Overall, life as a Malfoy was good. You had the looks, the hair, the wealth, and the power to make people run around after you doing your bidding. And being a Malfoy – whether by birth or marriage - meant that you had the sort of cunning that allowed you to exploit these gifts ruthlessly.
There had been a couple of years that had been rather sticky, and which Draco didn't like to think about too often: access to the power and wealth had been limited, he hadn't been able to have a proper haircut for months, and the only people running round after him had been Aurors. However, whenever someone was rude enough to remind him of these events, he was able to gloss over them by pointing out that it had all been character building.
There was even an element of truth in that. If he hadn't spent that time on the run with Snape, then he might well have turned into a lazy, arrogant, smug, narcissistic, solipsistic, second-rate political manoeuvrer. As it was, his political skills were second to none.
He eschewed Unforgivables and death threats, used bribes sparingly, and always had a back-up plan – something his father should have considered more carefully. Not only did Draco have a Plan B, he usually had a Plan C, if not Z. He had no intention of spending more time with his father beyond the hourly visits to Azkaban once a quarter.
As a result he was so squeaky clean the Ministry couldn't touch him, he had reduced the expenses of the Malfoy "business enterprises" by 20% and owned more Ministry officials than his father ever had. Life, apart from his mother's nagging on the issue of marriage, was good.
Which made it all the more galling that he should find himself in the position of having to rely on Potter's help.
Lucius was being considered for release from Azkaban, and it appeared that Draco and his mother were the only people that considered this to be a good thing.
A certain amount of resistance to the idea had been expected, and a subtle campaign had been mounted to sway public opinion in his favour.
He'd been photographed with widows and orphans, conveniently ignoring his father's role in arranging their condition, and the Daily Prophet (prop. D Malfoy) had run a series of editorials on the need for healing, reconciliation and forgiveness.
However, some of the dissenters were prepared to make their views known in a very pointed manner which included death threats and the delivery of parcels whose contents were guaranteed to put you off your breakfast. Draco did wonder quite where these people were finding white ferrets to send in the post, though he supposed that if you were sending them a piece at a time it did tend to cut down on costs.
His mother had taken herself off to Paris with Crabbe and Goyle as his bodyguards, and he'd been on the point of joining her when two burly Aurors had approached him at the International Floo and invited him to a meeting with the Minister in his office. Now.
It wasn't an invitation he could refuse, though he did try.
At least the Aurors had come in handy to carry his luggage.
"Minister," he said, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. "Could we make this quick? I'm due to see my mother in an hour, and she does so hate being kept waiting."
The Minister winced. "Ah yes, your mother. Narcissa. Charming woman. Erm. I don't think that being late is going to be a problem."
"Why not?" Draco's fingers closed on the arms of the chair like claws.
"She's rather asked me, I mean us, to take you into protective custody. She thinks you might be in danger."
Draco blinked. His own mother had grassed him up to the coppers. He was appalled.
He was even more appalled to find that Potter had been chosen for the task of babysitting. He wasn't any happier than Draco about the situation and was rather less skilled at hiding it.
"Do I have to?" Potter asked, sounding like a toddler being asked to go to bed. "Can't we find someone else to look after him? I'm sure he doesn't really need protective custody."
"I wasn't aware that the Aurors were now a democracy, Minister," Draco said, with the exquisite insolence of a man who knew where the biggest campaign donations had come from and just how much influence that bought you. "How very progressive of you."
Potter glared at Draco, who manifestly failed to burst into flames.
"We have a duty to protect Mr Malfoy from these death threats," the Minister said to Potter. "And if that involves certain sacrifices on your part, then you will just have to put up with it."
"I think the sacrifices are all on my side," Draco said mournfully. "Grimmauld Place can hardly compare to Malfoy Manor. You do have House Elves, don't you? Tell me you have House Elves? Otherwise I don't think I could bear it."
"I have one House Elf. One. And he has better things to do with his time than run around looking after you," Potter grumbled.
Draco wondered when it would occur to Potter that Dobby and Malfoys were a less than felicitous combination, because the amusement that was to be derived from facing Potter with the prospect of having a new house guest was fading in the face of the horror of actually having to be that new house guest.
If he was going to be taken into protective custody, it was going to be in his own home even if that did mean having Potter on the premises.
"I was merely suggesting," Potter said slowly, trying to think of some way out of this nightmare. "I was merely suggesting," he repeated more confidently, "that, whilst Malfoy is entitled to all the help that we can give him, that Grimmauld Place may not be the best option. With all due respect, of course."
"I don't want to live with you either," put in Draco. "I'm sure that Malfoy Manor is perfectly safe."
"I'm not so sure that it is," the Minister replied. "You can't stop someone who is prepared to risk their own life for revenge."
Draco was well aware that the defences round Malfoy Manor were capable of stopping anything up to and including Dark Lords, Muggle hordes, and even his Auntie Bella. He was also aware dispersing any attackers over a wide area would only lead to awkward questions, and give the Aurors the excuse they had been waiting for to search the Manor. It was a sacrifice he might be prepared to make, but only if there were no other way.
"Indeed," said Potter. "But what concerns me, Minister, is how we could keep this quiet. You know what this place is like for gossip. All it takes is one careless word, and then everyone will know where Malfoy is, and we are back at square one."
It was a good point. Draco knew the Ministry leaked like a sieve, largely because he did all that he could to encourage it. It was vexing to think that others could take advantage of his hard work.
"You have an alternative suggestion?" the Minister asked.
"I do indeed. We circulate a Top Secret Memo round the Ministry saying that Malfoy is at Number 12 – so it's only a matter of time before everyone knows that – and in the meantime we sneak him out the back door to somewhere else. Somewhere unconnected to the Ministry at all."
The Minister considered the point for a few seconds, so that it wouldn't look like he was leaping at the first suggestion that allowed him to abdicate responsibility for the problem. "That sounds sensible; you have somewhere in mind?"
Potter nodded. "I won't say where, if you don't mind. Unless you've had Occlumency training?"
Draco narrowed his eyes; Potter was clearly up to something, and the only way to find out what was going on was to play along.
Judging by Potter's expression, he had a fairly accurate idea of what Draco was thinking – might even be using Legilimency on him – so he thought about how nice it would be to leave Potter tied to the desk with a pineapple inserted in one of his orifices.
Potter winced.
Not for the first time he thanked his Auntie Bella for teaching him Occlumency.
Draco added Paying Potter Back to his To Do list, just after Get Father Out of Jail and ahead of Buying a New Minister. No one should have to suffer the indignity of having to think about naked Potters to maintain some privacy in their own head – Potter was so stupid he probably thought Draco fancied him or something.
As if!
Even if he were homosexual – which he wasn't, those nasty rumours about him and Zabini notwithstanding – he'd have better taste than to choose a scruffy-haired runt like Potter. Why, he'd rather shag Weasley, or even Granger!
Draco shuddered. He needed a pensieve and some brandy, and he needed them now.
This was not to be. Potter was determined to get the arrangements in place before anyone had a chance to work out what they were up to.
"If you'll excuse me, Minister," Potter said, sounding as innocent as a day old Huffelpuff, and ushered Draco from the office before he had a chance to vent any more of his well thought out objections.
Weasley was waiting for them outside, and Potter sidled off out of earshot to have an earnest conversation with his sidekick. Ron didn't appear happy with whatever suggestion Potter made, but eventually conceded the point after a heated discussion. Whatever Potter said to clinch the discussion made Ron give a crack of laughter that did nothing to allay Draco's concern that he was about to be stitched up like a kipper, and then headed off shaking his head in amusement.
Potter grinned at Draco, obviously very pleased with himself "If you'd like to follow me," he said. "We'll take the Secure Floo to Grimmauld Place."
Draco, with his luggage bobbing along behind, followed Potter as he headed off into the depths of the Aurory. Draco had never been here before – had prided himself on the fact he'd stayed out of the Auror's hands – and quickly decided that this had been a wise choice. He made a mental note to ensure that all future business would be conducted in plush restaurants over a fine meal and a reasonable claret, but nothing better than that. There was no point wasting the good stuff on those who wouldn't appreciate it. If they had to work here, they probably thought rubbing alcohol was refined.
The corridor was grey and dirty and didn't look like it had been cleaned since the day Slytherin had left Hogwarts. There was the faint aroma of desperation … and was that urine….that he had always associated with poverty.
Potter was taking him to stay with poor people. He refused; he really would rather die. It might be catching.
They came to the end of the corridor, and moved into a large room with benches along one side. A large yellow line painted across it was the only point of colour in a room that continued the theme of institutional grime.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"I'm surprised you haven't been here before," Potter replied. "It's the holding cells for people about to appear before the Wizengamot."
"You'd know more about that than me," Draco replied.
Potter's left eye twitched. "Perhaps you'd like the full tour, Malfoy. I'd be happy to lock you up in one of the cells so you can have the complete experience."
"Try it," Draco said softly. "I'm not 17 any more."
"Neither am I," Potter replied, locking eyes with him. "Neither am I."
The glaring contest was interrupted by the arrival of a grinning Ronald Weasley.
"I've made all the arrangements, Harry. She isn't happy, but she's agreed to do it. She says you owe her big time."
"She? She who?" Draco wanted to know.
"It's on a need to know basis," Potter replied. "And you don't need to know."
Draco very nearly squawked in dismay, but remembered just in time that he was now a suave and sophisticated man of the world and that squawking was out of the question. "Of course I need to know. I might not want to stay with… with… whoever it is."
"You don't get a choice," Potter said firmly. "You just get to say thank you to the nice lady for taking you in."
"Of course I have a choice," he protested. "I'm a Malfoy. I practically own the Ministry – what I say goes."
"Aye, right oh," Ron said, and threw something at Draco. He caught it, rather than letting it mar the perfection of his face, and had barely a moment to realise that it was a portkey.
"Oh, shhhh…," he began to say, and then the room fizzed out of existence.
"…it," he finished, as he appeared at his destination.
It wasn't as bad as he had expected, being clean, bright and airy if a little cramped by his standards.
"There you are," said the witch in front of him.
Not bad looking, but not stunning either, he thought, automatically assessing her shaggability.
"My face," she said, all acid, "is up here."
"Oh joy," Draco said. "My day is now complete. Granger, I should have known it would be you."
"If you think that I'm any happier about this than you are…" she said, ruffling up for a fight.
"I don't suppose you are," he replied quickly, determined to head off the impending explosion. He'd had to flatter Dark Lords before now; he could certainly manage a stroppy Mudblood. Anything for a quiet life was the way he looked at it. "Potter and Weasel made that quite clear. And I am suitably grateful, really."
"Oh," she deflated. "Right. Well."
Draco congratulated himself on superior Gryffindor handling skills, and their inability to recognise the subtle shading of meaning in 'suitable'. Someone that simple would be easily manipulated into letting him return to the Manor.
"Some house rules then," she said. "You don't call me Mudblood, and I don't hex your bollocks off."
"Granger, I am a guest under your roof and that means that, no matter how much the strain may kill me, I'm obliged to be polite to you. The M word would not pass my lips."
She gave him the sort of look his mother always used to give him when she was trying to work out whether he was fibbing or not. He didn't like it: it made him feel transparent and about three years old again. "Very well," she said slowly. "Presumably this means that I have to be a gracious host in return, so why don't we take turns in making some suggestions that will keep friction down to a minimum?"
Granger was much more reasonable than Potter; that was very nearly a sensible idea.
"Don't talk to me until I've had my cup of tea in the morning," she said. "I need at least half an hour's peace and quiet first thing before I can be considered human."
Draco had spent a year living with Snape; he knew all about early morning homicidal mania. "The same goes for me and my coffee," he replied. "There will be coffee won't there?"
She nodded. "Can't stand the stuff myself, but one of my more temperamental collaborators requires it. Just don't drink all of it – he gets very sulky when he's deprived of his coffee and you're supposed to be here for your protection."
"I'd heard you were working with Severus." He grinned. Severus had been the one to give him the taste for dark, bitter coffee first thing, so if it was good enough for Severus then it would be good enough for him. It wouldn't have been pretty if he hadn't been able to get his fix.
"Don't touch the papers on my desk. It may not look like it, but I know where everything is. I will know if you so much as breathe on them, I will know."
"That sounds rather like housework, Granger. That's what house elves are for. Your precious papers are safe from me."
She gave him that look again, and he barely resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. "You took my assistant out to lunch last week to find out more about this project. I find it hard to believe you wouldn't be tempted to look, even if it did mean getting your hands dirty."
"You're involved in Project Brainbox?"
"Malfoy, I am Project Brainbox. I'm surprised you didn't know. I thought you knew all the gossip."
He'd thought so too, and was peeved to find out that it wasn't the case, and that he was now trapped in the same flat with Granger because his curiosity wouldn't let him leave until he had found out what Project Brainbox was all about.
He looked at Granger through narrowed eyes, and she grinned at him. "And if you're a very good boy, Malfoy, I might even tell you all about it. Eventually."
"I've never been a good boy, Granger. And I'm not about to start now," he said.
"Which is probably for the best; I expect the sun would turn black if you ever did."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," he said dryly.
Granger crossed the room to a half open door. "Right, well we'd better get you settled in. You're taking my room for the duration. The wards on it are impressive, though not quite the equal of Malfoy Manor. Still, we can't go round sacrificing Muggles any more, so we have to make do."
He peered into the room, and was relieved to find that it wasn't too Muggle and that the bed was large enough for two. He tested it. It was nice and bouncy. Granger really was a bit of a dark horse. "I wasn't aware that we had sacrificed any Muggles in the last couple of centuries."
"Probably not," she agreed. "Not according to the Codex Malfoyiana anyway."
He froze. "And how did you get a copy of the Codex?"
"From your library of course."
"My library?"
"Oh yes. We broke into the Manor a couple of months after you went on the run. Harry would insist that was where you were hiding out. I didn't think you'd be that stupid," she said kindly. "But you know what he's like when he's got his mind set on something."
"The wards are supposed to be unbreakable!" he protested.
"They were quite good. It took me over an hour to get in."
"An hour?" The foundations to Draco's world were trembling and he didn't like the feeling.
"I know. Shocking isn't it? I've improved a lot since then, and I don't think it would take me that long these days."
Draco was fairly sure she was trying to wind him up about the wards, she had to be; they simply couldn't be broken that easily. "You'll have to tell me all the gory details then," he said maliciously. "I'm sure you'd love to show off."
She brushed past him and tapped on the bedhead. "This knob is an emergency portkey that takes you straight to the Ministry. If something goes wrong, you activate it. Do not stop for anything."
"And what about you?"
"I wasn't joking when I said that this flat has some of the best protection you will find anywhere. I'll be setting the wards, and then running like buggery. I don't want to be here when it all kicks off. Neither do you. There are no failsafes, and I don't think either one of us wants to find out whether I can dismantle the wards on the fly."
Draco grunted an acknowledgement. Granger's spell work was noted for its efficacy and unparalleled viciousness, so if she said he had to run, he would be running and not looking back. At least it allowed him to leave her with a clear conscience. He wasn't particularly inclined to heroics, but neither did he want to explain to Potter that he'd got one of his friends killed. He was likely to get a bit tetchy about that. But there was nothing that Potter could say if Granger had told him that he had to leave.
"I'll leave you to get unpacked," she said. "Where's your luggage?"
"Still on the floor of the Ministry," he said. He had nothing more than the robes he was standing up in, and that was a situation he'd sworn never to get into again. He was going to throttle Potter.
"I'll go and try and get that sorted out then," Granger said. "And I'll put the kettle on. I expect you could do with a cup of tea before you settle down for the night."
Draco flung himself back on the bed, and covered his eyes with one arm.
He really was in hell.
When his promised cup of tea did not materialise, he dragged himself from the bed and back out into the living room. Granger was on her knees by the fire, floo calling someone. She didn't sound happy.
"I don't care what the problem is; sort it out."
There was a pause to allow the other party to explain that whatever she wanted wasn't possible.
"I suppose that will have to do then," she said. "But you'd better not forget. You may think this is funny, but then you don't have to listen to the whinging; I do."
Ah, Granger was sorting out the issue of his luggage. He really ought to object to the term whinging being applied to his legitimate and reasonable complaints about the hardships he was being forced to endure, but doubtless she had to pretend it was whinging to get Potter to take notice of her. He understood the value of telling half-truths to minions – and there could be no doubt that Potter, for all his status, was firmly under Granger's thumb.
Potter continued complaining about the manifest injustices of life for a little longer until Granger cut him off with a, "Good night, Harry."
"I take it my luggage will be arriving soon?" Draco asked.
Granger turned sharply, and her hand moved into the duelling position before dropping to her side. "You made me jump! I'm not used to having people here."
"Relax, Granger. I don't bite."
"No, but I do," she said pointedly.
"I should hope so, since you're my protector. I'd hate to think you'd gone soft in your old age."
Granger ignored him; he took that as a point scored for him.
"Tea?" she said. "I've got Earl Grey, Breakfast tea, even some Tetleys if you feel like slumming it."
"Earl Grey will be fine, thank you."
He followed her into the kitchen and watched her bustling about with fascination. He'd never seen tea made the Muggle way at all – had never seen tea made at all come to that. Tea at the Manor arrived on a tray, with biscuits, and that was that.
There was some odd device that water went into, a bit like a kettle, except that it didn't go on the hob, though it seemed to heat the water anyway. He sat down uninvited at the little table in the kitchen, and thought how peculiar it was that muggles didn't know about magic and yet could do things that were so close to the way that normal people lived.
She didn't bother with a pot, but brewed up in a mug, and thought it was acceptable to sit in the kitchen rather than in a proper dining room; you couldn't really expect proper manners from her type.
"Harry will bring your stuff round in the morning," she offered, hands clasped round the mug. "He's off doing something important tonight, so he can't do it this evening. But you'll have your clothes by breakfast at the latest."
"I suppose that will have to do."
"Er, yes. I don't know if you want to borrow some stuff," she said. "I've got a spare toothbrush, and soap and things, but perhaps you'd like some pyjamas?"
"Not necessary," he replied, and Granger went pink. Draco wondered if she was contemplating the thought of a naked Malfoy in her bed. He rather thought she was. Still, you couldn't blame her for that even if it was a bit creepy. He hoped she wasn't going to get ideas, just because they were under the same roof.
Granger drained her mug, and put it on the side in the kitchen. "I'm off to bed. If there's nothing else you need, I'll see you in the morning."
He sat there a little longer after she'd gone, sipping his tea, and thinking hard about his situation. He needed his luggage, and not just for the clean clothes and other little luxuries the House Elves had placed in there. He wouldn't put it past Potter to be searching it before delivering it, though there was little point – he wasn't amateurish enough to leave his toys out in plain sight.
Rather like Christmas, he decided to go to bed early in the hopes that it would bring his luggage more quickly. The sheets were cool and soft, and pleasantly scented but sleep proved elusive. His brain couldn't stop turning over the issue of who was threatening him, and how that could be turned to his best advantage. There was only one thing that could stop him thinking about self-preservation and power and that was sex.
Because Draco was a Malfoy and they were nothing if not perverse, he found that wanking in Granger's bed whilst imagining her bent in all sorts of twisty positions was more than usually stimulating.
Because he wasn't stupid, he made sure to cast proper cleansing charms afterwards.
Breakfast passed off rather well, all things considered.
He found a rather nice silk kimono hanging in the wardrobe, which he thought added the necessary style to counteract the rather prosaic striped pyjamas that Granger thought was appropriate for breakfast in mixed company. She certainly seemed to think so, and stared at him appreciatively.
The breakfast she gave him – something odd called Coco Pops, which were dark brown and crunchy and actually ok for something Muggle, though he wouldn't admit it – kept crackling at him in a really irritating way, so he cast Silencio on it.
She seemed to find that amusing in some way, but he couldn't see why. She said nothing and he dismissed it as another Granger peculiarity.
Granger used the bathroom first, leaving him to his third cup of coffee. She came out all pink and slightly damp and wrapped round with towels. Her legs were much nicer than he had previously considered, and he thought it a shame that she couldn't afford a decent set of robes to show off her figure to better advantage.
The experience of seeing her legs almost made up for having to rough it.
His mornings at home generally consisted of being woken gently at mid-morning by a house elf bearing a large, cooked breakfast, and a freshly ironed copy of the Daily Prophet. Once he had perused the scandal sheet, and consumed his rashers of bacon, he would put on his silk dressing gown and patter into the bathroom where his freshly drawn bath, at just the right temperature, would be waiting for him.
Not that he always woke in his own bed by any means. He'd never yet allowed any of the silk-clad sirens lucky enough to be graced with his presence to see the inside of Malfoy Manor, nor had any of them learned the fine art of the fry up, so that he always had to sacrifice the delights of a decent breakfast for other pleasures. One day, he knew, the perfect women would come along and he would be able to experience both pleasures simultaneously or at least reasonably close together - both activities required absolute concentration and he wasn't sure it was wise to combine them – but until then he would simply have to make do.
In the meantime, his failure to experience the perfect breakfast was yet another example of suffering that had toughened him up so that he could face a meal with Granger without breaking down and sobbing at the unfairness of things.
Even when he had to run his own bath.
He had to Scourgify the bath three times to be sure that the muggle contamination had gone; Granger didn't strike him as the domestic type. It didn't really make any difference because he was going to have to use muggle toiletries but it made him feel a little better. He sniffed cautiously at the surprisingly wide collection of bottles on the side of the bath, and settled for one that smelled the least revolting. He'd heard Pansy going on about Chanel No 5, so if it were good enough for her, it was probably good enough for him.
He gathered it was expensive stuff, so he made sure to add a lot of it to the bath.
When he eventually completed his ablutions to his satisfaction, Granger had gone leaving a cheery note: "Off to the library. Back this afternoon. Lunch is in the fridge – help yourself to anything you need, and see you later. HG"
He took her at her word.
By lunchtime he had been through her wardrobe and sneered at her taste, rummaged in her underwear drawer and been amused to find that not all of it was plain, white and dull. She was indeed a bit of a dark horse. This was only confirmed when he found the box under the bed that contained the kind of reading material that had rather more pictures than text, and would be worth a more leisurely perusal later that night – some of the titles were new to him.
He had looked at her bookshelves, found the Dark Arts titles carefully disguised with charms, and made a note of their titles for later blackmailing purposes. There were muggle books, too. He hesitated. He'd always wanted to read one, and see what they were like, but the library at Malfoy Manor did not come equipped with that sort of book and he'd always been too embarrassed to buy one in public.
It was one thing to be associated with the Dark Arts, cruelty and torture, but quite another to be admitting to an interest in Muggles.
Still, there was no one here to see him.
He arranged himself artistically on the sofa, settling the kimono to best advantage, and began to read…
An hour later he was bored. More bored than he had ever thought possible. More bored than Binns had ever made him and that had previously been the gold standard for boredom. And the papers on Hermione's desk were practically begging him to read them.
Project Brainbox was so secret that only four people knew about it, and so complex that lunch with Hermione's assistant had produced nothing more than a stream of gibberish when she'd tried to explain what it was all about.
That was the sort of project he wanted to know about. It was the sort of project he needed to know about, in the same way people wanted to scratch an itch. Not knowing made him uncomfortable and cross.
And it was sitting on the desk on the other side of the room.
It wasn't as if she'd said he couldn't read it; he just wasn't allowed to move the papers. He could look, but not touch, rather like Granger herself.
He drew his wand and cast a charm – there was nothing obvious protecting them. He cast again – nor was there anything unobvious protecting them. One more cast for good luck, testing for Dark Arts, and he was reassured that there weren't any nasty surprises waiting for him.
He moved a little closer and began to read the documents that he could see. He'd expected it to be potions related if Snape was involved, but it seemed to be arithmancy. And then he realised – it was Snape's Dark Arts experience that she was drawing on. She was experimenting with Dark Arithmancy and by the looks of it trying to solve Heinsius' last equation.
Intrigued, he forgot caution, and reached out to turn the page.
There was a crack, and Hermione's voice said, "What have I told you two about touching things you shouldn't? Well, now you're stuck until I decide to let you go. Maybe this way you'll actually pay attention to what I say."
He was trapped: one hand stuck to the table, and it didn't look like he was going anywhere for the next few minutes.
He swore sulphorously. Caught red-handed and by a trap intended for her two side-kicks – could life be any more unfair? None of the counter charms he tried worked, so he accio'd a cushion and a chair, and settled down to read the rest of her notes.
He may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
It was awkward having to turn the pages with one hand but it was worth it: it was interesting stuff. He had a vague memory nagging at the back of his mind that some of this was covered in Heinsius' Second Treatise but he hadn't read that since he was 17 and trying to work out how the fuck to get to be 18 with all his limbs intact. Some of the extensions of the theory were rather elegant though, and the multiple time solution was impressive though not necessarily very useful.
He was so absorbed, that he didn't hear the key turn in the lock and nearly hit the ceiling when Granger said, "I've managed to pick up your luggage, Draco, and Harry says… What on earth happened to you?"
"I should think that was blindingly obvious." He wasn't going to do something as crass as apologise; this was all her fault for leaving things lying around.
"I thought you'd be a bit more careful." She was suddenly behind him, pressed up against his back, and he was very much aware that there was nothing between her and his skin but a thin layer of silk. "I see you've managed to read most of it."
His mother used to do that to his father, when he was sitting at his big desk in the Library. It was an incredibly intimate thing for Granger to do, and it was making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He wasn't entirely sure he disliked it, but he was entirely sure that he ought to.
Oh god, that was a breast. Granger had her breast on his back. He felt like a seventeen year old again, and the first time he'd ever seen a woman naked: excited, flustered and completely at a loss as to what to do next. It really had been a mistake to wank over her last night, because that had resurrected the bizarre semi-crush that he'd developed in his sixth year that had made him follow her round like a sheep. Admittedly, it had proved useful in the end as an intelligence gathering exercise, but it was bloody embarrassing to realise how obvious he had been at the time. Especially as he seemed to be reverting to that boy now.
"Interested?" she said, and that did nothing for his composure at all.
"It helped to pass the time." He carefully smoothed the page he was reading. "Now, are you going to let me go?"
"Usually I make the boys do some washing up if they get caught like this, but I expect you'd be more trouble that you were worth," she said, her hot breath tickling his ear in a way that wasn't entirely disagreeable.
"That is frequently the case with Malfoys," he replied. "We pride ourselves on it."
"I'm sure." She moved away from him, and the magic binding him to the table trickled away like water, and he could move again.
"Thank you," he said. He stood up, careful to ensure that the dressing gown was firmly wrapped round his person, and turned to face her. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just go and dress."
"Ok," she replied. "Harry's coming round later to give us an update on your case. I'm not sure he's ready to see you in … all your glory."
"Jealousy is a bitter thing, though entirely understandable in his case," he said, and closed the bedroom door before she could top his parthian shot.
He felt much better once there were several layers of finely tailored cloth between him and the world. He felt even better once his little objets d'art noir were installed in the room – something that Granger definitely didn't need to know about. She was surprisingly stuffy about other people's wrongdoing for someone who didn't have much in the way of a conscience herself.
Lunch was waiting for him on the table in the kitchen, and its consumption allowed any lingering awkwardness between the two of them to pass.
"So," he said, once he had cleared his plate. "Are you going to tell me more about the project? You may as well, since I've seen most of it."
"You mean you really want to know? Usually people can't get away from me fast enough when I start talking about it." She had the same expression on her face that his mother had when she saw a new pair of shoes, or his father when he'd pulled off a particularly nasty coup – all alive and excited.
"I'm not in the habit of making polite conversation. It's one of the perks of being incredibly powerful," he said. "If I ask, it's because I want to know about it."
Granger didn't need asking twice. It was as if a dam had been breached and all the knowledge just had to come bursting out of her in a torrent of information. He wondered how Severus coped with working with her when he wasn't allowed to deduct house points.
"Of course, it would be much easier if we had a copy of the original treatise, but the Ministry won't release the funds for that," she said, finally reaching the point he was interested in.
"Oh dear, that's a shame," he murmured. "It's a very interesting text in its own right; I can understand that you'd want to read it. As I recall there are only three copies outside Malfoy Manor, and it's terribly difficult to get hold of."
Her suspicious glare indicated that she didn't believe in his protestations of sympathy, and that she'd taken the hint that was being offered.
"What's it going to cost me then?" she said. "You didn't just causally drop that into the conversation for no reason."
"You aren't supposed to come out with the question like that," he replied. "There should be more delicate hints, and dancing round the issue before you even think of indicating that you might be interested in some sort of mutually satisfying accommodation."
"So Severus says, but I find I have just as much success with the direct approach, and it does save an awful lot of time."
"But where's the fun in that?" He shook his head in pity at the poor, innocent Gryffindor.
"I've always thought it was about the winning and not the taking part." She shrugged. "I'm surprised you don't agree."
"It's a superficially attractive view, but I prefer to win with style."
"Oooh, do you get extra points for that?" she asked. "No one told me."
"You do," he said. "But I think Gryffindors are disqualified from playing in any event; they just lower the tone."
She still had that same trick of turning pink when she was angry, he was pleased to see. He liked predictable Hermione, he would always be two steps ahead of her in any conflict.
She let out a long, slow breath, more like a sealed cauldron letting off steam than a sigh. "Well, then, we can move straight into the bargaining stages can't we? What do you want?"
"World peace, a fifty per cent increase in profits, and I'd like to go back home," he said, not that he thought it would be that easy, but it was an interesting opening position.
"None of which are going to be forthcoming," she said flatly. "What else?"
He shrugged. It was always fun to play. "Nothing else. You really missed your chance when you had me pinned to the desk," he replied.
"Draco, you're as helpless as a newborn kitten in a Muggle home. All I have to do is wait until you want your next cup of tea, and you'll be begging me to read the damned book."
Which was a good point, he had to admit. "I'll just have to settle for the fifty per cent rise in profits then. When you think of the practical applications…"
"What sort of practical applications," she interrupted. "I don't like the sound of that."
"I'm clean, Granger. I just want to be fabulously rich and make sure I do as little work as possible. Being the next Dark Lord isn't my idea of fun. There's too much hanging round in dirty graveyards in the middle of the night, and you have to keep telling people what to do." He tried his best to look faintly injured, but it felt uncomfortable and wrong. Malfoys did the injuring, that was the natural order of things.
She looked at him warily. "Perhaps. I'll have to see what Severus says."
"If Severus is involved…. I don't see why he didn't ask me for the treatise in the first place. I owe him a life debt, for heaven's sake."
"Perhaps that's why."
Draco didn't like the idea that Hermione might understand Severus better than him. He really didn't like the fact that he couldn't cheat her in some business deal because Severus was her partner, and he owed Severus. And he especially didn't like the fact that his day wasn't going to get any better with the arrival of Potter.
He was beginning to see the attraction of his father's way of doing business – there was nothing like offering to curse someone's family to make them do what you want.
Potter looked knackered when he arrived. Granger thought so too, because she fussed around him like a devoted House Elf offering him tea and the best seat on the sofa and the plumpest cushion.
He watched it all through narrow eyes. Really, Granger ought to have more self-respect than to allow Potter to take advantage of her good nature like that. He didn't even have the decency to thank her, just sat there with half-closed eyes, dozing off.
It was one of life's little ironies that people thought that Slytherins were rude, when they always took care to say please and thank you and not just because forgetting your manners could lead to a nasty hex. Draco didn't believe in taking people for granted. He had few friends, and those he had, he cared for.
He wondered if, in the entire course of their friendship, Potter had ever made Hermione a cup of tea, or bought her flowers, or chocolates, or done anything to acknowledge how good a friend Granger could be.
He cleared his throat and was rewarded with matching glares from the pair of them.
"So?" Draco said. "Any news?"
Potter shook his head. "We haven't even got any suspects. Or rather we have a lot of suspects, but no grounds for interviewing any of them. Your father has annoyed a lot of people in his time, and when you add in the people you've offended, that's practically half the wizarding world."
"Very droll," Draco said.
"I thought so," Potter replied.
"Harry," Hermione said reproachfully.
Harry sat up straighter, looked more serious, and wiped the smile off his face.
Draco was not impressed. As usual, Potter hadn't got a clue, and hadn't achieved anything. He could see himself imprisoned in Granger's flat for years. So could she, and that was all the incentive she needed to come up with a plan.
Draco rather thought that as a baby she would have had a plan. She would have eaten, evacuated and cried according to some pre-determined schedule. Her first words were probably Homework. Usually this would be irritating, but for once he was merely grateful that someone with more than two brain cells to rub together was taking an interest in his case.
"The thing is Harry," she said. "Keeping Draco here is all very well – it does keep him safe – but it doesn't do anything to catch the people behind the threats. I think we should use him as bait."
"Hang on a minute," Draco protested. "I'm not volunteering for that."
Harry looked wistful for a moment. "I'd love to, but the Ministry would never let me."
"I'd never let you," Draco said firmly. "Which is rather more to the point."
They both ignored him.
"We don't have to really use him as bait," Hermione said. "I was thinking that you could start complaining about how irritating Draco is as a house guest and then, after a week or so, put it about that you've decided to move him somewhere else for his own protection."
"Because I'd have to kill him if I spent a week under the same roof," Harry said. "I can see that."
"Exactly. Then you can start leaking information about where he's been moved to, different information to different people, and then sit back and see which safe house is attacked. That should narrow it down enough to allow you to use Veritaserum on the suspects."
"Or threaten them," Draco added. "I'm prepared to help out with that. I can think of all sorts of things I'd like to do to them."
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Harry replied. "Because, much as I'd like to arrest you for being vile and obnoxious, I don't think that we can protect you in the Auror's cells."
"Not to mention the fact that being vile and obnoxious isn't actually an offence," Draco sneered. "Otherwise the Minister would be running the Ministry from Azakaban."
"Finally, there's something we agree on." Harry matched Draco sneer for sneer.
"And on that note, I think we'll call it a day," Hermione said firmly.
Before he left Potter took Granger out into the little hallway for a whispered conversation that was actually clearly audible, certainly once Draco cast the listening charms.
Potter sounded worried. "I don't trust him, Hermione, he's up to something."
"What makes you think that?"
"He was actually being polite to you. You can't pretend that's normal."
Hermione giggled. "Oh that. It's some weird Pureblood etiquette thing that prevents him from being as rude as he'd like to be."
"That's a relief," Potter said. "I thought you were going to tell me that he'd changed, and was now a decent human being, and then I'd have to worry that you'd lost the plot."
"Of course he's changed; we all have. None of us are the same people we were five years ago – I should hope we've all done a little growing up," Hermione replied, sounding faintly exasperated.
"Yeah, but it doesn't mean he's changed for the better," Potter said. "I worry about you being here with him on your own."
"Oh for heaven's sake," Hermione snapped. "I'm perfectly capable of handling Malfoy."
Draco grinned. Now he really doubted that was the case, though he'd be interested in trying the experiment.
"Just… be careful," Harry said. "All right?"
Hermione didn't say anything in response and a few seconds later they came back into the room.
"I won't stay for dinner," he said, giving Draco a long hard look that was probably supposed to quell any stirrings of whatever it was that Potter thought he was up to. He took a large handful of Floo powder from the mantelpiece, threw it into the fire, and said, "Entrance 13." The fire flashed, he stepped in, and he was gone.
At last.
Now he had some peace and quiet he could get back on with reading his book, and not watch Granger pottering around her flat as she prepared dinner.
Granger's cooking was nowhere near the standards he was used to, though he supposed that it would do for the Weasleys. He didn't say so, just thanked her politely after the meal and went to bed early again.
He was mildly disturbed when his usual night time fantasies of Hermione bent over a desk were superseded by one of her, on top, and riding him like a demon.
It didn't stop him coming though.