(no subject)
Celebrate the Season Fic Request for agarttha
Special thanks to the lovely argosy for this back-up story!
Title: Where the Magic Is
Author: argosy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. I don’t think even the stuff I made up is mine at this point.
Author's Notes: For Agarttha who must bear some of the blame/credit
Summary: After Dumbledore’s death, Draco Malfoy vanished without a trace. Ten years later he may have re-emerged as a robber of Muggle banks. Can a bushy-haired gal from Magical Law Enforcement find happiness in the arms of a Master Criminal? (Probably not as crackfic-y as it sounds. On the other hand...)
Reporter: But why rob banks?
Willie Sutton: Because that’s where the money is.
Sheila’s feet hurt.
“Wear comfortable shoes,” Christopher the manager had said when he’d hired her. Well, she was, wasn’t she? This morning she’d put on the very ugliest, most scathingly sensible pair she could bring herself to wear. My goodness, the heel was less than two inches. What more did they want from her? But even shoes as sensible as Solomon would have been no match for the five gruesome hours she’d just spent on her feet.
Sheila slipped one kitten heel off, rubbing her sore right foot against her calf behind the counter. When her parents had asked -- all right, insisted -- that she take the job at the Midland Bank, she should have said no, that’s all. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford to take care of her. She didn’t spend that much money. Not nearly as much as her friend Sophie, for instance. One Harrods’ weekend a month was all she asked. My goodness, it wasn’t as though they were poor.
So there she was, fresh from the whirlwind of corporate training - exciting in very nearly the same way rust was - freshly scrubbed, neatly dressed, hideously shod, and in sole proprietorship of Window Five, the last on the left. Her name was even on a hideous little card propped in front of her.
The whole dreary day customer after customer -- “guests,” Creepy Chris insisted on calling them -- slithered up to her window. Deposit my check, tell me my balance, give me money. Money, money, money. She was heartily sick of the stuff. It was all so sordid.
And dirty. Her hands smelt like banknotes. And her manicure was in shreds. Sheila hadn’t known handling cash could be so sick-making. She sighed. So much money. And none of it hers.
One could rob the place, she considered. Easy. Slip into the vault on her break, grab the goodies, then say she had a headache and leave early. Why not? My goodness, she deserved the money as much as this squalid little bank did.
At least the day was finally drawing to a close. Only a few straggling customers polluted the floor. She scanned the queue warily.
Well. Things were perhaps looking slightly up.
He was completely lovely. Late twenties, slim and tall. Pale blond hair slightly mussed in an artfully careless way that said, I don’t have to spend a fortune on my hair; I do it to enrich the world’s aesthetics. Long black lashes from under which gleamed grey eyes that harmonized like a choir with his immaculately cut charcoal grey suit.
Sheila knew clothes. That suit was Savile Row, from one of the finer bespoke tailors, and two-thousand pounds if it was a penny. He wore it the way God had intended clothes should be worn. It skimmed his figure like a caress. Lucky suit, Sheila thought.
He stepped forward. “Sheila,” he said, and smiled. She was suddenly aware of her heart beating.
She was meant to ask if she could help him. That’s what came next, but she was having trouble breathing.
He seemed to understand. “Sheila,” he repeated quietly and she felt a rush of heat. “I want you to do something for me.” He smiled a secret smile. “We’re going to have a little adventure. I’m going to rob your bank.”
Oh. Well, it wasn’t her bank. He mustn’t think she would have anything to do with the shabby little place if it was up to her.
He smiled again. Oh. Rob the bank. He was a bank-robber. How exciting.
“Now, I don’t want you to be frightened,” he continued conversationally. Frightened? Was she frightened? Sheila considered the question.
“I’m not frightened,” she answered truthfully.
“Good girl,” his smile brightened. He looked straight into her eyes. Oh he was lovely. “And I don’t want you to think about pressing that alarm button under the counter. Or the one near your right foot. I may have a gun, and if the alarm goes off, I may shoot everyone here.”
“Do you have a gun?” she asked breathlessly.
His laugh was warm. “I think it would perhaps be best for you to assume that I do. You’ll feel better in the long run. And it will make the story more thrilling for your friends.”
Well, after all she didn’t want anyone to get shot. Even Creepy Chris, who, by the way, had told her that in actual real life banks never got robbed. She found herself smiling back at the handsome thief. My goodness, this was too exciting.
“Now,” he continued smoothly, smiling a smile only for her, “I want you to meet me by that door. I’m going to give you a satchel, and you’re going to go into the vault...”
Sheila was only half-listening. What would he do next? Should she really cooperate? She looked into his calm grey eyes. Well, why not?
After all, it wasn’t her money.
*
“It’s him.” Hermione Granger slapped the Muggle video cassette down on Kingsley’s desk.
“Who?” the Minister of Magic asked with a puzzled frown, then saw her face. “Oh. Malfoy.” He sighed. “Where?”
“Bank. West End. Three days ago.”
Kingsley picked up the tape, inspecting it curiously. “Has Arthur seen this?” He turned it over in his hands, then squinted at it closely, bringing it an inch from his face. “He’s been wanting to get his hands on a vodeo tape.”
“Video tape,” she corrected impatiently, recognizing Kingsley’s attempt to distract her, and annoyed with herself for falling for it. “Multi-cam surveillance from the Midland Bank, London Branch West.”
“Ah,” the older man leaned back in his chair, watching Hermione carefully. “And Malfoy is definitely on it, is he?”
“Yes.” The Minister raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s the best possibility so far.”
Kingsley opened his mouth but Hermione raised a hand against his words. “Three days ago someone walked into the bank in the middle of the afternoon, told the teller he had a gun --”
“Gun?”
“A Muggle weapon.” She kept her voice carefully under control, resisting the suddenly desperate urge to gnash her teeth. “He walked out seven minutes later with almost half-a-million pounds in notes and securities. He obviously knew where the cameras were, and he was careful not to let himself be photographed head on. But it was Malfoy or his twin.”
Kingsley shuddered. The prospect of two Draco Malfoys was too horrible to contemplate. He placed the tape back on his desk.
Hermione drew her wand and tapped the cassette. “Exhibeo.” A grainy image hovered in mid-air above Kingsley’s desk.
He leaned forward with interest. “So that’s how a vodeo tape works.”
The amorphous image showed the well-dressed man stepping up to the counter. In Kingsley’s opinion it looked rather more like a flirtation than a hold-up. Then the man - who could be Malfoy, Kingsley admitted, or any other too self-confident blond -- disappeared from the image, to re-emerge moments later walking out of the bank with a valise.
“That’s Muggle thievery?” Kingsley watched the image flicker into nothingness. “Rather anti-climatic.”
“It’s not always that smooth,” Hermione replied grimly. “Well?”
Kingsley regarded his employee contemplatively. “I don’t have to remind you that the majority of the wizarding world believes Draco Malfoy is dead?”
“I’ve never believed that.”
“Yes.” He motioned her to sit. She did so reluctantly, perching on the chair’s edge. Kingsley could see the pent-up energy threatening to explode.
“Yes,” he repeated. “I know. There was last year in South Africa, and the year before that in New York.”
“Those were solid leads,” she muttered, but Kingsley saw she had the grace to look embarrassed. That was a positive sign.
“Hermione --” he began.
“Kingsley,” she insisted. “It’s him.”
“You know we value you at the Ministry,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re a rising star in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There’s been some talk of a promotion.”
“Kingsley,” she repeated, the calmness in her voice disturbing him more than her earlier intensity had. “You were an Auror. Please don’t go bureaucrat on me now.”
“Draco Malfoy hasn’t been heard from in ten years. If he’s not dead, he’s as close to it as matters. This obsession of yours --”
“Obsession is hardly fair --”
“Hermione, I say this as a friend --” He stopped himself. Took a breath, shook off the last vestiges of the politician and looked at her frankly. “You may be hurting your career at the Ministry with this fixation. There’s no warrant for Malfoy. If he was alive he’d be covered under the Former Death Eater Amnesty Act. There’s no official grounds to look for him.”
“I simply wish to investigate an allegedly Muggle crime that I believe may have been committed by a wizard. That’s the essence of my job description.” She smiled wanly. “Please, Kingsley. If it’s not Malfoy, you’ll never hear his name from my lips again.”
He looked up in surprise. She looked serious. “I promise,” she added, meeting his eyes.
He sighed. “One day. Find out what you can. And if you discover reason to believe it is Malfoy, the Ministry will have no official standing in whatever steps you choose to take. You have some holiday time due, I believe?”
She nodded.
“I hope you won’t have to use it,” he continued. “I plan on holding you to your promise, Hermione.” He rose and opened his office door for her.
“You’ll understand if I don’t wish you luck.”
*
Hermione emerged from the tube station onto a snowy London street. She always preferred to use Muggle transportation on her investigations. Apparation seemed somehow unfair and could, on occasion, alert a wrong-doing wizard.
There’d be no danger of that this time, she thought to herself grimly as she tread carefully on the icy pavement. Malfoy had been gone for three days -- rather, she forced herself to be fair, the bank-robber had been gone. But it was Malfoy, she was sure of it in her bones. Hermione discounted the idea of Witch’s Intuition as being as silly as Divination -- this was her years of Magical Law Enforcement experience speaking.
She’d joined the Ministry the day after the War had ended, nearly nine years now, she realized in some amazement. Harry and Ron had wanted to take some time -- travel, have the carefree childhoods that had been denied them all. There’d been reward money for being one of those who’d killed Voldemort -- she didn’t have to work, perhaps ever, but she felt restless, incomplete. She’d needed the distraction of work, though she’d never been quite sure what she needed distracting from.
“That’s our girl,” Ron had shrugged as he and Harry had left on their “Voldemort is Bloody Dead This Time and Not Coming Back Ever So Don’t Bother Us for at Least a Year World Tour,” as he called it. He’d insisted Harry call their trip that as well, but let Hermione, the grown-up, call it a holiday. She could already feel the chasm starting to grow between herself and her two friends.
Harry had eventually settled into a life of professional Quidditch -- not though with the Chudley Canons, who as Ron pointed out ruefully, couldn’t afford him -- and intended to become an Auror when his athletic career came to an end. Ron had moved to Romania to work with dragons alongside his brother, taking his new wife, who retained her maiden name of Padma Patil, with him.
Hermione had found herself a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s new Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Muggles. It galled her that Muggles needed protecting, but since the end of the War, and especially after the passage -- in the new spirit of peace and wizardly brotherhood -- of the Death Eater’s Amnesty, unscrupulous wizards had been making victims of Muggles more and more often.
It could take many forms. Sometimes Muggles were sold fraudulent Elixirs that promised to grow hair or bring wealth. Honestly, Hermione had thought, If wizards were going to go to all that trouble, why not brew a working potion? Or Muggles could find their valuables magicked off their person or out of their house, a quick Obliviate ensuring no witnesses.
There was the bank. Hermione stopped, hugging herself against the cold, and inspected it from across the street. Malfoy had entered through the front door. There, she observed. Why bank-robbery, she wondered. Something so essentially Muggle? For now she’d have to chalk it up to the eternal mystery that was Malfoy.
He’d run away from Snape almost as soon as the professor had spirited him away after Dumbledore’s death. He’d joined his father, who’d escaped from Azkaban around the same time, and the Death Eaters briefly -- for less than a month, Hermione knew -- then vanished from the wizarding world. His disappearance had been complete. There’d never been a sight or story of him, and after a few years of idle curiosity, most wizards had been glad to think him dead.
Why would he cut himself off from his world? If he hadn’t wanted to be a Death Eater, he could have joined the other side. He could even have remained neutral; the Malfoy fortune would have allowed that. Why hadn’t he surfaced after the amnesty? Not because he was dead, Hermione was sure. The longer the question remained, the more it ate at her insides. It was always there, nagging her in the background like a sore tooth, or a cancerous growth. Why would he leave magic behind?
She had to know, and she would ask him personally.
*
“Handsome. Fit. Dishy.” Hermione looked up from her notebook. “That’s how you would describe the robber?”
“Oh yes.” The vapid blonde nodded enthusiastically. “And ever so desperate. He pointed an absolutely enormous gun at me.”
“Really?” Hermione kept the skepticism out of her voice. “The surveillance tape must have missed that.”
“Oh yes. And he was so polite.”
“Polite,” repeated Hermione. “But desperate.”
“Yes,” Sheila nodded. “It was too thrilling.”
“I’m sure.” Hermione put her notebook away. She only used it as a prop to enforce the impression she was a Muggle detective. This was the important part. “Sheila, I’m going to show you a photograph.”
Through trial-and-error, Hermione had years ago discovered she could use a modified Stupefying Charm to freeze wizard photographs for almost an hour. She produced one of Malfoy taken by Colin Creevy back at Hogwarts.
“Ooh,” Sheila’s eyes lit up, “that’s him. But he’s older now.” She looked at Hermione with new respect. “You’re much cleverer than the last lot of police were.”
She reached for the photograph. “Do you think I could have this? To remember my horrible ordeal?”
“No!” Hermione grabbed the photograph back quickly. “It’s evidence,” she added at the other woman’s crestfallen look.
“Oh.” She sighed, then rallied. “It’s rather a funny picture anyway. What is that he’s wearing? A college gown? He was dressed ever so much better the other day.”
“Really.” Hermione noted absently. Her mind raced with possibilities now that another living being, even Sheila, had confirmed the existence of Malfoy.
“Oh yes,” the girl prattled on. “He was wearing the most beautiful suit. Henry Poole or Anderson & Sheppard, I’d say. Crime must pay. Still you wouldn’t think a robber would want to spend all that time on Savile Row getting it fitted personally. Don’t they usually hole up in caves, or hide-outs or something?”
“Savile Row?” asked Hermione, listening again. “How can you be sure?”
The girl looked startled. “Oh you can always tell a Savile Row suit.” Her look changed to something like pity. “I don’t suppose you meet many well-dressed policemen.”
“And he would have to go for a fitting personally?”
“Several times for a cut that fine.” The pity intensified. She added, in a helpful tone, “Perhaps you’d meet better-dressed men if you joined Scotland Yard.”
“I’ll think about it,” Hermione replied.
*
She’d been to nearly every tailor on the Row. Henry Poole. Huntsman. Gieves & Hawkes. She hadn’t found Malfoy, but she’d got quite an education. “Bespoke” is different than “made-to-measure.” James Potter, no relation, Hermione assumed, first introduced the Tuxedo to America. A “skeleton baste” is not, as one might assume, an unsatisfactory cooking method, but a type of fitting.
What no tailor was able to tell her was where Malfoy was. When she showed them his picture, most were quite firm in their conviction that Malfoy was not a customer. A few insisted their clients were “confidential,” but Hermione could tell they’d never seen Malfoy before.
There were very few tailors left to visit. Sighing, she pushed open the door of a smallish one that called itself “Kilkenny's,” if the sign on its facade was to be trusted.
It contained the by-now-familiar bolts of worsted (”English worsted is the finest in the world,” Hermione had been assured), as well as a rainbow of threads behind the counter and two rather ominous-looking blank-faced mannequins wearing finely-made suits (dinner jacket, peaked lapel, Hermione could now identify). One form behind the counter wore a half-made jacket of a district-checked tweed.
There was only one worker, a balding middle-aged man who coughed deferentially, “May I help you, madam?”
“I’m trying to find a man who may be one of your customers,” she replied.
His deference reduced by about half. “You must understand that our client list is exclusive and confidential.”
She could tell he wouldn’t be impressed by a common detective. “I represent the firm of Markham, Little & Emerson,” she tried. “This man has been left a rather substantial legacy by an important personage. Between you and me, a royal personage,” she added when she saw she’d caught his interest. “And we need to locate him. Perhaps you’d look at a picture?”
He did so, reluctantly drawn by his curiosity. “I’m sorry, Madam. He is not known to me.” But she’d caught the telltale widening of his eyes, and seen the way they’d moved briefly to the tweed jacket behind the counter.
“A shame,” she feigned disappointment. “Still I hope my visit isn’t completely wasted. I’m looking for a present for my husband. Perhaps you’d care to show me that plaid with the lavender stripe?”
While he was fetching the bolt -- chosen by Hermione for its inconvenience -- she used her wand to Summon a swatch from the tweed jacket. She felt a pang of guilt, but, after all, she’d tried to do it the easy way.
He returned with the bolt. She examined it. “Oh. Thanks awfully, but I’m afraid this isn’t at all what I want.”
She turned to leave. His voice followed her out. “Is Madam sure she knows what she wants?”
That, Hermione reflected, was a very good question.
*
“I’ve got him.”
Kingsley Shacklebot looked up from a tiresome report on the changing migration patterns of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack to see Hermione’s head protruding from his office fireplace.
He left his desk, settling in the armchair he kept by the fire for such occasions.
“He --”
“I’d really rather not know anything about it, Hermione.”
She looked chastened. Even after all these years the Cleverest Witch of Her Age found it difficult not to share anything she’d recently learned.
“I’ll need that holiday time, Kingsley.”
He sighed. “How long?”
“I’m not sure.”
“All right. Take what time you need. Your job will be here.” He paused. “For a while.”
She nodded, and was pulling back to her side of the fire when he spoke again.
“Hermione -- If Malfoy truly isn’t dead, then he’s been gone for ten years voluntarily. I can’t think he’ll want to be discovered.” He paused, leaving something hanging in the air.
“Yes?” she asked finally.
“Why is it so important that you find him?”
Hermione bit her lip, seemed about to answer, then vanished in the flames.
*
They’d blindfolded her, first off. No, she amended, first they’d taken her wand, snapping it before her eyes. Next they’d bound her hands behind her back and tied her to a hard wooden chair.
They hadn’t cursed or hexed her in any way. Why would they need to, she thought bitterly, she was completely in their power.
How could she have been so stupid? She’d known she was a target. Not because of any innate wonderfulness of her own, but as a close associate of Harry Potter. She was always warning Harry and Ron to take precautions, why hadn’t she?
A book! She’d just wanted to take a quick trip to Diagon Alley to buy a first edition of an obscure spell book she thought might come in handy during their search for the Horcruxes. The boys hadn’t been available to go with her. And she’d hated imposing on Harry since Dumbledore’s death anyway.
Perhaps her own grief had made her incautious. She’d always counseled the others not to go anyplace alone. The bitterest pill was having her own advice proved right, too late. Still, it had been broad daylight, and a crowded Diagon Alley. She should have been safe.
She’d just found the book, in a musty and seldom-traveled corner of Flourish & Blotts, when she’d been grabbed from behind. She was conscious of being yanked back, then nothing until she woke up in this dank, windowless room. A basement somewhere, she supposed.
She’d made a vain attempt to flee the hooded Death Eaters, knowing it was useless in the small room. One had backhanded her hard across the jaw. Even now the right side of her face felt numb, and blood still dripped from her mouth. Two of her molars were disturbingly loose. All right, she reordered in her mind, the blow had come first. Then the wand, then the tying-up.
At first she’d heard them moving around her from time to time. The fact that she could see nothing made it worse. I will not be scared, she told herself firmly. Once she’d heard a laugh. Lucius Malfoy, she was sure.
After a while, she’d been left alone in the room. Her bonds had proved unbreakable, and she’d had nothing to do but think. Her one consolation was that she had demanded, and received, promises from both Harry and Ron that they would never give into any Death Eater’s demands should she ever be captured. Harry was pragmatic enough to keep his promise, she thought. She doubted Ron was, but Harry could keep him in check.
How long had she been there? Tied up in the tiny black room? Days, she felt sure. Two? Three? She was no longer hungry, at least. Sweat had formed on her skin, especially around her bindings, then dried, leaving her chilled and shaking intermittently. Her ears buzzed and she kept feeling herself fading in and out of consciousness. That was for the best, she supposed.
Was that it then? They were just going to let her die in that room? Hermione supposed she should be grateful. She knew it could have been much worse.
A sound. Creaking. The door opening, she realized dimly.
“Half-dead already, aren’t you, Granger. I’m disappointed. I thought you were made of stronger stuff.”
Draco Malfoy. She managed to rouse herself and sit up as straight as she could with her bound arms and legs.
She heard him laugh musically. “That’s better. Die a hero.”
The blindfold was lifted from her eyes. She blinked against the searing light of the torch-lit room, then screwed her eyes firmly shut. He was silent.
After a moment she felt able to open her eyes and look at him.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” she rasped.
He smiled. “My father and his... colleagues are out for the evening. As I was given guard duty, I thought I’d take the opportunity to visit a schoolmate.”
“We’re neither of us in school,” she spit out. Her throat was on fire.
“Granger,” he shook his head in mock pity. “Do you really want to spend your last moments arguing technicalities?”
“What. Do. You. Want?”
His smirk faded momentarily. Then came back full force.
“Well,” he said. “As a matter of fact, Granger, today’s your lucky day.”
The rough laugh that burst from her throat surprised Hermione. Malfoy looked pleased.
“That’s the stuff,” he said encouragingly and pulled his wand out of his sleeve. For the first time, Hermione felt fear.
His eyes traveled her body slowly. It had been a summer’s day, so long ago now, and she’d gone out in a Muggle-style tank top and light denim skirt. Now her white shirt was soiled with blood and dirt and dried sweat. She knew she was filthy and foul-smelling and hated herself for caring.
He was still looking at her, taking his time. Now he stepped forward. Hermione felt the breath catch in her throat.
He touched her bare knee lightly with his wand. Then trailed the tip up her thigh, her hip, her stomach, between her breasts, her neck. It was excruciatingly slow. All the while he had an unreadable look on his face. He was standing so close to her, leaning down. Hermione could feel his breath.
She was sure he wanted to kiss her. For a wild moment she thought about kissing him back.
He brought the wand up to her lips, then removed it. He hovered there a moment, lips nearly touching hers.
Then he stepped back. “Liberatio.”
Her bonds disintegrated. She slumped forward, utterly surprised.
In her weakened state, it took her a moment to recover. She stood slowly up, needing to support herself against a wall. Run, she told herself, but her muscles refused to obey. Instead she watched Malfoy warily.
“I said it was your lucky day, Granger, and I meant it.” He gestured toward the door. “Go.”
She looked at him incredulously.
“Oh for Mordred’s sake. How you lot have survived this long, I’ll never know. There’s no one here but you and me.” He rolled his eyes. She almost laughed to see such a familiar Hogwarts gesture here. “Unless you’d rather wait for my father to come back.”
It would be folly to trust him. But there was nothing else. She staggered slowly to the door, her legs threatening to give out at any moment. Don’t fall in front of Malfoy, she thought absurdly.
Because she needed a moment to rest as much as anything else, she turned back at the door. “Why?”
He smirked and looked deep into her eyes. “You must let me keep some of my mysteries, Granger.”
*
He’d disappeared himself that night, before Lucius Malfoy and the Death Eaters returned. The wizarding world had never heard from him again.
Hermione rubbed the piece of checked tweed between her fingers as she sat on the floor of her small apartment. It felt smooth, buttery, its texture subtle as a secret. She tried it against her cheek, then stopped, feeling ridiculous.
She had everything ready for the Locator Spell. The tweed, of course -- it was vital to have an object that had been touched recently by the subject, within a few weeks if possible. That’s why Malfoy’s school things or possessions from the manor were useless in trying to find him.
She unrolled a huge map of the world, spreading it on the floor in front of her. Luckily there was plenty of room. She’d moved into the apartment nearly a year ago but had never felt like personalizing it much in the way of furniture or decorations of her own. Harry said she lived like a nun, which had made Ron scratch his head and ask, “None? None what?” But Hermione was never there much anyway. It was serviceable, what else would she want?
She’d made sure to Floo Kingsley before doing the Location Spell. She hadn’t liked to tell him exactly where Malfoy was, somehow. She wanted to keep the information to herself, at least for a little while. She hadn’t expected him to show no curiosity.
Grasping the tweed firmly, she rubbed the fabric against her wand, up and down three times, then, taking care to swirl the wand counter-clockwise over the map and at medium speed, whispered “Locus.”
A tiny spot on the map glowed dully but unmistakably gold. “Huh,” she said to herself, surprised. “Didn’t expect that.”
*
Hermione stepped out of the 767 at the Nadi International Airport, Republic of Fiji and blinked against the bright tropical sun.
She surveyed her surroundings from the top of the moveable stairs. She was on the largest Fijian island, Viti Levu. She could see sugar cane fields surrounding the airport, and palm trees taller than she’d known they could grow. In the Eastern distance were mountains densely covered in green vegetation. Another passenger politely coughed behind her, and Hermione hurried down the steps.
She’d had plenty of time to read up on Fiji on the ten hour plane ride. It would have taken twice as long, but she’d first Floo’d to the office of a colleague from the Imperial Magic Ministry in Tokyo. Hermione believed in Muggle transportation, but there were limits.
She’d learned the territory of Fiji was comprised of more than seven-hundred-thousand square kilometers, ninety-seven percent of it water. There were more than three hundred islands, but just two main ones. English was an official language, a relief to Hermione as Translator Charms were notoriously tricky. History would long remember the blood-drenched feud between Ethelbert the Incoherent and Mumbley Kay.
Also, cannibalism had once been an important institution to Fijian warriors -- the losers of battles would often find themselves eaten. Occasionally a Fijian would cut off a piece of a captured foe -- his finger, say -- cook it, and offer it to his victim for a giggle. Rather a good fit for Malfoy, Hermione considered.
As she headed to Baggage Claim, she breathed in deeply -- frangipani flowers and burning cane. The tropical heat tempered by the trade winds felt wonderful against her bare shoulders. It had been a wintry London March when she’d left; here it was the beginning of summer. It would all be very pleasant, she reflected, if it weren’t for Malfoy. She had to chuckle when she realized she’d often thought the same thing about Hogwarts.
Of course he couldn’t live on Viti Levu with its cities and highways. The spelled map had shown him to be on an eastern island, so remote it probably didn’t have a name. No, she thought, if Malfoy lives there he’s no doubt named it Malfoy Isle. Malfoy Paradise, perhaps? Draco Lagoon? She’d been on the plane too long.
Whatever it was called, it was nearly four hundred kilometers away. She’d need to find a boat.
*
It turned out she’d have to pass through Lakeba, which, with eight villages, was the closest thing to a hub in the Lau Group, where she was headed. A prop plane went there regularly. One left in only nine days. The Fijians looked at her in wonder when she said she couldn’t wait that long and suggested she catch a ride on a Copra boat. Some kava, or a bottle of rum would make the Captain look favorably on her.
After asking around at the port, Hermione had at last managed to secure deck passage on a freighter heading East that same afternoon. The Captain had indeed appreciated the liquor and the boat seemed sea-worthy if no-frills. Deck passage, Hermione soon learned, meant just that -- a cot on the deck. Still, it had only rained one night, she was reasonably far from the diesel fumes, and she had plenty of company.
Fijian islanders, the guidebook had told her, were among the most kind, polite, and generous people in the world, and Hermione had found that to be true. But there was something about the way they looked at her with their beautiful dark eyes that made Hermione a little uncomfortable. She felt that all of them, from that teenage girl playing with her young brother, to the elderly man sipping a cup of kava, could see through to her soul. Perhaps they had some innate gift for Legilimency; she’d have to research that later. And after all, there was nothing wrong with that, but the empathy in their eyes made her itch somehow.
She didn’t want to be known, not now, and perhaps not ever. How did Malfoy, with all his secrets, manage to live among them?
She was the only European on board; most tourists never came east, but remained at the resorts of the main islands. The islanders seemed to have made it their mission to make her feel as at home as she could living and sleeping on the crowded deck. She’d never been without a companion if she wanted one. The children, especially, crowded around her, asking questions about England, and her travels. They hadn’t asked her about being a witch, but she’d felt sure they could, it was only politeness holding them back.
Apparently there was no set arrival time. The Captain made his stops at different islands. The freight was loaded and unloaded, and in time, if all went well, they’d dock at Lakeba. Four days after they’d left, the time seemed to be nearing at last. Hermione leaned over the deck rail, watching the ocean. In the far distance was the largest island she’d seen from the deck of the Copra boat.
Karolina, a girl of Polynesian heritage with straight black hair past her waist, joined her at the rail. “Lakeba,” she pointed.
Hermione stared at the girl’s beautiful hair flowing in the sea breeze. Her own hair had puffed up beyond control her first day in the humidity, and had resisted the strongest magic. She hated the idea of facing Malfoy that way. She’d had more than ten years of well-behaved hair, and now it came time to see her old teenaged foe she looked like some kind of tropical chrysanthemum.
Hermione groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t she stop caring about things like that?
And there was Karolina, smiling at her knowingly. “You have troubles,” she said, “about a man.”
How did she do that? “Maybe a little,” Hermione said, and then, “Yes.”
The girl smiled again. “Don’t worry. Vaka malua. All will be well.”
*
“But that’s where I need to go.”
“I’m sorry, miss. No boats.”
“But boats must go there. People live there, don’t they?”
The man shrugged, looking sympathetic.
“I’m sorry, miss. Isa lei. I wish I could help.”
The awful thing was he really did want to help. They all did. But apparently no boats went to Malfoy’s little island.
She’d spent the last three days going around Lakeba, from village to village, cove to cove. No one went to that island, still more than one-hundred kilometers away. No one knew when anyone from that island would be coming there. But everyone had a cousin, or a brother, or a friend in the neighboring village who might know someone who could take her.
They’d all felt desolated at disappointing her. She’d probably caused more unhappiness on the island in three days, Hermione reflected, than there’d been in the last three months. Judging by the islanders’ faces, maybe four. People she hadn’t even met had taken to shaking their heads sadly at her when she approached.
They’d all wanted to make it up to her. Almost everyone had offered to take her in as an honored guest. In one confusing conversation, she’d felt sure a young chief was trying to propose.
Using magic to reach the island would almost certainly alert Malfoy, giving him time to disappear again, if that’s what he wanted. And Apparating to a place one had never been was foolhardy, particularly over water, but Hermione was nearly ready to try it.
Exhausted and disheartened, she was sitting on the beach at yet another cove, letting the warm waves flow over her feet, ignoring the islanders’ sympathetic looks, when she noticed the village children bounding excitedly into the waves. Then she heard it -- the unmistakable roar of a motorboat.
It was a modern gleaming thing, unlike any she’d seen in this part of Fiji, slick and streamlined enough for shallow water. It pulled in close to the shore, scattering the children who ran whooping with joy.
The boat’s motor sputtered and it drifted close, nearly to Hermione’s feet. The driver, a young male islander, looked straight at her and grinned.
“Miss Granger? Mr. Malfoy would like to offer you a ride.”
*
“Hermione. Welcome.”
And there he was, standing on a small wooden dock, watching the motorboat drift in. Smiling at her, seeming completely at ease.
He was casually elegant in tan linen pants, rolled up at the cuffs, and a loose white shirt. Savile row, Hermione wondered bitterly? She hadn’t seen any fabric like that when she’d visited a lifetime ago.
He had the perfect manners not to notice that she hadn’t returned his greeting. He leaned down to help the driver secure the boat.
He looked older, she noted. He’d filled out well, which of course he would, and the tropical sun had tanned him a light biscuit color.
It had been ten years. A war had ended, a lifetime had passed, and he was looking at her like he’d seen her last week. Like they hadn’t been bitter enemies when they’d parted a decade ago.
He reached a hand down to help her onto the dock. “Malfoy,” she finally managed.
He flashed a small sad smile. “Malfoy? Still at school, are we?”
And just like that, he could still make her feel completely inadequate. When she’d found him. When she’d tracked him down. She tried to find scathing words. Or any words. But all she could do was stare.
“Lemeki,” he addressed the islander. “Miss Granger will be staying. Bring her things in.”
*
She’d been given a room on the second floor of Malfoy’s what, mansion, she supposed. Lemeki had called it a bure, which meant house, she knew, but it was too grand for that.
It was enormous, and octagonal, of all things, which Lemeki had proudly informed her was the traditional shape for a high chief’s dwelling. Of course. She’d felt somehow relieved to find that Malfoy was still Malfoy even after all this time.
The first floor cathedral ceiling was at least twenty feet high, perhaps twenty-five in the center. It was buttressed by what looked to Hermione like native woods -- mangrove? sandalwood? -- wrapped in coconut fiber rope. Four walls were floor-to-ceiling glass looking out on what, as Lemeki had said, was Malfoy’s private island -- down to the beach, out to the ocean’s horizon.
Her own room was all polished wood, with its own glass wall. She could look out, as she was doing now, and see half the island. The sun was setting -- tropical oranges and purples over the water that was a perfect turquoise during the day, and darkening now to a midnight blue. The swaying palm trees stood out black against the jewel-toned sky.
To her right she could see the rising verdant hills typical of a volcanically-formed island. To her left the terrain was more like a coral atoll -- white sand with a small, but exquisite, lagoon.
If you wanted to disappear, she reflected, this was a better place than most.
When Lemeki had shown her to her room, he’d told her Mr. Malfoy would expect her when she’d refreshed herself, but not to hurry. The way he’d looked at her had made it clear her travel-mussed clothes were not acceptable, and he’d driven that home by sliding open the closet.
Malfoy had had female guests before, evidently. One in particular, she wondered, or a series? The closet was filled with beautiful tropical-weight dresses, along with sarongs, light sweaters and even bikinis.
Well. She wondered which would display more confidence -- going downstairs in her own wrinkled clothing, or showing she couldn’t be intimidated by his beautiful dresses, or house, or manners? In the end she selected a light pink halter-topped cotton from the closet.
When she judged she’d been upstairs long enough to show she didn’t mind making him wait, but not long enough for him to think she was afraid, she walked down.
*
“This is tanoa, miss,” said the second servant Hermione had seen, an elderly woman, indicating the large wooden bowl she had placed on the floor between her and Malfoy.
Hermione shifted on her woven mat to get a better look at its thick dark contents.
“It’s yaqona, Hermione,” Malfoy said with an amused quirk of his lips. “Kava.”
“I know what it is, Mal -- Draco,” she corrected herself, but not before the amused quirk was there again.
“I thought a yaqona ceremony was in order. It’s the traditional way of welcoming guests,” he added, dipping a coconut shell cup into the bowl and handing it to her. “E dua na bilo? Have some?”
He repeated the process for Lemeki who was seated on his own mat beside them. Sometimes he was a servant, apparently, and sometimes a friend. She supposed he and Malfoy understood the rules.
Draco dipped a bilo for himself, then smiled at her. “I welcome you. I offer you what’s mine.”
“Drink it all at once, miss,” offered Lemeki helpfully.
She peered at the contents of her cup. She’d been offered yaqona before, of course. Nearly everyone on Lakeba had wanted to share some with her, but she’d been too focused on the goal of reaching Malfoy’s island to want to take the time to socialize.
Neither Draco nor Lemeki had yet taken a drink. They both watched her expectantly. Fine. She gulped it down, all at once as Lemeki had said, then coughed. It was peppery, and thick, but not unpleasant. Malfoy smiled and refilled her bilo.
She’d read about kava. It was a mild relaxant, much like herbal tea, her guidebook insisted, and only intoxicating if drunk in enormous quantities. Dried kava root, of course, was an ingredient in many potions. She didn’t feel anything so far.
Except, of course, for sheer amazement at the utterly composed manner in which she’d been received onto Malfoy’s island, into his home. He was so utterly at ease, or at least pretending to be, so matchlessly civilized.
She took a sip of her yaqona, grimaced, then decided that draining it in one draught was the way to go, after all. Her tongue felt tingly.
Malfoy offered her another cup, the soul of politeness. She made a motion to refuse it, but that infernally amused expression came over his face again, and she snatched it. He watched her placidly as she sipped, his expression untroubled, the lines of his body completely relaxed.
What was all this? It had been ten years! Hadn’t it? And a war in which they’d been, at least for a time, on opposite sides. He’d cut himself off from his world. She’d found him. She deserved at least a look of mild surprise for her efforts.
Or maybe she’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps she and Malfoy had spent the last decade as doubles partners at the country club. Judging by his attitude that seemed just as likely.
An amused snort escaped her unexpectedly, causing her to spit out a bit of the kava. Malfoy, the git, had the air of being too well-bred to observe such things. Lemeki handed her a cloth napkin. Huh. Her tongue had gone numb without her noticing.
Well, she could be just as civilized as Malfoy, as Draco, she amended to herself, since they seemed to be so chummy now. She smiled sweetly at him over her bilo. He smiled back, a real smile that reached his eyes, not his trademark smirk. Merlin, he was infuriating.
Lemeki had produced a guitar from somewhere and was strumming softly and crooning in Fijian. Hermione felt the trade winds on her bare shoulders and realized that that one of the glass walls had disappeared somehow. She knew if Malfoy had been using magic they would have found him years ago. Technology, then. The moonlight filtered in, turning his blond hair silver.
The yaqona didn’t taste nearly as bad once you got used to it, she realized. The tingle seemed to be spreading from her tongue to her shoulders and arms. Not an unpleasant feeling.
“Why did you send a boat?” she blurted suddenly, forgetting to be civilized. “How did you know I was looking for you?”
She’d managed to revive the amused expression. “You’re not exactly subtle, Hermione. I was informed a bushy-haired European woman was looking for my island. Who else?”
“Informed?” she asked.
“I have people watching things for me.”
Well then. She took a gulp of the yaqona. The tingle had reached her legs. “Aren’t you surprised to see me? At least a little?”
He didn’t speak for a moment, and looked deep into her eyes. He seemed to have picked up the islanders’ knack of seeing into someone’s soul. “I always knew we’d meet again.”
She felt like screaming. She would have, too, if she wasn’t feeling so pleasantly numb. Instead, she laughed.
And the amused expression was gone. So it wasn’t all kava and small talk then. She felt she’d accomplished something.
“Why are you here, Hermione?” he asked, suddenly serious.
This was her chance, she knew, and it might not come again. “Why --” she stopped, unsure how to finish the question.
“Why what?” He’d regained his composure, seemed prepared to wait all night.
The words came in a rush. “Why leave your world? Why do you stay away? How can you give up magic?”
He seemed to consider, waved an arm in a gesture that included both his house and his island. “I have money. In this world that’s the same thing.”
*
“I hope you’ll stay as long as you like,” he’d said like a true islander. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a more personal sort of hospitality during the day, but I’ll be rather busy with some... business affairs.”
“You rob banks, Draco. And I’m in Magical Law Enforcement.”
His mouth quirked. “I don’t use magic, Hermione. Feel free to call Interpol, if you’d like. Lemeki will find the number for you.”
Infuriating.
*
Banks weren’t his only enterprise, she’d soon found out. Lemeki, who seemed to be a full partner, had proudly showed her the brain center of their operations.
It lacked the glamour of the rest of the house. Papers with drawings and mysterious symbols were tacked to the walls, looking not unlike Arithmancy.
The chamber’s main features seemed to be three powerful computers with enormous flat screens. A series of long numbers scrolled by, too fast for Hermione to see more than a blur.
They were numbered Swiss accounts, Lemeki explained. A few more judicious visits to Zurich, and Draco would have his hands on quite a lot of secreted-away Nazi gold.
It was all quite fascinating. Hermione inspected the room with much interest. One large paper hanging haphazardly on the wall caught her attention. It was a blueprint, covered in hand-written scrawls.
“Is that,” she asked incredulously, peering closer, “the Casino at Monte Carlo?”
Draco had appeared then and, his smile a bit strained, escorted her firmly out.
*
After some soul-searching, Hermione had decided she should take Draco up on his offer of hospitality -- after all, she’d gone to a lot of trouble to find him -- and they’d settled into a kind of a routine.
During the day she’d hike in the hills, or sunbathe by the lagoon. She hadn’t packed any bathing costumes -- she hadn’t envisioned her trip requiring any -- and she’d at first been reluctant to wear the ones that had been provided in her room.
They were far more revealing than any she’d ever worn before, and would no doubt have sent Ron and Harry first into apoplexies, then running for a dressing gown to cover her up. But, she thought, it’s Fiji.
She found this motto served her well in many things. The food was fried and starchier than she would allow herself in London? It’s Fiji. She spent the day without even thinking about work? It’s Fiji. Crimes were being plotted and perhaps perpetrated under the roof where she was staying? The Ministry gave her no authority in non-magical matters, and besides, it was Fiji.
She was enjoying the company of the person who’d made Fourth Year sometimes a living hell? Definitely Fiji.
After Draco and Lemeki had spent the day doing things she carefully didn’t ask about, they’d all have a late dinner -- fried fish, boiled taro leaves topped with coconut cream, and boiled cassava, or the like. Then she’d take a moonlit swim in the bathtub-warm ocean.
The first night she’d swum alone. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, and so never strayed far from the shore. Happening to glance up at the house, she’d seen Draco there, standing at a glass wall, watching her.
Something in the moonlight or the caress of the warm water made her daring, and she rose to her feet, standing there in the shallow waves, the bathing suit that in England she wouldn’t have dared wear in her apartment, clinging to her, wet. Just to see what Draco would do.
She hadn’t swum alone again.
*
“You don’t miss magic?”
“Not one bit.”
“You’re a wizard, Draco.”
“Not anymore.”
“You can’t stop being a wizard.”
“I’m Draco Malfoy. I can do whatever I want.”
And he’d dived under the water, passing whisper-close to her, making sure she felt him slick against her body.
*
She was afraid venture far into the ocean, so he was teaching her, each night more. To reach farther with her strokes, to kick harder. Already she’d been out farther than she’d ever dared. Confidence, he said, was the most important thing.
Hermione doubted the Pacific would care, but kept silent.
Tonight she was learning the backstroke. She floated on her back, warm, drifting. Draco was behind her, hands under her back, on her ribs.
He pulled her closer, moving his hands to her waist, his chest just touching the crown of her head. With each stroke she reached past him, the blades of her arms slicing the water on each side of his waist. On each pull she touched his ribs, the muscles of his sides, his hips.
“You didn’t have to leave, you know. We would have taken you in.”
“Would you,” he murmured near her ear.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
For some reason this made him laugh. He trailed his hands, wet and slippery, up her sides, under her skull, through her floating hair. Until he had pulled away, until she was drifting on her own.
*
“What about the Malfoy fortune? Since your father died it’s just been gathering dust and interest.”
They were lying on the sand. Draco had just come out of the ocean. Hermione could see each drop of water on his skin clearly in the moonlight, could count them if she wanted. She wanted to reach over and trail her finger through the droplets on his chest to see if she could draw a pattern. So she did.
“Mmmm.” he relaxed bonelessly under her hand, only half-listening. “I don’t care. Give it to charity.”
Her hand stilled. He looked over at her, and had to laugh at the look of shock on her face.
“Hermione,” he said, laughing. “Do I look as though I need it?”
“Well, then, since you’ve changed so much as to be willing to give up the Malfoy fortune” she said, moving her hand again, “you could work for the good of wizard society. I could get you a job at the Ministry.”
“Yes,” he said, lying all the way back. “What about Minister of Magic?”
“Or you could always --”
“Hermione,” he said, taking her hand, pulling her gently down until she was lying half across him, “Stop talking.”
The kiss at first was tentative, then sweet, then something else entirely.
*
The hell of it was, he belonged here. She knew this, as she sat on the beach, squinting through the sun to watch him help Lemeki launch the motorboat. She knew it as certainly as she knew she didn’t.
Draco Malfoy, pureblood wizard from a very un-tropical island, harmonized with his Fijian surroundings in a way she admired, even as she envied it. It was a way she had never fit, not here, and not even in England.
He looked right, in his house of opulence and nature; he looked right, against the backdrop of the turquoise water; he looked right, even, in a beautiful suit in Muggle London.
He was right, he didn’t need magic. This place, with its warm waters and swaying palms and green hills had enough magic of its own. It didn’t need any more, certainly not her kind.
And suddenly, she’d found, she’d made up her mind. “Lemeki,” she called. “Can you wait? I’ll be leaving with you.”
Draco froze, and turned slowly to look at her. She saw something in his eyes, something she didn’t like to think that she’d put there. She walked to him.
“I give up,” she said. “You’re right. You don’t belong in the wizarding world any more. I think you’ve found your place.”
He nodded, resigned. “Stay with me, Hermione,” he asked, already knowing what she would say.
“This isn’t my place. I won’t fit.”
“Do you fit so well in the other world?”
“That’s not really the point,” she smiled sadly.
“No,” he said, “Perhaps not.”
She kissed him lightly. “I’m glad you’ve found a place you belong, Draco. I’m not sure many of us do.”
*
And then she was back in London, in the snow. Had she really been in turquoise waters, just a few days ago, in a wisp of a bathing suit?
She settled back into the Ministry. Her promotion came through, and Kingsley was immeasurably glad that she seemed to have exorcised her Malfoy demons once and for all.
She spent time with Harry, who’d just broken up with Ginny for the hundredth time, and time with Ginny, who swore she wouldn’t take him back this time, not ever. She busted a witch posing as a fortune-teller and taking advantage of gullible Muggles. Divination still set her teeth on edge.
She walked through the snow, and took care to spot any icy patches on the pavement, and all the while she smelled sugar cane, and felt trade winds on her shoulders.
And then, just as Spring was finally arriving, and the snow had been reduced to slushy grey patches, there he was.
She’d been walking through Diagon Alley, finishing some shopping, her thoughts on a report she had to write before the next day, and almost didn’t notice him. She’d come to think of him in cotton and khaki linen, in sandals or barefoot. And there he was in a beautifully structured cashmere overcoat, grey worsted trousers showing underneath.
He made her come to him, of course, as he just stood there, casually pretending it hadn’t been ten years since he’d been on this street. As if he was there all the time. She couldn’t stop smiling.
“I find,” he said as she finally reached him, “that I don’t like to be told where I belong. Even when it’s me doing the telling. I find that a Malfoy always belongs wherever he is.”
She laughed, and he bent to kiss her.
“I’m still with the Ministry,” she said, stopping him, trying to be fair. “I won’t be able to ignore it, you know, if you keep up your old line of business.”
“Oh, I’ve given the business to Lemeki. He’ll be good at it. Kiss me.”
She did, and felt the caress of warm water and heard the sounds of palms rustling in the wind.
Fin
A/N: Three things that you want your fic to include: 1. Exotic Location 2. Mixing with Muggles 3. Savile Row
Three things that you do not want your fic to include: 1.White Picket fences and 2.5 kids with unimaginative names. 2.Cowed or ugly draco 3. Poor Draco, and I mean that in a merecenary way.
Also I must say that the research I did for this story has convinced me I need to get me a man who shops at Savile Row. *Sigh*
Thank you for Celebrating the Season with Draco and Hermione!
Special thanks to the lovely argosy for this back-up story!
Title: Where the Magic Is
Author: argosy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. I don’t think even the stuff I made up is mine at this point.
Author's Notes: For Agarttha who must bear some of the blame/credit
Summary: After Dumbledore’s death, Draco Malfoy vanished without a trace. Ten years later he may have re-emerged as a robber of Muggle banks. Can a bushy-haired gal from Magical Law Enforcement find happiness in the arms of a Master Criminal? (Probably not as crackfic-y as it sounds. On the other hand...)
Reporter: But why rob banks?
Willie Sutton: Because that’s where the money is.
Sheila’s feet hurt.
“Wear comfortable shoes,” Christopher the manager had said when he’d hired her. Well, she was, wasn’t she? This morning she’d put on the very ugliest, most scathingly sensible pair she could bring herself to wear. My goodness, the heel was less than two inches. What more did they want from her? But even shoes as sensible as Solomon would have been no match for the five gruesome hours she’d just spent on her feet.
Sheila slipped one kitten heel off, rubbing her sore right foot against her calf behind the counter. When her parents had asked -- all right, insisted -- that she take the job at the Midland Bank, she should have said no, that’s all. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford to take care of her. She didn’t spend that much money. Not nearly as much as her friend Sophie, for instance. One Harrods’ weekend a month was all she asked. My goodness, it wasn’t as though they were poor.
So there she was, fresh from the whirlwind of corporate training - exciting in very nearly the same way rust was - freshly scrubbed, neatly dressed, hideously shod, and in sole proprietorship of Window Five, the last on the left. Her name was even on a hideous little card propped in front of her.
The whole dreary day customer after customer -- “guests,” Creepy Chris insisted on calling them -- slithered up to her window. Deposit my check, tell me my balance, give me money. Money, money, money. She was heartily sick of the stuff. It was all so sordid.
And dirty. Her hands smelt like banknotes. And her manicure was in shreds. Sheila hadn’t known handling cash could be so sick-making. She sighed. So much money. And none of it hers.
One could rob the place, she considered. Easy. Slip into the vault on her break, grab the goodies, then say she had a headache and leave early. Why not? My goodness, she deserved the money as much as this squalid little bank did.
At least the day was finally drawing to a close. Only a few straggling customers polluted the floor. She scanned the queue warily.
Well. Things were perhaps looking slightly up.
He was completely lovely. Late twenties, slim and tall. Pale blond hair slightly mussed in an artfully careless way that said, I don’t have to spend a fortune on my hair; I do it to enrich the world’s aesthetics. Long black lashes from under which gleamed grey eyes that harmonized like a choir with his immaculately cut charcoal grey suit.
Sheila knew clothes. That suit was Savile Row, from one of the finer bespoke tailors, and two-thousand pounds if it was a penny. He wore it the way God had intended clothes should be worn. It skimmed his figure like a caress. Lucky suit, Sheila thought.
He stepped forward. “Sheila,” he said, and smiled. She was suddenly aware of her heart beating.
She was meant to ask if she could help him. That’s what came next, but she was having trouble breathing.
He seemed to understand. “Sheila,” he repeated quietly and she felt a rush of heat. “I want you to do something for me.” He smiled a secret smile. “We’re going to have a little adventure. I’m going to rob your bank.”
Oh. Well, it wasn’t her bank. He mustn’t think she would have anything to do with the shabby little place if it was up to her.
He smiled again. Oh. Rob the bank. He was a bank-robber. How exciting.
“Now, I don’t want you to be frightened,” he continued conversationally. Frightened? Was she frightened? Sheila considered the question.
“I’m not frightened,” she answered truthfully.
“Good girl,” his smile brightened. He looked straight into her eyes. Oh he was lovely. “And I don’t want you to think about pressing that alarm button under the counter. Or the one near your right foot. I may have a gun, and if the alarm goes off, I may shoot everyone here.”
“Do you have a gun?” she asked breathlessly.
His laugh was warm. “I think it would perhaps be best for you to assume that I do. You’ll feel better in the long run. And it will make the story more thrilling for your friends.”
Well, after all she didn’t want anyone to get shot. Even Creepy Chris, who, by the way, had told her that in actual real life banks never got robbed. She found herself smiling back at the handsome thief. My goodness, this was too exciting.
“Now,” he continued smoothly, smiling a smile only for her, “I want you to meet me by that door. I’m going to give you a satchel, and you’re going to go into the vault...”
Sheila was only half-listening. What would he do next? Should she really cooperate? She looked into his calm grey eyes. Well, why not?
After all, it wasn’t her money.
*
“It’s him.” Hermione Granger slapped the Muggle video cassette down on Kingsley’s desk.
“Who?” the Minister of Magic asked with a puzzled frown, then saw her face. “Oh. Malfoy.” He sighed. “Where?”
“Bank. West End. Three days ago.”
Kingsley picked up the tape, inspecting it curiously. “Has Arthur seen this?” He turned it over in his hands, then squinted at it closely, bringing it an inch from his face. “He’s been wanting to get his hands on a vodeo tape.”
“Video tape,” she corrected impatiently, recognizing Kingsley’s attempt to distract her, and annoyed with herself for falling for it. “Multi-cam surveillance from the Midland Bank, London Branch West.”
“Ah,” the older man leaned back in his chair, watching Hermione carefully. “And Malfoy is definitely on it, is he?”
“Yes.” The Minister raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s the best possibility so far.”
Kingsley opened his mouth but Hermione raised a hand against his words. “Three days ago someone walked into the bank in the middle of the afternoon, told the teller he had a gun --”
“Gun?”
“A Muggle weapon.” She kept her voice carefully under control, resisting the suddenly desperate urge to gnash her teeth. “He walked out seven minutes later with almost half-a-million pounds in notes and securities. He obviously knew where the cameras were, and he was careful not to let himself be photographed head on. But it was Malfoy or his twin.”
Kingsley shuddered. The prospect of two Draco Malfoys was too horrible to contemplate. He placed the tape back on his desk.
Hermione drew her wand and tapped the cassette. “Exhibeo.” A grainy image hovered in mid-air above Kingsley’s desk.
He leaned forward with interest. “So that’s how a vodeo tape works.”
The amorphous image showed the well-dressed man stepping up to the counter. In Kingsley’s opinion it looked rather more like a flirtation than a hold-up. Then the man - who could be Malfoy, Kingsley admitted, or any other too self-confident blond -- disappeared from the image, to re-emerge moments later walking out of the bank with a valise.
“That’s Muggle thievery?” Kingsley watched the image flicker into nothingness. “Rather anti-climatic.”
“It’s not always that smooth,” Hermione replied grimly. “Well?”
Kingsley regarded his employee contemplatively. “I don’t have to remind you that the majority of the wizarding world believes Draco Malfoy is dead?”
“I’ve never believed that.”
“Yes.” He motioned her to sit. She did so reluctantly, perching on the chair’s edge. Kingsley could see the pent-up energy threatening to explode.
“Yes,” he repeated. “I know. There was last year in South Africa, and the year before that in New York.”
“Those were solid leads,” she muttered, but Kingsley saw she had the grace to look embarrassed. That was a positive sign.
“Hermione --” he began.
“Kingsley,” she insisted. “It’s him.”
“You know we value you at the Ministry,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re a rising star in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There’s been some talk of a promotion.”
“Kingsley,” she repeated, the calmness in her voice disturbing him more than her earlier intensity had. “You were an Auror. Please don’t go bureaucrat on me now.”
“Draco Malfoy hasn’t been heard from in ten years. If he’s not dead, he’s as close to it as matters. This obsession of yours --”
“Obsession is hardly fair --”
“Hermione, I say this as a friend --” He stopped himself. Took a breath, shook off the last vestiges of the politician and looked at her frankly. “You may be hurting your career at the Ministry with this fixation. There’s no warrant for Malfoy. If he was alive he’d be covered under the Former Death Eater Amnesty Act. There’s no official grounds to look for him.”
“I simply wish to investigate an allegedly Muggle crime that I believe may have been committed by a wizard. That’s the essence of my job description.” She smiled wanly. “Please, Kingsley. If it’s not Malfoy, you’ll never hear his name from my lips again.”
He looked up in surprise. She looked serious. “I promise,” she added, meeting his eyes.
He sighed. “One day. Find out what you can. And if you discover reason to believe it is Malfoy, the Ministry will have no official standing in whatever steps you choose to take. You have some holiday time due, I believe?”
She nodded.
“I hope you won’t have to use it,” he continued. “I plan on holding you to your promise, Hermione.” He rose and opened his office door for her.
“You’ll understand if I don’t wish you luck.”
*
Hermione emerged from the tube station onto a snowy London street. She always preferred to use Muggle transportation on her investigations. Apparation seemed somehow unfair and could, on occasion, alert a wrong-doing wizard.
There’d be no danger of that this time, she thought to herself grimly as she tread carefully on the icy pavement. Malfoy had been gone for three days -- rather, she forced herself to be fair, the bank-robber had been gone. But it was Malfoy, she was sure of it in her bones. Hermione discounted the idea of Witch’s Intuition as being as silly as Divination -- this was her years of Magical Law Enforcement experience speaking.
She’d joined the Ministry the day after the War had ended, nearly nine years now, she realized in some amazement. Harry and Ron had wanted to take some time -- travel, have the carefree childhoods that had been denied them all. There’d been reward money for being one of those who’d killed Voldemort -- she didn’t have to work, perhaps ever, but she felt restless, incomplete. She’d needed the distraction of work, though she’d never been quite sure what she needed distracting from.
“That’s our girl,” Ron had shrugged as he and Harry had left on their “Voldemort is Bloody Dead This Time and Not Coming Back Ever So Don’t Bother Us for at Least a Year World Tour,” as he called it. He’d insisted Harry call their trip that as well, but let Hermione, the grown-up, call it a holiday. She could already feel the chasm starting to grow between herself and her two friends.
Harry had eventually settled into a life of professional Quidditch -- not though with the Chudley Canons, who as Ron pointed out ruefully, couldn’t afford him -- and intended to become an Auror when his athletic career came to an end. Ron had moved to Romania to work with dragons alongside his brother, taking his new wife, who retained her maiden name of Padma Patil, with him.
Hermione had found herself a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s new Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Muggles. It galled her that Muggles needed protecting, but since the end of the War, and especially after the passage -- in the new spirit of peace and wizardly brotherhood -- of the Death Eater’s Amnesty, unscrupulous wizards had been making victims of Muggles more and more often.
It could take many forms. Sometimes Muggles were sold fraudulent Elixirs that promised to grow hair or bring wealth. Honestly, Hermione had thought, If wizards were going to go to all that trouble, why not brew a working potion? Or Muggles could find their valuables magicked off their person or out of their house, a quick Obliviate ensuring no witnesses.
There was the bank. Hermione stopped, hugging herself against the cold, and inspected it from across the street. Malfoy had entered through the front door. There, she observed. Why bank-robbery, she wondered. Something so essentially Muggle? For now she’d have to chalk it up to the eternal mystery that was Malfoy.
He’d run away from Snape almost as soon as the professor had spirited him away after Dumbledore’s death. He’d joined his father, who’d escaped from Azkaban around the same time, and the Death Eaters briefly -- for less than a month, Hermione knew -- then vanished from the wizarding world. His disappearance had been complete. There’d never been a sight or story of him, and after a few years of idle curiosity, most wizards had been glad to think him dead.
Why would he cut himself off from his world? If he hadn’t wanted to be a Death Eater, he could have joined the other side. He could even have remained neutral; the Malfoy fortune would have allowed that. Why hadn’t he surfaced after the amnesty? Not because he was dead, Hermione was sure. The longer the question remained, the more it ate at her insides. It was always there, nagging her in the background like a sore tooth, or a cancerous growth. Why would he leave magic behind?
She had to know, and she would ask him personally.
*
“Handsome. Fit. Dishy.” Hermione looked up from her notebook. “That’s how you would describe the robber?”
“Oh yes.” The vapid blonde nodded enthusiastically. “And ever so desperate. He pointed an absolutely enormous gun at me.”
“Really?” Hermione kept the skepticism out of her voice. “The surveillance tape must have missed that.”
“Oh yes. And he was so polite.”
“Polite,” repeated Hermione. “But desperate.”
“Yes,” Sheila nodded. “It was too thrilling.”
“I’m sure.” Hermione put her notebook away. She only used it as a prop to enforce the impression she was a Muggle detective. This was the important part. “Sheila, I’m going to show you a photograph.”
Through trial-and-error, Hermione had years ago discovered she could use a modified Stupefying Charm to freeze wizard photographs for almost an hour. She produced one of Malfoy taken by Colin Creevy back at Hogwarts.
“Ooh,” Sheila’s eyes lit up, “that’s him. But he’s older now.” She looked at Hermione with new respect. “You’re much cleverer than the last lot of police were.”
She reached for the photograph. “Do you think I could have this? To remember my horrible ordeal?”
“No!” Hermione grabbed the photograph back quickly. “It’s evidence,” she added at the other woman’s crestfallen look.
“Oh.” She sighed, then rallied. “It’s rather a funny picture anyway. What is that he’s wearing? A college gown? He was dressed ever so much better the other day.”
“Really.” Hermione noted absently. Her mind raced with possibilities now that another living being, even Sheila, had confirmed the existence of Malfoy.
“Oh yes,” the girl prattled on. “He was wearing the most beautiful suit. Henry Poole or Anderson & Sheppard, I’d say. Crime must pay. Still you wouldn’t think a robber would want to spend all that time on Savile Row getting it fitted personally. Don’t they usually hole up in caves, or hide-outs or something?”
“Savile Row?” asked Hermione, listening again. “How can you be sure?”
The girl looked startled. “Oh you can always tell a Savile Row suit.” Her look changed to something like pity. “I don’t suppose you meet many well-dressed policemen.”
“And he would have to go for a fitting personally?”
“Several times for a cut that fine.” The pity intensified. She added, in a helpful tone, “Perhaps you’d meet better-dressed men if you joined Scotland Yard.”
“I’ll think about it,” Hermione replied.
*
She’d been to nearly every tailor on the Row. Henry Poole. Huntsman. Gieves & Hawkes. She hadn’t found Malfoy, but she’d got quite an education. “Bespoke” is different than “made-to-measure.” James Potter, no relation, Hermione assumed, first introduced the Tuxedo to America. A “skeleton baste” is not, as one might assume, an unsatisfactory cooking method, but a type of fitting.
What no tailor was able to tell her was where Malfoy was. When she showed them his picture, most were quite firm in their conviction that Malfoy was not a customer. A few insisted their clients were “confidential,” but Hermione could tell they’d never seen Malfoy before.
There were very few tailors left to visit. Sighing, she pushed open the door of a smallish one that called itself “Kilkenny's,” if the sign on its facade was to be trusted.
It contained the by-now-familiar bolts of worsted (”English worsted is the finest in the world,” Hermione had been assured), as well as a rainbow of threads behind the counter and two rather ominous-looking blank-faced mannequins wearing finely-made suits (dinner jacket, peaked lapel, Hermione could now identify). One form behind the counter wore a half-made jacket of a district-checked tweed.
There was only one worker, a balding middle-aged man who coughed deferentially, “May I help you, madam?”
“I’m trying to find a man who may be one of your customers,” she replied.
His deference reduced by about half. “You must understand that our client list is exclusive and confidential.”
She could tell he wouldn’t be impressed by a common detective. “I represent the firm of Markham, Little & Emerson,” she tried. “This man has been left a rather substantial legacy by an important personage. Between you and me, a royal personage,” she added when she saw she’d caught his interest. “And we need to locate him. Perhaps you’d look at a picture?”
He did so, reluctantly drawn by his curiosity. “I’m sorry, Madam. He is not known to me.” But she’d caught the telltale widening of his eyes, and seen the way they’d moved briefly to the tweed jacket behind the counter.
“A shame,” she feigned disappointment. “Still I hope my visit isn’t completely wasted. I’m looking for a present for my husband. Perhaps you’d care to show me that plaid with the lavender stripe?”
While he was fetching the bolt -- chosen by Hermione for its inconvenience -- she used her wand to Summon a swatch from the tweed jacket. She felt a pang of guilt, but, after all, she’d tried to do it the easy way.
He returned with the bolt. She examined it. “Oh. Thanks awfully, but I’m afraid this isn’t at all what I want.”
She turned to leave. His voice followed her out. “Is Madam sure she knows what she wants?”
That, Hermione reflected, was a very good question.
*
“I’ve got him.”
Kingsley Shacklebot looked up from a tiresome report on the changing migration patterns of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack to see Hermione’s head protruding from his office fireplace.
He left his desk, settling in the armchair he kept by the fire for such occasions.
“He --”
“I’d really rather not know anything about it, Hermione.”
She looked chastened. Even after all these years the Cleverest Witch of Her Age found it difficult not to share anything she’d recently learned.
“I’ll need that holiday time, Kingsley.”
He sighed. “How long?”
“I’m not sure.”
“All right. Take what time you need. Your job will be here.” He paused. “For a while.”
She nodded, and was pulling back to her side of the fire when he spoke again.
“Hermione -- If Malfoy truly isn’t dead, then he’s been gone for ten years voluntarily. I can’t think he’ll want to be discovered.” He paused, leaving something hanging in the air.
“Yes?” she asked finally.
“Why is it so important that you find him?”
Hermione bit her lip, seemed about to answer, then vanished in the flames.
*
They’d blindfolded her, first off. No, she amended, first they’d taken her wand, snapping it before her eyes. Next they’d bound her hands behind her back and tied her to a hard wooden chair.
They hadn’t cursed or hexed her in any way. Why would they need to, she thought bitterly, she was completely in their power.
How could she have been so stupid? She’d known she was a target. Not because of any innate wonderfulness of her own, but as a close associate of Harry Potter. She was always warning Harry and Ron to take precautions, why hadn’t she?
A book! She’d just wanted to take a quick trip to Diagon Alley to buy a first edition of an obscure spell book she thought might come in handy during their search for the Horcruxes. The boys hadn’t been available to go with her. And she’d hated imposing on Harry since Dumbledore’s death anyway.
Perhaps her own grief had made her incautious. She’d always counseled the others not to go anyplace alone. The bitterest pill was having her own advice proved right, too late. Still, it had been broad daylight, and a crowded Diagon Alley. She should have been safe.
She’d just found the book, in a musty and seldom-traveled corner of Flourish & Blotts, when she’d been grabbed from behind. She was conscious of being yanked back, then nothing until she woke up in this dank, windowless room. A basement somewhere, she supposed.
She’d made a vain attempt to flee the hooded Death Eaters, knowing it was useless in the small room. One had backhanded her hard across the jaw. Even now the right side of her face felt numb, and blood still dripped from her mouth. Two of her molars were disturbingly loose. All right, she reordered in her mind, the blow had come first. Then the wand, then the tying-up.
At first she’d heard them moving around her from time to time. The fact that she could see nothing made it worse. I will not be scared, she told herself firmly. Once she’d heard a laugh. Lucius Malfoy, she was sure.
After a while, she’d been left alone in the room. Her bonds had proved unbreakable, and she’d had nothing to do but think. Her one consolation was that she had demanded, and received, promises from both Harry and Ron that they would never give into any Death Eater’s demands should she ever be captured. Harry was pragmatic enough to keep his promise, she thought. She doubted Ron was, but Harry could keep him in check.
How long had she been there? Tied up in the tiny black room? Days, she felt sure. Two? Three? She was no longer hungry, at least. Sweat had formed on her skin, especially around her bindings, then dried, leaving her chilled and shaking intermittently. Her ears buzzed and she kept feeling herself fading in and out of consciousness. That was for the best, she supposed.
Was that it then? They were just going to let her die in that room? Hermione supposed she should be grateful. She knew it could have been much worse.
A sound. Creaking. The door opening, she realized dimly.
“Half-dead already, aren’t you, Granger. I’m disappointed. I thought you were made of stronger stuff.”
Draco Malfoy. She managed to rouse herself and sit up as straight as she could with her bound arms and legs.
She heard him laugh musically. “That’s better. Die a hero.”
The blindfold was lifted from her eyes. She blinked against the searing light of the torch-lit room, then screwed her eyes firmly shut. He was silent.
After a moment she felt able to open her eyes and look at him.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” she rasped.
He smiled. “My father and his... colleagues are out for the evening. As I was given guard duty, I thought I’d take the opportunity to visit a schoolmate.”
“We’re neither of us in school,” she spit out. Her throat was on fire.
“Granger,” he shook his head in mock pity. “Do you really want to spend your last moments arguing technicalities?”
“What. Do. You. Want?”
His smirk faded momentarily. Then came back full force.
“Well,” he said. “As a matter of fact, Granger, today’s your lucky day.”
The rough laugh that burst from her throat surprised Hermione. Malfoy looked pleased.
“That’s the stuff,” he said encouragingly and pulled his wand out of his sleeve. For the first time, Hermione felt fear.
His eyes traveled her body slowly. It had been a summer’s day, so long ago now, and she’d gone out in a Muggle-style tank top and light denim skirt. Now her white shirt was soiled with blood and dirt and dried sweat. She knew she was filthy and foul-smelling and hated herself for caring.
He was still looking at her, taking his time. Now he stepped forward. Hermione felt the breath catch in her throat.
He touched her bare knee lightly with his wand. Then trailed the tip up her thigh, her hip, her stomach, between her breasts, her neck. It was excruciatingly slow. All the while he had an unreadable look on his face. He was standing so close to her, leaning down. Hermione could feel his breath.
She was sure he wanted to kiss her. For a wild moment she thought about kissing him back.
He brought the wand up to her lips, then removed it. He hovered there a moment, lips nearly touching hers.
Then he stepped back. “Liberatio.”
Her bonds disintegrated. She slumped forward, utterly surprised.
In her weakened state, it took her a moment to recover. She stood slowly up, needing to support herself against a wall. Run, she told herself, but her muscles refused to obey. Instead she watched Malfoy warily.
“I said it was your lucky day, Granger, and I meant it.” He gestured toward the door. “Go.”
She looked at him incredulously.
“Oh for Mordred’s sake. How you lot have survived this long, I’ll never know. There’s no one here but you and me.” He rolled his eyes. She almost laughed to see such a familiar Hogwarts gesture here. “Unless you’d rather wait for my father to come back.”
It would be folly to trust him. But there was nothing else. She staggered slowly to the door, her legs threatening to give out at any moment. Don’t fall in front of Malfoy, she thought absurdly.
Because she needed a moment to rest as much as anything else, she turned back at the door. “Why?”
He smirked and looked deep into her eyes. “You must let me keep some of my mysteries, Granger.”
*
He’d disappeared himself that night, before Lucius Malfoy and the Death Eaters returned. The wizarding world had never heard from him again.
Hermione rubbed the piece of checked tweed between her fingers as she sat on the floor of her small apartment. It felt smooth, buttery, its texture subtle as a secret. She tried it against her cheek, then stopped, feeling ridiculous.
She had everything ready for the Locator Spell. The tweed, of course -- it was vital to have an object that had been touched recently by the subject, within a few weeks if possible. That’s why Malfoy’s school things or possessions from the manor were useless in trying to find him.
She unrolled a huge map of the world, spreading it on the floor in front of her. Luckily there was plenty of room. She’d moved into the apartment nearly a year ago but had never felt like personalizing it much in the way of furniture or decorations of her own. Harry said she lived like a nun, which had made Ron scratch his head and ask, “None? None what?” But Hermione was never there much anyway. It was serviceable, what else would she want?
She’d made sure to Floo Kingsley before doing the Location Spell. She hadn’t liked to tell him exactly where Malfoy was, somehow. She wanted to keep the information to herself, at least for a little while. She hadn’t expected him to show no curiosity.
Grasping the tweed firmly, she rubbed the fabric against her wand, up and down three times, then, taking care to swirl the wand counter-clockwise over the map and at medium speed, whispered “Locus.”
A tiny spot on the map glowed dully but unmistakably gold. “Huh,” she said to herself, surprised. “Didn’t expect that.”
*
Hermione stepped out of the 767 at the Nadi International Airport, Republic of Fiji and blinked against the bright tropical sun.
She surveyed her surroundings from the top of the moveable stairs. She was on the largest Fijian island, Viti Levu. She could see sugar cane fields surrounding the airport, and palm trees taller than she’d known they could grow. In the Eastern distance were mountains densely covered in green vegetation. Another passenger politely coughed behind her, and Hermione hurried down the steps.
She’d had plenty of time to read up on Fiji on the ten hour plane ride. It would have taken twice as long, but she’d first Floo’d to the office of a colleague from the Imperial Magic Ministry in Tokyo. Hermione believed in Muggle transportation, but there were limits.
She’d learned the territory of Fiji was comprised of more than seven-hundred-thousand square kilometers, ninety-seven percent of it water. There were more than three hundred islands, but just two main ones. English was an official language, a relief to Hermione as Translator Charms were notoriously tricky. History would long remember the blood-drenched feud between Ethelbert the Incoherent and Mumbley Kay.
Also, cannibalism had once been an important institution to Fijian warriors -- the losers of battles would often find themselves eaten. Occasionally a Fijian would cut off a piece of a captured foe -- his finger, say -- cook it, and offer it to his victim for a giggle. Rather a good fit for Malfoy, Hermione considered.
As she headed to Baggage Claim, she breathed in deeply -- frangipani flowers and burning cane. The tropical heat tempered by the trade winds felt wonderful against her bare shoulders. It had been a wintry London March when she’d left; here it was the beginning of summer. It would all be very pleasant, she reflected, if it weren’t for Malfoy. She had to chuckle when she realized she’d often thought the same thing about Hogwarts.
Of course he couldn’t live on Viti Levu with its cities and highways. The spelled map had shown him to be on an eastern island, so remote it probably didn’t have a name. No, she thought, if Malfoy lives there he’s no doubt named it Malfoy Isle. Malfoy Paradise, perhaps? Draco Lagoon? She’d been on the plane too long.
Whatever it was called, it was nearly four hundred kilometers away. She’d need to find a boat.
*
It turned out she’d have to pass through Lakeba, which, with eight villages, was the closest thing to a hub in the Lau Group, where she was headed. A prop plane went there regularly. One left in only nine days. The Fijians looked at her in wonder when she said she couldn’t wait that long and suggested she catch a ride on a Copra boat. Some kava, or a bottle of rum would make the Captain look favorably on her.
After asking around at the port, Hermione had at last managed to secure deck passage on a freighter heading East that same afternoon. The Captain had indeed appreciated the liquor and the boat seemed sea-worthy if no-frills. Deck passage, Hermione soon learned, meant just that -- a cot on the deck. Still, it had only rained one night, she was reasonably far from the diesel fumes, and she had plenty of company.
Fijian islanders, the guidebook had told her, were among the most kind, polite, and generous people in the world, and Hermione had found that to be true. But there was something about the way they looked at her with their beautiful dark eyes that made Hermione a little uncomfortable. She felt that all of them, from that teenage girl playing with her young brother, to the elderly man sipping a cup of kava, could see through to her soul. Perhaps they had some innate gift for Legilimency; she’d have to research that later. And after all, there was nothing wrong with that, but the empathy in their eyes made her itch somehow.
She didn’t want to be known, not now, and perhaps not ever. How did Malfoy, with all his secrets, manage to live among them?
She was the only European on board; most tourists never came east, but remained at the resorts of the main islands. The islanders seemed to have made it their mission to make her feel as at home as she could living and sleeping on the crowded deck. She’d never been without a companion if she wanted one. The children, especially, crowded around her, asking questions about England, and her travels. They hadn’t asked her about being a witch, but she’d felt sure they could, it was only politeness holding them back.
Apparently there was no set arrival time. The Captain made his stops at different islands. The freight was loaded and unloaded, and in time, if all went well, they’d dock at Lakeba. Four days after they’d left, the time seemed to be nearing at last. Hermione leaned over the deck rail, watching the ocean. In the far distance was the largest island she’d seen from the deck of the Copra boat.
Karolina, a girl of Polynesian heritage with straight black hair past her waist, joined her at the rail. “Lakeba,” she pointed.
Hermione stared at the girl’s beautiful hair flowing in the sea breeze. Her own hair had puffed up beyond control her first day in the humidity, and had resisted the strongest magic. She hated the idea of facing Malfoy that way. She’d had more than ten years of well-behaved hair, and now it came time to see her old teenaged foe she looked like some kind of tropical chrysanthemum.
Hermione groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t she stop caring about things like that?
And there was Karolina, smiling at her knowingly. “You have troubles,” she said, “about a man.”
How did she do that? “Maybe a little,” Hermione said, and then, “Yes.”
The girl smiled again. “Don’t worry. Vaka malua. All will be well.”
*
“But that’s where I need to go.”
“I’m sorry, miss. No boats.”
“But boats must go there. People live there, don’t they?”
The man shrugged, looking sympathetic.
“I’m sorry, miss. Isa lei. I wish I could help.”
The awful thing was he really did want to help. They all did. But apparently no boats went to Malfoy’s little island.
She’d spent the last three days going around Lakeba, from village to village, cove to cove. No one went to that island, still more than one-hundred kilometers away. No one knew when anyone from that island would be coming there. But everyone had a cousin, or a brother, or a friend in the neighboring village who might know someone who could take her.
They’d all felt desolated at disappointing her. She’d probably caused more unhappiness on the island in three days, Hermione reflected, than there’d been in the last three months. Judging by the islanders’ faces, maybe four. People she hadn’t even met had taken to shaking their heads sadly at her when she approached.
They’d all wanted to make it up to her. Almost everyone had offered to take her in as an honored guest. In one confusing conversation, she’d felt sure a young chief was trying to propose.
Using magic to reach the island would almost certainly alert Malfoy, giving him time to disappear again, if that’s what he wanted. And Apparating to a place one had never been was foolhardy, particularly over water, but Hermione was nearly ready to try it.
Exhausted and disheartened, she was sitting on the beach at yet another cove, letting the warm waves flow over her feet, ignoring the islanders’ sympathetic looks, when she noticed the village children bounding excitedly into the waves. Then she heard it -- the unmistakable roar of a motorboat.
It was a modern gleaming thing, unlike any she’d seen in this part of Fiji, slick and streamlined enough for shallow water. It pulled in close to the shore, scattering the children who ran whooping with joy.
The boat’s motor sputtered and it drifted close, nearly to Hermione’s feet. The driver, a young male islander, looked straight at her and grinned.
“Miss Granger? Mr. Malfoy would like to offer you a ride.”
*
“Hermione. Welcome.”
And there he was, standing on a small wooden dock, watching the motorboat drift in. Smiling at her, seeming completely at ease.
He was casually elegant in tan linen pants, rolled up at the cuffs, and a loose white shirt. Savile row, Hermione wondered bitterly? She hadn’t seen any fabric like that when she’d visited a lifetime ago.
He had the perfect manners not to notice that she hadn’t returned his greeting. He leaned down to help the driver secure the boat.
He looked older, she noted. He’d filled out well, which of course he would, and the tropical sun had tanned him a light biscuit color.
It had been ten years. A war had ended, a lifetime had passed, and he was looking at her like he’d seen her last week. Like they hadn’t been bitter enemies when they’d parted a decade ago.
He reached a hand down to help her onto the dock. “Malfoy,” she finally managed.
He flashed a small sad smile. “Malfoy? Still at school, are we?”
And just like that, he could still make her feel completely inadequate. When she’d found him. When she’d tracked him down. She tried to find scathing words. Or any words. But all she could do was stare.
“Lemeki,” he addressed the islander. “Miss Granger will be staying. Bring her things in.”
*
She’d been given a room on the second floor of Malfoy’s what, mansion, she supposed. Lemeki had called it a bure, which meant house, she knew, but it was too grand for that.
It was enormous, and octagonal, of all things, which Lemeki had proudly informed her was the traditional shape for a high chief’s dwelling. Of course. She’d felt somehow relieved to find that Malfoy was still Malfoy even after all this time.
The first floor cathedral ceiling was at least twenty feet high, perhaps twenty-five in the center. It was buttressed by what looked to Hermione like native woods -- mangrove? sandalwood? -- wrapped in coconut fiber rope. Four walls were floor-to-ceiling glass looking out on what, as Lemeki had said, was Malfoy’s private island -- down to the beach, out to the ocean’s horizon.
Her own room was all polished wood, with its own glass wall. She could look out, as she was doing now, and see half the island. The sun was setting -- tropical oranges and purples over the water that was a perfect turquoise during the day, and darkening now to a midnight blue. The swaying palm trees stood out black against the jewel-toned sky.
To her right she could see the rising verdant hills typical of a volcanically-formed island. To her left the terrain was more like a coral atoll -- white sand with a small, but exquisite, lagoon.
If you wanted to disappear, she reflected, this was a better place than most.
When Lemeki had shown her to her room, he’d told her Mr. Malfoy would expect her when she’d refreshed herself, but not to hurry. The way he’d looked at her had made it clear her travel-mussed clothes were not acceptable, and he’d driven that home by sliding open the closet.
Malfoy had had female guests before, evidently. One in particular, she wondered, or a series? The closet was filled with beautiful tropical-weight dresses, along with sarongs, light sweaters and even bikinis.
Well. She wondered which would display more confidence -- going downstairs in her own wrinkled clothing, or showing she couldn’t be intimidated by his beautiful dresses, or house, or manners? In the end she selected a light pink halter-topped cotton from the closet.
When she judged she’d been upstairs long enough to show she didn’t mind making him wait, but not long enough for him to think she was afraid, she walked down.
*
“This is tanoa, miss,” said the second servant Hermione had seen, an elderly woman, indicating the large wooden bowl she had placed on the floor between her and Malfoy.
Hermione shifted on her woven mat to get a better look at its thick dark contents.
“It’s yaqona, Hermione,” Malfoy said with an amused quirk of his lips. “Kava.”
“I know what it is, Mal -- Draco,” she corrected herself, but not before the amused quirk was there again.
“I thought a yaqona ceremony was in order. It’s the traditional way of welcoming guests,” he added, dipping a coconut shell cup into the bowl and handing it to her. “E dua na bilo? Have some?”
He repeated the process for Lemeki who was seated on his own mat beside them. Sometimes he was a servant, apparently, and sometimes a friend. She supposed he and Malfoy understood the rules.
Draco dipped a bilo for himself, then smiled at her. “I welcome you. I offer you what’s mine.”
“Drink it all at once, miss,” offered Lemeki helpfully.
She peered at the contents of her cup. She’d been offered yaqona before, of course. Nearly everyone on Lakeba had wanted to share some with her, but she’d been too focused on the goal of reaching Malfoy’s island to want to take the time to socialize.
Neither Draco nor Lemeki had yet taken a drink. They both watched her expectantly. Fine. She gulped it down, all at once as Lemeki had said, then coughed. It was peppery, and thick, but not unpleasant. Malfoy smiled and refilled her bilo.
She’d read about kava. It was a mild relaxant, much like herbal tea, her guidebook insisted, and only intoxicating if drunk in enormous quantities. Dried kava root, of course, was an ingredient in many potions. She didn’t feel anything so far.
Except, of course, for sheer amazement at the utterly composed manner in which she’d been received onto Malfoy’s island, into his home. He was so utterly at ease, or at least pretending to be, so matchlessly civilized.
She took a sip of her yaqona, grimaced, then decided that draining it in one draught was the way to go, after all. Her tongue felt tingly.
Malfoy offered her another cup, the soul of politeness. She made a motion to refuse it, but that infernally amused expression came over his face again, and she snatched it. He watched her placidly as she sipped, his expression untroubled, the lines of his body completely relaxed.
What was all this? It had been ten years! Hadn’t it? And a war in which they’d been, at least for a time, on opposite sides. He’d cut himself off from his world. She’d found him. She deserved at least a look of mild surprise for her efforts.
Or maybe she’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps she and Malfoy had spent the last decade as doubles partners at the country club. Judging by his attitude that seemed just as likely.
An amused snort escaped her unexpectedly, causing her to spit out a bit of the kava. Malfoy, the git, had the air of being too well-bred to observe such things. Lemeki handed her a cloth napkin. Huh. Her tongue had gone numb without her noticing.
Well, she could be just as civilized as Malfoy, as Draco, she amended to herself, since they seemed to be so chummy now. She smiled sweetly at him over her bilo. He smiled back, a real smile that reached his eyes, not his trademark smirk. Merlin, he was infuriating.
Lemeki had produced a guitar from somewhere and was strumming softly and crooning in Fijian. Hermione felt the trade winds on her bare shoulders and realized that that one of the glass walls had disappeared somehow. She knew if Malfoy had been using magic they would have found him years ago. Technology, then. The moonlight filtered in, turning his blond hair silver.
The yaqona didn’t taste nearly as bad once you got used to it, she realized. The tingle seemed to be spreading from her tongue to her shoulders and arms. Not an unpleasant feeling.
“Why did you send a boat?” she blurted suddenly, forgetting to be civilized. “How did you know I was looking for you?”
She’d managed to revive the amused expression. “You’re not exactly subtle, Hermione. I was informed a bushy-haired European woman was looking for my island. Who else?”
“Informed?” she asked.
“I have people watching things for me.”
Well then. She took a gulp of the yaqona. The tingle had reached her legs. “Aren’t you surprised to see me? At least a little?”
He didn’t speak for a moment, and looked deep into her eyes. He seemed to have picked up the islanders’ knack of seeing into someone’s soul. “I always knew we’d meet again.”
She felt like screaming. She would have, too, if she wasn’t feeling so pleasantly numb. Instead, she laughed.
And the amused expression was gone. So it wasn’t all kava and small talk then. She felt she’d accomplished something.
“Why are you here, Hermione?” he asked, suddenly serious.
This was her chance, she knew, and it might not come again. “Why --” she stopped, unsure how to finish the question.
“Why what?” He’d regained his composure, seemed prepared to wait all night.
The words came in a rush. “Why leave your world? Why do you stay away? How can you give up magic?”
He seemed to consider, waved an arm in a gesture that included both his house and his island. “I have money. In this world that’s the same thing.”
*
“I hope you’ll stay as long as you like,” he’d said like a true islander. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a more personal sort of hospitality during the day, but I’ll be rather busy with some... business affairs.”
“You rob banks, Draco. And I’m in Magical Law Enforcement.”
His mouth quirked. “I don’t use magic, Hermione. Feel free to call Interpol, if you’d like. Lemeki will find the number for you.”
Infuriating.
*
Banks weren’t his only enterprise, she’d soon found out. Lemeki, who seemed to be a full partner, had proudly showed her the brain center of their operations.
It lacked the glamour of the rest of the house. Papers with drawings and mysterious symbols were tacked to the walls, looking not unlike Arithmancy.
The chamber’s main features seemed to be three powerful computers with enormous flat screens. A series of long numbers scrolled by, too fast for Hermione to see more than a blur.
They were numbered Swiss accounts, Lemeki explained. A few more judicious visits to Zurich, and Draco would have his hands on quite a lot of secreted-away Nazi gold.
It was all quite fascinating. Hermione inspected the room with much interest. One large paper hanging haphazardly on the wall caught her attention. It was a blueprint, covered in hand-written scrawls.
“Is that,” she asked incredulously, peering closer, “the Casino at Monte Carlo?”
Draco had appeared then and, his smile a bit strained, escorted her firmly out.
*
After some soul-searching, Hermione had decided she should take Draco up on his offer of hospitality -- after all, she’d gone to a lot of trouble to find him -- and they’d settled into a kind of a routine.
During the day she’d hike in the hills, or sunbathe by the lagoon. She hadn’t packed any bathing costumes -- she hadn’t envisioned her trip requiring any -- and she’d at first been reluctant to wear the ones that had been provided in her room.
They were far more revealing than any she’d ever worn before, and would no doubt have sent Ron and Harry first into apoplexies, then running for a dressing gown to cover her up. But, she thought, it’s Fiji.
She found this motto served her well in many things. The food was fried and starchier than she would allow herself in London? It’s Fiji. She spent the day without even thinking about work? It’s Fiji. Crimes were being plotted and perhaps perpetrated under the roof where she was staying? The Ministry gave her no authority in non-magical matters, and besides, it was Fiji.
She was enjoying the company of the person who’d made Fourth Year sometimes a living hell? Definitely Fiji.
After Draco and Lemeki had spent the day doing things she carefully didn’t ask about, they’d all have a late dinner -- fried fish, boiled taro leaves topped with coconut cream, and boiled cassava, or the like. Then she’d take a moonlit swim in the bathtub-warm ocean.
The first night she’d swum alone. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, and so never strayed far from the shore. Happening to glance up at the house, she’d seen Draco there, standing at a glass wall, watching her.
Something in the moonlight or the caress of the warm water made her daring, and she rose to her feet, standing there in the shallow waves, the bathing suit that in England she wouldn’t have dared wear in her apartment, clinging to her, wet. Just to see what Draco would do.
She hadn’t swum alone again.
*
“You don’t miss magic?”
“Not one bit.”
“You’re a wizard, Draco.”
“Not anymore.”
“You can’t stop being a wizard.”
“I’m Draco Malfoy. I can do whatever I want.”
And he’d dived under the water, passing whisper-close to her, making sure she felt him slick against her body.
*
She was afraid venture far into the ocean, so he was teaching her, each night more. To reach farther with her strokes, to kick harder. Already she’d been out farther than she’d ever dared. Confidence, he said, was the most important thing.
Hermione doubted the Pacific would care, but kept silent.
Tonight she was learning the backstroke. She floated on her back, warm, drifting. Draco was behind her, hands under her back, on her ribs.
He pulled her closer, moving his hands to her waist, his chest just touching the crown of her head. With each stroke she reached past him, the blades of her arms slicing the water on each side of his waist. On each pull she touched his ribs, the muscles of his sides, his hips.
“You didn’t have to leave, you know. We would have taken you in.”
“Would you,” he murmured near her ear.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
For some reason this made him laugh. He trailed his hands, wet and slippery, up her sides, under her skull, through her floating hair. Until he had pulled away, until she was drifting on her own.
*
“What about the Malfoy fortune? Since your father died it’s just been gathering dust and interest.”
They were lying on the sand. Draco had just come out of the ocean. Hermione could see each drop of water on his skin clearly in the moonlight, could count them if she wanted. She wanted to reach over and trail her finger through the droplets on his chest to see if she could draw a pattern. So she did.
“Mmmm.” he relaxed bonelessly under her hand, only half-listening. “I don’t care. Give it to charity.”
Her hand stilled. He looked over at her, and had to laugh at the look of shock on her face.
“Hermione,” he said, laughing. “Do I look as though I need it?”
“Well, then, since you’ve changed so much as to be willing to give up the Malfoy fortune” she said, moving her hand again, “you could work for the good of wizard society. I could get you a job at the Ministry.”
“Yes,” he said, lying all the way back. “What about Minister of Magic?”
“Or you could always --”
“Hermione,” he said, taking her hand, pulling her gently down until she was lying half across him, “Stop talking.”
The kiss at first was tentative, then sweet, then something else entirely.
*
The hell of it was, he belonged here. She knew this, as she sat on the beach, squinting through the sun to watch him help Lemeki launch the motorboat. She knew it as certainly as she knew she didn’t.
Draco Malfoy, pureblood wizard from a very un-tropical island, harmonized with his Fijian surroundings in a way she admired, even as she envied it. It was a way she had never fit, not here, and not even in England.
He looked right, in his house of opulence and nature; he looked right, against the backdrop of the turquoise water; he looked right, even, in a beautiful suit in Muggle London.
He was right, he didn’t need magic. This place, with its warm waters and swaying palms and green hills had enough magic of its own. It didn’t need any more, certainly not her kind.
And suddenly, she’d found, she’d made up her mind. “Lemeki,” she called. “Can you wait? I’ll be leaving with you.”
Draco froze, and turned slowly to look at her. She saw something in his eyes, something she didn’t like to think that she’d put there. She walked to him.
“I give up,” she said. “You’re right. You don’t belong in the wizarding world any more. I think you’ve found your place.”
He nodded, resigned. “Stay with me, Hermione,” he asked, already knowing what she would say.
“This isn’t my place. I won’t fit.”
“Do you fit so well in the other world?”
“That’s not really the point,” she smiled sadly.
“No,” he said, “Perhaps not.”
She kissed him lightly. “I’m glad you’ve found a place you belong, Draco. I’m not sure many of us do.”
*
And then she was back in London, in the snow. Had she really been in turquoise waters, just a few days ago, in a wisp of a bathing suit?
She settled back into the Ministry. Her promotion came through, and Kingsley was immeasurably glad that she seemed to have exorcised her Malfoy demons once and for all.
She spent time with Harry, who’d just broken up with Ginny for the hundredth time, and time with Ginny, who swore she wouldn’t take him back this time, not ever. She busted a witch posing as a fortune-teller and taking advantage of gullible Muggles. Divination still set her teeth on edge.
She walked through the snow, and took care to spot any icy patches on the pavement, and all the while she smelled sugar cane, and felt trade winds on her shoulders.
And then, just as Spring was finally arriving, and the snow had been reduced to slushy grey patches, there he was.
She’d been walking through Diagon Alley, finishing some shopping, her thoughts on a report she had to write before the next day, and almost didn’t notice him. She’d come to think of him in cotton and khaki linen, in sandals or barefoot. And there he was in a beautifully structured cashmere overcoat, grey worsted trousers showing underneath.
He made her come to him, of course, as he just stood there, casually pretending it hadn’t been ten years since he’d been on this street. As if he was there all the time. She couldn’t stop smiling.
“I find,” he said as she finally reached him, “that I don’t like to be told where I belong. Even when it’s me doing the telling. I find that a Malfoy always belongs wherever he is.”
She laughed, and he bent to kiss her.
“I’m still with the Ministry,” she said, stopping him, trying to be fair. “I won’t be able to ignore it, you know, if you keep up your old line of business.”
“Oh, I’ve given the business to Lemeki. He’ll be good at it. Kiss me.”
She did, and felt the caress of warm water and heard the sounds of palms rustling in the wind.
Fin
A/N: Three things that you want your fic to include: 1. Exotic Location 2. Mixing with Muggles 3. Savile Row
Three things that you do not want your fic to include: 1.White Picket fences and 2.5 kids with unimaginative names. 2.Cowed or ugly draco 3. Poor Draco, and I mean that in a merecenary way.
Also I must say that the research I did for this story has convinced me I need to get me a man who shops at Savile Row. *Sigh*
Thank you for Celebrating the Season with Draco and Hermione!