and who knows for
what sinister reasons."
"Yes, but I'm not in any danger!" Harry told Zacharias, looking slightly
maniacal. "For me, this entire year has been event free, if anything!"
"Yeah!" said Harry, now turning his frustration to Draco. "You are a
hell of a lot easier to spot in the air, Malfoy. You're like some big,
blond, annoying…" he thought hard for a comparison. "Pigeon! That
can't even fly straight."
Draco scowled. It might have been a little-known fact, but one of the
easiest ways to prick his temper was to insult his Quidditch abilities.
His eyes darkened to slate.
"Oh like the 'pigeon' insult was genius to begin with?" Draco spat.
" Just fuck off and die already,," Harry hissed at Draco, in
Parseltongue. The effect it had on the room was immediate. Turpin
and Smith looked uncomfortable. Madam Hooch, meanwhile, was
livid. Having no idea what Harry had just said, but able to make an
educated guess.
"Our Seeker is-" The four captains waited as she unfolded the bit of
paper. The expression on her face as she read the name could best
be described as 'long suffering'.
"Draco Malfoy."
Draco Malfoy was a very strange boy. It would appear that he had
given her a walnut.
In the quiet of her Advanced Runes class, Hermione sat at her desk
and stared incredulously at the nut until she realized - feeling quite
silly when she did - that it was a transfigured letter.
Well, duh, Granger, she could well imagine Draco saying, rolling his
eyes.
Professor Flores had given her seventh year Gryffindor and Slytherin
class the latest quiz from Monthly Runes Companion to occupy their
time. Hermione rushed through the set, pleased to be able to
decipher the series of symbols in half a period.
Checking to see that the rest of the class was still absorbed in the
task, she carefully placed the walnut in her lap, and transformed it
back to its original state.
Pete returned early this morning with a reply from our Contact. It was
apparently raining in London. Stupid bird did not appreciate the foul
weather and nipped YEOH's finger. Thankfully for Pete, No blood
was drawn, but wound stings most terribly in shower. YEOH?
Frowning, Hermione re-read the line to make sure that she had it
right. Who or what on earth was 'YEOH'?
Sincerely,
Her lips twitched with amusement. So that was it, then - 'Y.E.O.H'.
Malfoy, on the other hand was not a normal boy. He was downright
bizarre on occasion. However, it was still slightly embarrassing to
know that even he was capable of noticing Ron's continual faux
pars. She really ought to have a discreet word with her friend.
"Yes." She knew better than to offer assistance. Blaise never any
accepted help, and frankly, didn't need it. "I hate Elder Futhark," he
complained. "The cryptic riddles drive me insane."
"I like the riddles," Hermione shrugged. She had never made a point
of apologizing for her intellect, and wasn't about to start now.
The Slytherin Common room was abuzz that Saturday evening, and
not just because a pair of conspiring first years had managed to
sneak in a can of Wheezes Fabulous Fudge Flies into the lounge.
News of the friendly Quidditch Match had been very well received by
the rest of the school.
Draco was seated on the carpet by the fireplace with his legs
crossed and his head hidden behind a copy of the Daily Prophet.
Dragon's blood was up in price again following a daring theft of a
shipment from Hungary. He was having trouble paying attention to
the rest of the financial news on page twenty-three because Pansy
kept tapping him on the leg, requesting that he re-tell what the others
were now calling the 'Public Castration of Harry Potter'.
"Castration's a bit harsh, isn't it?" Carmen Meliflua was saying. "More
like Potter's had his wings clipped." Dodders, a small, bug-eyed,
third year boy, was quick to comment. He was also rapidly making
his way through a tin of biscuits. "Still, being benched for a game like
this… I mean they let him and everyone else play Quidditch when
that Chamber of Secrets business happened a few years back."
It had taken less than a day for the nickname 'tadpole' to stick.
He pointed a chubby digit at Draco. "You don't scare me, Malfoy. Not
anymore. I don't care who you are. You're not even a prefect for
much longer, so why don't you just piss off and leave the rest of us in
peace!" With an expression of great dignity, he brushed past a
gawking Carmen and disappeared into the boys' dormitory.
"Well," Carmen declared, after the door to the dorm slammed shut. "
His days are certainly numbered."
Draco folded his paper and wondered what the hell had just
happened. A third year student that was no longer afraid of him?
Surely such a thing was not possible?
Such a thing had very nearly happened when Lucius had been
imprisoned.
It had taken him months to recover his standing. Strategic
viciousness in the form of Crabbe and Goyle, had helped, of course.
As had Pansy Parkinson. Pansy knew every little bit of gossip about
everyone. She knew that Blaise's father was keen on lads not much
older than Blaise himself; knew that Elena Longerbridge in fifth year
had a sixth toe on her right foot (which was why she never wore
open-toed shoes, not even in summer); was well aware that the now
graduated Alex Montague had a corrupt bureaucrat grandfather who
was being blackmailed by everyone who had a stake in the man's
department.
It was Pansy who put an end to the silence that evening. Her voice
was tense when she spoke. "The lot of you, off to bed. Now ."
"What? Even me?" Blaise asked. He was sitting with Goyle in the far
corner.
"Yes, you too, Head Boy," Pansy ordered, more imploringly this time.
"You need your beauty sleep."
They shuffled off, curious but compliant. When the last student had
shut the door behind him, Pansy sat down on the floor beside Draco.
"What's the matter with you?" she snapped. "If Dodders had said
that to you a month ago, you'd have fed him his shoes."
Draco drew his knees up and rested his forehead against them. The
find, blond strands of his hair looked shiny against the black wool of
his school pants. His voice was muffled when he spoke. "I'm just
tired, Pansy. It's old age. I'm not fifteen anymore, you know. I'm
going on eighteen, which is nearly twenty. By twenty-one, I imagine
I'll be over the hill and jowl-y"
"Oh, shut up," she said, annoyed. "Is there something going on lately
that you're not telling me about?"
Draco discovered that he was seriously tempted to unload.
Yeah, there are a few things going on, actually. Where shall I begin?
My father's slowly going insane at our enormous, rotting, mansion
and I think he's in real danger of going completely mental. Any day
now I expect to hear news along the lines of how he attempted to do
away with our remaining, elderly, house elf, utilizing an ingenious
plan involving escargot tongs and a ball of string. In addition, it would
appear that there is a crazy, spell-happy, Voldemort supporter loose
somewhere near Hogwarts, determined to recruit a new generation
of massive idiots before the year's end. Because of this, the Ministry
wants me to spy on my own friends in exchange for allowing me to
get my hands on what should be mine by birthright. Oh, and if that
doesn't curdle your milk, Pansy dear, I married and shagged
Hermione Granger last weekend and now the girl is quite literally
under my skin, though lately I've been wishing she were in my pants
instead. Yes, Pansy! I am the victim of magic, luck and hormones
most foul! I can't stop thinking about that puffy-haired harpy. I want to
speak to her, touch her, stare at the freckles on her nose when they
come out under the sun. I want to pet her stupid cat, I want to make
her smile, blush, watch her push soggy pancake around her plate…
"
There's nothing going on," Draco replied, in a voice that had gone
slightly thick. Pansy narrowed her blue eyes at him.
This time, the silence lasted a good, two minutes, at the end of
which, Draco announced, "Well, fuck…
" Pansy rolled her eyes. "Good thing I wasn't expecting flowery
declarations…"
"You don't want me, Pansy. I'll cheat on you. I'll be mean and nasty
and you'll hate me forever." She did not seem surprised or flustered
by any of this. "I know. Only because you don't love me back. Not
that way."
"You and I, we're not bred for that sort of thing. People like us join
into contracts, not vows of everlasting love. I adore you, but I'd
stomp all over your greedy little heart," he told her.
She raised her chin. Draco could not help but notice that her nose
looked even briefer when she did that. "Who says I'm greedy?"
"I've got nothing to offer anyone right now," he added, earnestly. "We
were at a disadvantage the moment our fathers became Death
Eaters. If we have children, they wouldn't know any other life apart
from one where people will be suspicious and afraid and distrusting.
He failed us, Pansy, Voldemort failed us the moment he fucked up
his own, grand vision. He's a lost cause. I consider myself lucky to
have realized this before I end up like my father… banished, crazy
and yet still managing to look deadly sexy in a silk dressing gown."
There was a quizzical note to Draco's voice.
"Yes, but you still have your lands and your title coming to you
eventually!" Pansy insisted. "My family, on the other hand, has lost
nearly everything that was worth something to us. We're living on a
rented estate, for Merlin's sake! The Parkinsons are pariahs. I have
nothing left to lose except you, Draco, and really-" she knelt beside
him so that he would look at her "-I never had you in the first place."
"Pansy…"
She cut him off with a raised hand. "I'm not propositioning you. I'm
just not one for change. I liked life the way it was when we first came
here. I liked having pretty things and money and a family history that
meant something to the rest of our world. I liked you the way you
were.
Draco gave her an exasperated look. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm still the
same person."
"No, you can't," she agreed. She smiled gaily, kissed him on the
cheek and rose to her feet, which in Pansy terms meant that she
was through discussing something. "I'm so looking forward to the
game on Wednesday. Make sure you catch that Snitch, Draco. I
detest Aurors and nothing would please me more in this last week of
school, than seeing those Ministry goons walk away from the pitch
as the match losers."
"Anything for the girl who loves me," he muttered, suddenly feeling
more alone than he had ever felt in his young life.
Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday
That afternoon constituted the most time she had ever spent in his
presence. His Blondness (as Ron had started calling him, among
other things) had appointed himself the role of Captain of the
Hogwarts side.
The teachers had given the players the afternoon off to meet up and
strategize. The Auror team was not awarded any such luxury
because they were on duty until the shift change just before the
match. This arrangement did not appear to bother the unflappable
'Team Auror'. They looked nonplussed, not even when small,
excitable first years ran up to them to ask for autographs. Tonks
apparently found all this very amusing and teased her colleagues to
no end.
The rest of the school, unfortunately, still had to attend their classes.
Everyone was hot, sweaty and prone to staring out classroom
windows for long periods. This was especially the case for Harry. He
parked himself next to a window in Transfiguration and made no
attempt whatsoever to pay attention to Professor McGonagall's
advice as to how best to proceed with an academic career in the
subject (Hermione had asked).
Before practice, the hallowed 'Hogwarts Team', had sat in the locker
rooms to seriously discuss what they would do. Ginny had brought
sun cream and a banana because she figured she'd be missing
lunch that day.
The tension was eased somewhat once the team were out on the
pitch, in the fresh air, and on their brooms. Ron, who was nearly
beside himself with anxiety at being the selected Keeper, had nearly
come to blows with Malfoy when the decision had to be made
regarding their main strategy.
Diplomacy eventually triumphed and the team agreed that the Auror
side were probably expecting a defensive game from the Hogwarts
players, which was exactly why they would be going on the offence
from the moment the whistle blew.
Sharon Pucey led the Beaters and Ron through a common toss-and-
dodge drill, while Ginny and Malfoy hovered at the edge of the pitch
for a breather.
"How long will we be playing a purely offensive game?" Ginny asked.
She had to wait for Malfoy to finish shouting at Ravenclaw's Anne
Takamara, reminding her why women did not usually make good
Beaters.
"Do we really hold that record?" Ron asked. He had a curious habit
of materializing out of thin air every time Malfoy so much as muttered
to Ginny.
Malfoy had brought his right foot up onto his broom to tighten the
laces on his Quidditch boots, all the while maintaining perfect
balance. There was a delicate flush to his cheeks from his practice
session. His hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears.
Overhead, the sky was overcast and it seemed that the shadow and
movement of the clouds were reflected in his clear, grey eyes.
He flew a lot like Harry, Ginny noted, which made sense given that
both boys were Seekers and were similarly built. The difference was
that Harry tended to play with his heart, using instinct to pull off some
of his more spectacular moves. Malfoy played with his head. He was
cool and calculated about things.
Twice, during practice, he had dived for the Snitch only to pull up
halfway when he assessed that there would no chance of catching
up with his tiny, golden prey without crashing into the pitch. Harry
would have gone for it. To hell with the broken shoulder or collarbone
that may have awaited him at the end of his plummet.
"I don't recall that move working very well when your team went
against us last time, Malfoy," Ginny added, rather smugly. Malfoy
apparently brought out the worst in her. She wondered if he had the
same effect on everyone.
The look Malfoy gave her was one part leer, two parts amused.
"That's because Potter cheated."
"Oh, yes, he did," Draco replied. "I imagine you'd be all shocked and
stunned if he told you that the only reason Sharon's usually superb
aim was off on that particular day was because Potter jabbed her in
the ribs with his bloody broom handle just before she released the
Quaffle. And I'm not talking about the kind of jab that Sharon, bless
her depraved heart, would have preferred."
"Oh, shut up, Malfoy. That was an accident."
Ginny coloured slightly. "You make it sound like you don't make
mistakes on the pitch." She saw that Malfoy was now watching Ron
do a rather impressive backward flip in order to catch Sharon's toss.
"On the contrary, Little Weasley, I make mistakes all the time."
Draco regarded her with mild suspicion. "Given that you Gryffindors
have already won the blasted Quidditch cup this year, I suppose it's
safe to tell you that I generally won't catch the Snitch when I'm
chasing it on my left."
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Don't be daft. I'm sure I've seen you do just
that."
"Why can't you catch on your left?" Ginny asked. She had to admit
he had done a spectacular job of covering up what ought to have
been a major handicap. The other teams would have paid a tidy sum
for that little bit of information.
"I'm not telling you how, Little Weasley," he leaned in closer for
emphasis and Ginny noted with annoyance that his skin looked just
as fine close up, as it did from a distance. "You only got that first bit
out of me because you're much nicer to look at than your brother, the
Great Orange Ape."
Ginny sighed. She might have been less annoyed with him if he was
making a genuine attempt to flirt with her. That, at least would have
been flattering. She was used to boys becoming somewhat
distracted around her. Instead, Malfoy seemed to be making a token
effort at merely goading her. His attention was firmly on the
upcoming match, which was a good thing.
. Over at the hoops, Sharon Pucey was now trying to get Draco's
attention. She was pointing down at the ground. "I think you've got a
visitor!"
Draco was quickly flipping through said notes. "We've got some
excellent material here which might just come in handy…"
There was a brief moment of silence during which Ron's mouth hung
open slightly.
"And try not to look so confused all the time. It makes you look
simple," Draco added, impatiently.
Sharon sniggered. "Ah. Isn't he the one that had that accident in the
Restricted Section only yesterday?"
"Is that thing still there?" Ginny asked. "It's only been evading
capture since my second year."
" "An injured Keeper is good news for us. If Quartermaine's having
problems with his right hand, our Chasers should aim for that Hoop,"
Sharon deduced. She was used to Draco's pre-game strategizing.
"Bugger."
Carmen was eager to please. "So happens that their Beater Bligh
and this Astrid Huggins have only just started seeing each other.
Maybe that could work to our advantage?"
Draco turned to his female players. There was a glint in his eye.
Sharon Pucey might have called it inspiration. Ginny had to call it
extreme dedication.
"I don't know," he pondered. "Would you girls be willing to show a bit
of skin?"
The sneakiest Harry ever got was asking the Gryffindor team to
engage the enemy with their backs to the sun so as to blind the
opposing players. And by Weasley Twins' standards, even that didn't
really qualify as True Sneakery.
Draco tucked his gloves into the waist of his pants and then held the
locker room doors open for the rest of the team to walk outside. The
sound of the crowd, which also included Hogsmeade villagers and
the visiting family members of students, was steadily growing.
His grin was wolfish. "Yes, Weasley. That and winning ."
Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
It started raining at ten minutes into the match. It wasn't heavy rain,
rather more of a sun-shower that wafted down from the clouds. Not
that this did anything to dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd. They
were used to the sometimes unpredictable Scottish weather and had
come prepared with umbrellas, transparent tarps, raincoats and for
the older students, an assortment of water repelling charms with
various degrees of success.
After thirty minutes had elapsed, the score stood at sixty to fifty, the
Aurors' way. The Auror Side, however, had now caught on to the fact
that the Hogwarts team was playing do-or-die Quidditch and had
given up on any pretence of friendliness.
It was initially apparent that none of the players from either team had
played with their team mates before. There was a brief period of
minor collisions, dropped Quaffles, missed Bludgers and in the case
of Sharon Pucey, momentarily forgetting that Ginny was on her side.
That was true. Aside from the usual blood and gore, spills and thrills
of regular Quidditch, there was also Luna's often hysterical
commentary to look forward to. The Headmaster was a big fan.
"Oh," said Hermione, startled. She glanced down at Harry's left arm
and noticed the telltale crescent shaped indents left by her nails.
"Sorry, Harry."
Harry was far from noticing. Once released from Hermione's death
grip, he began leaning over the edge of the stands in a worrying
fashion. Hermione was about to ask him to quit fidgeting and to sit
down again, but Dean beat her to it. The other boy took an anchoring
hold of the back of Harry's shirt, held fast and grinned.
Hermione might have thanked Dean if he didn't follow up this
supposedly thoughtful act with, "Harry, if we lower you down a little
further, do you reckon you can make out what Hooch is saying?"
The rain had stopped by then and visibility was back to normal. It
was just the kind of weather that one would expect a rainbow to
make an appearance at any moment. An odd sight that would have
been too; something as innocuous as a rainbow amidst hollers, and
shouted abuse, bloody noses, bruises and rude fingers.
"What on earth are you looking at anyway? The game's over there,"
Lavender reminded Harry, pointing to the sky. Madam Hooch had
only just blown her whistle to restart the match. Tanner apparently
regained consciousness, with no lasting ill-effects.
"I'm looking for evidence that Snape was completely off his nut to
suggest that I'd be in any danger if I were flying today," was Harry's
reply.
"Well you're not the only one anxious about the match. Hermione's
nearly as bad you are," Lavender announced.
"Hermione is not at all anxious about the match, thank you very
much!" Hermione snapped, feeling a wave of annoyance towards
Lavender and her stupid pink raincoat.
Dean whistled. "Someone got out of the wrong side of bed this
morning."
Hermione felt sick. She felt like she was about to sit for her NEWTS
all over again. The reason for her predicament was bizarre. The
contents of her stomach, no matter that they were meagre, seemed
to be magically linked with whatever Malfoy was doing on his broom.
When he dove, so did she. When he rocketed upwards, she was
right there with him. When he did a rather impressive pirouette in the
air to avoid Anne Takamara as she determinedly stalked a Bludger
with revenge on her mind, Hermione felt like she was spinning with
him.
Feeling like every goal was a matter of life and death was a new and
interesting experience for her.
"It's like wanting to throw up every two minutes and not really
minding," she recalled a besotted looking Harry once telling her.
Really, it would have helped if Malfoy would just sit still in the air for
longer than a second, but Hermione supposed that wasn't the point
of Quidditch, was it?
Funny how these particular side effects were not specifically
mentioned in Tallowstub's book. Feeling grumpy, Hermione thought it
might be prudent for her to add a Post-It or something to the chapter
on 'Effects'. Something along the lines of 'Under the effects of Fida
Mia, a person may experience every utterly stupid, crazy, suicidal,
dung-headed, Quidditch manoeuvre undertaken by one's Spell
Partner.'
God, she hated flying. The fact that she was completely lousy at it
was not even a determining factor. Well, ok, it was - a little. It all went
back to that first day of broom-handling lessons in their first year.
Her ego preferred to swat that explanation, however, putting forth the
fact that Harry was a freak of nature and thus did not count.
She muttered her thanks and accepted a handful. The cashews gave
her a reason to occupy her hands.
"Another goal by Ginny Weasley! Got it pass the rather big fellow
with thinning hair and the tree-trunk thighs. That's now sixty point to
Hogwarts. I must say, Ronald Weasley's doing a marvellous job in
the face of all this pressure and excitement. Not at all nervous or
nauseas or green in the face. Oooh! Clever little spinny type move
by Hogwarts' own Sharon Pustly there! She does that very well,
doesn't she?"
Over at the Hufflepuff stands, which were nearest, several older boys
began cat-calling at the commentator's box. Blaise did his best
impression of a glacier and sent them all death glares.
"Still no sign of the Snitch, however. Both Malfoy and Tanner are
keeping a sharp eye out. I expect it will be making an appearance
soon. Oh look! Neville Longbottom's waving at me. And he's got
some lovely cashews. I tried one just before the game and they're
positively to die for. THANKS FOR THE NUTS, NEVILLE!" Luna
waved back.
Meanwhile, a goal attempt was made by the Aurors, with Ron nearly
falling off his broom in his bid to catch the shot.
"HE DID NOT!" Blaise interjected, looking enraged. "Will you pay
attention!"
Ginny and Sharon were aiming for a seventh goal for the Hogwarts'
side and were tossing the Quaffle back and forth with impressive
frenzy. Draco hovered by the Gryffindor rings long enough to speak
to Ron, who had just been smacked in the leg by a Bludger.
"This Snitch better show itself soon," Ron grumbled, massaging his
calf. "I think Bligh is trying to kill me."
"Comes with the territory of Beater, Weasley. You have met Crabbe
and Goyle, haven't you?" Draco asked dryly, he sucked in a breath
though his teeth when Astrid Huggins nearly intercepted a daring,
long distance throw from Sharon to Ginny.
"Yeah, but with those two, I get the feeling it's a general dislike of all
Gyffindors. I think Bligh's mission is personal ."
Draco turned to looked at Ron this time, a sardonic smile on his face.
"Quidditch is always personal."
Ron waved a hand dismissively. "Just get the Snitch quickly, will
you? I don't how much longer I can keep this up. A Keeper should
only have to look out for Quaffles, not ruddy, homicidal Bludgers. By
the way, that other Seeker, Tanner? Keep feinting and I'll wager he'll
keep following. He's not the most hard-working Seeker around, if
you've noticed," Ron advised.
Draco had noticed. Seekers and Keepers had the good fortune of
time and distance to pick up on these sorts of things. Tanner seemed
intent on shadowing Draco as he hung high over the pitch to get a
clear view. Draco thought him an odd choice for a Seeker. The man's
build seemed more suited to a Beater, but there was no denying he
was very quick.
"Feinting keeps my eyes off the prize. It's too risky. The man's lazy,
not blind."
"If you're wrong about this Weasley, I'll have to come round to fetch a
testicle in the evening."
"This is Quidditch," Ron said, grinning, using the exact same tone
Draco had used on him earlier. "That's a fair trade."
Just then, the crowd erupted into boos as Sharon was side-swiped
by Huggins just as she threw the Quaffle at the Auror's central ring.
Quartermaine deflected the wayward shot easily and the score
remained even.
The wait for the elusive Snitch was a short one. As all attention
became firmly fixed on Ron as he fought off a fresh assault, Draco
finally caught sight of it. It was whirring about roughly ten meters
below.
A quick glance at Tanner revealed that the Auror Seeker had no idea
as yet. Draco made a show of looking behind him very suddenly and
bringing his broom about in preparation to speed off.
Time to end this, thought Draco with an inward smile. As was usually
the case, all other matters pertaining to the game faded away into
the background and all that concerned Draco, as it would any other
Seeker, was the fact that the Golden Snitch was now within reach.
Tanner was still nowhere in sight, but not so Bligh. Draco heard the
Beater come at him, before he actually saw him.
While Bligh's words were not surprising, his kick was. It caught
Draco square between the shoulder blades and ought to have sent
him flying off his broom, but Draco had the sense to take his broom
with him even as he went over.
The Snitch was lost, however. And Tanner had just noticed.
The impact winded him and for a brief moment, Draco experienced
the horribly familiar sensation of trying to take in a breath and finding
his lungs to be uncooperative. He was only vaguely aware that both
Ron Weasley and Horace Sommerby were shouting from some
distance above and that Sommerby was showing off an impressive
array of swear words which no Hufflepuff ought to have known.
Before even allowing Draco a chance to sort out grass from sky, and
completely ignoring Madam Hooch's shrill whistle, Bligh darted forth
and butted Draco in the face with his broom handle. He then shouted
at Tanner to start questing for the Snitch, which was no doubt
nearby.
Ginny was the first on the scene. The relatively calm expression on
her face showed that she was no stranger to violence and un-
sportsmanlike behaviour in Quidditch. Draco tipped back his head
and swiped at his bleeding nose with his right sleeve, while Ginny
eyed him with a frown. "Malfoy, I think your shoulder's out."
Ah, so it was. That would explain the blinding pain, then. Ignoring his
nose, Draco began prodding at the area.
"Er, maybe you should do that on the ground. We'll ask Madam
Hooch to-"
Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Merlin's painted toenails, Malfoy! You don't
really need to be that hardcore."
Ginny was convinced that Draco was about to pass out. His shoulder
was now back in place, but he looked a shade of white she hadn't
seen before. He sucked in a long, shuddering breath and unfurled
himself slowly.
The sneaky little thing was hovering in circular motion just over their
heads, like an eavesdropper. As if just realizing it had been seen, it
shot upwards with a speed reminiscent of Granger's right arm during
question time in Charms class.
"Hell," Draco swore. He was too worn out to think of anything more
creative. The bright white, vision blurring pain in his shoulder was
only just starting to recede. His left arm felt like it would drop of if he
tried to move, and yet he knew he must.
Draco didn't have to turn around to know that Tanner had heard her
and was coming at them like a souped-up, Muggle firecracker. The
loud boos and hisses of the entire population of Hogwarts plus
Hogsmeade residents, were hot on his tail.
The score was dead even. If Draco caught the Snitch now, victory
would be Hogwarts'.
The not so nice prefects, on the other hand - and really, there were
only two - were more ambivalent, rather than corrupt. Hermione and
Blaise ran a tight ship and the fact that they got on without too much
bickering themselves, set an example (or indeed, precedent) for the
rest of the school to follow.
An example of a worthwhile perk was the fact that prefects were not
always bound by annoying things like curfew, bedtime and restricted
sections. Prefects were quite able to go missing for relatively long
periods without anyone asking where, why and how.
Prefects were also rewarded with the occasional haven that was the
Prefects Bathroom. And what a place it was.
After the match was over, it was Ginny who suggested a bath to cure
whatever it was that Hermione was suffering from.
"You look feverish," she told the Head Girl. "And your hair is wanting
a good wash.
Ron was glowing, Ginny was pink cheeked, Harry was envious and
ecstatic, and the Gyrffindor lounge smelled distinctly like Sweaty
Boy.
There was quite obviously a reason why the tub could fit more than
one, stout prefect, though that particular use of the bathroom was
never uttered in polite company. Ron was not usually deemed to be
polite company and had on more than one occasion, speculated
aloud.
There had been a time when dating Ron had seemed a logical,
almost natural progression, but things had changed in their sixth
year. It would have been… well, simple .
Ending up together wouldn't have been a challenge. But Hermione
knew that despite his easy-going outlook on life, Ron was after more
than 'easy'.
Once she was safely cloistered in the bathroom, having added the
'Do Not Disturb' tag to the door, she knelt beside the numerous taps
that circled the tub and decided that a refreshing bath was in order.
The humid weather simply called for it.
When the water was nearly to the desired level, Hermione removed
the bobby pins that held her fringe back, stripped off her clammy
uniform and stepped into the bath.
Three quick breast strokes brought her to the far end of the tub
where she determined she would soak until the mooncalfs came
home.
Hogwarts Hospital Wing
"Mr. Malfoy! Will I have to chain your unwilling person to the bed in
order to get a look at that shoulder?" Madam Pomfrey demanded.
She had had enough of the rude, sullen boy, who was obviously in a
great deal of pain and was refusing to admit it. The bothersome
shoulder of his had always been a problem. Malfoy was seated
rather stiffly on the edge of an infirmary bed. He would have
probably said something nasty in response, but his mouth was a
grim, flat line of pain. He looked terrible, but was still on form enough
to give her a snooty look.
The Parkinson girl was also there, hovering over him like a mother
penguin intent on grooming her stubborn chick. "Madam Pomfrey, I
can look after him," she assured. "I'll just take him back to the
Common Room. They're having a celebration in his honour, you see.
He absolutely has to be there."
Poppy gave the girl a hostile look. "He absolutely doesn't have to be
anywhere, Miss Parkinson, unless I declare him fit enough to do so."
She turned her attention back to Malfoy. "At least let me give you a
salve to rub over the area. You can leave it on for an hour or so while
you rest a bit."
"We'll do that, then," Pansy said, snatching the small pot of salve
from Madam Pomfrey's grasp.
Pomfrey took another good, long look at Malfoy. He was still in full
Quidditch gear, gloves and all. The poor boy was probably in too
much discomfort to remove any of it at the moment.
"Mr Malfoy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist on some sort of
treatment. If not, I'll be forced to take this matter to Professor
Snape."
That seemed to get his attention. When all else fails, it was a wise
person who mentioned Snape to a stubborn Slytherin. "What do you
suggest?" he whispered, through gritted teeth. His slate gray stare
was cool, as always, but there was a hint of a challenge. He knew
she was trying to offer him an outlet and was curious to see if she
could deliver.
"A bath," Pomfrey declared, with authority. "If you won't let me look at
you, then at least spend some time applying the salve before
soaking in the bath for a bit. The analgesic in the balm works
optimally with heat."
"I do."
"Is this really for the bath or were you just being helpful?" Malfoy
asked, unscrewing the cap, and sniffing at the balm tentatively. He
tilted his head to the side and regarded Madam Pomfrey with an
amused, indulgent expression.
At that moment, he looked that much like his father that Poppy had
to resist taking a step back in alarm.
"It's my job to be helpful, young man," she replied, putting a chill into
her voice. His particular brand of smoothness would not work on her.
"And yes, that particular analgesic works best with applied heat. It's
maker, Professor Snape, assures me of it."
"If Professor Snape made it, it must be the best," Malfoy commented
dryly, screwing the cap back on. "Thank you." He stood up slowly,
still looking like someone had jammed a metal rod up his left arm.
Madam Pomfrey stopped him when he was at the door. Merlin knew
why she said it. Perhaps because it was the end of school of his
schooling and the last time she would see him alone again for
possibly forever. Or maybe it was because it simply needed to be
said.
"You know, Draco, you don't always have to do what people expect
you to do." He didn't look startled or angry at the question. Merely
resigned. "If I did anything else, Madam Pomfrey, I think the world
would spin off its axis."
Draco made his way to the one place he knew he would have
enough privacy to collapse into an unmanly heap - the Prefects
Bathroom.
The pain in his shoulder was lessening slowly, but it still hurt to be
moving. He felt every footstep, every stair and every time his heart
sent a fresh surge of blood pumping up to the injured area. By the
time he reached the fifth floor and approached the portrait of Boris
the Bewildered, he wanted nothing more than to lie in a warm bath,
shut his eyes and plot exacting revenge on the terribly unwise
Donald Bligh.
There, resting on the door handle was the 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Just
beyond the doors, Draco could just make out the sound of running
water.
His frustration washed away like a sand castle in the wake of a rising
tide. He found his cheek and his palm pressed up gently against the
door, and no idea how both had come to be there.
She was in there, alone. And he was standing there with nothing but
a door separating them. Even better still, everyone else was
someplace else.
The road ahead leads to trouble, the Rational Part of his brain
advised. Possibly more than just one kind of trouble. Best to order a
quick retreat back to the dungeons where Pansy and the others are
probably keeping your butter beer chilled for you.
I don't want butter beer, the Evil Bastard Part of his brain retorted. I
want to be in the company of the girl who makes me forget about my
hurts.
As it turned out, the Rational Part of his brain was about as strong
willed as a rabbit loose in a vegetable patch.
The room was incredibly steamy. If Draco closed his eyes, it was
possible to imagine that he was stepping into the middle of a warm,
fragrant cloud. He was pleasantly reminded of the Turkish Bath
Houses he visited while on holiday in Istanbul with his mother.
She was chin deep in the water when he spotted her, probably
seated on one of the lower steps that were situated on opposite ends
of the tub. Her eyes were closed and she looked so completely
relaxed, that he was jealous. The bath ought to have been his that
afternoon. He needed a bit of time and space from the real world.
A quick glance around the bathroom revealed that her clothes were
neatly folded and draped over a heated towel bar. Her shoes rested
just beneath. Always fastidious, he thought, rolling his eyes.
Then again, perhaps not always. She hadn't been very neat or tidy in
removing her clothes at the Muggle motel room during their binge
weekend. They had left at least a few buttons, ripped from their
clothing in their haste, on the carpet that morning. Draco was sure of
it. The zipper on his dress pants hadn't been working either. He'd
spent the entire carriage ride home (not to mention the quick trip to
Diagon Alley Post Office), with his fly open.
The pants had come back from the laundry at the manor with a
brand new zipper, courtesy of the ever efficient Toolip. It was a
blessing that he hadn't been wearing button-up trousers. They had
been almost frantic after the tattooing, as if every additional second
of non-contact was agony.
Buttons would have frustrated Granger. He recalled that she had had
enough trouble walking a straight line, let alone negotiating a column
of tiny fastenings. She was so wobbly that Draco had very nearly
carried her into the motel reception.
Granger wasn't the most graceful woman when drunk, but she had
been a very cheerful drunk and had smiled and laughed more in that
one night that he had seen her do in her entire seven years at
school.
If he ever had the misfortune of having brats of his own, he'd be sure
to tell them that it never did anyone good to dabble in magic they
didn't understand. He could imagine regaling the story of how he'd
ended up inconveniently married to a bothersome Mudblood all
because he had been foolish enough to try his hand at dodgy, old,
Magick.
He'd have to, of course, leave out the part about his wild night of
mind blowing sex with the aforementioned bothersome Mudblood
very nearly making up for their troubles to follow.
The evidence - the tattoo - would be gone soon, but at least he had
one souvenir. Granger's peach-coloured underpants were sitting at
the bottom of his trunk. It was with some embarrassment that he
found himself staring at them oddly, whenever he reached in to
retrieve a fresh pair of socks.
Yes, I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere until you do something
about me, they seemed to say, nestled in between a pair of
comfortable argyles and a pair of garish, yellow, duckie socks that
Millicent had given him two Yules ago.
Distraction was not a good thing, when one undertook spying duties.
He knew enough about deceit to know that it helped to have a clear,
focused mind, free of pretty toes, shapely calves and lightly-dimpled,
lower backs…
Granger was so startled, she nearly split her head on the edge of the
tub. As it was, she slipped under the water for a moment and came
up sputtering. It was no great surprise when the Paragon of Virtue's
hands flew to cover her less than considerably assets. She ducked
down low in the water until her face was almost completely hidden
behind a layer of suds.
She was thus reduced to a dark, wet head on the surface of the
water, like some sort of hairy frog resting on a lily pad.
" Malfoy !" More sputtering, followed by a cough. The bubble bath
formula probably didn't taste very nice. She pushed her hair off her
face. "What the hell are you doing in here!"
He was now on the laces of his Quidditch boots and regretting his
supernatural skill in tying undoable knots.
"You'd think that would be obvious. I'm about to have a bath." It was
probably unwise not to sound so cheerful about it, but he couldn't
help himself. Riling her gave him a great deal of pleasure.
The left boot came off, followed closely by the right. Draco tossed
them to the side. His grey, woollen socks were next.
Granger's eyes were in real danger of popping out of her head. "A
bath?" she repeated, looking like Weasley at his most confused.
There was a large clump of bubbles stuck to the side of her head.
Her cheeks were bright pink and getting pinker by the minute. She
had good bones, Draco noted. Delicate but still imbued with a
strength that meant her chin would never look weak, a quivering
lower lip would never look pitiable.
"Yes, Granger. A bath. An act involving water, soap, a tub and if one
is lucky," he paused for evil effect, " company ."
She licked her lips. The confused look gave way to understanding
and then, inevitably, to fury. Enough fury for her to forget that her
hands were supposed to be folded in front of her chest. Her fists
were probably balled under the water. Draco had to admit that she
was getting quite good at shooting him scathing looks.
It was probably Blaise's influence. Merlin knew that boy had it down
pat.
For some reason, Draco found himself not liking that idea at all. If
she was starting to pick up nasty character traits from attractive
Slytherin males, he'd much rather she pick them up from him. He
certainly had plenty enough to go around. In any case, icy anger
rather became her (as did being naked and covered in slippery
suds).
Screw what the rest of the school thought about her. She was an
attractive harpy. A pretty prig, even.
Draco had resigned himself to the fact that he found her easy on the
eye. Whatever happened between now and Graduation, Draco was
convinced that if he survived into later adulthood, he'd have a
permanent fondness for long-limbed, slender, messy-haired
brunettes with enormous eyes and no discernible skill for
conversation.
And there was also the whole brains thing. Alas, his days of
worshipping at the feet of busty Nordic barmaids who thought that
the 'metric system' was the London subway were at an end.
The pain in his shoulder was apparently not enough to detract his
cock from this realisation, and it was making its increasing presence
known. He'd have to be a bit subtle about removing his pants or she
might end up hexing him after all. News would reach Potter and
Weasley by late afternoon and he'd be dodging more serious curses
by dinnertime.
She was saying something now. It was impressive how she could
summon up such a hideously shrill voice when she put her mind to it.
Granger was usually soft spoken, albeit in a commanding, nagging,
whining sort of way.
"What? Lodge a complaint? Fill out a student feedback slip and drop
it in a suggestion box? Scream? Nobody will hear you."
She growled. Actually, growled . It was adorable. "You don't get to do
this, you bastard. I'm not playing these games with you! We have an
arrangement ." She was so angry that she slapped at the water.
Unfortunately, this brought her attention to the fact that her breasts
were now visible through the suds. Merlin's goat herder. How was it
that the rest of the school never noticed that their Head Girl had such
an aesthetically pleasing rack? Small but perfectly proportioned to
the rest of her, with small tightly drawn nipples that were quick to
respond to his hands and his mouth and flushed just as enticingly as
her face.
She was slim to the point of being boyish, but with hints of curves
and softness in all the right places. Most of these attributes were
hidden under serviceable jumpers in winter, and baggy t-shirts or
loose blouses in summer.
Perhaps it was better that way. She might start to get ideas if every
other chap got all vague-looking and tongue-tied from staring at her.
Ron Weasley doing that was bad and disturbing enough already,
thanks.
His memory of that night in London was still sketchy, though that fact
didn't bother him as much as it did that first day. He remembered the
feel of things more than actual events taking place in any kind of
order. He remembered how she felt in his hands. Vague recollections
of how both breasts fitted very easily, into his palms, the resiliency
and smoothness of her skin, the way the curve of her shoulder and
the spot where said shoulder became her neck felt under his lips.
She had been far from idle while all this touching had been taking
place. Granger had taken to him with her usual confidence, aided to
an astounding degree by her being blind drunk. Honestly, if she were
his, he'd bar alcohol from her, for life. In case some other randy sod
though to capitalise on her Achilles' heel. Just like he had.
Despite what he would call a 'natural lustiness' (a term used often by
Crabbe in defence of his village-broomstick Beauxbatons girlfriend),
there had also been a genuine innocence to Granger which he found
terribly interesting. It was like looking at a colour he hadn't seen
before.
She splashed water on him. Quite a bit actually. The effect was
welcomed. He flicked his wet hair from his face, used some of the
water to clean up the mess left by his bloodied nose, and gave her a
tut-tut sort of look.
"I'll injure you if you don't get out," she seethed. She looked around
in desperation, probably for a weapon other than soapy water. Her
wand was with her clothes and thus, was out of reach.
There was however, a tray with soap, bath salts, oils and a sponge.
The soaps came flying at his head, one by one, and he had the
sense to dodge the small, hard, little missiles. This was followed by
the jar of bath salts which shattered when it clipped the bench. The
sponge came next, but it was wet and so it made an unimpressive
'bleurp' sound against the wall as it slid down, leaving a wet trail.
"I swear, Malfoy, if you don't leave right this instant, I'm going straight
to Dumbledore."
He'd been waiting for that. She needed to know what exactly was at
stake for his manipulations to work. Draco knew she wouldn't tell. To
tell would be akin to admitting that she was just as much of a screw
up as everyone else.
Though perhaps he was testing that 'like' far too soon and in too
confrontational a manner…
Whatever. Youth was after all the time to make potentially stupid
decisions and to learn from mistakes. Draco was prepared to call her
bluff. If they really were making an avoidable error that afternoon,
well at least it would be an enjoyable one.
Once the vest was off, he peeled off his sweat-soaked, Quidditch
jersey, groaning slightly when the left sleeve came free off his injured
arm and dropped it on the bench. The pain caused him to blink a few
times to refocus his vision. If he fainted, she would probably drown
him or something.
He turned to stare at the wall, for both their benefits, and began to
undo the fastenings on his trousers.
The fact that they had a history together was his lame excuse, no
doubt. Well, she was bothered. This was exactly the kind of
behaviour she expected from him and hoped he wouldn't resort to.
Maybe other girls found it charming, found him unpredictable and
swoon-worthy, but not her. She hated how he made her feel like a
prude, like she was no fun at all.
"The stick I managed to knock loose from your arse last night."
Was that true? Was she so tight-laced that she couldn't see the
lighter side of things? What was the harm in a bit of play to take the
edge of the spell? She had certainly been willing to go down that
path to ease her graduation doldrums on the night of the party.
Other prefects had brought their own partners into the bathroom at
one time or another. Did it really take an alcoholic binge for her true
colours to surface? And what exactly were her true colours?
Scarlet, most likely, thought Hermione. Did sin even have a colour?
The realities of where the effects of Fida Mia ended and where her
genuine feelings for him began were problematic. Perhaps there was
something deeply wrong with her, something that craved his
inconsistent treatment of her - quiet, funny and soulful at one turn,
cold, callous and not a little scary, at another.
It was stupid. She was stupid. Hermione was feeling like a girl who
had just got her bubble burst by a boy who turned out to be the cad
she had originally thought him to be.
If he made her cry right now, she would never forgive him.
Against her better judgment, she raised her eyes to see what new
mischief he was up to, and was greeted with the sight of his bare
back and the tattoo that symbolized precisely half of their horrid little
problem.
Where the left wing was bent in slightly, Hermione noted a recent
addition to his otherwise flawless skin.
"Good lord, is that from Bligh?" she exclaimed, staring with wide
eyes at the horrible bruising that marred his left shoulder. Everyone
had seen the foul, but it hadn't looked quite that serious from the
stands. The bruise was a mishmash of purple and blue.
He looked at her, glanced down at the bruise, and then shrugged. "I'll
get him back."
For all his casual dismissal of the injury, it had to be hurting like hell.
Harry tended to do the same. Boys were silly like that.
His pants were still on though, perhaps there was hope yet.
"You were hoping for a miracle then," she stated flatly. "Get lost,
Malfoy. Go get Pansy or one of your other little conquests to do it for
you."
Outwardly, she turned her back to him and folded her arms. If all else
failed, maybe he would disappear if she just ignored him.
"I've seen all your bits, Granger. And you've seen mine. Up close,
remember?" he said. What followed was the unmistakable sound of
trouser removal.
"I'm going to count to five, you disgusting letch. If you're not gone by
then, I'll maim you." Idle threats never worked on him, so she put
some steel in her voice. "One… two."
Hermione's mouth went quite dry. His voice always dipped a little
when he mentioned the unmentionable. The things he could say
sometimes. She didn't think she would ever get used to it even if she
were married to him for thirty years. He had a natural propensity to
shock her.
"You're a liar and a bastard and I was a complete idiot to sleep with
you. Three ."
He was in the water now. Hermione heard the soft splash and felt the
ripples. She made a sound to convey her disbelief.
She peeked around her shoulder and saw that he remained on 'his'
side of the tub, leaning against the edge with his eyes shut. Even
from that distance she could see his wet, spiky lashes resting on his
damp cheekbones. There was a nasty scrape along his jaw line that
looked like it stung. There were also a few smears of blood under his
nose and around his mouth and chin.
He looked battered and bruised and despite the fact that he was
Satan, she couldn't help feeling for him.
"Where are you going?" he asked, almost as soon as she had made
her mind up.
She stared at him as if he'd asked her if trousers came with two legs
or three. "Away from you . Have a bath. The room's yours."
"Stay," he said, simply. There was only the smallest trace of pleading
in his voice. It was minuscule, but it was ridiculously hypnotic.
Hermione was certain that Malfoy was the kind of person who'd
rather have his tongue cut out and force fed to him, before he
pleaded with anyone.
"Draco, you are stark raving mad, you know that?" He really need to
know that.
"Stay." This time, there was nothing nice or polite in the look on his
face. It was like the time he accosted her outside his father's study
when they were at Malfoy Manor. He had been all business then, the
Draco who always got what he wanted. "Stay or I'll tell Potter and
Weasley we fucked liked rabbits last weekend and that you give the
best blowjob I've ever had the pleasure of receiving." There was that
familiar cruelty in his voice now.
"Not really," he informed her, shrugging with his good shoulder. She
realized then that his eyes had changed colour. It was relatively dark
in the bathroom, and they had gone from bright silver out in the
sunlight, to a deep, grey that was the colour of old iron.
He pushed off from the edge, startled her by taking hold of her hand
and bringing her back with him. When she didn't immediately
struggle, the grip on her wrist eased and he began to massage the
fragile bones of her hand with maddening leisure.
"Potter and Weasley might make the odd, bungling attempt to beat
me up, but I can live with that," he told her, still stroking at her hand.
The sensation of his fingers tracing patterns into her palm was
dizzying. "My father will get over it. He needs me. He knows I'm
determined to take over eventually. And if Lucius does decide to
throw a tantrum regarding his arrangement with the Ministry, I'll enlist
Professor Snape to settle him."
She felt like taking hold of his shoulders and shaking the logic free
from wherever it was stuck inside his head. "A week ago, you were
just as put off by all of this as I was!" she insisted.
"I've had time to think of the pros and cons. If anything, snaring you
will confirm my reputation." His smile was sudden. "You can be the
white elephant to my Ahab."
She was shaking with anger and with some other, indescribable
emotion. It was a probably sadness, she realised. Disappointment
was too trivial a word for what she was feeling. "So it's come to
blackmail has it?"
Curse her voice for breaking like that. She tugged stubbornly at her
wrist. He held on just as stubbornly. They were silent for a moment
and both of them seemed content to merely watch the other.
Hermione found it amazing that he could still look her in the eye after
saying everything that he had just said.
"Will you just rub the ruddy salve into my shoulder," he snapped,
sounding impatient for the first time since he entered the bathroom.
He threaded his fingers with hers. "Please. That's all I ask."
"Why?"
The feel of it made her head spin and warmth surge into the part of
her stomach that had previously been home to a nest of butterflies.
Her hair was traitorous. She'd chop the lot off over the summer. Just
see if she didn't.
No denying there were horrid knots in his shoulder and she worked
at them with a little too much energy. Hermione received some
satisfaction in the thought he'd probably be in some discomfort for a
few days at least.
"Granger, I swear I can feel the heat coming off your face. Haven't
you looked after a sick sibling… or a pet?"
She kept her eyes on her task. "Crookshanks doesn't get sick. And
I'm an only child. Don't you Death Eater types do your research?"
"I'm sure Death Eater types do their research, but as I'm not a Death
Eater, I really wouldn't know," he answered tartly. He was probably
sick of the association. And then he added, in a pondering tone this
time, "I didn't realise you were an only child. You don't act it."
For some reason, he seemed quite taken with the shell of her ears
and her earlobes. He wouldn't quit touching them. Her jaw line
received equal attention. He ran a knuckle up and down, stopping at
her lips.
"How do I act, then?" she inquired. She ran both thumbs over the
darkest part of the bruise, where purple competed with blue, and
pressed lightly.
He winced. "Motherish. You act like you've been looking out for
helpless, dumber people and animals your whole life."
Draco caught a drop of water off the tip of her nose as he finished.
Hermione gaped at him. Every nasty, secretive, ugly thing she ever
thought about the boys over the past seven years, had been reduced
to a few clipped sentences by Draco.
"You're not the only one who watches and learns," he explained. He
pulled her into his arms. It was a double barrage of emotional and
physical revelations and she found herself momentarily stunned.
It was a sickening that she wanted to wrap her arms him and hold on
until everything that was bad in the world melted away. Particularly
because she was convinced that much of that 'badness' resided
inside him
"Please don't touch me," she said, shivering despite the heat.
"Believe me. I'm trying not to," he replied, hoarsely. They were
whispering.
Granger's legs were wrapped around him under the water and his
hands took hold of her bottom to support her. The feeling of skin on
skin was phenomenal. He was surprised that the combined heat
coming off their tattoos hadn't set the water in the bath to boiling. It
wasn't heat per se, but a kind of warm friction that was concentrated
in the areas where fingers and palms met skin. The whorls of his
fingertips felt sensitized, as if he'd suddenly sprouted additional
nerve endings. Draco's last coherent thought was that he had an
overdue library book to return to Madam Pince, who was going to
murder when she found out he'd accidentally dropped it in a muddy
puddle on his way to Hogsmeade a month earlier.
I'm going mental, he realised, and found that he didn't much care.
Her kisses were very much like her. There was a quiet concentration
to it. It was almost studious. Her attention to detail was remarkable. It
felt like she was absorbing as much as she could of his touch, taste
and texture.
Perhaps there would be a test later. He smiled into her mouth at that
thought, feeling a curious mixture of contentment and white hot, lust.
The tension, the pain, the half-thought out plans to slip Donald Bligh
some Purging Powder in the man's morning danish fizzled away. He
dragged one hand over her breasts, aware of the fact that he wasn't
employing much technique apart from simply trying to touch her
everywhere. The contrast between her amazingly soft skin and the
scrapes and Quidditch-earned calluses on his hands was delightful.
No. It was Hermione. She was the girl from the motel again; with all
that familiar affection and desire for him radiating from her. The
constricted feeling in his chest made a brief comeback. He wanted to
bring her home, lock her up in a cupboard and only take her out on
special occasions.
Draco was not one to put much stock into religion, but he recalled
being told by some touched-in-the-head, Muggleborn ninny, that God
designed people to come in pairs. Each individual had a
corresponding mate. Maybe in the greater scheme of things, she
was supposed to be his.
He placed his mouth against the beckoning skin under her ear and
sucked. It was good to feel the heat of her blood just beneath,
welling up under his mouth. He pulled back and observed the
enticing red blotch he had created. Merlin help him, he wanted to put
more marks on her. He wanted to see her walking past him in school
corridors, tugging discreetly on her collar to disguise the bites and
scrapes he knew were there.
She looked feverish and more than a little distracted. He let her
place light kisses at the corner of his mouth, on his cheekbones, on
his nose and on his closed eyelids. The tip of her pink tongue darted
out to sample the moisture that collected there.
His hand found its way to her hip, and touched her tattoo. He could
almost imagine the tiny jolt of visible electricity that leaped out of his
fingers just before he made contact with the silver dragon.
He didn't want to stop. The spell demanded that they not stop. His
teenage libido had apparently defected to the Fida Mia cheer squad
and it was roaring
. Not thinking about anything else aside from from completing what
they had started, he took hold of his cock and guided it into her lap. It
was not an easy task given the height difference, and the fact that
she was all slippery.
He honestly didn't think he'd be able to stop even if the Castle walls
started falling down around them. He wanted more. He wanted all of
her now. There will be other times, he told himself as he kissed the
fragrant skin between her brows. He'd make it up to her; make her
come a dozen different ways.
He paused for too long, apparently, because her eyes were open
again and she was looking at him with more trepidation than was
conducive to guilt-free shagging. He pushed in a little more and then
nearly died when the initial tightness gave way to soft, smooth, heat.
The water was warm, but it was nothing compared to being held
inside her.
"Wait. Wait a minute," she said, frowning, not quite telling him to
stop, but neither was she giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up. She
pulled back.
Draco realised he must have looked a bit stupid, staring down at her
with his mouth hanging slightly open and breathing like he'd just
done the Hogwarts to Honeydukes sprint in under thirteen-point-six
minutes. Somehow, she was choosing to ignore the fact that he was
nearly completely buried inside her.
He set her down. What the hell else was he supposed to bloody do?
The cornered animal look she was sporting was making that
damnable tightness in his chest return again.
Draco was suddenly angry. Very angry. The thrill of the chase was
only fun as long as he caught up with his target in the end, and
Draco always did. Always. What was so wrong with him that she
couldn't even contemplate engaging in a bit of harmless sex? He
wasn't hideous, he didn't smell, he was well-off, he could hold his
own in the brains department.
Try washing that off. That taint isn't going to come off in the
bathwater.
It was not self doubt, but rather her shudder that finally got to him.
She actually cringed when he tried to touch her, as if she was
suddenly disgusted by him.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's nasty to tease?" he hissed,
in more scathing a tone that he intended. It was just that his voice
felt like it hadn't been used in a week. Neither was he in a mood to
soothe an uptight, frigid girl who had uncanny power to make him
jump through all sorts of hoops.
To make matters worse, his shoulder was hurting all over again and
his cock was in an extremely uncomfortable state. She watched him
with an annoying amount of patience. He'd have preferred
indignation.
She would have been a nervous wreck, after. Call her selfish, but
Hermione felt that her sanity ought to be her number one priority.
"I'm surprised she managed to find the time to raise you, let alone
teach you anything. Your mum seemed quite happy to jump ship with
a trunk full of loose change and the Malfoy silverware at the first sign
of trouble. Hardly what I would call a model parent." Hermione knew
she was being cruel now, but to Draco's credit, he didn't falter for a
second.
"Granger, I do believe I'm starting to rub off on you," he told her, with
too much gentleness. It was eerie. "Now apologise sorry for that."
Hermione curled her lip at him. "Screw you! You say sorry first."
"Ah. Now we're getting somewhere." Quick as lightning, Malfoy took
hold of her by the upper arms and spun her around so that her back
was against the edge of the tub. Water sloshed up over the rim and
onto the floor.
"Think I'm bad-mannered do you? Think I'm brutish? Think you're too
good for me?" he whispered to her.
She tried to knee him in the groin, but he caught her legs in between
his own and kept them there. Her struggles were as pointless as
they had been on that morning in the motel room. They were on
familiar ground again. Hermione thought that it was truly a mystery
why she was capable of making him so furious. He wasn't
particularly known for losing his cool. He was more of an insidious
plotter.
A muscle was twitching in his jaw. "My mother always told me that it
was important to finish what I start. I was a very precocious child and
always had my hands in one thing or another. Much like you, I
imagine." He braced his right arm between her back and the tub, to
cushion her as he pinned her. "You, Miss Granger, are going to finish
what you started."
When his grip on her relaxed, she snatched her left arm out from
between them, and placed it on his injured shoulder, thumb and
forefinger spread. He didn't so much as flinch or try to stop her. He
wasn't stupid. He knew what she was threatening to do to him. They
both knew where he was vulnerable at that moment.
Hermione didn't know what was more disturbing, the fact that she
was fully prepared to inflict pain on him, or the fact that he seemed
fully prepared to receive it.
"You're as crazy as your father," she told him, her eyes wide.
"Do it." A sharp dig of his thumb into her captured, right wrist, re-
enforced his command.
Damn him. If he wanted pain, then by God, she'd give it him. Her
hand flexed over the dark bruise. She couldn't stop it from shaking
as she squeezed lightly, once, and then stopped. He was braced for
further pain. His whole body tensed in anticipation and his lips had
thinned. Her pale fingers stood out in horrible contrast against the
bruising.
"What's the matter with you?" he hissed. His eyes promising all sorts
of violence they hadn't previously covered.
She dropped her hand and turned her face away, not wanting him to
see her expression. He didn't have to, though.
"Hermione!" he took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him.
"I can't…" she said, hating how weak and pathetic she had become
when he was concerned. "I can't!"
"Why?" he demanded. His eyes searched every inch of her face for
an answer. Hermione was struck by the realisation that he was
almost hungry to hear the one thing from her, that would make him
even more angry.
It apparently was. If she thought she had seen exactly how cold he
could be, she was mistaken. Her admission transformed him. The
only positive thing to come out of it was that all the anger drained
from his face. What was left was slightly worse, though.
He shook his head, as if denial was protection. "It was a mistake for
me to come here today. I… I apologize."
"I don't see any reason for us to meet again until we go to London on
the weekend," he said, coolly. "I'll let you know when we have to
leave. Just make sure you have an excuse to be away."
Harry settled back into an armchair and slowly sipped his hot, milky
tea. He was trying to ignore the fact that his head felt like it was
being steadily grinded by a mortar and pestle.
"No thanks," Harry mumbled back. After the three hour long,
Occlumency exam Snape had just put him through, talking hurt.
Drinking tea hurt.
But Harry wasn't about to tell Snape that. Too much opportunity for
insult.
It had been their final lesson for the year and Snape had put Harry
through his paces, all the while taking down rapid notes as required
by Dumbledore. Snape's contribution to the exercise had been evil
smirks and annoying tut-tuts every time Harry lost his focus and
made a mistake.
The mistakes were few and far between, however, much to their
combined amazement. All in all, Harry had done remarkably well and
they both knew this.
Not that Snape was likely to offer up any words of praise. Harry
figured it was enough that the man didn't insult him to death at every
lesson. After three years of private coaching, they had apparently
come to an accord.
Harry would refrain from calling him a 'miserable old, git' or anything
to do with the words 'bat' and 'dungeons', while Snape would
steadfastly avoid mentioning James Potter. So far the score was
three to eighteen, with Snape in the clear, insult lead. It made Harry
smile to think of this, even if it was childish and trivial.
"The next time I advise you to take a Headache Draught before you
begin, I trust that you'll listen," snapped Snape. He was doing
something noisy at his desk. Breathing, probably.
Harry's head couldn't take much of that, even. His brain felt like a
wrung out dishrag. "I don't like taking headache potions. They mess
with my concentration," was Harry's reply. It was more groan than
speech.
Snape put down his quill. "Potter, a flea jumping off the back of a
decrepit dog in a Calcutta alley could affect your concentration. That
being said, your control is much improved this evening than it was
during our lesson last week."
Not that again, thought Harry. The man really would not let the
bloody thing go. Harry's insubordination towards Lupin after that
fateful Wednesday in the forest had been the talk of the school for a
day or so, but only Snape and Hermione seemed intent on nagging
Harry about it.
"That thing with Lupin is none of your business, Professor. I'll thank
you to please stop mentioning it." There. Never let it be said that
Harry Potter never minded his Ps and Qs.
The Old Bat was right, unfortunately. That was the ever present
problem wasn't it? The fact that Voldemort had once been able to
insert his disgusting, evil, scaly presence into Harry's pre-
Occlumency trained head and had taken a sticky look around.
It was mental rape, pure and simple and Harry was going to kill the
bastard for it.
He was also going to kill the bastard for roughly sixty-three other
reasons as well. It was good to keep track of those sorts of things.
Kept the concept of vendetta more interesting, in Harry's opinion.
It was remarkable how Snape could make a person feel like they
were entirely invisible and of no apparent consequence, while at the
same time making said person acutely aware that they were
intruding and very much uninvited.
"Mend your rift with Lupin or take to wearing a lead helmet the next
time the two of you have a quarrel."
Harry raised an eyebrow and hoped that Snape had not been trying
to read his mind just then. "Er, would the helmet help?"
"Nothing will help that head of hair," Snape said, so dryly that his
voice ought to have crackled.
Harry swilled the murky, grey liquid and tried to look unconcerned.
"What is it?" he asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
Snape rolled his eyes. "If I were trying to kill you, you dithering
imbecile, I would have done it by now and in a less implicating
fashion."
Harry might have asked Snape about too, it if it weren't for a knock
at the door. It was Lupin who stuck his head into the room and
smiled his familiar, genial smile. "Good evening, Severus. I was
wondering if I might have a quick word." He spotted Harry seated in
the chair, not looking at all surprised to find him there. "Hello Harry.
Lesson going well?"
Harry was already starting to feel the effects of the potion. The pain
in his head was lessening and he was now feeling pleasantly sleepy.
And hungry. Perhaps a detour to the kitchens was in order…
"When will I know how I went on that test?" Harry asked. He was
eager for Snape to provide Dumbledore with a favourable report of
Harry's ever-improving Occlumency abilities.
"Night," Harry called out, his eyelids dropping. He trod over Lupin's
foot on his way out and seemed too sleepy to notice.
Lupin waited until the door was shut, waited some more, and then
stepped outside the room to glance down the dark, deserted hallway.
Snape folded his arms as he sat on the edge of his desk. "May I ask
what you're doing?"
"Harry's got his father's invisibility cloak. Did you know that?" was
Lupin's cryptic reply. "I won't feel bad for telling you now since the
boy's just about finished with his schooling."
"Yes. The Headmaster only informed me of that belatedly useful
piece of information at the start of this year, after espousing some
nonsense about a statute of limitations on when a student may still
be punished long after an act has been committed. I had a feeling, of
course, which is why I like to shoot random Impedimentas into the
darkness whenever I feel I'm not alone."
It might have been a joke, except that it was Snape who had said it.
Lupin's hazel eyes were crinkled with amusement as he sat in the
chair previously occupied by Harry. "Do you really?"
Snape stared at him. "You've had your 'few words' already, Lupin.
What else can I do for you?"
"Don't you ever get tired of being so bloody disagreeable all the
time?"
"Not in the least," Snape smoothly replied. "It's less annoying that
perpetual affability, I'm sure you'll agree."
Lupin was not offended. Like Harry, he was used to Snape's acerbic
ways. "Perhaps a nip or two of that most excellent cognac you keep
in that fortress of a desk of might ease your ah, annoyance?"
Looking dour, Snape retrieved the cognac and poured the remainder
of the nearly empty decanter into two cut crystal tumblers. He
handed the glass to Lupin in much the same manner he had done
with Harry.
The Defence Professor drew in a slow breath. "I'm here about Draco
Malfoy and Hermione Granger." He leaned forward in his seat and
gave Snape an almost predatory look. "And I have the feeling that
you know exactly what I'm talking about."
Snape's lips thinned. So Lupin knew. Plus Lucius, Borgin and the
tattooist, that brought the grand total to seven people.
"It's Fida Mia. They undertook the spell on the night of the Seventh
Year graduation celebration."
"Isn't it? Fida Mia is well known for its staying power…"
"There are ways. None of them pleasant. They went to see Lucius
over that weekend."
"Borgin! Good lord. Oh, this just gets better and better." Lupin
sighed. He sank bank into the chair.
The two men sipped their cognac in moody silence for some
minutes. "I trust you've been keeping an eye on them," Lupin
eventually asked.
"Yes."
Lupin tapped a finger on the rim of his tumbler. "I think it's safe to
work with the assumption that he doesn't know. He's been abroad a
fair bit these past weeks.
"I assure you that this new development has not exactly been ideal
for my misguided godson either. Most especially when you consider
Arthur Weasley's insane notion to have that boy turn spy," Snape
sneered.
Lupin shook his greying head. "I honestly don't know what's got into
Arthur lately."
"Yes, but this is Arthur Wealsey we're talking about. I'm inclined to
think this latest strategy owes more to bad advisors rather than bad
Minister."
"It's the same thing. That parasite Coon is the latest in a long string
of bad decisions."
Snape decided that that was a stupid question for a smart man to
ask. "For them. For those around them who have a stake in their
respective destinies. For Potter, who relies on that know-it-all
Gryffindor more than he would care to admit. For He Who Must Not
Be Named, who would at the very least be interested in the
possibilities from such an unlikely union between old blood and a
rising, young elite."
"Any offspring from the union would be only half so," Snape
elaborated. "Like Voldemort. And if he thought he could control
Draco to any extent, Miss Granger might not factor into his long term
plans regarding her new family.
"I'll have to add 'Dooming Young Love' to the hundred other reasons
for why I'd like to wring that scaly, old bastard's neck," Lupin
declared, in a very un-Lupinlike manner. Harry would have gawked if
he'd been there.
Lupin tossed back the remainder of his brandy and handed the
empty glass to Snape. "Thanks for the nightcap."
"Nobody keeps score any more," Snape said, somewhat distantly.
Lupin smiled before he shut the door behind him. "Oh, you'd be
surprised."
Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dear Students
Please be advised that the school Bludgers will be put through their
annual servicing this Friday between the hours of eight-seventeen
a.m. and two-seventeen p.m. As always, the Quidditch Pitch is
strictly out of bounds for all students except the prefects who have
been assigned to the area. Team Captains are to ensure that their
players are aware of this restriction. Any student caught loitering in
the immediate vicinity of the Pitch will receive an automatic
deduction of twenty House points.
Madam Hooch.
Dearest Gertrude,
Prudence
Thank you for your message. I apologize for the delayed response,
but your encryption spell took a few days to unravel.
The spell is a piece of genius. You really should think about making
an application to the Magical Patents office if your inheritance
doesn't pan out.
Kind Regards,
E. R. Borgin.
Tonks had the option of meeting Hagrid for a pint or two at the Three
Broomsticks, or visiting Lupin to borrow yet another Muggle detective
novel (the man's secret passion), but she settled for the walk
instead.
Hogwarts Castle may have been ancient as the hills, but there was
always something new to discover every time she visited. Case in
point was the multitude of Humming Hydrangea bushes that
Professor Sprout had put in the previous spring. It had taken a day
or two before Tonks realised that the faint humming noise in the
background was not due to the minor injury she had received when
she hit her head on a low banister in the Library, but was in fact the
local flora.
There were other additions to the Castle: new rooms shifted from
somewhere to somewhere else and the increasingly infamous
'refreshments tray' in the Prefects Bath. Other new additions were
not so innocuous, unfortunately.
And yet, the sense that something wasn't quite right, remained.
Quartermaine swore that he had a pinch or two of Seer's blood and
was adamant that he could feel impending nastiness. Professor
Trelawney was inclined to agree, but this was neither new nor
especially reliable.
There were currently four from Slytherin, three from Ravenclaw and
one from Gryffindor. Professor Sprout had been extremely relieved
that none of her brood had made the list that year. It wasn't so much
to do with a sense of pride at her proven skills as a mentor, but
rather the fact that Hufflepuffs made for terrifyingly, single-minded
(make that bloody-minded, Tonks mentally corrected), Voldemort
supporters. It came down to their innate sense of unquestionable
loyalty once their oath was given. One less Hufflepuff Death Eater
was always a blessing.
It was Bligh. She knew this because she nearly walked into her
colleague.
She was startled to note that it was Draco Malfoy whom Bligh had
been talking to. The light clearly identified him. Her erstwhile cousin
was dressed in dark jeans, trainers and a dark, long sleeved, shirt.
The boy looked dressed for skulking.
Her colleague looked put out to see her. "Found this one sneaking
about in the dark. Says he's planning to meet up with a girl."
Most likely Bligh was aiming to give Malfoy an over-the-top hiding for
being caught wondering the grounds after curfew. Tonks sighed.
Quidditch-earned grudges had the capacity to last longer than stink
pellet stench on skin.
The first point of interest was that Malfoy gave no indication that he
knew her, despite their introduction as cousins, the week before. The
second thing was that she would have expected Draco Malfoy to
have argued his supreme, infallible, divine right to have been
wherever he wanted to be, at whatever time he bloody well wanted.
"You will stand down," she ordered, her wand aimed at the stranger's
chest.
"Tonks… er, what are you doing?" Bligh asked, looking startled.
"I don't think this is Malfoy," she informed, without looking at him.
"We're about to find out." The tip of her wand grazed the imposter's
chest. "Who are you?"
The stranger smiled. It was Draco's familiar knowing half smile, half
leer, and yet it was so not. Tonks could not recall the real Draco ever
needing to show that much teeth.
As per capture and contain protocol, she moved to walk around the
soon-to-be captive, leaving Bligh to disarm the imposter. She was
three steps behind him, poised to Stun if she needed to.
"Who else would I be if not I'm Draco Malfoy?" came the reply.
Same drawl, same articulation. It was uncanny, and very, very well
done.
"Well?" Bligh called out to his colleague. "I'd hate to be told off twice
in the week for assaulting the same student, on or off the pitch," he
muttered.
Tonks tilted her head to the side and observed her would-be cousin
closely from behind. "Not Malfoy," she said, after a moment. "Take
him."
"If you have a wand on you, throw it down now !" Bligh shouted.
The imposter put his hand into his jacket pocket took out his wand
and tossed it to Bligh, smirking all the while.
The eerie smile did not waver. "Have you ever lost someone dear to
you, Auror?"
"On the ground you little shit, before I kick your teeth in!" Bligh
growled.
And then the sinister smile was gone. In its place was undiluted
malice. The cajoling tone of voice disappeared too. What remained
was not recognizably Draco, in any way.
"If you walk away now, Auror, I'll tell my people not to gut her like a
pig, after they have their way with her. We'll string up her remains
like confetti all over the grounds. It'll take weeks for you to put that
gory puzzle back together again. Have you ever seen the damage
that five, highly depraved individuals can inflict on something so
small and fragile?"
That was all it took. It didn't matter if the threat was empty, or that
Bligh had eleven years of Auror training and service behind him,
which meant that he should have known better.
With a snarl, Bligh lunged at the imposter seconds before Tonks fired
a stunning spell. Bligh tackled the stranger's midsection, causing
Tonk's Stupefy to pass through the air, hitting a tree in the distance.
The pair struggled on the ground for a moment, but it was all the
distraction the stranger needed to gain the upper hand.
Now offered a clear shot, Tonks' second Stupefy did not miss. It hit
the stranger, chest on, and the he collapsed backwards in the dirt,
out cold.
The thrown object was a glass ball, not much larger than a man's
closed fist. Bligh grunted at the contact of cold glass smashing
against his arm. Dark, smoking liquid seemed to be burning through
his uniform. Something shiny tumbled down his sleeve, almost in
slow motion from the thick, wrecked glass.
Transfixed, the dazed Auror flicked at the shiny item with his hand.
Grimly, she fired a signal flare into the air, before crouching down to
take a closer look at the unconscious imposter. At the moment, the
captive was their only link to Bligh's location. The stranger,
whomever it was, was lying on his side. Looking at him, if indeed, it
was a he, was like looking at a mirage.
Tonks was thus able to confirm her earlier suspicion that it was not
Polyjuice at work, but a Metamorphmagus, like her.
"Who are you?" Tonks whispered. There was nothing to be done but
wait for back-up to arrive. She hoped it would not be Astrid.
Draco refused to open his eyes, not even when his conditioned body
clock told him it was seven-thirty am and time to get dressed to go
upstairs for breakfast, where five hundred pairs of eyes would gawk
at him for a whole variety of reasons he could never help.
The good thing was that he had five pillows in his bed, and he was
not afraid to use them. Draco piled the lot of it over his head,
secured this makeshift buffer zone with a sheet, and then continued
to ignore Daytime.
Footsteps went past his door. That was the annoying thing about not
living in the boys' dorm anymore. Seventh year prefects got their
own rooms, yes, but the rooms were located in a communal area,
accessible to anyone who had need of a prefect.
Apparently not.
It was Carmen Meliflua, fourth year Slytherin vixen, and she was
about to regret being born.
Fuck you, world, thought Draco, as he opened his eyes with a very
deep sigh.
"If someone doesn't tell me what the hell is going on in the next ten
seconds, I'm using Cruciatus," Draco threatened.
The idiot claimed to have been dared by someone to sprint from one
end of the pitch to the other, and was in the process of doing just
that.
"Yes, yes, fine," Draco snapped, running a hand through his hair.
Mention of the two-faced, Tart of Gryffindor did not improve his
mood. Also, what Carmen was doing with her lip was nearly identical
to what Granger did every time she was about to tell him something
he wasn't going to like.
"Out of my way." Draco threw his room door open, catching one
slow-to-move sixth year in the foot and not giving a damn about it.
He started stalking towards the Common Room exit, but then
paused to glare at Carmen. "You will stop your snivelling," he
ordered.
"I'm sorry. It's just that it's my fault he did this. He likes me you see,
and well… I'm always horrid to him."
What she meant to say was that they were always horrid to him.
Carmen, Draco and the rest of Slytherin House.
When you've seen one dungeon, you've seen 'em all, was Tonks'
estimation of her current digs.
There was the pre-requisite darkness, the dank, chilly stone walls
with water dripping down a gaping crack or two, rusted iron bars on
the small, slanted window just beneath the ceiling, enormous rotting
wooden doors that might have given a troll problems and the odd,
weirdo dungeon employee.
Tonks figured that she had only been unconscious for about six
hours or so, judging from the early sunlight that came through the
tiny window. In the short space of time since she had awakened, she
had come to the conclusion that Bob was probably a wannabe Death
Eater who didn't quite have the mental credits required for field work.
She suspected it was Bob who had stripped her off her Auror
uniform and put her into the sackcloth shift she was now wearing.
Now that was forward planning. Her captors were obviously eager
for her to experience the full dungeon-prisoner package immediately.
"Thanks." Tonks picked up the bowl and before Bob had the chance
to move away, she pushed it through the second slot at the top of the
door, emptying the lukewarm contents of the bowl over Bob's bald
head. Pity the food wasn't scalding hot.
"You bitch! You wait 'til I get my hands on you!" was the predictable
response.
Tonks let a few seconds pass. She even tapped her foot on the floor.
There was a scuffling noise on the other side of the door, followed by
mumbled curses and then footsteps. Tonks counted eight footfalls
until Bob presumably reached the dungeon exit and left through
another door.
Eight steps were not so very far to freedom. She filed that bit of
information away.
Tonks kicked at the door in frustration. It appeared that she was well
and truly alone. Her foot throbbed, but the pain alleviated some of
her nervousness. She had managed to catch a glimpse of the
Hogwarts student that had assissted Fake-Draco by knocking her
out.
Yet.
At the most basic level, bludgers were charmed bits of leather, sand
and cotton stuffing, be-spelled to target Quidditch players during a
game.
The charms used were not unlike those utilized on the Snitch,
enabling it to continually avoid capture. This was minor, mechanical
magic and it was common knowledge that the spells used had the
potential to become corrupted after a period of time. Which was why
Madam Hooch insisted on servicing all of the School's Quidditch
equipment at least once a year, for the safety of her players.
Draco emerged from the Castle and sprinted up to the first Slytherin
he recognized. It was Edward Knox from sixth year, Draco's best
customer when it came to selling off old assignments.
"Tell me."
Draco and Knox, with the kind of detachment only Slytherins could
manage, watched Dodders throw himself to the ground, narrowly
avoiding a hit to the base of his spine.
Dodders was small, short of leg, quivery of disposition and not likely
to last much longer without some sort of assistance.
Ron was indeed jogging towards them, looking like an angry, finger-
pointing, paper-waving, lobster. He came to a halt when he was nose
to nose with Draco.
"I know you Slytherins have your own sick, little rituals and rites of
passage rubbish, but this is just plain wrong!"
With Knox peering over Draco's shoulder, the two Slytherins read the
note.
Malfoy
"Finding Snape would take too long," Ron told them. "He's uh, busy."
"Great," Draco sighed. "I was just about to ask where Saint Potter
was. This is right up his alley."
"Uh, lads," Ernie interjected, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I don't
think your boy is going to survive the next five minutes."
With his wand in hand, and with the rest of them watching, Draco
stalked towards the middle of the pitch, his mood as dark as his
eyes. The bludgers started visibly twitching with the addition of yet
another moving target on the field.
"If you don't come back, can I have all your seventh year Charms
assignments?" Knox called out, only to be glared at by Ron.
At ten paces from the edge of the pitch, Draco paused and put a
hand up to shield his eyes against the bright, morning sunshine. He
squinted at the boy on the field and might have counted to five if he
thought that would help things.
"You're crazy, Malfoy!" Dodders called back. "You're the one that
dared me to do this!"
"Use your head you stupid little shit! Would I sign off with my own
bloody name?!"
The boy was finally starting to look panicked. Draco had to hand it to
him. He had balls, though a worrisome lack of brains.
Four bludgers immediately broke off from the pack and headed
towards him. Draco ducked, swerved, stopped running and then
continued. It was like tackling an obstacle course from hell. Six years
of Seeker training was paying off, though dodging the bludgers on
land was markedly trickier than doing it in the air.
"Can you walk?" Draco asked, gritting his teeth. He looped an arm
around Dodders' waist and propped him up.
The plump boy was almost a dead weight and Draco's injured
shoulder began to protest. "Try and walk, you twit. If I use leviosa,
you'll be a floating target. I can't carry you and blast them at the
same time!"
They made their way to within five meters of where Ron and the
others stood. Ron's freckled face was relieved and jubilant.
"Hurry, you're almost clear!"
They would have been perfectly fine had Dodders not stumbled yet
again.
"Cover your head!" Draco ordered. Dodders was too scared to listen.
He stared scrambling away towards Ron and the others, on his
hands and knees.
Draco pushed his hair out of his eyes and spat out the sand and bits
of grass that were in his mouth. His wand was quite some distance
away. For a brief moment, he contemplated making a mad dash for
it.
Not stopping to analyse the wisdom (or rather, lack of) of his
decision, he leapt to his feet, ran towards Dodders and hurled
himself on top of the boy.
Tadpole had just thrown up his breakfast all over himself.
She wasn't. She was dizzy and short of breath and there was a
strange ringing in her ears. Something had happened to Draco…
His parents were awake, despite the hour, and were obviously
having another argument. That was nothing new to Draco, though it
was the topic of the argument that had caused him to investigate
further. He knew he'd be in trouble if he was caught out of bed, but
he decided that he'd risk his father's formidable temper, for George.
It wasn't until Draco heard his mother say his name, was his curiosity
genuinely piqued. He was awake anyway, and in much too much of
an excitable state to go back to sleep. The search for George
outweighed any other concerns. Poor Toolip had been run ragged
accompanying her young charge through the Manor grounds,
looking for the dog.
There was no sign of him anywhere, no matter that Draco had put
out the best cuts of meat Chef had to offer and had called and called
for the dog until his throat was raw.
" I won't have it," his father was saying. He was talking in a low,
sinister voice which meant that he was passed annoyance and had
progressed to anger. It was not wise to be around Lucius when he
spoke that softly. Regular people tended to get scared and make
hasty retreats. But his mother was not 'regular people'.
Draco crept down the corridor, past old family portraits, some of
which gave him conspiratorial winks. He wanted to smile in return
but this was not a happy adventure. George was lost and his parents
were angry with each other.
The double doors to the library were wide open and candlelight
cleaved out into the darkness, lighting the patch of hallway directly
outside the doors. It didn't seem odd to Draco that he was not afraid
of the dark. Magic was light and he carried it wherever he went, or so
Mother had told him. This left no logical reason for fear.
Draco peeked around the door, taking care to flatten his fringe, lest
his parents notice that a bit of messy, bright, blond hair was sticking
out around the door. He realised that his toes were probably visible
too, and quickly curled them back.
His mother was pacing the room, still dressed in the airy, silk, scarlet
dress robes she had worn to attend a soiree at the Parkinson
mansion. She had tucked him into bed six hours before and Draco
recalled that she smelled like gardenias that evening. His mum
always smelled very nice indeed.
Draco had never heard his mother use that tone on her husband
before. He was suddenly more worried for her than he was for
George, which was an awful lot of worry for a five year old to cope
with all at once.
" Coddling that boy will not do. Draco needs to learn harsh lessons.
He's old enough!"
His mother's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "There's plenty of time for him
to learn just what kind of life he's had the good fortune of being born
into."
" Five is old enough to learn that one does not bring mongrel vermin
to live under this roof."
For a moment, it looked like Lucius was going to let the insult slide.
Draco was incredulous. Nobody called his father a 'bastard' - a very,
very nasty word you didn't use, unless you wanted to be dragged
into a duel - and lived to tell the tale. But then his father very calmly
put down the brandy glass he had been holding, walked across to
Narcissa and slapped her across the mouth.
It was the first time Draco had ever seen Lucius lay a hand on
Narcissa. What was even more alarming was the fact that his
mother's response was to smile. It was a knowing smile showing no
surprise at Lucius' treatment of her. She looked like she had already
won the argument or had uncovered some previously hidden truth.
He didn't quite realize that he had done it (his feet had suddenly
developed their own mind), but he found himself standing at the
entrance of the library, in full light, with his hands balled into fists at
his side, and tears running down his face. His father's back was to
him, so luckily only Narcissa saw him. She blinked in surprise and
then very subtly, shook her head in clear warning.
Feeling relieved, and then ashamed of that relief, Draco crept back
into the shadows where he shook with fear and suppressed fury.
" Remember whom you are speaking to," Lucius told his wife, though
much of his rage seemed to have gone. He sighed and then reached
up to stroke her face. "Remember," he repeated, sounding
apologetic, and something else Draco didn't know how to describe.
More words were spoken. Soft words that Draco did not understand
and was not sure he wanted to.
Lucius laughed. It was a humourless laugh. "You do. And you hate
yourself for it."
Lucius flung his glass into the fireplace, causing the flames to
momentarily leap, but he did not respond.
Narcissa walked to the doors and calmly shut them behind her.
" And you! What are you doing out of bed?" she demanded, dragging
Draco along by his elbow. Her long, honey blonde hair, which had
been in an elegant knot before, had come undone. It tumbled down
her back, stray tendrils tickling Draco's face.
They didn't stop again until Draco was once again in his room. His
mother put him into bed again. Toolip, who had been slumped
asleep in a chair, continued snoring. Narcissa rolled her eyes at the
old creature.
" I'm sorry you had to see that. Your father isn't in the best of moods
tonight, darling." She smoothed his hair, which was lighter in colour
than hers and did not curl quite as much.
Draco's tutors often told him that he had a fine mind for deciphering
riddles. A strong mind for logic, they said. Maybe that was why he
asked the question.
There was nothing that could be done. George was obviously gone.
Draco's heart felt like a heavy stone, sinking down and down
beneath the dark water of one of the old wells in Thimble Creek.
He took the collar with a small, shaking hand, but he did not cry, not
even when his mother gave him a kiss on the forehead before she
said goodnight.
" Never love anything more than it loves you, Draco," she whispered.
"Never be like your father."
Or you, Draco wanted to say, but did not. It took him a while but he
eventually fell asleep, still wrapped in his mother's shawl and the
scent of gardenias.
Toolip helped him to bury the collar out in the garden the next day.
He wasn't dead.
Hermione knew this because all she had to do was close her eyes
and search for him. He was there, somewhere in the back of her
mind, breathing and alive, his heart beating steady and strong. He
wasn't feeling much of anything, though. Not pain, not annoyance
and not that other phantom feeling which was her own presence in
his mind.
Harry was with Snape at the time and recalled that he had never
seen the Potions Master so furious.
"Apart from the time he found you in his Pensieve," Ron reminded,
eager to draw attention away from his admittedly amusing over-
reaction.
Not since the Weasley twins had any student exhibited such a
reckless disregard for the rules for no other purpose than to cause
mischief.
The trouble was that the feelings were not tender. They did not
cause her to day-dream or sigh or draw little hearts around the
letters H and D.
The fact was that when she looked at him, she felt ill. Not necessarily
in a bad way, but in a way which meant that she forgot herself. Her
unwilling husband had a very dangerous effect on her, whether he
knew it or not.
"Hi," she said, sitting next to him on the sofa. She saw that he had
on mismatched socks, and she squeezed one of his big toes in
greeting. "Can't sleep either?"
"Yeah, I suppose."
There were absurd suggestions that Tonks and simply run off with
Donald Bligh, but no one who knew Tonks (or Bligh, for that matter)
would entertain the thought. An Order meeting had been called for
Monday and then postponed.
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Hermione was unsure how to put it, so she
just laid out the request, plain and simple. "Harry, can I borrow your
Invisibility Cloak?"
"Yes."
"And going off on your own would just make the rest of us worry
about you…"
Puzzled, Hermione watched Harry rise to his feet, stretched for a bit,
before telling her to wait. He then went up the stairs to his room and
returned a minute later with his cloak.
"I'm not going to ask you why you need that," he said, pointedly. "But
I'll trust that you'll tell me if you need me."
Her boys were all grown up, Hermione realised. She suppressed the
desire to burst into tears.
Her head jerked up. "What makes you think it's that?"
Friday evening.
The teachers had been added to the patrol roster around Hogwarts,
just as they had done in Hermione's second year, during the
Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Apparently McGonagall herself had
volunteered to take the corridors in the vicinity of Gryffindor House.
It was always startling to realize just how creaky and noisy the
various floorboards, doors and hinges were, when you were trying to
be as quiet as possible. Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe she did lack
the sneaking gene. Her bedroom slippers muffled her footsteps
brilliantly however, and so all Hermione had to do was duck her head
around every corner to check where the patrol was.
She counted three Aurors by the time she got to the ground floor and
was one corridor away from the Infirmary.
Unfortunately, when she got there, she saw that Professor Snape
was standing immediately outside the open doors of the hospital
wing. He was staring into the darkness with an expression that was
almost challenging. Hermione frowned.
Bugger.
She waited for what seemed like hours, though it must have only
been about twenty minutes or so. Her right foot started to cramp up.
Even Potion Masters had to go to the bathroom sometimes, right?
She was not experiencing any of the excitement and nervous tension
she felt when she had first snuck out of Gryffindor to meet Draco in
the Owlery. The danger was so very close to home now and there
was nothing remotely fun about what she was doing.
All the beds were empty save for the one nearest to the windows,
which had its curtains drawn around it. There was a pair of black,
leather school shoes, thrown haphazardly beneath the bed. She
noted that there were no chocolates, flowers or cards adorning the
bedside table, as was often the case when Harry was admitted.
Perhaps Slytherins did not make a habit of attempting to speed up a
fellow student's healing by force-feeding him or her obscene
amounts of candy.
Checking to see that Snape had not returned, Hermione parted the
curtains. Being invisible definitely had its merits.
She took off the cloak and draped it over the bedside table. Malfoy
was sleeping on his stomach, with one hand beside his face, fingers
curled. The right side of his head was smeared with some sort of
ointment. He looked awfully young with his features so completely
relaxed.
There was a cut just above his eyebrow, already magically sealed.
The injured area was red and puffy looking, but otherwise, he
seemed to be in one piece. He was wearing infirmary-issue pajamas,
but the top was so badly buttoned that Hermione suspected he had
insisted on putting it on himself. She wondered if it was because he
hadn't wanted anyone to ask questions about the tattoo on his back.
There was one pillow on the bed, which he had squashed into ball to
make it more substantial. The light sheet that was also standard
issue, had been tossed to the floor. His feet were bare and his right
foot was hanging off the edge of the bed.
Ok. She had had her look. But now that she was there, Hermione
made up her mind that he was cold.
She made sure that the curtains were once again fully drawn around
the bed before she bent down to retrieve the sheet. While she was
down there, she picked up his shoes and placed them neatly in a
corner. As Hermione went to stand up again, she was startled when
the hand that had been lying placidly beside his face, reached up to
graze her cheek.
Draco was awake and he was looking at her with the most
vulnerable, worried expression. She felt her breath mysteriously
lodge inside her chest.
Hermione draped the sheet over him and then, with only a moment's
hesitation, reached out to hold his hand. "Who couldn't you find,
Draco?"
"I'm sorry," she said. And she was, because she knew she was
currently glimpsing something intensely private and he was going to
hate himself later for telling her.
"Head feels like shite," he whispered, licking his lips. He rolled over
with a loud groan and Hermione resisted the urge to shush him.
Snape only needed to stick a head into the room to notice her
presence.
"Granger?"
"Yes, it's Hermione. I've snuck out of dorm to see you." She added
the last part in case he decided to be loud again.
"Hermione…"
She had to grin. He had trouble saying her name and only managed
it on his third attempt. That was only marginally worse than poor
Krum, though.
"Knew you'd come back," he nodded. He was smiling like a four year
old who'd just been informed that Santa Clause the Tooth Fairy and
the Easter Bunny did indeed exist and were throwing a massive
party down the street.
"The other one. Granger. She doesn't like me very much. Good thing
I'm a light sleeper. Come here to finish me off if she could, the
harpy."
The hand holding was rather nice, though. He had a warm, dry grip,
which was unusual for boys his age. From experience, they tended
to be perpetually sweaty palmed.
"That was a big risk you took, helping that boy today. Everyone's
talking about it."
"Bah! Fat lot of good that does me. Someone hates me enough to
set me up. The list could be quite long, you know… Lotsa people
onnit. Hermione, you listening?"
"I'm listening." She sat on the edge of the bed to emphasize this.
"My head's sore. I've ruined my face and they're telling me you
weren't even there to see any of it," he continued.
"Pfft," he said, blowing his fringe off his forehead. "Granger thinks I'm
disgusting . Won't speak to me, won't touch me. Won't fuck me when
we're sober. Married me though. That's something, innit?"
"Oww," he groaned.
Nothing, not even a hospital visit was simple, when Draco was
concerned. It didn't seem right that no one cared, that someone
somewhere wasn't worried about how he was doing and wasn't in
the process of working out how to sneak outside of curfew to see
him.
"Yes."
"This is crazy. If I get caught, I'm taking you down with me," she
whispered, after the sheet was evenly laid over the both of them.
Hermione lay in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, one leg
hooked over his, and was alarmed to realize that she could have
happily fallen asleep right then and there, given the chance.
"The harpy recalls the apology," was all Hermione would say. The
memory was still a bit too fresh in her mind. She wasn't sure she
was ready to deal with a sober, non-drugged, Draco Malfoy.
"I wouldn't have hurt her," he insisted, sounding very serious now.
"You were trying to hurt her. She's not stupid," Hermione eventually
managed to say.
"Girl's too brainy for her own good. Think less. Sex more," Draco
declared, in a sagely manner. "I ought to get that printed on a t-shirt."
"You do that." Hermione was prodding at his head with her fingers, to
see how close he had come to getting his annoying brain,
permanently damaged.
"That feels good." His fingers were stroking at the soft skin at her
hip. She could imagine the dragon tattoo straining and stretching
across her skin, eager to come into contact with his hand.
Odd how that sensation didn't feel strange any more. Just new .
"You're wearing that shirt again," he noted, looking at her chest with
a bleary expression. He looked like Harry on the mornings when he
discovered he had lost his glasses. "The one with the wee frog.
Kevin."
"Kermit," she corrected, smiling into his neck. She hadn't even
realised she was wearing the same t-shirt.
"So. Are you going to tell me what this rainbow connection thing is all
about? Or is that top secret Muggle business that my poor, magical
brain can't possible comprehend?" There was just enough
annoyance in his voice to remind Hermione that underneath the
balms, the sleeping draught, the hospital pajamas and the hand
holding, lurked the same Draco.
She hesitated, sensing where the conversation was going. "Well, it's
this song he sings."
Good lord.
She rolled her eyes and relented. Never let it be said that Hermione
Grange was not a soft touch. "Will you go to sleep if I sing it for you?
His other hand came about to stroke her cheek clumsily, which, she
supposed, was his way of saying, 'yes, thanks, that would be very
nice.'
She wasn't going to chance looking at him now. There would be too
much intensity and unguarded emotion on his face. She felt like a
third party intruding on some private moment, yet again.
"Fine."
She sang the song, off-key, because she wasn't very good at it, and
in a half-whisper. But he listened anyway and there were no more
complaints.
Hermione thought he must have been nearly asleep by the time she
got to the last verse, but he wasn't. He slipped his hand under the
hem of her t-shirt, placed his palm over the curve of her belly to
lightly squeeze for a moment, slid it up her rib cage and then cupped
her left breast.
He then pressed his nose against her cheek and inhaled deeply, his
thumb absently rubbing over her nipple, under her shirt. The whole
act was done completely naturally, as if he had done it to her a
hundred times before. There was no calculation, just a simple need,
appeased.
Her entire body turned to liquid. She was sure she had melted into a
sensitized, relaxed puddle of flesh, right there on Malfoy's hospital
bed.
Falling asleep with the person you cared about was fine, wherever
the bloody hell you came from and whatever the hell else was going
on in the world.
She closed her eyes. Just for a minute, she told herself. Just until I'm
sure he's asleep.
The sun wasn't quite up yet when Hermione opened her eyes. It took
an enormous amount of effort to shake the sleep off. She was
normally out of bed and dressed in ten minutes, but on this occasion,
she felt like a newly awakened Rip Van Winkle.
Malfoy was wrapped around her like cling-film, his lanky frame filled
out every spare bit of space on the bed. Where there wasn't space,
he simply draped the limb in question, over her. The sheet was once
again on the floor. No surprises there. Hermione realised she had
been sleeping on his right arm for most of the night and shifted so
that she could free it for him.
It wasn't until she was about to gingerly slide her legs off the
mattress and sit up, did she notice Pansy Parkinson standing at the
foot of the bed, a posy of daffodils in her hand. It was still mostly
dark in the infirmary.
Hermione pushed her hair out of her face and stood up. Her hair tie
had gone missing. "Pansy."
"I came to see if he's any better. I might have spared myself the
effort if I knew he was in such good hands," she informed tartly. Her
jaw was tense and Hermione noticed that she was gripping the
flowers a little too tightly.
Well. This was just peachy. Harry was going to boil his cloak to
sterilize it when he found out. "I suppose I should explain," Hermione
began, rather lamely.
There was only one obvious explanation for what Pansy was seeing,
and there was not going to be any way to sugar coat it. She wasn't
about to insult the girl's intelligence with false denials.
"No need." Pansy smiled. Ron called this particular type of smile
'mouth-stretching', because that was what it was. There was nothing
remotely friendly about it. "I guessed he had a new plaything lately,
but I didn't think it was going to be you ."
Hermione folded her arms. It occurred to her that they were both
whispering so as to not to wake Draco. Pansy's feelings for Draco
were not exactly a secret, but Hermione was starting to realize just
how far those feelings went.
Pansy sneered at her. "Don't be coy. It doesn't suit you. You know all
about the importance of reputation. Yours isn't going to escape intact
if this gets out, you know."
And with that, Pansy gave the sleeping Draco once last look, before
walking out of the infirmary.
Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saturday
The first thing seemed trite, though no less true than the other two
things. She had the prettiest blue eyes he had ever seen and that
that they reminded him of the waters off the coast of Easter Island, in
the South Pacific.
The second thing he desperately wanted to tell her was that pining
for Draco Malfoy was a lost cause because Draco was not capable
of loving anyone but himself. This was a proven point, which she
would be hard pressed to try and dispute.
The last thing that he ached to say, that he wanted to scream from
the tallest turret, to etch into the surface of every desk in the school,
was that he loved her.
Pansy knew a lot of about a lot of things, but for some reason, she
was ignorant about how Goyle felt about her. It didn't help matters
that they had known each other since infancy, and had been friends
for nearly that long.
Being friends with a Slytherin was not like being friends with normal
people. It was a great deal simpler. For starters. Slytherins never fell
out with each other for very long, both for reasons of necessity and
survival, as well as having too much in common to find much to
disagree about in the first place.
Goyle would have supported his friend, Draco, if the latter decided to
move to the Antarctic, live in an igloo and raise Malamutes.
Whatever. Goyle would be on hand to provide assistance if it was
within his power to do so.
Pansy assured him that she wouldn't need nearly that long because
she was a fast talker. Flitwick had had Pansy in his Charms class for
seven years and knew this to be true. He waved them off on and
continued on his patrol.
Goyle wondered what this latest gossip was. She didn't seem so
eager to share it, so much as eager to unburden herself.
The wind was chasing its tail at the Tower and Goyle resisted the
urge to wrap and anchoring hand around Pansy's upper arm. Lately
she seemed slight enough to be blown away by a summer breeze.
She had lost all her puppy fat sometime in their sixth year and had
remained as slim as a reed. Goyle didn't mind her either way. He
figured he'd still be crazy about her even if she had two heads and a
hump.
"I mean, this isn't just gossip, Gregory. It's fact. I saw them in the
Infirmary early this morning. The horrid cow looked like she'd spent
the night with him."
Pansy tensed her jaw and scowled down at the forest canopy.
"Holding her like she was a permanent cure for bad hair days."
"I see."
She turned sharply to him. "Do you? I don't! I know Draco's been out
of sorts since last year, but this ? Lusting after the Mudblood is one
thing, but going out with her is quite another."
"He won't even hold hands with other girls he sees, what the hell
would make him want to curl up in bed with one he most likely isn't
getting it from regularly?"
"It won't. Draco can be trusted." Pansy was adamant, though she
was nodding a bit too vigorously as she said this, as if that would
help ease her doubts. "He knows where his loyalties are."
Goyle too, had his doubts. If what Pansy was describing was to be
believed, then there was a bit more than mere lust at work. If Draco
cared for the girl, then relying on Draco's sometimes questionable
common sense was perhaps not the wisest option for any of them.
But one did not disagree with Pansy Parkinson without facing
repercussions. Besides, they only had about fifteen minutes of
privacy left on the Astronomy Tower and it was much too beautiful a
day to spend with an angry, upset, Pansy.
And so, Goyle agreed. There would be plenty of time later for dealing
with Draco Malfoy.
"I trust Draco too," Goyle informed. "I trust him with my life."
Diagon Alley was bursting at the seams. It was not the best time to
schedule an important, private meeting with Borgin and his
recommended Fida Mia expert, and yet, by the same token, it was.
If you got pick pocketed, then you were silly enough to not magically
seal your pockets. If you were unfortunate enough to get groped,
then you were entitled to clobber the offending individual over the
head or groin with whatever was handy (usually umbrellas,
handbags and in one Guild member's case, her award winning,
prototype cauldron).
Hermione left Hogwarts in the early afternoon, a day after Draco and
Tandish Dodders' concussion-inducing adventures on the Quidditch
Pitch. Madam Pomfrey had examined a slightly groggy Draco before
breakfast, and had declared him in no shape to do anything more
than delicately lie back in bed and give them all looks of contempt.
Naturally, he scowled at her, got up, got dressed and was out of the
Infirmary in five minutes.
Hermione had been leaving the Great Hall after having breakfast
with Harry and Ginny, when she spotted her harried-looking
'husband', stalking across the foyer towards her.
There was hardly anyone left at school. Most of the younger
students had been whisked home early by their parents in the past
day, since the announcement that two Aurors had gone missing. The
only students remaining were a dozen sixth and seventh years,
school prefects and a handful of younger children whose parents
were either abroad, or Muggles.
"I have just met with Madam Pomfrey, who is most concerned about
your premature discharge from the Hospital Wing," she informed.
"Is she?" Draco asked, with no remorse whatsoever. "Didn't notice it,
myself. Have you seen Tandish Dodders, Professor? Is he well?"
"Alive and in one piece, last I saw him," the Deputy Headmistress
said, "though he's since been in the company of your extremely irate
Head of House, so that fact may require reassessment."
McGonagall's sharp eyes turned to the Head Girl. "And you, Miss
Granger. You have my thanks for deciding to stay on these last two
days. Our numbers are down to two dozen in total, but I daresay
these hardy souls will be reassured by the presence of their School
Captains."
"As Head Girl, it is the least I can do to be here until the last day of
term. I think I can speak the same for Blaise," Hermione spoke, with
more sobriety than Draco had.
McGonagall smiled, touched her lightly on the shoulder and then set
off once more.
Hermione gave him a hard look. "Well I'm glad you're feeling better."
"Not really," he continued. "I can't recall all that much after the part
where you took advantage of me in my delirious state."
She knew when she was being baited and so did not rise to the
occasion. "In other words, you don't remember anything other than
that I came to see you?"
He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and rocked on
the balls of his feet. "Not a thing," he said, cheerfully.
Too cheerfully.
Hermione wasn't convinced, but didn't want to press the issue. They
had greater concerns. The sooner she got her personal life sorted,
the more use she would be to Dumbledore and the Order.
"Try it now."
"We'll meet outside the Cobblestone in an hour. Will you have any
trouble getting away from Potty and the Weasel, Guardians of your
Unquestionable Virtue?"
God, he was a prat. Hermione was not distracted from her inspection
of the letter. "If my virtue was unquestionable, I wouldn't need
guardians, would I?"
She blinked at him, all long, curling eyelashes and mock innocence.
Her newfound ability to unsettle him, and to be aware of it, was
empowering. "We aren't?"
She plucked cobwebs from his hair and marvelled at the fact that
she was no longer scared of him.
"When this is all over, I'll be grateful never to have to lay eyes on
your again," he continued.
But she could almost feel his eyes raking over her face, drinking in
details that he didn't permit himself to notice when they were in view
of others. Her hand came up of its own accord, traitorous and yet
more sincere than the rest of her, to settle lightly just above his hip. A
couple of inches upwards and she'd be touching tattooed flesh,
albeit under a layer of t-shirt.
She'd probably swoon from the effect of it, Hermione mused, like
some sort of tightly corseted romance heroine with low blood sugar.
"Likewise," she countered, slightly breathless. The fabric of his t-shirt
felt amazing, especially with the warmth and subtle hardness of his
waist, beneath it. In better times, she would have to ask him what
sort of fabric conditioner he used.
"About last night, I wanted to see how you were," she explained,
calmly.
"I don't need you to see how I am," he growled. His hands were no
longer crushing her upper arms, they were doing squeezing, rubbing,
chafing things, as if he were trying to keep her from catching a chill,
or as if he couldn't decide if he wanted to hurt or caress her. They
could have still fit a Goyle-sized individual between them, however.
"Your problem, Malfoy, is that you have no idea what you want," she
snapped at him. "You can't work out which side you want to be on.
Make a choice. Dark or Light? We're at war here. You don't have the
luxury of hovering in between, so stop hating the rest of us for
knowing what we're about!"
"You stupid, little girl," he sneered, his breath was hot and sweet
over her face. "I'll tell you exactly what I don't want. I didn't
particularly want you on the night of the party, but hey, you offered
and I'm not Saint Potter to turn down a passable shag that's tossed
my way just because of my intense gay love for my best friend. I
didn't want you to come near me after the Prefects' Bath after you
made it quite plain that I repulse you. I don't need you to inquire after
my wellbeing after I saved Dodders' incompetent arse out on the
pitch. I don't want to wake up in the morning with a raging hard on
and sheets that smell like you, only you're not there for me to tell you
to get the hell lost!"
Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it. She didn't think she
needed to tell him he was insane. That little monologue had proved it
beyond all doubt.
Merlin knew stranger things had happened in her lifetime, but this
next realisation suddenly put all of those things into sharp
perspective.
Someone was coming down the corridor, and it wasn't Bob the
Dungeon Employee. Tonks knew this because Bob wore big boots
and stomped around a lot when he walked. No, this new person was
light footed and very, very quiet. Tonks only heard the stranger's
approach because she had been expecting it since finding herself in
her cell.
The point was that you needed to pay attention and recognise a
Person in Charge when you saw one.
Presently, the top slot of the cell door slid open. A face appeared,
pale, curious and quietly smug. It was like a blow to the chest to see
Harry Potter's youthful, wide-eyed visage staring back at her, but
Tonks soon got her emotions under control.
Harry's face split into a knowing smile. It was the same sort of smirk
Tonks had seen on the fake Draco's face.
So, this person was calling the shots then. There had to be others
assisting though, for the dungeon was not a small, fly by night,
operation.
"You'd be little Malfoy's cousin, then? Andromeda's brat?" said the
Metamorphmagus.
"And you'd be suffering from some sort of brain disease to think you
can abduct two Aurors and get away with it," Tonks neatly replied.
" One Auror," her captor corrected, giving her a measuring look. "To
be sure. I've abducted just the one."
"You're not as dull as other Aurors, I suppose it's the Black blood
exerting itself?"
"Who are you?" she asked. "Why not tell me? It's not like I'm going
anywhere at the moment."
The face that watched her grew serious. It was three parts ambition,
one part plain old craziness. It was nearly the stuff of Voldemorts.
"I am one who has been overlooked, written off, thrown aside in
favour of others undeserving. But not for much longer."
Tonks nodded with mock solemnity. "And you practice that little
speech in the mirror how many times a day?"
That did not please her captor. The slot snapped shut and her light
footed, decidedly cunning, Metamorphmagus captor of questionable
sanity, left the dungeon.
No one came to Tonks cell for the rest of the day. Or the next, for
that matter.
Ron found Harry at the edge of the lake, where he was seated with
Ginny on the stone bench that Hermione liked to visit when it was
too warm indoors. Ron sat, sighed, opened the paper and began to
look for anything Tonks related.
It was the first real 'break' the friends had shared since learning of
Tonks and Bligh's disappearance. Worry was a wearying thing
sometimes.
"Hold up." Ginny said, frowning. She took the paper from her brother,
who protested, and scanned a small article at the bottom of the front
page. "Narcissa Malfoy is dead ?"
Ron wondered how he had missed the story. "Does it mention how
she died?"
"It doesn't say. It only says there's been an apparent cover up about
the death and now some sort of Ministry investigation is underway. I
wonder how Dumbledore's involved?"
"That's awful," Harry shook his head. "I mean, you have to admire
her for leaving Lucius in the end. That took guts. She didn't seem the
'free will' sort."
Ginny worried her lower lip. "Do you think Lucius is involved?"
"How?" Ron interjected. "He can't wipe his arse without the Ministry
giving him toilet paper to use."
"That's lovely, Ronald," Ginny said, giving her brother a bland look.
"You know, I don't think he does. He's been his usual self all year."
"And what's usual for Malfoy?" Ron asked his sister interestedly.
"This reeks of manipulation." It was Harry who said it, though they
were all thinking it. The Ministry, and indeed Dumbledore, were not
exactly known for being forthcoming or proactively minded in the
past, though Dumbledore had taken great pains to ensure that that
had changed.
Ginny was now tying her shoelaces. "Gone for the day. She said she
needed to go to Gringotts."
"Oh," said Ron. "She might have told me. I would have gone with her
to get me some new feed for Pig. He's not responding well to this
new stuff mum got. It repeats on him," Ron told them, making a face.
Harry and Ginny shared a look that was half amusement, half
trepidation. "Ron, dear. I don't think she would have appreciated your
company today, much as she enjoys it."
Ron stared at his sister beadily, and then at Harry, who was suddenly
studying his fingernails. "I'm about to be told something potentially
unpleasant, aren't I?"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Well of course we knew you'd over react. It's
not a big deal Ron. Harry and I think she's got a boyfriend. Or
something."
Ginny knew her brother well enough to guess the types of things that
popped into his head at random. "Don't be an idiot, it's not a
teacher!"
"You're sure?"
Ginny glanced at Harry, who sighed before speaking. "We think he's
from Slytherin. We think he's someone she's come to know well
lately…"
"Yes, well he's liked her for ages, hasn't he? Frankly, I don't know
why he never asked her out earlier," Ginny said. "Timing's a bit bad
though, given what's happened lately."
"But - but he's from Slytherin!" Ron said this with the type of
vehemence previously reserved for Viktor Krum.
It could be said that wizards also had the same urges and penchants
as regular men. Just because they had that extra something in their
genetic makeup that allowed them to summon the morning
newspaper from the front step (instead, like Mr. Granger, of darting
outside in their underpants and hoping the neighbours don't notice)
didn't make them necessarily better or more civilised.
Draco was twenty minutes late, but Hermione was not yet willing to
admit that standing in this particular corner of Knockturn Alley on her
own, was fraying her nerves.
Nice witches did not traverse Knockturn Alley's many nooks and
crannies without an escort. Nice witches went with friends, parents
or nice wizards.
Draco Malfoy was not a nice wizard to keep her waiting in such a…
dare she say it, rough part of town. But Hermione was no delicate
flower. She would not be overcome by a fit of the vapours from a
day's exposure to Wizarding London's Red Light District. She had
faced the horrors of their day - Snape, Voldemort, Hagrid's cooking,
etcetera - without lasting damage.
It hadn't taken her long to locate the Cobblestone, for all that there
was an abundance of watering holes in Knockturn Alley. It was one
of those places that people gravitated to, for business, or just to
stand around and be part of the colourful scenery.
The Inn was ancient and looked less like a pub and lodgings than
three backyard sheds placed one on top of another. Apparently, the
same architectural genius responsible for the otherworldly wonder
that was the Burrow, had also been employed to see to the
Cobblestone's impressive façade.
There were also witches of all sorts loitering about. Tall ones, short
ones, old and young, plain and extravagantly attractive, all seemingly
dressed like they were sassy, smart-mouthed, saloon extras in some
American cowboy flick.
Hermione went a bit red as she shuffled past a pretty, buxom young
witch twirling a yellow parasol. She had on a matching corset and
pantaloons under a red and black silk, oriental robe, and somehow
made the whole ensemble work.
"Sightseeing, love?" the girl called out. A few other older ladies in the
background cackled.
Well, she would not give him the satisfaction. She made her way
down the street, picked a nice, dingy lantern post and waited next to
that instead.
And waited.
"I have a carriage waiting in the next street," said the man. He was
well dressed and not that much older than herself.
"Good for you," she said, for lack of anything better to retort with.
She wished she was carrying Hagrid's infamous pink umbrella.
Undaunted, the cretin took out a money bag which had been tied to
his belt and jingled it, presumably for her benefit. "I pay more than
the average," said the man. He had one blue eye and one green
eye, which was unusual. The blue eye winked at her.
Oh, she was going to wring Malfoy's neck when he showed up.
"I'm not for sale," she told the man, angry in general at the plight of
any woman who felt she had no choice but to peddle her body for a
living. "Take your depraved cravings with you and piss off."
Further down the street, several of the women from the Cobblestone
were giving her hostile looks, but the majority looked amused.
The Sun God had finally appeared, though his trademark golden
head was covered by a black, Muggle baseball cap, pulled down low.
The cap said 'Nutrisoil Fertilizer'.
Only Draco Malfoy could wear advertising for packaged cow manure,
and still look passable.
Draco turned on her. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to use your
knee?" he asked crossly.
Some of his anger faded. "Yeah? A good head butt is called for,
every so often."
Draco read her mind. "Cobbles caters for all sorts, lovey," he said,
waggling his blond brows. "Believe it or not, some men have a thing
for chaste, virginal types." He eyed her bare legs in a way that made
her long for a baggy pair of jeans. She gave him withering look.
"You're late, you know?"
"I had to take care of a few last minute things before I left," was all
he said. He then took hold of her wrist and pulled her towards the
Inn. "Come on. We're going to see if they have a room."
"You mean rooms," Hermione corrected. "And will you stop dragging
me, I can walk." She had had quite enough of being jostled about by
rude males that day.
"Says the young wizard wearing the fertilizer cap…" she muttered.
Chapter 29
Author's Chapter Notes:
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"What do you mean only one room and only one bed?"
"Look here," Malfoy said, stabbing his finger into the worn counter. "I
sent an Owl ahead of time to make a reservation."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes and dared the man to say it.
"Just take it, will you?" Hermione prodded. "Forget the two rooms
already."
She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Malfoy
transferred the full force of his displeasure onto her. It was like being
blasted with an arctic wind. She took a step back to thaw out.
"I'll throw in a whole extra day's stay, for half of whatever she's
chargin','" said the witch with the parasol, inclining her head towards
Hermione.
Hermione glared at the girl, wondering at which point in time she had
sidled up to Malfoy and pressed her lightly rouged bosom against his
bicep. Malfoy, meanwhile, was looking down at her as one would an
affectionate kitten you were a little too busy to pet at the moment, but
if it could perhaps come back a little later?
"I happen to be his wife," Hermione said to the witch, tartly. She felt
Malfoy's internal eyebrow rise upwards at this proclamation.
Well, sod them all. They were supposed to play the part of a married
couple weren't they?
The witch grinned at her. "Uhuh. And I'm his mama ." "Sally, would
you mind?" the innkeeper asked, tiredly. "Am tyring to run a
business."
"As am I," Sally the Strumpet replied, but she sashayed away
without looking aggrieved. When she was at the entrance, she
turned to blow a kiss at Malfoy.
Hermione resisted the urge to intercept the kiss and hurl it back at
the girl's face.
Satisfied that his plans had not gone too awry, Malfoy removed the
Nutrisoil cap with a sigh of pleasure and ran a hand through his hair
to unflatten it. It was just such a normal, 'boy' thing to do, and
Hermione was struck by the fact that she liked seeing him be
himself. He didn't do it very often.
In fact, the more time she spent in his company, the more she liked
about him. Though you really needed to peel away all the many
layers of insulating arrogance and ambivalence…
He was still these things, but they were not the sum of him. All the
cloak and dagger nonsense did him good, apparently. He had a very
attractive tint to his cheeks and his eyes were, for lack of a better
word, sparkling.
"I think I like Knockturn Alley," he informed, giving her a lascivious
smile.
The last time they had shared a room together, they had been blind
drunk, laughing, happy, freshly tattooed and completely out of their
minds with magic-induced lust. This time around, they were sober,
both in body and in mind. There was a dark cloud of responsibility
hanging over them, though Hermione was not to know that Draco's
concerns were not only about his inheritance.
Their room was the third, skinny, red door, along the curving corridor
on the fourth floor. They had been given a key and a wash towel the
size of Hermione's palm. The tiny little towel, to their joint
amusement, was actually monogrammed. Hermione silently claimed
it as a souvenir, to giggle over in better times.
"We put in a water closet, but best not to stay in there too long lest in
collapses in on ye!" cackled the janitor. Who was also the bellboy-
slash-doorman-slash-cook.
They had an awkward moment when they reached their room and
stopped short at the threshold. Malfoy fiddled with a strap on his
backpack and ushered her forward after the door was opened.
"Ladies first."
Surely she could not be blamed for thinking the worst of him before
she considered the fact that he might have just been trying to be
civil? A polite and courteous Draco Malfoy was rather like a ballroom
dancing Harry Potter.
He opened his mouth, gave her a disgusted look and then without
any warning, picked her up. Hermione barely had time to squeal
before she was unceremoniously carried into the room and dumped
onto the bed. He loomed over her, looking acutely insulted.
Blushing, she gave him a sheepish look. "Sorry! I'm just naturally er,
cautious."
"If I really wanted to harm you, I'd…" he trailed off.
Hermione sighed. The bed was really quite comfortable. "Yes, yes,
you would have done it by now."
He flicked off her sandal and it thumped to the floor, sounding almost
muted to Hermione. No doubt because blood seemed to be rushing
past her ears at top speed, rendering all other sounds muffled. Her
bare foot was pressed against his chest and she could feel the
steady, strong thumping of his heart. His thumb and index finger
squeezed her Achilles tendon lightly before he moved his hand
slowly upwards, under her smooth calve.
She shivered when his finger traced up the tail, over the hip bone
and back again. And then his warm palm slid up under her thigh and
then around, until he was effectively holding the inside of her thigh
where the dragon's tail ended. Parts of her that seemed lately to be
disconnected from the section of her brain that produced common
sense, were alive, pulsing and needing. Unconsciously, she was
arching up to him.
His fingers tensed experimentally into her soft, pale flesh and then
released, leaving a very faint, red imprint.
She looked up at him, his beautiful eyes were downcast and he was
so close to her she thought she could count each dark, blond
eyelash. His fringe tickled her nose.
"Maybe we should have pushed for two rooms after all," she said.
Abruptly, Draco shook his head, as if that would clear the fog that
had descended over the both of them. He cleared his throat, got off
the bed and went to stand by the window. He made a show of
looking out between the boarded slats at the human traffic below.
The expression on his face was unreadable. They were silent for a
painfully long, minute.
"This is not how I planned to spend the last few weeks of my final
year." There was a melancholy in his voice which Hermione knew
was more than just the bother of Fida Mia.
"I'm sorry," she said. She really was, too. She was sorry for being
weak on the night of the party, sorry for her bad judgement, sorry for
not looking out of the both of them when she could have prevented
the disaster. Sorry for being away from Harry and the others when
they needed her.
Her shoulders slumped. To her horror, she felt hot tears welling up.
She went to him, shaking a bit and with only one shoe. If what she
thought was happening between them was really happening, they
had terrible timing.
It was a strange thing, to feel the safest she had ever felt, standing
within the warm circle of the arms of the person who had once been
her enemy. Maybe all enemies could be friends or lovers if you gave
them half a chance. Maybe nothing was ever written in stone, no
matter how sure you were.
He sighed. It was a beautiful, warm day outside. And they had a few
hours to kill before their scheduled meeting with the Fida Mia expert.
- 1800. Fida Mia, the marriage spell was developed by the Hendricks
family (numbering some thirty-six members) and marketed as a
fashionable marriage alternative to 'staid' wizarding marriage vows.
And less than a hundred years later, the spell was declared illegal in
Britain, but was still practiced in parts of Eastern Europe.
The young man removed his jacket, pocket watch and cufflinks,
tossing the latter two onto a coffee table. He rolled up his sleeves,
kicked off his shoes and unfastened the first two buttons of his fine,
white shirt. There was a worn sofa in a corner of the room and he
collapsed into it, looking thoughtful.
They usually celebrated a successful con with a stiff drink, but his
great-grandmother's health was not what it used to be. So, it was
lemonade these days, or sometimes a nice, mulled wine if it was
particularly cold.
"Feet off the table, please," the old lady said, setting her tray down. "I
may only be renting, but I rather like this place."
She she poured him a glass. "Well? How are our young lovebirds
getting on?"
"They're children, Nana." "Pah, they're not children! The boy's seen
more than you have. When I was their age I already had three
children and was running the family business." The woman stood
with her hand on her broad hip and adjusted her monocle. " I think
you should have picked better candidates. We could be the cause of
quite a bit of trouble. Did you know the boy's father is a Death Eater?
The girl happens to be a good friend of Harry Potter."
"Next you'll be telling me you have no idea who this Voldemort chap
is…"
The old woman nodded. "Ah, now that name I know. Had a bit of a
run in with him in an alley down in Copenhagen forty years ago. He
was watering a wall."
She gave her great-grandson a beady eyed look. "You haven't been
working with me long enough to know when I'm fibbing."
"The game has always been the same," she continued, with familial
pride. "I, mysterious old crone of lamentable oral hygiene, marry the
pair." She clapped her hands together. "They wake up; they panic
when the charm starts to take effect. They look high and low for a
cure. Lo' there just happens to be an expert in town that very week!
You step in with a timely, rare and expensive cure, where previously
they assumed there was none. It's a very tidy living, if I say so
myself."
He folded his arms. "Except there's no real cure for real Fida Mia."
The old woman frowned at him. "Yes, I know that, lad, my own
grand-dad invented the spell after all." "What I mean to say is that
there won't be a cure for this pair."
The old lady was very quick on the uptake, despite her grand age.
Her monocle fell from its perch. "Come again?"
She sat down heavily beside him on the sofa and put a wrinkled
hand to her throat. "I haven't successfully cast Fida Mia in over
eighty years." She glanced up at him with a frown. "Are you sure?
Are you very sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! Just standing next to them was like wading
through honey."
She gasped, looking astonished. "Yes! Yes, that's what it feels like.
For us anyway. We read it differently, us Hendrickses…"! "You're
supposed to pick bad matches, Nana. That's the whole point. The
couple balks because the spell doesn't fit, and we reap the benefits
when we take the bloody charm off. We can't do that if it's
permanent. "
"I never said they looked to be a good match!" she protested. The
young man stood up. "We should disappear. London's been good to
us. I'd hate to never be able to work here again."
She shook her head. "Oh, no! I want to see this for myself. Call me a
sentimental old fool, but each case is different. Unique. If you say the
spell has actually stuck this time, I'd like to take a look."
"We can't offer them a cure, you realise? Pity, the boy's rich. We
could have charged three times the usual price and he'll still pay it."
The old woman shrugged. "That may be so, but we can still charge
for consultation, my boy."
The strategy must have worked for his father because Lucius did
tremendously well in whatever venture he set his sights on.
Except for his marriage, of course. Women were the exception to the
rule, apparently.
What he also did not like, was having to spend a tension-laden, three
hours, cooped up in a tiny room with a fidgety Hermione Granger.
She smelled like roses and every time she came within a meter of
him, all he seemed to want to do, was grab a handful of her curls
and bury his face into her hair.
Ok, yes, he wanted to do a lot more to her than just that, but he'd
damned if he gave in to his baser urges. His cock might have
developed an addiction to her, but his brain was the one calling the
shots.
It was like his mother used to say, "one annoyance at a time, darling,
and if you find yourself with too many, then you need more staff".
Pansy was not there to act as a calming buffer, Crabbe was long
gone, Millicent gave good advice when not in the throes of teenage
hormones, Goyle was not there to provide a testosterone boost.
Zabini was…
Hmm. What was Zabini? Blaise was a brain, like Granger, and nice
enough decoration, but he'd always remained a bit separate from the
rest of them. Draco had always assumed that the boy had political
aspirations, which was why he made such an effort to be cordial to
everyone.
Even Hufflepuffs.
Blaise would have been the better choice to recruit as spy for the
Ministry. He mixed around more and was more well-liked than Draco.
And yet, it had been he, Draco, who had been tasked with the long
term assignment of weeding out potential Voldemort supporters.
The thought held a new and definite allure. It struck him as very odd
indeed that he had not been viewing her as a potential step ladder or
as a means to a better bargain with the Ministry, rather than a
bothersome dalliance he wanted to be rid off. It was unlike him to
ignore the silver lining of this current dark cloud.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, fixing the strap on the sandal
he had taken off her foot. As he thought this, she turned to look at
him with brown eyes that could hold no malice even if someone had
managed to bottle the stuff and injected it directly into her eyeballs.
"I'm going to get out for a bit. Wait here for me," he told her,
brusquely.
No, you enormous twit. I don't want you to come with me. You're
staying here, his brain prodded at him to say. If you follow me, I
might snap.
"Fine. Whatever," was what actually came out. He found he was too
hungry to put up much resistance.
Draco retrieved his Nutrisoil cap and ignored her small smile when
he put it on.
The corner of her mouth twitched. "I think the man said it was quail."
"Quail does not have a long, skinny tail ."
She laughed. It was the first time he had heard her do so, in such a
manner, in his presence. So distracted was he, that he allowed
himself to be pulled up onto the pavement beside her.
"Not a worry," Hermione told him, sounding every bit Hogwart's Head
Girl. "We'll go Muggle."
He lost her twice as they squeezed their way through Diagon Alley,
en route to the Leaky Cauldron. She wasn't exactly a midget, but she
wasn't willing to use her elbows to maintain her personal space in
the throng.
Irritated, he placed her in front of him, buffeted against his chest and
onwards they proceeded. This afforded him about five minutes of
close proximity with her scented hair, which in turn made him as hard
as rock. Once or twice, she stood flush against his torso, her soft
bottom pressed up against the front of his pants. If she felt the
evidence of his apparent and great 'dislike' of her, she didn't say
anything.
Draco pulled the cap down low over his forehead as they rushed
through the Leaky Cauldron, and exited into Muggle London.
There was smog, and homeless people and teenagers with about a
kilo of metal poked through their faces and cars that went too fast,
but there was also blessed space and not a barbequed rat in sight.
They had stopped beside a narrow eatery, the likes of which Draco
had not seen before. There were hard red stools stuck into the
ground, arranged around an oval-shaped train track upon which a
miniature train was bearing colourful plates of food around on a fixed
loop. In the middle of the loop was a preparation area where two
young men of Asian persuasion were chopping, dicing, rolling and
wrapping with impressive dexterity.
The diners took the plates from the train and the two young men
replenished the train's load with more. There was a pleasant, warm,
earthy smell coming from the bowls of steaming broth that the
waitresses were ferrying on trays.
"Maybe I should take the cap off?" he suggested. "People are giving
me strange looks." He sent the little girl across the room a hostile
glare and she immediately gasped and then covered her mouth to
giggle.
Hermione bit her lower lip to stop her smile. The little girl wasn't
staring at the cap, exactly.
"I don't think you're in danger of being recognised at a Euston Street
Sushi Bar, Malfoy."
Draco had just located the napkin dispenser and took his time
spreading a paper napkin across his lap. Hermione watched him with
undisguised amusement..
The waitress probably wasn't presented with this question very often.
She looked from her order pad to Draco, expecting to see the type of
tourist who considered sushi a 'try once before you die' activity.
What she saw was six feet and one inch of lean, lightly muscled
Seeker's body currently arranged in a seating position on a red stool;
pale, fine skin that came from careful breeding, rather than a
fondness for staying indoors; white blond hair that was too long
around the fringe and that curled around the collar; and light grey
eyes that were flecked through with blue if you stood close enough
to notice.
Hermione cleared her throat and propped her chin on her palm. The
waitress glanced at her distractedly, and then said. "Oh, um it's
basically a stock boiled with seaweed, tofu and mushrooms."
Hermione doubted if Malfoy registered what tofu was, but at least he
didn't turn his nose up at mention of seaweed.
"Good. We'll have a pot of tea and a bowl of miso, each. That sound
alright?" Hermione asked, out of courtesy.
"Fine," Draco said. He was studying the small, laminated menu with
amusing intensity.
The waitress arrived with their tea and miso. The amount he ate
would have given her pause, except that Hermione had routinely
seen Ron and Harry put away similar sized meals. Though she
doubted she could get Ron to so much so much as touch a
California roll, let alone eat three in one sitting.
They had a small argument when she noticed him spooning a lethal
amount of 'avocado paste' over his food.
"Uh, Malfoy, that's much too much wasabi."
He snatched the cup as soon as she finished pouring out the tea and
drained it.
An hour later, there were fourteen small plates stacked beside Draco
and four beside Hermione.
Hermione shrugged and dug inside her bag for her wallet. "Good,
because I'm getting this. You paid for the room."
He didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do about it. So he
waited outside to stare at the traffic, while she paid for their meal at
the cashier.
It was his way of thanking her, she knew that. Hermione suddenly
felt uncomfortable, as if something as simple as a thankyou was too
personal for them to dabble with.
"Yes, it was."
They took a slow walk. For once, Draco did not feel the need to set
his breakneck speed and she didn't have to jog beside him to keep
up. It seemed that neither of them were overly eager to return to their
room.
"Can I ask you something?" she asked him, when they crossed the
street to get to the side of the road where the Leaky Cauldron was.
"I was bored. Goyle was already drunk. Parkinson was cross with me
for something I can't now recall. You came to the Hall late and you'd
just had a shower or something, your hair was wet and you were
all… pink." He touched her earlobe briefly, an intense look in his
eyes. "You looked about as fed up with being there as I was. I
wondered what you'd do if I asked you downstairs to the dungeons
with me. I figured it might have been the time to ask."
"Not liking you had nothing to do with wanting to bend you over the
nearest stair railing."
Her eyes widened. "I see. And how long have you felt that, er, way?"
She blushed to the roots of her hair. He could see it, even in the
failing light. Hermione Granger was the most ridiculous combination
of practicality and school girly-ness he had ever encountered. He
wanted to make her blush some more.
"I'm trying to make sense of what exactly this spell has done to us.
Where we end and where it starts."
Hermione looked away, mortified. "I can't believe we're having this
conversation…"
He humoured her. "You bring out the worst in me. I'll acknowledge
that. Before Fida Mia, wanting you was confined to daydreams in
History of Magic. After Fida Mia…" he gave her a pointed look,
though there was less warmth in his stare now. "I've always had a
collector's eye."
"I see," she said. She paused for a moment, and then said, "What
happened when Dumbledore summoned you to his office that
afternoon the Mark was sighted?"
That was the last thing he had been expecting her to ask. He didn't
like it. For a short while, he had forgotten. He narrowed his eyes at
her. "You don't get to ask about that."
"Why not? Don't you trust me?" she asked. "I trust you, despite what
you think."
"That was a mistake which I have already apologised for," he cut in.
This was getting out of hand. She was a like a bear looking for
honey. "Have you finished your questions? We're going back now."
"Wait."
She had worked herself up into a right lather. Her hand was on her
hip and her brown eyes were spitting fire at him. "You might find this
hard to believe, but most people don't find me intolerable."
"You're tolerable enough when you keep your mouth shut," he told
her. "I can think of a few, pleasant ways to achieve that end." He
stared at her mouth.
"Stop interrogating me and get out of the way before I pick you up
and carry you through that door."
Hermione gave him a long, speculating look. "Your parents really did
a number on you, didn't they?
Draco wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he felt the correct
response was to hit below the belt. "No more than Potter's."
It didn't work. She just looked more determined to draw him into an
argument.
Granger threw her hands up in the air. "Draco, you don't have to go
through life acting like a reflecting pool for their mistakes. Don't you
ever get tired of being so bloody tortured all the time! Let some
sunlight in before you shrivel up and die from all this angst!"
She didn't just cross the line, she'd vaulted over it. He grabbed her
by her shoulders and lifted her up off the ground, shaking her like a
wayward puppy. Her sandaled feet dangled three inches from the
floor. The expression on her face dared him to do his worst, but there
was a flicker of fear there as well.
He was glad to see it. He'd let her get too brazen.
"I realise you are the most irritating thing to ever exist in three
dimensions, but do you really have to prove that so often? You are
not privy to my innermost thoughts, Granger! Ask your questions but
don't expect me to get all deep and meaningful with you because I've
had you. You are not the keeper of my heart. My heart, such as it is,
and my cock are two very different things. I am here not because I
want to be here, but because I have to be here. This is a means to
an end, do you understand? You may forget yourself, but don't forget
who I am," he seethed, and for a moment, she was pinned by the
ferocity in his eyes.
He released her and she slumped against him. He must have been a
bit out of sorts himself, because he permitted this before he took a
step away from her and ran a hand through his hair.
It would have to be with, because he had taken her hand and pulled
her along with him.
Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Of course, at the time, he hadn't known that there was a name for
his peculiar ability. As is often the case with young children of
magical stock, the appearance of Blaise's magical traits happened
quite by accident.
It occurred not long after the day his mother had taken him aside for
a home hair cut. He had been partial to his long hair, but it wasn't
seemly for a boy, or so this mother had said. Off it came and Blaise
had been exceedingly cross about it for weeks.
And then, one day, while his parents were downstairs entertaining
his mother's visiting relatives, Blaise had climbed up onto a chair and
stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom and willed his hair to grow
back.
It did. All at once and in about ten seconds flat. He hadn't been
expecting this and nearly toppled off the chair in shock.
Afraid of what his mother would say (or ask), he took pains to cut it
all off again and did not walk pass any mirrors for a month. Later, he
realised he could control the skill, and indeed, he recognised it to be
a skill.
There were books written about it. It was a rare and important
enough ability that he would have to submit his name to the Ministry,
if he told.
He didn't tell.
By the age of ten, he could be anyone he wanted, provided he had
been in their presence for long enough to note what they looked like
from all angles.
If he was a bit too aloof, a bit too calculating for their liking, his
parents dismissed this as the product of a very proper upbringing.
Also, he never could maintain a morphed state for very long, when
he was feeling particularly drained. It was a lot like trying to mould a
block of clay using only your elbows. The end result was less than
finished. It had been an intensely trying week for him and he had had
a lot on his plate.
Earlier in the day, he had made a quick trip to look in on the Auror he
had captured. Inadvertently captured, he reminded himself, with a
grimace. He was very good at what he did, but had to admit that he
was becoming cocky.
Still, it was a thrill to be able to use one of the precious Death Portals
Wormtail had given him the previous week. They were small enough
for him to carry, concealed inside his clothes.
Wherever Bligh went, he was now dead and gone. Sadly, the pretty
Auror with the sharp tongue that he was keeping in the makeshift
Death Eater barracks would meet a similar fate. She was a spirited
thing and reminded him of Hermione.
The only good thing to come out of the kidnapping was that nearly all
the students had returned home early for the summer holidays, and
the investigation had been moved back to the Ministry. It was now
possible to move around the nearly deserted Hogwarts without
needing to shift into a teacher, a patrolling Auror or anyone else, for
that matter.
Draco was wearing a cap and so was harder to spot if you were
looking for his telltale head of hair. Granger was easy enough to
notice, though. Her shoulder length curls were loosely tied up, but
Blaise unfailingly recognised her. He also knew, even from some
distance away, that she was frowning slightly. The smooth, creamy
skin between her eyes, an inch above where her freckles appeared
on the bridge of her nose, would be delicately creased.
She did that when troubled and it was clear that she was troubled
now. No doubt Malfoy was the reason for the frown. He was
dragging her down the street and up to the Cobblestone Inn with a
clenched jaw and an extremely tense expression.
There was little about Hermione Granger that Blaise had not taken
close notice off over the past year. He thought it odd, given that he
did not think nor expect that he would ever become attached to
anyone, in such a fashion.
She was… she was different, wasn't she? Something boys like him
and Malfoy could admire from a far, but never touch. Not banal, like
other Gryffindors. Not austere, like Ravenclaws or possessed of no
imagination, like most Hufflepuffs.
Oh yes, she was a tad wound up, but she more than made up for
this with her other, more pleasing attributes.
She had a mind made for organisation and if given the right impetus,
leadership. It was all there in her foundations. Potter trusted her
judgement implicitly. Apart from wholeheartedly approving of her
intellect, Dumbledore considered her a necessary temperance for
Potter's more impulsive tendencies.
Granger's destiny was more uncertain. If Blaise had his way - and he
often did - he would attempt to cloud it even more. He had thought
about making his interest in her known, over the past few months,
but they had been busy months and it wasn't everyone who could
handle NEWTS, a School Captaincy and a Death Eater
apprenticeship all at once.
First, it had been her surreptitious reading of the book on Fida Mia,
in the library. That had set alarm bells ringing once he discovered
what the spell was all about.
The protective way Malfoy had acted towards her when the Dark
Mark was sighted over the forest had almost confirmed it. Blaise
prided himself on his ability to catalogue such details.
After the bludger accident on the pitch, Pansy had told everyone who
had been willing to hear, that she would sneak down to the Infirmary
to check on Malfoy the morning after.
The Dark Mark incident in the forest could have been a monumental
blunder for their cause. Blaise had made his thoughts known to
Wormtail during their meeting the previous week. Of all the wands
the Death Eaters could have stolen, they simply had to go and
supply him with Lucius Malfoy's, Ministry-tainted wand.
Blaise had to make sure. For all he knew, he was jumping to wild,
improbable conclusions.
There were many reasons why Malfoy was not suited to being a
Death Eater. One was the fact that he expressed no interest in such
a life, after the very public downfall of his father. The other was the
fact that he had been willing to walk into danger to prevent harm to
an utterly useless classmate.
Blaise has known Draco would do it. He had been counting on it.
The son of a bitch had certainly not disappointed. Perhaps there was
a bit of Potter in Malfoy after all. Maybe this was what Hermione saw.
He wanted to see that look of horror and worry for him, not Malfoy.
His little test had worked and his suspicions were confirmed.
After that day, he decided that he would very much like to arrange
Malfoy's death.
Doing so without the Dark Lord's approval was going to be tricky, but
not impossible. His Master wanted Malfoy recruited post haste,
despite at least a dozen other followers insisting that the boy could
never be trusted.
The Dark Lord would not listen. If Albus Dumbledore had Harry
Potter, than he, Voldemort would groom his own star pupil. His
protégé. It should have been Blaise. Anyone with a half a brain could
see that.
What was it his Master had said? The sins of the father would not
determine the future of the son . Or some such horse shit that owed
to Tom Riddle's baggage about his own sire.
The regime would never last. Voldemort did not have the foresight or
the policies to make it last.
Blaise did, though. He had long term plans that did not begin and
end with the death of Harry Potter. Voldemort would not reign
forever. Blaise's ambitions were not the smoky, elusive stuff of
Voldemort's. They were solid.
Borgin was early. He was waiting for them outside the Cobblestone,
looking just a bit embarrassed by the attention he was receiving from
several of the loitering working girls.
He was sporting his usual, dark and greasy-looking clothing, the type
of attire that allowed a person to blend more easily into Knockturn
Alley's more seamy nooks and crannies. All in all, he was much the
same since Draco had last seen him, though he had less hair now,
making the sheen on his long forehead all the more pronounced.
Draco had not mentioned her name in his letter to Borgin, and to the
man's credit, his shock did not transfer across to his greeting. It
probably took a lot to surprise Emmanuel Borgin, Draco conceded.
"Hello." Hermione's response was curt, cool. She ignored the offered
hand.
She had probably never met Borgin before, but Draco supposed that
she knew him by reputation. They may have required his particular
brand of expertise, but Granger made it quite clear she did not
approve of Borgin, the person.
"Well, then," Borgin said, his eyes growing just a little bit hard at the
obvious snubbing. "Young Malfoy, shall we proceed?"
Hermione fired off her first question. Draco seemed to trust Borgin,
but if they thought she was going anywhere with them without finding
out a few details first, they were crazy.
"How far?"
"How did you find this expert? I can't see such a person advertising
his services in the local paper?"
Borgin paused to give Draco a 'does she always do this' kind of look,
before answering. "I asked around after I was contacted by Draco
and soon came to know that a particular foreigner with certain talents
had settled in London recently. I assure you, the man is very
professional. For all that he's chosen to set up shop in this part of
Magical London, his resume is sterling."
"Yes," Hermione remarked, dryly. "I saw the quote. For that price I'm
surprised he hasn't sent a diamond encrusted carriage to receive us.
The fee is ridiculous…"
"Feel free to ignore her, Borgin," Draco chipped in. He pushed gently
against the small of Hermione's back, in an effort to speed her up a
little. The girl had long legs for her height, but she had a habit of
being annoyingly unhurried.
"Aye, shall try," Borgin muttered, though not so loudly that Hermione
heard.
A crone had set up shop beside a sweet seller. Her 'stall' consisted
of an overturned barrel, covered by a grimy looking piece of linen.
On this makeshift table cloth, there sat a variety of pretty trinkets on
display.
"Why?"
For the umpteenth time that day, she wished she had a camera.
Draco fell into step beside Borgin once more, and they spoke about
Borgin's trade, the state of the black-market economy, the recent
theft of Dragon's Blood from Hungary which had seen the stuff
quadruple in price. It was interesting enough chatter and so
Hermione kept close to Draco, though even then he had to remind
her once or twice not to lag behind.
There were just too many distractions for a curious mind to cope
with.
They were all learning slightly to the left, such that a person
observing them was almost inclined to tilt their head slightly to the
right. Hermione was doing just this when she caught Draco giving
her a look.
They paused briefly outside 'Number 3', while Borgin chimed the
bell. Draco removed his cap, rolled it and shoved it into a back
pocket.
The door opened almost immediately, and a well-dressed man
greeted them. He had one blue eye and one green eye.
He was grinning at her now. It was the type of grin the Weasley twins
often sported after a successful caper.
"Sorry about earlier. I'm afraid I instructed Mr. Borgin here to request
that the two of you arrive well before our meeting time. Only so that I
could take a good look at you," the man informed.
"To get a look at us?" Draco repeated, looking even less pleased
than Borgin.
"Yes. It's all part of the consultation process. I'll be happy to explain."
He stood there for a moment, giving them time to digest the news.
"My name is Arne, by the way, and it would seem that I am your Fida
Mia expert for the evening," he stepped to the side of the door and
made a dramatic gesture with his hand. "Do come in."
"Do you have last name, Arne?" Draco asked, as he entered the
house. Hermione was thinking the same thing, though she thought
Draco might have used a little more tact in asking. He was probably
still annoyed at being fooled.
From the narrow corridor, Arne slid open a panel that opened to a
small sitting area. There was a tea carafe set up, presumably in
anticipation of the meeting, with several pasties and cakes.
"Will you be joining us?" Arne asked Borgin, only just noticing that he
was still standing outside the front door.
"Rather not, all the same," Borgin replied, shuffling from foot to foot.
"If that's all you'll be needing from me this evening, I'll be off?" The
question was put to Draco.
Draco nodded, reached into a pockets and pulled out yet another
small, drawstring pouch of what Hermione assumed was Borgin's
payment. He tossed it to Borgin.
Hermione and Draco took a seat at opposite ends of the same green
velvet sofa in the lounge room. The scene was almost like something
you witnessed at a marriage counselling session, Hermione thought,
with an internal snort.
Draco shook his head, and then gave Hermione the briefest of
glances.
"No, thank you. We've just come from lunch."
Arne steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on his tweed covered
knees. He gave the impression of someone telling a story to
children. "Some people find it to be an eloquent enchantment. There
aren't that many these days that bind to the fabric of your soul
without causing damage. There aren't any legal ones, anyway."
Draco must have felt that the answer to this particular question was
obvious enough that it did not require a response. He slapped a
snooty expression on his face and stared straight ahead.
"Do you mind if I take down a few notes as we go?" asked Arne. He
was watching them watch each other as he took his seat once more.
"We're not," both Draco and Hermione said, at the same time.
Hermione couldn't help feeling just a bit prickled by the vehemence
of Draco's reply, however.
Draco cleared his throat and sat a little straighter in his seat. "You
could say that."
Arne wrote something else down on his paper. It looked like a good
five or so sentences. Hermione wanted to see what it was.
"The same reason I like to see my clients before they know they're
being watched. Gives me an idea of how far the spell's roots have
gone. Your emotions affect the spell more than you realise. Any
remedy I make has to be tailor made. Overkill won't work, in this
instance, it might even be harmful. It's useful to gauge how much
you have been influenced by Fida Mia, and how much is just…" he
paused, shrugged, "you."
Draco looked like he was not eager to hear about Arne's assessment
of their particular 'root' situation.
Arne's next question had Hermione blinking. "Will you tell me how it
came about then?"
"Really?" Hermione said. "You need to know that ?" She hadn't
expected to be asked to explain her growing feelings for Malfoy to a
stranger, much less with Malfoy sitting there.
"He means the spell, woman," Draco muttered.
"Oh," she exclaimed, colouring slightly. "Er, we got a bit drunk after a
party two weeks ago, and ended up at a pub, getting tattooed. The
result is apparently Fida Mia, or so we're told."
"Where?" she said. Oh dear. "Well, he's got a pair of black wings on
his back. And I've got a silver dragon on my, ah, hip and upper
thigh… area."
"I meant where did this happen? As in, the place ."
Hermione went even redder. She gave Draco a heated look. "Are
you going to just sit there or will you please assist?"
He assisted without looking at her. "The Snake and Stone. I think it's
about three streets down from the Inn we're staying at now. About
two blocks from the main thoroughfare leading from Diagon Alley."
"I know the one," Arne nodded. "Can you describe the procedure you
encountered, if you can remember?"
"Well," she began. "And then there was a bit of an um, altercation
between Mr. Merrybones and another patron who had said
something rude to him. I think that was the reason, anyway. I was
too far away to be sure." Her tone said the real reason for the fight
was something far more trivial.
Like the other man looking at Draco the wrong way, for example.
She stared at Draco. "I thought you said you couldn't remember?"
"I can't! But that doesn't mean I'll sit idly by and be accused of
breaking someone's nose," he insisted.
"So you keep saying," Hermione shot back, looking resigned, "we
proceeded to the tattoo parlour. There was an old woman there…"
"Hang on, now her I do recall!" Draco said, leaning forward. "That old
bat had a set of teeth that would have scared off a troll at ten paces."
Hermione frowned at the memory. "Yes, it was rather bad wasn't it?"
Arne didn't miss a beat. "My cat. She's very senior. Probably needs
to go outside for a piddle."
Arne put his notes down. "Very nearly. What I'd like to do now is to
take a look at your tattoos."
"Actually I'd very much like to look at yours in particular," Arne told
Draco, unfazed by the intimidation.
Hermione took over for him. "Like living in his skin for brief moments,
feeling what he's feeling. I think it happens when we feel particularly
strongly about something. I get bursts of insight, or dashes of his
personality. It's very startling."
"Oh, there's the tingling too," Draco assured, dryly. "Much tingling."
Looking only a little bothered, Draco stood and pulled off his t-shirt.
His back was to Hermione as he did so. Her hand came to her
mouth in a loud gasp when the dark wings were revealed.
She was having trouble believing that she was looking at the same
tattoo Draco had so cavalierly displayed in the Prefects Bath. It was
no longer a static thing. Rather, it moved, like dark ripples on the
surface of a pond.
His fair, pale skin made for a fitting canvas. The feathers were as
black as jet, but there was colours deep in the black too, swirling,
gathering. Like an oil spill on dark water.
The urge to reach out and stroke them, stroke his skin, was fairly
overwhelming. Hermione gripped her hands tightly together until her
knuckles were white.
Draco's turned around and their eyes met briefly. "Told you they've
changed."
Where indeed? It had gone the way of her better judgement, surely.
Arne was busy making his own inspection of the tattoo. He looked
excited, for lack of a better word. He was walking around Draco
holding an instrument which looked a lot like callipers and saying
things like 'beautiful', 'remarkable' and 'excellent workmanship'.
"How come he has a pair of wings?" she asked. "And a dragon for
me?"
"Haven't you guessed yet?" Arne replied. " Your mark is on your
husband, and his, is on you. It is how you see each other."
Hermione was not even close to understanding what Arne had just
told her, but she could spot an opportunity to annoy Malfoy a mile
away. "If my tattoo is how I see him, then why isn't there a horrid little
gnome clinging to my thigh?"
Malfoy sent her a look from over his shoulder. "Ha-ha."
"Quidditch injury."
Arne shook his head. "Not so much. I think these are merely people
who favour He Who Must Not Be Named's ideas. I don't think your
Voldemort has set his sights on our small community as yet. That is
a good thing, I think."
"A very good thing. I can't believe his influence has spread that far."
Hermione found herself angry that Arne's birthplace had also been
similarly corrupted by Voldemort's taint.
"You'll find, young Miss, that there is a little bit of evil villain in all of
us. It is the weaker of us, however, who may be led astray. The
impetus perhaps needs to be planted first."
"That's what you think Voldemort is? An evil seed?" Hermione asked.
"He is an 'idea'. A bad one, at that. These are not good days, to be
sure. Many in my community are expecting war, in one form or
another, maybe in one year, maybe in ten years. So I make my
money and spend it as I like, while I can," he said, smiling slightly.
"Rest assured that there are more of us stronger than weak, more of
us who are not so easily misled."
Draco was looking at him oddly, as if the man's insight was cause for
suspicion rather than trust. "How do you know so much about Fida
Mia? You're about a minute older than us."
Arne tapped against Draco's skin and looked pleased when the
'feathers' seemed to shrink away in response, almost like the leaves
of a mimosa plant. "It's a sideline business. My partner and I own a
small Charms Consultancy in Copenhagen. Family venture, you see.
Fida Mia has Danish origins and I've simply taken the time to make a
study of it."
"For most cases, I fashion a charm that takes the place of the spell's
host. The host being a human soul. The magic that was laid down
during the needling process become attached to the charm and the
spell comes off, along with the tattoo. It's not easy magic and it's not
entirely Light magic either, given that blood was shed in the original
process. Blood will have to be shed in the remedy."
"You may put your shirt back on," Arne told Draco. Hermione almost
felt a pang of regret that the magnificent tattoo had to be covered up
again.
"What's the verdict, then?" Draco asked, after he had pulled his shirt
back into place.
Arne's response was mixed. "Can I have a word in private with you,
for a moment?" He gave Hermione an apologetic look. "I hope you
don't mind."
Hermione response was to mind, but she reluctantly nodded. "By all
means. He's paying for this."
Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
"My hearing must be going, because I thought you just said you
couldn't help us."
They had gone into the kitchen and shut the door behind them.
There was some sort of pie baking in the oven. Draco looked at the
floor for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. Wherever his mind
was, it wasn't a calm place.
Then he looked up at Arne, who had to resist the urge to reach for
his wand. Borgin hadn't been exaggerating when he said the boy
was a little high strung.
"You heard correctly," Arne responded. "There's no cure for what the
two of you have. It's permanent."
"And you know this because you've asked her? Or because she's
told you?" Arne asked, gently.
"How do you know it's love? How does anyone know?" Draco was
pacing up and down the tiny kitchen like a caged animal.
Arne tried to calm the situation. "It doesn't matter if you don't know,
or if you're not sure. The spell knows . I can remove the spell from a
dalliance, a fling, an accepted mistake from both parties, but I do not
have it within my power to break Fida Mia that two separate souls
have bonded into place."
"Well fuck you then," he said, with great bitterness. "Why are we
even here?"
Arne folded his arms and sat on the edge of his kitchen table. Nana
was going to have a fit when she found out one of her beloved
kitchen chairs had been assaulted.
"You have to tell me how to fix this!" Draco leaned heavily against
the sink and looked at Arne with such bleakness in his eyes that the
older man was momentarily taken aback.
"Does it occur to you that your young lady might not consider this to
be such a big problem?"
"Why?"
"Why!" Draco scoffed. "Because we're only eighteen, for fuck's sake.
Because she is who she is and I'm… well I'm very sure she's going
to have some rather difficult things to deal with very soon, without
having to factor a husband into her concerns. I do not want a wife! I
want to be free of this! There has to be a way!" he hissed.
Arne wondered what these 'difficult things' were and if they were
truly that dire that having someone there who cared for you was
going to be more hindrance than help.
But then he remembered that the girl was friends with Harry Potter,
and his questions were answered. Difficult things indeed.
"Given its permanence, there are but two ways to remove true, Fida
Mia," Arne told a wary looking Draco. "You know this."
"Yes, but also be aware that love is the catalyst, the enabler of
charm. Without it, the spell will come off, cleanly. This is why most
people who think they're affected by the spell aren't. There has to be
love, you see."
"Then I need to remove her love," Draco surmised, with closed eyes.
Arne snorted. "I may only be 'a minute older' than you, as you said,
but I can tell you now that it's far easier to fall in love than to stop
loving."
"She'll stop," Draco declared. It was almost a promise. "I'll make her
stop. She shouldn't have bloody started in the first place." He made
to leave the kitchen, but Arne caught him at the door.
"Wait, before you go, I should perhaps point out that we seem to
have conveniently skimmed over the fact that Fida Mia works only
when both parties are in love." Arne let the implication hang in the air
for a moment.
Draco's hand was on the door handle.
Arne watched him walk away, feeling quite inadequate. And for the
first time since he started working with Nana Hendricks, he also felt
guilty . ** After the couple had left, Nana Hendricks made her way
down the stairs. Things had not gone well, from the look on her great
grandson's face.
Arne was watching the departing couple from the window. "I think
that young man may be the angriest person I have ever met. And
being in the business that we're in, I've seen my fair share of angry
young men," he told his great-grandmother.
Nana Hendricks was at her knitting. The pie had been taken out of
the oven and was cooling on the kitchen table. She liked to knit when
she was feeling cranky, and arguably, after the news that her dear
great-grandson had not wanted to charge their clients for the
consultation, she was cranky.
That was two months work, down the drain. All that hanging about in
dingy pubs, scouting for suitable targets, moving their tattoo parlour
from village to town and back again. All for nothing. She didn't have
the energy these days to work too many jobs in a given year. One or
two at the most. They were running low on funds too.
Not that she could stay riled for long with the boy. He was like his
father, too soft-hearted by far, which happened to be the reason why
she had retired her grandson and taken on his boy as her new
partner.
"Rest assured it's not the spell that has him angry," Nana said.
"I like him," Arne admitted. "If only because he's the complete
opposite of me."
"I know," she gave him a fond smile. Her knitting needles clicked
amicably, soothing her. "You were such a sweet, placid child. Do you
want any orange in your sweater, dear? I just remembered you
detest orange."
"Nana, I'm worried about what he'll do." Arne could not shake the
fact that Draco was Death Eater progeny. Hopefully, this particular
acorn had fallen very far indeed from the tree.
"They'll be fine," she told him. "Why, I haven't known a couple to not
be fine under true Fida Mia."
"Well, there's the time you tried to poison him and then there was the
attempted drowning. Father says he burned down your house once."
"Oh that." She made a 'pish' noise. "That was just us courting, dear.
If it hadn't worked out in the end, you wouldn't be here, would you?
Now, will you have any orange or not?"
Arne wasn't entirely satisfied. He had seen the fear and rage in the
young man's eyes and he wondered if the girl had enough fortitude
in her to calm him. When Fida Mia struck true, it did so with blinding
force.
They were freakishly bright, the both of them. He could tell. They
also had too much common sense. Sometimes it was better to throw
common sense to the wind. What was instinct good for if everyone
listened to their head all of the time?
She got nothing out of him, not a hint. Though perhaps the anger
she was seeing ought to have been the biggest clue of all.
They pushed past the doors of the Cobblestone and then continued
upstairs.
He didn't stop. He almost kicked open the door in his haste. When
they were inside their room, he slammed the door shut and picked
up his bag.
"My God, it can't be that bad?" She walked up to him. It was her
future on the line too and she was sick to death of being continually
dismissed by him. "Will you stop and tell me what's happened?
Where is our cure? You didn't pay him, did you? I didn't see you give
him anything when-"
He whirled on her. Startled, she retreated until the back of her knees
were against the bed. She got a good look at his face then. This was
no teenager throwing a tantrum. This was full blown Malfoy-rage. For
a moment she thought he might actually strike her.
"Shut up," he said, holding up a finger. "For once just shut up !"
And then he stared at her as if she'd gone mad. "You crazy bitch…"
She raised her wand and aimed at him this time. He lunged at her,
pulling her roughly by her forearms.
"What?" she squeaked, because she was alarmed and because the
question was as stupid as it was unexpected. She would answer
him, however, if he would just calm down. "Don't put your hands on
me Malfoy"
He shook her until her teeth rattled. "You are nothing, do you
understand? You are nothing to me. You are a bothersome, tiring,
boring distraction at best!"
And then he said foul things. Some very foul things. None of it was
about the circumstances of her birth, though, which really should
have been an indicator about his state of mind at the time. He did not
call her a Mudblood, but he called her other, vile things and it was
not until he started mentioning Ron and Harry in his sordid insults,
did she snap . The time came when it was no longer prudent,
feasible, possible or healthy to listen to such slander without
reacting. It was almost heartening to know that she had a line too,
and that he had crossed it.
She wrenched her right arm free, knowing she'd have bruises for a
bracelet the next day, and slapped him across the face with all the
strength she possessed. The resulting 'smack' sound was
gratifyingly loud in the tiny room. Her palm stung, but it was worth it.
Draco pushed his hair off his cheek and tucked it behind his ear. The
tip of his tongue darted out to catch the thin line of blood that had
welted up across his top lip. His eyes took on a dark, gunmetal look
as he sucked at the injury.
Ok, time to run now!, the tiny, warning voice screamed in her head.
She didn't listen to it. The voice didn't always know everything. The
voice was her brain speaking, not her heart.
He pulled her up against his chest. It didn't hurt this time because he
was being gentle..
"I dare . That's all you need to bloody know," he retorted. "You recall
what I said at the motel, about what I would do if you hit me again?"
he asked her, his thumb stroking down the bridge of her nose. His
voice was gruff.
He took her hand, the right one, the one that had slapped him twice
since they had know each other, and kissed her palm. His chin was
scratchy. He needed a shave, she thought.
She barely had time to register what he said when her other hand
was suddenly captive as well. Frowning, she tugged, but his grip was
tight, binding. He brought his foot around behind her, and in one neat
sweep, toppled her backwards and onto the bed.
He crawled over her on the bed, his breath hot and moist, inching
upwards along her throat. She felt short of breath, dizzy.
Goosebumps broke out everywhere he touched. The material of his
pants was a rough caress against her bare legs. Or perhaps that
was just all her nerve endings suddenly screaming their existence.
He ground the rigid delta of his jeans against her soft, lower belly
while he nibbled at her neck and sucked at a particularly tender spot
under her ear.
"If I could bottle how good you smell to me right now, I'd make a
fortune." His voice sounded drugged and distant. She didn't think he
was aware of it.
Dimly, she realised her hands were free. She settled them on his
shoulders and gave an experimental shove. He laughed (or growled,
she couldn't tell) into her neck and then bit her. She turned her face,
wanting to kiss him, wanting to taste him and be close to him in a
way she knew he did not like to encourage.
But he was clever and pulled away. Either his control was
extraordinary or he was just plain evil in his seduction.
"I don't think I've impressed my true nature upon you yet," said
Draco. He kissed the corner of her mouth and Hermione knew that if
she licked that spot, she would taste his blood on her.
That was a bit too real for her liking and she was scared. Hermione
scrambled back against the headboard, but he caught her ankles
and dragged her back down to him. Miserably, she realised her skirt
was now bunched around her waist. He shoes had come off and her
hands were once again prisoner.
She had never considered herself a weak person, and had certainly
done her share of heavy lifting at home and at Hogwarts, but
whatever strength she thought she had, it was nothing compared to
Malfoy's.
The tension that pulsed and radiated between them was more than
just their emotions, it was also the age old tension between the
sexes.
"What are you doing?" she asked, more calmly now. It was an inane
question. Like asking the postman what his job was.
She opened her mouth to say something smart, and he picked that
moment to attack. He wouldn't let her kiss him on her own terms,
she realised. He didn't want her compliance.
He kissed her and kissed her. His mouth slanted over hers. It was a
kiss worthy of the pent up frustration they had been enduring for so
long. He ate at her lips, swept his tongue over and around hers,
explored every inch of her he could reach, and if he couldn't get
deeper enough, he tilted her head or forced her chin downwards and
started all over again. She gasped and he caught her breath only to
return it to her, hotter.
He had more trouble with her bra, seeing as the clasp was at the
back, so he merely pushed it up out of the way as well.
He pulled away from her mouth, his lips ruddy and wet, and just
looked at her in a way which made her want to run for the hills and
join a nunnery. His gaze was so quiet and heavy that she started to
squirm from the intensity of it. Her breasts seemed to be enjoying the
attention, however. Her nipples had become tiny pebbles.
He took pity on her. "If you've been reading my thoughts this week,
you'll know I've wanted to do this for a very long time."
Hermione's toes curled. She tossed her head from side to side and
begged him to release her hands. She wanted to wrap them around
him, but she wasn't that far gone that she would tell him that.
"I think about walking over, sitting you in my lap, unbuttoning your
blouse and playing with these while you cut up my breakfast and
feed it to me. What do you think about that?" he asked rhetorically,
bending his head to delicately bite at the underside of one breast.
"I've been thinking that since last year, and do you know I get so
hard that I'm sometimes late for Transfiguration because I'm sitting at
breakfast like an idiot, after almost everyone has gone, pretending to
drink pumpkin juice until I settle down?"
She moaned, ducked her head so that he couldn't see her face.
"Granger," he prodded, catching her lips and luring her to look at him
with a brief kiss. Her eyes were full of tears when she opened them.
"Do you know how I can tell when you're ready for me?" he asked,
his tone was both gentle and mocking. It was a deadly combination.
She shook her head and was rewarded with his scorching smile.
"I can tell because you get all hot and wet and you make these
wonderful little noises. I can't remember all that much from our first
time together, but I'd be three quarters dead if I didn't remember how
you feel ."
She would not consummate their love in anger and fear. That path
led to anguish and loss, she was sure of it.
He responded by digging his fingers into her tattooed thigh until she
cried out. "Not 'Draco', you little cock tease. To you, I am Malfoy,
always Malfoy. I'm my father's son, after all. You need to know what
sort of man I am."
The plan had been to scare her so badly she would never be able to
look at him the same way again, much less feel anything for him. He
should have known better. His best laid plans tended to melt into a
puddle of goo whenever Hermione Granger was involved.
His thumb found the tiny, sensitive spot that made all the difference,
and he pressed and circled it. She tightened her legs, imprisoning
his hand and started making those noises he liked so much.
She also felt small, smaller than he remembered, which sent caution
signals rushing into his head to go slowly.
He was less artful fumbling around with his fly. He lifted his hips off
the bed for a moment so that he could snag his pants and drag them
down a little. His boxers went the way of his pants and he was free.
Hermione felt him reach between them, and if she looked down, she
knew she would now see the heated, naked length of his cock
resting against her. He drew her legs around his hips.
"Close your eyes. Do it… or I'm going to turn you over. You don't
want me to turn you over, Hermione."
"I will not!" she hissed back at him. She hadn't realised she was
crying until she tasted her own tears.
"Because I'm probably never going to see you again after this, am
I?" she sobbed. She thought he might really do her violence at that
moment, and she braced herself for it, thinking herself a fool and
knowing she could not forgive him if he did. Neither would he forgive
himself.
But then Draco dropped his head to her breast and groaned. Her
hands were free.
"Only if you knit me up again," she whispered against his hair. She
wanted to touch him but he was still holding her hands.
"Do you even understand what's going on here?" she yelled at him.
"I give myself to you Draco, and God strike me dead if I've read you
wrong and you don't want me just as much." Her voice went a little
small at this. "I know you feel something, so why won't you trust
yourself for once?"
It was less painful to not know love than to have it ruin you by
degrees.
Ask her, you idiot! "I…" he said. But no more words came. He had
none. In wanting to break her and save her from their unwanted
marriage, he had realised that there was something broken in him.
Something that perhaps could never be fixed.
How could he demand the same thing of her? Granger, who was
healthy and whole and who had the startling ability to love.
Draco sensed her small surprise, the reflexive stiffening of her body
and felt defeat the likes of which he had never encountered. She had
given him an opening and he had failed her, as he would have
predicted. All was lost because Hermione would never forgive him
for what he had done to her.
Hermione locked her legs around him. And then she summoned
what was left of her courage and tilted her chin upwards and caught
his mouth just before he pulled away.
There was nothing left to do but hold him. He had to be terrified. She
felt weak, insignificant in the wake of whatever had been set free
within him.
She heard the sounds she, they made, small gasps for air,
whimpers, moans as if she were an outside observer.
He pulled away to breathe and she raised her head to follow, not
wanting to lose the intense connection that was welding their bodies
together.
She knew that if she didn't say something soon, the gates of the
fortress would snap shut and the darkness he suffered from would
steal him away again.
"Stay with me," she told him, not asking, telling. She left the appeal
for her eyes to convey.
Shutters lifted over his eyes. The parts she had discovered and
teased out over the past two weeks gradually lay bare, uncovered
and vulnerable.
"Tell me," he asked, his eyes searching her face. He caught her
hands so she would not distract him with her touches. " Please ."
Remus Lupin hadn't called her the cleverest witch of her age for
nothing. Hermione recognised the solution with startling clarity. He
was afraid to give that much of himself without knowing that she
returned the feeling with equal ferocity.
"I'm in love with you. Draco, God help me, I tried my hardest not to
be." It was ridiculous how easy it was to say it. A few days ago, a
person would have had to strap her to a rack before she would have
admitted it.
He drew back a little and for a moment she thought she had lost the
tug of war after all. And then with a shaky exhalation, he buried his
face into the crook of her shoulder and there he remained for a
minute. Doing nothing more than breathing and holding her.
Relieved, jubilant, terrified, she wrapped her arms around him and
found herself wishing that she either had longer arms or that he was
a smaller person.
And then he lay down beside her, holding her to him so that they
were facing each other, exactly as he had done when he had
awakened her on the morning after the Graduation Party. This time,
she was wide awake.
He pulled her leg over his waist and reached between them to take
hold of his cock. His other hand rested on her hip, cradling her
dragon tattoo.
Hermione rolled her eyes at him. He really was such a drama queen.
Perhaps a direct approach was best, when it came to her thick-
skulled husband.
"You're going to be the death of me," he told her, almost wincing the
words out. She wanted to tell him not to say such things, but when
she opened her mouth, all that came out was a sharp gasp because
he thrust into her, all of him, all at once.
He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She was straddling him.
The entire hard, hot length of him was inside her. He said something.
It wasn't English, she thought it was French. It sounded like a curse
word and it was the sexiest thing she had ever heard uttered.
Here it was again, that perfect, brilliant fit . Drunk or sober, there was
no denying how good they were together.
Draco's brain was about to explode. He was forced to close his eyes
because the sight of her riding him, was too much. Her eyes
broadcasted the words she had given him earlier, and if that wasn't
already enough to make him finish in a scant second, the feel of him
wearing her, would.
Too late. He was going to finish. Merlin, she had reduced him to a
horny, deranged, obsessed, premature ejaculator.
"I'm sorry," he rasped. He thrust up into her hard, one last time and
that was all he could manage.
Hermione lay on his chest. He was so still she thought she'd killed
him. She raised herself up, pushed her hair out of her eyes with her
forearm and peered at him.
He opened his eyes, halfway. They were a cool, placid grey, showing
nothing more untoward than run of the mill sleepiness. Hermione
sighed with relief.
"I won't."
Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Arne was seated at the kitchen table, eating cold pumpkin pie while
reading the Daily Prophet.
The names she carried were as old as they were notorious. There
was quite a bit of background information about the Blacks and the
Malfoys mentioned in the article. According to the report, the woman
was thought to have committed suicide, and the death had been kept
a secret from the public, until now. It was not suicide, the article
suggested, which was why a full-blown investigation was underway.
The article also mentioned that Narcissa was survived by her only
son, Draco.
Draco.
The bell at the front door sounded. Arne was not expecting any
visitors or clients and so he assumed that it was Nana, back from her
mercy, pie-delivering mission to an elderly neighbour they had
befriended. Arne thought the man fancied his great-grandmother, but
she insisted it was all platonic.
He put his empty plate and fork in the sink, tapped his hand over his
jacket pocket out of habit, to check that his wand was there, and
went to answer the door.
He was wearing the black cap Arne had seen on him during their first
encounter outside the Cobblestone Inn.
The young man nodded. His silver eyes were bright. "I need
information. It's urgent."
Arne stared at him for a moment. "I don't usually see anyone this
late, but I suppose I could make an exception. I will have to insist on
charging a fee this time, however."
"I always pay my way," was Draco's response. There was a smile on
his face now.
Whomever he had let into the house was not under the effects of
Fida Mia. It was his blood-talent to be able to sense the existence or
absence of the intricate spell. Where the young couple earlier had
been swimming in a thick soup of complex magic, flavoured liberally
with love and lust, this stranger was clean .
There was nothing on him. That was because it wasn't really Draco.
The realisation came too late. The boy had already cast his spell.
Arne fell to the ground, paralysed. He watched as the young man
unhurriedly walked to the front door and opened it. Two other men
entered. One of them was small, balding and skittish. He gave Arne
a brief glance that reeked of worry.
His companion was a marked contrast; tall and austere. Both were
clad in enveloping black.
The information they requested was about the young couple that had
been there Arne earlier. Specifically, they asked about the boy,
Draco. It didn't seem like very pertinent information and from the look
on the stranger's face, he seemed to know already.
"Thank you," said the boy, if it was indeed a boy. He was in charge
though, that much was clear. The other two fell into step behind him.
For a moment, Arne thought they would leave. He held his breath.
The tall man stepped forward. He didn't look eager, but he did not
look like the kind of man who would be swayed by pleading either.
"What will you have?" he asked the boy. His voice was like the rest
of him, grave.
People often said that a person's life flashes before them when they
die. That was nonsense. Unless a person was fortunate to die
relatively calmly and slowly and with all their mental faculties in good
working order, there simply wasn't the time to review a life in
summary.
Given that wizards could expect to live well past a century, that also
meant quite a lengthy summary and given such longevity, a good
chance of senility.
Arne had lived a paltry twenty-four years, and so there was not a hell
of a lot of life to review in the first place.
As Travers advanced on him, apart from distinct terror, Arne also felt
regret .
When Nana Hendricks came home that evening, she found the door
to the house open, her great-grandson dead, in the hallway, with a
bag of money beside him, and the Dark Mark, blazing over the
rooftops of the townhouses.
Draco woke up on top of her, grumbled that the bloody bed was too
bloody small and then would have gone back to sleep again, only he
realised that he was probably crushing her.
He was also lying on her hair.
Merlin, but the girl slept like the dead. Her dark lashes were perfectly
still, resting on her cheeks, her breathing was deep and even. She
had a natural pout when she slept and a rosy flush to her skin. Draco
felt a strange sort of calmness as he looked at her. It started
somewhere in his stomach, expanded into his chest, and then
seemed to seep into the rest of his body via his blood.
The feeling warmed him. He realised that he felt safe, which was
ludicrous. He was not safe. He hadn't been safe from the moment he
was born.
He was now responsible not just for seeing to his own continuing
survival, but also that of a girl. A frail Muggleborn girl. Brilliant, yes,
but who didn't have the sense to stay out of harm's way, who wasn't
any good at broomstick flying, who wasn't even tall enough to reach
his shoulders.
She was special, that was true, but Hermione Granger had no power
and influence that he could use to his own advantage. She could not
protect him from the groping, opportunistic hands of the Ministry or
the cold, calculating interest of Voldemort and his supporters.
Hermione was even more of a target now. And it was his fault. The
thought was like an icy wind blasting away the aforementioned,
warmth. He was a self-serving creature by nature. Draco was not
ashamed of this and would have been the first to admit it.
It was thus very hard to wrap his brain around the fact that there was
now someone else that he would have to watch over. Someone
else's interests other than his own.
One may have been a very lonely number, but at least it was an
easy to put into equations.
Their interests were now one and the same. The silly girl had
ensured that when she had told him she loved him.
He could walk away. That would have been the selfless, noble,
wisest thing to do. For all parties concerned.
Bad luck for her then, that he was not such a person.
All that was left to do, then, was to make his environment as
Granger-friendly as possible. That meant keeping the Ministry off his
back and staying under Voldemort's radar. Perhaps if they tried
enough, the world would leave them the hell alone, long enough for
him to work out what was happening to him.
She hoped she was happy. He was talking to himself now. Granger
had officially made him crazy.
His voice stirred her. She wriggled beneath him and started doing
soft, wet, sleepy things to his shoulder. She even managed to locate
his ear. "Hermione," he said, his voice sounding weak and puny.
He knew her tattoo was flickering. Like fairy lights. It had started
doing that a while ago and was steadily picking up in intensity, but he
decided she'd be alarmed to hear about it. He remembered that she
seemed to enjoy overreacting.
The one, grimy lantern in the room cast a sleepy golden glow that
looked very enticing over her skin. It was sticky-hot, given that the
only window could not be opened. A fine sheen of perspiration
covered the both of them. It made her look dewy.
He pressed his lips against her shoulder and tasted some of the salt
from her skin. The sheet was dragged downwards. Her breasts were
addictive, he decided. He knew there was a good reason why he had
harboured those lustful thoughts during breakfast.
Hermione raised her head and squinted around the room. It was
dark. The lantern was out. Somewhere down the corridor, a woman
was laughing. She wanted to get out of bed to find out what time it
was, but Draco slung a leg over her and told her they needed to go
back to sleep.
His command was at odds with his behaviour, though. He was, at the
moment, wholly occupied with fondling her bottom.
It was so hot in the room. He had covered them with a sheet, but
even that seemed too much to bear.
"What's that smell?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. She fit perfectly
against and into him, but this was hardly news.
"The quilt," he said, against the back of her neck. "You set it on fire
remember?"
"Oh," she replied. They didn't need it anyway. It was too warm. She
wiggled her backside into a more comfortable nook. "I suppose I'll
have to pay for it," she said, yawning.
Draco gave her a light smack. "I gave the Innkeeper enough for a
hundred new blankets."
Yes, yes, he was rich. She had got that memo in first year. Hermione
turned over so that she could grin at him.
"Draco."
He didn't open his eyes, but she could see his mild frown of
incredulity. "You ask this now ?"
"I've seen the School Register, you know. It looked like you have half
the alphabet for your middle initials."
For a moment, he was content to pretend that he had gone back to
sleep, but then he said, "What were you doing looking me up in the
Register?"
Silence.
She said she would. He repeated his whole name then, in a rush. To
show her he was tired, she supposed.
"Granger?"
"Hmm?"
"I feel duty bound to inform you that you have the world's most
perfect arse."
Silence.
She propped her chin on his chest and answered him. "Nineteenth of
September. Which makes me nine months older than you." God
knows why she sounded smug about it, she just was
Hermione didn't think he realised how tender his smile was. "Not
where it counts."
She yawned and rested her head on his chest. "I'm never grumpy."
He shook her awake. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes
later, but she had apparently dozed off. His chest made for a nice
pillow and the sound of his beating heart was ridiculously soothing.
Hermione was not soothed, however, to see the frown on his face
when she pried her eyes open.
"Granger, who was your first?" he asked this with some urgency.
"Huh?" she queried. Ginny often told her that it took a good ten
minutes to put her brain on in the mornings.
Draco looked faintly troubled. "I didn't think Potter liked you that way.
So he's off the list. I guessed Weasley, because the two of you had
that thing last year."
He said 'thing' like it was venereal disease.
The steel went back into his eyes. It had been on hiatus since they
had connected with the bed. He sat up, dislodging her from his chest
rather rudely, and then he had the audacity to glare at her.
He stared at her as if she'd just told him that he was a long lost
Weasley brother.
"No."
Hermione was getting cross with him. What the hell did he mean by
no ?
Making a sound of disgust, she tried to take the sheet with her when
she got out of bed, but he was lying on it and wasn't taking the hint
from her violent tugging.
whatever. She located her singlet and underwear beside the bed and
hurriedly put them on.
He was still pretending to be daft. "You mean to tell me, the night of
the party… that was your first time?"
"Yes, well first six or seven times, if you want to get technical," she
answered, tartly.
Where was her skirt and bra? She wanted to look under the bed, but
she had a feeling he'd snatch her if he got the chance.
"Take your clothes off and come back here," he ordered, predictably.
And then, to her mild disbelief, he added. "I'm sorry if my reaction
upset you, I'm just surprised is all."
Hermione was still mad. He had stomped obnoxiously over what was
a delicate subject. She would not humour him. "Sod off, Malfoy."
He raised an eyebrow at that, and then, with a dramatic sigh, got out
of the bed.
The sight of his erection, pointing to the ceiling, made her mouth dry.
She was still cross with him, though.
"Why are you being difficult about this? Isn't it customary for the man
to be somewhat glad that his partner isn't the village broomstick?"
He broke into a grin at that last comment. "You suck cock like you've
done it plenty of times before. I made an assumption, an incorrect
assumption, it would seem," he admitted.
"You really do have a way with words, don't you?" she informed him,
blushing furiously.
"I suck your cock like I've been doing it for years," she corrected,
sheepishly. Her face felt hot enough to cook eggs on.
They were back at the bed now but were not yet in it. He was
stroking her arms and back. "Tell me something," he asked, casually,
like he was asking for the time. He turned her away from him, used
his foot to spread her legs apart, and then gently bent her over the
bed. She bit her lip as he slowly pressed into her.
"Was I gentle?" he asked, when he was buried to the hilt and they
were body against body with no space in between.
It took her a moment to find her voice. "No, you weren't. But if I
wanted gentle, I would have been with you that night."
"Ah," Draco replied, through gritted teeth. His hands gripped her
hips. "Great answer."
He was walking around the room, stark naked, shoving his Nutrisoil
cap and the remainder of his money, into his bag. After he had re-lit
the lantern, he picked up the burnt quilt with two fingers, wrinkled his
nose a little and tossed it into a corner.
The point was that he was doing all this without a stitch of clothing
on. The man had no concept of shyness, obviously.
She pulled the sheet over her head. "I will always blush."
"And I will always like that you will always blush," he answered, while
pulling on his trousers. "Get dressed. We should have just enough
time to get back to Hogwarts before we are officially, indecently late."
"Four in the morning." Draco shoved his wand into a back pocket
and Hermione was tempted to nag at him not to. The wizarding world
lost a buttock every other week because of such carelessness.
"Which means we'll have to wake up the castle to get back in," she
lamented.
He had wet his hair. It was slicked back and she thought, wistfully,
that he looked twice as handsome. "I'll get us in."
He had dug into her bag to retrieve the tiny little face towel that had
come with the room. It had been dampened with warm water.
"Thought you might want to freshen up," he said, suddenly sounding
uncomfortable.
They were in new territory. Draco, especially. She couldn't shake the
feeling that she had thrown herself, bodily in the Whirlpool of Fate,
and he had only just stuck his big toe in.
A warm towel was lovely, but what she needed was a hot bath, to
soothe her physically and mentally.
He caught her by the trailing end of the sheet when she was halfway
to the tiny water closet.
All playfulness was gone from his face. "You know we still have a
problem right? This doesn't change that."
Funny, she was of the opinion that what they had just done, had
changed everything .
But he was Malfoy, and he liked to take his time to come to the same
conclusions she had already arrived at.
People don't fall in love in two weeks, her brain reminded her, when
she was in the privacy of the tiny, little toilet.
This time, there was no shame as she stared at her reflection in the
mirror.
"I did," she said to herself, and began to wash her face.
It would have been lovely and all if he had said it back, but she
figured he'd need a bit more time.
Draco spotted the Innkeeper just as the man was rushing out of the
establishment, wearing what looked to be a purple, ladies' dressing
gown, two sizes too small, with little rosettes sewn into the lapel. He
had his wand drawn and was cursing loudly.
"You owe me three nights' stay, you old bastard!" the man shouted,
shaking his fist.
"What's happening is that people are thinking they can skip out on a
bill on account of a little Death Eatin' is what," the man huffed,
dressing grown flapping wildly to reveal a pair of pale and skinny
legs. "Death Eaters better think twice before visiting these parts
again! Bad for business, it is!"
They were outside the entrance now and watched as the panic on
the street gradually escalated.
The Dark Mark was visible, smoky and bright, seemingly right over
them. Though upon closer inspection, it looked to have originated
from further inside the district.
Hermione stared at it in horror. "I don't believe this! How did we sleep
through that ?"
Draco was even paler than usual. He watched it for a moment, jaw
tensed. "I don't know, but we're leaving right now."
He didn't need to tell her twice. Hermione took his hand and followed
him up the street, to head towards Diagon Alley and more familiar
territory. Other people were doing the same.
A group of young men who looked and smelled like they had been
on a pub crawl, ran into her, and for a moment, Hermione was
carried along by the comparatively minor flow of people moving in
the opposite direction, eager to catch a clearer glimpse of the Mark.
Like a swimmer caught in a rip tide, she let the group buoy her along
until there was enough room to make a break.
Hermione narrowly avoided falling into the gutter, but she did make
intimate contact with a grimy, brick wall. A small child, about three or
four years of age was holding on to lantern post with both arms and
crying.
Draco bellowed her name with such force that several people near to
her spun around to look. The number of people on the street seemed
to have doubled in the past five minutes.
"Here!" she called out, her voice all but lost in the din.
He heard her, Merlin knew how. Within moment, he was there;
pulling her along a she kept turning around to gawk up at the Mark.
They kept to the pavement, along the edge of buildings where there
was more light. Draco took them into the first alleyway they came
across. It was already filling up with like-minded people intent on
Disapparating to the safety of their homes.
She was shaken, but she was not anywhere near distraught enough
to splinch herself. "I'm fine."
He nodded, wand already in hand. "Do you know that little picnic
spot near Hogsmeade station?"
Compared to the noise and panic of where they had just come from,
the quiet of the lake was startling.
Hogwarts was home, and at that moment there was nowhere in the
world she felt safer. It was also much cooler than in Knockturn Alley.
Hermione rubbed at her upper arms to ward away a chill that had as
much to do with seeing the Mark yet again, as it did with the weather.
The look on Draco's face said he was thinking about more than just
the Mark. He pushed his hair back, straightened his shoulders and
started walking.
"Besides the fact that we've personally seen two Dark Marks in two
short weeks?" he scoffed. "Yes, something is definitely not right."
She walked a little ahead of him and was in the process of tying up
her hair. Her hands were still shaking a little and so she only
managed a loose bun that looked in danger of coming undone
almost as quickly as it was put up.
The nape of her neck was exposed, showing the small curls that
clung to the end of her hairline. There was a smudge of dirty just
above the scooped neckline of her singlet, above the bump of her
spine and before the start of her shoulders. It could have been soot
or soil or regular Knockturn Alley grime.
He seemed more surprised than she was and stared down at his
thumb as if it has just asked him how the weather was. "Evidently I
did."
It was wise to seize the moment while he was still looking particularly
unguarded, she decided. "You really need to tell me if these two
Marks have anything to do with what Dumbledore spoke to you
about in his office. I don't believe in coincidences."
"Is that so?" she challenged. There was a 'moral of the story' lecture
coming on, Hermione thought.
"Do you know I think I was the first student Potter met before he
came to Hogwarts? I didn't realise who the git was at the time. I
spoke to him again on the train to Hogsmeade, probably even before
you two had met. I made him an offer to be friends. Do you know
what he said to me?" he asked, rhetorically.
She shook her head, cautiously curious at the tangent he was on.
"He said he could work out for himself who was the right sort of
person to be friends with. Gave me a look like I was a pond scum
scraped off the bottom of his shoe."
She was silent for a moment. And then, she shrugged. "You probably
acted like an ass."
Maybe he had Seer's blood in him. Seers were the most depressing
people a person could know.
Except for Sybil Trelawney, of course. That woman was just plain old
crazy.
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it. She
supposed she did defend Harry quite a bit. But only because Malfoy
seemed to make it his personal mission in life to malign her friend
whenever possible.
"Hang on. We aren't talking about the same thing, are we? I'm not in
love with Harry, you idiot."
God, she detested it when he walked away from her whenever she
got confrontational. It was the height of rudeness. The aggravation
she felt was beyond enduring. It hurt to be dismissed by him.
"I hate you when you do that," she muttered. It was a mutinous, but
private exclamation. He wasn't supposed to hear.
Hate or love, Granger, which one is it? Half an hour ago, you were
fairly screaming the latter in my ear."
"Ah, but only because you've made me into one," he announced with
some lasciviousness. He trotted over and pulled her into his arms
She suspected it was his way of apologising for being rude.
He smiled. "Never."
And then he tilted her chin up with his knuckles and proceeded to
give her the slowest, most gentle kiss she had ever received from
him. It was all very unusual and unsettling.
He wasn't a soft kisser. Wispy, feather-light, butterfly kisses were not
very Draco. He kissed like he insulted; forcefully and on occasion,
cruelly. He usually kissed her like he wanted to leave an imprint on
more than just her flesh.
Hermione rested her cheek against his chest and was gratified to
feel and hear the wild hammering of his heart.
That was, until he loosened the fastenings of his pants and shoved
her hand down the front.
It was frightening to think on how very much she cared for him, for
Draco. For the complex, volatile young man breathing hotly into her
hair. First impressions would count for nothing when it came to
analysing Draco.
One required patience and endurance.
Doors, she decided. That was what he was made up of. Many doors,
each opening to a different emotion or part of him that he liked to
keep as guarded as possible. It was his way of coping. Doors would
open, with her persistent prodding and she would marvel at
unexpected tenderness or his candour. By the same token, other
doors would shut.
She tilted her head up so that she could look at his face. His eyelids
were at half mast. "
How come you get to ask me all sorts of personal questions and yet
when I even try to get a bit closer to you, you bite my head off?"
"And the other twenty percent?" he asked, his lips rubbing sideways
against hers. Hermione breathed in the question.
She could feel his chest rumble and soaked in the delightful noise
like parched desert sand under a seasonal shower.
How the hell did they come to this? They had been discussing fate
and coincidence not ten minutes ago.
"Ask and I promise I won't bite your heard off." His voice was husky,
indulgent.
He rubbed against her and she could feel the heat of him through at
least four layers of clothing. "I believe the 'emergency' was avoided
when I removed your tight, little fist from my person."
"Draco-"
She pinched his arm for being cheeky, and then grew more sober.
"What did the Ministry want with you in Dumbledore's office? Every
time you don't tell me, I keep imagining the worst…"
Draco just stared at her, utterly amazed by the fact that he could not
lie. He had fully intended to lie to her, of course. For her own good.
How utterly stupid that now, when he actually wanted her to stay with
him, he had no idea how to keep her. He feared her judgement as
much as he feared her safety, if she were to be burdened by the
sensitive information. She would leave. She would come to her
formidable senses; the warmth in her brown eyes when she looked
at him would disappear, replaced by a look of mild pity.
There was something very wrong with her for loving him, and he was
afraid that whatever mental affliction she was currently suffering from
would right itself if she were presented with the unshakeable proof of
his black heart.
"Forget it," she muttered and trudged on ahead. "I'm not asking you
again."
"Granger, where would you say the first Mark was launched? Not
very far south of the Greenhouse, right? We were heading
southeast."
"Um, except Harry and Blaise, I think. They headed down to the
direction of the Whomping Willow."
She looked at him suspiciously. "I imagine so. I could ask Harry," she
said. "Or you could ask Blaise."
They were coming to end of the trail and the beginning of a giant
hedge of ancient bracken. Already, the sky above Hogwarts had
taken on a lavender tint. The sight of the Castle and its associated
responsibilities made her stomach cramp with nervousness. She
wondered how far the news of the second Mark had spread.
"Malfoy, wait a second."
There were many things that were not at all their forte, but Hermione
reckoned that timing was top on the list.
He watched while she removed her wand, only answering him when
he gave her a quizzical look. "We didn't um, ah… that is I didn't use
or do anything… earlier."
Some of the tension left his face. It was good that he could nearly
read her mind because under ordinary circumstances, her half-
stammered explanation left a lot to be desired.
"Was that it?" she asked, blinking down at herself. The coolness
quickly vanished.
Hermione raised an eyebrow "So you men keep saying. How did you
plan on getting us in at the same time without waking anyone up?
The doors aren't unlocked until six a.m."
She supposed they could wait. It wasn't going to be dark for very
long but the bracken could provide ample cover. Draco was squinting
into the darkness, not looking very bothered by their latest
predicament.
"It's Snape!" she would have recognised the man's stance and
blacker-than-black robes anywhere.
"Psst! Malfoy! Where are you doing?" Snape was going to see them!
Draco's answer wasn't entirely re-assuring. It was, however, news to
her.
Snape very nearly blasted his idiotic godson's blond head off the
boy's shoulders. For one wild, terrifying moment, he thought that it
was Lucius who was calmly walking up towards him.
The gait was the same. The hair was the same silvery white in the
early light. But Draco had yet to attain his father's girth and was
noticeably lighter on his feet. There was also the small matter of
Lucius not being caught dead wearing a t-shirt and old trainers.
"Back, I see," Snape said. He reached into his robes and pulled out
a silver timepiece. "You are roughly five hours late, Mr. Malfoy. Your
permission slip for your outing yesterday extended to eleven p.m.
lock-down. I trust you have not forgotten how to tell time?" Snape's
casual reprimand did not convey the slight panic endured by him and
Hermione's Head of House, Professor McGonagall.
Draco had never been one for pleasantries, no matter that his
mother had attempted to drill the importance of manners into his
skull. "I've just came from a second Dark Mark sighting in Knockturn
Alley," he curtly informed.
Snape looked alarmed, but not overly so. He closed his timepiece
with a sharp snap and replaced it inside his pocket. "We have only
just been informed. Professor Lupin is due to assume patrol at the
end of my shift. I would like very much to speak to you and Miss
Granger before you turn in."
No scathing, verbal lashing. No menacing glowers and no threats of
detentions well into Draco's twenties.
Draco was insulted by the question. "Of course I brought her back.
She's in the bushes," he said, as if this were an entirely normal place
for Hermione to be, at that particular point in time.
With some disdain, Snape eyed the hedge of ferns in the distance,
where there was currently a noticeable rustling noise. "Miss
Granger," he called out.
"No, it's not," he snapped. "The two of you, wait in my quarters. Now
."
It was all very male, Hermione decided, and scholarly. That was
expected.
There were mahogany bookcases laid into two of the stone walls,
overloaded and practically groaning. The other furniture was also
mahogany, except for a beautiful, claw-footed, rosewood and mother
of pearl desk, which was kept relatively clutter-free. It didn't really
match the rest of the furniture, but its placement and good condition
attested to the esteem in which its owner held it.
She took a seat in a green damask armchair, opposite from Draco,
and yawned. It was easy to forget how little sleep they had managed
to squeeze in, over the past week.
"So how on earth does Snape know about our Fida Mia problem?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "My head's still killing me," he
admitted and then managed to force out a lascivious expression
from underneath his fingers. "I'm drained, is what I am."
"Oh, stop that. Your godfather is going to walk through that door any
second now."
"Ah yes, the look on your face when you found out." He sounded
thoughtful. "I thought half the school at least had a clue by now."
"There's a lot I don't know about you with your clothes on," she said,
quite primly.
He laughed, leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a fond
expression. It could have been because he was tired and thus, too
weary to be smarmy, but his gaze was genuinely warm. "Don't put
too fine a point to your wit-"
The door opened without even the tiniest creak - something that was
practically unheard of in Hogwarts Castle when it came to doors -
and Snape strode into the room. He barely looked at them before
saying, "Be seated."
"Sorry."
"If there was, Miss Granger, I hardly think you'd be entitled to that
information," came the cool reply.
Ah, but then Draco was not . Snape had remembered this fact, even
if she hadn't. Hermione suddenly realised that she still had quite a
few secrets from Draco (who was in the process of looking at her
oddly). She rubbed her nose and turned her attention back to Snape.
"It's not looking good, is it?" Draco said to his Head of House.
Hermione remembered then, that they were talking about his cousin,
and the feeling of wretchedness increased.
Snape was markedly more polite in his reply to his godson. "The
Headmaster takes personal issue with the fact that two members of
Ministry Law Enforcement should go missing on school grounds. He
is assisting Alastor Moody with the investigation."
Draco was surprised. "You speak with him via Floo fire? I didn't
realise he had that luxury."
"A luxury for him, to be sure. Not so much for me," Snape replied.
Hermione thought there might have been amusement in his voice,
but it was probably her imagination.
"Who else knows?" Draco asked, with a frown. That was going to be
Hermione's next question.
The thought that Lupin had quite literally 'sniffed them out', was
alarming. "Would anyone else pick up on it that way?"
"It was a foolish mistake, sir," Hermione said. "Believe me. Under
normal circumstances-"
Snape's hand shot up into the air, in a pale blur. "I do not require or
wish to endure an explanation. That is not why I asked to speak with
you. Your documented, continuous disregard for rules attests to the
fact that you both think you are old enough to get yourselves killed.
Merlin knows you are foolish enough. My only concern is that you
usually choose to exercise this disregard during school hours and
that your recent outing to London just happened to coincide with a
murder."
"The Dark Mark in Knockturn Alley. Are you saying someone was
actually killed this time?"
"The identity of the victim is not known as yet. Was your meeting
with the Fida Mia expert fruitful?" The change in topics was swift, if
not very smooth.
Snape didn't need to wait for an answer. The scowl on Draco's face
and the pronounced blush on Hermione's, was answer enough.
"I see, that is indeed unfortunate." Snape sighed. Folded his arms,
and then sighed once more. "There is… there is something else that
I need to tell you."
They waited.
Draco was speechless. He had never seen his godfather stuck for
words. He turned to glance at Hermione and noted that she too was
staring at Snape as if the man had just announced his fondness for
the colour pink.
"It was reported on the front page of yesterday's Daily Prophet, but I
suppose you haven't had an opportunity to read the paper yet? No.
No, of course you haven't." "Sir?" Draco prompted, when Snape
didn't continue.
"Draco, I am truly sorry to be the one to tell you this. Sorrier than I
can say."
She couldn't tell the hurt from the anger or the shock. For a few
moments, her vision was a black, swirling mess. It was almost
physically painful.
"There is a difference!"
Draco looked up. Something like hope flashed across his face. "But
the money that has been deposited into my Gringotts account each
month… that was supposed to have come from Mo- Narcissa. How
is that possible?"
Snape hesitated for a moment. "The money is from me. I'm afraid
I've known as well. It was our plan to inform you at the right time."
"The right time being the news of her murder splashed all over the
Daily Prophet!" Hermione scoffed. It was almost like she was
speaking for Draco. Merlin knew she could feel his rage very clearly
now. It all but obliterated the other emotions. "Rather, you decided
that your only option was to tell him now before he found out on his
own, in the worst possible way!"
Draco shot up to his feet, albeit a bit shakily. "Your plan ?" he spat.
"Yours and Lucius' you mean? You knew You both knew my mother
was gone all this time and you never told me!" His voice caught. "I
wrote letters to that woman for three months and all this while I
assumed she was simply disinclined to write back."
"I assume full responsibility," was all Snape could or perhaps, would
say, to the accusation being laid at his feet. "It was a lapse in
judgement on my part, to not have told you sooner. It is imperative
that you listen to me now, however. You are in danger. Both of you.
You need to be exceedingly careful. The investigation has uncovered
the fact that Narcissa didn't commit suicide as we had thought. She
was murdered, Draco. For reasons I can only guess at, at this stage,
I believe that the Death Eaters are making an example of your
family. We had your best interests at heart when the decision was
made not to tell you."
" Murdered ?" Draco whispered hoarsely, his eyes narrowed into
slits. "My mother was murdered?" The look of shock transformed into
painful horror and then, there was nothing.
He shook his head and then swallowed audibly. "I… I'm sorry,
Professor," Draco began, his voice dripping with ice, "but somehow I
don't think this school, or the Ministry, or my father, it would seem,
has ever had my best interests at heart. I am going to demand some
answers, rest assured, but they won't be from you . Now if you'll
excuse me, I'm going to bed."
He took a step, stumbled, and then held out his hand to Hermione.
The look in his eyes was a naked plea for her to aid him before he
keeled over altogether. Hermione was there in an instant.
The unfairness of it all made Hermione want to hit something. All the
nasty, unkind things she had ever thought about Snape over the
years, condensed into one, chilling look. She anchored her arm
around Draco's narrow waist and together, they made their way to
the door.
"Thank you, Professor, but I think I can manage."
Snape stood, staring at the closed door for many minutes. Absently,
he looked down at his hand and sighed when he saw that it was
shaking.
Of all the many responsibilities and duties that were his, there had
always been one that he had genuinely enjoyed.
Draco.
It was both a pain and a pleasure to watch the boy grow into
manhood. Snape was a poor choice for a godfather. He was an old,
hardened, bitter, former Death Eater; a former spy with a list of
enemies as long as his right arm. But then Lucius was hardly parent-
material himself. A pity that children could not dictate which families
they were born into.
As much as he cared for the boy, when the time came to finally
prove it, Snape had failed dismally. Twice he had failed Draco. First,
when he had stood by when Ministry had given the boy the
preposterous and futile task of spying and then, again, when he
could have been forthcoming about Narcissa's death. It had been old
sentiment for Lucius that had held him back.
He had needed the girl to be there, to catch Draco. And Granger had
done just that, with a coolness that he would have applauded if the
circumstances had not been so tragic.
This was a world that had thought nothing of placing the weight of
their freedom on the shoulders of an eleven-year old boy. That had
been Harry Potter's introduction to the Wizarding World. Dumbledore
was as guilty of this as the average wizard in the street. The
community was also just as quick to condemn and mutter when the
slightest of their suspicions were piqued.
Draco was wise to this hypocrisy. There were more shades of grey
than there was Dark or Light. A young Snape had known this too, but
instead of turning his back on expectations, as Draco had eventually
done, Snape did the opposite. He had picked a side. And that old
mistake echoed in everything that he did today.
He would do right by the boy. He would have to, if only to inject some
balance into the world. He was going to have a long talk with Albus
and Arthur Weasley. They might play the Hand of God with Harry
Potter, but they were not going to do the same with his godson.
As it turned out, Snape had been right. Draco wasn't at all well and
Hermione did end up requiring some assistance.
"It's going to be fine," she said, almost gritting her teeth to keep her
chin from wobbling. "You're going to be fine." It hardly mattered what
Narcissa had been to the rest of the world. She had been Draco's
mother and must have surely loved him.
She shook her head vigorously and pulled back to stare at him.
"That's not true, Draco."
"Hermione, I'm not playing anymore. I can't keep you. What we're
doing now, Snape is right, it's dangerous . That discussion in
Dumbledore's office was about an assignment, you see? The
Ministry wants me to report on the other Slytherins. They want me to
do this over the summer and who knows for how much longer after."
Spying! So that was what they had asked him to do, and no doubt
they were dangling a very large axe over his head, disguised as a
carrot.
"They ask as much of Potter," was all he said. His expression did not
change. "There's a Death Eater Recruitment underway and if I'm not
mistaken, someone is trying to send me a message." He threaded
his fingers through hers.
The look he gave her made her want to openly weep. "I can't watch
over you all the time, especially over the summer. You'll stay at
Weaselby's place, won't you? Please, you'll be safe there."
Malfoy was not one to blurt out that he wasn't feeling well. He looked
positively green. How could she have forgotten that he had been in
bed, recovering from a concussion not two days ago?
"Draco?"
It was Pansy. She was standing in the darkness, wearing white satin
pyjamas, matching, quilted bedroom slippers and holding a lit wand.
"Snape's told him, then?" she stated, and then nodded before
Hermione could respond. "Goyle and I only found out yesterday
evening, in the paper."
Hermione was actually glad to see her. Slytherin House was foreign
territory and she was less than comfortable navigating its dark
corridors. "He's not feeling well," she said, running the back of her
hand under her running nose. "I think we should get Madam
Pomfrey."
If Draco passed out now, there was no way the two of them could lift
him without Leviosa. Hermione knew he'd hate it if she resorted to
asking Snape for assistance.
Pansy shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. "I'll help. We
don't need the nurse." She stepped forward, took hold of his arm and
pried him, slowly, off the wall. He acted as if they'd dropped a bag of
bricks over his head. He winced. Hermione was worried enough that
she was about to run to fetch Madam Pomfrey after all, when Draco
spoke.
She knew Pansy could have found her way there in the dark quite
easily, and was thankful that the girl kept her wand lit, for Hermione's
benefit.
Once inside, candles on the wall flared to life. The room was exactly
the same as Hermione's, if a little smaller. The ceiling was lower, too.
His bed was not beneath a window, seeing as the dungeons did not
open to the outside. It sat facing the door. His trunk was against the
wall to the left, beside his desk.
The room was absolutely spotless, which was itself a surprise. There
was a new, broomstick servicing kit sitting on the desk and a fortune
in Quidditch gear hanging from brass hooks on the wall.
They took the few necessary steps to the bed and there, he
collapsed. He put a hand over his eyes, rolled to his side and then
didn't move a muscle. The light was probably bothering him.
Hermione blew out the candles and then bent down to pull his shoes
off.
Pansy let her do that, but stopped her when she went to his trunk to
look for a night shirt.
"Leave it," the Slytherin girl said. "He either falls into bed with what
he's got on, or he doesn't wear anything at all."
Pansy shook her head, but there was nothing but earnestness in her
expression. "I'm serious. Some things, you don't muck about with.
It's not done. He'll be cross with himself if either of us stays here
tonight."
Hermione sniffled loudly. She had had a gutful of stubborn
Slytherins, but a part of her knew Pansy was being correct, rather
than vindictive.
There was some sort of Slytherin code. Thou shalt not cry in public,
thou shalt not date Hufflepuffs, and the like.
"I'm not doing this to be difficult. It's what he'd prefer. I'll check in on
him before breakfast. After that, he's all yours."
Feeling numb, Hermione stroked the hair off Draco's forehead, not
caring that Pansy watched. It was good that he slept, if only because
Hermione didn't know how else to help him. She felt useless. "I'll
come and find you first thing in the morning," she told him. Her voice
caught at the end. "I promise."
With effort, Hermione tore her eyes away from her sleeping
husband, and followed Pansy out of the room. It was a sombre
procession. The door clicked shut behind them.
"You and I need to stop running into each other like this, Granger,"
Pansy remarked, dryly. It was as about as tastefully humorous as
was possible, given the situation.
They walked quickly down the corridor, arriving once more in the
Slytherin Common Room. Pansy pushed open the doors and
Hermione stared for a moment, out into the darkness of the lower
ground hallway.
There was a steadily building pressure at the back of her throat, the
product of suppressing her tears. Pansy, in contrast, was very
collected. Hermione knew she had been close to crying earlier, but
the girl's nose wasn't even red.
"How long have you felt this way about him?" Hermione asked.
Pansy sighed. It was a dainty noise. "Narcissa was a bitch and really
screwed up as far as mothering went, but she did have a way about
her." She fingered the brass handle of the Common Room doors.
"He gets his grace from her, you know. And those cheekbones, of
course."
The other girl shrugged. "Don't look so depressed. There are only a
few of us left at school now and we're all leaving for good tomorrow. I
doubt things can get much worse."
Pansy made her way back to her own room. It was in the middle of
the corridor and the nearest to the lounge area. She really was going
to miss it. The placement of the room and the acoustics of the
dungeon meant that she often - unwittingly, of course - overheard
common room conversation.
She placed her hand on the knob to turn it, and was startled when
the door swung open from the inside.
"Is he back, then? Did you tell him? What did Granger have to say?"
Goyle asked, impatiently. There was a fair sized depression on the
edge of the mattress from where he had been sitting and waiting for
her. They had been doing that most of the night, given that Draco
was supposed to have returned to Hogwarts by eleven o'clock the
previous evening.
Pansy frowned, pushed past him and didn't speak until the door was
shut. "Lower your voice! They're back, yes. Turns out we didn't need
to break the news to him. Professor Snape did it himself."
Goyle shifted his considerable weight from right foot to left foot.
"How is he?"
"Could be better," Pansy sighed. "He's a bit ill at the moment, which
is expected given the news." She kicked off her bedroom slippers
and sat on the bed.
"Seeing as it's done now, you should try and get some sleep. It's
past sunrise."
"No."
"You're an idiot if you think he'll just let you quit after a few years.
Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, Goyle."
Goyle shook his head. "I'm not going the same way as my dad. Trust
me. I'll find a way to leave, and then I'll set you and your family up.
You won't have to worry about anything. Just wait for me. That's all I
ask."
She eyed him good and long, letting her intense disappointment
show. "In the entire sordid history of Death Eaters, you have to be
the only one who wants to join because it's your early retirement
plan."
Blaise, who was already comfortably well off by his own admission,
had painted a very profitable picture indeed.
"I don't need him there!" he said, a bit too loudly, because her blue
eyes widened.
The elephant was having the life squeezed out of it. "Good. Go."
Goyle made a sound. If Male Frustration had a noise, this was that
noise. "I probably won't be able to see you again for a year or so."
"Fine. Whatever."
She was such a cow. He had no idea why he loved her so much.
"For Merlin's sake, Pansy! Are you going to say goodbye to me or
not!"
Pansy threw the stuffed elephant onto her bed and stood up, her
brief nose in the air.
"Goodbye, Gregory. I hope that the death you will surely meet in the
next month or so will be quick and relatively painless."
He stared at her, incredulous. " Relatively ?" She waved him off. "I
have given up trying to change your mind. You're a fool. Go and be a
Death Eater. I'll probably forget all about you after a week."
It was a small room. One step brought him to her. Another step
brought her into his arms. He then proceeded to kiss her like he'd
been dying to do for three years. She struggled at first, and smacked
him on his right bicep, but he had the element of surprise on his side.
There was also the fact that he had nothing more to lose at that
moment. This gave him the kind of bravado that had so far been
lacking in his courtship of Pansy.
"You'll remember that," he mumbled gruffly, and then he was out the
door and out of her life.
Pansy spent the next two hours crying into her elephant. Goyle had
given it to her for her twelfth birthday.
Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The hem of the ordered robes had been a tad too long and had to be
taken up.
Narcissa, on the other hand, worried about things like too much sun
and Muggles and crowds and running into people she didn't want to
run into such as Mrs So-and So from last Sunday's afternoon tea.
But still, she had wanted to accompany her son, and so there she
was, smiling fondly at him as she picked off a loose thread from the
black material of his robes.
Of course the bird would be fine. Lucius didn't know the meaning of
the word 'substandard'. Draco was a bit put out by the fact that he
would not be permitted to choose his own owl, though. He had even
briefly entertained the notion of getting a cat, but that was out of the
question. He would require a safe and secure means of
communicating with his parents and a school bird would not do.
That left only one other thing to be done. Draco changed out of his
school robes while his mother paid Madam Malkin, and then they
crossed the street with their packages and headed down to
Ollivanders, where his mother paused just outside the shop.
The wind and the walk had caused several wisps of her blonde hair
to escape her previously immaculate chignon and she tucked these
loose strands behind her ear. His mother was perhaps the most
beautiful witch Draco had ever seen. Not a vibrant-pretty, like Blaise
Zabini's mother, but the sort of beautiful you had to take a step back
from, to appreciate. Her features were almost plain in isolation, but
together, she seemed pristine, perfect.
" Draco, come here."
Everything, right down to the preparation of his meals and the way
his pyjamas were laid out for him on his bed, while he had his baths,
was seen to by Manor staff.
" Mother…" he whined, when she trailed her long, scented fingers
over his cheeks.
Thank goodness the Goyles were still at Flourish and Blotts. He'd
never hear the end of it from Greg. His face was still chubby. He
hated that.
" A wand means many things," she explained, a little breathlessly. "It
means you are grown up, Draco. You were born a wizard and a
Malfoy, but now you will earn these titles. Your father and I have high
expectations of you. No doubt, you'll make us very proud."
Her tone of voice did not allow for what ifs, so he simply said, "Yes,
mother."
" Now, after we buy your wand, what would you like to do? We still
have an hour to spare."
" Yes," she agreed, touching his cheek, "let's have some ice-cream."
It happens, that in the first few moments when a person wakes up,
they sometimes forget where they are and what has happened to
them up until the point that they awaken.
It wasn't grief. Grief would have been preferable to the guilt he was
feeling. Guilt was funny like that. Grief could be dulled over time, but
guilt had real staying power. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and felt
the huge, invisible weight of reality bearing down on him. He wanted
to pull the covers over his head and stay in bed until the nightmare
spent itself.
He eventually sat up in bed and grimaced at how heavy his head felt.
His mind was clear, however, and the headache could be fixed with a
quick stop at the Infirmary. It was important to keep going. If he even
paused to think about what his mother's final moments might have
been like, he would… he would just…
Draco swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat. No. He
would not think of it. He could not. He was in serious danger of
unravelling as it was. He felt worn out. His shoulder was sore too,
which meant that he had spent too much time sleeping on it.
What was left of his family was basically Lucius and Toolip, their
loyal, remaining House Elf.
Ironically, his father was probably located in the safest place in the
entire wizarding world. Toolip, meanwhile, had her own brand of
magic to protect her and it was doubtful that any of Voldemorts'
people could even guess at the affection that Draco felt for the old
elf.
Snape mentioned that it had been in the papers, after all. The news
was probably everywhere by now. Draco knew Harry was not the
sort to gloat over such a thing. That would have been preferable,
actually. An excuse to punch Potter in the face might even make him
feel a little better. But Draco knew the only reaction he would receive
from Harry would be pity.
Draco felt like there wasn't much hide left on him to insulate himself
against the world. Self-pity was something he had never indulged in,
though, and he wasn't about to give in to the temptation.
Damn it, he wanted Hermione. Where the hell was she? Why hadn't
she stayed with him? Wasn't that exactly the kind of thing she was
liable to do? Caring and coddling and whatever other soft and fluffy
things girls like her did to take away hurts from the people they cared
about?
Draco avoided the small mirror over his dresser for this very reason.
It was the last, official day of his schooling career and yet he felt
nothing apart from irritation at the state of his wrinkled school pants,
as he pulled them on.
His tie went on next, and still he did not feel the poignancy he
thought he should be feeling. There was only so much intense
emotion he could spare, he decided.
He wanted revenge . It was the only thing that made sense to him.
He would do this final thing for his mother.
It didn't matter. He would find the people responsible for killing his
mother. He would do it personally, even if it took him years.
This was his father's fault. The pathetic bastard couldn't stop his wife
from leaving him and then he couldn't offer her any protection after
she did.
It was his fault as well. He hadn't bothered to see her after she had
left the Manor. He had been too caught up in being hurt over her
apparent rejection of him. Perhaps it hadn't been rejection after all.
Perhaps she had feared for his safety and thought to put as much
distance between them. No matter about the flaws in their
relationship, though. Draco had never doubted that she cared for
him.
Best not to dwell on her motives. It did not even enter into his head
that Narcissa would not have wanted her son to pursue the matter of
her death. These types of considerations didn't apply to them, to the
Malfoys. And she had been a Black, to boot. Blood-vengeance would
be expected. He owed that much to the woman who had brought him
into the world.
His father had killed. His mother had stood by her husband,
accepting, if not always understanding or approving. Yes. Narcissa
would not fault her son for avenging her.
"Mother, wherever you are, I hope you're a hell of a lot happier than
you were with us."
Draco did not worry that God would frown down at him for slipping a
blasphemy into the makeshift prayer.
God had a sick sense of humour. After all, he had given Draco
Hermione Granger.
It was after breakfast and Hermione, Harry and Ron were seated in
her favourite corner in a deserted Hogwarts Library. Hermione felt
that it was safest to tell them her news in the part of Hogwarts she
knew no one was likely to visit on their last day of school before the
summer holidays.
It was a brilliantly sunny day outside. A good day for bad news, or so
she thought. Ginny was still polishing off her breakfast in the Great
Hall and thus had no idea what was transpiring. Hermione thought
that this was for the best.
She would start with the boys first, as they would no doubt prove
more difficult.
Harry was still staring at her oddly, though at least his previously
gaping mouth had closed. Ron was doing something else entirely.
He had walked off, returned, paced in front of the desk with his
hands on his hips while contemplating the ground with a great and
moody intensity.
"I'm still trying to wrap my head around the part where you said you
had run off with him in the middle of the Graduation party, but then
you hit me with the fact that the two of you are married," Harry
stated. He looked floored.
Hermione noted that he had slowly taken off his glasses and had
placed them carefully on the table top. He usually only did this when
extremely disturbed or when he was suffering from a headache. The
look on his face suggested it might be a combination of both.
"And now that you have wrapped your head around it?" Hermione
prodded. She couldn't help feeling like she was telling her parents
that she had been sneaking out of the house to date a boy they
didn't approve of.
"I can't believe you've managed to keep this a secret for two whole
weeks." Harry actually sounded impressed.
Ron's reaction, or lack of, rather, was starting to really worry her.
"I'm not any good at keeping things from you two." She directed this
latter comment to Ron.
"Ignorance would be preferable in this case," Ron finally muttered. At
least he had stopped pacing. He pulled a chair out and slumped into
it.
Harry drummed his fingers on the table. "Have you told Ginny?"
Harry snorted. "She will not. She'll take the news better than us. I
should tell you that we did suspect you were seeing a Slytherin, but
we assumed it was Zabini," he informed.
"Yes, well that slap you gave him in third year could have fooled us,"
muttered Harry.
"How much different? I'd like to slap Malfoy at least once a week,
myself."
Hermione ignored that. She turned her focus to Ron. "Out with it
Weasley."
Ron obliged her. "Have you gone insane?" His voice had climbed an
entire octave. "This is Draco Malfoy we're talking about. He's scum!"
Hermione sighed. This, she was expecting. "I take it you don't
approve, then?"
"No, I don't bloody approve!" he roared. "Have you forgotten that his
father tried to kill us?"
"Draco is not his father! I wish everyone would stop harping on about
that!"
"Well they are married," Harry felt the need to point out. He then
wished he hadn't.
Hermione glared at him. "Where are you going? For God's sake, just
sit down will you? There's more I need to tell you!" For a moment, it
looked like he would leave after all, but then he sat, folded his arms
and stared at her.
She was going to tell them why, but then stopped. She had been in
enough arguments with Ron, especially, to know when he wasn't
going to be receptive to logic.
"Do the two of you really think you're in a frame of mind to listen to
that answer? I didn't come here to be shamed. I came here because
I need your help ."
"And you'll always have it," Harry assured, more quietly. "What is it?
The way you sounded, I didn't think it had anything to do with
Malfoy's bedside manner."
"Are you in danger?" Harry asked. His green eyes, always the most
compelling thing about him, felt like they were boring into her skull.
Abruptly, he seemed to notice the unnatural intensity of his stare and
immediately broke the connection. Hermione knew that his
Occlumency abilities sometimes flared up when he was feeling
particularly inquisitive.
Ron was already nodding his head vigorously. He was also standing
again. "Sod it, Harry! We're going to have to talk to him, aren't we?
Bloody Seamus and Dean have already left. Who else have we got
for backup? We can get Hagrid! You ask Malfoy to meet us outside
and-"
Harry had had enough. He yanked him friend down. "Ron, you're
giving me a headache. Sit down and shut up."
Hermione gave Ron a look of disgust. "Let me guess. The two of you
wouldn't mind it so much if it was Blaise I was seeing? Is that about
right?"
"Zabini is different," Harry interjected. "He's not like the rest of them."
Ron went red. "Being able to spell didn't exactly do much for you
when you fell into bed with the spawn of the Devil, did it?!" Ron
screeched.
"You don't need to raise your voice to me. I can hear you just fine,"
Hermione snapped.
"He's obviously not treating you very well. Look at you!" Ron stuck
out his palm at her. "You're skin and bones. You barely touch your
food these days and you've said barely three words to us since last
week!"
Hermione scowled. She could see how hurt Ron was and she
understood why, but they were all old enough now to deal with it,
damn it.
Hermione threw her hands up. "I knew you'd be like this! I knew
Harry would be shocked, but you! You'd take any excuse to fly off the
handle. It was the same when Ginny said she fancied Seamus and
he's in Gryffindor."
"It's not the same and you know it! We all know Ginny wants to be
with Harry, but Harry's trying to be all noble and not put her at risk,
which is more than I can say for you taking off with Malfoy during
such… um uncertain times!"
Hermione shook her head at him. "Nicely done, Ron. I think there
was SOMEONE IN HOGMSEADE WHO MIGHT NOT HAVE
HEARD YOU!"
Ron whirled on Harry. "No, I'm not going to calm down and you,
Harry, are obviously mental to sit there and accept this. Tell her to
come to her senses!"
Harry also got to his feet. "WILL YOU STOP BEING A JEALOUS
GIT FOR ONE SECOND AND LISTEN TO WHAT SHE WAS
ABOUT TO TELL US!"
"I can't believe I'm hearing this…" Ron backed away from Harry as if
he were unclean. "You've both lost it. My best friend in bed with a
Malfoy! Mum's going to be in a state when she finds out. How
convenient that you happen to be friends with Harry Potter and the
son of the Minister for Magic. That's it, isn't it? Of course it is! How
do you know he's not just pumping you for-"
It was Hermione's expression that gave Ron pause. She was staring
over Ron's shoulder, looking stricken.
There were tears running down her face. Ron knew he should have
felt bad about this, but things had gone too far now.
"Malfoy, I'd offer you my sympathies over the death of your mum, but
that would only work if I felt sorry about it."
Draco smiled.
He was half a head taller than Draco and had a longer reach, but
even so, it soon became apparent that he was not quite as quick.
Draco sidestepped him, which meant that Ron's shove met thin air
and he unfortunately collided into Harry, who was unintentionally
clothes-lined.
"Ron, you git," Harry wheezed from the floor, massaging his throat.
The Great Hall was empty save for a Hufflepuff third year who had
been reading the day's paper at his House table and humming a
Weird Sisters tune. He clutched his copy of the Prophet tightly to his
chest when he spotted Ron, having already lost the previous day's
edition to the Gryffindor prefect.
Harry gave the startled boy a kindly look to compensate for the lad's
interrupted peace. The boy blushed and then continued on his way,
smiling slightly.
Harry was his usual dishevelled self, but had undone the top buttons
of his shirt and was rubbing at his neck. Draco's school tie was
hanging out of his trouser pocket and had looked distinctly wrung
out. His white school shirt was completely untucked and there were
buttons missing. The worst was Ron, however, who sported a black
eye (it was red, going on purple) and a rip in the sleeve of his shirt.
"Does it hurt much?" Ginny inquired of her brother. She didn't sound
particularly sympathetic.
"That was three years ago, if you'll recall. And you didn't hit me in the
face."
"It was inexcusable, what you said to him," Ginny frowned at Ron.
"Mum would be appalled."
It had taken less time than she would have thought, for her to digest
the stunning news. Oh, a part of her wanted to slap both hands over
her mouth, run to find Hermione and demand details.
Harry hadn't been big on details, which was just as well because he
wasn't very good at remembering any. He was more of a 'vague
overview' sort of person.
Ginny knew full well what Malfoy was capable of - school gossip was
very specific about his reputation - but it was something else to know
that Hermione had a whole other risk-taking side to her.
"So why did you marry her?" It suddenly seemed odd that no one
had asked this question before. It took a girl to ask it, Ginny
supposed.
Draco gave her his trademark look of disdain. There was a liberal
amount of threat in there as well. It was always a tiny bit unnerving
when Malfoy looked a person straight in the eyes, which he was
most definitely doing now. He had beautiful eyes, but they were
armour plated. Ginny was too curious to feel uncomfortable though.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Did you miss the part about us being
violently drunk?"
Ron snorted. "So what? From what I hear, you and your lot do that
every other weekend. It's common knowledge Hermione can't hold
her liquor at all. You had to have at least guessed that."
"It was your bloody fault," Harry pointed out. "You took advantage of
her."
Ron suddenly looked like he wanted to finish the punch-up, after all.
"She's obviously the innocent party in all of this. Didn't you say you
had a pair of angel wings on your back? Angel wings, Malfoy."
"They don't have to be angel wings, per se. Lots of things have…
wings…" Draco knew he sounded like a moron, but he couldn't help
it.
Draco looked amused. "I don't think you'd approve of where the
dragon is heading on Granger's thigh either,"
Ron sent Harry an imploring look. "Harry, can you please shut him
up?"
"I'm not the one interrogating him about the damned tattoos!"
Ginny was happy to ignore Ron and Harry. "Did you know what Fida
Mia was before you got tattooed?"
Draco was about to say yes, he did have a vague idea, but then he
changed his mind. That would sound even more incriminating to
them. He directed his next comment to Ron.
"I see that your sister suffers from the same affliction as Granger."
" Questions . Now, would you Weasleys mind pissing off while I
speak to Potter?"
Ginny didn't care for that suggestion. "Hermione is my friend too,
"she sniffed. "I'm staying for this discussion."
Ginny looked to Harry for help. "Can we just hurry up and do this
before Hermione comes?"
Harry thought for a moment. After some time, he said, "I can't make
her spend the whole summer with me at Grimmauld Place. She'd
want to see her parents."
"Damn it, Potter. You tell her to do something and then you make her
do it!"
"Given the circles I move in, the Ministry seems to think that I might
stand a chance at coming into contact with the Recruiter, or get as
close as I can to identifying the person," Draco supplied. "It would
make sense, except for the part where I'm not at all interested in
doing it."
"Bloody hell," Ron said. "And you're thinking that this has something
to do with Tonks going missing then?"
Ron craned his head around to the Hufflepuff table. "Damn! Where's
that boy gone with the paper?"
"How are you supposed to identify this person if you have no idea
where to start?"
"No idea, Potter," Draco admitted. "But I'll set up a suggestion box. If
you have any ideas, feel free to slip something inside it."
"I don't like this at all. Dad must be desperate if he's resorted to
using Malfoy like that," Ginny said to Ron.
"Dad's motives are not up for discussion." Ron's voice was brittle. It
was a long standing argument between the siblings.
"That they did," Ginny said gently. "Come and sit down."
Draco didn't hear what the friends said, for they spoke in whispers,
but he roughly caught the word 'idiot' and then Ron's resigned sigh.
Draco was pleased that the other boy could not seem to hold his
gaze for very long.
He found himself staring down at her small hand wrapped around his
larger fist, for a minute or so.
"How are you?" Draco blurted, gruffly. He had no idea where the
question had come from. He had wondered it and then had voiced it.
Hermione gave him a searching look. Her eyes hid nothing. She was
so ridiculously easy to read. "I should be asking you that question.
Did you sleep alright?" she whispered. Her thumb was stroking his
knuckles.
"Yes," he lied.
Ron, Harry and Ginny were gawking at them. Ron and Harry look
flummoxed, but Ginny looked thoughtful.
"You will not! You will keep your distance from me until this is
settled!"
"And how long do you think that will take?" she retorted.
"Actually, I'd like to talk to Malfoy about this, if you don't mind," Harry
announced.
The other three stared at him. " Alone . Which means you Weasleys
and Hermione, piss off," Harry expounded, good naturedly.
Ginny got the message. She whacked her brother between his
shoulder blades and stood up. "Right. We'll be in the Common
Room. Come on Hermione."
It was clear that neither Ron nor Hermione were keen on leaving, but
after a pause, they did as Harry requested.
As soon as they were gone, Harry turned to Draco. His green eyes
were thoughtful.
Harry felt instantly lighter in spirit as soon as his feet were off the
pitch. No doubt Malfoy was the same. It really was a nice day to be
outdoors. They paused some hundred meters over the ground,
where the air was cool and dry. Draco did a three hundred and sixty
degree, backward spin, in an effort to unstick his broom's staggered
steering. It wobbled the whole time.
The longer he thought about it, the fewer possibilities arose. Apart
from him being sort of good looking, of course. Funny, Harry would
never have pegged Hermione as type of girl who fell for just a pretty
face.
Malfoy's hair was long, though not as long as Ron's. But where
Ron's long hair could best be described as shaggy and endearingly
unkempt (this was one young admirer's description of it), Draco's
was….elegantly untamed. He probably spent a fortune on haircuts.
Presently, Draco swung his leg over his broom such that he was no
long straddling it, but sitting across it. They continued to hover in
silence.
"Thanks for helping Ron earlier. I don't think he noticed he was going
to smack his face on that table before you dragged it away."
Draco snorted. "That's probably because the table didn't have a pair
of tits."
Harry grinned. Ron wasn't going to get any help from Harry in that
regard. "Uh yeah, you've noticed that have you?"
"Did you ask me up here to talk about Weasley's less than subtle
ogling?"
"Thanks, Potter. But I think you have your hands tied dealing with the
Dark Fuckwit responsible for killing your own mother."
"I'm almost certain it's Voldemort's people, but that doesn't mean
we're joining forces or anything quite that sugary. I'm confident I'll
sort something out, but until then, just keep Granger out of my
business."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "She's not a possession you can put away
when you're too busy to handle her, Malfoy."
"Oh, I understand the situation! But I think you need to sort out what
she means to you before you go on this quest, because if you
succeed, you're not going to be the same when you come back. And
it might be helpful for her to know how long she has to wait for you."
"You don't think you'll be coming back, is that it?" Harry asked, with
undisguised amazement at his epiphany.
Harry darted forward to block him. "I know what you're thinking.
What the hell do I know, right? My own love life's a mess."
"If you mean that business with Alice Crowley from Hufflepuff earlier
in the month, then that's something of an understatement, Potter."
"Because I've just realised you're not the completely selfish bastard I
thought you were." Harry paused for effect before continuing. "And I
think you need to realise it too."
"If you care for her, keep her away from me," a frowning Draco told
Harry, without looking at him.
That was in addition to biting, which was arguably the more usual
doxy pastime.
They were in the north of Wales, in the remains of some old Roman
fort and some later wizard-lordling's attempt at a castle. A magical
castle, of course. Blaise had not revealed to Goyle the exact location
of the Death Eater barracks until they had arrived via Portkey from
Hogwarts, just after sunrise on Sunday morning.
There was a particular tree in the Dark Forest, located ten minutes
outside of the Anti-Apparition Boundary that protected Hogwarts
Castle. The funny thing was that Goyle would have walked right past
the rowan, not noticing that there was anything even there to gawk
at, had Blaise not stopped him and pointed it out.
The tree was the fucking creepiest thing he had ever seen in his life.
After that, it was impossible to not notice the rowan. It sat there,
almost throbbing with dark magic and ill-begotten vitality. On a lower
branch, there hung a hammered iron chain with a gold coin attached
to it.
Blaise had grinned and explained that the coin was their Portkey to
the barracks.
Ah, so that was how Blaise had been travelling back and forth with
such apparent ease.
The steps leading up to the second floor were rotten right through,
however. So much so that Goyle genuinely feared for his life when
he first used them. He held on to his wand the whole time, just in
case a quick Leviosa was needed should the wood give way under
his considerable weight.
There were two subterranean floors to the old keep, one of which
housed the dungeons and also a potions workshop that hadn't been
touched since the seventies.
You could tell from the awful orange and lime green wallpaper.
Regrettably, upon closer inspection, the doxy debris from the top
floor turned out to be about two centuries' worth of faeces. It was
unanimously decided that the nests would have to go.
On the off-chance Voldemort did visit the hideout, it would simply not
do for their Dark Lord and Master to be, for lack of a better word,
pelted with shit.
They would kill him if they found out what he was currently planning.
And on his first day on the job, to boot. It wouldn't be a dramatic,
quick, Avada Kedavra either. There would be a lot of pain, a lot of
screaming too, probably. It would be the type of sticky death Pansy
had warned him about.
Pansy.
Just thinking about her made him want to bang his head against a
wall and re-think what the hell he was going to do.
Goyle scrubbed a hand over his bad haircut (he had asked for a
'number two', the hairdresser must have mistaken this for a
'negative-two') and walked quickly to the Auror's cell.
She certainly hadn't been in a giggling mood the last time Goyle had
seen her.
Goyle had arrived ten minutes late to his outdoor meeting with
Blaise. The original plan had been for Blaise to take Goyle to the
barracks. Goyle turned up just in time to find the Auror about to take
a Stupefied Blaise into Ministry custody.
Only Blaise was Draco at the time, which added to Goyle's complete
confusion because he hadn't realised that Blaise was a
metamorphmagus. The bastard had neglected to mention that, didn't
he?
There had been an altercation earlier, Goyle was later informed, and
a male Auror had been unfortunately Portkeyed to his death.
If so, the Aurors might have let him pass with a warning. Goyle was
inclined to agree. Being Draco was a lot like wearing a big sign on
your head that said, "HEY! HERE! LOOK AT ME!"
Blaise's identity may have still been a mystery to the Light, but the
lady Auror had seen Goyle's face. It was too much of a risk to let her
escape at the time. And so, Goyle had knocked her over the head
and then went into a panic, convinced that he had killed the woman.
He was officially in
They were expecting two new applicants from Beauxbatons and six
from Durmstrang. Goyle wondered who the Durmstrang Recruiter
was because six was an impressive number. But then Blaise
mentioned that Bellatrix was there to cull them.
"What happens if she doesn't like any of us?" Goyle had asked
Blaise.
"You die."
Well of course you died. Goyle had felt silly for asking. Bellatrix
wasn't likely to send the failed candidates off with a 'thank you for
your application, but all vacancies are currently filled' letter and a
goodwill handshake…
His bout of second thoughts didn't last for much longer. It took
another minute for Goyle to convince himself that there really was no
one coming down the stairs to check on the Auror. At least not right
at that moment. Bob was at the village to buy food, but would be
back soon.
Swallowing the ball of fear that had lodged in his throat, he hurried
down the corridor and stopped at the door of the Auror's cell. She
was in the second cell closest to the exit, so it wasn't a very long
walk.
He slid open the slot gingerly and peered inside. It was dark.
"Psst!"
Aurors were well trained. He'd forgotten about that fact. A hand
darted out from the darkness beyond the slot and clamped around
Goyle's thick neck.
He could see part of her face peering at him through the gap. Her
light brown eyes were spitting fire at him. She looked a bit worse for
wear, which was expected. Her lips were slightly chapped and her
previously blueberry-coloured hair had faded to a lacklustre
lavender. They hadn't given anything to eat or drink for a day or so.
Goyle pulled away, coughed a little and glared at her. "Yes, I know.
I'm here to rescue you!"
"You don't understand. I'm here to help !" Also, he was not 'tubby'.
He was big boned, damn it.
"And how do I know you're not bluffing? Why would you suddenly
help me?"
Goyle felt he really should have expected that question. Obviously
she wasn't going to trust him. "I guess you won't know if I'm bluffing
or not. Look, I'm friends with Draco, alright? You're Draco's cousin
and so I'm going to get you out. What happened earlier was
unavoidable, but I'm here to fix things. Is that enough of an
explanation?"
"Yes."
"Fine, then let me out." She backed away from the door to give him
room for whatever it was he was about to do.
Goyle shook his head. "No, I don't mean right now. We can't right
now because they'll realise it's me! I've been instructed to bring you
upstairs at a specific time. When that happens, you need to make it
look like you struggled, overpowered me and then escaped. Or else
it's my life on the line," he added, just in case she assumed there
would be no risk for him.
He passed a narrow slab of stone through the slot in the door. It was
the same type of ubiquitous limestone that made up eighty percent
of the barracks and Tonk's cell. It was reasonable to assume that a
similar sized chunk could have broken off from the walls of the cell.
She accepted the stone and then there was silence. He wondered if
she was expecting him to pass her something else.
Goyle thought it was obvious. "Your weapon . You hit me over the
head with it."
"You seem like a nice enough kid. Why are you joining these
people?"
"Leave with me," she suggested. Her face was at the slot again. "I'll
make sure they grant you clemency in exchange for information. You
obviously know enough about this operation to be of great value to
us."
Goyle found his first smile of the day. "Oh, that will happen, just not
right now."
The Auror gave him an exasperated stare. "Look, kid, this is one
fucked up occupation you've picked for yourself. What if they work
out how you've helped me? They'll kill you."
Well duh. He didn't reply. There was no more time. No doubt Bob
would be back any minute now.
Maybe she thought his plan wasn't going to work, because she didn't
thank him when he left.
"Was it a good discussion?" she asked him, not moving from her
spot. Her tone was pleasant, but her expression was troubled.
"If by good you mean pointless." Draco reached around her to take
hold of the latch and was relieved when she finally stepped aside.
"I'm sorry. I'm just sick of worrying. About us . Worrying about you is
new to me." Her look of sincere exasperation was endearing. "If you
haven't noticed, I'm the kind that likes to get involved."
Nothing more was said for a long minute. With a resigned sigh,
Hermione turned on her heel to leave.
They must have looked silly, her standing two feet away from him
and his hand stretched out between them, holding a fistful of white
cotton.
"No," she snapped. This was followed by a more soft and hopeful,
"why?"
"And then… and then you can make me give you all the promises
you like. Will that make you happy?"
God, yes! "Yes," she breathed, her relief was tangible. She threw
herself into his arms.
Draco held her to him. He savoured her warmth, the soft curls under
his nose and her arms wound tightly around him. She was shaking
and rambling moist words into the base of his neck.
"I know you're off to do whatever you think you have to do, but a
mailing address would be nice…"
He sighed.
"Granger, I-"
"Hell, I'd settle for a postcard every month. I'm not fussy," she
interrupted, sardonically.
The wet heat of her mouth on his skin was very nice indeed. His
pulse raced and then came the familiar sensation of headiness that
assailed him every time he touched her like this. She kissed his
Adam's Apple and then started nibbling on the fine, white skin above
his collarbone.
"Keep doing that and I promise you Potter's going to catch sight of
more than just old wood and leather when he opens that door in a
minute to return his broom."
Hermione took this as encouragement. She slid her palms up into his
hair and tugged his head down to hers. Draco groaned, caught her
mouth and ravaged it.
She gave him her tongue to suck on and he did so, before exploring
deeper still, tasting the soft, sensitive spots inside her lower lip.
They were both breathing hard. The magnitude of the kiss erased
their past and their problems. It was the type of knowing kiss that
should never be an end unto itself. It was supposed to be prelude to
more.
Her skirt was bunched up around her thighs. His hands were
responsible. They had started at her waist, slipped down to cup her
bottom and then dragged her skirt up as they travelled. Hermione
edged further up his body, half climbing, aided by his hands sliding
under her bottom to support her. She rubbed herself against his
hardness, aware that she was still somewhat tender from their night
together at Knockturn Alley.
He finished the kiss. It was probably a first for them. The yearning of
a kiss ended too abruptly sometimes left a deep emotional itch that
stayed with a person. There was none of this now. When the kiss
could go no further or take any more from either of them, they
stopped. Draco was openly panting as he stared down at her with a
look of reverence and wonder that made her heart swell.
"This isn't goodbye," she clarified. For both their benefits. In case he
decided to misunderstand.
"No," he agreed. She might not have realised it, but at the moment,
he wouldn't have denied her anything.
Hermione put her palms on either side of his face. "You will give me
your word that you'll remember to say goodbye. You will at least try
to let us help you when we can, whether the Ministry is aware of it or
not. And you will, wherever possible, tell me where you are and what
you're doing and that your safe. Ok?"
Draco kissed the tip of her nose, her closed eyes, her forehead, her
lips. He looked shaken.
It was an hour to lunch time and there was plenty still to be done
before Hogwarts closed for the summer the next day, not the least of
which was packing up the many belongings in her room.
As she walked past the open doors of the Great Hall, she caught
sight of one of two of the few remaining Slytherins who hadn't as yet
left for home.
It was the young, fourth year girl that often shadowed Draco. Today,
however, she seemed wholly and happily occupied playing chess
with the now infamous Tandish Dodders. It was the girl's t-shirt that
caught her eye.
The thing was black, only slightly faded, with a bright green and
yellow logo that said, 'Nutrisoil Fertilizer'.
She was a pretty, gamine little thing, with a sassy haircut and large,
limpid blue eyes. The girl glanced up, though she seemed in no
hurry to take her attention away from her game. She tucked her
short, dark hair behind her ear and stared coolly at Hermione, no
doubt unimpressed that the Head Girl did not know her name.
"Carmen, actually."
"I couldn't help but notice your t-shirt," Hermione began. "You should
be in school uniform."
Dodders looked up from his chess move and his jam-covered scone.
There was a cheeky look on his face.
It was apparently a slightly touchy topic with Carmen. She went a bit
red. "Yes, well we can't all be as fortunate as to inherit obscene
amounts of money from deceased relatives, can we? Besides, it's
not a 'business', it's an empire ."
"Oh, nothing really. Just thought I saw that logo on a um, student not
too long ago." She didn't think it wise or necessary to mention
Draco's cap. The mystery was solved.
"Really?" Carmen burst into delighted laughter. "I give out a handful
of promotional merchandise to a few privileged housemates every
year as a lark. No one wears it of course." She continued to smile,
indicating this was both expected and accepted.
Dodders put down his half eaten scone. "Can we stop talking about
fertilizer? I'm having my breakfast and it's your move."
"It's brunch dear. Breakfast was hours ago." Carmen fiddled with her
snoring Bishop for a minute before making her move. That's check,
Tandish."
"It can't be check!" Dodders wailed. "It's only been eight moves!"
Hermione frowned. "No, actually I haven't seen him since… well, the
last two days."
Which was odd, come to think of it. She was sure Blaise hadn't left
school yet because McGonagall would have surely told her. Also,
Blaise, unlike Draco, usually had no problems informing her when
was thinking of taking a leave of absence.
Carmen wrinkled her nose. "If you see him, please tell him I'd like my
dung bombs back. I have three brothers and it's going to be a long
summer, you see."
Chapter Forty
It wasn't exactly the anger itself that was surprising, it was how he
was angry. Draco had never been a screamer or a ranter. His anger
was cold; consisting of chilling looks and seething tongue-lashings
that had been known to reduce classmates to meek silence.
His fury washed over her like a scorching, desert wind. It took a lot to
rattle her, but Draco's reaction was enough. She stammered through
her explanation, flinching every time his molten grey stare burned
into her retinas. When it was done, she stood beside his desk, hands
clasped in front of her because she didn't what else to do with them.
There was a wretchedly long silence. For the first time in their long
history together, Pansy was actually afraid of him.
"I think I get the gist of it," he muttered, more to himself than for her
benefit. "You're going to answer a few questions for me, Pansy dear,
and then you're going to pretend as if you never told me."
"Go downstairs for dinner. The old man's back and he has
apparently decreed that the few remaining students dine at the one
table for the final meal of the year." He paused to sneer a little at the
thought. "If anyone asks where I, Goyle or Blaise are, you will tell
them that we're boycotting dinner due to this new and unacceptable
seating arrangement. That is as much as you know. If they send
someone to look for us, so be it. After dinner, you will lock yourself in
your room and you will not open it for anyone except me, Professor
Snape or the Headmaster. Parkinson, are you following me?"
"Yes."
"Once you are home tomorrow, you will be the responsibility of your
parents. I daresay if your father manages to stay sober for five
minutes, he'd be appalled to see what a complete idiot his daughter
is."
Any other day, any other situation, she would have flayed him with
her tongue for saying what he had just said.
Not so that evening. All that escaped her was yet another, small,
"Yes."
"Now, a few questions." He sat down again, looking like his anger
had sapped his energy. "Where did Zabini take Goyle?"
She hesitated before speaking. "I don't know exactly where they
were supposed to go, but I know how Blaise gets there."
Draco eyed her with a mixture of curiosity and foreboding. "And how
the hell do you know that?"
Pansy didn't look at him anymore because she didn't think she could
bear the censure in his eyes. "Goyle wasn't Blaise's first choice, you
see….I was."
She was angry enough that she forgot she had been cowering. "Yes,
me! Is that so hard to imagine?"
Draco gave her a thoughtful look. And then, very calmly, he picked
up a thick, hardbound Arithmancy text from the bedside table and
hurled it at the mirror over his desk. It shattered. Glass littered the
desk, smaller shards bounced off the table and sprinkled across the
floor.
Pansy brushed away a tear that had escaped her self-control. "I
don't presume to know what Voldemort is thinking, but I can speak
for Blaise. He saw potential in me."
Draco shook his head. "He saw someone who was willing to be
taken in by his drivel. You don't have potential, Pansy. You have a
need to be shepherded." Draco gave her a pitying look. "And you do
know what that makes you?"
When Pansy opened her eyes, Draco was standing before her. He
gripped her shoulders and shook her lightly. She wasn't afraid this
time because there was nothing but worry in his eyes.
"Do you have any idea what he could have done to you when you
refused to go along?"
"It occurred to me, yes! I can't explain it, I panicked! I didn't want to
go through with it. The only choice I had was to convince him that I
wasn't going to be a good candidate, that I'd ruin things for him when
I eventually messed up. He knows that Goyle has feelings for me. I
said it should be one or the other. Not the both of us joining because
we'd… distract each other. Draco, he believed me! So you see, it's
my fault Greg ended up going in my place." She choked out a sob.
"Goyle would have gone anyway. I doubt you could have changed
his mind," he told her in a resigned voice.
She released a long, pent up breath. "Is there really something else
Goyle or I could have done different? If Blaise trusted us enough to
tell us what he is, he was expecting our compliance. Who is to say
he wouldn't have killed us out of hand for refusing straight away?"
"When did Blaise tell you he was Recruiting for Voldemort?" Draco
asked.
"The week before the Graduation Party. He told Goyle after the Dark
Mark sighting in Hogsmeade."
Pansy couldn't see his face, but he was scowling as he stroked her
back.
"He's right."
Draco now had the name of the Recruiter. All he had to do was step
outside his room, walk to the Common Room fireplace and request
to speak with Arthur Weasley.
And then he would be free. He would have his home, his inheritance
and his life back. He would have a chance of a future with Hermione.
But he would not make that call yet . He would bring Goyle back first.
Telling on Blaise now was liable to implicate Pansy and result in
Goyle's eventual imprisonment. If there was going to be anything of
his past left after he was done fixing what his father had started, it
was going to be his friends .
Draco growled. "The hell he won't come. If I have to stun that stupid
son of a bitch and float him home, I'll bloody do it. Don't worry about
Zabini. He won't be able to harm me."
She searched his face, but his expression gave away nothing. "What
do you mean? I can't see how he'll just let you walk away with
Goyle!"
Draco flexed the muscles of his left shoulder. The six year old injury
may have been the bane of his otherwise excellent physical
condition, but today, he was very glad to have it.
Ginny Weasley was putting her long hair into a ponytail as she
stepped out through the Gryffindor Tower exit. She nearly collided
with Harry who was standing directly outside the portrait hole. Her
metal hair clip clattered to the floor.
Harry stared at her for a moment and then bent down to pick up her
clip. "I wanted to speak to Hermione. She's still in her room, isn't
she?"
"Thanks." Ginny accepted the clip from him and finished her ponytail.
"She's packing. Are you waiting for her?"
"That's understandable."
Ginny gave him a wistful look. "It's going to be so strange next year,
without you. Without Ron and Hermione too, of course. I know we
said we'd put us on indefinite pause, but seeing Hermione and
Malfoy today… hell, Harry, if they can make a go of it, why not us,
you know?"
She couldn't work out why he looked triumphant all of a sudden. But
the brief look was there and gone before she could analyse it further.
"You and me, we're complicated," Harry said, neutrally.
The slow, rising tension in the air was not aided by both parties being
silent.
"Touché," Ginny eventually whispered. "This is a conversation we
should save for another time, yes?"
She held the portrait open for him. "So are you going in to fetch
Hermione or not?" she prodded, a little too tartly, when he continued
to merely stand there.
Harry's answering smile was not one Ginny could recall seeing on
his face before. He looked like the cat that was about to get to the
cream.
How on earth did one teen-aged girl accumulate so much junk over
the course of seven years? Hermione had spent the remainder of the
afternoon attempting to sort her numerous belongings into 'books',
'clothes', 'personal' and 'miscellaneous'.
So far, the books pile was threatening to fall over her and kill her,
while the 'personal' pile was woefully tiny. A Valentines card from
Krum peeked out of the pages of her sketchbook. She smiled as she
rescued it and added it to a shoebox stuffed full of cards, letters and
Ron's numerous in-class doodles. There was one of Snape which
had nearly resulted in detention for all three of them.
She was folding a raincoat and adding it to the 'clothes' pile in her
trunk, when the knock at the door sounded.
"Come in," she called out. She had no idea who it could be. Ginny
had just left for the Great Hall and there wasn't anyone else in
Gryffindor House, presently, besides the Head Girl.
"Potter let me in." For some reason, he found this fact amusing.
Seeing Draco in Gryffindor House was a lot like seeing a polar bear
in a tropical rainforest. Hermione blinked to refocus her thoughts. He
was looking intense and sombre, in all-black. And very handsome.
He had obviously washed up for dinner. How lucky. She hadn't found
the time.
"I thought Harry was already downstairs. We're doing this combined
sit down for dinner."
"So I hear." He tapped his long fingers against his thigh. "Are you
going to invite me in or shall we continue this conversation with me
standing in the corridor?" There was a teasing quality to his voice.
Hermione blushed. "Of course. Please come in." How could it be that
it still felt so awkward doing simple things with him? That was
probably because arguing was the norm for them. She made to clear
a spot on the bed, but he said he preferred to stand.
She gaped at him, not certain if she had heard the question correctly.
"Draco," she asked him carefully, "what's wrong? Is this about your
promise?"
"Nothing's wrong, except that this is the part where you say it back to
me." Had she not been so flustered, Hermione would have noticed
the uncharacteristic pout in his voice.
"You surprised me. I didn't expect to see you standing there, let
alone saying what you just… said." She caught herself before she
started rambling to cover her nervousness. "I do love you," she
whispered, staring at her feet.
His answering smile was toothy. He looked about ten years old. "You
have no idea how good it is to hear that from you." He held out his
hand. "I'd like to show you something. Come with me."
"Screw dinner. It won't take long," he assured. It was all very Draco.
Hermione couldn't help but grin in response. She didn't want to
appear too pleased that he had bothered to seek her out so soon
after their afternoon encounter, but in truth she was beyond ecstatic.
"What mystery would that be?" he asked, leaning against the closed
door.
One second. Two seconds… three, three and a half. "Did you, now?"
he replied.
That small delay was all it took. He had no idea about the Nutrisoil
cap.
The realisation that she was not currently speaking to Draco struck
Hermione with the force of speeding Bludger. Her blood froze in her
veins. She prayed to God he couldn't see the colour drain from her
face almost as if a plug had been pulled. Her eyes strayed over his
shoulder, in what she hoped was a casual manner, to where her
spare robes hung on the hook behind the door.
Hermione had shoved her wand inside the left pocket. The tip was
just visible.
"Do you need help with that?" he stared pointedly at her trunk. Her
weight had not been enough to seal the thing.
Asking him for help would remove him from a direct path to her
wand.
"Yes, please." Her smile was rigid, but it was still a smile. "I didn't
realise I was such a pack rat."
He walked over to her and bent down to the trunk. That close to the
Imposter, Hermione was able to confirm her suspicions. Everything
about him screamed 'Not-Draco'. It was suddenly amazing just how
much of Draco she could usually feel, because she felt absolutely
nothing from the stranger crouching beside her.
Hermione was reminded once again of how tall Draco was, how
strong compared to her. How helpless she felt on the occasions
when he did use that superior strength against her. She was
reminded of these things especially given the fact that it wasn't
currently Draco Malfoy's aforementioned strong arms wrapping
around her.
She was safe as long as she remained within the castle walls.
Professor Lupin had drilled into their head the importance of doing
everything in your power to not let yourself be taken to a second
location.
Where was Draco? Was he alright? The Imposter had said that
Harry had let him into Gryffindor Tower. Was Harry harmed? It had to
be Polyjuice at work. Whomever it was knew about her relationship
with Malfoy. If she knew nothing else about the Imposter, she at least
knew that.
Hermione forced the stiffness out of her limbs and she allowed
herself to be held.
Every muscle in her body was poised for flight, but she kept perfectly
still. After a minute of relatively light kissing, she felt his tongue seek
entrance at her closed mouth. Her disgust was going to give her
away.
She felt Draco's large hand press against the back of her head,
increasing the pressure of the kiss. Where it had started off
inquisitive, it now changed to become hard and bruising. She
struggled, trying to twist her head away while simultaneously
pushing against his chest.
" Stop! " she gasped and to her relief, he released her.
He knew she knew! The defiant look on his face proved it. Even at
his most callous, Hermione could not recall Draco ever looking at her
with such blatant malice.
He feigned hurt. "I'm the man you love. Or are you so fickle that you
tell that to every other boy that catches your fancy?" There was a
definite surly tone to the question.
No . She made a mad dash for her own wand, but he was very
quick, catching her around the waist. He spun her in a semi-circle
and threw her onto the small bed.
She scrambled around for a weapon, but her desk was on the other
side of the room. The Imposter was on her before she could kick or
scream. Not that anyone would have heard her. His hand clamped
over her mouth and she found herself staring up wildly into Draco's
clear, grey eyes. They were not the eyes she knew.
"I'm very fond of you, Hermione, but I'm more attached still to my
own skin. I won't hesitate to hurt you if I need to. You understand,
don't you? Nod once for yes."
She nodded… and ever so delicately tensed her right knee, just to
see how much of his weight was bearing down on it. She almost
swooned with relief to discover that he was mostly lying on her left
leg and hip. Her hands were pinned, but she wouldn't need them.
Not yet.
It was impossible not to cringe when he lowered his face and placed
a wet kiss against her cheek. "You have no idea how long I've
wanted to do this," he said huskily.
Draco's teasing words after their first encounter with Arne Hendricks
in Knockturn Alley came back to her.
" Didn't your mother ever teach you to use your knee?"
Not wasting another moment, Hermione rolled him off of her with
every bit of strength she possessed and then bolted from the bed.
She vaguely noted that his hand had reached out to grab her, but
missed.
It was three steps to the door. Her fingers had only just closed
around the familiar, smooth shaft of her wand when she heard the
command that stopped her dead in her tracks.
"IMPERIO!"
Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Draco pulled a face. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
Draco didn't feel the need to explain to Blaise that his sense of
adventure was directly proportional to how far away his father was,
at any given time.
Narcissa was in the kitchen overseeing the well-oiled house elf team
of cooks that were seeing to their dinner. They were expecting more
business guests later in the evening. Pansy was going to be in
attendance with her father.
Draco didn't really need to see Pansy at the moment, although she
declared that there would be 'loads' to catch up on. He couldn't
imagine what further news she could possibly have, given that he
had been receiving no less than three letters a week since school
had broken up a month earlier.
Blaise was beside himself with curiosity. They had abandoned their
brooms and snuck back into the house through Draco's open
bedroom window. Blaise had been overcome by giggles the entire
time and had to be shushed by an equally amused Draco.
" It's ugly," Draco commented, once they had dragged the artefact
out of the crate.
The boys walked around the artefact. It resembled a large, clay urn,
nearly as tall as the Blaise and Draco, who were of a height. There
were four holes in the urn, each carved into the base of the neck. It
was impossible to see if there was anything inside. It looked like a
great deal of darkness, which seemed impossible because Draco
had even shone his wand at the opening of one hole, to get a better
look.
" Not so for the minions. I'm told it kills you if you fail. As far as I can
work it out, you stick your hand in. If your loyalty is true, nothing
happens. If not, then there's unpleasantness."
" Dunno. Maybe you go all red and freckled, like a Weasley."
" Zabini, will you please come away from there? We aren't supposed
to be here. If my father finds out-"
Draco snorted. "He can hardly confirm that with you if you're dead,
can he?"
Blaise gave him a confident look. "Oh, nothing will happen to me. I'm
loyal."
To Draco's horror, his friend shoved his arm into one of the holes, up
to the elbow. The urn was designed to test fully grown adults, not
boys, but Draco noted that if the laws of Muggle physics were to be
obeyed, Blaise's fingers ought to have appeared outside the
opposite opening.
They didn't.
He didn't get to finish the sentence. All of a sudden, Blaise let out a
bloodcurdling scream as the rest of his arm, shoulder deep, was
sucked further into the urn. He tried to pull it out, but it seemed to be
held fast.
Blaise slumped against the urn, held up only by his captured arm. He
made a whimpering noise.
To Draco's horror he could see for himself why. Every blood vessel
on Blaise's face seemed to be highlighted. The boy's eyes had rolled
back into his face. He looked stricken and gaunt. The urn appeared
to be sucking the life right out of him.
Alerted by Blaise's scream, the boys' fathers burst into the room. It
was a fair distance from the study, and both men looked notably
exerted from the sprint.
Lucius took one look at the scene before him and cursed. He shoved
Draco out of the way, snatched a poker from the fireplace and swung
it at the urn. The pottery ought to have shattered, but it didn't even
leave a hairline crack.
He tried again. Nothing happened. The snakes arched up and hissed
with renewed ferocity. Lucius dropped the poker and attempted to
pull Blaise's arm out of the urn, as Draco had done. He had about as
much luck as his son.
Anton Zabini was distraught, but Draco could not help but notice that
he made no move to approach either the urn or his son.
Lucius lowered his wand. "What do you propose, Anton? You know
as well as I that it won't release him until it's finished!"
Draco was incredulous. Why were they just standing there? Why
didn't they turn it off!?
He heard his father's shout and felt Lucius' hands grab him.
Blaise had been correct. It was like plunging his arm into ice. There
was a frighteningly powerful pulling sensation. His arm felt like it was
being ripped out of his shoulder.
Draco cried out from the pain, but when he thought that he had
made a mistake, that simply thinking loyal thoughts wasn't going to
be enough to cancel the effect of the urn, he felt his fingers brush
against Blaise's. His friend's hand felt bony and brittle.
As soon as Draco got a good grip, he held on for dear life.
Blaise was immediately released and expelled from the urn. The
force of his grip on Draco's hand wrenched his arm clean out of the
shoulder socket.
Draco wished she wouldn't just yet. He wasn't eager to face his
father's anger.
Blaise sat up in his bed. He still looked terrible. His face was all
sunken and there were deep, dark circles under his eyes. Draco
didn't think he'd soon be able to soon forget the sight of Blaise's life
being drained from his body almost as surely as if a demon had
stuck a straw into him.
" Hey."
" Hey."
The other boy didn't think this was such a big price to pay for the
revelation Draco had inadvertently discovered about himself. He had
a faintly manic look in his eyes.
" Don't you see? You passed the test! You're loyal."
" Draco?"
" What." Draco was busy trying to fluff the pillows behind him, one-
handed. He wouldn't mind seeing his mother now. No one arranged
pillows quite like her.
" Can you please not tell anyone about what happened today?"
As if Draco was going to run around school shooting his mouth off
about the top secret, dangerous artefact his father was keeping
stashed in the house. But he was still curious about Blaise's motives.
Blaise stared at him like it was obvious. "Because I failed the test.
Because I'm not loyal like you are."
Also, Draco could not help but recall that both their fathers had not
attempted what Draco had ultimately attempted. Why was that?
Anton Zabini, in particular, had been afraid.
His only son had been dying and the man had been afraid.
Draco wondered if Lucius would have stuck his hand in, if it had
been Draco that was caught. Maybe even doubting that about his
father was a horrid thing.
Perhaps it wasn't loyalty that the urn was designed to test. Maybe it
was just faith.
Harry put down his buttered bread roll, blinked at her and politely
inquired if Hermione was far behind.
The perplexed look on Harry's face, combined with the fact that he
was wearing his school uniform, still damaged from the scuffle with
Ron and Draco earlier in the afternoon, made her gasp.
She touched her fingertips briefly to her lips, looking nothing short of
horrified.
It was quiet enough in the Great Hall that everyone heard this. All
dinner noises abruptly came to a stop. Tandish Dodders dropped his
spoon.
Pansy stared grimly into her split pea and ham soup and sighed.
Hermione?
Something was wrong. Without meaning to, Draco turned on his heel
and had taken several steps back to the Castle, before he caught
himself.
What am I doing?
Then why do I feel like I've just fallen off a rooftop only to stop short
before hitting the ground?
Focus, Malfoy . The stress was getting to him. It made sense that he
was worried about her. Hermione was worrying in general, was she
not? The sooner he returned with Goyle, the sooner he could get on
with life minus the Ministry's blasted contract dogging him. He could
then spend the rest of his days worrying about her in peace.
Pansy had said fifteen minutes, which meant that he was roughly
where he ought to be. A Compass Spell confirmed it.
Draco pulled the hood of his clock off his head and did a complete
three-sixty from where he was standing.
What bloody rowan? All he could make out were oaks and willows
and a great deal of shrubbery. He shoved the map back into his
trouser pocket and tried to recall what else Pansy had said.
You won't know it's there until you know. It sort of sneaks up on you.
Pansy hadn't been kidding. The tree had to have been there the
whole time, and yet Draco was sure he had looked at that precise
spot several times before and spotted nothing.
The tree couldn't possibly be the Portkey, could it? He didn't think it
was possible to use a living thing. After a deep breath, he slapped
his gloved hand on the trunk and was a bit relieved when nothing
happened.
Was it his imagination or did the tree actually seem to puff up its
canopy, in agitation?
"There, there. Nice tree," he crooned. Probably best not to annoy it.
The limbs looked sturdy enough to pick him up and hurl him all the
way back to Hogwarts.
Hesitating briefly and feeling not a little foolish, he laid his palm
against the trunk and stroked it. The tree shuddered, sending several
leaves flitting down to the ground. Draco wondered if it behaved like
this with all magical folk or whether it happened to be partial to Death
Eaters.
Just when he was contemplating cajoling the thing, there was a great
and ominous creaking noise as the topmost branches parted.
Something caught the moonlight and glinted amidst the leaves and
blood-coloured blooms.
A thick gold chain swung back and forth in the moving canopy.
Was that a pendant? No, a coin . Coins were favoured for use as
portkeys.
Draco knew he had found what he'd been looking for. It dangled
enticingly in challenge, high above his head.
With a long suffering sigh, Draco rolled up his sleeves and ventured
closer.
They required a great deal of energy to function and for that reason,
were not normally located in crowded or magically congested areas,
lest the portal malfunction from atmospheric interference.
Malfunctions varied. A user could find him or herself appearing
several kilometres off-target or they could show up at their intended
destination having lost their handbag or shoe (or in one celebrated
case, a nose) to the ether.
It was for these reasons that the Ministry placed strict regulations on
the creation and use of such devices. Case in point was the
Quidditch World Cup. You had to give the Ministry eggheads three
months advanced notice, so they could plot the departure and arrival
points with accuracy.
The pros far outweighed the cons, yes, but the one great con was
that it made you feel like your insides were attached to a fishing hook
that was rapidly being reeled in by some sadistic unseen force in
some distant location.
There was also the fact that Draco had never managed to land
gracefully on his feet at the end of the transportation.
The clearing was for a lack of a better word, clear. The shoeprints
and tracks in the dirt indicated that the site was in frequent use,
however. Best to move off before the next traveller turned up.
Draco dusted himself off as he gained his bearings. He soon
determined that he had not travelled that far from Hogwarts, judging
from the position of the moon, the weather, the local plant life and
the scent of the air. To his surprise, he also realised that there was a
Muggle road not too far off. A busy one at that, judging from the
noise. He could only just make out the sounds when the direction of
the wind changed.
A light mist poured from the tip of his wand. He kept it low to the
ground. The mist crept onwards to the walls of the stone building,
unhindered. Thankfully, there were no discernible wards or the
Fumeus spell would have encountered an invisible obstacle.
So far so good.
Some part of him was completely terrified. Draco knew this, but that
part was taking a backseat. It was being grim, silent and stoic.
Something else had switched on in him. A utility he was aware that
he had always possessed, but previously only used in minor
quantities.
Who knew? Maybe it was something in the blood? The logical part of
his brain was screaming danger, risk and consequence, but that
other part of him calmed his breathing, kept him sharp and alert and
reassured him that his task that evening was entirely doable if he
kept his wits about him.
It was locked. Well yes, it was going to be locked. After thinking for a
moment, he ran around to the side, sticking close to the moss-
covered stone. It felt cool against his back, even under his dark shirt
and cloak.
Whoever was using the place didn't put too much stock into house-
keeping or security, apparently. But then he supposed that finding
the building in the first place was the real challenge.
Quickly, he stepped into the room, wincing at the crunching noise his
hiking boots made as he stepped on the carpet of dried leaves.
Thankfully, the wind had started up again. More leaves blew into the
room from outside.
They were as pleased to see him as he was to see them. The largest
one, a muscular, black, hairy thing which looked to be the patriarch
of the family, darted forward and gave the tip of Draco's boot an
experimental nibble. It didn't like the taste of it, but thankfully its
frustration seemed to be spent.
The doxies cleared off to a higher perch and Draco strained to listen,
almost painfully, to the noise outside the corridor.
It was Goyle! It had to be. His friend's recently broken leg had given
him a slight drag in his walk.
The arrival of the footsteps did indeed produce Goyle, who appeared
to be in quite a hurry. He walked right past the door-less threshold.
When Draco was satisfied that his friend was well and truly on his
own, he ducked from under the beam and stepped out into the
nearly pitch black, corridor.
He stopped on the fourth, but only because his foot went straight
thought it. The smell of rotting wood came rather belatedly.
The whole thing gave way. Where there had been two flights of
wooden steps leading to the upper and lower floors, there was now a
big, gaping hole.
It seemed a miracle that Draco managed to find the time to roll his
eyes before he fell through.
Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
" What would you do if you had your freedom again?" Snape asked.
" Take my son, willing or not, and run," said the former Death Eater.
" You really would condemn him to that kind of existence?" Snape
questioned. "One where he would have to forsake every person he
has ever known, always running, always hiding?"
All that was left to mark the conversation was the sooty, coppery
scent of Floo fire, and the fact that Snape was wide awake, alert and
more shaken than he would care to admit.
He walked over to his desk and sat down. It was a fine desk, a claw-
footed, rosewood and mother of pearl creation that had been in his
family for three generations. It was the one of the few things in his
life that he felt a sentimental attachment to.
The outside observer would have noted that the desk had four
sizeable, brass handled drawers, two located at either end. But as
Snape tapped his wand at the centre of the desk and murmured a
brief incantation, a fifth, much smaller drawer appeared.
The hidden compartment sprang open, revealing a small bundle of
green velvet. Snape stared at the bundle for a moment, and then
removed it. His hands might have shook somewhat, but he was a
Potions Master, and there was no place in his profession for that kind
of weakness.
Snape gingerly unwrapped the cloth. Nestled inside the material was
a bright, golden key.
Harry couldn't decide whether to sit or stand. It was all Ron's fault for
not being there in Dumbledore's office. Ron was currently using
McGonagall's private fireplace to speak to his father.
He was too anxious to stay still for longer than a minute and
Professor McGonagall had already snapped at him twice because of
his 'distracting pacing'. So he allowed Ginny to pull him into the
empty seat beside her and didn't seem to notice that she was
currently gripping his hand hard enough to cut off the circulation in
his fingers. He was used to it from attending seven years worth of
Quidditch matches with Hermione.
For all her eye-rolling and alleged indifference when it came to the
sport, Hermione was very big on hand-holding when anxious. Ron
had once remarked that she had very nearly snapped his fingers off
during Harry's first task in the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
"This is all my fault," Ginny whispered. She had relayed the entire
encounter with fake-Harry in front of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and
Lupin. The details may have been mortifying, but it was nothing to
the guilt of having unwittingly aided Hermione's kidnapper.
"I can't believe you thought that was me," Harry muttered,
unhelpfully. "And you kissed him!"
Ginny made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a moan
and put her face in her hands for what had to be the fifth time in the
past ten minutes.
"Why kidnap her now?" Lupin wondered. "If that was the plan all
along why wait until the last day of school? There was no guarantee
that she would even be here. Most of the school has packed up and
left already."
Ginny's head came up. Her face was stark white as she stared at
Harry. "Oh, Harry we have to tell them!"
Harry nodded jerkily and ran a hand roughly through his hair. He
opened his mouth to begin, but was forestalled by the Headmaster.
Harry gaped at him. "So you know they got married after the
Graduation Party?"
Lupin was surprised to see her back at work so soon since Bligh's
and Tonk's disappearance.
And with that, he limped the three steps to Dumbledore' desk and
laid Hermione's wand on it.
"Aye," Moody huffed. He stared down at the wand. "If this business
about your Hogwarts Recruiter is to be believed, then it might be,
Albus, that your girl stumbled across the son of a bitch accidentally.
Wherever she is, I'm betting we'll find my missing team members as
well."
"She did that when the Chamber was opened." Ginny's voice was
listless.
Moody sighed. "Uncommonly smart, that girl is. I'm having a talk with
her about a career at the Academy as soon as we have her back."
Harry didn't think he knew Moody well enough to tell if this was an
attempt at lightening the mood in the room. If it was, it didn't work.
"What about the other missing students?" Lupin inquired.
"Where's the Parkinson girl?" Moody snapped. "I was told she might
know something about the Slytherins."
Moody rubbed his jaw. "Poor chit," he said, without any trace of
sympathy. "I'll wait my turn then. You have four missing, Albus. Three
of them are on a certain list we like to pretend doesn't exist."
Harry goggled at him. "Then you must know something about Zabini
that the rest of us don't, because he seems about as likely to join
Voldemort as Hermione."
Dumbledore gave him a levelling look. "The names are not meant to
be added lightly, Harry."
"And what about Malfoy? Knowing what we know about him, can you
safely say he harbours any such desire at present time?" Lupin
added.
"If you find out anything, you're taking me with you," Harry told
Moody.
Moody snorted. "I take Aurors, boy." He stared down at Harry. "Last
time I checked, you're still in school uniform."
Harry's eyes spat green fire. He was too far gone to notice that
Moody's words were more challenge than flat refusal. "I've been old
enough to know for some time now." These words he had directed at
Dumbledore. He stared at Lupin next. "I'm old enough to do
something about it. I'm not Sirius Black. I won't make the same
mistake. Hermione's taught me better."
Lupin looked physically pained, but the added lustre in his hazel
eyes was mostly due to conviction. "If you've noticed I'm not
immediately disagreeing," he replied, in a thick voice. McGonagall
leaned forward and patted him on the hand.
"What about Draco?" Ginny asked. She was perplexed that hardly
any mention had been made of him.
"Do not forget that the list is an exercise in Ministry politics, Alastor,"
Dumbledore reminded in a near hiss. Harry was struck by just how
involved Arthur Weasley was in the day to day running of Hogwarts.
It had to be driving Dumbledore up the wall.
Ron walked into the room then, looking more dejected than Harry
had ever seen him. He paused when confronted with the tangible
tension in the air and then cleared his throat.
"We must tell them something!" McGonagall insisted. "The girl is due
back home tomorrow morning!"
Dumbledore walked back around his desk and sat down heavily.
"Leave the Grangers to me. In the meantime, we will await Severus
and Miss Parkinson. I expect news that will assist our investigation."
Snape stood in front of the fireplace, a slight frown on his face. His
long-fingered hands were curled into tight fists. His grip was
particularly tight in his right hand, where he held the golden key that
had been secreted away in his desk for the past three years.
The metal collected the warmth of his body until it seemed to sear
his palm. It was all in his mind, of course.
That was part of the magic. Powerful magic took belief to function.
Belief in the words, belief in the effect. He held onto the dark device,
glad to be reminded of the many unseemly things he had left behind
in a past life.
Pansy sat on the lounge in the adjoining room. She was catatonic for
the moment, but the after-effects of Veritaserum would wear off very
shortly. There wasn't much time before he brought her to
Dumbledore with the information he had retrieved, albeit forcefully.
The Floo connection crackled, the fire intensified. Snape was now
staring at the familiar old house elf who had never been able to
pronounce his name.
"Toolip will fetch Master Lucius at once," said the creature, calmly
and she was off at a brisk hobble.
He had run to the fire. Snape could tell from his heightened colour.
Either that or he'd been drinking again. It didn't seem likely this time,
though. Lucius Malfoy's quicksilver eyes were clear today, thank the
heavens.
They darkened however, when he observed Snape's expression.
"Your son has run off to rescue Gregory Goyle from becoming a
Death Eater. The Recruiter has also been identified."
"He did WHAT?!" Lucius bellowed. The flames flared before settling
once again within the fireplace.
Faced with Lucius' fury, a lesser man might have quailed. Snape had
seen worse, however.
"Goyle's son! I can't say it wasn't fated." Lucius' eyes narrowed into
silver slits. "Who is the Recruiter?"
"Anton's boy."
Lucius actually brought his hand to his mouth and gasped. It would
have been a comical sight, if the situation wasn't so horrendous.
"You cannot be serious!."
When he allowed himself, during what he would like to call his 'small
lapses', Snape sometimes reflected on Lucius Malfoy's capacity to
be utterly and ruthlessly efficient in the most dire of emergencies. He
reflected and he lamented. It was likely this very trait that had once
endeared the elder Malfoy to Voldemort.
"He has called in Moody, predictably. They will begin planning just as
soon as I tell them what they need to be looking for. The Parkinson
girl suffered a narrow escape at Zabini's hands. Your foolish son may
not be so lucky.
Snape rolled his eyes. He had been half-anticipating this. "He might
have stood a chance at retrieving Goyle if this latest development
had not occurred."
"There may yet be a way to retrieve Miss Granger, Goyle and your
son, without lasting….consequences. I have my suspicions about
whether or not the Dark Lord is aware of Zabini's current course of
action. I have a suggestion, Lucius, but one that will unfortunately
remove me from the task of finding my godson."
"I've just given you your freedom, Lucius. Now, you're going to earn
it."
Draco looked at his mother, thinking that it was the most normal
thing in the world for her to be there at that particular moment. There
was so much he wanted to say. He thought he should start with an
apology.
"Whatever for?" smiled Narcissa. Draco noted that she seemed to be
wearing something white and flouncy, and he wanted to snort and
tell her what a cliché that was.
But then he realised that his eyes were still closed. Very strange. Not
alarming, just strange.
"For not saving you," Draco replied. "Who did it, Mother? Who killed
you? Tell me," he pleaded.
"And what shall you do with the name I give you?" she asked him,
gently.
She shook her head. Draco observed that her fine, golden hair was
also defying gravity, floating all about her as if she was underwater.
"Not for me, sweetheart. You'll do it for you, and then you'll have to
live with that knowledge for the rest of your life. You are not your
father, Draco. He is able to do a great many terrible things without
regret. Not so, you. My family influence, I'm afraid," she sighed.
"Look at my own sister, Andromeda. And Sirius Black. We have a
tendency to produce the odd witch or wizard with a moral compass,
however late-blooming or inconvenient it might be."
Draco had never heard his mother talk like this. It was Narcissa, but
it was a Narcissa he had never known. The bitterness and the
distance was gone. All he could feel was her love for him. Because it
felt completely authentic, he trusted what she was saying to him.
"I have the benefit of…" she seemed to search for the word, "an
elevated view over the proceedings, so to speak." Her smile was
impish.
"They let you into heaven?" he asked. In his mind's eye, Draco could
imagine how enormous his eyes were as he said this.
"I'm supposed to tell you that I'm not really here. This is all in your
head, which I daresay has taken quite a pounding this week," she
scolded. "We don't have a lot of time, so you need to listen to me
very carefully."
"Yes?"
"I didn't say anything about dying, Draco! Honestly, you over react
just like your father. Heed my words and you'll be fine."
A coolness washed over him. It was the fear and the knowledge that
had been buried in his subconscious from the moment Hermione
had been put under Imperious. Since he was having a conversation
with his subconscious, he thought it would be a good idea to ask it a
couple of things he hadn't realised were bothering him.
"Mother?"
His mother did not smile or laugh this time. But the same annoying,
kindly look was still there. Draco didn't like any of it anymore. He
wanted to know why Hermione wasn't answering him.
"You'll have time. Just remember what I told you. I'm sorry I can't be
more specific." She looked over her shoulder, as if hearing a noise
he couldn't detect. And then, with a parting smile, she was gone.
When Draco opened his eyes, Blaise was leaning against a wall with
one knee bent under him. Like Draco, he was wearing black; black
school pants that were slightly dusty at the knees and a light, hooded
jumper.
Blaise took a long drag from his cigarette, seeming to study Draco
quite seriously before replying. "Hey."
"Three hours."
There were no windows and the air was wet and stale. He could only
guess that he was presently in the dungeons. Other revelations soon
confirmed this.
His wrists and ankles were in manacles. A quick glance to the right
revealed a pulley-system that must have operated the restraints.
There were weights attached to a wheel and a lever that probably
determined the slack of the chains.
And if that didn't make matters worse, the fiery pain in his right thigh
was due to a six-inch bit of jagged wood sticking out of his flesh.
There was a gash on his forehead. Sticky, dried blood ran down his
eye and the left side of his face.
"So it's you, then. You're the Recruiter that's got the Ministry in a
snit."
Draco could not help but tense as Blaise walked over to the lever.
Thankfully, murder most gruesome was apparently not on Blaise's
mind as yet, because he pulled the lever all the way back with a
loud, rusty, crank.
Draco's legs were not prepared for sudden use. He slid down the
wall bonelessly, some ten feet of slack chain lay either side of him on
the stone floor. The returning flow of blood to his joints was
excruciating. Blaise walked over, squatted beside him and roughly
pulled the splintered wood out of Draco's thigh.
White, hot pain blinded his vision momentarily, but he gritted his
teeth and kept his eyes trained on Blaise.
Drip, drip, drip . The water continued in the distance. He clung to the
noise.
"I gather Pansy told you?" Blaise said, in a perfunctory manner.
"That stupid bitch could never keep a secret, not even under the
threat of death, it would seem."
Blaise smiled. His white teeth were wolf-fang yellow in the lantern-lit
gloom. "I don't think Pansy's peril you should be worrying about.
Though I may be moved to compassion, seeing as we're such good
friends."
"You think so?" Blaise asked, only he wasn't Blaise. He was Potter.
And then, he was Hermione. Draco's heart seemed to swell and
explode from the unexpected emotional assault of seeing her. He
could not contain the small sound that escaped him.
The smile vanished. "You're a smart fellow, Draco. The 'why' is rather
moot, don't you think?"
If some sort of rescue mission was in the works, he'd have to stall for
time before Blaise handed him over to Voldemort.
"And you think you're the one to provide that plan, do you?"
Draco did not have to feign his disbelief. "Oh, I subscribe to that
newsletter as well. There's just one problem with your 'editor'.
Voldemort's a few columns short of a balanced ledger."
Blaise smirked. He had always enjoyed Draco's quick wit. "I noticed.
But he's on his way out. Trust me. A younger, new generation of
Death Eaters will not remember so well what it was like to truly fear
him. His influence is diminishing. Suffice to say we get away with
bloody murder half the time. Pun intended."
"How did you find him? What, did you place an advertisement in the
Prophet? 'Up and coming sociopath seeking equally unstable Dark
Lord for Evil Mentoring'? "
"I didn't find him. He found me. Rather, his men did. I started asking
the right kinds of questions in fifth year. Spent my summers in places
you wouldn't visit without an armed escort. Recruitment was wishful
thinking then. Death Eaters are a dying breed, getting older, fatter,
slower… This helped, of course," Blaise added, changing himself
into the face and form of Severus Snape .
"I had no idea our traitorous Head of House had such useful
connections. Six months ago, I met an odious little man by the name
of Peter Pettigrew. The rest, as they say, is history. I'm having fun,
Draco," he added, as if he too were surprised by that fact.
"Fun!" Draco scoffed. "Zabini, you are out of your mind if you think
you can get one up on Voldemort."
"Why? I'm his trusted Recruiter," said Blaise. "It's a dangerous task,
not a suicidal one. Do you think I'm too young? Potter is the same
age as us and the rest of the world is asking him to do eventual
battle against a wizard five times his potency. The Dark Lord was
only four years younger than you and I, when he made that beautiful,
forest sentinel that brought you here. He was our age when he
opened the Chamber of Secrets. Age is nothing. Ability is everything,
Malfoy. That is what the Dark Lord prizes." He tilted his head to the
side and regarded Draco with a pitying expression.
"You have always had the personality and the family connections,
my friend. But you never had the ambition. What a poor Slytherin
you turned out to be."
"If I lack ambition, you lack common sense," Draco seethed. "You
were the one who cast the Dark Mark over Hogsmeade, weren't
you?"
Blaise didn't look too keen to discuss the incident. "I was there that
afternoon, wasn't I? Potter wandered off to gather the Tangleweed,
always the hero. It's always a silent competition with that boy. Let me
tell you, Draco, there is nothing in the world as sadly predictable as a
hero. They're egos are as a big as their imaginations are tiny."
Draco's laugh was as genuine as it was bitter. "Ah, the good old
Malfoy Standard! How nice to know I fucked up your big moment
without even knowing. My dad must have laughed fit to choke when
he heard that."
"Remember your debt," Draco whispered smugly. "I could have let
Slytherin's artefact suck the life right out of you. I could have let your
father stand by and watch you die."
Now, Draco thought. He was just about to swing the chains upwards
when Blaise darted away. Dammit!
"You sent that note to Dodders, didn't you? Framing me, asking him
to do the Bludger Run? Why? What does he have to do with any of
this?"
Blaise blinked, as if the current topic had nothing really to do with
Voldemort at all. "Dodders was a means to an end. I needed to
prove something."
"What?" Draco snapped. "That the boy can't sprint ten yards to save
his life? That he wears monogrammed pyjamas?"
"No more games, you psycho. Where's my cousin? The Auror and
her partner, where are they?"
"Forget your cousin!" Blaise said, through gritted teeth. "The bonds
of family are seriously overrated, if you ask me. Voldemort would tell
you the same thing."
Draco froze. "What are you talking about?" He was very wary now.
Blaise looked on the verge of becoming hysterical. Whatever he was
about to reveal was upsetting for him as well.
"I'm talking about your mother, Draco. My first mission was set the
week after I took the Mark. I was to go to her, ask her to return to the
fold. There would be a place for her, you see. She knew too much.
The Ministry was foolish to neglect her. My Master is not so
careless."
Draco shook his head, as if denial would ease the horror of what he
was experiencing. He looked at Blaise with something akin to hope.
"WHAT I HAD TO!" Blaise shouted, his voice breaking. "Did you
think I wanted to? She was not the one who betrayed us. It was your
father! But she resisted-"
"Does Bellatrix Lestrange know what you did to her sister?" Draco
spat. His voice was shaking, but he was powerless to stop it.
Blaise did not answer, but his previous distress was replaced with an
eerie confidence. He was rationalising Narcissa's murder in his
head, Draco surmised.
"It was Bellatrix who gave the order to terminate Narcissa if she
refused to comply," Blaise answered quietly.
Draco shut his eyes. He was still asleep. That had to be it. Maybe he
was still at the Cobblestone Inn with Hermione curled up in his arms.
This was a nightmare, but he would wake up soon. He would hold
her and she would love him. Hermione loved him. Really, truly, loved
him, despite what and who he was and the horrible way he treated
her.
He didn't need to pretend she was out of her mind any more. Despite
his silent denials, he had realised that to be the truth the moment
she had told him. Not just because the girl had more honour and
integrity than anyone he had ever known, but because he could feel
the truth for himself.
Fida Mia breeched the great, wide gulf between them. It was the
conduit that had delivered each startling, wonderful revelation for
how she felt about him.
Draco refocussed, gathered his control about him like a cloak. It was
what he was good at. He kept his voice even and calm, even if
inside, all he wanted to do was scream and scream until his voice
gave out.
"Zabini."
Draco stared at the friend he used to play chess with in second year
until the small hours of the morning, at the boy whose life he had
saved when a childish dare had turned nearly lethal. He didn't see
the sheepish boy who had asked him to keep a secret that afternoon
they had awakened together in St Mungos.
"You can end this," Draco nodded, not quite pleading, but he put all
the will he had left into the performance of his life. "How many
people have to die before you can see what you're doing?"
Blaise thumbed his nose. "Not nearly enough at the moment to make
me doubt myself. I know what you're doing, Malfoy. We're too much
alike."
"I know," Blaise said, sadly. "I'm sorry, but it's going to get worse for
you before it gets better. Tell me Draco, what do you hold most
precious in the world?"
Draco opened his mouth to deliver a smart retort, but what came out
was a sound of physical pain. He doubled over, clutching at his
midsection as if he'd been punched in the gut.
" Where is she ?" Draco hissed. He had the look of an injured, caged
animal about him. His breathing was ragged and he was looking at
Blaise with undiluted, feral, rage.
The end result was that Draco was violently slammed back against
the wall, spreadeagled. The back of his head throbbing from the
impact and his vision became blurry in his right eye. He stared at
Blaise with a mixture of disbelief and rage.
"Anything," Draco gasped. "You'll need funds for your cause, yes?
Whatever I have, it's yours. You want names, secrets, Ministry
secrets, fuel for blackmail, I can get that for you…" he knew he was
ranting, but could not stop the words from tumbling out. "You want to
Recruit me, go ahead. Voldemort wants me, doesn't he? Let him
Mark me. Let her go."
Draco shook his head. "You don't. You want compliance, I can give
you that. You do it this way, the only way your piece of shit Dark Lord
is going to get me to cooperate is very unwillingly."
Blaise seemed to ponder this last suggestion. Draco felt a tiny spark
of hope ignite inside him. "Anything in the world I can give to you, it's
yours," he added, hoarsely.
"In exchange for her, I suppose? The filthy Mudblood you swore to
hate the moment you learned what she was? "
"Anything?"
"Anything at all that's mine to give," Draco repeated, his voice
breaking.
"I want to be you," he said, with the type of frenzied awe of a child
coming down the stairs to a mountain of unopened presents at Yule.
"Do you think you can make that happen?"
Draco drew back and stared at him, stared long and hard and knew
that there would be no bargaining with Blaise. There would be no
reasoning.
"Her being here is your fault, you know. Wallow in that, Malfoy. I
confess that I've harboured more than a passing fancy for our
charming, Head Girl, but it was your interest in her that sealed her
fate. Oh yes, I know all about your sordid little adventure with Fida
Mia."
And with that, Blaise reached into a pocket and drew out a small,
wooden box.
One was green the other was blue. They were Arne Hendrick's eyes
and they seemed to be frozen in a final vision of terror.
He trashed and kicked and roared. Three feet of chain slid through
rusted iron loops. Each time he lunged he got as far as halfway to
where Blaise stood before the chains could go no further. The
manacles bit and ground into his wrists until blood ran down his
hands and dripped from his fingers.
One minute she was struggling under the effects of the Imperious
Curse. The next minute, there was a blackout in her head, followed
by a brilliant, agonising flash of pain which she recognised to be
Cruciatus.
She knew that pain intimately. It had haunted her dreams since fifth
year. Even if she arranged to have her memory of having suffered
the spell Obliviated, body memory was another thing. Her muscles
and nerves remembered, for all that the flash had lasted mere
seconds.
To her initial dismay, she found that she had not been able to throw
off Blaise's Imperious and she wondered if this came from a lack of
practice or whether it said more about the level of magic Blaise was
working with.
He had used the spell before. That much was for certain.
The force of it was staggering. She had seen Harry struggle, knew
what it cost him to fight the curse. Try as she might, she could not do
the same.
And so, during the mad rush from Hogwarts to wherever she was
now, in the absence of free will she did the next best thing. She paid
attention.
One of the first thoughts that popped into her head when Blaise had
taken her prisoner, was that Harry was going to get drawn into
proper battle. Finally. The realisation made her want to weep.
Secondly, it occurred to her that Blaise was not following Voldemort's
orders to the letter. Whatever those orders may have been, they
apparently did not include stealing her away from Hogwarts under
Dumbledore's nose.
She knew this because he had smuggled her into the Death Eater
hideout. He obviously knew the layout of the place very well. At
several points, they had waited behind a wall or rushed along a
corridor to prevent being discovered.
To her amazement, he was stashing her in his room like some guilty
child trying to keep his new pet away from his parents' notice.
This either boded very well for her or it meant she was in even
greater danger due to Blaise's limited ability to protect her from
further harm.
That was the other thing. He didn't paw at her again. She supposed
it was a small consolation that Blaise considered himself to be cut
from better cloth than your run of the mill raping and pillaging,
Voldemort follower. Blaise had told her this too, several times.
His ego was indescribable. He did other things that made her skin
crawl, though. All through the mad rush from Hogwarts to the
hideout, he had rambled on about the future; a new order, a new
government and their respective places within this yet-to be
community.
She would not hate him forever, he assured. He said that after the
necessarily bloody revolution, that the logic of it all would appeal to
her. And that talent like theirs would find its rightful place.
The last realisation came soon after Blaise had shoved her into his
room, located at the top floor of the building. There was a pounding
at the door. He had put her up against the wall beside the door and
transformed from out of breath and flushed, to cool and collected
before opening it.
They had a problem, the man said. Draco Malfoy was here. They
had him. Hermione had stood, perfectly still, without a flicker of
emotion passing across her face. Inside herself, she had collapsed
to the ground.
Harry had been correct. Love was a very risky thing to be afflicted
with during a war.
She nearly smiled, thinking that Draco would have preferred the
world 'inflicted'. He didn't want her love. He'd tell her he didn't need
it.
Had he come for her? Did the school already know she was
missing? It couldn't be. It was all happening too quickly for word to
spread that fast.
Blaise had left her standing there, as he went to check his other
prize. His parting look was actually very affectionate, delusional
madman that he was. Hermione wanted to claw at his face.
She had remained standing against that wall, for hours it seemed.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She was unable to scream or cry or
move a muscle of her own volition.
And then came the indirect Cruciatus, courtesy of Draco and Fida
Mia. Draco was in the building and he was being harmed. One
Unforgivable cancelled out the other. Blaise's Imperious dissolved
like so much smoke in the face of Hermione's renewed connection
with Draco.
With the effects of the curse now gone, it took Hermione a few
minutes to calm down long enough to be able to think clearly. All she
seemed able to do, for a time, was clutch her hands together and
pace.
She only allowed herself the luxury of a few moments of panic, and
then she whirled around and began searching Blaise's room for a
weapon. It didn't help that Blaise was downright Spartan in his living
arrangements at the hideout.
There was a bed, a half empty trunk of clothes and that was it.
Where was a sharp-edged something or other when you needed
one! Finally, she found a brand new quill at the bottom of the trunk
and nearly swooned with relief.
Hermione stashed the thing into the waistband at the back of her
skirt. She then walked over to the door and tested the handle. No
surprise that Blaise had locked her in.
There was no time to reconsider her plan. What choice did she
have? Draco was being tortured nearby and she had the power to do
something about it.
Still, it was one thing to be brave in the face of possible death, it was
another thing to be a woman, braving possible death. There might
have been worse things than Blaise Zabini prowling the dark
corridors outside the room.
It didn't matter in the end. Hermione pounded on the door and began
to shout.
It was not Travers who came this time. It was Pettigrew who
unlocked the door and pulled it open, nearly falling over in shock
when he saw her. He stood with his mouth hanging open, looking
even more atrocious than when she had last saw him.
" You!? " Pettigrew exclaimed with such surprise that Hermione knew
her gamble had paid off.
"I think you have a problem, Wormtail," Hermione said.
It didn't take him very long at all to put two and two together. "Zabini!
That little fool!"
"You really didn't know he was planning this, did you?" she said,
trying to further goad his anger towards Blaise.
Pettigrew was looking at her with new speculation. "My master wants
the Malfoy boy. You, on the other, may be an added bonus."
Pettigrew had nothing to say to that, but she noted with satisfaction
that he did look a bit worried.
"If your Master wants Malfoy alive, then I suggest you check on
Zabini. He's killing Draco right this minute. Go and find them if you
don't believe me."
"Watch her," was all Wormtail said, through gritted teeth. "I'm going
to see about Malfoy."
Hermione paled when she heard this, but then Travers entered the
room and closed the door behind him. She decided that she'd best
focus her worries on her own situation, for the moment.
Blaise lowered his wand and the torture abruptly ceased. Draco
stopped spasaming and gave all his weight to the chains that held
him. His flesh was in agony.
There wasn't any, one, specific pain. It was a hundred times worse
than the pain in his injured shoulder and it was everywhere . It felt
like all his skin had come off, all at once.
The pain repeated and repeated itself. He had stopped wishing for
death at some point, only because the wish never got granted. If
Blaise taunted as he tortured, Draco did not hear him.
There were voices. A small man had entered the room. Draco heard
him and Blaise argue. He ought to have paid attention to what the
argument was about, but something else had just captured his
complete focus.
She was there, yes. She was very afraid, but she was safe for the
moment. Her existence flooded his senses, sweet ambrosia that was
already dulling the pain.
How typical. It had taken torture to make him finally accept how he
felt.
Blaise and the smaller man stopped and stared at him as if Cruciatus
had broken his mind.
He was alone.
No, he was never alone. Not since Graduation. Not since Fida Mia.
Draco had no idea how long he hung there for. Ten minutes? An
hour? Two hours?
Draco was half unconscious and thus, didn't notice that someone
had entered the room. A tall, dark figure in the periphery of his
vision. Or maybe it was just his imagination being cheeky again?
Might be that his imaginary mother had taken his advice to heart and
had changed into less ridiculous attire, before making another hazy,
dreamtime visit.
Strong hands caught hold of his waist and pulled him up. He smelled
and felt leather. A gloved hand gently tipped his head back.
Not mum, then, he realised. Imaginary or not, she was a dainty thing
and would not be hauling him about as if he weighed nothing.
His eyes opened and when his vision cleared up somewhat, Draco
was absolutely astounded to find himself looking into the dark grey
eyes of Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius pulled down the hood of his cloak. "Your godfather sends his
regards, and hopes that you will survive long enough so that he can
personally end your life for being this foolhardy."
Draco could not recall seeing his father look so alive. His long hair
was pulled back into a tight braid. He was dressed in black flying
robes and gloves. There was wrath in his eyes.
It was good to see, because for once Draco knew this was not
directed towards him.
Lucius took this all in stride. He had just finished examining the gash
on his son's forehead before moving to Draco's mangled wrists with
a grimace. He produced a wand and quickly sliced several strips of
material from his own cloak.
Draco's voice was paper thin and just as dry. "It couldn't be helped,
what with the torture and all."
"I… Yes."
"Then do so."
"Blaise Zabini is the Recruiter. He's just about lost the plot." Draco
attempted to roll the agony out of his shoulders.
Draco looked down in his bandaged hand to find a wand there. Not
his wand. Not his father's either, but a wand, nonetheless. Perhaps
they would get out of this alive, after all.
"Don't you need this?" His father was right. The more he used his
legs, the better they worked.
"She killed mum," Draco blurted. "Zabini was carrying out Bellatrix's
orders. He admitted it to me."
His father hadn't been aware of the fact. Something that resembled
grief flickered across his hard, handsome face. But it was there and
gone too quickly for Draco to marvel over.
There was regret, though. Regret wasn't an expression, per se, but it
was the sum of all Lucius was doing for his only child, now.
The elder Malfoy glanced outside the doorway to check that it was
clear. "Depending on how this goes, I might not be coming back."
And what the fuck did that mean ? Draco felt like he was in fifth year
all over again. To make matters worse, there was a damnable
prickling sensation at the back of his eyes.
If he lost it now, his father was probably going to snort in disgust and
leave.
"Pay attention," Lucius ordered. "I gather they are currently occupied
seeing to Bellatrix's arrival, if she isn't here already. Draco?"
"The captive Auror will prove more difficult," his father was saying. "I
was not able to access the room where she is being kept. Her cell is
magic-barred. You will need one of them to open it for you. I will
arrange a distraction, at which point I suspect they will send the girl
to the dungeons to keep her out of the way. Be ready. If you are
unable to free the Auror, do not hesitate to leave without her. Ministry
law enforcement will arrive shortly and if Andromeda Tonks was
anything to go by, her daughter is likely to outlive us all. Head back
to Hogwarts via the way you came. You'll be safe once you're there."
"Hogwarts," Draco nodded, lamely.
Draco stared at him. Yes, I'm paying attention, he meant to say, but
stopped short at Lucius' dark, weighted gaze.
There was a great, long, emotion-laden pause.
"Do what you will with the Manor. It's yours. I only ask that you leave
my study as it is. I'm… partial to that room."
And with that, Lucius Malfoy was gone. To have a chat with Bellatrix
Lestrange, presumably; the only other person on the planet who was
probably crazier than Blaise Zabini.
Ron was wearing bright, white trainers, with reflective, silver streaks
down the sides. It was very dark and what little moonlight there was,
was currently hidden behind passing clouds.
Still, Lupin wanted to slap the boy in the back of the head.
If these were indeed Death Eaters, they were unlike any Harry had
ever encountered before. He was thinking what a sorry lot of
criminals they were, when the smaller, cloaked figure at the head of
the rabble spun around and removed his hood.
Her hood, Harry silently corrected. Cloud was no longer obscuring
the moonlight and the pale face of the woman was revealed in sharp
relief against her dark clothing and even darker hair.
Harry didn't realise he had stood up from his hiding spot deep in the
trees, his right hand gripping his wand so tightly it seemed a miracle
the thing didn't snap in his palm. Rage became a perceptible, static
charge that swirled around his fingertips.
One of the Aurors behind him swore softly. Suddenly, Harry felt
Lupin's heavy, firm hand on his shoulder. A second later, that same
hand yanked him back down.
"Do not make me regret bringing the two of you!" Lupin hissed.
The rage dissipated and after blinking a few times, he no longer saw
Sirius' face when he closed his eyes.
"What is this place?" Ron asked Lupin, once Bellatrix and her
companions had entered.
It was at least gratifying to note that he looked the same way Harry
was feeling. Seeing Bellatrix had done something to him as well.
"The portkey in that tree has taken us to Wales, from the looks of it,"
Moody informed them.
The female Auror came forward and Moody passed her the smoky
orb, which was still spinning slowly. It deflated like a balloon as she
syphoned it into her wand.
Moody turned to growl at Harry. "Boy, just because you know which
is the business end of a wand doesn't mean I'm letting you get in the
way of my people doing their work! Stay down and shut up and I
might just give you something useful to do!"
This was new to Harry, who realised just how accustomed he was to
issuing orders in his comparatively limited experience in embarking
on dangerous missions. It seemed a minor miracle that he and Ron
had been allowed to come in the first place.
Lupin turned to the boys before he left with Astrid. He squeezed the
top of Harry's arm hard enough to leave a bruise. "I want you to stay
close to Moody. Alright? Listen to me, the two of you. Be on guard,
no matter who you see. Even if it's Malfoy, do you hear me?"
"Yeah," Harry said, the sting from Moody's dismissal dissolved in the
face of this new worry. He had an insane urge to hold on to Lupin
just as tightly so that he wouldn't leave. "Please be careful," Harry
whispered.
Remus replied with a decidedly scary smile. Harry had no idea the
man had that much teeth. The word, Harry thought with a shiver, was
most definitely 'wolfish'.
"We'll be back," was all he said. And then he and Astrid were gone,
melting away into the darkness.
Harry turned to Ron, whom Harry had just noticed was being
unusually quiet.
"Ron?"
"I'm fine," Ron nodded, a bit too jerkily. "It's just… well it's finally
come to this, then."
Ron suddenly looked much older than his seventeen years. "She's
fine. She has to be."
Watched her and breathed . With any luck, he was a chain smoking
emphysemic who couldn't climb a flight of stairs without stopping to
catch his breath. That would make kicking him in the balls and
making a run for it all the more easier.
Not that it was likely to be easy in the first place. Honestly, she was
very close to losing her composure altogether.
It didn't really sound like a question and so she was more than
happy to continue ignoring him. The quill she kept in the back of her
skirt tickled her. She focussed on the sensation and what little
comfort the unlikely weapon provided.
"You look different than your pictures. I have a few, you know," he
nodded. "Cuttings. Got 'em in a book. I like to keep informed what
with being away so much. I've been in this pisshole for eight months
now. Spent most of that time on me own. "
Out loud she said, "You know you're going to go to Azkaban for a
very long time if you're caught. People are looking for me."
And yet the sounds beyond the door were getting louder. Footsteps,
shouting, instructions. The noise of big, iron hinges moving. Bolted
doors sliding open. Something was happening out there. Hermione
wondered if help was indeed arriving or if what she was hearing was
merely Death Eater reinforcements.
She had no idea if she was still impervious to the Imperious curse
and had no desire to have Travers test the theory. Let him think she
was meek and compliant. If he decided to get too close, she'd go for
his groin and then his wand.
It hadn't taken her long to work out that he was alive, if not entirely in
one piece. If she really concentrated, she could feel a hammering in
her chest that was twice the rate of her own heartbeat. She imagined
putting two fingertips to the side of her neck and feeling a twin set of
pulses. Wherever he was, he was on the move and he was close.
"Zabini isn't going to last, you know. That little upstart thinks he's
bred to higher concerns. If you're interested in a favourite, the smart
money is on me."
Now this was interesting. Hermione gave the man her full attention,
which she was gratified to see, made him a fraction less smug. Who
would have thought that all that time spent attempting to intimidate
naughty junior Slytherins would finally pay off?
Or maybe it was just all the time spent in Draco's company. One
undoubtedly picked up a few traits.
"And who might you be?"
"Let me out of this room and I swear I won't tell the authorities about
your involvement. It's not too late."
"Is that you begging, then?" the man's smarmy grin looked set in
concrete.
"Merlin…"
Hermione thought he might hit her then, but he shoved a fist in her
hair and dragged her along by it. The pain made her eyes water.
"Keep your mouth shut and move!"
Travers had pulled her halfway down the corridor by the time
Hermione whipped out the quill she had been hiding and rammed its
sharp, unused tip into Travers' right hand. The force of the stab
successfully buried the nib an inch below his thumb, before she
twisted the shaft and snapped it off.
He howled like an injured dog and this time, he really did swing his
fist at her. She ducked and made an attempt to sprint for the stairs.
Travers had been expecting this and stuck his foot out to trip her.
When she opened her eyes, she was being roughly pulled up under
her arms. "You're going to regret that," he breathed wetly against her
ear. " Later ."
The bottom half of her body from the waist down was frozen in place,
but her arms were not. Hermione reached around to claw at his face.
If he had any hair, she would have pulled it.
"STOP THAT!" He shook her violently until her teeth clicked together
and then trapped both her wrists in one of his hands. He squeezed
so hard she cried out and went to her knees. "Try that again and I'll
snap your neck," he threatened. "Zabini can go and find himself
another plaything."
He carried her down several rickety looking flights of stairs and then
continued dragging her along with him when they finally reached an
underground level. The air turned stale and damp.
There was a single torch at the end of the curving, stone corridor.
Next to it was a set of thick, iron bolted doors. There was a different
feel to that floor. The air felt more complex. The light from the torch
seemed to bend and warp in an unnatural way.
Hermione had the sinking feeling that if Travers got her past those
doors, it was likely she would never return.
Rescue mission or not. She would never see Harry or Ron again, or
her parents.
She was set to fight him with everything she had left in her, when a
familiar voice made her freeze.
Draco was standing behind them, some twenty feet away. It looked
like he'd been waiting there. There was a thick wooden balustrade to
his left. This was the only cover he had and Hermione was insane
with worry that Travers would try his luck with a spell before anything
further was said.
Blood was streaming down the right side of his face, his feet were
braced apart and it was obvious that he was favouring his right leg
where a horrid looking gash showed through a rip in his trousers.
He looked like he'd just been through hell and back. Bloodied or not.
She was so ridiculously happy to see him that she started to cry.
Draco hadn't looked at her yet and Hermione couldn't look away.
The Death Eater scum didn't need to know that, however. Draco took
a limping step forward and tried to keep his knees steady. A fresh
line of blood cut through from his hairline down to his jaw and
dripped onto his black shirt collar.
"Let her go before I blast a hole through your skull," Draco repeated.
It was more hiss than speech. He meant every word.
Travers bared his teeth. "You try it, you little shit!"
The man wasn't stupid. He had no cover standing where he was and
was subsequently holding Hermione in front of him as both shield
and deterrent. That was his leverage. He hurled the first hex.
Draco leapt for the beam, flattening himself behind it. Smoky
streams of red and black flew over his head.
Several curses hit the beam and charred the wood where it struck.
Draco gritted his teeth. He only had once chance to get this right and
he was not going to mess it up.
"She's not part of the plan! Forget Zabini! You know he's gone too far
this time! LET HER GO!" Draco shouted above the spell fire.
The spells kept coming, but he couldn't keep the attack up forever.
Not while holding on to a struggling Hermione and attempting to get
the dungeon doors open at the same time.
There was a lull. The man was making his move. Draco could hear
the heavy bolt sliding out of its cradles and magical locks springing
open from the other side.
The dungeon was magic-barred, his father had said. It was now or
never. In ten seconds, Hermione was going to be beyond his reach
and quite possibly beyond the reach of whoever was currently
attempting a rescue.
And if that happened, his heart was going to stop inside his chest.
Seekers were not known for their extraordinary aim, but it was also a
little known fact that Draco had originally tried for the position of
Chaser. It was only because of Harry, that Draco had eventually
accepted the Seeker position Marcus Flint had offered him.
Draco's aim was very, very good, even after an extended session of
Cruciatus.
At first, Draco thought that he had missed, that the spell hadn't really
hit him at all, but then Travers fell forward to his knees. Released
from Travers' hold and from Petrificus, Hermione slid to the ground.
A thin red line welted up diagonally across the man's neck.
Draco's gentle touch on her shoulder startled her. For a moment, she
stared up at him with a look he never wanted to see on her face ever
again, but then sense returned quickly. The light of sanity returned to
her eyes and with a sound of distress, she attempted to wipe
Travers' blood from her face.
He had no idea where his cloak had gone, but Draco suspected it
was lying at the bottom of a broken staircase. Ignoring the searing
pain in his injured thigh, he knelt down beside her. He quickly
unbuttoned his shirt, scrunched it up and started wiping the blood off
Hermione's face. He forgot how quickly the stuff dried.
She was alright. She hadn't been hurt or killed or worse. Perhaps he
could breathe now. He was sure his lungs had forgotten how to
function.
"Granger," Draco croaked, suddenly feeling winded. His hand was
clenched in the hem of her school blouse, just like he had done
when she had walked away from him in the Quidditch supply shed
the previous day.
He realised he wasn't quite done being the most terrified he'd ever
been in his relatively short life.
His obvious distress seemed to bring her out of her own state. Sill on
their knees, Hermione crawled into his arms.
He wanted to pull her into his skin and keep her there, safe and
oblivious to the dangers all around them. Her small, hands held him
to her tightly, clutching over the bare skin of his tattoo. When she slid
her palms down to take his hands, they were so warm, they burned.
That too, was reassuring.
And still he couldn't give her the words, could not, rather than would
not. She would beggar him, with this staggering, debilitating love of
hers. The currencies he relied on - his wit, his pedigree, his name
and his fortune - it all counted for nothing with Granger.
What was the purity of your blood worth when your heart or soul was
a dark, diseased mess? How could anyone want him just for him? It
was inconceivable.
But Granger did. She would have him and he would become less
than he was and maybe at the end of the day, that was alright.
Maybe Granger, closet romantic that she was, with her idealism and
optimism and innate goodness, was the wise man's definition of
'wealth'.
If that was the case than he was the richest man in the world.
"I should have known he wasn't you. It took me too long to realise
that," Granger was telling him. She sounded extremely cross with
herself.
She was staring up at him in wonder. "How did you get here so
quickly?"
He was so gratified to see the fear leaving her eyes that he kissed
her on the forehead, pleased with her resilience. "I'll explain later.
We're leaving after we find Tonks and Goyle."
The tone of his voice spoke volumes about why he needed to know.
"Okay." Draco ran a hand through his hair and then grimaced when
his bloodied hand encountered equally blood-encrusted hair.
He pulled her against the wall, suddenly aware that they were in full
sight of anyone who chanced to appear at the other end of the
corridor.
"Stay close to me and keep to the shadows. If anything happens,
you run. If you can't do that, you hide until it's safe to come out. Got
that?"
Hermione glared at him. "This is not the time to play hero!" she said,
angrily.
"Do as I say!"
"It might surprise you to know that I've actually been in situations like
this a few times! Probably more so than you!"
That immediately sobered her. Not too long ago she had been out of
her mind with worry for him, after all. Hermione nodded in
understanding and the movement caused a fat tear to slip down her
cheek. Draco knew Hermione didn't realise she had started crying
the moment he had found her.
Tears were the only thing that gave any indication that she had been
afraid. Her brown eyes were all purposefulness now.
Besotted though he may be, he was no Harry Potter and would not
be pulling off an incredibly stupid act of Gryffindorish bravery.
Bugger the Ministry. The Aurors could hunt down Zabini on their
own, thank you very much. He was getting Hermione and his purple-
haired cousin safely out of there, with or without Goyle.
"My father is here," he chosen then to inform. It was still
unbelievable, for all that Lucius had held him and spoken to him in
the flesh.
"WHAT?!"
"I know. Don't ask. I have no idea how, but I suspect Snape had
something to do with it. That explosion you just heard was probably
the distraction he promised me."
He took hold of her hand. "Now, we're going to find Tonks and then
the three of us are getting the fuck out of here. Agreed?" he asked.
He knew her well enough to know that asking for her compliance
was much quicker than simply demanding it.
People were coming. Goyle could hear wand fire just beyond the
charmed entrance doors to the dungeon.
There was shouting. Fuck. Were they already inside? He was too
late, he had waited too long to free the Auror.
Free she was, in any case. It had taken him ages to take down all
the spells without tripping any of the alarms that warded the
dungeons. The level of skill involved was quite frankly, beyond him,
but he had made a point of memorising everything Blaise did each
time he had accompanied the other boy to the dungeons.
For one horrible moment, the password hadn't worked and Goyle
was sure he was about to get splinched by the dungeon's defence
system, but then there was a hiss, as if compressed air had been
released, and the bolts on the other side of the door had slipped
free.
Getting Tonks' cell door open was markedly easier. She came flying
out.
"Do I hit this with you now or later?" she asked dryly, holding aloft the
slab of stone Goyle had given her earlier.
She blinked and dropped the stone. "Yes, I know. I can hear it."
It was probably time to tell her the other news. She wasn't going to
like it. "Hermione Granger and Draco have been taken prisoner. I
found out just before I left to come here."
Aurors were a tough breed, Goyle thought. Tonks processed this bit
of dire news with nothing more than a grim expression.
"Yes." he extrapolated.
"Right, well you run along then. I'm not leaving here without them."
That was what he had been counting on. Time for the other bad
news. "Bellatrix Lestrange is also here with the Death Eater recruits
from Beaubaxtons and Durmstrang," Goyle informed
"The Recruits are being kept in a room on the top floor. That's where
I'm supposed to be. As far as I can guess, Bellatrix was about to
start the interviews when the east wall came down. Wormtail is
missing."
She was thinking quickly. Goyle thought how very much she looked
like Hermione Granger in that moment. She was wearing a small
frown and an expression that said no problem was insurmountable if
enough brainpower was applied.
"We'll find the kids first."
Goyle was confused for one moment before he worked out she was
referring to Draco and Granger. He strode to the dungeon entrance
and spoke the same password that would set the wards on pause.
Tonks stood back as the six sets of locks were undone and then
Goyle swung the heavy doors open.
There was a feminine gasp, but it didn't come from Tonks. Goyle
stared in open mouthed astonishment at Hermione Granger and
Draco, who Goyle couldn't help but notice, had a wand pointed
squarely at Goyle's face.
The 'good hunting' line from Loriage is from Battlestar Galactica. Just
cos.
Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
The spell was just about to leave his mouth when he saw not Blaise
or Bellatrix or worse, Voldemort, but Goyle. Behind him was Tonks,
who looked like she was having about as much trouble as Hermione,
trying to cautiously wait on the sideline.
Draco was eyeballing Goyle something fierce. "Not to begin with, but
it is now."
"He needs treatment," Hermione said, more urgently. Her eyes were
enormous in her ashen face.
Tonks sighed. "Save your breath. I tried that already. He's not biting."
"Have you lost your mind, Greg?" Draco asked. The expression on
his face said it was a foregone conclusion.
Goyle went red. "Leave off. This is not up for discussion. I know what
I'm doing, alright?"
"This is because of Pansy isn't it?" Draco laughed bitterly. "Of all the
stupid, half-arsed reasons to become a Death Eater! You're having
delusions of adequacy, my friend."
It was quite a sight to see Gregory Goyle snap. For all his bulk, he
was not a violent person unless by requirement or extreme
provocation. Hermione had of course witnessed it before, though
usually in heated arguments with opposing Quidditch players after a
match. Never against Draco. Not ever.
He moved surprisingly quickly for so large a boy, or maybe it was
just the fact that Draco made no move to resist. Draco was pushed
against the wall while Goyle shoved his hefty forearm under Draco's
chin.
"Easy now," Tonks warned, but she didn't move to intervene and
even put an arm out when Hermione stepped forward.
"And what if I am doing all this for Pansy? Tell me what I have to look
forward to after Hogwarts, Draco. No money, no connections, no
prospects. No future."
" Take your hands off me," Draco spoke, whisper soft. "I came here
for you, you ungrateful bastard."
Something flickered behind Goyle's dark eyes. The bluster left him,
leaving behind a very weary young man. "I thank you. It was very
foolish of you, but thanks all the same." He released Draco and
turned to stare at Tonks and Hermione. "Now, if you'll allow me to
pay back this good deed, I'd like to see the three of you home
safely."
They made their way towards the staircase, led by Goyle. Draco
declined assistance from Goyle, despite the fact that he was having
trouble walking. He did, however, maintain a firm grip on Hermione's
hand.
Goyle told them to wait at the foot of the steps while he went upstairs
to see if the ground floor corridor was clear.
It was Draco who answered her. "Blaise Zabini. He's the Recruiter.
The little wanker also happens to be a Metamorphmagus."
Tonks' amazement was apparent. "Zabini! Would never have
guessed!"
Tonks turned to Hermione next. "What on earth are you doing here?
Did you come with Malfoy?"
Hermione wondered at what point both her hands had became fused
to her hips. She scowled at him. "Don't be dumb on purpose, Malfoy.
It doesn't look good on you."
"As opposed to being dumb via an accident of birth? Oh, I can tell it's
done wonders for Weasley."
"She's dead, is the matter. Blaise killed her three months ago under
Bellatrix Lestrange's orders." Draco's voice was emotionless.
"Sure it can," Draco sneered. "You have met our families, haven't
you?"
"So it's turning out to be Blaise after all," Hermione concluded grimly.
The clever, conscientious boy she had befriended a year ago was
non-existent. He had never been. She sucked in a fortifying breath
and looked at Tonks.
Tonks went up first, pausing midway up the first flight of steps. Draco
was having difficulty lifting his injured leg.
"Damn," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. His voice was strained.
The right leg of his black pants was stained dark with blood.
"Granger, give me a minute. You go on ahead."
Hermione was instantly guilty for arguing with him, moments before.
She sent a pleading look up at Tonks.
"Can't we do something?"
Goyle was still hanging over the banister. "We have to move now!"
"Give me that," Tonks said, snatching the wand that Draco was
holding. She sliced a strip of cloth from her dungeon-wear and
fashioned a tourniquet.
"I can use a suture charm on this now, but it's going to make your leg
useless for a minimum of ten minutes, depending on how deep that
wound is."
Draco was gritting his teeth as Tonks tightly tied off the strip off cloth.
"Do it later."
Hermione gave a little jolt and raised her eyes to stare at him
incredulously in the darkness. Already half dead from blood loss and
in danger of being all dead, only Draco would think to grope her.
Hermione looked down at Tonks and saw that she had put a finger to
her lips. Tonks raised the wand and soundlessly cast a spell. It took
Hermione a moment to work out that they were being enveloped by
a concealing glamour. It felt like a cloud of warm air had descended
over them.
When she looked up at Draco, she saw that the rough, grey image of
the wall behind them seemed to ripple over his face like a liquid
blanket.
"Amazing what the Auror Academy can teach you, isn't it?" she told
him. The hint was sadly lost on him.
"The west exit is that way," he said, pointing to the left of the corridor.
"Keep to the trees once you get out."
"What's happening here this evening?" Draco asked Goyle with new
interest. "I mean, why is Bellatrix visiting in the first place?"
The two friends regarded each other seriously. "For the same reason
I'm here. Bellatrix is selecting Death Eater Recruits."
Hermione shook her head. "We don't have time for this." She looked
to Tonks for support. Unfortunately, she found none.
Tonks had a similar, sharpish look in her eyes. "Sorry Hermione, but
personally, I'd like to see what Voldemort thinks is going to win the
war for him. Lead the way, you," she said to Goyle. It was more order
than request. "Quickly!"
With a long-suffering look, Goyle obliged her. Hermione had no
choice but to follow, despite her reservations.
The room in question was a third of the way down the corridor and it
was unlocked. She wondered why the young men seemed content to
remain inside but then Goyle answered her question.
"Their wands have been taken from them," Goyle explained, not
bothering to hide his disdain.
Draco motioned for the others to wait to the side. Hermione watched
in disapproving silence as he took the wand from Tonks and opened
the door magically, with an inward flick of his wrist.
They others could not see what Draco was seeing, but they did
witness the remarkable change that came over him as he stood at
the threshold. He slapped on a serene, downright snooty expression
and then kicked the doors open with his good foot. Hermione started
forward to have a look, but Draco pinned her in place with a glare.
There were eight young men in the room, all dressed in Death Eater-
ish robes of their own incompetent design. Draco supposed that this
was what passed for enthusiasm. Or over-confidence, rather.
Four or five of them had the dark, moody look of Durmstrang about
them, where getting lost on your way to the bathroom sometimes
meant that the caretaker found your frozen, emaciated body in a
cursed broom closet somewhere six months later. These boys were
silent.
Another two looked quite concerned about the shifting situation
outside the fortress and had been quietly bickering in rapid French
when Draco had thrown the doors open.
Inside the room, the assembled recruits took in Draco's bloodied and
battered state with great alarm. One of the Beauxbatons boys, a tall,
titian-haired youth, stepped forward. He was all haughtiness and
suspicion, easily the unofficial leader of the group.
Sharp pains were shooting up his injured leg. The pounding on the
other side of the door began in earnest. Goyle looked quite resigned
as he looped Draco's arm around his shoulders to provide his friend
with some support. This, Draco allowed.
A hex flew mere centimetres over them. The reason Harry knew this
was because it grazed the top of his head.
"What are you doing, come back here!" Ron hissed, but Harry was
crawling past Ron, through bushes and past the trees that were their
only cover. He sat back on his haunches and regarded the clearing
that separated their bit of the wood from the enemy's.
It was still very dark. Sunrise wouldn't be for at least another hour or
so.
Harry cupped his hands and bellowed a long, "OY!" The sound
carried across the field.
Several birds took to the air. You couldn't see them, but you could
hear the distant squawking and flapping of wings.
All wand-fire from the opposite end was suddenly set to pause.
Harry bolted up from his hiding spot. He knew that voice anywhere.
"Hermione!"
Harry hugged her tight and laughed. "Fancy seeing you here! I
thought we'd-" All good abruptly humour fled from his face as he took
in her blood-splattered clothing. His mouth dropped open a little.
"I'm fine, Harry," she cut him off with a confident smile. "Just a little
shaken, but otherwise completely fine."
Not entirely convinced, Harry set her down with care and took to
squinting into the distance. Another figure was emerging out of the
gloom. "Who are you with?"
"You'll see," she beamed. "Oh, Harry, I can't believe you're here!"
"Hello? I'm on the same mission, last time I checked." It was Ron. He
had come to a stop behind Harry and was looking happy, but
disgruntled. Hermione tried to pull him in for a hug too.
"Of course you're both idiots to come, but I expected no less," she
told them breathlessly.
"That's gratitude for you," Ron scoffed. His eyes widened when the
dark shape approaching them materialised into Tonks.
"TONKS!"
Ron and Harry were thrilled to see her. Harry thumped her hard on
the back. "You, Madam Auror, are apparently indestructible."
She winked at him. "That's the popular theory. Where's Moody and
the rest? And where the hell is Remus! He'll never hear the end of it
from me if he stayed behind!"
"They're inside. All of them."
"Moody left the two of you on your own out here?" Hermione asked,
incredulous.
Hermione patted him on the arm. "I'm sure he had this reasons."
"What reasons? After going to the trouble of bringing us, we're told to
wait outside for them? I knew this was going to be a token job, firing
on anyone who tries to leave. That was until you two showed up,"
said Harry.
"Harry," Ron added with a sigh, "it is a token job because apparently
no one apart from these two have left the building."
"Three what?" Ron asked and then quite suddenly, he looked ill.
"Hermione! Is that… is that blood ?"
Harry interrupted her reply by flinging his wand arm up. "Get back!"
Draco was the cause of this new panic. He was making his way
toward them.
"He killed a Death Eater to free me," she added softly, with eyes that
were darker than just the colour brown.
"We have to get him to the hospital wing or St Mungos to treat that
leg of his," Hermione told Harry under her breath.
Harry gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and noticed that Draco
watched this gesture beadily. "Take Tonks with you. Ron and I are
staying. Moody gave us a task, so stupid or not, we're going to see it
through."
"I already know you're staying," Hermione intoned. "Note that I didn't
ask you if you were coming back with us."
Tonks exchanged a brief look with Draco. She had been filled in
regarding Lucius' escape and rescue of his son. For Goyle's
protection, they weren't about to reveal his involvement in rescuing
Tonks. Better to lay it all on a mysteriously reformed, Lucius.
Hermione hadn't agreed with the plan to deceive the authorities, but
the truth meant Goyle's life would be in danger.
"There are four things you should know," she began in a businesslike
manner. She roughly gathered her matted hair back and with flying
fingers, put it into a loose braid.
"If one is the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange is here, scratch that off the
list," Harry said.
"Yes."
"And Lucius Malfoy is running around free ?" Ron still seemed to be
having difficulties absorbing this particular bit of information.
"He's the one who rescued Draco and gave him the wand. There
was also supposed to be some kind of distraction planned."
Ron was nodding. He pointed to the billowing grey smoke that was
coming out of the eastern side of the fortress. "Well, let's just say it
blew off an entire section of the building," he informed. "Moody and
the rest of the team have gone through the massive hole it made. He
gave us orders to fire on anyone who exits from the west."
"Where's the other Auror? Weren't there two of you missing?" Ron
asked. There was a cautious note in his voice.
Tonks' smile vanished. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her
hand, and then looked at them with regret.
"Bligh's dead."
"You two better get going," Harry told Draco and Hermione. "We'll
catch up with you later."
"Be gone," he replied with a half smile, waving Hermione off with a
hand. He turned to Draco next, speaking in a low voice. "Anything
happens to her, you die."
Draco had no smart retort for that. "At last we agree on something."
She prayed that whatever was coming into close, frequent contact
with her face and upper body was not poison ivy of any sort. They
could barely see where they were going.
He held back a branch back for her. "There might be, but we're
definitely well past it by now."
Hermione grabbed his elbow to halt his progress. She eyed him
critically when he turned to look at her. "Malfoy no offence, but I
reckon if we Apparated together, we'll end up joined at the hip.
You're in no shape to do it"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Then you'd really be stuck with me."
Find it? She could barely see him, let alone their surroundings. The
woodlands all looked the same to her.
Draco walked a wide semi-circle, limping all the way, and then
nodded to himself.
Blaise, Draco, Goyle, Pansy. With Harry and Ginny as the more
seasoned, supporting cast. Hermione didn't want to learn by their
example though. Denying that much about yourself was detrimental
to the soul.
Who knew being in love felt like you had everything in the universe
to lose, every second of the day? How was that a good thing,
exactly?
It was surreal. No, it was unreal . To think on all that had happened
to them since she had given in to Draco's slow, condescending smile
that night of the Graduation Party. It felt like it had happened eons
ago.
She watched him, thinking that there were probably a million things
she wanted to do with him and show him, when they were safe. That
was a big ask, wasn't it? To be safe? It filled her with such happy,
stomach flipping anticipation, to think of all the many things they
could laugh about with together.
She must have looked a bit out of sorts herself because he said,
"Granger? Are you alright?"
Her smile was brittle, but Hermione wouldn't have known it without
being told. She was suddenly freezing. The image of Travers' slack,
gaping mouth and blood-splattered torso danced in front of her eyes
like a marionette from a nightmare.
"Good."
He prodded various things around the clearing. Still holding his hand,
Hermione prepared herself for the telltale, inward tugging sensation
behind her navel, but it never came. He tapped his foot against a log,
and then the boulder next to it, and then the dead, tree stump.
Still nothing.
"I'm not about to drop dead, woman ." Though fainting was
something else altogether, he thought to himself.
Something in the darkness caught her eye, if only because the cloud
overhead had cleared up somewhat and what was left of the fading
moonlight filtered down through into the clearing. It looked a lot like a
gold tie pin, pushed into the bark of an oak tree. She began walking
towards it.
He frightened her by putting his hand over her mouth and pulling her
back into the shadows. They stood together under a bent willow, half
hidden by the low foliage. Her trembling became marked enough
that Draco started rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms.
She could feel the bandages around his wrists.
Blaise was glancing down at the ground with great intensity. It looked
like he was reading the pattern of the scattered leaves. He sighed
loudly.
"I know this wood like the back of my hand. I know each little nook
and cranny of it."
"Is that you, Draco?" Blaise called out. "Of course it is. Looking for
the portkey back, aren't you? I suppose you would be. You're not
stupid enough to stay here and play hero, are you? Not even to
impress your sweet wife. Although perhaps the rescue of that Auror
was impressive enough?"
Hermione tensed. She thought of Ron, Harry and Tonks and prayed
that they were safe.
"I know you're there. I know someone's there. It is you, isn't it,
Draco? Hermione, are you with him? Going to see him safely back to
Hogwarts? Was it you who did that terrible thing to poor Travers,
then?"
She couldn't help it. She saw the body again. Her brain was being a
pest. Draco seemed to sense this and held her in a more comforting
manner.
"Not coming out? Perhaps I can entice you, whoever you are," Blaise
continued. His arms were crossed and he was almost tapping his
foot against the ground. "Show yourself and maybe I'll tell you where
Bellatrix is. They haven't found her yet, you know. Those imbeciles
stormed the building and of course she disappeared like so much
smoke. But I know where she is." He said this last line in a sing-song
tone of voice.
Blaise might have been trying to give off the impression that he was
utterly in control, but now standing on her toes, Hermione could see
that he looked very uneasy. His eyes kept darting nervously around
the edge of the clearing to see if anyone else was approaching.
As if Blaise heard her, he said, "My Master will blame Bellatrix for the
messy demise of this entire operation. And after all the hard work
and unflinching commitment of his Recruiters this year. I mean to
replace her Draco. Come out, come out and I'll tell you where she is,
the woman who ordered your mother's extermination. Trade you that
for a goodbye, my friend."
"Since he isn't bleeding from a wound nor suffering from the effects
of recent Cruciatus, I think it's safe to say he's in better shape than
you right now!"
"Don't be a twit," he hissed back, "I'm not going to fight him. I'm
going to stall him. He thinks he's out of danger because he's
managed to leave that building undetected, well he's wrong. Go back
and get Weasley and Potter. Or better yet, bring back real Aurors."
"You really think he'll tell you where Voldemort's right hand is?"
She shoved it back into his hands. He was stark, raving mad.
"Are you?" she asked with a frown, the thought only just occurring to
her.
He stared at her long and hard, calm leeching back into his system
as he laid his palm against her cheek. "Don't you trust me?"
"This isn't about trust, it's about stupid plans! This is like one of those
old Batman episodes," she said, with bitter conviction. "It's the
villain's prerogative to make the hero's death as flashy and as
ridiculously elaborate as possible."
"Hermione, he can't kill me. I saved his life when we were children.
There is a Wizard's Debt between us."
This was news. Hermione stared at him with wide, worried eyes.
Killing wasn't hurting, and Blaise had already proved that he was
more than willing to inflict a world of hurt on Draco. Draco was not
Batman.
He was the love of her life.
He pushed her backwards into the undergrowth, but she was having
difficulty letting go of him. His tattoo was a dark blur over the fair skin
of his back.
Remus Lupin thought it might have been the knock to the head that
had done it. No telling with head injuries.
Remus didn't actually see Lucius until later. As it was, Astrid was
picked up and thrown backwards out of the building by the force of
the blast. Remus, meanwhile made intimate, painful contact with a
wall and slumped down to the floor. He could make out at least two
more unconscious figures further along the corridor. Death Eaters,
hopefully. Moody had better hurry the hell up.
He took two steps, paused, turned around and then stared down at
him.
Remus blinked at him through the dust in the air. He was working up
to a reply. Lucius beat him to it. "My son, is he with you?"
"Make sure you find him before you leave this viper's pit," said the
elder Malfoy. He continued walking, stopping once further down the
corridor to casually divest one of the fallen Death Eaters of a wand.
When Remus finally managed to stagger to his feet, Lucius was still
within Stunning distance.
Wanting to strangle him to death was not on the cards, given the lack
of a wand and the fact that the effort might cause him to swoon. That
would not only be embarrassing, but possibly fatal.
"Did you leave her with the Aurors? What was that whole 'don't touch
her or I'll kill you' spiel earlier in the dungeons? Was it all an act?"
"No," said Draco. "But I've since realised what a horrid nag she is.
I've changed my mind. You can have her."
Remarkable. He was still after The Girl. Draco very much wanted to
end him. Maybe all this tragedy could have been averted if Draco
had simply brought Blaise along pub hopping with him and Goyle,
and got the crazy twat deflowered.
Draco snorted. "Fuck off, you mental case. Get your own Mudblood."
The wand Draco had given her went flying and she would have
darted back to pick it up, except Ron was pulling her along.
The spell hit Blaise in the ribcage. Looking stunned, he fell sideways
to the ground. Ron darted forward and quickly kicked Blaise's wand
out his hand.
Draco hadn't taken his eyes off Blaise. "No," he said. Then he
walked up to the fallen boy, drew his uninjured leg back and kicked
him hard in the stomach. "Better now."
A grin was forming across Harry's face. "Looks like we got the catch
of the day. I imagine Moody will have quite a few things to ask him."
Ron hauled a sputtering Blaise up by the back of his cloak and said
into his ear. "Don't say anything. Don't even breathe if you can avoid
it. You try something and I'll let Malfoy do much worse that bury his
expensive hiking boot in your gut. Do you hear me? Not so in control
now, are you, Head Boy?"
"Ron," Hermione said. She was slowly walking toward Draco. There
had been enough unpleasantness for one day. "Can we just quickly
finish this, please?"
"Ignore him," Harry called out, giving Blaise a reminder jab under the
chin.
"You were right!" Blaise persisted. "You can't give me what I want,
Draco."
Draco didn't need to lunge. She was too close for that. He simple
extended an arm to grab her, not knowing what he was intending to
do. The silly girl wasn't even looking at him.
She was still watching Blaise. Likewise Potter and Weasley. Draco
noticed these details because it felt as if someone had slowed down
time (and his reflexes along with it).
Blaise had thrown a glass ball. The new, morning light reflected off
the orb as it sailed through the air. It struck Hermione on her hip and
broke instantly. Thick, dark, smoking liquid spilled out, spattering
against her skirt. The acrid stench of Dragon's Blood wafted through
the air. Not black then, if it really was Dragon's Blood. In normal light,
it would show as a murky, clotted red. From inside this macabre
liquid prison, a gold coin was set free.
Draco could only watch, feeling dread the likes of which he had
never encountered in his life, as the coin flipped several times over
and then fell, striking Hermione on her dusty, worn, school shoe.
By the time Draco's hand reached her, it met mist drenched air. She
was gone.
"NO!"
Blaise was choking. He tried to swipe at Harry with his right hand,
but Harry pinned that to the ground too with his other foot. Blaise's
left hand flailed about ineffectually in the dirt. Harry put more weight
on his foot and was rewarded by Blaise making a thin, wheezing
noise.
Ron's hand was buried in his hair. He was shaking his head, still
gawking at the spot where Hermione had been standing seconds
before. "What… what just happened?"
Draco could not reply. He was still staring down at the coin, bright
gold stained with blood. There was a noise lodged inside him. He
wanted to let it out because the force of keeping it in was hurting
him, but his throat had seized.
Harry was working on finding that out. He stepped over Blaise and
pointed his wand to the boy's abdomen. "You're going to tell me
where she is right now, or I swear to God, Zabini, I'm going to gut
you."
Ron began pacing. "Death Portal! Harry… what are we going to do?"
Harry's head lifted. His green stare was piercing. "What? You can
feel her? She's alive?"
"Yes."
Ron was stark white. "Then death isn't instant, wherever she's
gone?"
Harry turned back to Blaise and backhanded him hard, in the side of
the face.
Blaise coughed a few times and then spat out a tooth. "I don't
know…"
Harry hit him again, harder. "Wrong answer. Where does it go?"
"I DON'T KNOW! I don't know where the portals send you, alright! I
wasn't told. All I was-"
"How about we test it then?" Harry interrupted. He grabbed Blaise by
the back of his hair and dragged him over to the coin, shoving his
face over it. Blaise's sweat dampened fringe hovered mere
centimetres above the coin.
"It wouldn't make a difference. Killing me won't bring her back, will
it?"
Draco was standing over the coin. He looked like he was about to
step on it. Harry, who was nearest, stopped him by tackling him
around the middle. They scrambled in the dirt. Draco kicked at him
once to get away, but stopped. He would need what was left of his
strength.
Harry's eyes were red with unshed tears. He stared at Draco with a
mixture of grief and cautious hope. " You're crazy ."
"Let go of me."
"No," Harry swallowed and shook his head wildly. "You don't
understand. It should be, it should me. It should always be me…"
"If anyone goes, it's going to be me. Now move away from me
Potter," Draco repeated. " Please ." Looking poleaxed, Harry pulled
his shaking hands away from Draco. Behind him, he could hear Ron
struggling with Blaise. He couldn't help Ron just yet, though. Harry
only had eyes for what Draco Malfoy was about to do next.
Draco gave Harry a final look before he put a foot out and stepped
on the coin
Think, Hermione!
She was in a cage. Metal. Rusted. Not very wide judging from the
fact she could almost touch two sides if she stretched her arms out
straight. It was tall, though. She had to swim upwards to reach the
top.
Not someone. A dead body. Her calf brushed against a leg and she
pulled back in disgust. It was a man. A man wearing wizard robes.
Wizards carried wands!
She rummaged through his clothing. Her searching hands ran over
his face. It was spongy, but she suppressed the desire to shrink
away and kept on looking. His hands were empty. His pockets were
not! Hermione nearly cried with relief when she produced a wand.
Dear God, her lungs were on fire. Her skin felt like it was shrinking
around her, suffocating her. Holding the wand tightly, she turned it
towards the bars of the cage and cast a basic Blasting Curse.
Hermione ran her fingers down the wand. There was a pattern
etched unto it. That was unusual, but other than that, it wasn't
broken.
And then, quite suddenly, she wasn't alone. Not alone any more with
the dead man and the strange wand in his pocket that didn't work. It
was as if the small space in the underwater prison wasn't nearly
enough to contain the two of them, her and Draco .
He was beside her. Those were his hands holding her, reassuring
her that he was indeed real. The dragon on her hip lurched and
slithered toward him, seemingly happier to see him that she was.
Why was he there? Had he been hit with a Portkey as well? Were
Ron and Harry facing a similar fate?
She took it from him greedily and then wrenched her mouth away
when she realised this was probably going to mean his death as
well.
It was selfish of her, but she was too far gone to care. She had
skipped past panic.
Draco.
Draco was still inspecting one side of the cage. She wrapped her
arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his beautiful,
dark wings, as if that alone would help ease the terror of dying.
His very first spell had been cast on Lucius' wand. He remembered
the day very well. Lucius had smiled a rare, genuine smile of
pleasure.
They were going to die if he didn't work out how to break the seal on
the cage very quickly. He had seen magic like this before. The
dungeons they had come from had been imbued with similar spells.
If the cage was charmed to prevent magic from the inside, perhaps it
was not impervious to magic from the outside .
The key, however, was not to panic by the fact that they were
drowning.
Draco shoved his hand out between the bars and turned the wand
back to face the cage. The spell he cast did not work.
Damn it! Perhaps he had to try from further out still, but he didn't
have any more arm left to push through the bars. Or maybe he was
just plain wrong. Yes, that was entirely possible.
Don't.
Panic.
But he revelled in the pain because it told him he was still alive.
He prayed, not knowing who he was praying too or what exactly for,
but he figured God knew complete desperation when He heard it.
When his hand was as far away from the cage as was possible, he
turned the wand back towards the bars, made sure he was out of the
way of the spell trajectory and then blasted the bars.
With a great deal of heated, bubbling water, the bars popped free of
their moorings. One side of the cage collapsed. From beneath them,
the body of the man managed to free itself and float upwards.
She was… no .
The absence of Fida Mia was death already. The hurt was so deep
and all-consuming that his father's wand threatened to slip from his
fingers.
Too late.
He would stay down there with her then. It was alright. Nothing else
seemed preferable than staying with Hermione.
A subtle warmth caressed his face then. It felt like his mother's
touch. Wherever they were now, the sun was also rising. The light
cut through the gloom of the water like sunshine piercing through a
tired rain cloud. Suddenly, everything was bathed in glittering
brilliance. It was like being inside a prism.
Draco tilted his head up and squinted at the light. The light was up.
The light was safety, just like his mother had told him, in his pain-
hazed dream. The darkness was not infinite.
His fist tightened over his father's wand. It was strange to think that
both his parents were there with him at that moment.
The blazing, golden sun rose steadily over the water. Draco held
Hermione tightly, cradled Lucius' wand between them and focussed
his entire being on a single spell and the image of a shoreline.
But he had. And they arrived as two separate wholes with all their
extremities intact. Thank Merlin for small mercies.
He was not Harry. He was not designed for pulling off miracles. No,
not built for that at all. And Draco's strength was failing him. He could
barely see straight.
The charm was doing what it was supposed to do, but it wasn't
working .
How long had they been under? It couldn't have been more than
three minutes? Longer for Hermione, obviously.
Panting, water dripping down onto her face from his wet hair, Draco
straddled her, almost sitting on her thighs and began pushing down
rhythmically on her chest. But his dislocated shoulder rendered his
left arm utterly useless. " Nooo… " he moaned. He tilted her head
back, cupped her chin with his good hand and blew air into her
lungs. "Don't leave me, Hermione. You can't leave me," he pleaded,
pushing down on her chest with his right hands.
Draco swayed, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell heavily
to his side beside her, in the foetal position.
He needed help from Hogwarts. The problem was that Hogwarts did
not know they were there.
The dead man in the watery grave had somehow been in possession
of Lucius' Ministry-tinkered wand when he had died. Draco was
willing to bet that the man was the missing Auror, Donald Bligh.
From experience, only one spell tended to send the right kind of
people running straight toward it.
This would be the first and the last time he was going to cast the
Dark Mark, and it was going to be for a good deed. The irony of it
was almost enough to make him smile.
If Hermione survived the next sunrise, Draco was going to kiss Mad
Eye Moody's club foot the next time he saw him.
He took his young wife's cold hand in his own, raised his uninjured
arm above him and cast the spell Voldemort seemed to think he was
born to use. It took something out of him to say it.
He felt the dark rush of less-than benign magical power surge from
his core and up his arm, into the wand. It sapped what little energy
he had left.
"Morsmorde."
The last thing he recalled seeing was the Dark Mark looming in the
bright, blue sky, just before it turned into the Malfoy Dragon.
Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-eight
The first was that he was dressed in blue and white-striped pyjamas,
which probably meant that he was at St Mungos.
Dumbledore popped the candy out of his mouth and beamed at him
so widely his cloudy blue eyes nearly disappeared behind a sea of
soft wrinkles.
"Welcome back. I hope you don't mind that I've been helping myself
to your collection of Get Well Gifts." The Headmaster inclined his
head to the right.
From under his long fringe, Draco turned to look at the tiny bedside
table almost hidden under brightly coloured boxes of candy and
other wrapped confections.
He blinked at this unfamiliar sight. The only candy he ever received
was normally from his mother and it was usually the kind of rich, dark
chocolate you would only ever eat in small quantities. Not the type of
stuff you'd shove fistfuls of into your mouth.
Draco willed up some saliva to assist the questioning and sat back
against the headboard. He stared down at his blue and white torso.
"She's alright, isn't she?" Draco asked. There was no fear in his
voice.
Not that such things really mattered any more, Draco supposed. It
was quite a thing really, to have your whole universe turned upside
down practically overnight. Priorities were troublesome, he decided.
Most especially when they changed.
" Two nights!" Draco sputtered. "I've been asleep for that long?"
The old man was right. Draco didn't remember. His shoulder felt
excellent though. Whatever they had done to it was worth the lapsed
memory.
"Miss Parkinson and her parents are still being interviewed by the
DMLA. Misters Potter and Weasley are under the formidable charge
of an irate Molly Weasley. Nymphadora Tonks was kept overnight for
observation and released early yesterday. As for Alastor Moody's
team, scratches, bruises and I believe one young Auror is nursing a
sore head, but all are otherwise and thankfully fine."
There was one person missing from the run down. Even if that
person hadn't gone on the rescue mission.
"He did it to save me! And Hermione! Not to mention Tonks. None of
us would have come out of there alive if it hadn't been for my father!"
"I thought that was what us Malfoys are to you lately, tools or
weapons," Draco said bitterly.
Draco's eyes narrowed. "A spy is a tool, isn't he?" Draco felt
petulant. He hated feeling petulant. He knew the spying assignment
hadn't been Dumbledore's idea.
"Powerful motivator though, isn't it?" the Headmaster asked, with the
air of someone trying to prod someone else into an epiphany.
"The portkey that Blaise used. Where does it take you?" Draco
asked.
"Mr. Zabini wouldn't have known where the portal would take you. I
suspect it is Voldemort's ironic little secret to have his execution
mechanism so close to Hogwarts. As you know, portkeys may only
operate within a certain distance and there are not many magical
bodies of water large enough to conceal such a device within its
depths. The Merpeople are assisting in dismantling the thing as we
speak. Though it should be pointed out that you have already done
most of this work for us."
Draco recalled the dead wizard in the cage. "There was a man in the
cage. He had my father's wand. The one the Ministry experimented
on with that tagging spell."
"Young Nymphadora has a knack for being at the wrong place at the
right time," Dumbledore said, by way of confirmation.
There was only one thing left to ask, Draco supposed. It would have
seemed odd and just a tad suspicious not to. "Any word on Goyle?"
he added, hoping it sounded like an afterthought.
Draco was instantly annoyed. Damn the man for being cagey.
Dumbledore hopped off the bed and patted Draco on the shoulder.
"Rest now. The healers tell me that the draught they gave you will
wear off in about two hours or so. Until then, bed rest. You will have
no shortage of visitors later."
Visitors?
"Sir?" Draco hated that his voice sounded so young at that moment.
The gold embroidery in his rich robes seemed to gleam in the low
light at the doorway. "Yes, Draco?"
"I don't want to see her. Could you please make sure… no one
visits?"
The old wizard looked saddened but unsurprised by this. "As you
wish."
Chapter End Notes:
I can tell you I got flamed something fierce for ending the story on
this depressing note. And for the 13-part epilogue to follow. I
contemplated posting the epilogue here as a sequel on its own, but I
feel it's hardly a stand-alone story. It's the culmination of DB and
therefore, needs to be posted as part of the original story. What I'll do
instead is post the epilogue as 13 additional chapters, bringing the
grand total to 61 . Thanks very much for reading so far.
Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
Rosie put down her quill and stared up at the man who was asking to
see Harry Potter. She was two weeks into the job at the Atrium Front
Desk. To be honest, there wasn't much to do on the weekends,
which was why she was trying her hand at the word jumble in the
Sunday Prophet.
Atrium Front Desk duties basically meant that Rosie dealt with the
public. The Wizard in the street, so to speak.
Any old Joe Blow could not just walk into the Ministry proper. You
could try, but you wouldn't get much further than Rosie and the
guards that patrolled the Atrium.
He had dialled in, just as everyone else did, via the red telephone
box, giving the name, 'George Merrybones'. But he was not wearing
the silver visitors' badge that had been assigned to him.
For starters, he looked like he had just trudged through half the
Sahara (and brought most of it back with him). He was covered from
head to toe in about an inch of dust.
The pale yellow, fine kind that got everywhere and into everything.
She thought he might be blond, but she couldn't be sure. His long
hair was extremely matted and mud caked in some places.
Goodness, was that a whip he was carrying at his hip? She couldn't
see his wand and for some reason, this just made her more nervous.
His face was powdered with dust, such that there were tiny, pale
creases at the corners of his eyes where he probably squinted from
the sun and the dust hadn't had a chance to get in. God knew how
old he was. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
It was his eyes, however, that made Rosie hit the panic button under
the counter, even though she wasn't even in a real panic yet. She
remembered her training and knew that it was always best to be safe
and embarrassed, rather than sorry and Hexed.
Yes alright, it was Sunday, but where the hell was security? She had
hit the button two minutes ago.
He spoke again, the stranger did. It didn't sound like the voice of a
crazy person. It sounded like the voice of an extremely annoyed
person, actually.
"Yes," said the man, staring at her as if she was slow. "I'd like to see
Harry Potter."
It seemed a pointless question to ask, but she was stalling now. "And
do you have an appointment?"
And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the atrium.
Spencer, the rotund Head Weekend Guard finally appeared, not in
any hurry.
"Who the buggery was that?" he asked. There was quite a bit of
sand on the polished floor and Spencer was staring at it quizzically.
Spencer waved off the rest of the guards that were taking their time
in approaching the front desk. "False alarm boys," he told them, in a
chuckling, slightly condescending manner that irritated Rosie. "She's
only new!"
"I doubt it. Seemed almost put off by the prospect, actually."
Both Rosie and Spencer pondered this fact, for surely there wasn't a
man, woman or child in Wizarding Britain who wasn't in respectful
awe of Harry Potter.
"Well then, sing out if you need us," Spencer winked and waddled off
to the guards' room, ostensibly to go back to his game of something
or other with the other bored Sunday guards.
The man was back, but he wasn't alone. Beside him, was the stiff,
hovering form of a… oh Merlin, he had said something about a
delivery. He unwrapped the package.
Thus did Rosie Pinkerton find herself face to face with the frozen,
bobbing form of Bellatrix Lestrange.
Spencer and the other guards came just a bit quicker this time.
It took a few minutes to actually register what it was that a frantic and
pale Zacharias Smith was telling him. Smith, who looked about as
sleep deprived as Harry felt, had been catching up on his
Wizengamot Administration paperwork when frantic guards had
nearly kicked down his door to tell him what had just occurred in the
Atrium.
Zacharias was, on that particular Sunday, the most senior official at
the Ministry. It fell to him to alert Harry.
"Get Moody," Harry ordered, toppling both sandwich and plate to the
floor in his haste to get to the fireplace.
He made a quick call to Ron, who after accusing Harry of 'not being
funny' no less than three times, of course demanded to know if they
were going to tell Hermione.
"Not just yet," said Harry. He pulled on a coat and scarf and Flooed
directly to the Ministry.
All began speaking at once, but Harry waved them off, promising to
return after the most urgent business had been concluded. He took
the lifts to the second floor where his office was located. Additional
security personnel were standing guard outside the office.
Zacharias and Malfoy were standing on the rug beside Harry's filing
cabinet; the former staring at the latter as if he was a toxic, explosive
cream pie about to go off at any second.
Harry knew that voice very well. It was deeper now, more…
measured. The whine was gone. It was Malfoy, alright. Harry was
floored.
Zacharias cleared his throat. "Right then. I'll leave you to it. I'm sure
Moody will need my assistance. Call me if you need me, Harry."
Harry didn't take his eyes off Draco and spoke only when Zacharias'
footsteps could no longer be heard in the corridor outside.
One corner of Draco's mouth lifted. "Not for lack of others trying,
believe me."
" Where the hell have you been ?!" Harry hadn't intended this to
come out as a shout. As it was, the force of the question just about
rattled the windows.
"That is a long and complicated story and one I'd rather not have to
go into whilst I have about a kilo of sand in my pants," Draco replied
calmly. And then, in a cheerful tone of voice, "Do you have anything
to eat?"
Harry made a quick trip to the staff lounge, mentally cursing whoever
it was who was last rostered to replenish the food cupboards. It was
probably him. The women on Level Two were always on his case for
eating the cupboards dry. There was hardly anything there.
Outside, Harry nearly collided with Alastor Moody who was storming
down the corridor in the direction of Harry's office. A breathless
Zacharias Smith was jogging behind him.
Moody, who could never ever have been labelled as spry, was even
less so. He was stooped and walked with a long, limping gait. Some
of the grizzle had left him, leaving an old man who was less sturdy
than knobbly.
"Is it true? The boy brought her in?" Moody wheezed. He paused to
lean against the wall, mopping at his face with a Hagrid-sized hanky.
Boy? Malfoy was twenty-three, but then anyone under forty was 'boy'
to Moody.
"One hell of a personal mission, don't you think? He spent four years
on it."
"Yeah."
"Don't let your guard down. I know he's a pretty son of a bitch."
Harry gave the old, ex-Auror a bland look. "Oh, piss off!"
Moody chuckled. However it had come about, they now had Bellatrix
Lestrange in custody. It was an historic day and Moody's cautious
enthusiasm could not be disguised. This was a very big deal.
"Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have a gander at Lestrange. For
these old eyes, seeing is still believing," said Moody. His magical eye
did a bit of an excited jig.
Harry turned to Zacharias after Moody had hobbled off. "Zach, since
we're in lockdown at the moment, can you do me a favour? Can you
gather everyone who knows and tell them not to let this leave the
Ministry for the time being?"
Harry shut the door behind him, locked it and then handed Draco the
food and drink.
The simple and sincere thank you startled Harry. There were no
insinuations or layers in the phrase.
Harry waited a minute or so before speaking. "So you think you can
waltz back in here with Bellatrix Lestrange in tow and all would be
forgiven?"
Draco looked up. He used the back of his hand to wipe crumbs from
the corner of his mouth. There seemed to be more sand than crumbs
at any rate. "Yes, Potter. I thought it a reasonable assumption," he
said, after he had swallowed his mouthful of cake.
"Why?" Draco repeated, his eyes flashing old malice. "I should think
it obvious. My bitch aunt plotted the death of my mother and very
nearly succeeded in causing my own demise. Among many other
dastardly things."
Whatever he had been through, there was still enough of the same
cocky, arrogant git under all that grit and grime to reassure Harry that
in many ways, they were still on familiar ground.
Harry wanted to make him say it, though. He would hear it from
Malfoy's own mouth before he decided whether or not he was going
to let the bastard anywhere near Hermione again.
"Fine. Besides avenging the death of your mother, why else are you
here?"
Harry was incredulous. "Oh yes. We received your… what was it?
Three postcards in that first year you took off. And then nothing after.
Like I said, we thought you fell off the edge of the world."
Draco stopped eating. "I've seen the edge of the world," he said,
very quietly. The tone of his voice made the hairs on the back of
Harry's neck stand on end. But then the coolness was back just as
quickly. "Wouldn't recommend it. Rains three-quarters of the day."
Presently, Draco sat back in the chair and regarded Harry with a
challenging expression.
Outside, the world was trying to drown itself. It was raining fat, hard
summer rain that fell straight down to the ground in the breezeless
air.
The woman that stared back at her from the mirror didn't look
particularly thrilled by the birthday announcement. But then it was
seven in the morning and Hermione had never been very functional
before nine and at least one cup of tea.
Perhaps moving into Ginny's London flat would have been the wiser
decision. A cottage was always going to require more maintenance
than an apartment. In the end, it was Crookshanks who settled it. He
was getting on in years and could no longer sprint up a flight of steps
with his usual agility.
Ginny's flat was at the top of four flights of steps, which was
challenging at the best of times. And so the small, two-bedroom,
renovated Edwardian cottage had been too charming to pass up. In
the warmer months, the catnip and cat grass grew rampant along the
sun-faded brick path in the backyard and this was heaven for an
elderly cat who still fancied himself a romp every now and then.
It had been squeaky clean, but very Spartan when Hermione had
signed the lease. She had needed to purchase a larger bed, a fridge
and a gas stove. Harry lamented the lack of a television when he
came to visit, but Hermione assured she had always been able to do
without. One room was to sleep in, the other was a makeshift office
and library, only her collection of books had outgrown the shelves
her mother had contributed.
They neatly lined one wall; great teetering piles that Ron joked were
in danger of doing mortal harm to Hermione or Crookshanks should
they ever topple on top of either of them.
Her landlady was a kindly widowed Muggle woman who had insisted
on donating new curtains and the warm, colourful rug in the small
lounge area. She only lived down the road and came by for tea and
gossip after Church almost every other Sunday. The nearby village
was Muggle, as was the cottage, but it hadn't been difficult to register
and then hook up the two fireplaces to the Floo Network.
Ginny continued to nag that Lavender Brown was the world's most
unreliable housemate and if Hermione ever changed her mind about
living the life of a recluse…
Hermione had pondered over her reasons for wanting to live alone,
and quietly attributed it to the fact that she was an only child who
enjoyed her own space. And after attending boarding school for
seven years, a bit of privacy was welcomed.
There was truth to that, anyway. She would hang on to that reason.
The staring face in the mirror was pink cheeked from the hot shower.
Short, curly, wet hair framing a delicate, heart shaped face that was
perhaps a little leaner than it had once been. Dark ringlets clung to
her hairline and the nape of her neck. The hairstyle made her eyes
appear even larger, and she never really noticed how much of a tilt
there was to them until after the hair cut.
Eager for a change, Hermione had shorn off her heavy, shoulder-
length hair more than a year ago during an unusually hot summer.
She hadn't looked back since. Short hair wasn't really low
maintenance, she discovered, as it took quite a bit of grooming in the
mornings to tame the mass into an acceptable style.
But she rather thought the cap of curls suited her better. And she
certainly did not miss the weight on her scalp.
The bell at the front door sounded just as Hermione finished rinsing
out her mouth. She could only just hear it over the rain. It was a bit
early for visitors. Hermione frowned as she pulled on a dressing
gown over her pyjamas and socks and went to see who it was.
Ron was standing on her front step, holding a sodden brown paper
bag. He looked extremely grave and extremely wet.
"Yeah," he sniffed, shaking himself off like a wet dog. It was then that
Hermione saw the broom he had strapped on to his back.
Crookshanks came to the door to see who the visitor was. There had
never been any love lost between Ron and the cat. They eyed each
other beadily before a disinterested Crookshanks slinked back to the
comfort of Hermione's yet unmade bed.
Hermione stood aside. "Come in, I was just about to make up a pot a
tea."
He had told her as she fussed over making them breakfast, even
though he insisted that his mother had already fed him up to his
eyeballs. Still, for the sake of having something to do while he
relayed the dreaded information, he managed to squeeze in two
slices of toast with marmalade and shared the segmented grapefruit
that Hermione had laid out.
The rain continued to pound over the slate shingle roof, a fitting,
tense background noise, Ron thought.
They were seated at the table in her small kitchen and the only
outward reaction she was showing to the news was the fact that
she'd been stirring her tea for the past five minutes. Half of it had left
the cup and sloshed onto the saucer. She didn't seem to notice.
Because Harry had his hands tied and Ginny was a bloody chicken,
was why. "Did you hear what-"
"I heard you very clearly, thank you," Hermione interrupted. She took
a distracted sip from her tea cup. Her eyes were trained on the table
top.
Ron shifted in his chair. The only part of him that seemed to be dry
was the seat of pants. His sodden shoes and socks were hovering
over the laundry sink.
"That's just it. You never believed he died. No matter what Harry or I
said, remember? Turns out you were right."
Hermione's jaw tensed. She tucked one of her short, springy curls
behind her ear. "As far as Malfoy is concerned, I don't care, Ron. I
really don't. He was lost to me a very long time ago. I've moved on."
"Of course you have," he said, probably too placatingly. "You're only
human, though. It's alright to admit that this is something of a big
deal, Hermione."
Ron was not prepared for the fury in Hermione's expression. Her
brown eyes bored into him as she jabbed her spoon in his direction.
"There is nothing between us! It was the beginning of the end the
day I died in the Lake. The Fida Mia enchantment was dissolved and
then he left . He left! End of story. Adventure story, love story,
tragedy. Mistake. Whatever you want to call it, his returning means
nothing other than a possible, swifter solution to the war!"
Ron said nothing, though he carefully got out of his seat and fetched
a tea-towel from the sink. He handed this to Hermione.
Who then dabbed at the tea she had spilled across the table. "Thank
you," she said, primly. "Having Bellatrix is a real score. Moody must
be over the moon."
"He is," Ron stated, frowning.
Ron sighed. He was crap at deep and meaningfuls. "I know you've
moved on. But I also know you . You don't just… forget."
She replaced her tea cup in its saucer with too much force. "Watch
me," she said icily. "Trust me. I'm fine, Ron. All I feel towards Malfoy
right now is pity."
"I'm not a teenager anymore. These are not romantic times. I'm not
about to run to him to rekindle wasted, dead passions."
Hermione pretended not to hear him. "If it can be avoided, I'd prefer
not to see him."
Ron glanced up. That had been exactly his suggestion too. "Now
see, that might be a bit difficult…"
"Why?" she asked, frowning. "My work has nothing to do with yours
or Harry's. We hardly cross paths at the Ministry as is."
Ron had rehearsed this part, at least. "As you know, Malfoy Manor's
been under Pansy Parkinson's stewardship. It was all Ministry
arranged. By law, they can't declare Malfoy well and truly deceased
until he's missing for at least seven years. In the event of a missing
heir, the estate is to be run by a caretaker. Parkinson put in a bid for
a contract to maintain the place and it was accepted. Malfoy said he
didn't want Parkinson to be out of a job in a hurry so he said he'd like
for her contract there to continue for the time being. Meanwhile
Moody doesn't want Malfoy out of his sight and so…"
"Yes."
She stood up. "I've heard enough. I'm going to be late for work."
Ron left via Floo, looking very concerned and not a little bit guilty.
Hermione stiffly thanked him for the birthday wishes, the cinnamon
buns and saw him off with a peck on the cheek and a sincere
promise to visit a lonely Molly at the Burrow soon.
She then sat on the edge of her bed and stared down at her folded
hands.
In the early days, she'd use this phantom sensation to see if she
could locate Draco, but feeling and using were two different things. It
was always like trying to catch smoke.
Fida Mia had been extinguished when life had fleetingly left her
body.
There was no longer a bond between them and Hermione had long
ago concluded, with some bitterness, that the absence of the spell
had been all Draco needed to come to his former senses and leave.
But then the postcards came in that first year he was missing, a sad
reminder of the promise she had forced on him the day they had met
by the Quidditch shed.
" I know you're off to do whatever you think you have to do, but a
mailing address would be nice…"
He sighed.
"Granger, I-"
" Hell, I'd settle for a postcard every month. I'm not fussy."
He had tried to tell her, hadn't he? She had felt quite the fool to know
that wherever he was, he was there by choice . He had left her by
choice. That had hurt a great deal, even though she often thought
she understood why he had done it.
There were sudden spots of warmth on her bare thigh. She glanced
down and noticed the splatter of tears in her lap where her dressing
gown had parted.
Hermione brought her fingers to her face and was startled when they
came away wet. No, she was not crying.
She would not cry. Not anymore. There was nothing to cry about,
really. Two admittedly eventful weeks in her life when she was only
eighteen were hardly worth getting upset over, all over again.
Being adamant counted for nothing, in the end. The tears fell
anyway. She was older now and more seasoned, but she was still
the same Hermione who got wistful over particularly pretty sunsets,
ecstatic over the birth of the latest Weasley grandchild and accused
of being a busy-body every time she inquired over the state of Harry
and Ginny's ongoing, turbulent love affair.
After thinking deeply for a minute, she walked to her closet and
retrieved a small, hinged wooden box that was buried under shoes
she hardly ever wore, suitcases and a pair of rollerblades her father
had given her for her sixteenth birthday.
Her work with the Department of Mysteries was concerning the
power of symbols. The research and its potential implications was
very promising indeed.
And so she knew what she had to do and really, she had given
herself enough excuses to not do it.
The fire in the living room was still lit, in anticipation for Hermione's
Floo trip to work. She walked up to it and tossed the entire box plus
contents into the flames.
After that, she set about getting dressed and packing her lunch for
the day.
It had started with rain, the kind that threatened to concuss if you
were daft enough to venture outside without an umbrella. Muggle
weatherpersons had predicted hail as well, but that had yet to
eventuate.
Wind soon followed the rain. It had obviously found a breach in the
aging roofing and was currently playing tag through the house's
corridors.
Potter was probably used to the noise. It wasn't that the place was
uncomfortable. Sirius Black's old residence was certainly hospitable,
in a creepy, derelict sort of way. Draco was accustomed to living
amidst the creepy and oftentimes macabre, what with being raised at
Malfoy Manor.
It was just that it'd been some time since he'd had slept in a bed.
With a mattress.
And a blanket he didn't have to share with bugs. And sand . Merlin,
he would never forget living with all that sand…
As it was, the soft mattress was doing its best to swallow him up and
Draco had had enough after the fourth hour of hopelessly tossing
and turning and once, flailing.
He sat up in bed, cast Lumos as he flicked open his battered, travel-
worn silver pocket watch to scowl at it. Habit made him wear it to
bed, even though thieving bandits who robbed you while you slept
probably wasn't a likely occurrence at Harry's home.
Draco slept with the room door ajar. He attributed this to the fact that
he had grown so used to sleeping outdoors that the thought of being
confined by four walls and a ceiling that was not made of stars had
become just a little unpleasant.
Soft candlelight from outside cleaved into the dark room at a right
angle to the wall. It was three am on a Tuesday morning.
Bugger this, he thought, as he tossed off the covers and strode out
of the bedroom. It was only when he reached the landing did he
remember to walk back to the room to put on some clothes.
For all of ten seconds, Ginny briefly entertained the notion of waking
Harry up for a bit of an early morning snuggle, but the poor man was
clearly exhausted and she didn't have the heart. Besides, she was
feeling a little peckish after a too-early dinner.
As she was already wide awake, she decided to compound the
situation by venturing downstairs for a hot drink and whatever else
she could muster up from the biscuit tin in the pantry. Maybe some
drinking chocolate. And a cookie.
After that, she'd put her feet up in the lounge room and read
yesterday's paper.
She was so startled by his appearance that she dropped the mug.
Some of the hot liquid sloshed over her toes. The curses that
followed were markedly louder than the earlier stirring.
Ginny remained convinced, as she had been many years ago, that
no jury in the world could possible convict her for bludgeoning Draco
Malfoy to death with the nearest, large, blunt object. In this case, that
happened to be an antique, iron meat grinder, which thankfully for
Draco, was bolted to the kitchen counter.
The smirk vanished. She wondered if it was just the memories doing
that to him. "That time at school when I sat down at Gryffindor table
to inform Potter about the friendly Quidditch match against the
Aurors. We had pancakes that morning. You were making yourself
coffee. It's just a detail."
"Right," said Ginny, who wished Harry made himself aware of such
'details'.
There was a short silence, during which Ginny tried to pinpoint what
it was that seemed so different about Malfoy.
Of course he was older. They all were. There was his general
appearance, which had been somewhat tamed since Harry had
forced him at wand-point to take a shower at the Ministry before he
brought him home.
And Merlin knew that Draco Malfoy turning on you was not
something you soon forgot.
There was none of this now. There was a deep, but definitely calm
ocean behind those familiar grey eyes.
Funny how he was able to ask her that as if she was the interloper at
Grimmauld Place.
Did he really need to ask? She was wearing a dressing gown, for
Merlin's sake. It seemed obvious enough. It was all Molly Weasley's
fault for making Ginny particularly sensitive about the sleeping
arrangements she and Harry shared whenever Ginny visited
Grimmauld Place.
Malfoy gave her a slow smile. "Ah, Crookshanks. Is that old fur ball
still alive?"
"Oh, no," Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not getting any
more details out of me. You're on your own."
Malfoy remained unfazed. "Then let her be the one to tell me that in
person."
"Oh come off it!" Ginny really wanted to see him angry. It was easier
to be cross at him in return if he was being deliberately obtuse. "We
both know that you don't really have to be here. Harry can't hold you
and he knows that. You could walk right out of this house if you
wanted, so why pretend we're making you?"
"Diplomacy has its merits," he replied. "Even the serial rule-breaker
snoring upstairs has managed to learn that. Given the circumstances
of my return, I think it's best to behave myself for the time being,
don't you think?"
Love wasn't a game, she wanted to tell him. Neither was the war.
There was so much more than Hermione's future happiness at
stake. If he was back for a reason, the solider in her hoped it had
more to do with, than just Hermione.
"We're so very close. To ending all this for good, you know," she said
softly.
"Well then," Malfoy leaned forward ever so slightly in his chair. His
legs were crossed and Ginny only then noticed that he was barefoot.
"At this point, Malfoy, I think you're better off wooing Voldemort than
you are Hermione. Besides, Harry won't let you anywhere near her
until he can confirm every inch of your story. And pardon my
language, but it's one fucked up tale of obsession and revenge."
"Speccy Git is the reason why you're not spending that time in an
interrogation cell!"
"I am not following Potter around like some besotted fan, for six
weeks," he hissed.
Ginny glared back. "I have it on good authority that Harry wouldn't
care for that either!"
He gave her a look that chilled her bones. "I've brought you Bellatrix
Lestrange. You know what I want in return," he said, through gritted
teeth.
"Yes, but until you're what Hermione wants, you can stew in the
mess that you left. I know why you're back, Malfoy, but how are you
back?"
Ginny gave him a look that was almost admiring. His honesty
surprised her. As did that other signature trait of his. "Your arrogance
is staggering."
He wasn't being romantic about the situation. Ginny didn't doubt that
he could if he wanted to. That old cunning was still there. Rather, he
was just sure . Sure of where his place was now and what he
wanted. He had come back to see if Hermione could be just as sure.
Actually, no . She didn't wish that at all. Draco Malfoy was a whole
other type of complicated no female should ever have to put up with.
No, she would take her heroes steadfast and dependable, if a little
unsure about matters of the heart.
Of all the people in the world she could have fallen for, trust Malfoy
to be the one to catch Hermione's discerning fancy. The woman
thrived on complicated.
The turn in conversation was decisive. Ginny was actually glad for it.
She scowled at him. The darkness hid most of her blush. He was
once again dangling her sore point in front of her. "Oh, piss off. I'm
twenty-two."
Ginny sighed. There was no way she was going back to sleep now.
Malfoy looked just as awake. She carried her now empty coffee cup
back to the kitchen and wasn't surprised when Draco followed her.
Idly, Ginny wondered how much solitude he had had to endure in the
time he'd been away. There had been hardships, she could see that.
"How about I give you a haircut? I'm a fair hand with a scissors and
no offence, but you have no idea how much you look like your, um,
father right now."
The point was that this was not necessarily a good thing if one
wanted to convince the Ministry of one's good intentions.
"It was a little unsettling seeing you appear in the kitchen just now,"
said Ginny, by way of reply.
"Here we go, then," said Ginny. She kicked out a chair for him.
"Don't worry. How I act around you with sharp, pointy objects will
depend largely on how Hermione reacts when she finally sees you
again. Until then, I'm neutral," she assured, smiling sweetly. The
scissors gleamed in the moonlight.
Ginny had already gathered his thankfully clean hair into a ponytail.
She didn't bother asking him if he preferred one style to another. She
got the impression he didn't really care, so she ended up giving him
the Weasley standard, which consisted of trying to cut the hair as
evenly as possible without leaving any bald patches.
Zacharias Smith was the exception to the revelry, but only because
his job as Courtroom Scribe specifically entailed paying attention and
writing everything down. Being mentally present was pretty much
written into his job description. They had experimented with a
Dictoquill in the previous year, but that hadn't gone down too well,
what with the Quill's penchant for over-description resulting in some
very colourful sentencing.
There had been a mass retirement of senior Ministry officials the day
after Bellatrix had been taken into custody. Those who had remained
to serve out their contracts were in a decidedly celebratory mood, or
rather post-celebratory. If the current mood of the Ministry could be
colour-coded, it would be a warm and barmy yellow, having been a
tense and brittle red for a number of years.
There was a new, hopeful breeze blowing through the ministry and it
was blowing right up the Dark Lord's skirts.
Draco made a noncommittal sound and turned the page on the Daily
Prophet he was reading. He had made a point of catching up on
current events since his return.
"I suppose it was too much to ask that you could have given them
the abridged version?"
"That is the abridged version," Draco replied, still not looking up.
A distracted Harry had wandered into the dining room, once again
leafing through Draco's hundred and seventy-five page statement as
if the secrets to a restful sleep lay within the pages.
It was now six weeks since his return and the Ministry Investigators
had just turned in their report on whether Draco's lengthy account
was fact or fiction.
The statement contained more than a few eye-brow raising
incidents. Harry was surprised that some of Draco's more hellish
experiences had not left an indelible mark on the man. Or perhaps it
did, but hard earned experience just meant that Draco was able to
hide it better. Merlin knew he had never been an open book to begin
with. Hermione had certainly found him to be interesting reading.
Envy that Draco had been able to do what Harry could not bring
himself to do - to leave those he loved behind and to embark on his
own mission where the only life risked would be his own. It was a
constant, insidious temptation.
Harry knew all about the destructive need for revenge and was all
too aware that despite the pain it caused, the greater good required
that he stay where he was. Lately however, the Greater Good was
starting to look a little pudgy and complacent.
Just because Voldemort seemed to be lying low did not mean it was
alright for their community to wipe its collective brow and resume life
as if nothing untoward had ever happened. That had been their
problem the last time Voldemort had vanished.
But that was the difference between the two of them wasn't it? Draco
did what he wanted and Harry did what everyone else wanted. Harry
would have applauded the other man's courage but for the fact that
Draco's actions had directly resulted in Hermione's broken heart.
"Just Malfoy this time," Zacharias said, looking a bit warily in Harry's
direction. "They're about to make their decision."
Harry sat back down, wordlessly taking the newspaper that Draco
had neatly folded and handed to him.
Draco didn't care too much for his former Headmaster's officious
tone of voice, which seemed so out of character for Dumbledore, but
he supposed the man had a role to fulfil on the Committee.
Draco's jaw tensed somewhat, but the look in his eyes was nothing if
not cool. "Nothing builds character like a good bout of starvation," he
said, lightly.
Horatio Coon, seated in the highest level of Inquisitors, made an
impatient sound. He had been surprisingly silent for the most part.
"This is no laughing matter!" he warned.
Draco was amused to note that the recently promoted Coon was no
longer bald, instead opting for a limp looking toupee in a brassy
blond. Really, the man could afford better. The toupee clashed rather
badly with the standard issue, purple Winzengamot headwear.
This, Draco guessed, was why they had decided to call an Inquiry
instead of merely clearing him on the basis of their own
investigations. Ginny Weasley had been correct. In the six weeks
since his return, Draco suspected he would most likely have been
more forcefully interrogated had it not been for Potter.
"I do not."
"You have shielded yourself from Ministry eyes for five years and in
all that time you expect us to believe that you made no attempt to
contact your father who also happens to be conveniently missing?"
Coon demanded.
Draco nodded sympathetically. "I feel the same way about your hair,
Mister Coon."
Zacharias Smith hastily disguised his laugh as a sudden,
unexpected coughing fit, but the noise was already echoing through
the large chamber. To his credit as a scribe, his quill never stopped.
Ah, that explained why Coon had such a bee in his bonnet only now.
"After the chief investigator's report submitted this week and after
intense deliberation, it is the opinion of this Inquisitorial Committee
that you are herewith cleared of all suspicion regarding the escape of
your father Lucius Malfoy and the disappearance of Gregory Goyle."
"Thank you," said Hermione, having to shout a little over the wind.
"I've been working hard at it."
Ginny sighed, but only because Hermione wouldn't have heard it.
They were standing outside the main gates to Azkaban prison,
having walked from the security Floopoint, which itself was in danger
of being blown away.
Several dark shingles from the tiny guardhouse came off, twirling
about in the wind like panicked crows caught in a whirlwind. It was
just as well that she had chosen to wear trousers and a thick coat
that morning instead of her more usual business robes. The
lightweight robes wouldn't have fared well in the harsh North Eastern
coastal gale.
The young guard who escorted them was now turning a large key at
the wide doors. His free hand was busy keeping his hat on his head.
She regretted not bringing along a thicker scarf. The one she had on
was very presentable, but something from Molly Weasley's
bottomless knitting cupboard would have withstood the cold much
better. The wind continued to howl outside, sounding fittingly forlorn.
"Much better, thank you for asking." The guard turned to Ginny,
looking slightly less welcoming now. "Would you please sign in?" he
pointed to a large, dog-eared register that was hovering in a corner.
A jittery looking quill was tethered to the book, occasionally trying to
make a break for it. Ginny walked over to sign the register and was
in turn given a yellow visitor's pass to wear.
"Still not warming up to me, I see," Ginny remarked, after Horace left
to resume his post.
"They're like that with all lawyers," informed Hermione. "The fact that
you're the Minister's daughter and you happen to be representing
Snape doesn't help matters, of course."
The two women made their way to the lifts. Hermione pressed the
button and a loud metallic groaning noise started.
"The fact that I'm representing Snape or the fact that I'm
representing him well?"
Ginny's usually full mouth hardened to a thin line. "Hardly, but any
reduction to a life sentence is preferable."
Hermione was in agreement. "I've spoken to your father about it, but
he says he trusts in the process."
"The fact that we caught Zabini only because Snape set Lucius free
doesn't hold much water, unfortunately,"
Ginny said. "There's also the small matter of the Ministry considering
Lucius Malfoy to be a greater evil than Blaise Zabini."
Hermione thought of Lucius as she had last seen him in his study at
Malfoy Manor: imposing, frightening, seemingly unrepentant of his ill
treatment of Draco. "I'm inclined to agree," she said, softly.
It was hard to square that image with the Lucius who had risked his
life to free Draco from the Recruiter's hideout in Wales. It had been
quite the daring rescue when you considered that Lucius was
wanted on both sides of the fray: dead by the Dark, and alive by the
Light
Hermione shrugged. She hit the button again since the lift seemed to
be taking its time. "He'll be back at Malfoy Manor once the
Committee clears him, which will happen soon enough. I'm guessing
he'll be busy getting reacquainted with his home and his money."
"You really believe he's only back to see about the manor and his
inheritance?" Ginny asked, sounded intrigued.
"What about revenge?" Ginny prodded. "Spending all that time and
energy hunting down the person responsible for his mother's death
is hardly a selfish act."
"All I'm saying is I think he might have other concerns other than
ordering new drapes for his house and counting his piles of money.
I'm finding it hard to believe you haven't still got feelings for him."
"That was a long time ago. I was very young," reminded Hermione.
With a frown, she pressed the lift button again, more forcefully this
time.
"I made a mistake. God knows he tried enough times to warn me off.
I didn't take the hint, did I? Why are you so intent on defending him
all of sudden? You certainly weren't singing his praises a few years
back. And does Harry know you two are having late night hair cutting
sessions?" Hermione asked, tucking a short coffee-coloured curl
behind her ear.
"I have never sung Draco Malfoy's praises, to be sure," Ginny replied
coolly. "And I'm not asking you to forgive him, but it's just that you
haven't seen him, Hermione. He's… well I know it sounds clichéd but
he's changed. Suffering changes a person."
"You don't leave the people you love," Hermione said, as they were
halfway down the corridor. "That's about as simple a rule to
understand as you can get. Harry gets it."
The guard nodded, having already been informed about the item.
"You may have twenty minutes with Snape today," she told Ginny.
"I may have as much time with my client as I need, thank you very
much," Ginny retorted, sounding annoyed.
The young woman shook her head. "Twenty minutes, Miss Weasley.
Only he's due to be questioned by the DMLA at ten thirty."
"Last cell on the right, isn't it?" she asked the guard.
Ginny wished her good luck and was quickly off in the opposite
direction, to spend what little time she had with her difficult client that
morning.
"Hello Bellatrix."
The prisoner rose in a fluid motion, from where she had been seated
on her cot. A mere husk of her former self, Bellatrix was skin and
bones and wildly matted, greying hair. Her eyes were a wild, deep,
blistering blue. They looked out of place in her gaunt face. As wasted
as she was now, there was still an echo of great beauty about her.
Grace, even. No denying the Blacks had that quality about them.
"Well, well, well. Potter's little Mudblood has come to see me. To
what do I owe the pleasure?"
For such a frail looking creature, her voice was deep and resonant. It
was a fitting match for her eyes, Hermione thought. She couldn't
recall Bellatrix's voice sounding quite so commanding, but she
supposed the only other time she recalled hearing the woman was
when Bellatrix had been cackling madly at Harry and the others at
the Ministry in their fifth year.
Bellatrix trailed her fingers along the bars of her cell as she observed
her visitor, looking nothing more than coy and curious. The wards
crackled at this contact.
They had given her the standard Azkaban black-striped tunic and
pants to wear. There was no denying the regal way she bore this
attire, as if it was silk and brocade and not rough homespun cotton
covering her skeletal frame.
Bellatrix stared down at the paper for a moment and then lifted
taunting eyes to Hermione. "Couldn't find a real Auror to start my
interrogation? What have you people been doing for two months
now? Or is it three?" Her easy insolence was very reminiscent of
Sirius. She turned to the wall behind her, licking her lips somewhat
distractedly. "Can't see the moon…"
"I'm not here today as an interrogator, but rest assured, they haven't
forgotten about you," Hermione replied, though Bellatrix didn't seem
to want to listen.
"It wasn't an Auror who brought me in, in the end, though, was it?
Your people couldn't do the job. Lucius' boy got me in the end. Fancy
that? I suppose it makes sweet sense…"
Hermione couldn't help it. Of course she had realized she wouldn't
have been able to help it the moment she had been assigned the
task. Scrimgeour was going to be cranky with her for speaking with
the prisoner before the interrogators did their job. The next words out
of her mouth were no surprise to her.
"Cissa was weak. " Bellatrix hissed, spittle gathering at the corners
of her mouth. "She had always been weak. Now, Andromeda was a
pig fucking blood traitor. A whore for Muggles, but at least… at least
our dear, demented Andromeda had the Black fortitude." She started
pacing in her small cell as she ranted. "I would have guessed my
nephew would go the same way as his mother; weak minded, weak
willed. How wrong I was. I suppose there was more of his father in
him than anyone would have guessed. Draco included, I'm sure. The
Malfoys have always been tenacious creatures."
Hermione realized she was staring at a mad woman but she was still
struck with an overwhelming urge to do Bellatrix violence. It would
have been justice, for all the innocent lives she has taken and even
more lives and families ruined, for all the poison she had spread in
her lifetime.
And despite the unfairness of all that the Ministry had done to Draco
five years ago, despite the loss he endured, somehow he had still
believed enough in that process not to exact the ultimate revenge on
Bellatrix. Merlin knew he had had the opportunity to kill her.
But she knew it was probably from the crack that was spreading
along the rock hard casing she had been using to keep her heart in.
It wasn't entirely a bad feeling, but it was certainly a terrifying one.
"Give me your arm or I'll have two large Muggleborn wizards come in
here, strip you bare for no other purpose than because it would
please me to see you demeaned. And then, Bellatrix I'll take my
sweet time making an imprint of your Dark Mark."
It took just a little bit of effort for Draco to leave Grimmauld Place
unnoticed the morning after the Inquiry passed down its findings.
While they had thus far managed to keep Draco's return a secret
within the Ministry, word was well and truly out now.
Draco hadn't arrived with much in the way of luggage. Harry had
taken one look at the woebegone, sand logged, faintly camel urine-
scented cotton sack thing he had brought into the house and ordered
it burned and buried.
The man known as the Boy Who Lived snuck a peek behind the
heavy velvet drapes at the windows of the first floor drawing room of
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place and was immediately blinded by
the brilliant white flash of a dozen eager, camera-wielding reporters.
"They're out early," remarked a still sleepy Harry. "I haven't seen it
like this since I first moved in here."
Unfazed, Draco was pulling on his newly mended boots. "Don't worry
your pretty black head over it, Potter. I'll go out the back way."
"That would work if we had a back way," Harry informed, a little too
cheerfully.
Draco stood and stared at him, "You're telling me this old house
doesn't have a back door?"
"I've been meaning to have one installed," Harry said. "I can't see
why you won't just Floo there?"
Draco didn't want to Floo or Apparate home because one just didn't
'pop' into the ancestral home they hadn't seen in five years. That was
just plain disrespectful. He would walk up to the front door and knock
to enter.
"I said don't worry about it. I'll give them the slip once I'm in the air."
Harry looked amused. "You obviously haven't met the new breed of
Prophet reporters."
"Who is that up the front? Looks like two and a half Colin
Creeveys…"
"No."
Harry didn't press the issue. That had been the standard reply to a
lot of Harry's more personal questions. It bothered Harry that he
couldn't quite say if he and Draco were friends or not. Friends would
be more inclined to probe. More to the point, it bothered Ginny, who
kept goading Harry into wringing some sort of declaration of
camaraderie out of Draco.
Harry loved Ginny dearly, but he thought she was a bit naive to
assume that Draco was the sort to wait to be 'allowed' to pursue
anything, much less Hermione.
What really bothered Harry was that Draco seemed to be living life
on a razor's edge, even after six weeks of being housed, fed, clothed
and having Harry for dull conversation a couple of hours most
evenings.
Harry was inclined to think not. Friends trusted each other. Draco
trusted no one.
Harry guessed that there was only one person on the planet who
would have ready access to Draco's arguably complex inner
workings. The only thing was that said person apparently didn't want
anything to do with Draco at this point in time. Hermione had made
this fact quite clear every time the topic of Draco was brought up in
her presence.
Draco's guard never eased, not even in the relative safety and
privacy of Grimmauld Place. This wasn't intentional on Draco's part,
Harry understood this. Rather, it was most likely the product of living
life on the run for so long. It had to be mentally exhausting, thought
Harry, to never feel like you were safe enough or home enough to
relax for a minute.
He didn't realize he was eyeing Draco rather intently until the latter
drawled at him from the landing.
"Your sudden interest in my trousers is worrying, Potter. Speak."
Colin Creevey was having a bad day. He and his unflappable junior
assistant, Jessica, had thus far managed to amass a collection of
photographs featuring the brickwork at the front of Grimmauld Place,
numerous shots of the first floor windows and several close ups of
someone's nose poking through the small parting at the curtains.
Well, not unless you were prepared to give chase, which they most
certainly were.
No one even knew if Harry was still at home that morning, but Malfoy
definitely was. They had just seen him.
Three hours of waiting in the blistering cold paid off when Draco
finally made his move. The eager-to-be-promoted Jessica was the
first to notice.
"There he is!" she shrieked, her voice scratchy from the cold.
It was Malfoy. They all recognized the faded brown pants and the
thick, black wool jacket he had been wearing moments ago at the
window. He had pulled up the hood of the jacket and wrapped a
scarf around the lower half of his face.
There was a brief look directed at them - Colin could briefly make out
disdain, it had to be disdain. And then Malfoy was on his broom and
up into the air at a dizzying speed.
Draco waited until the agreed upon twenty minutes had lapsed,
before he made his undetected exit from Grimmauld Place. There
wasn't a reporter in sight.
Potter was a excellent flier, Draco had to admit. Much better than
when they had been children.
They were not exactly the same size, judging from the fact that
Potter's flying robes were a little on the short side.
Coming home shouldn't have felt like this, thought Draco. Especially
not coming to his home. Merlin, he was actually nervous.
He hovered for a moment, flexing his gloved hands. Draco could not
recall the last time he had suffered sweaty palms. And this was
despite the stingingly cold, country air. He has flown low over the
bordering village of Thimble Creek, below the cover of shadowy frost
and mist and marvelled at what looked to be a tenfold increase in its
previously tiny population.
With Lucius gone, magic had been restored to the community and its
inhabitants could now make a living again. The old residents must
have come back. Either that or new magical folk had chosen to settle
there.
There were also children. Draco could barely recall the last time he
had seen children in Thimble Creek. As he flew, he felt like an
interloper, a part of the estate's dark and depressing past.
Then, over the treetops he caught sight of Malfoy Manor proper and
very easily squashed that old urge. He touched down completely
silently just beyond the main, iron gates and spent a moment just
staring.
Despite it being winter, it was green The trees were bare, but the
twin row of manicured hedges that bordered the long path leading to
the bisected front steps of the house was vibrant and healthy. Draco
savoured the sight as one only could after spending as much time in
barren desert as he had.
He removed his wand and touched the gate with it. It swung open
smoothly and silently. Rust and corrosion was now a part of its
recent history. He slung his broom over his shoulder and started
walking, sharp gravel crunching under his booted feet.
The Manor itself had received a fresh coat of paint. Draco could not
help but be amused by the fact that not even an industrial strength
white-washing was enough to remove the gothic oppressiveness of
the place. The house still had a character all its own. The roof and
window frames had been mended, the glass-paned windows
scrubbed free of grime.
Dejavu hit, strong and hard. He recalled the last time he had stood
on that same doorstep, feeling a different measure of discomfort at
the prospect of informing his father about his ill-fated marriage to
Hermione.
Draco used the knocker and waited. It didn't take long. There was
the staccato of footsteps behind the door and then it was wrenched
open. Pansy stood there, immaculately dressed in deep purple
robes.
She didn't look in the least bit surprised to see him standing there.
"About time," Pansy said and then she threw herself into his arms.
"Ahem."
Draco looked over the top of Pansy's dark head and observed a
skinny, dark-haired, young man glowering at them from the foot of
the staircase. He was wielding a feather duster, although from the
mood of the situation it might as well have been a machete.
"I could kill you for all the worry you put me through!"
"Oh." Pansy blushed and straightened her hair even though it didn't
need straightening. "Draco, this is Boris, my manservant."
The place had been given a thorough once over with a fresh, light,
Rococo flourish. Most of the elegant and ornate pieces Narcissa had
acquired had been reclaimed from Manor storage, polished to a fine
sheen and put to effective use.
"Pansy, you've done a remarkable job with the place," he told her,
genuinely impressed.
He tilted his head down at her. "So you kept telling me," he
murmured. "I don't think I ever fully appreciated how much work it
takes to maintain all of this."
Pansy sobered a little. "Your mother did an excellent job, may she
rest. I just patched up what I could. She linked her arm through his.
"Come on, I'll give you the grand tour before I interrogate you. Boris,
would you serve us tea in the drawing room?"
Pansy may have been a most capable Lady of the Manor, but her
servant was no obedient House Elf. There was faintly mutinous
expression on his surly face.
Who mumbled something incoherent and was off. His walk was
oddly lumbering for such a slight person.
The tour started with the library, which was benefiting from a new,
enormous Persian rug and a completely retiled fireplace. Draco
recognized the large gilt mirror that sat above the fireplace. It had
been in one of the guest rooms previously. There was a framed
antique map of the British Isles between the mahogany book cases,
magical of course. Every so often a tiny, inky sail ship would launch
from the southern coastline, making a beeline for France.
There were fresh flowers in his mother's old bedroom and Draco
noticed that Pansy had replaced several portraits of her that had
previously been taken down by Lucius. He paused at the only one
that featured the three of them - him and his parents. It was the last
portrait they had sat for before Narcissa had left the Manor.
Pansy came to stand beside him. The scent of her perfume was
strong in the enclosed space. "I've always liked this one," she said.
"How old were you?"
Pansy had been staying in a guest bedroom in the East Wing. Not
surprisingly, pink featured prominently. What made Draco take real
notice, however, was the bed. Or rather, the assortment of stuffed
elephants that jostled for space on the silk coverlet.
They visited his father's study next. Or rather, they stopped at the
door. They were standing in the exact spot where he had nearly
kissed Hermione the day they visited his father.
He dredged up a suitable reply. "No, it's alright. I think I'll skip this
room for now. Plenty of time to get reacquainted later."
She nodded, took his hand and led them to the nearby drawing
room.
"Where is Toolip, by the way? You haven't retired her have you?"
"That elf?" Pansy scoffed. "I'd have more luck seducing Harry Potter.
She's in the village running errands."
Pansy grinned. "It is isn't it? It's all because of Hornbeam. I'm having
the villagers plant it. It would have been impossible to maintain the
place with the small amount of money the Ministry allotted to me to
stay here. So I had to find some other way to generate income. The
soil on your estate is apparently the best in the country for it. Took us
a while to work out how to process the wood, but once we did, we've
been selling it directly to the wand-makers and a few apothecaries.
The village has benefited from the profits, as you can see for
yourself."
Pansy smoothed her skirt and then stared at him for a moment, hey
eyes huge with wonder. "I still can't believe it really is you sitting here
across from me."
She laughed. It was the same laugh from school, girlish with a dash
of condescension. "Draco darling, even with that haircut you're
sporting, you'll be beautiful when you're a hundred and eight." She
turned serious. "But was it so very awful as the papers are
suggesting? They say you were in Africa for a time. Is that true?"
"I ended up in Egypt," Draco confirmed. "I was in Europe for two
years before that."
The Committee had of course covered this question from all angles.
He told her the same thing he told them.
"Do you still have feelings for Granger?" she asked, with an almost
cruel indifference. "Only you've been here for over an hour and you
haven't once mentioned her name. One can hardly forget the
circumstances in which you left," Pansy pointed out. "Or speculate
as to why you've come back, for that matter."
"You're going to have a hard time making her trust you again. I would
never forgive you, even taking into account the fact that you've
brought Bellatrix Lestrange back as an apology gift."
She gave him a slightly apologetic look. "I'm sorry for being so
pessimistic. Four months ago, August Winthrop was killed on a
mission to a village in Devonshire. He and Millicent had only been
married two weeks when it happened."
She blinked at being the focus of the topic change. "Why yes,
exactly."
Draco slung his arm over the headrest of the couch and craned his
neck towards the doorway. "Your Boris appears to be taking some
time with that tea."
Pansy's smile turned tight. She rose to her feet. "I'll just see what's
keeping him, shall I?"
He stayed for three hours. At least Pansy made a much better cup of
tea than Potter did. She had decided that she would throw a soiree
in a fortnight, to officially open the Manor again and to welcome back
its rightful owner. Draco knew better than to decline. It was Pansy's
send-off, more than anything else, and he could not begrudge her
that.
Pansy was many things, but Draco had never known her to be a soft
touch.
Draco would stay in the village inn until the handover was official in
two weeks, despite her protests that he immediately move into his
old room. After six weeks with Potter, Draco was more than ready for
a bit of breathing space.
He was already halfway to the wrought iron gates at the front of the
estate, before an out of breath Boris caught up with him.
"Mr. Malfoy, you forgot these!" he called out, holding aloft Harry's
gloves.
Goyle's mouth dropped open. He looked like a goldfish for about half
a minute. "What… you… you know !"
"Yes, I know," Draco snapped. "If that over the top display of
possessiveness in the foyer wasn't enough to convince me, that
multi-coloured safari on Pansy's bed certainly would have done the
trick."
The gaping mouth closed. "Yes, well she likes elephants," Goyle
muttered.
"So I gather." Draco sighed. "Why the hell are you here? If they catch
you, you'll be doing life in Azkaban! Not to mention what they'd do to
her!"
Draco frowned, "Well you bloody well better hope no one comes
back from a holiday there and wonders why some foreign village
clerk they only just saw overseas, is polishing brassware for Pansy
Parkinson in Wiltshire!"
Goyle shuffled on his feet and then had the audacity to grin at him.
"Good to see you by the way. Even if you do look like hell."
"Two years."
He got angry all over again. "Fuck me, Goyle! I would have thought
that by now the two of you would have put into action whatever half-
arsed plan you'd hatched!"
"Yes well, it's been nice just living here in peace with her after the
stuff I had to do… you'd know all about it, I expect. It's a wonder she
took me back even! You can't blame us for wanting a little stability."
"You should have just told me! I'm insulted that neither you nor
Pansy thinks that I can be trusted."
"Malfoy, with all due respect, we only found out you were alive less
than two months ago. We didn't know what to think until we saw you
again. For all we knew, you could have been sent to track me down
for running away from the Death Eaters."
Goyle considered the question. "I think you're back for the same
reasons I came back. And I think there's something Pansy neglected
to mention…"
Goyle still hesitated. "Well, I'm only guessing Pansy didn't tell you
because right now you don't look like you want to kill anyone…"
"If it's not about Snape, what is it Pansy should have told me?"
Goyle now looked incredibly uncomfortable. "Nicholas Winter," he
said, in a rush. "He's Muggleborn, works in Granger's department.
August Winthrop and Winter were good friends. Pansy used to have
August and Millicent over all the time for dinner and well… I
overheard a lot, being the dutiful, hovering servant that I am."
"He's Granger's boss. Well not boss, really. More like supervisor.
Maybe not even that. I think he might just be a colleague. I could be
wrong. August was always going on about how Nick practically ran
that department."
The pink champagne was the only spot of noticeable colour in the
decoration. The rest of it was a blanket of ivory-white. The ceiling
was completely covered in swathes of ivory silk, draped in such a
way that the abundant candlelight created dancing shadows across
the rippling ceiling.
The fabric wrapped around each of the four main pillars, pooling in
an artfully arranged silken puddle around the base of each pillar.
Hermione was standing in front of one such pillar, imagining herself
to be Beanstalk Jack, in the Land of the Giants. She felt towered
over and knew it had nothing to do with height. Being that nervous
tended to mentally shrink you a little.
It was a good mix. There were former Slytherins. Lots of them. The
Gryffindor contingent was there courtesy of Harry. Scattered about
were alumni from other Houses. There were Hogwarts teachers
minus Dumbledore and several Ministerial department heads,
including Nick's boss. Ron was conspicuously absent, having agreed
to spend the weekend at the Burrow to spend quality time with his
mother. Molly Weasley was in the throes of empty-nest syndrome
since Ginny had just moved in permanently at Grimmauld Place.
There hadn't been much time to fuss over her hair, which was just as
well since it was a fuss-free hair cut. She ran some styling cream
through the curls with her fingers. Shoes were another matter
altogether. It was too cold for anything open-toed, so she'd pulled a
pair of dark brown, tall and skinny high heeled boots purchased in
London on a shopping trip with her mother.
They were probably inappropriate for evening wear, but her dress
was long and really, who was going to notice? Nick, bless him, didn't
know the difference between an Ugg Boot and an espadrille.
Annoyed with herself, she placed the drink on the first empty waiter's
tray that buzzed past.
Nick remained at her side, warm and attentive. He looked very nice
in his dark suit and tie. Hermione was grateful that he wasn't asking
any questions about why she seemed intent on hiding behind the
large, ice sculpture at the north end of the ballroom for the past hour.
The sculpture just had to be a dragon, didn't it? Its eyes looked to be
glace cherries or something similar. She moved closer for a better
look, wondering if anyone would notice if she poked out one of the
cherries.
"You know, we can leave whenever you want," Nick said in her ear.
"In fact, we didn't even need to come."
Hermione hadn't gone into too much detail about her history with
Draco, but after six months of casual dating, Nick knew enough to
assume that at some stage Draco Malfoy had meant something to
Hermione. More importantly, he knew that it hadn't ended very well.
Beside him was Ginny, looking lovely in sea green robes and her
long hair in a curly, up-style. She was in cheerful conversation with
Neville Longbottom.
He waved the canapé (which was now just a plain oatmeal biscuit) in
a beckoning manner.
Nick was also watching this. "Looks like Potter would like a word with
you. Go ahead, I'll catch up."
It would not do to avoid anything Draco-related for the rest of her life.
They were bound to cross paths soon, weren't they?
His eyebrows rose at her unusual curtness. "Nice to see you too. I
didn't realize that Winter fellow was also invited. Did you two come
together?"
"I can't help it, I'm not fond of Ministry purse holders. They've already
reduced our budget four times this year. And you're not really seeing
him, are you?"
"I'm not sure I approve of the word 'land'" Ginny opinioned after
Neville had walked off to have a word with Professor Sprout. "By the
way, that colour looks beautiful on you, Hermione. Is that dress from
Madam Lacroix's place?"
"Sorry, Ginny. And yes, it's one of hers." To Harry Hermione hastily
added, "I don't know why you don't like him. He can't help it about his
job."
Harry was happy to elaborate. "He's a bit bookish. I'd prefer more of
an outdoors type."
Hermione couldn't believe she was hearing this. "Well, good thing I'm
dating him then, and not you."
Ginny spoke through a smile. "Shush you two, he's coming this way."
"Us?" Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry. There was no love lost
between Harry and Nick ever since the most recent wave of
enforced, Ministry budget cuts.
"Paper clips."
"Would you?" Harry beamed. "I mean, would you speak to your boss
about it? I would be ever so grateful."
"Yes, I suppose-"
"Harry, that was nasty of you," Ginny chastised, after Nick had gone
to do Harry's bidding.
Harry grinned. "Was, wasn't it? Once Calwdash gets going, there's
no escape unless someone else is foolish enough to wander within
conversation distance."
Hermione was looking at Harry with mild disgust at his antics. "You
could have just asked him to excuse us for a moment. He would
have understood."
She rolled her eyes. "So you've got my full attention, Potter. Spit it
out."
"This history between you two has become a major loose end that's
just been left… well, hanging," Harry insisted. "If you're going to
continue on this path, be it with Winter (there was a dramatic and
resigned sigh at this point) or some other person, you need to make
it known to Malfoy. For both your sakes."
"And even if I did want to bring some closure to the matter, Harry,
he's not even bothered to show at his own party!"
They stared at him, as were a number of other guests who had also
just noticed Draco's presence in the ballroom. Beside the drinks
table, Pansy Parkinson made a delighted noise at the guest of
honour's low key entrance and swooped toward Draco like an
excited, tropical bird. High pitched gabbing commenced.
Malfoy had never exactly been skinny. Lots of kids started life ala
beanpole and filled out come puberty. Not so Draco. He had been
quite small in stature when they had first started Hogwarts and it
wasn't until third year that he started catching up with the other boys
at school.
When she had last seen him, he'd been lean and lanky, a typical
Seeker's-build. Now, he looked like he'd be able to handle Bludgers
without much difficulty.
He looked completely different, but the same. He was still slim, but
the lankiness was gone. Indeed, it looked like he filled out the
simple, black formal robes he wore with little slack left over. The
robes weren't tight, they was just beautifully tailored. Hermione
wondered if Pansy had been the one to organize the outfit since
Harry mentioned that Draco wasn't much of a fashion plate any
more.
Her eyes trailed down to his feet and she was very nearly amused.
His dress shoes had probably been black at one point, but the sun
had bleached them. They were worn but she could tell, even from
that distance, that they were terribly comfortable.
There was a brief squawk when she spotted his choice of footwear.
Amazingly, this new Draco put up with the fussing. No sulking, no
swatting at Pansy's hand. He just looked bored and impatient.
Here she was trying to prevent her stomach from fleeing from her
body and Draco Malfoy was bored .
There was still a whisper of boyishness about his face. She could
still see it in the curve of his expressive mouth and knew that it would
still lift ever so slightly upwards when he was amused or when he
was feeling derisive.
Seemingly satisfied, Pansy finally wandered off and Draco was left
alone.
All the other emotions that she put so much time and energy into
nurturing - anger, bitterness and pain - were momentarily pushed
aside leaving nothing but stark and grim revelation.
Hermione realized that Draco Malfoy still had the ability to make her
forget how to breathe.
Or maybe not?
He went right past them. Close enough for Hermione to smell subtly
spicy aftershave. He kept going until he disappeared around the
canapés table.
Stupid tears began to well up. They were not stupid and irrational
tears, though. It was completely rational for her to be upset, but she
still felt foolish.
Hermione eyed the wall of French doors that opened onto the
balcony and inner courtyard.
"Excuse me," she said to Harry and Ginny. "I'm going outside for
some fresh air."
To their credit, neither Harry not Ginny asked any questions. Nor did
they remind her that it was close to freezing outside. They too,
seemed a little frazzled by the almost-encounter.
"Take your time," Ginny urged. "I'll tell Nick you're occupied."
From what he was able to surmise from those who knew him, Winter,
who looked to be in his mid thirties, was well-educated, well-
mannered, well-dressed, amiable and did not have any crazy,
homicidal relatives that anyone knew about.
And really, what poor excuse for a wizard didn't have at least one
family oddity lurking about in his family tree?
Correction, he had a kind face. Here was a man who did not know
cruelty to ever be able to inflict it.
All this did nothing to lessen Draco's savage mood that evening.
Pansy had some nerve to invite the git. She had gone to great and
annoying lengths to explain to Draco that Hermione would not accept
her own invitation unless it was on Nick Winter's fucking arm.
Draco had been doing a good job of lurking in the foyer until avoiding
his own party no longer became an option. So he walked in and
found a somewhat secluded spot beside the hideous dragon ice
sculpture Pansy had flown in from Romania for the occasion.
Pansy spotted Draco and hurried over to speak to him. He heard 'I
can't believe you're late' and 'where did you get those horrid shoes
from' before he tuned out.
It was hard to pay attention. His mind was on Winter and Granger.
Together . At his bloody party! Potter was speaking to the man. Then
Winter walked off, leaving Hermione to her own devices. She was
probably going to notice him soon enough.
'Ideal' was what your mind told you it was. She was it, as far as he
was concerned. After so long, his imagination had painted some
fanciful pictures of Hermione Granger. It said something that reality
more than exceeded his expectations.
Hermione's quiet allure called to him as it had before. The dark red
dress she was wearing turned her complexion into pure cream. The
candlelight helped too. Her short hair begged to be touched. It
looked just about the right length for him to slide his hand into and
take hold. She was still so small, fragile even, but he knew there was
steel under that delicate exterior. He had tested it for himself.
God, he could feel a scene coming on. Pansy had wandered off,
thank Merlin.
The object of his affection chose that precise moment to leave the
ballroom from the same exit he had snuck out of moments earlier
and step outside onto the balcony.
No, this was too soon. He was still trying to bring his jealousy and
rage under control. It would not do to scare her.
Draco kept to the shadows. It said a lot that this was probably where
he felt safest.
Hermione was rubbing her upper arms as she stared out at the
moonlit courtyard garden. Everything was black and silver. The
moon was milky and enormous, though not nearly as large as it often
got in the East.
She cast a baleful stare at the moon, her warm breath a misty cloud
in the frigid air. "And what are you looking at?" she muttered, a little
accusingly.
Hermione startled and turned around. The panic in her eyes stung
him. But she went from frightened to furious almost instantly. Yes,
this was his Hermione, a creature of infinite logic wrapped up in
layers of feeling.
"You," she said, managing to make this simple pronoun sound like a
curse word. "What are you doing here?"
He thought her face went just a little red. "Yes, well I thought I was
alone," she sniffed.
She was already walking away. Her long dress swirled prettily
around her legs. "I have nothing to say to you."
That stopped her. With her fists tightly clenched at her side, she
sucked in what appeared to be a fortifying breath, fists clenched at
her sides. The corset she wore was already doing rather nice things
to her chest, but the deep breathing certainly helped.
Draco decided that the truth would suffice, to begin with, anyway.
"You belong with me."
She blinked twice, very quickly. He could see her slapping hand was
starting to twitch too.
"After five years… thinking you were dead or dying or worse and
with no way to reach you after those pathetic three postcards you
sent me. After all the agony you put me through, that is all you have
to say to me? That ?!"
"That night in Knockturn Alley… I told you there was no turning back.
Fida Mia started something but we bloody well took it to a whole new
level and then we fucking sealed it. Granger. I'm not going to join you
in pretending that what we had was some sort of stupid fling, you felt
what I felt. Give this time. Please."
He nodded. "Yes, I know. I'll get to that in a minute. Right now please
consider that you can't realistically stay angry at me forever. Now
that I'm back, we can't stay apart forever either. You know it will eat
at us. It is already."
She snorted. "Like hell it will. I rather realistically got over you,
Malfoy! I moved on with my life. It's not my fault you haven't!"
He took a silent step toward her. "I don't doubt that you did move on.
Your resilience is astounding. It's one of the many things I love about
you, Granger. But you're lying to yourself if you think you've got over
me."
Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. Did he really have
the audacity to think that he was actually being reasonable? If his
easy, effortless admission of love nearly undid her, his massive,
undented ego just about did the trick. Hermione recognized she was
in serious danger of going to pieces right in front of him. She
despised him all over again for it. This was not supposed to be
happening. It had taken her so very long to steel her heart.
She turned away from him in an effort to regain some composure.
He apparently mistook this for indifference.
"Alright," he said, and she was oddly pleased to hear the tremor in
his voice. "Let me put a scenario before you. Put yourself in my
shoes five years ago. Imagine you're in love with me."
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but he stopped her. "Wait, just
hear me out. You fall in love unexpectedly. Something you didn't
expect you were even capable of. You despise the world and all the
people in it and you trust no one, least of all your own family, whom
you think has betrayed and abandoned you. But this new love…
it's…" Draco paused, searching for a word, "it's remarkable . It's a
whirlwind, passionate, fragile, completely illogical, as badly timed as
you can get, but it's also true. Head over heels, up to your eyebrows
true. Then something happens and it's because of you, directly and
indirectly. Something terrible happens, and that someone dies.
Badly."
"Only I didn't die. You saved me, remember?" she reminded him, in a
whisper.
She realized she was shouting. Hurt and fear was pouring out of her
and with it came an almost intoxicating relief she hadn't expected.
She was incapable of stopping it. She didn't want to stop it.
Goodness, when exactly did he get that close to her? They were
standing barely a breath apart. His frowning, intense face hovered
over her. Ginny's home haircut had grown out a little. His fringe was
long enough to keep out of his eyes. The hair at the back was still
short and choppy though. There was a thin, white scar across his left
cheekbone. And another along his jaw on the same side. Her mind
reeled off at least a dozen more, new details about him, small little
revelations that transfixed her.
"You knew it was a promise I couldn't keep when you asked me," he
hissed.
Some small part of her brain was also registering the fact that Draco
Malfoy was probably ten times scarier than he was before. But anger
often made you braver, even if it tended to be foolish bravery.
"You don't know that!" she said to him, letting the full measure of hurt
back into her voice. "We could have been happy."
He shook his head, emphatic. Hair fell over his eyes and he
impatiently pushed it back with his fingers. "No, we wouldn't have
been. I couldn't have been with you the way I can now."
Honestly, she could have just stared at him. She could have sat
there and soaked up the sight of him alive and well. That summed up
the depth of her feelings for him. The relief to know he'd survived
whatever he'd put himself through was making a rather belated
arrival. It was like getting punched in the stomach.
Oh no. She was really was going to cry now. At this point, her hand,
as it had on so many other occasions in the past, decided to mutiny.
It reached up and laid her palm against his cheek. He flinched as if
she'd branded him.
"So that's what you have to say to me, then? That was it? Are we
done now, Draco?"
His eyes had turned shiny. After what seemed like an eternity, he
turned away and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.
Five years ago, she would have given her right arm to have him look
at her with such raw, unguarded emotion as he had done just now,
but time had hardened her. She felt triumph and a small amount of
justice in the knowledge that there probably wasn't another person
on the planet at the moment who could hurt Draco Malfoy as much
as she was hurting him now.
And rightly so. There was power in this knowledge. It helped to ease
her own hurt.
The distance between then increased with every step she took. She
knew that he remained where he was, watching her leave. He didn't
come after her. There were no angry footsteps. He didn't grab her
arm to spin her around so he could sneer at her and call her a dirty
rotten liar. He didn't kiss her to manipulate her or to punish and scare
her.
He was doing exactly as she had asked. He was leaving her alone.
And what was the result of her outburst? She had imagined their
inevitable encounter hundreds of times over the past eight weeks.
Funny, she thought she would be able to get some closure. But the
pain just kept on burning.
She was reaching out a hand to the open the French doors to enter
the ballroom when it happened.
When the spell connected with the French doors, the force of it blew
out the glass. There was a static charge zinging through the air.
She hit the ground, her hands instinctively covering her head when
the shower of glass rained over her. Her ears were ringing. She tried
to stand up, but then realized that someone was partially covering
her. She didn't need to actually look to know that it was Draco. His
hands were over her head. Hermione scrambled for her wand.
The shower of glass was over but now dust was pluming upwards.
She started coughing. It was impossible to see anything. Her knees
hurt where they were scraping against the debris on the floor.
"Are you alright?" Draco asked her. Her ears were still recovering
apparently because his voice sounded muffled.
"We're under attack," he replied, and then pulled her swiftly to her
feet.
All enmity between them was swiftly put aside. Why did it always
seem to take death, danger and tragedy to bring them together,
however tentatively, Hermione lamented.
Still keeping low to the ground, they sprinted together down the
balcony steps, past the bare rosebushes and towards the wooded
area at the back of the estate. The candlelight of the ballroom had
been snuffed out.
She was out of breath, and also freezing, having not had the
common sense to take her coat with her out onto the balcony. In all
fairness, she hadn't expected to be taking an impromptu jog through
the woods in the middle of winter.
The trees were thin on the ground now. There were on a garden path
that she could only just make it out. They turned a corner and
suddenly, out of the darkness, something small and furry collided
with Draco.
"Dodders?" she heard Draco say. "Put your wand down before you
hurt someone."
"Malfoy, is that really you?" said the startled witch, in a soft, husky
voice.
Draco hauled Carmen to her feet. "What are you two doing out
here?"
"Well we heard that noise from the house and were on our way back
to help," said Dodders.
"By 'help' he means hide in the bushes and wait for the danger to
pass," muttered Carmen.
Hermione cupped her hands together and blew into them. Funny, to
think that after more than a decade of Voldemort wanting to end
Harry, a new attempt never failed to leave her shaken to the core.
One would think she'd be resigned to it by now. Harry certainly was.
Carmen was casting fretful glances in the direction of the manor.
"How on earth did they get in? Don't these old houses have near-
unbreakable wards?"
"They're supposed to," Draco replied, grimly. "I'm not sure what sort
of wards Pansy's been using at the moment."
Draco was undoing the hidden fastenings that held his outer robes
together. "All the better to keep them contained during an attempt to
snatch Potter, don't you think? Put this on," he instructed Hermione.
The garment slid off his shoulder with a soft swish. He was wearing
a fitted black jumper underneath. Hermione wanted to decline for the
sake of it alone, but there were more important things to worry about
presently.
And besides, her fingers were probably starting to turn blue. It swam
on her, but the light wool still held the warmth from his body. It did
something to her focus, to be surrounded by his scent, all over and
all at once. With a shudder, she managed to shake off the
overwhelming feeling.
"Pay attention, this is what we're going to do," Draco said. He waited
until the younger couple ceased their fretting and were looking
directly at him. "The two of you are going to Disapparate to the
Ministry to tell them what's happening here," he explained slowly.
" Miss Granger is going to insist on staying so I'm not going to bother
asking her to go with you."
Hermione was glad not to have to argue with him. "When you meet
the Nightguard, ask for Rufus Scrimgeour. Arthur Weasley won't be
there at this hour and it will take too long to go through the channels
to speak to him directly, but Scrimgeour is on call tonight."
He might as well have asked Draco what he was planning for the
weekend, such was Draco's apparently lack of concern.
"What do you think? I'm going to kick these fucking gatecrashes out
of my house."
The fact that all two hundred captives were acting so compliant was
probably due to the fact that Potter wasn't there. They would have
taken him hostage in another room as soon as the attack
commenced. It said something about Harry's value to the Wizarding
community that a ballroom consisting mostly of former Slytherins
were concerned enough for his safety not to attempt to fight their
captors.
That was either very good news or very bad news for Harry.
Hermione forced herself to calm down. Thank God Ron wasn't at the
party. That meant one less person for her to worry about.
Draco and Hermione were up in the ceiling, having snuck back into
the house through a library window. There was a trapdoor into the
roof in the second drawing room. They crawled through narrow,
cobweb drenched passages for several minutes before finally
arriving at what Hermione assumed were the rafters above the
ballroom.
The beams creaked a little and once or twice Draco turned around to
warn her to be extra careful. Thank goodness for the fabric covering
the ceiling. It effectively kept them hidden from view. Draco belly-
crawled out over the middle of the ballroom and gingerly slit a hole
through the fabric with his wand.
Draco winced when Ginny Weasley was thus shoved to the floor for
demanding to see Potter yet again.
The question got him frustrated. "Ask me eight years ago and the
answer would be God yes. Right now I have no idea what Pansy's
keeping on site."
However there was someone in the house whom Draco was certain
would likely have a small dark arsenal hidden under his bed. That
was, if he hadn't already been captured.
The trick was to get to the other side of the house without being
noticed. They left the ballroom and climbed down from the ceiling
once they were back in the second drawing room.
"The kitchen."
They were still able to move quietly and quickly, Draco having
intimate knowledge of the layout of his home. He was also able to
enlist the help of family portraits.
Hermione tugged on his sleeve. "I missed that last part, did he see
anyone or not?"
"Yes. So be on guard."
His hand was nearly on the door handle when a Death Eater
appeared between them. The subtle mist of Apparition clouded
Hermione's vision momentarily.
There was a flash of bright green light and Hermione instantly feared
the worse. Her wand was wrenched violently from her grasp. It
clattered to the floor and then there was complete darkness because
her Lumos had been the only bit of light in the long, narrow corridor.
"Run!" Draco called out and she could have swooned with relief to
hear his voice.
"Lumos!"
There was a full-fledged duel going on the likes of which she hadn't
seen since Harry's mission to the Ministry in their fifth year.
And then the unknown Death Eater cast a spell Hermione hadn't
even heard of. Suddenly, she lost all sense of space and balance.
Up was down and down was up. She clung to the wall, feeling like
the corridor had become a spinning tube.
Draco walked over to him, not in any particular hurry. He bent down
to pick up the man's wand and then snapped it in half with a
dramatic sigh.
"I wonder who would be stupid enough to use one of my own spells
against me? Let me guess…" He flicked the cloaked man's mask off
with his wand.
The Death Eater spat out a mouthful of blood. "The Dark Lord is
enraged, Malfoy. We will take all that you hold dear." He spoke with a
strong Russian accent. Hermione wondered if he was a successful
Durmstrang recruit.
"So you're starting with Harry Potter? I hate to break it to you,
Dominic, but I have socks I hold dearer than that speccy git."
Draco smirked. "You had no idea he would be here tonight did you?
At my party. God, how amusing. Did you wet your pants when you
spotted him in the ballroom?"
"You can kill me, but you are still outnumbered. You can't save all
your friends, Malfoy."
Now this was dedication. Death Eaters in the past always left room
to bargain when faced with the possibility of capture or death. This
new lot was martyr-ish.
The knife clanged to the floor and the desperate Death Eater made a
dive for it.
Draco took a step back, holding out his wand. His purpose was clear,
no matter that the man's back was turned.
For a few seconds, Hermione couldn't find her voice. Draco was
scaring her.
" Do not stand in front of me when I have my wand out," he
whispered.
He might as well have roared at her. His tone was like being slapped
in the face. He was very, very angry at having his actions
questioned.
She tried to reason with him. "You can't kill this man in cold blood!"
Draco's eyes bore into her. "Look away or get out of the way," he
said, very calmly.
Dominic was aware that his life was hanging in the balance. He
looked like he might have made a wild grab for Hermione when
Draco lowered his wand to take new aim at him.
Wasting his time, she noted. Not their time. Not hers. She was the
soft one who spared lives, he was reminding her. He was the one
who got the job done. This was not the boy who had been shaking
so much after inadvertently killing a Death Eater five years ago that
he had trouble holding on to a wand.
They ended up binding Dominic and stuffing him in a broom closet. If
the man was thankful at being spared, he didn't show it.
"Do not second guess me again," Draco said, when it was done.
He turned so quickly to face her that she ran into his chest.
"So you think I'm a cold-blooded killer now, do you? You must have
read the Inquiry's report then?" he sneered.
Her bad opinion seriously bothered him, she discovered. There was
that tiny little thrill of power again, but this thrill was overwhelmed by
the need to reassure him. She had never been very good at being
deliberately cruel.
"No, I haven't read the report," she said, unable to meet his eyes.
Her emotions were getting the better of her. A horrible and obviously
incorrect assumption must have entered his head because he looked
tremendously hurt all of a sudden. His voice started to waiver.
"Stop it! I know it was hell! Harry told me enough." A tear escaped.
"I'm sorry you suffered," she added in a whisper. "I'm sorry I haven't
read the report yet. I don't know why I haven't…"
That was a lie. She knew why she didn't want to read it. Reading it
was to risk her compassionate side rationalizing why he had done
what he did.
He looked like he wanted to grab her and shake her. Hermione
resisted the urge to take a step backwards. She couldn't recall ever
seeing Draco quite this angry with her.
But then he shook his head, walked away, stopped, turned around
and came back again.
"Granger," he began, "you think just because I'm in love with you and
because I'm so very sorry for hurting you that there's a switch you
can flip to turn me into a normal man? I mean, why bother? You're
not even taking me back."
Yes, she silently agreed, although she wished she was saying yes to
more than just the rescue mission.
"Pépé, tu n'as vu personne passer par ici ce soir?" grandad, did you
see anyone pass by here tonight?
"Tout à fait! Un gars avec un masque est passé plus tôt. L'avait l'air
pressé. J'ai pensé que c'était bizarre, but bon, la fille qui s'occupe du
lieu a de drôles de tendances." yes actually, there was a masked
man that had passed by not too long ago, he seemed hurried, I
found it a bit weird, but what with the girl being here and all,
dismissed the thought, thinking it was due to her.
Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
It took them fifteen minutes to make their way to the kitchens and
adjacent servants' quarters. This was due to the Death Eater that
was standing at the bottom of the service stairs.
Hermione's long distance Petrificus did the trick, after which they hid
the man in the wine cellar. Draco didn't complain much about this
because his mood was improved after finding a bottle of prized
merlot that looked like it had been abandoned shortly after opening.
She declined.
With wine bottle now in tow, they climbed back up the stairs behind
the pantry.
Draco held a finger to his lips and silently walked over to the little,
adjoining room where candlelight could be seen through the crack
under the door. Hermione assumed the room was where the Manor's
house elf lived.
That seemed to convince whoever it was. The spells came off the
door and then the manual locks were undone, one by one. It creaked
open. A short, small, dark-haired man was standing beside a single
bed, his wand in hand. Hermione recognized him as the servant who
had taken her and Nick's coats at the start of the evening.
Beside him was Toolip the house elf, holding a candlestick high
above her head.
Boris was looking at them with surprise. "We assumed you'd be with
the others in the ballroom."
"We got lucky," replied Draco. He passed the wine to Boris, who
uncorked it without a word and took a swallow.
Boris glanced down at the faded label. "Nice. Though you might
have waited another year or two."
Hermione looked from one man to the other. "You two know each
other well?"
Boris opened his mouth to reply, but Draco cut in. "His family used to
work for the Malfoys, once upon a time," he smoothly supplied.
He was lying, but Hermione didn't press the matter. "If you're finished
drinking, can we get down to the business of rescuing everyone in
the ballroom?" Hermione reminded, her voice rising a little. "We don't
even know where Harry is, for God's sake."
"And risk alerting the twenty Death Eaters in the ballroom? I don't
think so. We'll have to attempt both assaults at the same time."
Boris quickly shook his head. "Potter is only in danger if they take
him out of the Manor. They won't harm him yet." He seemed very
sure of this. "Minions know never to harm their prize. Only Voldemort
gets to do that."
"That would risk them moving Potter as soon as they realize the
Manor is under attack. There's a working fireplace in my father's
study they might use."
Draco didn't get too excited just yet. "Oh yes? What do you have?"
Walking in pitch black darkness was tricky. They were not going to
risk using even a muted Lumos after being discovered by Dominic.
She was feeling her way along the corridor by touching the walls on
either side.
They were heading back to the second drawing room in the opposite
wing. Draco was carrying a tightly sealed sack of Sleeping Powder
over his shoulder. He also had one of the two Bottomless Pits in his
pocket. Boris had the other one.
"Probably not, but it'll make them drowsy enough to disarm easily.
How are you with a Whirlwind Charm? If we can keep the dust
circulating it might buy us more time."
That answered his question. "Good. Slow down, we're coming to the
second floor landing. My father's study is just below us."
They listened, and true enough, they were able to make out muffled
voices.
"What about the guards watching Harry?"
The voices were louder now. Hermione could make out two different
voices, both male. And then she heard Harry, loud and defiant. He
was most definitely unharmed for the time being. She breathed a
sigh of relief.
He really should hurry up. Still firmly holding the banister, she put her
foot out.
"Granger, wait!"
But the next step wasn't there. It was supposed to be there! Her foot
met nothing but air and her forward momentum meant that she was
tipping forward into empty, black space. Her wand was within reach,
but her first instinct was to reach out for something to grab a hold of
and stop her fall.
She had the good sense not to scream. If she was stupid enough to
fall to her death, at least let it be done in silence so as not to give
away Draco's position.
But the fall never came and somehow, part of her knew he'd get to
her in time. He would have had to leap across the landing to reach
her, which was exactly what he did.
One hand caught her left wrist. Her right hand scrambled up his left
arm, searching for purchase. Beneath her fingers she could feel his
muscles turn rigid from the strain. It was his bad arm, she realized -
the one that dislocated easily.
Hermione hadn't realized she had been and immediately went still.
He found her other flailing hand and took firm hold of it.
"Where's your wand?" he asked. She could make out the strain in his
voice now.
"In my dress," she gasped out. They were about a minute away from
being discovered.
"Yes."
She understood that the fall was probably going to end before either
of them would have time to cast a spell to save themselves, either
from the hard marble of the floor downstairs or the from the Death
Eaters in Lucius' study.
Her right hand continued to slip through his grip and the pain in her
arms was becoming excruciating.
Slowly, he lifted her up using his forearms. As soon she was able to,
she took tight hold of his shoulders. Grabbing fistfuls of his jumper,
she scrambled up and over him, aided by his hands at her waist.
Finally, they were back on the carpeted landing. He rolled them away
from the ledge. Hermione was too relieved to do much else besides
slump against him. His arm was still draped around her waist.
"I do not have difficulty with staircases! It's not my fault your stupid
house has a landing that just leads into empty space."
She thought he might be trying not to laugh. "It's not usually empty
space. This wing is restricted. The stairs were dismantled by your
Ministry."
It's your Ministry too, she wanted to correct him. Why did he always
insist on grouping himself in another category altogether?
He was still holding her. She tried to look up at him, her nose
bumped up against his chin, which was smooth. He must have had a
shave before the party.
To make what easier for what, her brain asked, but that question was
mostly rhetorical. She knew exactly what was happening.
And then there was silence, because silence was what you got when
two people in pitch black darkness decide to hold their collective
breath.
She couldn't see anything in the dark, but she somehow knew that
his lips had parted just so she could she fit hers between them. For a
split second, there was just air, the intimate sharing of breath, and
then there was exquisitely soft sensation.
Her head spun, the blood in her body seemed to be rushing directly
to her face, making her lips even more sensitized.
By the time she opened her eyes, the moment was well and truly
over. He got to his feet and then helped her up. She couldn't see his
face, but she could feel his scowl. Suddenly, she felt wretched over
what had just transpired. Really, when Draco was concerned, she
seemed to have no control over her own body.
"Winter is waiting for you in the ballroom," he said, and you could
have chilled beer to that tone.
There were three Death Eaters standing guard outside Lucius' study.
Goyle manage to take the first two by surprise with the aid of a well-
aimed Bottomless Pit.
Despite its name, Bottomless Pits were not in fact, bottomless. It was
just a rather long drop. Magic held the space in place until someone
got you out. Or at least you could hope someone would get you out
But by the time his hiding spot was discovered, the third one proved
difficult. The blasting stones were in his pocket, but he was hesitant
to hurl one before Draco and Hermione commenced their assault on
the ballroom.
It would not do to alert the other Death Eaters before they had had a
chance to dismantle the protective barrier around the ballroom.
When Goyle finally kicked the study door open, they found a
perspiring and panting Harry holding a fireplace poker and two
wands. His glasses were missing and there was a cut and darkening
bruise on his forehead.
Harry dropped the poker when he saw them. It fell to the carpeted
floor with a dull thud. "Is everyone alright?" He limped forward with
the staggered gait of someone who had recently been hit with a body
binding curse.
Goyle knew the look in Harry's eyes. Hell, he was feeling that look.
Pansy was as much a prisoner as Ginny Weasley. The look said that
Harry's entire universe was liable to be shattered if Goyle delivered
any news apart from what he said next.
Harry deflated with relief. And then he was occupied staring at the
doorframe which was drunkenly hanging off its hinges. He goggled
at Toolip, and then at Boris.
"That was some kick, mate," said an impressed Harry. "I think you
need to come and work for us."
The Quiesco Dust was doing what it was supposed to, though
certain people responded better to its effect than others. The difficult
part had been breaking the barrier that contained the ballroom
without making too much noise or having the complex spells blow up
in their faces.
Now alerted to the breach, the Death Eater team readied themselves
at the entrance doors. They were undoubtedly surprised when the
attack came from above.
The whirlwind had done its work. Hermione ended the spell and the
shower of purple dust rained to the floor.
From that point, the attack on Malfoy Manor was over in less than
ten minutes.
Hermione stood beside Harry, leading him by his elbow as he
limped. Ginny took over this duty as soon as she was through raining
kisses over his face while he said, "ow."
Neville was still out cold, though someone had been thoughtful
enough to shove a jacket under his head as a pillow. Professor
Sprout was grinning and drinking champagne straight from the bottle
with one of the waiters.
Still in a slight daze, Hermione remained where she was, smiling and
nodding at anyone who approached her to ask if she was alright.
Nick came to her in the end. He scooped her up and held her tightly.
It'd been one hell of a night. About a dozen guests were in need of
medical attention, but none of the injuries sustained were life-
threatening.
Draco stood in the middle of the ballroom, the tip of his wand still
glowing red from use. People laughed and hugged each other. They
walked around him to get to other people. Toolip had already
produced a dusting pan and was tut-tut ting at the shattered
windows.
Alastor Moody walked into the Ministry meeting room and narrowly
avoided colliding into Rufus Scrimgeour, who happened to be on his
way out.
There was a brief, tense moment at the doorway wherein both men
took a stab at being civil, which was an improvement on taking a
stab at each other .
Saying that they disliked each other was like saying Rubeus Hagrid
was a bit on the large side.
Neither moved. The ten young people seated around the oval
conference desk in the meeting room watched with tired interest.
Draco leaned over towards Harry, who was seated next to him. "Are
they always like this?"
Moody grabbed the chair and sat down with his wooden leg sticking
out to the side. He waited until Scrimgeour had left, shutting the door
behind him. Moody then opened his abundant, ubiquitous grey
winter coat and pulled out a large bottle of warm, spicy, mulled wine.
One could not have designed a better warm beverage for the current
dismal weather.
"We're guessing revenge for taking Bellatrix," Harry cut in. There
were nods of agreement. "It's common knowledge now that Draco
was the one to pull it off. The news is all over the place."
Fellow Auror, Dean Smith, had a furrowed brow. "But if they wanted
just Malfoy, why attack a house full of Slytherins?" He addressed
Draco next. "It's overkill. If you don't mind me saying, you lot are
known for being more sympathetic to Voldemort's cause."
Ron snorted. "He'd like to take Harry personally, which is what very
nearly happened. They must have shit their pants to find him there."
"Bit early in the morning for that sort of imagery," muttered team
member Angie Johnson from the opposite end of the table.
"We haven't had a large scale attack like this in more than a year,"
Moody reminded them all. "The last one was the Wattersley Village
Fete incident and that was only five of them. Worries me that
Voldemort is getting this bold with his limited resources. He's down
twenty-five Death Eaters right now and he can't afford to be down
any."
"A bit of both, in this case," Draco said. "They were there for me, but
they would have killed off anyone they thought was close to me."
Moody agreed with Draco. "They had to be waiting for the right
opportunity to get to you. It would have been next to impossible
attacking you when you were under Potter's protection."
"You'll have to watch your back now, Malfoy," said Ron to Draco, with
officious seriousness.
Seamus, Dean and Ron were happy to volunteer. The rest of the
Aurors left for their respective duties, leaving Draco and a thoughtful-
looking Harry alone in the room. Harry yawned.
Harry was quiet for a moment. There was no natural light in the
room, only weak lamplight. Draco's light-coloured hair looked more
golden than silver. It had taken a while for him to lose the healthy tan
he'd acquired from time spent in warmer climates, but if anything
could wipe out a tan, it was a British winter. Draco's skin was as pale
as it had been when they'd been at school.
"Are you after Auror protocol or do you want to know what I do,
specifically? Harry asked.
"Ah. Right."
Harry took his feet off the table and leaned in. "Why, did something
happen at the Manor?"
Draco said nothing. His grey eyes were trained on a spot on the wall
in front of them.
"Cowering. And I'd been about to kill him because that would have
been easier and quicker than taking him prisoner."
Harry wondered if this was meant to shock him. It did, a little. "So
you want to know if I would have done the same thing?" Harry
surmised.
"No," replied Harry without having to think too much about it. "I
wouldn't have."
"Which, I suppose, is why you are you and I am me." Draco said with
resignation. He topped up Harry's mug and then did the same for
himself.
Draco did not give any indication that he was surprised by the topic
switch. "She probably thinks I'm an AK junkie right now."
"But you're not," Harry said, taking a sip.
Even so, they continued drinking their mulled wine in what could only
be described as a rather companiable silence.
Tuesday afternoon
If she'd been the fainting sort, Ginny Weasley thought she might
have fainted from shock (for it'd been a mighty shock indeed).
The fact that they were on the lingerie floor of Harrods Department
Store in London no doubt added to the sheer absurdity of it all.
One moment she'd been eyeing a rather sensibly priced sports bra,
the next minute he had virtually popped out from behind a
mannequin wearing a black silk and lace nightie.
That was to say, the mannequin was wearing the nightie, not Lucius.
And just because Lavender was probably going to ask anyway,
Ginny noted that Lucius was wearing beige cotton trousers and a
grey fisherman's jumper.
Lucius Malfoy in chinos and a jumper. Good Lord. Now she had
really seen it all. She couldn't recall seeing him in anything less than
three layers of beautifully matched clothing.
She forgot how much the bounty on his head was now. Something
astronomical, no doubt. She'd be able to set mum and dad up for life
with money like that.
Everyone who hadn't been convinced that both Lucius and Draco
were still alive, had been convinced that they were in hiding together.
Draco had claimed to have no knowledge of his father's
whereabouts after Snape had freed the elder Malfoy from house
arrest.
Ginny wasn't sure she believed him, but Harry did and that was
usually good enough. Lucius Malfoy's height alone would have made
him stand out in a crowd, but as was the case with Draco, Lucius
carried himself with an innate sense of entitlement. It must have
been a challenge for someone like him to attempt
inconspicuousness for a change.
Fugitive or not, he moved like the world owed him a living. The
Muggles in his path, women mostly, parted and then they stared .
Ginny felt like slapping the lot of them in the back of the head. Lucius
was a foul, extremely dangerous, escaped convicted murderer and
he was also the reason Severus Snape was spending the rest of his
life in prison.
There was also the whole trying to indirectly dispose of her via Tom
Riddle's diary 'thing' in her second year.
Her wand was already poised inside her long sleeve. "Come any
closer, you murdering bastard and I'll vaporize you."
She had to tilt her head all the way back to be able to look him in the
eye. If he was going try something stupid, she'd be damned if it was
going to happen while she stared at his shoes.
"You've got guts coming back to the UK, Malfoy. I assume you're
here to see your son?"
Lucius was well aware of the curious stares they were receiving. He
gave her a small smile and held out his arm. "Perhaps we should
walk?"
Ginny smiled back with acidic sweetness. "Perhaps you should
come back with me to the Ministry and turn yourself in?"
He ignored that. "I have something to give you to assist Severus, but
you must be willing to take it from me. And in turn, he must be willing
to take it from you."
That cryptic spiel got her attention. He was talking illegal magic. "The
only thing I want from you is a signed confession that you forced
Snape to free you."
One dark grey eyebrow rose. "Is that what he told you?"
"No," Ginny hissed. She realized she was now walking beside him.
"But that would work to clear his name and that's all I care about
right now."
"I don't know. Who knows what sensitive information you hold over
people's heads…"
He actually laughed. "I hold nothing now, child. Not even my own
name. I am, however, in possession of the one thing that may assist
Severus, if you will take it from me."
"You're crazy to think I'd take anything from you! I should detain you
right now! Take you to the Ministry for the justice you've run away
from like the coward you are!"
"What do you have to give me?" she asked, hating the slight tremor
in her voice.
She tensed when he reached into his pocket, but all he pulled out
was a small, brown envelope.
"Severus will know what to do with it. Tell him I'm returning the
favour," he said, and then he was on the escalator heading to the
lower floor.
Merlin blind her if the son of a bitch didn't wink at her before he
disappeared out of sight!
Ginny stood there for while, belatedly feeling shaken to her core
before she got a hold of herself. She slid her trembling fingers into
the envelope and pulled out an ornate gold key looped around a
finely wrought gold chain. To say that she was conflicted was an
understatement.
Things being as they were, home had become a rather fluid concept
for Draco.
Home was the safe place he returned to after doing whatever foul
thing he had needed to do over the past few years.
It amazed him how wet a human being could actually get. There was
the kind of wet you got from jogging through a drizzle, or a good
soaking from being in the Quidditch stands during a torrential
downpour. And then there was the type of wet that took tropical rain
hours to achieve. After a while of this, it actually felt like you were
drowning. Your bones felt wet.
And grey. Oh yes, there was a whole array of colour that made up
people, Muggles and Magicfolk.
Home had changed for him yet again. Now, it was Malfoy Manor
once more - all twenty-six acres of it. The size of it alone made him
strangely uncomfortable. He'd traversed the many rooms and
parlours that ought to have been familiar.
A twenty minute walk westward took you to a small Muggle town with
roads and a pharmacy and a primary school and a population of
eight hundred extremely normal individuals. Forty minutes east was
a wizarding settlement where you could get your broomstick serviced
while you ate at the local inn (where they served an excellent beef
and Guinness pie).
The cold was silent and intense. His breath formed a misty cloud in
front of him. Overhead, the sky was clear and cloudless and in the
absence of city lights it was possible to see thousands of stars if one
was inclined to count them.
There was a little red cylinder letter box at the gate and a forgotten
ceramic garden gnome in the front yard almost hidden under the
snow.
He had just wanted to see where she lived, he told himself. How she
lived. It was like filling in the pieces of a missing picture puzzle, so
that he could stand back and grasp the enormity of what he had
done to them.
The light from the two windows at the front of the cottage briefly
flickered. She was home. Why the hell did she have to be home?
The warmth and welcome of the place drew him in like a magnet.
Without really intending to, he took a step forward.
Chapter 58
Chapter Fifty-Eight
She could tell a bald face lie with a straight face (although she rarely
had need to do this) and she could be counted upon not to fall to
pieces in the event of a being sprung.
But this situation was not a Weasley Twins prank that required a
third accomplice. Nor was it any other sort of mission that she
carried out with, because of, or on behalf of, Harry.
This was law-breaking, pure and simple and if she was found out,
the consequences would be catastrophic.
"Bitch of a case," Ginny sighed, putting real irritation into her voice.
She swung her heavy satchel onto the desk and made a show of
digging through it. "As you can well imagine."
The guard nodded sympathetically. Ginny thanked her lucky stars
the girl was new. New, young, inexperienced and a little in awe of
Harry. Presently, that awe was transferred to Ginny.
"A tragedy, him turning like he did," said the girl in a sagely manner.
"My own Pa was at Hogwarts the same year Snape took on his
teaching job there. He was full of stories about what the greasy
bastard used to do to latecomers-"
Ginny cut her short. She wished she could recall the guard's name.
The girl went red and Ginny experienced a pang of remorse. "It's
Constance." She pushed a well-used metal box across her little
desk. "You know the drill from last time, Miss. All magical items to be
deposited here for the duration of your visit. You'll be seeing him in
his cell?"
As she had done on every visit previously, she dropped the locket
and chain into the metal box. Next came a spellchecking quill, a pad
of Everlasting Parchment, and a genuine mood ring (which, she
realized belatedly, was glowing a bright scarlet). All were minor
magical items. Novelty or sentimental pieces, really. But rules were
rules, Minister's daughter or not.
Not quite. You really should run a Detector over me to check for
hidden items, but you won't because you didn't the last time and
you'd be too embarrassed to ask to do it now.
Ginny's smile could have set in concrete. "Yes, that's it. I just hope I
have enough regular paper. I ran out, last time."
Her visits to Snape were nothing new and so everyone involved went
through the motions, her client included.
To say that Snape was difficult, was understating the matter. He was,
in a word, completely resigned to being locked up for the rest of his
life.
And this time, Dumbledore's support had not been enough. Ginny
was used to this and had long ago learned not to take it personally
whenever he insisted on reading throughout the duration of their
meetings. He had books aplenty for this task and was monosyllabic
at the best of times when not reading.
He wasn't reading today seeing as they were away from his cell.
Ginny often wondered how he managed to keep his prison-issue
tunic and trousers so immaculate. They still retained their creases
from whenever the last laundry day was. A slovenly Potions Master
wasn't a very good Potions Master, she reasoned.
"A bit late in the day for business, is it not?" he asked, with a raised
eyebrow. He was sitting ramrod straight across from her, his elbows
resting on the metal tabletop with his hands clasped.
"Oh? You have finally taken my advice regarding the futility of your
efforts, as appreciated as they are," he added. His politeness still
had an icy edge.
She got to the point. "A certain, elusive friend of yours saw fit to
approach me in the middle of the lingerie department at Harrods last
week."
The look on Snape's face was priceless. It was the first real emotion
she had seen from him in a very long time. "A friend, you say? You
are sure it was… him?"
Ginny folded her arms. "Professor, I don't know how many people
have tried to kill you in your long and eventful life, but I sure as hell
do not forget someone once they've tried to do me in, indirectly or
otherwise."
"Why?"
At first he just stared at it, and then he tilted his head back and
laughed. It wasn't the disturbing, maniacal cackle you sometimes
heard from Azkaban prisoners who had been there a little too long.
This was a low, amused, thoroughly sane, chuckle.
She frowned at him. "I hope that means you know what to do with it
because I don't think it's going to open any of the locks here."
He quit looking amused. "I know what to do with it because I made it.
This was what I gave Lucius to assist in his escape from house
arrest five years ago."
Ginny was sorry now she hadn't taken a closer look at the key.
Hermione would kill to get her hands on something like that for the
Department of Mysteries. " That's the mystery device you told them
about? What is it, exactly?"
There was so much irony dripping from his voice, Ginny didn't know
what to say.
"It only works if you love someone on the other side of a closed door,
literally? And the distance between the two individuals does not
matter?"
"Yes."
" Amazing," she breathed. "I wasn't under the impression that you
could collect heartbreak."
His expression suggested she could answer her own question if she
thought hard enough. Well… there was blood. So made up the
'heartbreak' component? Ginny looked up.
"You mean tears ?" A fleeting image of Snape crying over simmering
cauldron was just too ridiculous to maintain.
"So you and Lucius-" She knew he wasn't going to go into any
details.
"You know you're the only one that still calls me Professor."
Ginny was inexplicably glad for the change in topics. "And you still
call me child."
"It is what you are," he replied. "Why are you doing this?"
"The fact that I'm doing this goes to show what I think about the
sentence they imposed on you. You did what you did for the greater
good." "
The law does not see it that way, child. Not with my past. Especially
not when we are currently at war. We have been down this road
before."
"Then those of us who can will just have to make our own justice."
She marched over to the door and peeked out through the small,
square window at the top. The two guards were not watching.
"You're going to have to knock me out," she said when she turned to
look back at him.
"It will allow me to pass unnoticed through any doors that stand in
my way. Applied to my current predicament, that means I will be able
to walk out of Azkaban and as far as the last gatehouse without
being seen."
"Good enough," Ginny said, impressed. "Don't hurt any of the guards
if you choose to steal a wand."
Snape gave her a bland look, which she took to mean 'don't insult
me.'
Ginny gathered a deep breath and then screwed her eyes. "Ok. Do it
now. I'm ready."
She was expecting him to say, "No, no way! This is ridiculous!" And
that he wouldn't hit her. But this was Snape. He knew what was
required. He didn't look particularly apologetic before the act, nor did
he offer any verbal apology.
Later, they would ask her about the last thing she remembered.
Because obviously an investigation had to be launched and reports
filed into how such a fatal slip in security could have occurred.
They had no clue as to how Snape managed to walk past every
single checkpoint and even use the elevators without being seen. He
had taken a wand, too.
Horace, the guard working at the register on the ground floor hadn't
even noticed his was missing until everyone was ordered to check.
The last thing Ginny remembered was Snape telling her that he had
purposely awarded her a foul in the dying minutes of a sixth year
Quidditch game he had refereed. That particular foul had cost
Gryffindor the match and the championship.
It was one of the few things she and Harry were still a bit sore about.
"There was no foul. Draco was in the wrong," Snape informed her.
Hermione had access to this new and nifty bit of spell-work precisely
because she worked in the Department of Mysteries. And everyone
knew that the Department of Mysteries got to play with the coolest
new spells before even Aurors managed to get a look in.
So it was that on that cold, Saturday evening that a little 'ping' went
off inside Hermione's head. And this had nothing to do with the timer
on the oven where she had just pulled out a hopelessly burnt
lasagne dinner.
She'd been on her way to the fridge to see if something new and
edible had magically appeared between now and the last time she
had checked it two hours ago.
Wearing flannel pyjamas and bunny bedroom slippers than had seen
better days, Hermione paused in the middle of her kitchen and
blinked in concentration.
The invisible trip wire that guarded her modest property was
triggered by someone unexpected entering the compound. It would
have been naïve of her to assume that Voldemort would never think
to make her a target, whether for information or simply to make
Harry suffer.
Anyone who knew Harry well walked around with the same distant,
dark thought that something nasty was possibly lurking around the
next corner. It came with the territory of caring for Harry and having
him care for you. You just dealt with it.
Wasn't that what you normally did when you broke up with someone,
avoid them for a few days? She didn't have a clue seeing as this was
the first time she had ever had to end a relationship with anyone. Or
second time, perhaps, if you counted Krum, which you really
shouldn't because that was more one-sided than anything.
Her head was practical, scientific even, but her heart was not. It was
insane and unhealthy to want Nick to throw a chair, to stalk and
fume, to fight for her, to give her a look that nailed her brain to the
back of her skull and drag the truth of her feelings out of her.
When Hermione had arrived home, she'd figured an evening off the
grid was called for, so to speak. That notion was backfiring now.
There was no way to reconnect to the Floo Network quickly enough
to make an emergency call.
And it was not going to come to that before she put up some
resistance. The bastards had the audacity to attack her home? She
would make sure they left with a potent reminder.
The L-shaped kitchen was full of windows and so she bolted into the
lounge room where there was more cover. Ducking behind her sofa,
she crawled to one of the front windows to peek under the heavy
curtains.
It was frosted over from the outside, so she couldn't see very much
besides murky dark and the faint sound of the wind blowing through
the woods. There was someone in the yard, though. That much was
obvious.
She dropped the basket into a small compartment under the house.
The old cat was far too comfortable to mind being temporarily
jostled. There was a croaky "brrrow?" as she replaced the
floorboard.
Two months of regular hot meals, a warm bed and a roof over his
head had not succeeded in dulling Draco's razor sharp instincts. Yet
.
The snow was coming down hard now such that the cottage and
porch in front of him dissolved into a frosty, white blur.
It was a good thing he still managed to see the front door swing open
violently. Not waiting to question his judgment, he immediately hit the
ground, his gloved hands pressed flat on the snow covered paving.
Less than a meter over his head, a magical field spread in an arc
from the porch.
He heard, rather that saw the effect of the spell. There was the
sinister snapping of twigs, singeing noises and the sound of the
white picket fence at the front of the property splintering.
After this concentrated, contained destruction ceased, he cautiously
raised himself on his elbows and was confronted by a pair of worn,
rabbit slippers inches away from his face. The slippers were rapidly
sinking into snow that had turned into slush. All he could see were
two pairs of tattered bunny ears and flannel-covered ankles.
"Just Draco, is fine," he said as he sat up. He noted that his clothing
was already soaked through. "Though I'm flattered you think I'm the
son of God."
Yes, that was incredibly lame. Nothing diffused tension like a well-
timed, lame joke. Hermione was in no mood to see the lighter side of
the situation, however. Her wand hand was visibly shaking and her
face was a pale reflection of the snow.
"You ass! I could have killed you!" All amusement vanished then,
when he realized how acutely upset she was.
It would have felt entirely natural to step forward and take her into his
arms to reassure her, but Draco didn't, because he didn't allow this
feeling to eventuate.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she asked, with a beady
expression.
Draco decided honesty was the best course of action at this point.
He shoved back his hood. "I'm not sure. I was hoping you could tell
me."
"A scene would probably require more than just me to witness it."
Hermione's rueful admission that she they were well and truly alone
made him stop and turn around. She was holding open the door for
him.
The magnolia-themed fabric on her lounge set was not of her own
choosing. It came with the cottage and seeing as it was still
somewhat new, Hermione saw no reason to go out and buy a new
set. Muggles had become such a throw-away society. She was by no
means a pack-rat, but she admitted that she was prone to
sentimentality.
Except when she was busy throwing away and burning certain
painful memories, she morosely reminded herself.
She retrieved Crookshanks from his hideout under the floor and fed
him a warm saucer of milk. Something as mundane as tea and
biscuits didn't suit Draco. Neither did placid, poky living rooms,
apparently. It was like wearing clashing colours. His colours were
soot-black, grey fire smoke, red curse-sparks and the penetrating
green of Avada Kedavra.
That last thought made her shiver. She could picture him amidst
staggering opulence and she could picture him in the middle of a
barren desert. It was the more normal settings in between that didn't
quite work.
The fire was in full swing, but he still had to be cold. His wet cloak
was plastered to his body. She could easily make out the lines of his
biceps, his arms, his chest and the way his upper torso narrowed to
his waist. Strong, elegant hands held the saucer, flexing lightly as he
moved. His long index tapped against the tea cup gently.
"We really should get out of these clothes," she blurted, and then
blushed to the roots of her hair.
Ron had once said that her particular brand of brilliance needed its
own PR agent.
God, she really was her own worst enemy. Hermione closed her
eyes for a moment in quiet mortification.
She cleared her throat. "Since you're here, I wanted to ask you
something about Fida Mia. Loose ends, so to speak."
Damn his composure. How was it possible that he made her feel
intimidated when it was him who had called on her unexpectedly and
nearly got himself halved in the process?
"What did you want to know?" was his low response. There was a
sensual curiosity in his tone. Or maybe that was just his version of
being polite. Here she was, practically sitting in a soggy puddle and
the man wasn't even shivering. It was grossly unfair.
"The same thing that happened to yours the moment you drowned in
the Great Lake. It disappeared."
"Yes."
She worried her lower lip with her teeth. "And did that have anything
to do with…"
"With why I left?" he said. "You think that the end of Fida Mia meant
the end of my feelings for you?"
"Well that made sense at the time." It was good to feel her bitterness
returning. That kept her focused.
He sat just a little bit straighter. "Did you understand what I said to
you at the Manor?" he asked, carefully.
He set down his tea cup and saucer next to the plate of biscuits.
"Why did you invite me in? I can't see Winter approving."
She had been just about to tell him that about her break up with
Nick, but his uppity tone got to her. "Why would I need his approval
to have a guest over at my own house?"
"Because if I were him, I'd bloody well have a problem with you
letting me into your house," he snapped.
She stood up too. Shot up like a rocket, more like it. Her hand found
its way to her hip. "So that's it, then? You're leaving?"
"Was there something else you needed me for?" Again, that same
layered statement, though his tone was most definitely sharper now.
She blushed, despite herself. "I finally read the Committee's report.
Every word of it."
The look in his eyes was meant to make her feel small. Hermione felt
her feet backing herself away from him. The fear was familiar and
she hated that he still had the power to do it to her.
"So now you really do know what I'm capable of," he surmised, so
casually, but there was a taunt buried in there. "Your worst
suspicions from what happened at the Manor with Dominic Nomarov
have been confirmed."
"Like I said, I read what happened. You did what you had to do,"
Hermione said. She looked up at him, didn't flinch when his hand
came up to stroke her cheek using his knuckles. He ran his thumb
over her lower lip, staring at it as he did so.
He expected her and say no! But… but why did he want her to say
no?
It took her only a moment to answer her own question and in doing
so she realised that she and Draco really were more alike than they
assumed.
He wanted her to tell him to leave and never come back because
then he wouldn't have to keep baring his soul to her only to keep
getting rejected.
That was, until Draco Malfoy had sauntered back into her life. He
obliterated her hard-worn logic. He came with his own set of rules.
Hermione understood why he had left five years ago and it hadn't
really taken the Inquiry's report to do it. It hadn't even taken his
heartfelt explanation at the Manor to do it. She had understood all
along, but anger and bitterness were an addictive combination to
lessen the hurt of a broken heart. She had lost her soul mate once to
his perceived destiny, but she wasn't about to let him walk away from
her a second time.
Damn both their prides to hell and back. She wasn't going to lie to
save her pride.
"I do love you, Draco. With all my heart," she told him, breathlessly.
Hopefully, anyway.
"The reason I invited you in was to tell you that I've ended it with
Nick."
"Oh."
Oh indeed. He still seemed a little dazed. She ran her hand up to his
face, pushed some of his wet hair back, lightly ran her fingertips
down his forehead and then slowly slid her index finger down the
straight line of his nose. It was a purely indulgent exploration. She
couldn't stop herself.
"You're cold," Draco said absently, cupping her fingers and breathing
over them. He made it sound as if it was his fault.
She gave him a dreamy smile. He glanced toward the bedroom door,
which was ajar, and then looked further down the short hallway
towards the bathroom.
Her voice was mostly breath when she replied. "Yes, but it's tiny."
"Shower, then?"
The cottage's bathroom was a testament to the 70s love affair with
lime green and orange. She stood beside the laminated vanity,
clasping her hands together chastely and watched as he leaned into
the mosaic covered shower stall to turn the water on. The pipes were
old and cantankerous and there was a great deal of embarrassing
groaning before warm and then hot water blasted from the shower
head.
Hermione had half a mind to tell him that the temperature in the
small bathroom had already climbed several notches now that he
was unfastening his cloak. The wet, heavy garment dropped to the
floor.
His back was broad, sleek and damp. Hermione hadn't been
expecting to see a tattoo there, of course, but the sight of his
unmarked skin still made her extremely weepy. Her emotions were
all a-jumble. Nervousness, anticipation and overwhelming happiness
had to be leaking out of her pores, such was the intensity of her
feelings.
She sighed.
His pants were still on. He was watching her carefully; his expression
a perfect blend of concern and tangible wanting.
She gave him a cheeky look. "Really? We don't have a good track
record with hot water, if you'll recall."
"Let me," Draco said. And then he slowly unbuttoned her, button by
button, working his way down with precision slowness.
His voice was harsh when he replied. "Of course I'm worried. I don't
want to… overwhelm you."
"How come you're the only one doing the overwhelming? Mightn't I
overwhelm you a little?" she joked.
He snorted. "Granger, you unravel me. Every time. All too easily."
That was the most wonderful compliment he had ever given her. She
gave him a watery smile. Her smile went into hiding when he undid
his trousers, tossed them to a corner and then stepped into the
shower stall.
The shower head was set a bit too low for him, so he tilted it
upwards and stepped under the spray. They were now body to body
and she revelled in the feel of his unabashed erection pressing up
against the curve of her belly. He was hotter than the water, if that
was possible. He was hard and alive and oh so very real. She looked
up at him, feeling happy and scared and light-headed.
His hands politely held her to him just above her backside, his
thumbs massaging the base of her spine leisurely. "Me too."
Hermione felt the change in him instantly. Tension sprang in his arms
as if a switch had been flicked on. His right thigh moved to corral her
closer to him. He picked her up off the ground and pinned her
against the tiled wall of the shower stall.
Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist, her head thrown
back as he kissed and sucked down her throat after leaving her
mouth. The water beat down his back, steam billowed everywhere
and the heat at once became overwhelming where it was once
pleasurable. Hermione felt like she was drowning in the thick, hot air.
Her hands were at his shoulders, though she didn't really need to
support herself seeing as he was holding her weight up rather
efficiently. His hands held her around her ribcage under her breasts.
He wasn't just looking at her face anymore. No more politeness. He
meant to take what he wanted to take. Lifting her higher, he sucked
at her breasts, running his tongue around each areola before
punctuating the intimate caress with sharp tugs at her nipple.
Hermione gasped, feeling a jolt of electricity shoot all the way from
her nipples down to her toes.
"Ahh… oh God. Draco ."
Draco hovered over her mouth again, his head slightly tilted. He
stared down at her through heavy, wet lashes.
"Stop?" He licked his lips. She wanted to lick them too. And then she
did. That was enough of an answer for him.
Hermione wound her hands tight around his neck. "Please, I want all
of you. Now, Draco."
The blunt head of his cock was poised over the soft, entrance to her
body. "Are you sure, Granger?" He nudged forward and his cock split
her open, only a little. It was torture.
She was so ready she felt like the slightest well-aimed pressure
between her legs was liable to send her over the edge. They may as
well have been cast adrift from the real world. There was nothing
else to think about, nothing else to consider except the need to hold
him inside her.
And still he held back. But his resistance was taking a toll on him as
well. His breathing was ragged and there was a wildness now in his
eyes that thrilled her. She wanted to push herself onto him, impale
herself all the way down until there was nothing left of him outside of
her.
Draco slid his hand down between their slick bodies. Her head fell to
his shoulder as she felt the rough pads of two fingers began to
create a wonderful friction where she needed it most badly. She
bucked against him.
" Oh ." She was so close. Her nails dug into his shoulders. He
stopped his rhythmical caressing and instead pressed his fingers
against her. She wanted him to move.
"Hermione."
"Last time we did this. I said that you would belong to me? Do you
remember?"
She tried to move so that his fingers were back where they were
before.
"You don't belong to me, Granger. Or anyone else. I've seen enough
in this world of what happens when people think they have the right
to own anyone else. You belong with me, but I don't claim any
ownership over you. Alright? I just needed to make that clear."
It was a wonder her tongue could even work. This was important to
him so she made an effort. "I understand."
He nodded. With a guttural noise, he slid two digits inside her and
that was all it took. Hermione came so hard she cried out into his
shoulder and shook. Her delicate internal muscles clutched at his
fingers.
" God," he said, now sounding like he was the one being tortured.
And that marked the end of his control. She was boneless and
trembling when he gently opened her legs wider to make room for
him and then thrust up into her as she was still coming, so forcefully
that the soles of her feet left the ground.
She really was impaled for a moment. He kept perfectly still with his
eyes closed, allowing the remnants of her orgasm to wash over the
length of him.
And then he started moving; hard, decisive thrusts that jolted her
upwards. He was completely silent as he took her. The water
drowned out her small, sharp gasps at each deep thrust. It was
delicious. The push and drag of it, the way the blunt tip of him
seemed to strike that craving, keening part deep inside her.
After a while of this she didn't have the strength left to hold herself
up. He took over the task, lifting her bodily.
Now face to face, she sought out his mouth and kissed him with all
the love and passion that was in her.
She felt his breathing become uneven. He tensed, pulling her more
tightly against him as he climaxed heavily, their mouths still sealed
together, sharing heated breath. Hermione closed her eyes,
savouring the feel of him as he spent himself.
After catching her breath, she looked up at him with widely dilated
eyes. She had planned on some loving words, but all that came out
was. "Malfoy, I think I'm going to pass out from the heat."
He immediately set her down and turned the water off. She rested
against each other for a moment, in a cloud of steam.
"I'm very glad you trespassed this evening, even if I almost took your
gorgeous head off in the process," she said into his chest.
Hermione couldn't see his face but she guessed he looked languid.
She recalled how it had been between them after making love. She
got chatty. He got reflective.
"I didn't plan this," Draco said, rubbing his face into her neck. "If I
had planned it, there would have at least been dinner ."
The smell of the burnt lasagne had been quite evident from the
loungeroom.
Hermione didn't care for the scepticism in his voice, but she forgave
him because he was courteous enough to wrap her up in a towel and
carry her into her bedroom.
Chapter 60
Chapter Sixty
It was some time before dawn. The sky was still mostly black, but
there were red and orange, marble-like swirls snaking through the
clouds. The glass on the windows was frosted over with
condensation.
It was warm in Hermione's bedroom. Not the dry warmth that came
with a climate-control spell. This was a slow, pervasive warmth that
went all the way inside you, into your bones, into all the parts of you
that you thought were destined to feel permanently chilled. It was
about as good as a winter's morning was likely to get.
"Brrrow."
Crookshanks was a furry, orange donut at the foot of the bed. He'd
been slightly clingy since Hermione retrieved him from the hiding
spot under the lounge room floorboards. She had added a hot water
bottle to an already mountainous collection of bunny rugs in his
basket, but he never failed to make it back to the bed.
If Draco had to guess, he'd say the cat was feeling a touch
possessive.
"You can have your mistress all to yourself after breakfast," Draco
whispered.
She was lying across the top half of him, her cheek pillowed on his
bare chest, rising and falling gently with each breath he took. The top
of the sheet and quilt they shared lay across her bottom half, just
above her tailbone. Draco stared down, past her head and relaxed
shoulders, down her elegant back, over the gentle curve where back
became buttocks.
She wriggled a little and turned her face to the left side, revealing
curls on the right side that had been flattened from sleep.
Draco touched one of the bigger curls on her mop of short hair. He
did this cautiously, afraid that taking his good fortune for granted was
going to tempt fate to whisk her away. Like a burst bubble. Or worse,
maybe he would wake up alone and cold at the Manor.
There was real light now coming through the windows, such that he
felt the warmth of the sun on his face. It was officially a new day and
thankfully, it felt real. This was no dream.
When he looked back at Hermione, her brown eyes were open. She
didn't look all that awake. In fact, she looked a little grumpy. Draco
didn't know why, but he suddenly held his breath, bracing himself for
her change of heart.
"Your feet are cold," she grumbled, scrunching up her nose a little
and then, she was asleep again.
His clothes still looked a little damp. She remembered hanging them
beside the fire before they finally got to sleep.
She sat up, holding the sheet to her breasts. "What time is it?"
His eyebrow lifted. "This would be the same soundless alarm that
alerted you when I entered your front yard?"
"Yep. It's all in my head," she replied, with a small, smug look. She
knew he was impressed by the spell.
"You'll have to tell me how that works later," he said and then had the
audacity to walk toward the door.
"Good morning, Draco," she admonished. His lips parted and she
thought to reward his compliance by deepening the kiss, but as
usual, things got out of hand very quickly.
The sheet fell away. He looked at her face, his expression grave.
She wondered if daytime was bringing with it a myriad of worries that
were now tempering his passions.
He arched her over his arm, kissed her neck and then lavished
attention over her breasts. Hermione had always thought them a
good deal less than ample, but if Draco found them lacking, you
wouldn't have known it to look at him. His warm palms took hold of
her breast and massaged. He laved and then suckled on the hard,
sensitized tips before placing gentle, sucking bites oh the undersides
of her breasts.
In the brightness of day, seeing his blond head moving over her
chest was stirring.
They were both lying back on the bed now. He was placing soft, wet
kisses up her inner thigh. Desire thrummed through her. She was
sore and sensitive from the night's activities and if he kept going
where she assumed he was going, Hermione didn't think she'd be
able to bear it.
She gasped and dragged a pillow over her face to muffle the
additional sounds she made. Last night, all of this had been as
decadent as it was emotional. This morning, it was stark and real
and… ohhh .
She came.
Light exploded behind her closed eyes. In the middle of all of it, she
was aware that Draco picked her up and held her in his lap as the
tremors overtook her. He ran his warm fingers along her back in
long, soothing strokes. His erection was a steel brand at her lower
back.
Hermione didn't think she could handle him letting go of her, but she
managed.
And then he was gone, shutting the bedroom door behind him with a
soft click. It was a good thing magical folk tended to live such long
lives, Hermione couldn't help thinking. She'd need all those extra
years to simply get used to life with Draco.
Feeling extremely happy and relaxed, she flopped back on the bed,
pulled all the covers over her head. Presently, she felt something
nudge at her. She poked her head out from under the sheets and
found herself staring at a set of familiar, expectant, amber-coloured
eyes.
The old cat gave her an 'is he gone now?' sort of look and then
started to purr up a storm.
"You are so sleeping on the couch tonight mister," she scolded, but
then completely ruined the threat by cuddling him.
Ron was red from exertion by the time Hermione's front door swung
open. He realized he was standing there with a scowl on his face
and his fist in the air, looking like a moron, but shock soon
outweighed all other thoughts.
Draco Malfoy, dressed head to toe in black flying robes, was looking
at him with a slightly annoyed expression.
"Yes?"
"What are you doing here?" Ron demanded, regretting the fact that
his voice climbed half an octave. "And what happened to the front
fence?"
Ron tried to look over Draco's shoulder, but Draco made a point of
filling up the doorway with little space left over. "Where's Hermione? I
need to see her. Actually, it's good that you're here too. I have
something to tell the both of you." He took a step forward.
Draco slammed his open palm against the doorjamb, halting Ron's
progress. "She's getting dressed and then we're going to sit down to
a nice, civilized breakfast. You and I have already been through this
once before, so don't make this awkward for her now, Weasley," he
warned, and there was nothing mild in his voice now.
Ron was insulted. "We're not at school any more. It might surprise
you to know I do have manners."
Hermione was tightening the belt on a white robe as she walked into
the lounge. She noted, firstly, that it'd been Ron at the door and that
he and Draco seemed to be trying to give each other brain
aneurisms via looks of contempt.
Hermione was decent but she might as well not have been. She
looked flushed. Her hair was tousled and her lips looked swollen.
Still, Ron thought he managed to pull himself together rather
admirably and deliver the ambiguous news.
"Er, yes." It was clear that this part of the story made Ron a touch
uncomfortable. "She had scheduled a meeting in the evening in a
private interrogation cell. He managed to knock her out and then
escaped."
This time Draco did look stunned. "Snape laid hands on Ginny
Weasley?"
"She's fine," Ron was quick to reassure Hermione, who suddenly
paled.
"He got her on the back of the head. She landed neatly. Hardly even
a lump to speak of. Although try telling that to Harry-"
Ron scrubbed at the back of his head. "She's at the Burrow with
Harry. I don't know who is more upset, Harry or Mum. We already
have people on Snape's trail, the only problem is that he hasn't
seemed to have left much of one." He turned to Draco. "What's this
about a meeting with my father? He says you sent an owl last week
asking to speak to him about Snape's sentence."
"Oh for goodness's sake, Ron! Yes, he was with me the whole night!
From about eight in the evening."
"Ronald-"
Draco stood. "You're right, it doesn't. And I'll have you know I might
have done exactly that if there was no option for a retrial."
"Malfoy, you're not helping."
"By 'it' you mean that his escape qualifies as real justice?"
"Of course," said Draco, and there just enough condescension in his
voice to irk Ron.
"So," Ron began, "I, uh, gather everything between you and
Hermione is all sweet again?"
Old Draco would have told him to rack off and mind his own
business, but New Draco didn't seem to have a problem answering.
"As much as it could ever have been called 'sweet'". Malfoy was
looking at him with speculation in his uncanny eyes. It was making
Ron twitchy.
Ron nodded. "I guess you two weren't exactly the hand-holding,
roses on St. Valentine's Day type. Myself, I can't see the logic of
getting entangled with a girl right now…"
Draco's smile was cool. "Logic has never had anything to do with it,
unfortunately."
The day he actually admitted to liking Draco Malfoy was the day he'd
ask Terry Boot out to dinner. He was going to have to make an effort
to be civil towards Malfoy, however, because he told himself he
respected Hermione's decision.
She smiled at him, revealing a missing front tooth. Her hands were
clutched behind her back and she was twisting slightly from side to
side in the manner of a child who had a secret that needed to be
coaxed out of her. The Burrow was in the background of the photo,
in all its shambolic glory.
Draco noted her hair that was the colour of a summer wheat field.
Not a hint of ginger to be seen.
"I understand you and Harry talk a lot lately, and I know we don't
exactly get along. But now that you're going to be a part of
Hermione's life, I just wanted to tell you that you have my approval."
He ended this little speech with a nod, for emphasis.
Of course the bastard had to go and look amused. "Thank Merlin for
that, Weasley. Now I can sleep at night."
An oven mitt hit him in the back of the head. Hermione was in the
living room. She shot him a look that was several degrees colder
than the frigid weather outside.
Ron retrieved Hermione's oven mitt missile and grinned. "Like I've
ever been one to refuse a free meal."
Harry was in a foul mood. It didn't help that he had just had a
massive row with Ginny who had practically slammed his front door
in his face.
Those who knew the finer details of Snape's case responded with a
sort of gritty resignation that justice, however inappropriate, had
finally been served. Malfoy himself had petitioned Arthur Weasley for
a re-trial now that he was available to testify as a witness to the
events from five years ago, but Arthur had apparently been blowing
him off.
Those who only knew Snape as a former death eater, on the other
hand were hammering the Wanted posters all over London.
The topic of Snape's escape was still a very raw one. It didn't take a
great intellect to ask Ginny the right sort of questions. She could lie
well when the occasion called for it, but she had never been able to
lie very well to Harry.
Which was why it annoyed the hell out of him that she tried. She
trusted him with her own fate, but not with Snape's apparently. Arthur
was in a right royal snit about Azkaban's only escape since Bellatrix
had busted out.
Harry had no idea how long she'd been standing there. She had a
pass pinned to her taupe cardigan, which obviously meant she had
secured an appointment.
"Can I help you?" Harry asked briskly. He opened his office door for
her.
The name rang a quiet, tinkling little bell that wasn't quite loud
enough to jog Harry's memory. "How can I be of service?" he asked.
Harry frowned. His date book emerged and he thumbed through it.
Bugger. He saw that he was booked until noon, at least. That didn't
leave much time to try and coax Ginny out for a mid-morning coffee.
"I'm not sure I understand," he replied, still distracted.
She never lost her genial expression. "Well, you have his eyes, you
see."
"You have his eyes," Nana Hendricks patiently repeated. "My Arne
was killed in Knockturn Alley five years ago and his eyes were taken.
I believe they were entered as evidence in the prosecution of his
murderer?"
"I do not cast Fida Mia, young man," she corrected. "I merely allowed
for it to take place."
Harry was floored. "I know the case, but I wasn't working with the
Ministry at the time it occurred."
She didn't seem surprised. "I considered myself just about retired
from the moment my boy was killed. I had not the heart, nor the will
to keep going without my dear Arne. It was fitting that our last job
together was on that particular young couple. It turned out to be true
Fida Mia. Can't guarantee that happens very often." She beamed at
him, her face a sea of wrinkles. "Ending on a high note, you see?
The young man and his lady, they are still acquaintances of yours,
are they not?"
"Friends," Harry corrected. "What do you mean when you say there
isn't a guarantee that Fida Mia happens often?"
"Not all love is the same, Mr. Potter. It is like that old Muggle saying,
you can lead a horse to water, but you can't force it to drink, yes?
Hearts and minds are stubborn things sometimes. Souls on the other
hand, well now, they tend to know what's what."
Almost as if she was reading his mind. The old woman's milky gaze
lowered to Harry's desk, where a picture of Ginny was currently
scowling at him with her arms folded.
She reached into her carpet bag and rummaged for a while. Out
came a walking stick, a copper kettle and what looked to be a set of
steak knives. She eventually drew out a slightly scrunched up
business card, with a pleased "ah, there you are," and smoothed it
out before handing it to Harry.
The bright purple text was a series of squirming squiggles. They only
started to take shape into words once the translation spell imbued
into the card recognized the need to display the text in Harry's native
English.
"Ah yes, well… my girlfriend and I… It's really very kind of you to
offer, Mrs. Hendricks, but Fida Mia isn't really our sort of thing."
She shrugged. "Then give that to the young man and his lady. If only
for a story to tell their children."
Harry helped her with her bag and saw her to the door. "I'm very
sorry for your loss."
"So am I, my boy. So am I."
After a quick shower (just being in the shower stall since their
previous encounter on Saturday night had her blushing), she laid out
a few outfits on her bed (the bed too made her blush) and
contemplated what to wear.
It was serious, sexy, fitted and low at the front. There was also a
more light hearted number in peach chiffon which made her feel like
she was going to a school formal.
In the end she decided to forgo the dresses and opted instead for
elegant comfort. She was in enough of a state already without
having to worry about spilling out of her outfit over dinner. Though
really, Hermione doubted she had enough in the chest for that to
ever be a genuine concern.
Honestly, it was a worry how often she talked to herself in the mirror.
The face that looked back at her was flushed with excitement.
"If Miss will kindly accompany Toolip to the drawing room? Master
Draco is to be meeting you there."
The drawing room in question was in the west wing. The sound of
her heels on the marble floor echoed along the corridor. It felt odd
being back in the house under such pleasant circumstances after the
recent Death Eater attack.
She didn't have to wait long in the warm and welcoming drawing
room, which was just as well because she was fidgeting too much to
be able to sit down in one place for very long. Draco was buttoning
his cuffs as he strode through the doors.
"Sorry, I would have met you at the door myself, but I was speaking
on the Floo with Alastor Moody."
Hermione suddenly wished she had worn a dress after all. Draco
was dressed very much for fine dining. He was wearing an
exquisitely tailored, moss green robes. He looked…
"You look beautiful," he said. The warmth in his eyes told her that he
meant it.
"You too," she said and then wanted to smack her forehead.
They stood there staring at each other, before Hermione
remembered that she hadn't kissed him in greeting.
"How was work?" he murmured, after they pulled apart. They were
still standing very close together.
He held out his arm towards a velvet upholstered chaise, "Would you
like to sit down and have something to drink before dinner?"
To her surprise, Draco looked a little at a loss. She could have kicked
herself. Sitting down for pre-dinner drinks was the done thing, wasn't
it? Drinks provided a bit of social lubrication. But then they shouldn't
need social lubrication. Also, social lubrication was what had started
their tumultuous relationship in the first place.
God, did it really have to be this awkward now? Why was he being
so formal? A well-mannered Draco was unnerving to everyone
concerned, Draco included, apparently.
"Are you hungry? You must be." He gave her an intense look and
held out his arm, which she took. "We'll head directly to dinner then."
They progressed to the dining hall, which wasn't too far from the
drawing room. That was a shame really, because Hermione rather
enjoyed the short stroll. Having never seen the main dining hall, she
gawked a little at its size and didn't realize that Draco had drawn her
chair out for her.
"Thanks," she blushed and unfolded her napkin. This was all very far
removed from the last time they had taken a meal together at the
dingy little sushi bar on Euston Street.
Draco was seated too far away. 'Too far', by Hermione's definition,
meant that she couldn't see the subtle changes in his eyes that gave
away his thoughts more easily than the rest of him. She couldn't pick
up the smell of his sexy aftershave either.
"Moody tells me that they're not having much luck in tracking Snape,
although there was word of a sighting in Valencia," he informed.
Hermione fiddled with her soup spoon. "Snape cooling his heels in
Spain? What a concept! How reliable is the source?"
"It's very nice," she answered. Undoubtedly, it was all very nice. If
only she could let herself enjoy what she was eating.
She took in the surroundings as they ate, noting the portraits on the
wood-panelled walls and the lovely, high, moulded ceilings. The hall
was long enough that it took three massive chandeliers quite easily.
The third course was seafood, a cake of crab with chilled cucumber
and crème fraiche. Toolip remained in attendance, in the event that
their wine glasses needed refilling.
It occurred to Hermione that neither she nor Draco had taken more
than a sip or two since the dinner had started. She looked up at him
and was startled to note that he was staring down at his plate with a
troubled expression.
Hermione felt her stomach lurch. "The crab?" she asked, even
though she knew that wasn't what he meant.
Draco pushed his chair back and threw his napkin on the table. "I
have a better idea." He picked up his plate and then held out his
hand to her. "Come with me."
All her worries dissolved in the face of the gentle mischief in his
eyes. It was enough to make her fall in love with him all over again.
Hermione picked up her own plate and then took his hand. "Where
are we going?"
A fire had already been built in the long, split level room. In front of
the fireplace, Draco pulled off his shoes, sat down cross legged on
the thick rug and patted the space beside him. Hermione slipped out
of her heels and gladly sank down beside him.
They talked and ate, where possible, with their hands. And this time,
there were numerous refills of their wine glasses. Before they knew
it, the entire bottle had been finished. Two hours passed by
incredibly quickly.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers by the time desert was
served.
"I feel bad. I think I ate most of that," Draco said, putting down the
spoon he had used to eat Hermione's portion of the chocolate
mousse.
She didn't think he looked particularly sorry about it, so she poked
him in the ribs.
Hermione then used the tip of her index finger to wipe off the last
remaining dab of mousse. She sucked on her finger thoughtfully as
she stared into the fire.
Hermione distractedly popped out her fingertip from her mouth and
only then noticed his glittering gaze. "This was a fantastic idea. I
don't suppose you get to dine like this very often at home?"
Draco stuck his tongue in his cheek. "It rained. Being in the middle of
a sticky summer, we thought it was the best thing that could have
happened. We still had out picnic, ate soggy sandwiches and
drenched potato salad. Mother had a fit at the amount of mud we
managed to track back into the house."
"I feel new to this," she heard him say next. And there was a more
serious edge to his voice. "I don't like being… uncertain. You're
going to have to give me some guidance."
"I don't think you need guidance," she said, huskily. "You seem to
know what you're doing more often than not."
Draco's answering smile was pure sex. "I mean everything that
comes before and after. What do nice girls like to do outside of bed?"
His voice was a low rumble she swore she could feel vibrating in the
core of her.
"Whatever gave you the idea that I'm a nice girl?" Hermione replied
seriously. She placed her palm over the pronounced bulge in his
pants. She was well aware that he'd been hard for the past hour.
She sighed. The wine made her brave and more than a little
impatient to touch him. The firelight turned his pale skin gold. He was
hot and very sleek. The familiar smell of him was intoxicating. She
squeezed along his shaft and was delighted when a tiny drop of dew
appeared at the tip. Hermione bent her head and flicked out the tip of
her tongue to taste him. Her palette still held a trace of chocolate.
The combination of flavours was not unpleasant.
Draco hissed and caught her about her shoulders. "Stop that."
She was.
It was a trip to sum up the past. It was cleansing, really. The dinner
date had started the process, now the walk they took through the
Malfoy grounds marked the start of whatever lay ahead.
She nodded. They were both wearing gloves, but she thought she
could still feel the heat from his hand.
They walked through a wooded area at the back of the estate. It was
the same path where they had stumbled across Carmen Meliflua and
Tandish Dodders on the night the Death Eaters attacked the Manor.
Soon, they came to the top of a small hill that overlooked the Manor
from the back of the property. From this vantage point, the house
and the village of Thimble Creek were nestled in a valley below. The
innumerable windows of Malfoy Manor were aglow, from east wing to
west wing. It was an impressive sight.
They stood inside the small structure. Draco wrapped his arms
around her from behind and rested his chin on her head.
"What will you do now?" she asked him.
He was still staring at the house. "Make love to you in every room."
She felt him grin.
"Seriously, though. What will you do? I can't see you being content to
play lord of the Manor indefinitely."
"Ah, but being lord of the Manor requires more than strutting around
in tight riding pants, brooding over absinthe in the evenings and
tormenting the household staff with my debauched demands."
"It was every Thursday. He'd send someone down to the village. And
if a suitable girl could not be found there, he'd have a companion
sent from London."
"The name Malfoy was not always associated with the Dark. We had
quite a colourful, almost flamboyant history. Until my father, of
course. Lucius brought back black, in more ways than one."
"Where do you think he is? Your father, I mean." Hermione asked.
"If I had to put money on it, I'd say he's on his way to meet up with
Snape, if they haven't already done so." Draco's tone was
amusement on ice.
She felt him shiver a little at that declaration. Draco pushed back the
hood of her cloak so he could look at her face. "I will never tire of
hearing you say that."
The tall man with the straw fedora was an easy target. Or so the
young pickpocket thought. He looked like one of those over-
confident, tourists who had strayed from the herd armed only with his
brand spanking new, Lonely Planet guide. The khaki slacks he wore
had pockets everywhere, but the one that most concerned the
pickpocket was located on the right, front-side. It was deep and was
gaping enticingly.
The man walked exceedingly quickly despite the thick crowd. And
perhaps that alone ought to have been enough to put the thief off his
goal. As adept as he was in skimming his way through the people,
the pickpocket still found himself out of breath by the time he was
two or three strides behind his intended target.
He kept his eyes on the prize, on that slack pocket, weighted down
by something he hoped would pay for a week's worth of fun.
Now was his chance. The thief approached from behind, curving his
arm forward and around, his practiced fingers slipping deftly into the
pocket without touching anything in particular. Not yet. There was no
wallet. His thumb and index finger closed around a slender piece
of… wood?
A strong hand suddenly covered his. The grip was crushing. Eyes
the colour of hammered steel looked down at him from under the
brim of the straw fedora.
A highly annoyed Lucius Malfoy made his way out of the market
place and to the outdoor café where he knew Snape was waiting.
Hogwart's former Potion Master was nearly done with his mint tea by
the time a disgruntled Lucius pulled up a chair.
"I gather you had no luck finding a newspaper?" Snape inquired with
a raised eyebrow.
Still, such attire had its uses. When they had passed through South
America, Snape had sometimes been mistaken for a priest and had
cleverly said nothing to put good Samaritans off the notion of feeding
a dusty, travelling padre.
Lucius took off his hat and threw it on the table. "No bloody news
about anything happening outside the bloody city. I don't know why I
let you talk me into coming here."
"I do beg your pardon," said Snape, with great dignity. "Are you
going to read it or not?"
He must have found the article he was looking for, because his eye
widened and then narrowed and occasionally, there was a derisive
snort.
"Fifty guests! Can you believe that? That's hardly a rabble, let alone
a proper wedding."
"Yes, and look how well that turned out for you."
"They held it at Hogwarts." And this time there was neither approval
nor disapproval in Lucius' voice, so Snape said nothing.
The two men left the roadside café and proceeded to the train station
to catch the non train to Fez.
It never did for fugitives to stay in the one place for very long.
~The End~
Writing this story has not always been a bed of roses. There was a
while where DB was doomed to become abandoned, but thankfully,
with some assistance, I was able to keep going.
I'm upset I've lost all the feedback accumulated in that time.
Hopefully, CG will be up and running in the near future and all will be
well. It's nice to look back at a record of comments, especially when
they were made as I was writing.
I have to apologise for the typos - I know there are still a lot in the
text and it can make for annoying reading. The entire story is in the
process of being beta'd for spelling and grammar, so in a little while,
I'll go through each chapter and make the required corrections. My
aim was to get the story posted somewhere quickly, in response to
emails asking me where the bloody hell the story had gone.
There is a small group of people who have made this story possible,
whether through influencing me with their own amazing works, or
through their support and friendship in the community. I hope they
know who they are.
All the challenge lines were underlined in the story. Did you
spot them?
Ginny rolled her eyes. "What shocking hypocrisy, Ron. I have six
brothers, it's not like I haven't seen a-"
"What do you mean only one room and only one bed?"
" You are so sleeping on the couch tonight mister," she scolded, but
then completely ruined the threat by cuddling him.