Fic: The Lions of December (1/2) *NC17* D/Hr
Title: The Lions of December
By Gravidy
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter and co. but I do own a cat that can beat the living hell out of your cat any day of the week.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: NC-17, my very first “official” D/Hr sex bomb.
A/N: At least partly inspired by war talks with my awesome beta, bk.
Summary: She calls me Goliath and I wear the David mask. I'd like to believe we could reconcile the past. Resurrect those bridges with an ancient glance. But my old stone face can't seem to break her down. She remembers bridges and burns them to the ground.--Excerpts from 7Mary3 “Cumbersome”
I like to think some things in life are meant to be. It’s like the saying: ‘All Roads Lead to Rome’ -no matter which paths you choose, or what inexplicable obstacles fall in your way, you end up there eventually. Almost magically.
I saved Ginny Weasley’s life twice. I saved her miraculously, during a moment of absolutely no hope, when by all rights and all laws of physics and nature, she should have died. Somehow I did it.
It was just meant to be. How else can you explain it?
The catch is that you can never tell what those ‘meant to be’ things are. Like by the time I had reached my fifth year and was made a prefect, I was pretty damn certain that I was meant to be Head Girl. But that never happened.
Yeah, Hermione Granger never became Head Girl. Shocking, I know.
It’s always a surprise to see where life takes you. For instance, if you would’ve told me during my sixth year at Hogwarts that another seven years down the road would find me rooming with Blaise Zabini, in a fancy apartment overlooking a small Wizarding town outside Harlow, I’d have said that you had obviously been smoking your boomslang.
“I’m hoooome!”
I don’t know why I do that. He never answers, not even when I happen to open the door, and he’s standing right there in front of me, open milk carton held damningly in his hand, staring at me with his deer-in-headlights look, like I’m going to shoot him for drinking out the container.
I fumble inside, keys lodged in the lock, refusing to budge, purse crammed in my armpit, while I hop up and down on one foot, trying to peel off my black pumps. They hurt like hell. Inevitably, my purse tips and everything spills out. I crouch down, cursing under my breath, and stuff my hairbrush, wallet, two lipsticks, and a couple of Knuts back into my purse. Then I forget the keys are jammed and nearly yank my arm off when I try to pull them out.
I dump my shoes by the front door, a habit my housemate loathes, and pad stocking-footed into the kitchen, tossing my bag onto the counter. I can see Blaise, or rather the top of the back of his head, peaking over the armchair in the living room. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but that’s normal. We’re both pretty private people. We can go days without any sort of interaction at all.
That’s not to say he isn’t a good friend of mine.
We’d both been out of Hogwarts for five years when we met up here, both looking at apartments, both looking for roommates. He suggested that we room together and save ourselves a lot of hassle, and I was so surprised that I said okay without thinking. I’m still not sure he didn’t have ulterior motives at the time. I think he wanted to get in my pants, but when I didn’t put the moves on him after the first couple of days, he let the notion pass with the attention span of a goldfish.
He’s that laid back.
I’ve lived with him for two years now, while interning at the Ministry and being privately tutored by a specialist in Experimental Magicks. Blaise works for a private Wizarding association that studies forgotten spells, relics and practices. It’s like archaeology for wizards. So we’re well matched on the whole quiet, bookish thing.
I fumble a spoon from the cupboard drawer and duck into the fridge, grabbing a cup of yogurt. I have a business dinner to go to in about an hour, but I doubt I’ll have much of an appetite while I’m there. Just the thought of it pretty much has my stomach locked up in a tight queasy knot. I’m half afraid I’ll get there and just throw up, and dry heaves hurt worse, so I might as well eat something.
Blaise is a good housemate. He’s quiet . . . he doesn’t leave his sweaty shirts or dirty underwear lying over the furniture . . . he does housework on occasion, though if he had his way I’d do all his laundry . . . he eats my cooking without complaint but never steals my food . . . and he pays rent on time.
We do have separate bathrooms. I think we both knew from the word go that we’d need separate bathroom spaces to maintain harmony. We’re both unrepentant bathroom hogs and tend to greedily use up the hot water whenever we can. I use his razors, and he hates my bath gels and aroma therapy candles, and likes to scatter my makeup all over the place in a passive aggressive frenzy when it gets in his way. I swear, it’s like reverse menopause for guys or something; he gets these surges of testosterone in irregular, overwhelming bursts and has to go tearing around the apartment beating his chest. Then it wears off and he goes back to quiet, unassuming Blaise.
Maybe it’s living with a girl that does it to him.
Or maybe it’s being an archaeologist.
He’s a bit of neat freak about the apartment, which is weird because I’ve seen his room, and there are clothes and magazines and crumpled pieces of paper strewn all over the floor, over his music equipment, his dresser, and his weight bench. He likes going out to see his friends but hates having company at the apartment. He’s about as sentimental as a flobberworm, and so doesn’t contribute much to the interior décor by way of photographs or knickknacks. I don’t think I have ever seen a picture of his family.
He’s also one of those people who likes lists. It doesn’t matter what kind of list: grocery lists, lists of telephone numbers, to-do lists. And if there’s no reason to make a list, he finds a reason.
I straighten up, spoonful of yogurt stuck in my mouth, and shut the refrigerator door to view the latest list where it flutters, pinned to the fridge by a lobster magnet.
--Jobs that Neville Longbottom wouldn’t survive through the first day-- is scrawled in his slanted, but neat, writing.
I pick up the marker and squiggle “Bomb disarmer” under Blaise’s last entry of, “Lion/large animal trainer”. He’ll alphabetize it later, the freak.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask him curiously, wandering over to his side, popping another spoonful of yogurt in my mouth. Yum. Peachy. “Want to know something weird? Harry and Ron both owled me last night. Harry’s saying he’s going to be working over Christmas, and Ron’s saying he’s taking Luna to some kinda love-nest. They’re not coming down to see me. Neither one of them. The ingrates.”
I’m actually pretty surprised and hurt, even a little worried that maybe they don’t want to see me, or something. They know I hate being alone on Christmas. Blaise will probably take off to visit family soon, and I don’t want to stay here by myself. I know if I’m that desperate, I can always go to the Burrow. I’m always welcome, but I just can’t bring myself to intrude on the family. Mrs. Weasley never did like me as much as she liked Harry and I’d feel too guilty anyway.
I glance a bit despondently around our apartment. It’s only sparsely decorated for Christmas, a few sprigs of holly, a couple pine needle sashes along the shelves and draped over the T.V., and a snow-globe that continuously swirls tiny snowflakes sitting on the stand near the wall. I used to have a foot-tall Santa Claus doll that danced to “Holly Jolly Christmas” when you pushed his button, but he got spectacularly melted a few days ago.
Pretty pathetic.
I don’t think I’ve gone all out for Christmas since Ginny and I were roommates. She always spent Christmas with her family, but we glutted our living space with decorations every year, and then we’d be trying to get tinsel out of the carpet and out of our hair until late February.
It would be nice to put up a few more things, not much more. I don’t want to choke Blaise out of his natural habitat. I know him. He’ll get all nervous and claustrophobic and stop coming home. But we should at least get a tree, just a small one, but that will have to wait until the weekend.
I lean my hip against the armchair and am about to run the idea by him when I finally notice what he’s wearing and end up choking on my yogurt instead. That’s why he was so quiet, he was waiting for me to notice. I cough and sputter and stare and he looks right back at me, daring me to comment.
It’s a full-on, bright, red fur suit with white fur trim, black buttons down the front, a large black belt with a gold buckle holding up red fur pants, black gloves, and shiny black boots.
It’s a Santa suit. It’s about two sizes too big for him. The hat is in his lap.
My first stunned thought is that he doesn’t really make a good Santa. He looks more like a pissed off elf. It’s his ears. I’ve never had the heart to tell him, but they are kind of pointy.
“What happened?” I cough out, because there is no way he’s in that thing voluntarily, “Why aren’t you dressed for dinner?”
He nods his head towards the coffee table.
I follow his gaze, frowning when I spot the rectangular box. A present. It’s about the size of a shoebox, a bit longer than it is tall, wrapped in dark red velvet with a crinkled gold tie cutting it in quarters, and tied in a bow up top.
Ah yes, my current problem.
The box appeared about four days ago, apparently out of thin air, along with a Christmas card that read “Merry Christmas, Frizz Head. Enjoy your present. Love, DM . . . P.S. I’ll know if you don’t open it.” Cheery and solicitous, except for that last part, that was definitely a threat.
There was no way in hell that I was going to open it.
I wasn’t even going to touch it, not after I found that if I stared at it long enough, my feet would start walking me towards it, which meant there was an Enticement on it. When Blaise got home and discovered me plastered against the far wall, staying as far away from it as I could, while still keeping an eye on it, he muttered something about Yule-tide terrorization from our favorite psycho and tried to destroy it. That’s how my Santa got melted. Blaise’s spell bounced right off the gift, ricocheted off the walls, smashed up a few things, then killed Santa. The present wasn’t even singed.
“You touched it, didn’t you?” I accuse, pissed because I told him a hundred times to just leave it the hell alone, but he’s male so he’s driven to ‘fix’ it.
He nods, unrepentant. “It blasted me across the room. Knocked me out cold. I woke up in the suit.” He tugs at the outfit a little, and I almost smile at the pout on his face. “I think my hands are burned, they hurt pretty bad, but I can’t get the gloves off.”
And my smile disappears, unease stirring in my belly.
That’s characteristic Draco Malfoy: like Halloween candy with needles inside, sweetly poisonous. The Santa suit is cute, even funny, but you don’t see what’s underneath, you can’t tell that Blaise’s hands are burned, probably red and blistered and weeping. It’s insidious.
I set my yogurt down on a side cabinet and pull my wand out. “Want me to try to get you out of the suit?”
“No!” He’s holding up his hands before I even complete the sentence, looking just slightly panicked. “No, thank you. I’ve been informed that he’s spelled it to burst into flames if I try to get it off. I’m just going to wait a little while, thank you.”
“He wouldn’t!” That bastard’s going to get a piece of my mind!
“He hates my guts. You bet he would.”
“That stupid, son of a bitch. . .” I let out a string of curses and stomp my feet like a two-year-old, and Draco isn’t here to yell at, so I yell at Blaise. “Did you have to touch it tonight? You can’t wear that to dinner! You can’t go with burnt hands!”
Blaise is my date. He puffed up and got all protective and demanded to go with me when he found out that I’d been delegated to go to a business meeting with Draco Malfoy. Harry and Ron can’t stand Malfoy. I mean literally cannot be in the same room with him without seriously entertaining homicidal urges. But Harry needs Draco’s political backing on a War-Crimes issue that’s floating through the Ministry and Draco suggested a business dinner to hash over the details. I offered to go in place of one of them, to stave off what would most likely be a night of bloodshed.
It may yet be a night of bloodshed.
I stalk down the hallway to my room, disgusted. “You’ll have to see a healer. Do you need to floo over to St. Mungo’s?” I can’t miss this meeting, the War-Crimes issue is vital. But that means I can’t do anything for Blaise right away.
He scrambles after me and hovers in my doorway. “I don’t want you to go alone!”
Blaise doesn’t know exactly why I get the letters, the gifts, the flowers. He has never asked and I’ve never volunteered the information, but he picks up that it upsets me, and that angers him. I know that there have been times when he has gotten rid of the things Draco sent before I ever saw them. That’s probably what happened here. Blaise tried to dump the box before I got home and the box fought back.
Blaise thinks Draco has an obsession for me-some kind of twisted stalker thing. It’s not like that. It’s all very cold-blooded. An old grudge. He won’t let go of it, or maybe I’m not supposed to, so he sends me subtle digs and needling reminders wrapped up in pretty boxes, or phrased in lyrical prose, and sent with flowers every few months. Just to let me know he hasn’t forgotten. Keeps me on my toes, so to speak.
I grab my evening gown from where I left it hanging over my computer chair and stalk into the bathroom. Blaise can’t see in, so I leave the door open. “I won’t be alone,” I snap, grabbing my hairbrush to viciously attack my curls. “Dean will be there, and he’ll most likely bring Lavender.” Dean is my backup, just in case something exactly like this were to happen. When Draco’s involved, the chances of things like this happening seem to rise exponentially.
“I’m going with you,” he snaps back. Stubborn. It’s kind of sweet. Usually he’s a complete doormat.
“But there’s a dress code.” I toss my skirt and sweater out the door. They land crumpled on my bed.
“So I’ll put on robes over it.”
“You’ll roast. Just forget it. We’ll think of something.” I shimmy into the dress and scowl at my reflection, annoyed that I don’t have time for a shower. I feel gross, all sweaty makeup and scraggly hair. “Come here and lace me up.”
He does so docilely. And I’m hard pressed not to tease him about it.
An hour later, we arrive at Le Fosse aux Serpents. Trust Draco to choose a place like this. It’s an over-the-top classy joint, impossible to get a reservation unless you’re rich or famous. I’ve even heard that they won’t take reservations if your family is rumored to have too much Muggle blood.
It’s a huge building, lots of windows that show whatever type of scenery or time of day you want. There are marble floors, fountains with live silverbell vines growing around them, little fairies floating around, and live music playing softly in the background. The maitre d’ greets me like he has been waiting his whole life to meet me.
“Miss Granger!” he gushes. He takes my hand and gives a little bow as another young man takes my cloak. The kid turns to Blaise and looks at a complete loss. Blaise scowls at him, as the Maitre d’ continues prattling on. “You look lovely this evening. We are so honored to have you here. Please, please, right this way!”
Now, I’m pretty famous in my own right, but not this famous. I just smile politely and follow. Someone has told the staff to treat me extra nice, apparently.
Draco has reserved a whole section of the restaurant for the dinner. It’s a large, gorgeous room decorated mostly in dark emerald and subtle hints of glittering silver. He’s such a prick.
Draco, himself, is already there, seated at the head of a moderately long table set with pale silver linen table cloth, dainty china, silverware that is actual silver, and rolled linen napkins. Draco is dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. His emerald robes are laid over the back of his chair. His pale hair is cut to the middle of his ears, shorter than the last time I saw him over a year ago.
He doesn’t like it too long, says it reminds him of Lucius.
Dean and Lavender are there and seated as well. Dean in dark blue dress robes, Lavender in a cherry and pink oriental-style dress, her blond hair pinned up neatly with an artless style I never could quite emulate.
I go still in surprise when I see who else is there.
Dean is seated to Draco’s right. To Draco’s left are two Ministry officials. I recognize Larry Kroger and Joel Prosper, both older men. Kroger has salt-and-pepper hair and sagging jowls. Prosper’s a bit younger with dark hair, graying temples and large glasses. Both Kroger and Prosper are pushing the War-Crimes issue that Harry opposes. I had no idea they were going to be here.
The two men give me strained, polite non-expressions, carefully masking their distaste, and I realize I’m staring at them, practically gaping.
This doesn’t make sense. Why would they be here? Are they making a last minute bid for Draco’s support? But why would he invite them to come tonight? I mean, I knew Draco had decided, in his mercurial derangement, to play hardball with us, but I honestly came here expecting to cut him some sort of deal. I had figured there was something he wanted. It never occurred to me that he might actually be seriously considering supporting the bill.
My mouth does this little twitchy thing that could be interpreted as a smile at the two officials and I tear my gaze from them, unable to help casting a disbelieving look at my host.
Draco’s watching my reactions intently, eyes burning into me. It’s a playfully mischievous, conspiratorial look. There’s no malice in it at all, but there doesn’t need to be. Anyone who knows him, knows that when Draco Malfoy says ‘I know something you don’t know’, you’d better try like hell to figure out what ‘something’ is before it pops out and eats you alive.
My twitchy smile falters completely in the face of a sudden wash of paranoia. Because I’m perfectly aware, maybe more than anyone else, as to what kind of demented extremes Draco’s sense of humor runs to.
And tonight, it’s all for me. Oh joy.
The maitre d’ clears his throat and talk abruptly halts as Blaise and I come to a stop near the table. The maitre d’ bows and announces, “Miss Hermione Granger and . . . uh . . . her escort.”
“The name’s Santy Claus,” Blaise snarls. I give him a subtle elbow in the ribs, and he gives a not so subtle, “Ow!” and gives me wounded eyes while rubbing his side. He’s got a blue pillowcase thrown over his shoulder with Draco’s gift inside. We had decided that it was safe to move it, but were careful not to touch it. We’re just going to give the damn thing back to him.
I murmur warm hellos to Dean and Lavender and greet the two Ministry officials with sufficient amounts of aristocratic aloofness, ignoring Draco completely.
He apparently gets miffed when I don’t pay any attention to him, because the first testy words out of his mouth are, “I chose this place specifically because they have a dress code,” he drawls, eyes on his glass of wine as the waiter refills it, but his scorn all for Blaise.
My expression remains polite as I mentally remind myself that outright name-calling won’t help my cause, so I take Blaise’s arm and chirp. “I’m sure no one minds. Blaise just came from a charity function for children. He’s so sweet.”
“I’m so sweet. Come sit on Santa’s lap, ‘Mione.” Blaise whispers in my ear, just to be mouthy, and I instantly bite my lip on a strained giggle, because Blaise is evil and will be delighted if I lose my composure. He once made me laugh so hard during a church sermon that I squirted soda out my nose. Don’t ask.
“Hmm.” Draco knows I’m lying, of course, but he only returns my smile with amusement and something calculating beneath. “In that case, I suppose we can overlook it. ‘Tis the season.” He toasts Blaise, who gives him a light scowl.
I push Blaise towards his seat while the maitre d’ pulls my chair out for me. Blaise sits on my left next to Lavender. I sit at the other end of the table opposite Draco, trying not to watch him watch me.
“Now Mr. Malfoy,” Kroger starts. “About the issue at hand . . .”
Ah, Kroger was already preaching before I arrived. I’m not worried, Dean is quite up to the task of fending the man off in my absence.
I don’t understand why Draco is sitting on the fence with this one, even if it is only part of some convoluted ploy to get to some other goal. The measure will affect him if it passes. . . Unless he thinks he’s got enough money to buy himself off the hook while the rest of us crash and burn.
Merlin, I hope that’s not the case. I’ll take him down with me. I swear I will.
To my surprise, Draco waves Kroger off disinterestedly without even looking at him. “Let’s all enjoy dinner first, Miss Granger looks hungry.”
Blaise looks at me suspiciously.
My eyes dart to Draco and the he smiles, pleased that he’s finally got my attention. I stop trying to avoid his gaze and stare back. “I assure you, I’m perfectly well.” I tell him tartly. “We can proceed with the discussion if everyone wishes.”
I want it out in the open. Whatever it is, whatever game he’s playing, whatever point he’s trying to make or whatever he expects me to figure out, I want it out in the open. It’s entirely possible that he’s doing this on principle-pissing in Harry’s pond because he’s bored or because he can.
It’s also entirely possible that he means us real harm.
Kroger opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to agree but Draco cuts him off. “Let’s save the unpleasantness for later and just enjoy each other’s company for the moment, shall we?” And it’s not a request or a suggestion.
He’s neatly tied my hands with that one. He’s obviously not ready to reveal himself and I can’t really afford to piss him off yet. It’s his show, and we’ll all dance like his little puppets.
Kroger and Prosper look slightly putout but both mumble an agreement as the waiters, signaled by Malfoy, bring out the appetizers. There’s quite a selection and I notice some of my favorites among them: French chocolate truffles, Gorgonzola stuffed dates and caviar and creme fraiche. I can’t prove it yet, its subtle enough that I actually wonder for a moment if its my own paranoia kicking in, but I’m betting this is yet another nasty little dig.
I’m starting to get nervous.
Draco, instead of helping himself to the delicacies, blandly looks at Blaise and produces a candy cane, leisurely popping it into his mouth. My eyes narrow. Blaise makes a choked noise, and I quickly put my hand on his fur-suited arm and give him a sweet smile while my eyes warn him to keep silent.
“So, Mr. Prosper,” Draco begins, sucking on his sweet and pointedly ignoring us. “How’s your wife?”
Prosper balks, caviar covered round halfway to his mouth.
Joel Prosper is not married. I’d bet my last dime Draco knows this. I’d even bet that Prosper knows that Draco knows this, but Draco’s only smiling at the man prettily, chin resting lightly on his knuckles, fingers interlaced loosely. Kroger has gone still as well, and I can almost hear him silently begging Prosper not to embarrass anyone.
“Er . . .” Prosper must have heard Kroger’s telepathic squeal of warning because he clears his throat and answers gravely. “Fine. Very well, actually, thank you for asking.”
Draco looks pleased.
I concentrate on the chocolate truffles, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands and groan.
“That is so nice,” Draco says, positively beaming. “I’m glad. What about your sister, Edaberth? I heard she got that promotion she wanted.”
Prosper’s face lights up, happy to have actual information to work with. “Yes, yes, thank you. Head of her department. The family’s very proud of her.”
“Hmm.” I could swear he just winked at me. “Congratulations. And speaking of congratulations,” he rounds on Dean, “I hear congratulations are in order for you too, my friend.”
Dean quickly swallows whatever was in his mouth, “Huh? Er, I’m sorry?”
Draco does a great impression of innocence-wide eyes, candid gaze. “For your wife’s pregnancy, I mean. It was heartening to hear such wonderful news.”
Blaise chokes on his dates and starts coughing. I’ve stopped chewing.
Dean looks thoroughly confused. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he says slowly.
“Hmm?” Draco only smiles because Lavender’s hand is clasped to her lips, eyes wide as dinner plates.
“Lavender and I haven’t . . .” Dean freezes when he sees her expression. “Lavender?”
“Dean . . . um . . .” she begins weakly, scrunching her linen napkin in her hands. “I was going to tell you after dinner. I’m pregnant.”
“Oops!” Draco puts a hand to his mouth. “Did I let the cat out of the bag?” He’s not even trying to sound sincere anymore, and if that ‘cat out of the bag’ thing is a Gryffindor joke, I think I’m going to kill him.
“Lavender . . .” Dean looks stunned. “When . . . how. . . ?”
“Yes, how?” Draco echoes wickedly, face a study of polite interest.
I have to hand it to him, he’s in rare form, really hamming it up tonight. It’s a mixture of playfulness, of showing off for me, and outright viciousness. He’s like a really fucked-up peacock.
Lavender wrings her hands. “I only found out this morning. I don’t know how he found out!”
Draco cocks his head. “It was brought to my attention that you’d seen a Medi-witch, Lavender dear. I was worried that you weren’t well. Imagine my surprise when I was informed what kind of medical attention you were requiring.”
Lavender ignores him. “Dean? DEAN!”
Dean’s apparently gone into shock. There’s a ‘vacant’ sign flashing behind his eyes.
“Maybe he should lie down,” Draco suggests tactfully.
Lavender starts shaking him. “Dean! Oh, Dean, say something!” She slaps him.
“That’s a hate crime,” Draco chirps.
Dean comes alive with a start. He blinks and stutters incoherently. “Me . . . I . . . uh . . . baby . . . I’m . . . daddy? Me?”
“Congratulations!” Prosper cries jovially, just glad that the heat is off him.
“Yes, it is wonderful news.” Kroger toasts Dean with his wine flute.
“Way to go, Dean!” Blaise leans over behind Lavender to slap him on the back.
“I have cigars for the gentlemen but I think it would be best to wait until the young mother is not around to be bothered by the smoke.” Draco gives her the most genteel smile he can manage while silently rejoicing at the trouble he’s caused.
I know Lavender has to be freaked. Not only did Draco just spill the beans, but he made it pointedly clear that he’s watching her, that he has access to her private information. And he’s made it pointedly clear to me that Blaise isn’t his only hostage.
Son of a bitch! He’s boxing me in. That’s why he hasn’t cut to the chase yet, he’s not done showing me his fangs. But why? Why hold their safety over my head like this? Why threaten me with Ministry workers? What in the world is he after?
My eyes flick down to the pillowcase at Blaise’s feet containing Draco’s velvet present. It can’t be that simple, or that inane, can it? Or if it is, what in Merlin’s name is in that box that is so important that he’ll try and force me to open it?
Draco has never pushed me before. He’s needled, he’s harassed, he’s tricked, but he’s never pushed. He’s never tried to corner me. That he would do so now, and that he would act so smug and pleased about it, is extremely alarming.
It means he’s sure of his victory.
Dean finally gets a hold of himself. “Lavender!” He embraces her tightly, and she starts to cry. Kroger and Prosper applaud. Jolly time had by all. “Baby, are you okay? Do you need to rest? Is everything all right with the baby?” He’s trying to feel her forehead, hug her, and feel her belly, all at the same time. “Come on, we should probably take you home.”
“Dean, I’m pregnant, not stricken with the plague, nothing’s going to happen for a good seven or eight months!” Lavender glances at me and back to Dean pointedly, her eyes trying to silently convey a message. “This is why I wanted to wait until after dinner to tell you,” she says quietly.
“But baby, I just found out we’re gonna have a baby! I gotta call my parents. I gotta call your parents. I gotta . . . come on. . . .” He pulls her to her feet, peppering her face with kisses. She giggles and gives in, leaning into him with a happy sigh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Kroger, Mr. Prosper, Hermione.” He looks at me, asking me silently to understand, and the bitch of it is, I do.
“Congratulations Dean--Lavender,” I say, smiling and meaning it. I can’t begrudge them this.
“Ohhh. . . .” Lavender, teary-eyed, flounces over to give me a perfume-scented hug and a kiss on the cheek. She gives Blaise a quick squeeze, startling him. And then she and Dean are walking hand-and-hand for the door.
“Goodnight! Thank you for coming,” Draco calls, waving after them. He grins and crunches once on his candy cane before switching it to the other side of his mouth. Casting me a sly wink, he shows me four fingers and drops two.
And that right there is the name of the game. He has just relieved me of two of my supporters in one blow. I’m still not sure why. Did I slip up? Or did Dean do something wrong? Or did Draco simply get bored with waiting for me to do something and decide to take a shot at me?
Stupid fucker.
I take a shot back.
“What is it with you and young mothers, Malfoy?” I ask him lightly and that gleeful expression is instantly shocked from his face.
I’m viciously pleased.
I watch him struggle with himself for all of two seconds and then the corners of his mouth bend painfully upward and it’s like watching a rusted iron gate creeeeeak open. The two-faced wretch then proceeds to ignore me and sits back with a happy sigh. “Well that was fun.”
“Yes, you should definitely be more careful with that omniscience thing,” Blaise says with veiled sarcasm. “Us mere mortals can’t keep up.”
Draco spears Blaise with a look and crunches on his candy cane once again, flashing teeth for an instant. “If you can’t keep up, my dear mere mortal, why are you even here?”
“To look after ‘Mione.” Blaise shoots back casually. “Some sick asshole has been pushing their unwanted attention on her so I kind of stick around and make sure no one gives her trouble.”
Draco’s lips curl up, slow and insidious. “Sounds like you two are very good friends.” His eyes catch mine, full of dark mirth. “Bosom companions. But certainly she can take care of herself. She was the brightest witch in our year. Why would she need you?” He started out politely inquiring and ended with a snarl.
Blaise’s answering smile is positively dripping with smug, male egoism and I know I can’t let him say whatever he’s about to say because there is a ninety percent chance it’s going to deal with the virtues of specific portions of his own anatomy.
“So rude, Malfoy, I’m surprised at you!” I cut in with feigned dignified shock, tone scolding as I flutter a hand to my heart. “Don’t take it personally, Blaise, I’m sure Malfoy’s just bitter because those on the receiving end of his help often wind up wishing they’d never been born.” I turn innocently to the nervous Ministry workers, who have been sitting by silently, not daring to interrupt. “You see, there’s this sweet little baby girl who. . .”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Hermione Granger.” Draco’s voice is deadly soft. “If you wish any of them to leave here alive, don’t you dare speak another word.” The warning is nastily intimate and I wonder, with brazen disregard for his threat, if he means it.
Everyone else has gone still, the Ministry officials looking rather pale, but my smile is twisted as I say lightly. “Oh, you’re going to help us some more?”
His eyes are silver pools of rage. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” He raps out with the cold triumph of someone who knows they have the upper hand. “Did you forget that you came to me? Did you forget that you need my support, dear sweet girl?”
My smile disappears like it was shot clean off my face.
I did forget. I forgot and I deliberately provoked him. I’m suddenly cursing myself, horrified that I could be so careless.
He chuckles. “What a stupid thing for such a smart girl to do.”
Kroger, deciding he has an advantage, and feeling woefully left out, appeals for the spotlight. “What else can you expect from a Muggle born, Mr. Malfoy? They aren’t known for their common sense.” And dreadfully miscalculates.
The dangerous, almost alien look of pure predatory malice Draco turns on him has him backtracking so fast, he can’t make a coherent sentence.
“I . . . that is to say. . . I just meant. . . I, I, I . . .” He flushes red and stammers.
“Shut up, Kroger.” Blaise mutters, taking a drink from his wine glass.
“No, Mr. Zabini.” Draco says gently, face somewhat composed but eyes still feral. “Let the man speak. The only person who has no actual business here, is you.”
The room goes silent. All attention quiet suddenly settled on Blaise. He’s not in the least bothered. He ignores us all and makes a show of taking a long, slow swallow of wine, drawing it out for as long as possible. Then he makes a face, taps the half-full glass and sets it down, “Bleh. Shoddy stuff, Malfoy.” And pulls a small tin bottle of whisky from his Santa outfit, pouring some into his drink.
I don’t know whether to be mortified or utterly proud.
“Miss Granger,” Mr. Kroger says quickly, apparently having had enough of the shocking display. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with your . . . ah . . . friend. Please tell us a little more about him.”
I smile back just as saccharinely. “This is Blaise Zabini, a very good friend of mine.” I rest my hand on Blaise’s and smile like a besotted idiot at him, playing the part of the adoring girlfriend. Blaise laces his fingers with mine and smiles in a way that makes me kick him under the table for overdoing it. He snickers softly and my smile relaxes a little as I realize he did it just to make me feel better. “He’s an AMWAY rep.” AMWAY stands for Ancient Magical Wizardry Analysis in Yeovil, which is the area. “Veeeery intellectual,” I add. “His work is sooo fascinating, especially when considering my own cutting-edge research. It’s so amazing to see how our modern day breakthroughs sometimes mirror ancient magical ways. Whenever Blaise tells me about magic they’ve discovered that is ancient but somehow beyond anything we, as a modern society, have been able to accomplish, I wonder at how much of our magical heritage has been lost over the years.”
I’m hoping my enthusiastic little speech will put them off the subject. If not, I can keep talking until it does.
Draco has calmed down enough to revert back to spoiled-little-rich-boy mode. He looks thoroughly bored and seems to be playing with his truffles. If he had a plastic spoon, he’d be flicking them at people. Kroger and Prosper are looking at me with polite expressions of pained interest.
“The two of you live together, or so I’ve heard,” Kroger says, changing tactics slightly.
Uh huh, and I can already see where this is going.
“Dirty Muggle custom, don’t you think, living together outside of wedlock? I suppose the Zabini family isn’t pureblooded?” Prosper puts in his own two-cents, tone all apologetic curiosity, as if he’s really very sorry that he’s being a racist jackass but just can’t seem to stop himself.
I know I should just ignore the shallow, half-assed jab. But I’m already on edge and spoiling for a fight and I start to bristle but Blaise sets a hand on mine calmly, not even batting an eyelash. It’s true that his family doesn’t exactly have pure lines. He’s only three generations pure, which isn’t much considering some of the other lines, but he could give half a damn either way.
“Nothing near as spotless and pristine as the Malfoy clan.” He says coolly, sitting back. “But I don’t much aspire to be like them.” His tone is neither too casual nor too uptight, just an even, unconcerned drawl. It helps me calm down a little. “I like Muggle customs.”
That at least is true. He loves Muggle television. More than one of Blaise’s friends has been body-slammed in the living room and asked if they ‘smelled what the Rock was cooking’. He loves Spongebob Squarepants and was terribly disappointed when he found out that Star Trek isn’t real. He has also recently discovered computer technology and, much to my dismay, has an enthusiastic, and completely shameless, taste for internet porn.
“You are not concerned with preserving our way of life? I thought that is what you studied.” Kroger looks affronted.
Draco takes a gulp of wine, watching but not intervening. I don’t like that he’s removed himself from the conversation and, therefore, our attention. I can’t tell if he wants this to play out or if he’s collecting his self-control and planning his next move. Knowing him, he’s going to want to punish me for pissing him off.
“I’m concerned with living my life in the way that I choose as best for myself, and for Hermione.”
That is apparently exactly what Kroger was waiting for. He snaps his trap closed, now not just twisting words but manipulating the conversation to go exactly where he wants it. “And is that why you are unconcerned with War criminals who have gone unpunished since--”
I open my mouth, probably to say something disastrously rude, but Draco beats me too it.
“Hold that thought gentlemen, it looks like dinner is about to be served.” He cuts it in smoothly, as unruffled as if he didn’t just threaten to kill us all moments ago, and the waiters enter with the main course. I didn’t see him do anything, but I’m certain Malfoy must have signaled them somehow.
Lobster tail, baked salmon roulade, and lamb loin chops. I’ve had fancy dinners before but this seems a bit wasteful. There’s no way five people will be able to finish it all, and the leftovers will probably be thrown out.
“This looks lovely,” Prosper says appreciatively as Kroger clenches his jaw in the disappointment of being cut off again.
Yes, why is Draco avoiding the War Crimes issue? Why isn’t he holding it over my head to get what he wants like he did a minute ago? It’s his trump card. He should be using it to its fullest extent. I can only guess that he has something else planned.
“Should I tell him I’m a vegetarian?” Blaise whispers in my ear, distracting me, and I giggle despite myself. “Or maybe I should ask if they have roast ferret on the menu.”
I cover my choked laughter with a hand and belatedly notice Draco’s eyes on us, his lip curled. “Something amusing?” he asks softly. The tone is Quiet Menace à la Snape. He has pulled it off masterfully. Our Potions professor would be so proud.
“Private joke,” I respond blandly. As in, none of your damn business.
“Of course.”
Beside me, Blaise jerks and lets out a low hiss. I glance at him but he shakes his head. He’s tense-really tense.
Draco sets his napkin in his lap, smoothing it out before slowly looking up with knowing eyes. “Something the matter, Mr. Zabini?”
Blaise’s face is suddenly pale and tight. He doesn’t answer. He hunches over on himself slightly.
“Blaise, what’s wrong?” I whisper, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“My hands,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “They really really hurt.” He’s shaking, sweat beading his forehead. He shudders and closes his eyes.
“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, Blaise!” I don’t know what to do.
“What’s wrong?” Draco asks sharply.
I barely keep from screaming ‘you know exactly what’s wrong!’ but instead, find myself babbling. “He hurt his hands earlier today, burned them. I think it’s getting worse!” Blaise makes a small sound, holding his gloved hands out in front of him, curling around himself. My voice rises in panic. “He needs help. He needs medical help right now!”
Draco nods curtly and makes a gesture to the waiters standing at the edge of the room, “There’s a healer on duty in the office next door. They can take him there.”
I lurch to my feet, nearly upsetting my chair and cup Blaise’s elbow to help him stand. He’s breathing in deep, pained gasps. Two waiters are at our side, leading us away.
I start to follow Blaise but a thought strikes me, and I turn back to the table. Kroger and Prosper look positively gleeful. Draco looks back at me, unsmiling but serene, still seated, unconcerned.
I can leave now if I want. He’s not trying to stop me.
Or is he simply certain that I’ll choose to stay?
I realize as soon as I think it, that I won’t leave. I can’t. Not while Kroger and Prosper are here to steal Draco’s support. If I choose to leave, he might give them what they want just to spite me.
I set my jaw, furious.
It takes talent to force someone to do what you want without having to say a word.
I hurry and catch up to Blaise. “Blaise, I have to stay.”
“No!” he gasps. “Don’t stay here alone with him.”
“He won’t do anything to me, Blaise. He doesn’t have the power, or the balls, to pick a fight with me. You’ll be fine. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Hermione!”
I feel so terrible for deserting him after he stuck by my side for so long. I’ll have to make it up to him, but this is more important right now. Lives are at stake. “Go on.” To the waiters I say, “Take care of him, please.”
The door shuts, and there is only silence behind me. I turn without looking at any of them and calmly walk back to my chair. The blue pillowcase is still under Blaise’s chair, I make a note to remember it, to make sure I throw the contents in Draco’s face before I leave.
I stop at my chair, not sitting. “You’ve overstepped the bounds tonight, Malfoy.” I say, low and fierce, my hands clenching so hard my nails are digging into my palms because my fingers are just itching to go for my wand. I’m disgusted with myself for leaving Blaise, for not doing more to protect him, for putting him in this position in the first place. “I want you to know that no matter what you decide tonight, we will survive. We want your support but not at any cost. You’re already on shaky ground with us and if you push the envelope, I swear to Merlin, I’ll. . .”
“He’s going to be fine.” Draco interrupts impatiently.
“He’d better.” I say, clipped and cold, my eyes promising vengeance. I sit down, ready to get a few things out in the open. “I know you did this to him.”
A small smile, eyes demurely on the salmon he’s cutting. “He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.”
“You mean like she did?” I hiss, words dripping with malice. “Be very careful, Malfoy.”
His knife and fork falter, his smile freezing on his face and I can almost hear him kicking himself for walking right into that one. “It’s petty of you to keep bringing up the same old tired history over and over again.” He drawls, not looking at me. “You cheapen it.”
“I cheapen it?” Now I’m pissed. “I cheapen it? You think a day goes by that I don’t think of it, you think an hour goes by that I don’t agonize over it, you think I don’t see her face every time I look at you, and you have the gall, you detestable little parasite, to call it cheap?” my voice is shaking, my lips peeled back in a snarl of absolute hatred. “We all know what you do to people who get in your way, Mr. Malfoy, but really, you already owe us enough. . .”
“I don’t owe a damn thing!” he shouts, surprising me into silence. “He got what he wanted in return! He got, piece for piece, an even exchange.”
“Bullshit.”
“Then what do you call it, Miss Granger?”
“Less than what you deserve.” I rap out brutally. “Less then what you owe. Give me what I want out of your obligation to do so.”
He stares at me in shock and then throws his head back and howls with laughter. “Now you are cheapening it, using that to get what you want out of this situation.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m so proud.” He sobers, eyes still laughing and puts his chin in his hand as he says snidely. “But I’m afraid I’m a business man and not much prone to flights of emotional diarrhea so you can forget any pretty little notions you have in your head of using such tactics to change my mind.”
“Of course not, having a sense of shame would make you human.” I dismiss.
Kroger is pleased. This looks to him like a turn of events in his favor. “Perhaps now is a good time to discuss the War-Crimes issue?”
“Yes, a good time,” Draco agrees. He sets his fork down with a heavy clink and looks at me. “Hermione dear, you haven’t touched your wine.”
Nor will I if you insist on a debate, you prick. I pick up the glass and pretend to take a sip, the amused glitter in his eyes says that he isn’t fooled.
“Yes.” Kroger seems a bit confused by that bit of byplay but lets it go. “You see, Mr. Malfoy, during the war there were criminals other than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers. There was a group of dangerous vigilantes who took advantage of the state of chaos our world was in to plunder and steal. They wreaked havoc on the Ministry and killed Aurors. They terrorized Hogwarts and the general public. But when the war ended, they were not punished or even brought to trial. We would like to look into the cases of these vigilantes, and we even believe that we know the names of some of them.”
“You do?” Draco asks.
“One of them is Harry Potter,” Prosper whispers the name with all the terror of a wizard saying ‘Voldemort’.
The Old Guard in the Ministry has hated Harry for years. They know how popular he is with the public. They know that if the public had their way, he would already be Minister. And that scares the hell out of them. This War Crimes bill is the Ministry’s best chance of legally purging the wizard government of Harry and his supporters. Harry they’ll kill if they can manage it,. while Malfoy they’ll keep around for his monetary support. They hope to use the bill to paint us all as war criminals, to turn the public against us and sentence us all to jail time in Azkaban. With those marks against us, it is unlikely that those of us who make it out with our minds intact will be able to retain our status in the Ministry.
“You are not fond of Mr. Potter, are you, Mr. Malfoy?” Kroger asks with a greasy smile.
“No, I can’t say I am. But I am not surprised that he is a War criminal. Are you, Hermione?”
I can only stare at him in horror. Is that what this is, Draco’s revenge on Harry?
“You must excuse Miss Granger.” Draco laughs when I don’t answer. “She is very very loyal to Mr. Potter. She’d do absolutely anything he asked of her without a second thought. Even throw away everything she’s worked for her whole life and live as a dumpy little intern with no future.”
My face goes alternately hot and cold, and I already know that I’m not going to be able to hold my temper. I don’t even think I’ll try. “You. . . you nasty little pissant, you--”
Prosper interrupts my rage, suddenly convulsed by a violent fit of coughing.
He doesn’t stop.
“Joel?” Kroger’s patting him on the back.
Prosper just starts hacking harder, his whole body wracked. His face crimson and strained, wrinkled up like a prune, eyes tearing. He flutters his napkin to his mouth, and it comes away flecked with frothy red.
“What’s going on?” I ask, alarmed.
“It must be something he ate,” Draco murmurs softly. “Perhaps he was allergic to something in the fish.”
Prosper is choking now, unable to breathe.
“Do something!” Kroger demands.
Two more waiters are suddenly at Prosper’s side and helping him up. They half-carry, half-drag him away with Kroger following behind asking frightened questions. Kroger stops at the door and looks back at me but Draco snarls. “Leave.”
Kroger’s mouth trembles. “But Mr. Malfoy--”
“Go!”
And another waiter is dragging him away. The door slams shut and then the room is empty except for the two of us. I go rigid in my chair as the reality of my situation hits me right in the gut. My eyes fly to Draco. He smiles a little, chin resting on his knuckles again.
I can’t believe this.
I start to jerk to my feet only to find that I can’t. I’m stuck to my chair. Draco’s eyes gleam.
“What the hell. . . ?” I struggle, and I can still feel the lower half of my body, but I can’t get my legs to obey me. “Malfoy!” My heart is slamming in my chest and I fight to calm my breathing, to calm the quickly rising panic. I hate being helpless. I hate it.
I grab my wand out, but he was waiting for that. “Accio wand!” Just like that, it’s gone, like grasping at the wind.
“You bastard! Let me go!” My voice cracks a bit at the end. I’m ashamed of showing my fear like that, especially since we both know that its not him that I’m afraid of.
“Calm down,” he soothes. “Relax.”
The doors open, and several waiters burst into the room in a flurry of activity, clearing away the other plates, taking the wine away and replacing it with a different corked bottle, dimming the lights, setting candles on the table along with several vases of roses, setting another plate in front of me, dessert it looks like, a slice of chocolate cake with, I kid you not, gold leafing on the icing, and a small scoop of chocolate ice-cream sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with caramel.
Then we are alone again, and I’m gawking at him.
“That,” he pronounces, picking up the new bottle and popping the cork in a splash of bubbles, “was much easier than I ever thought it would be. I’m very disappointed in you, Hermione. Champagne?”
I stare at him. “You insane son of a bitch. What are you doing?”
“I’m having a romantic candle-lit dinner with you.” He stands and strolls over to me and pours champagne into my glass.
“What about the war bill--” I start but cut off when I realize just how dense I’ve been. “You were against it the whole time. You just put up a fight to get me here.”
“Yep.” He looks deeply satisfied with himself.
“Because I didn’t open your gift. . . .” He must have known from the start that Harry would send me. Harry would have had to send me.
“That’s right.” He leans his hip against the table. “See, in the beginning, I had this large, convoluted plot to trap you at Moody’s place until you opened my gift. That place is practically impenetrable.” He glances down to where Blaise abandoned the blue pillowcase on the floor. “But then I realized if I was going to trap you somewhere, it would be nice to be there with you, have some good food, a nice atmosphere. . .”
“So this whole set-up is just a big waste of my time?” I spit out, furious and increasingly desperate. I need to get out of here. I need to get out!
“Hermione,” he sing-songs. “You only have yourself to blame, if you had just opened my gift, I never would have had to go to all this trouble.” He sits with a flourish in the heretofore unclaimed third chair on my right and selects a long-stemmed rose from the nearest vase. “Of course I never imagined you would make it this simple. Either you’re getting sloppy in your old age or,” he brushes the soft petals of the rose over my cheek, “you wanted to be caught.”
“I came here tonight for the bill! Because it affects us all!”
He ignores me. “Two years ago, I never would have been able to pull this off so easily. You would have come here tonight knowing more about my plans then I did. What the hell happened to you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grit out and his expression shutters, darkening. He opens his sneering mouth to retort, and I yell, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!”
He freezes, as if sensing he should tread carefully, the rose’s dark dusky petals pausing against my jaw-line, my face twisted in fury and more then a little pain, and he relents, “Then forget I said anything,” he says very gently, setting the rose down. “Eat your dessert and give me your proposal on the bill.”
My throat is oddly choked and for a wild, irrational moment I wonder if he’s poisoned me like he did Prosper, but I breathe until the knot loosens and I start talking, start rattling off my speech on the measure and what it means for all of us and all the fine, logical reasons I wrote out a week ago as to why he should support Harry. My brain is running blank and my mouth is running on auto and my fingers are icy where they’re clenched at my thighs, squeezing and rubbing as if to return the strength to my legs.
I’m such a coward.
He just watches me calmly the whole time as if fascinated, as if he’s interested in what I’m saying when we both know he’s not. When I finish, when I’ve completed my speech, summarized my points, repeated a few things to stall for time and then simply run out of things to say, he asks quietly, “Do you feel better now?”
I give him my best calm, in-control face. “Harry would like an answer on where you stand on the measure as soon as humanly possible.”
He takes my cold hand, unclenches it from my dress and kisses my knuckles lightly. “I’ll tell you my stance after we’ve finished dessert and you’ve danced with me.”
I snarl, wrenching my hand from his grasp, wiping it on my dress as if I’ve touched something nasty. “So you’re going to hold your support for Harry hostage against my good behavior?”
Anger flashes across his face, tightly controlled. “If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, then yes. I’m a bad, bad, evil man, and I’m going to feed you chocolate and get you drunk on champagne. I’m going to steal a dance and a few kisses and you’re going to sit back and enjoy it but only because I forced you and then tomorrow you’re going to swear up and down to Potter that you hate me.”
I laugh, bitter, sharp. “I don’t hate you, Malfoy. You’re not that important. I feel nothing for you. Absolutely nothing.” And I’m pleased when he flinches.
His mouth tightens into a thin line and he rasps, “Then tonight you’re going to pretend that you do. You’re going to pretend that you’ve loved me for years and you’re going to do it in exchange for my support against the War Crimes bill.”
I glare at him in outrage and utter black hatred, but can’t find any words to answer with that won’t make this situation worse. Eyes challenging, he picks up my fork and daintily cuts a piece of spongy chocolate cake, bringing it to my lips. I regard him with contempt for a long moment but finally open my mouth.
It’s not fair. It’s really not fair. He knows I’ll go along with his sick demands in exchange for his support against the War Crimes bill. Worse, he knows I’ll do it even though we both know he won’t side against Harry even if I say no and walk out right now. He knows I’ll do it and hate myself later. He knows I won’t be able to forgive him or myself.
Merlin, is that what he wants?
The cake is absolutely the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, thick and rich. The creamy icing sticks to the roof of my mouth. Draco watches me, brooding silently and brings another small bite of cake to my mouth. I accept it, and he scoops up another piece for himself, sucking the last bit of thick frosting off my fork before getting another fork-full for me. I know it’s my imagination that I can taste him on that next bite.
He’s not talking, and I wish he would say something because the feeling of being trapped is suffocating. It’s sense memory. It’s in my bones, crawling along my skin, waking up instincts and memories of things I haven’t voluntarily thought of in years. I half wonder if that is part of his intentions. He never does anything halfway and he also never does anything without two or three purposes behind it.
He continues feeding me, occasionally taking a bite for himself and a drink of champagne from my glass. Then he holds the champagne flute to my lips, and I take a sip, feeling the bubbles fizz across my tongue, mixing with the taste of chocolate and Draco and I wonder if he wants to get me drunk. I’m half tempted to let it happen. Then none of it will be my fault. He gently swipes a bit of frosting off my lips with his thumb then dips into my mouth so I can suck the chocolate off. He brushes his wet thumb over my lower lip and when he leans in to kiss me, I let him.
Chapter Two
By Gravidy
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter and co. but I do own a cat that can beat the living hell out of your cat any day of the week.
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Rating: NC-17, my very first “official” D/Hr sex bomb.
A/N: At least partly inspired by war talks with my awesome beta, bk.
Summary: She calls me Goliath and I wear the David mask. I'd like to believe we could reconcile the past. Resurrect those bridges with an ancient glance. But my old stone face can't seem to break her down. She remembers bridges and burns them to the ground.--Excerpts from 7Mary3 “Cumbersome”
I like to think some things in life are meant to be. It’s like the saying: ‘All Roads Lead to Rome’ -no matter which paths you choose, or what inexplicable obstacles fall in your way, you end up there eventually. Almost magically.
I saved Ginny Weasley’s life twice. I saved her miraculously, during a moment of absolutely no hope, when by all rights and all laws of physics and nature, she should have died. Somehow I did it.
It was just meant to be. How else can you explain it?
The catch is that you can never tell what those ‘meant to be’ things are. Like by the time I had reached my fifth year and was made a prefect, I was pretty damn certain that I was meant to be Head Girl. But that never happened.
Yeah, Hermione Granger never became Head Girl. Shocking, I know.
It’s always a surprise to see where life takes you. For instance, if you would’ve told me during my sixth year at Hogwarts that another seven years down the road would find me rooming with Blaise Zabini, in a fancy apartment overlooking a small Wizarding town outside Harlow, I’d have said that you had obviously been smoking your boomslang.
“I’m hoooome!”
I don’t know why I do that. He never answers, not even when I happen to open the door, and he’s standing right there in front of me, open milk carton held damningly in his hand, staring at me with his deer-in-headlights look, like I’m going to shoot him for drinking out the container.
I fumble inside, keys lodged in the lock, refusing to budge, purse crammed in my armpit, while I hop up and down on one foot, trying to peel off my black pumps. They hurt like hell. Inevitably, my purse tips and everything spills out. I crouch down, cursing under my breath, and stuff my hairbrush, wallet, two lipsticks, and a couple of Knuts back into my purse. Then I forget the keys are jammed and nearly yank my arm off when I try to pull them out.
I dump my shoes by the front door, a habit my housemate loathes, and pad stocking-footed into the kitchen, tossing my bag onto the counter. I can see Blaise, or rather the top of the back of his head, peaking over the armchair in the living room. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but that’s normal. We’re both pretty private people. We can go days without any sort of interaction at all.
That’s not to say he isn’t a good friend of mine.
We’d both been out of Hogwarts for five years when we met up here, both looking at apartments, both looking for roommates. He suggested that we room together and save ourselves a lot of hassle, and I was so surprised that I said okay without thinking. I’m still not sure he didn’t have ulterior motives at the time. I think he wanted to get in my pants, but when I didn’t put the moves on him after the first couple of days, he let the notion pass with the attention span of a goldfish.
He’s that laid back.
I’ve lived with him for two years now, while interning at the Ministry and being privately tutored by a specialist in Experimental Magicks. Blaise works for a private Wizarding association that studies forgotten spells, relics and practices. It’s like archaeology for wizards. So we’re well matched on the whole quiet, bookish thing.
I fumble a spoon from the cupboard drawer and duck into the fridge, grabbing a cup of yogurt. I have a business dinner to go to in about an hour, but I doubt I’ll have much of an appetite while I’m there. Just the thought of it pretty much has my stomach locked up in a tight queasy knot. I’m half afraid I’ll get there and just throw up, and dry heaves hurt worse, so I might as well eat something.
Blaise is a good housemate. He’s quiet . . . he doesn’t leave his sweaty shirts or dirty underwear lying over the furniture . . . he does housework on occasion, though if he had his way I’d do all his laundry . . . he eats my cooking without complaint but never steals my food . . . and he pays rent on time.
We do have separate bathrooms. I think we both knew from the word go that we’d need separate bathroom spaces to maintain harmony. We’re both unrepentant bathroom hogs and tend to greedily use up the hot water whenever we can. I use his razors, and he hates my bath gels and aroma therapy candles, and likes to scatter my makeup all over the place in a passive aggressive frenzy when it gets in his way. I swear, it’s like reverse menopause for guys or something; he gets these surges of testosterone in irregular, overwhelming bursts and has to go tearing around the apartment beating his chest. Then it wears off and he goes back to quiet, unassuming Blaise.
Maybe it’s living with a girl that does it to him.
Or maybe it’s being an archaeologist.
He’s a bit of neat freak about the apartment, which is weird because I’ve seen his room, and there are clothes and magazines and crumpled pieces of paper strewn all over the floor, over his music equipment, his dresser, and his weight bench. He likes going out to see his friends but hates having company at the apartment. He’s about as sentimental as a flobberworm, and so doesn’t contribute much to the interior décor by way of photographs or knickknacks. I don’t think I have ever seen a picture of his family.
He’s also one of those people who likes lists. It doesn’t matter what kind of list: grocery lists, lists of telephone numbers, to-do lists. And if there’s no reason to make a list, he finds a reason.
I straighten up, spoonful of yogurt stuck in my mouth, and shut the refrigerator door to view the latest list where it flutters, pinned to the fridge by a lobster magnet.
--Jobs that Neville Longbottom wouldn’t survive through the first day-- is scrawled in his slanted, but neat, writing.
I pick up the marker and squiggle “Bomb disarmer” under Blaise’s last entry of, “Lion/large animal trainer”. He’ll alphabetize it later, the freak.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask him curiously, wandering over to his side, popping another spoonful of yogurt in my mouth. Yum. Peachy. “Want to know something weird? Harry and Ron both owled me last night. Harry’s saying he’s going to be working over Christmas, and Ron’s saying he’s taking Luna to some kinda love-nest. They’re not coming down to see me. Neither one of them. The ingrates.”
I’m actually pretty surprised and hurt, even a little worried that maybe they don’t want to see me, or something. They know I hate being alone on Christmas. Blaise will probably take off to visit family soon, and I don’t want to stay here by myself. I know if I’m that desperate, I can always go to the Burrow. I’m always welcome, but I just can’t bring myself to intrude on the family. Mrs. Weasley never did like me as much as she liked Harry and I’d feel too guilty anyway.
I glance a bit despondently around our apartment. It’s only sparsely decorated for Christmas, a few sprigs of holly, a couple pine needle sashes along the shelves and draped over the T.V., and a snow-globe that continuously swirls tiny snowflakes sitting on the stand near the wall. I used to have a foot-tall Santa Claus doll that danced to “Holly Jolly Christmas” when you pushed his button, but he got spectacularly melted a few days ago.
Pretty pathetic.
I don’t think I’ve gone all out for Christmas since Ginny and I were roommates. She always spent Christmas with her family, but we glutted our living space with decorations every year, and then we’d be trying to get tinsel out of the carpet and out of our hair until late February.
It would be nice to put up a few more things, not much more. I don’t want to choke Blaise out of his natural habitat. I know him. He’ll get all nervous and claustrophobic and stop coming home. But we should at least get a tree, just a small one, but that will have to wait until the weekend.
I lean my hip against the armchair and am about to run the idea by him when I finally notice what he’s wearing and end up choking on my yogurt instead. That’s why he was so quiet, he was waiting for me to notice. I cough and sputter and stare and he looks right back at me, daring me to comment.
It’s a full-on, bright, red fur suit with white fur trim, black buttons down the front, a large black belt with a gold buckle holding up red fur pants, black gloves, and shiny black boots.
It’s a Santa suit. It’s about two sizes too big for him. The hat is in his lap.
My first stunned thought is that he doesn’t really make a good Santa. He looks more like a pissed off elf. It’s his ears. I’ve never had the heart to tell him, but they are kind of pointy.
“What happened?” I cough out, because there is no way he’s in that thing voluntarily, “Why aren’t you dressed for dinner?”
He nods his head towards the coffee table.
I follow his gaze, frowning when I spot the rectangular box. A present. It’s about the size of a shoebox, a bit longer than it is tall, wrapped in dark red velvet with a crinkled gold tie cutting it in quarters, and tied in a bow up top.
Ah yes, my current problem.
The box appeared about four days ago, apparently out of thin air, along with a Christmas card that read “Merry Christmas, Frizz Head. Enjoy your present. Love, DM . . . P.S. I’ll know if you don’t open it.” Cheery and solicitous, except for that last part, that was definitely a threat.
There was no way in hell that I was going to open it.
I wasn’t even going to touch it, not after I found that if I stared at it long enough, my feet would start walking me towards it, which meant there was an Enticement on it. When Blaise got home and discovered me plastered against the far wall, staying as far away from it as I could, while still keeping an eye on it, he muttered something about Yule-tide terrorization from our favorite psycho and tried to destroy it. That’s how my Santa got melted. Blaise’s spell bounced right off the gift, ricocheted off the walls, smashed up a few things, then killed Santa. The present wasn’t even singed.
“You touched it, didn’t you?” I accuse, pissed because I told him a hundred times to just leave it the hell alone, but he’s male so he’s driven to ‘fix’ it.
He nods, unrepentant. “It blasted me across the room. Knocked me out cold. I woke up in the suit.” He tugs at the outfit a little, and I almost smile at the pout on his face. “I think my hands are burned, they hurt pretty bad, but I can’t get the gloves off.”
And my smile disappears, unease stirring in my belly.
That’s characteristic Draco Malfoy: like Halloween candy with needles inside, sweetly poisonous. The Santa suit is cute, even funny, but you don’t see what’s underneath, you can’t tell that Blaise’s hands are burned, probably red and blistered and weeping. It’s insidious.
I set my yogurt down on a side cabinet and pull my wand out. “Want me to try to get you out of the suit?”
“No!” He’s holding up his hands before I even complete the sentence, looking just slightly panicked. “No, thank you. I’ve been informed that he’s spelled it to burst into flames if I try to get it off. I’m just going to wait a little while, thank you.”
“He wouldn’t!” That bastard’s going to get a piece of my mind!
“He hates my guts. You bet he would.”
“That stupid, son of a bitch. . .” I let out a string of curses and stomp my feet like a two-year-old, and Draco isn’t here to yell at, so I yell at Blaise. “Did you have to touch it tonight? You can’t wear that to dinner! You can’t go with burnt hands!”
Blaise is my date. He puffed up and got all protective and demanded to go with me when he found out that I’d been delegated to go to a business meeting with Draco Malfoy. Harry and Ron can’t stand Malfoy. I mean literally cannot be in the same room with him without seriously entertaining homicidal urges. But Harry needs Draco’s political backing on a War-Crimes issue that’s floating through the Ministry and Draco suggested a business dinner to hash over the details. I offered to go in place of one of them, to stave off what would most likely be a night of bloodshed.
It may yet be a night of bloodshed.
I stalk down the hallway to my room, disgusted. “You’ll have to see a healer. Do you need to floo over to St. Mungo’s?” I can’t miss this meeting, the War-Crimes issue is vital. But that means I can’t do anything for Blaise right away.
He scrambles after me and hovers in my doorway. “I don’t want you to go alone!”
Blaise doesn’t know exactly why I get the letters, the gifts, the flowers. He has never asked and I’ve never volunteered the information, but he picks up that it upsets me, and that angers him. I know that there have been times when he has gotten rid of the things Draco sent before I ever saw them. That’s probably what happened here. Blaise tried to dump the box before I got home and the box fought back.
Blaise thinks Draco has an obsession for me-some kind of twisted stalker thing. It’s not like that. It’s all very cold-blooded. An old grudge. He won’t let go of it, or maybe I’m not supposed to, so he sends me subtle digs and needling reminders wrapped up in pretty boxes, or phrased in lyrical prose, and sent with flowers every few months. Just to let me know he hasn’t forgotten. Keeps me on my toes, so to speak.
I grab my evening gown from where I left it hanging over my computer chair and stalk into the bathroom. Blaise can’t see in, so I leave the door open. “I won’t be alone,” I snap, grabbing my hairbrush to viciously attack my curls. “Dean will be there, and he’ll most likely bring Lavender.” Dean is my backup, just in case something exactly like this were to happen. When Draco’s involved, the chances of things like this happening seem to rise exponentially.
“I’m going with you,” he snaps back. Stubborn. It’s kind of sweet. Usually he’s a complete doormat.
“But there’s a dress code.” I toss my skirt and sweater out the door. They land crumpled on my bed.
“So I’ll put on robes over it.”
“You’ll roast. Just forget it. We’ll think of something.” I shimmy into the dress and scowl at my reflection, annoyed that I don’t have time for a shower. I feel gross, all sweaty makeup and scraggly hair. “Come here and lace me up.”
He does so docilely. And I’m hard pressed not to tease him about it.
An hour later, we arrive at Le Fosse aux Serpents. Trust Draco to choose a place like this. It’s an over-the-top classy joint, impossible to get a reservation unless you’re rich or famous. I’ve even heard that they won’t take reservations if your family is rumored to have too much Muggle blood.
It’s a huge building, lots of windows that show whatever type of scenery or time of day you want. There are marble floors, fountains with live silverbell vines growing around them, little fairies floating around, and live music playing softly in the background. The maitre d’ greets me like he has been waiting his whole life to meet me.
“Miss Granger!” he gushes. He takes my hand and gives a little bow as another young man takes my cloak. The kid turns to Blaise and looks at a complete loss. Blaise scowls at him, as the Maitre d’ continues prattling on. “You look lovely this evening. We are so honored to have you here. Please, please, right this way!”
Now, I’m pretty famous in my own right, but not this famous. I just smile politely and follow. Someone has told the staff to treat me extra nice, apparently.
Draco has reserved a whole section of the restaurant for the dinner. It’s a large, gorgeous room decorated mostly in dark emerald and subtle hints of glittering silver. He’s such a prick.
Draco, himself, is already there, seated at the head of a moderately long table set with pale silver linen table cloth, dainty china, silverware that is actual silver, and rolled linen napkins. Draco is dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. His emerald robes are laid over the back of his chair. His pale hair is cut to the middle of his ears, shorter than the last time I saw him over a year ago.
He doesn’t like it too long, says it reminds him of Lucius.
Dean and Lavender are there and seated as well. Dean in dark blue dress robes, Lavender in a cherry and pink oriental-style dress, her blond hair pinned up neatly with an artless style I never could quite emulate.
I go still in surprise when I see who else is there.
Dean is seated to Draco’s right. To Draco’s left are two Ministry officials. I recognize Larry Kroger and Joel Prosper, both older men. Kroger has salt-and-pepper hair and sagging jowls. Prosper’s a bit younger with dark hair, graying temples and large glasses. Both Kroger and Prosper are pushing the War-Crimes issue that Harry opposes. I had no idea they were going to be here.
The two men give me strained, polite non-expressions, carefully masking their distaste, and I realize I’m staring at them, practically gaping.
This doesn’t make sense. Why would they be here? Are they making a last minute bid for Draco’s support? But why would he invite them to come tonight? I mean, I knew Draco had decided, in his mercurial derangement, to play hardball with us, but I honestly came here expecting to cut him some sort of deal. I had figured there was something he wanted. It never occurred to me that he might actually be seriously considering supporting the bill.
My mouth does this little twitchy thing that could be interpreted as a smile at the two officials and I tear my gaze from them, unable to help casting a disbelieving look at my host.
Draco’s watching my reactions intently, eyes burning into me. It’s a playfully mischievous, conspiratorial look. There’s no malice in it at all, but there doesn’t need to be. Anyone who knows him, knows that when Draco Malfoy says ‘I know something you don’t know’, you’d better try like hell to figure out what ‘something’ is before it pops out and eats you alive.
My twitchy smile falters completely in the face of a sudden wash of paranoia. Because I’m perfectly aware, maybe more than anyone else, as to what kind of demented extremes Draco’s sense of humor runs to.
And tonight, it’s all for me. Oh joy.
The maitre d’ clears his throat and talk abruptly halts as Blaise and I come to a stop near the table. The maitre d’ bows and announces, “Miss Hermione Granger and . . . uh . . . her escort.”
“The name’s Santy Claus,” Blaise snarls. I give him a subtle elbow in the ribs, and he gives a not so subtle, “Ow!” and gives me wounded eyes while rubbing his side. He’s got a blue pillowcase thrown over his shoulder with Draco’s gift inside. We had decided that it was safe to move it, but were careful not to touch it. We’re just going to give the damn thing back to him.
I murmur warm hellos to Dean and Lavender and greet the two Ministry officials with sufficient amounts of aristocratic aloofness, ignoring Draco completely.
He apparently gets miffed when I don’t pay any attention to him, because the first testy words out of his mouth are, “I chose this place specifically because they have a dress code,” he drawls, eyes on his glass of wine as the waiter refills it, but his scorn all for Blaise.
My expression remains polite as I mentally remind myself that outright name-calling won’t help my cause, so I take Blaise’s arm and chirp. “I’m sure no one minds. Blaise just came from a charity function for children. He’s so sweet.”
“I’m so sweet. Come sit on Santa’s lap, ‘Mione.” Blaise whispers in my ear, just to be mouthy, and I instantly bite my lip on a strained giggle, because Blaise is evil and will be delighted if I lose my composure. He once made me laugh so hard during a church sermon that I squirted soda out my nose. Don’t ask.
“Hmm.” Draco knows I’m lying, of course, but he only returns my smile with amusement and something calculating beneath. “In that case, I suppose we can overlook it. ‘Tis the season.” He toasts Blaise, who gives him a light scowl.
I push Blaise towards his seat while the maitre d’ pulls my chair out for me. Blaise sits on my left next to Lavender. I sit at the other end of the table opposite Draco, trying not to watch him watch me.
“Now Mr. Malfoy,” Kroger starts. “About the issue at hand . . .”
Ah, Kroger was already preaching before I arrived. I’m not worried, Dean is quite up to the task of fending the man off in my absence.
I don’t understand why Draco is sitting on the fence with this one, even if it is only part of some convoluted ploy to get to some other goal. The measure will affect him if it passes. . . Unless he thinks he’s got enough money to buy himself off the hook while the rest of us crash and burn.
Merlin, I hope that’s not the case. I’ll take him down with me. I swear I will.
To my surprise, Draco waves Kroger off disinterestedly without even looking at him. “Let’s all enjoy dinner first, Miss Granger looks hungry.”
Blaise looks at me suspiciously.
My eyes dart to Draco and the he smiles, pleased that he’s finally got my attention. I stop trying to avoid his gaze and stare back. “I assure you, I’m perfectly well.” I tell him tartly. “We can proceed with the discussion if everyone wishes.”
I want it out in the open. Whatever it is, whatever game he’s playing, whatever point he’s trying to make or whatever he expects me to figure out, I want it out in the open. It’s entirely possible that he’s doing this on principle-pissing in Harry’s pond because he’s bored or because he can.
It’s also entirely possible that he means us real harm.
Kroger opens his mouth, looking like he’s about to agree but Draco cuts him off. “Let’s save the unpleasantness for later and just enjoy each other’s company for the moment, shall we?” And it’s not a request or a suggestion.
He’s neatly tied my hands with that one. He’s obviously not ready to reveal himself and I can’t really afford to piss him off yet. It’s his show, and we’ll all dance like his little puppets.
Kroger and Prosper look slightly putout but both mumble an agreement as the waiters, signaled by Malfoy, bring out the appetizers. There’s quite a selection and I notice some of my favorites among them: French chocolate truffles, Gorgonzola stuffed dates and caviar and creme fraiche. I can’t prove it yet, its subtle enough that I actually wonder for a moment if its my own paranoia kicking in, but I’m betting this is yet another nasty little dig.
I’m starting to get nervous.
Draco, instead of helping himself to the delicacies, blandly looks at Blaise and produces a candy cane, leisurely popping it into his mouth. My eyes narrow. Blaise makes a choked noise, and I quickly put my hand on his fur-suited arm and give him a sweet smile while my eyes warn him to keep silent.
“So, Mr. Prosper,” Draco begins, sucking on his sweet and pointedly ignoring us. “How’s your wife?”
Prosper balks, caviar covered round halfway to his mouth.
Joel Prosper is not married. I’d bet my last dime Draco knows this. I’d even bet that Prosper knows that Draco knows this, but Draco’s only smiling at the man prettily, chin resting lightly on his knuckles, fingers interlaced loosely. Kroger has gone still as well, and I can almost hear him silently begging Prosper not to embarrass anyone.
“Er . . .” Prosper must have heard Kroger’s telepathic squeal of warning because he clears his throat and answers gravely. “Fine. Very well, actually, thank you for asking.”
Draco looks pleased.
I concentrate on the chocolate truffles, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands and groan.
“That is so nice,” Draco says, positively beaming. “I’m glad. What about your sister, Edaberth? I heard she got that promotion she wanted.”
Prosper’s face lights up, happy to have actual information to work with. “Yes, yes, thank you. Head of her department. The family’s very proud of her.”
“Hmm.” I could swear he just winked at me. “Congratulations. And speaking of congratulations,” he rounds on Dean, “I hear congratulations are in order for you too, my friend.”
Dean quickly swallows whatever was in his mouth, “Huh? Er, I’m sorry?”
Draco does a great impression of innocence-wide eyes, candid gaze. “For your wife’s pregnancy, I mean. It was heartening to hear such wonderful news.”
Blaise chokes on his dates and starts coughing. I’ve stopped chewing.
Dean looks thoroughly confused. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he says slowly.
“Hmm?” Draco only smiles because Lavender’s hand is clasped to her lips, eyes wide as dinner plates.
“Lavender and I haven’t . . .” Dean freezes when he sees her expression. “Lavender?”
“Dean . . . um . . .” she begins weakly, scrunching her linen napkin in her hands. “I was going to tell you after dinner. I’m pregnant.”
“Oops!” Draco puts a hand to his mouth. “Did I let the cat out of the bag?” He’s not even trying to sound sincere anymore, and if that ‘cat out of the bag’ thing is a Gryffindor joke, I think I’m going to kill him.
“Lavender . . .” Dean looks stunned. “When . . . how. . . ?”
“Yes, how?” Draco echoes wickedly, face a study of polite interest.
I have to hand it to him, he’s in rare form, really hamming it up tonight. It’s a mixture of playfulness, of showing off for me, and outright viciousness. He’s like a really fucked-up peacock.
Lavender wrings her hands. “I only found out this morning. I don’t know how he found out!”
Draco cocks his head. “It was brought to my attention that you’d seen a Medi-witch, Lavender dear. I was worried that you weren’t well. Imagine my surprise when I was informed what kind of medical attention you were requiring.”
Lavender ignores him. “Dean? DEAN!”
Dean’s apparently gone into shock. There’s a ‘vacant’ sign flashing behind his eyes.
“Maybe he should lie down,” Draco suggests tactfully.
Lavender starts shaking him. “Dean! Oh, Dean, say something!” She slaps him.
“That’s a hate crime,” Draco chirps.
Dean comes alive with a start. He blinks and stutters incoherently. “Me . . . I . . . uh . . . baby . . . I’m . . . daddy? Me?”
“Congratulations!” Prosper cries jovially, just glad that the heat is off him.
“Yes, it is wonderful news.” Kroger toasts Dean with his wine flute.
“Way to go, Dean!” Blaise leans over behind Lavender to slap him on the back.
“I have cigars for the gentlemen but I think it would be best to wait until the young mother is not around to be bothered by the smoke.” Draco gives her the most genteel smile he can manage while silently rejoicing at the trouble he’s caused.
I know Lavender has to be freaked. Not only did Draco just spill the beans, but he made it pointedly clear that he’s watching her, that he has access to her private information. And he’s made it pointedly clear to me that Blaise isn’t his only hostage.
Son of a bitch! He’s boxing me in. That’s why he hasn’t cut to the chase yet, he’s not done showing me his fangs. But why? Why hold their safety over my head like this? Why threaten me with Ministry workers? What in the world is he after?
My eyes flick down to the pillowcase at Blaise’s feet containing Draco’s velvet present. It can’t be that simple, or that inane, can it? Or if it is, what in Merlin’s name is in that box that is so important that he’ll try and force me to open it?
Draco has never pushed me before. He’s needled, he’s harassed, he’s tricked, but he’s never pushed. He’s never tried to corner me. That he would do so now, and that he would act so smug and pleased about it, is extremely alarming.
It means he’s sure of his victory.
Dean finally gets a hold of himself. “Lavender!” He embraces her tightly, and she starts to cry. Kroger and Prosper applaud. Jolly time had by all. “Baby, are you okay? Do you need to rest? Is everything all right with the baby?” He’s trying to feel her forehead, hug her, and feel her belly, all at the same time. “Come on, we should probably take you home.”
“Dean, I’m pregnant, not stricken with the plague, nothing’s going to happen for a good seven or eight months!” Lavender glances at me and back to Dean pointedly, her eyes trying to silently convey a message. “This is why I wanted to wait until after dinner to tell you,” she says quietly.
“But baby, I just found out we’re gonna have a baby! I gotta call my parents. I gotta call your parents. I gotta . . . come on. . . .” He pulls her to her feet, peppering her face with kisses. She giggles and gives in, leaning into him with a happy sigh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Kroger, Mr. Prosper, Hermione.” He looks at me, asking me silently to understand, and the bitch of it is, I do.
“Congratulations Dean--Lavender,” I say, smiling and meaning it. I can’t begrudge them this.
“Ohhh. . . .” Lavender, teary-eyed, flounces over to give me a perfume-scented hug and a kiss on the cheek. She gives Blaise a quick squeeze, startling him. And then she and Dean are walking hand-and-hand for the door.
“Goodnight! Thank you for coming,” Draco calls, waving after them. He grins and crunches once on his candy cane before switching it to the other side of his mouth. Casting me a sly wink, he shows me four fingers and drops two.
And that right there is the name of the game. He has just relieved me of two of my supporters in one blow. I’m still not sure why. Did I slip up? Or did Dean do something wrong? Or did Draco simply get bored with waiting for me to do something and decide to take a shot at me?
Stupid fucker.
I take a shot back.
“What is it with you and young mothers, Malfoy?” I ask him lightly and that gleeful expression is instantly shocked from his face.
I’m viciously pleased.
I watch him struggle with himself for all of two seconds and then the corners of his mouth bend painfully upward and it’s like watching a rusted iron gate creeeeeak open. The two-faced wretch then proceeds to ignore me and sits back with a happy sigh. “Well that was fun.”
“Yes, you should definitely be more careful with that omniscience thing,” Blaise says with veiled sarcasm. “Us mere mortals can’t keep up.”
Draco spears Blaise with a look and crunches on his candy cane once again, flashing teeth for an instant. “If you can’t keep up, my dear mere mortal, why are you even here?”
“To look after ‘Mione.” Blaise shoots back casually. “Some sick asshole has been pushing their unwanted attention on her so I kind of stick around and make sure no one gives her trouble.”
Draco’s lips curl up, slow and insidious. “Sounds like you two are very good friends.” His eyes catch mine, full of dark mirth. “Bosom companions. But certainly she can take care of herself. She was the brightest witch in our year. Why would she need you?” He started out politely inquiring and ended with a snarl.
Blaise’s answering smile is positively dripping with smug, male egoism and I know I can’t let him say whatever he’s about to say because there is a ninety percent chance it’s going to deal with the virtues of specific portions of his own anatomy.
“So rude, Malfoy, I’m surprised at you!” I cut in with feigned dignified shock, tone scolding as I flutter a hand to my heart. “Don’t take it personally, Blaise, I’m sure Malfoy’s just bitter because those on the receiving end of his help often wind up wishing they’d never been born.” I turn innocently to the nervous Ministry workers, who have been sitting by silently, not daring to interrupt. “You see, there’s this sweet little baby girl who. . .”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Hermione Granger.” Draco’s voice is deadly soft. “If you wish any of them to leave here alive, don’t you dare speak another word.” The warning is nastily intimate and I wonder, with brazen disregard for his threat, if he means it.
Everyone else has gone still, the Ministry officials looking rather pale, but my smile is twisted as I say lightly. “Oh, you’re going to help us some more?”
His eyes are silver pools of rage. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” He raps out with the cold triumph of someone who knows they have the upper hand. “Did you forget that you came to me? Did you forget that you need my support, dear sweet girl?”
My smile disappears like it was shot clean off my face.
I did forget. I forgot and I deliberately provoked him. I’m suddenly cursing myself, horrified that I could be so careless.
He chuckles. “What a stupid thing for such a smart girl to do.”
Kroger, deciding he has an advantage, and feeling woefully left out, appeals for the spotlight. “What else can you expect from a Muggle born, Mr. Malfoy? They aren’t known for their common sense.” And dreadfully miscalculates.
The dangerous, almost alien look of pure predatory malice Draco turns on him has him backtracking so fast, he can’t make a coherent sentence.
“I . . . that is to say. . . I just meant. . . I, I, I . . .” He flushes red and stammers.
“Shut up, Kroger.” Blaise mutters, taking a drink from his wine glass.
“No, Mr. Zabini.” Draco says gently, face somewhat composed but eyes still feral. “Let the man speak. The only person who has no actual business here, is you.”
The room goes silent. All attention quiet suddenly settled on Blaise. He’s not in the least bothered. He ignores us all and makes a show of taking a long, slow swallow of wine, drawing it out for as long as possible. Then he makes a face, taps the half-full glass and sets it down, “Bleh. Shoddy stuff, Malfoy.” And pulls a small tin bottle of whisky from his Santa outfit, pouring some into his drink.
I don’t know whether to be mortified or utterly proud.
“Miss Granger,” Mr. Kroger says quickly, apparently having had enough of the shocking display. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with your . . . ah . . . friend. Please tell us a little more about him.”
I smile back just as saccharinely. “This is Blaise Zabini, a very good friend of mine.” I rest my hand on Blaise’s and smile like a besotted idiot at him, playing the part of the adoring girlfriend. Blaise laces his fingers with mine and smiles in a way that makes me kick him under the table for overdoing it. He snickers softly and my smile relaxes a little as I realize he did it just to make me feel better. “He’s an AMWAY rep.” AMWAY stands for Ancient Magical Wizardry Analysis in Yeovil, which is the area. “Veeeery intellectual,” I add. “His work is sooo fascinating, especially when considering my own cutting-edge research. It’s so amazing to see how our modern day breakthroughs sometimes mirror ancient magical ways. Whenever Blaise tells me about magic they’ve discovered that is ancient but somehow beyond anything we, as a modern society, have been able to accomplish, I wonder at how much of our magical heritage has been lost over the years.”
I’m hoping my enthusiastic little speech will put them off the subject. If not, I can keep talking until it does.
Draco has calmed down enough to revert back to spoiled-little-rich-boy mode. He looks thoroughly bored and seems to be playing with his truffles. If he had a plastic spoon, he’d be flicking them at people. Kroger and Prosper are looking at me with polite expressions of pained interest.
“The two of you live together, or so I’ve heard,” Kroger says, changing tactics slightly.
Uh huh, and I can already see where this is going.
“Dirty Muggle custom, don’t you think, living together outside of wedlock? I suppose the Zabini family isn’t pureblooded?” Prosper puts in his own two-cents, tone all apologetic curiosity, as if he’s really very sorry that he’s being a racist jackass but just can’t seem to stop himself.
I know I should just ignore the shallow, half-assed jab. But I’m already on edge and spoiling for a fight and I start to bristle but Blaise sets a hand on mine calmly, not even batting an eyelash. It’s true that his family doesn’t exactly have pure lines. He’s only three generations pure, which isn’t much considering some of the other lines, but he could give half a damn either way.
“Nothing near as spotless and pristine as the Malfoy clan.” He says coolly, sitting back. “But I don’t much aspire to be like them.” His tone is neither too casual nor too uptight, just an even, unconcerned drawl. It helps me calm down a little. “I like Muggle customs.”
That at least is true. He loves Muggle television. More than one of Blaise’s friends has been body-slammed in the living room and asked if they ‘smelled what the Rock was cooking’. He loves Spongebob Squarepants and was terribly disappointed when he found out that Star Trek isn’t real. He has also recently discovered computer technology and, much to my dismay, has an enthusiastic, and completely shameless, taste for internet porn.
“You are not concerned with preserving our way of life? I thought that is what you studied.” Kroger looks affronted.
Draco takes a gulp of wine, watching but not intervening. I don’t like that he’s removed himself from the conversation and, therefore, our attention. I can’t tell if he wants this to play out or if he’s collecting his self-control and planning his next move. Knowing him, he’s going to want to punish me for pissing him off.
“I’m concerned with living my life in the way that I choose as best for myself, and for Hermione.”
That is apparently exactly what Kroger was waiting for. He snaps his trap closed, now not just twisting words but manipulating the conversation to go exactly where he wants it. “And is that why you are unconcerned with War criminals who have gone unpunished since--”
I open my mouth, probably to say something disastrously rude, but Draco beats me too it.
“Hold that thought gentlemen, it looks like dinner is about to be served.” He cuts it in smoothly, as unruffled as if he didn’t just threaten to kill us all moments ago, and the waiters enter with the main course. I didn’t see him do anything, but I’m certain Malfoy must have signaled them somehow.
Lobster tail, baked salmon roulade, and lamb loin chops. I’ve had fancy dinners before but this seems a bit wasteful. There’s no way five people will be able to finish it all, and the leftovers will probably be thrown out.
“This looks lovely,” Prosper says appreciatively as Kroger clenches his jaw in the disappointment of being cut off again.
Yes, why is Draco avoiding the War Crimes issue? Why isn’t he holding it over my head to get what he wants like he did a minute ago? It’s his trump card. He should be using it to its fullest extent. I can only guess that he has something else planned.
“Should I tell him I’m a vegetarian?” Blaise whispers in my ear, distracting me, and I giggle despite myself. “Or maybe I should ask if they have roast ferret on the menu.”
I cover my choked laughter with a hand and belatedly notice Draco’s eyes on us, his lip curled. “Something amusing?” he asks softly. The tone is Quiet Menace à la Snape. He has pulled it off masterfully. Our Potions professor would be so proud.
“Private joke,” I respond blandly. As in, none of your damn business.
“Of course.”
Beside me, Blaise jerks and lets out a low hiss. I glance at him but he shakes his head. He’s tense-really tense.
Draco sets his napkin in his lap, smoothing it out before slowly looking up with knowing eyes. “Something the matter, Mr. Zabini?”
Blaise’s face is suddenly pale and tight. He doesn’t answer. He hunches over on himself slightly.
“Blaise, what’s wrong?” I whisper, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“My hands,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “They really really hurt.” He’s shaking, sweat beading his forehead. He shudders and closes his eyes.
“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, Blaise!” I don’t know what to do.
“What’s wrong?” Draco asks sharply.
I barely keep from screaming ‘you know exactly what’s wrong!’ but instead, find myself babbling. “He hurt his hands earlier today, burned them. I think it’s getting worse!” Blaise makes a small sound, holding his gloved hands out in front of him, curling around himself. My voice rises in panic. “He needs help. He needs medical help right now!”
Draco nods curtly and makes a gesture to the waiters standing at the edge of the room, “There’s a healer on duty in the office next door. They can take him there.”
I lurch to my feet, nearly upsetting my chair and cup Blaise’s elbow to help him stand. He’s breathing in deep, pained gasps. Two waiters are at our side, leading us away.
I start to follow Blaise but a thought strikes me, and I turn back to the table. Kroger and Prosper look positively gleeful. Draco looks back at me, unsmiling but serene, still seated, unconcerned.
I can leave now if I want. He’s not trying to stop me.
Or is he simply certain that I’ll choose to stay?
I realize as soon as I think it, that I won’t leave. I can’t. Not while Kroger and Prosper are here to steal Draco’s support. If I choose to leave, he might give them what they want just to spite me.
I set my jaw, furious.
It takes talent to force someone to do what you want without having to say a word.
I hurry and catch up to Blaise. “Blaise, I have to stay.”
“No!” he gasps. “Don’t stay here alone with him.”
“He won’t do anything to me, Blaise. He doesn’t have the power, or the balls, to pick a fight with me. You’ll be fine. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Hermione!”
I feel so terrible for deserting him after he stuck by my side for so long. I’ll have to make it up to him, but this is more important right now. Lives are at stake. “Go on.” To the waiters I say, “Take care of him, please.”
The door shuts, and there is only silence behind me. I turn without looking at any of them and calmly walk back to my chair. The blue pillowcase is still under Blaise’s chair, I make a note to remember it, to make sure I throw the contents in Draco’s face before I leave.
I stop at my chair, not sitting. “You’ve overstepped the bounds tonight, Malfoy.” I say, low and fierce, my hands clenching so hard my nails are digging into my palms because my fingers are just itching to go for my wand. I’m disgusted with myself for leaving Blaise, for not doing more to protect him, for putting him in this position in the first place. “I want you to know that no matter what you decide tonight, we will survive. We want your support but not at any cost. You’re already on shaky ground with us and if you push the envelope, I swear to Merlin, I’ll. . .”
“He’s going to be fine.” Draco interrupts impatiently.
“He’d better.” I say, clipped and cold, my eyes promising vengeance. I sit down, ready to get a few things out in the open. “I know you did this to him.”
A small smile, eyes demurely on the salmon he’s cutting. “He shouldn’t have gotten in my way.”
“You mean like she did?” I hiss, words dripping with malice. “Be very careful, Malfoy.”
His knife and fork falter, his smile freezing on his face and I can almost hear him kicking himself for walking right into that one. “It’s petty of you to keep bringing up the same old tired history over and over again.” He drawls, not looking at me. “You cheapen it.”
“I cheapen it?” Now I’m pissed. “I cheapen it? You think a day goes by that I don’t think of it, you think an hour goes by that I don’t agonize over it, you think I don’t see her face every time I look at you, and you have the gall, you detestable little parasite, to call it cheap?” my voice is shaking, my lips peeled back in a snarl of absolute hatred. “We all know what you do to people who get in your way, Mr. Malfoy, but really, you already owe us enough. . .”
“I don’t owe a damn thing!” he shouts, surprising me into silence. “He got what he wanted in return! He got, piece for piece, an even exchange.”
“Bullshit.”
“Then what do you call it, Miss Granger?”
“Less than what you deserve.” I rap out brutally. “Less then what you owe. Give me what I want out of your obligation to do so.”
He stares at me in shock and then throws his head back and howls with laughter. “Now you are cheapening it, using that to get what you want out of this situation.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m so proud.” He sobers, eyes still laughing and puts his chin in his hand as he says snidely. “But I’m afraid I’m a business man and not much prone to flights of emotional diarrhea so you can forget any pretty little notions you have in your head of using such tactics to change my mind.”
“Of course not, having a sense of shame would make you human.” I dismiss.
Kroger is pleased. This looks to him like a turn of events in his favor. “Perhaps now is a good time to discuss the War-Crimes issue?”
“Yes, a good time,” Draco agrees. He sets his fork down with a heavy clink and looks at me. “Hermione dear, you haven’t touched your wine.”
Nor will I if you insist on a debate, you prick. I pick up the glass and pretend to take a sip, the amused glitter in his eyes says that he isn’t fooled.
“Yes.” Kroger seems a bit confused by that bit of byplay but lets it go. “You see, Mr. Malfoy, during the war there were criminals other than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers. There was a group of dangerous vigilantes who took advantage of the state of chaos our world was in to plunder and steal. They wreaked havoc on the Ministry and killed Aurors. They terrorized Hogwarts and the general public. But when the war ended, they were not punished or even brought to trial. We would like to look into the cases of these vigilantes, and we even believe that we know the names of some of them.”
“You do?” Draco asks.
“One of them is Harry Potter,” Prosper whispers the name with all the terror of a wizard saying ‘Voldemort’.
The Old Guard in the Ministry has hated Harry for years. They know how popular he is with the public. They know that if the public had their way, he would already be Minister. And that scares the hell out of them. This War Crimes bill is the Ministry’s best chance of legally purging the wizard government of Harry and his supporters. Harry they’ll kill if they can manage it,. while Malfoy they’ll keep around for his monetary support. They hope to use the bill to paint us all as war criminals, to turn the public against us and sentence us all to jail time in Azkaban. With those marks against us, it is unlikely that those of us who make it out with our minds intact will be able to retain our status in the Ministry.
“You are not fond of Mr. Potter, are you, Mr. Malfoy?” Kroger asks with a greasy smile.
“No, I can’t say I am. But I am not surprised that he is a War criminal. Are you, Hermione?”
I can only stare at him in horror. Is that what this is, Draco’s revenge on Harry?
“You must excuse Miss Granger.” Draco laughs when I don’t answer. “She is very very loyal to Mr. Potter. She’d do absolutely anything he asked of her without a second thought. Even throw away everything she’s worked for her whole life and live as a dumpy little intern with no future.”
My face goes alternately hot and cold, and I already know that I’m not going to be able to hold my temper. I don’t even think I’ll try. “You. . . you nasty little pissant, you--”
Prosper interrupts my rage, suddenly convulsed by a violent fit of coughing.
He doesn’t stop.
“Joel?” Kroger’s patting him on the back.
Prosper just starts hacking harder, his whole body wracked. His face crimson and strained, wrinkled up like a prune, eyes tearing. He flutters his napkin to his mouth, and it comes away flecked with frothy red.
“What’s going on?” I ask, alarmed.
“It must be something he ate,” Draco murmurs softly. “Perhaps he was allergic to something in the fish.”
Prosper is choking now, unable to breathe.
“Do something!” Kroger demands.
Two more waiters are suddenly at Prosper’s side and helping him up. They half-carry, half-drag him away with Kroger following behind asking frightened questions. Kroger stops at the door and looks back at me but Draco snarls. “Leave.”
Kroger’s mouth trembles. “But Mr. Malfoy--”
“Go!”
And another waiter is dragging him away. The door slams shut and then the room is empty except for the two of us. I go rigid in my chair as the reality of my situation hits me right in the gut. My eyes fly to Draco. He smiles a little, chin resting on his knuckles again.
I can’t believe this.
I start to jerk to my feet only to find that I can’t. I’m stuck to my chair. Draco’s eyes gleam.
“What the hell. . . ?” I struggle, and I can still feel the lower half of my body, but I can’t get my legs to obey me. “Malfoy!” My heart is slamming in my chest and I fight to calm my breathing, to calm the quickly rising panic. I hate being helpless. I hate it.
I grab my wand out, but he was waiting for that. “Accio wand!” Just like that, it’s gone, like grasping at the wind.
“You bastard! Let me go!” My voice cracks a bit at the end. I’m ashamed of showing my fear like that, especially since we both know that its not him that I’m afraid of.
“Calm down,” he soothes. “Relax.”
The doors open, and several waiters burst into the room in a flurry of activity, clearing away the other plates, taking the wine away and replacing it with a different corked bottle, dimming the lights, setting candles on the table along with several vases of roses, setting another plate in front of me, dessert it looks like, a slice of chocolate cake with, I kid you not, gold leafing on the icing, and a small scoop of chocolate ice-cream sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with caramel.
Then we are alone again, and I’m gawking at him.
“That,” he pronounces, picking up the new bottle and popping the cork in a splash of bubbles, “was much easier than I ever thought it would be. I’m very disappointed in you, Hermione. Champagne?”
I stare at him. “You insane son of a bitch. What are you doing?”
“I’m having a romantic candle-lit dinner with you.” He stands and strolls over to me and pours champagne into my glass.
“What about the war bill--” I start but cut off when I realize just how dense I’ve been. “You were against it the whole time. You just put up a fight to get me here.”
“Yep.” He looks deeply satisfied with himself.
“Because I didn’t open your gift. . . .” He must have known from the start that Harry would send me. Harry would have had to send me.
“That’s right.” He leans his hip against the table. “See, in the beginning, I had this large, convoluted plot to trap you at Moody’s place until you opened my gift. That place is practically impenetrable.” He glances down to where Blaise abandoned the blue pillowcase on the floor. “But then I realized if I was going to trap you somewhere, it would be nice to be there with you, have some good food, a nice atmosphere. . .”
“So this whole set-up is just a big waste of my time?” I spit out, furious and increasingly desperate. I need to get out of here. I need to get out!
“Hermione,” he sing-songs. “You only have yourself to blame, if you had just opened my gift, I never would have had to go to all this trouble.” He sits with a flourish in the heretofore unclaimed third chair on my right and selects a long-stemmed rose from the nearest vase. “Of course I never imagined you would make it this simple. Either you’re getting sloppy in your old age or,” he brushes the soft petals of the rose over my cheek, “you wanted to be caught.”
“I came here tonight for the bill! Because it affects us all!”
He ignores me. “Two years ago, I never would have been able to pull this off so easily. You would have come here tonight knowing more about my plans then I did. What the hell happened to you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grit out and his expression shutters, darkening. He opens his sneering mouth to retort, and I yell, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!”
He freezes, as if sensing he should tread carefully, the rose’s dark dusky petals pausing against my jaw-line, my face twisted in fury and more then a little pain, and he relents, “Then forget I said anything,” he says very gently, setting the rose down. “Eat your dessert and give me your proposal on the bill.”
My throat is oddly choked and for a wild, irrational moment I wonder if he’s poisoned me like he did Prosper, but I breathe until the knot loosens and I start talking, start rattling off my speech on the measure and what it means for all of us and all the fine, logical reasons I wrote out a week ago as to why he should support Harry. My brain is running blank and my mouth is running on auto and my fingers are icy where they’re clenched at my thighs, squeezing and rubbing as if to return the strength to my legs.
I’m such a coward.
He just watches me calmly the whole time as if fascinated, as if he’s interested in what I’m saying when we both know he’s not. When I finish, when I’ve completed my speech, summarized my points, repeated a few things to stall for time and then simply run out of things to say, he asks quietly, “Do you feel better now?”
I give him my best calm, in-control face. “Harry would like an answer on where you stand on the measure as soon as humanly possible.”
He takes my cold hand, unclenches it from my dress and kisses my knuckles lightly. “I’ll tell you my stance after we’ve finished dessert and you’ve danced with me.”
I snarl, wrenching my hand from his grasp, wiping it on my dress as if I’ve touched something nasty. “So you’re going to hold your support for Harry hostage against my good behavior?”
Anger flashes across his face, tightly controlled. “If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, then yes. I’m a bad, bad, evil man, and I’m going to feed you chocolate and get you drunk on champagne. I’m going to steal a dance and a few kisses and you’re going to sit back and enjoy it but only because I forced you and then tomorrow you’re going to swear up and down to Potter that you hate me.”
I laugh, bitter, sharp. “I don’t hate you, Malfoy. You’re not that important. I feel nothing for you. Absolutely nothing.” And I’m pleased when he flinches.
His mouth tightens into a thin line and he rasps, “Then tonight you’re going to pretend that you do. You’re going to pretend that you’ve loved me for years and you’re going to do it in exchange for my support against the War Crimes bill.”
I glare at him in outrage and utter black hatred, but can’t find any words to answer with that won’t make this situation worse. Eyes challenging, he picks up my fork and daintily cuts a piece of spongy chocolate cake, bringing it to my lips. I regard him with contempt for a long moment but finally open my mouth.
It’s not fair. It’s really not fair. He knows I’ll go along with his sick demands in exchange for his support against the War Crimes bill. Worse, he knows I’ll do it even though we both know he won’t side against Harry even if I say no and walk out right now. He knows I’ll do it and hate myself later. He knows I won’t be able to forgive him or myself.
Merlin, is that what he wants?
The cake is absolutely the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, thick and rich. The creamy icing sticks to the roof of my mouth. Draco watches me, brooding silently and brings another small bite of cake to my mouth. I accept it, and he scoops up another piece for himself, sucking the last bit of thick frosting off my fork before getting another fork-full for me. I know it’s my imagination that I can taste him on that next bite.
He’s not talking, and I wish he would say something because the feeling of being trapped is suffocating. It’s sense memory. It’s in my bones, crawling along my skin, waking up instincts and memories of things I haven’t voluntarily thought of in years. I half wonder if that is part of his intentions. He never does anything halfway and he also never does anything without two or three purposes behind it.
He continues feeding me, occasionally taking a bite for himself and a drink of champagne from my glass. Then he holds the champagne flute to my lips, and I take a sip, feeling the bubbles fizz across my tongue, mixing with the taste of chocolate and Draco and I wonder if he wants to get me drunk. I’m half tempted to let it happen. Then none of it will be my fault. He gently swipes a bit of frosting off my lips with his thumb then dips into my mouth so I can suck the chocolate off. He brushes his wet thumb over my lower lip and when he leans in to kiss me, I let him.
Chapter Two