For Gabs, because she's my biggest fan.

Eyes Like Yours

"Came from Bahrain, got to Beirut, looking for someone comparing to you…" Shakira.

"What the sodding hell is he doing in Bahrain? Isn't that….I don't even know where the sodding shit that is."

"It's an island in the Persian Gulf, near Saudi Arabia, and please, Ronald, watch your language." Hermione admonished, simultaneously pursing her lips and glaring at him. Said glare telling of her immense annoyance.

"Saudi Arabia? Forget it. He can rot in the desert then." He crossed his arms over his chest and returned her stare, his point being that he could easily do without the cuss words. Contrary to popular belief.

Harry rubbed his head tiredly, fluffing his already messy hair. "I don't know, Hermione. Our resources and manpower are low right now. We don't have the means to send anyone with you to chase after him."

"So?" She shrugged, "I'll go myself."

"Out of the question." He said brusquely.

"Harry, I'm fully capable. I can do this." She stood then, and her topaz eyes flashed with indignation while her mouth settled into something akin to a pout.

" I know you can. But it was only a sighting. No confirmation. And he could be gone by now." He removed his glasses and pushed the file back to her.

"I'm going."

"No. You are not. Circe, 'Mione, do you have a fecking death wish?" Ron settled his chair back on all fours. "It's the bloody Middle East. Not safe for anyone to travel alone. Especially a woman. Witch or not."

Her mouth dropped open, curving with the beginnings of a sneer.

"He has a good point."

She sniffed, her jewel-like orbs flicking quickly from Harry to Ron. "The Silver Chalice is a Malfoy Heirloom. Possibly the last Horcrux. Thus, he is our key to ending this war. I don't know about you, but I feel it is imperative that he return." Her tone was clipped, condescending.

"Yes." Harry said slowly. "Are you sure this has nothing to do with your twisted, umm, 'obsession' with Malfoy?"

"Yeah, it's all you're ever on about." Ron added.

"That's…that's absurd! How could you think that?" She exasperated, her hand coming to her chest, understandably affronted. "I am not obsessed with Malfoy!" She spat his name like poison. "I am merely eager to find the last Horcrux and see it destroyed."

"If you fuckin' say so." That was Ron. Always Ron. Chronically disbelieving, sometimes nonchalant, and always vulgar.

"I'm going." She ground out again, quelling the urge to stomp her foot petulantly.

Harry sighed heavily, and seemed to show premature, aged tiredness. His shoulders drooped and his face creased with lines. "Fine."

Ron protested in a string of ugly words.

Hermione let her face sport a small smile of victory.

"Go to Bahrain. Stay on the periphery, and keep. This. Covert!" Harry did not look at her. Just rubbed his face with his roughened palms. He carefully replaced his spectacles, wincing at even the feather-like weight of them, and then lifted his emerald gaze to hers. They were pleading, and full of foreboding. "And if you don't find him, come directly back. Don't chase after ghosts. It's pointless." It was not a request of a loving friend, but an order of a scared young man.

Draco Malfoy was not in Bahrain. But, Hermione did not return to England. Mostly because he had left a blatant trail. She followed a lead to Kuwait, then caught a plane to Cairo. Swore she glimpsed hair the shade of moonlight in Ismailia. Saw a pair of mercurial eyes in Port Said. Gaza. Jerusalem. Tel Aviv. Sur Sayda. Then, finally, she paid witness to the enigma that was Draco Malfoy in Beirut. Flesh and Blood. In all his beautifully evil glory.

He was meandering through a market. Unconcernedly walking among the ornate, handsomely restored buildings with their arabesque yellow and pastel stonework, graceful arches, and wrought iron scrollwork.

He seemed to be a seamless part of the posh, fashionista crowd. Not so very tall, but quite lean. Elegant in a loose, baby-blue oxford. The top buttons undone, sleeves carelessly rolled to his elbows, and both arms showcasing fine, smoothly tanned skin. His shirt was tucked into costly, crème linen trousers, and his hands were casually stuck in his pockets. His platinum locks were loose and free, lifting subtly with the wind, shining like a halo. And Goddess, he was smiling. A real smile, devoid of malice or wrong-doing. It was genuine, happy, and perfect.

Hermione stood, frozen. Unable to think. Unable to do. Unable to believe. Patrons were bumping into her, talking at her, stepping their way past her. But all she could see was him. Then his ashy storm of a gaze settled on her. Clear, twinkling.

Malfoy licked his grinning lips, let his eyes travel up and down her, and then closed them. And so help her, she let her lashes fall too. When she raised again, he was gone.

Her senses returned. Her brain rebooted, and she wished she could kick herself.

He had been right in front of her, and she had let him go.

So much for being on the periphery. And covert.

Much later, she was wandering down the busy street in the Solidère, the Central District of Beirut. The air was scented lightly with the salt and freshness of the Mediterranean. The sun was bright and warm. It was an ideal balmy day, and she decided that the city was wonderful for a holiday. Of course she was straying from her objective, which was retrieving Malfoy. Though if she were honest with herself, her thoughts were on him, just not for the appropriate reasons.

Sighing, she seated herself at an outdoor cafe, and let her forehead rest on the table, her arms hanging limply at her side, while she dutifully studied her shoes. This is how she relaxed. This is how she focused. Inhale deeply, exhale slowly. Rinse. Repeat.

The waiter approached her and she ordered a cappuccino and a bottle of water, but never lifted her head.

Draco Malfoy was gone.

Hermione was tired of chasing.

And he seemed so carefree, at ease, as if he were walking through paradise.

It wasn't fair.

The waiter had returned, settling her order lightly beside her in an effort to leave her undisturbed.

An idea struck.

"Ann Eazinak!" She called in careful Arabian.

The dark haired waiter turned, with a handsome, friendly smile. Ebony eyes. Not silver.

" Um Hal Talakalm Alingli'zia?"

"Na'am, yes."

"Oh brilliant!" She quickly rummaged through her bag to produce a picture, charmed to remain still. "Have you seen this man before?"

The waiter took the photograph and studied it briefly. "Ah yes. He is being here before. Is he your, ah…" he seemed to struggle, but then frowned regretfully, "Za'og?"

"Za'og?" Hermione was confused and tapped her chin, as she tried to recall the proper translation for it. "Oh husband! Yes. Yes he is my husband." She nodded readily, beaming with girlish pride.

But the waiter did not return her cheerfulness. Instead he saddened. "I'm sorry. He is being at the club last night, and the night before," and it was very clear what he was trying to tactfully express.

"And which club is that?" She bit her lip flirtatiously, after all, body language was universal.

He gave her the name and a precise address and even offered to accompany her, but she politely refused.

The club, L'Isle des Desirs, was like any other that one might find in London, New York or Los Angeles. Socialites, celebrities, and children of royal families were in attendance, slipping past the velvet ropes, oblivious to the world around them.

Hermione arrived around 10 pm that evening, dressed in haute couture of the universal little black dress. Strapless, but curve-hugging, falling gracefully from her hips to her knees. An ample décolletage was evident, but a shrug encased her arms and shoulders in what seemed like black spider webs, and fastened at the base of her throat. Her abundance of curls fell softly about her shoulders and back, kept from her face with a simple barrette, or rather, her transfigured wand. She was the embodiment of elegance and sexual prowess, and was very aware of it with each confident click of her strapped sandal heels. The door man let her pass through the velvet ropes easily and she purposefully moved to the bar. Ignoring the stares of the men, she ordered a cup of Turkish coffee, along with a small glass of arak over ice. As she watched the arak turn milky white in the presence of ice cubes, her eyes scouted the room. The loud beat of the bass thumped in her body and the flash of the disco lights hindered her vision, but she kept her lookout diligently. She never got a chance to taste her drink, though, for she saw, through the latticed doorway of the private casino located further inside the main salon, a flash of white-gold hair. As she neared the door to the casino, her path was blocked by a huge, squarely-built Arab in standard Western Dress, but with a small cap covering his head, as per Muslim law.

"You may not enter, Miss!" He said gruffly.

"But I must, the man I'm with is in there." She lied smoothly.

He simply ignored her and stood stoutly, his arms covering his broad chest.

"Please sir, my fiancé is looking for me." She smiled sweetly.

"If your fiancé is in the casino, then he was right to leave you out here."

Affronted, Hermione gasped, "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"

He looked down on her with ridicule, and chuckled, "I advise you to leave at once, Miss, before I forcefully remove you."

"I will not!" Anger stabbed at her gut. Her brows swept together and nose scrunched. "My fiancé is in there, and I'm not leaving without him! And a big brute such as yourself," She poked him in the gut, fist on her hip, "is not going to make me!"

But as he let out a surly sigh, she realized her mistake. Before she could apologize, she was thrown unceremoniously over his muscled shoulder and he quickly marched through the crowd to the doors leading to the street. Because of her shrieking and angry protests she did not see Malfoy look up and smirk at the exchange between herself and the security guard. Once her feet found purchase on concrete, she smoothed her dress, and turned with a huff to gain the safety of her hotel room, now completely at a loss as to how to find Malfoy again.

For the first time in her life, Hermione decided to give up and return home. She would find another avenue to obtain the chalice for Harry.

But first, a hot shower and a good night's rest was in order.

The steam of the scalding shower curled around her form as she divested herself of her dress. Taking a deep breath she returned her wand to its natural appearance and settled it on the counter of the sink. Wiping the condensation from the mirror she took a long look at herself and wondered how she came to be in Beirut, chasing after Malfoy, claiming he was her husband, her fiancé. Maybe she did have some kind of strange fixation on Malfoy. One that went beyond Horcruxes and the war.

As she reached behind her to unfasten her brassiere, a distinct click caused her to pause her movements. Straining her ears, she held her breath and waited for the unknown. After a pregnant moment she shook off the heavy, ominous feeling and returned to her undressing. Then a shuffle sounded, so soft it was barely audible.

The hairs on her neck stood at attention, goose bumps raced along her flesh and she gave a visible shudder. Carefully she reached for her wand and pivoted, holding it in front of her. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, which was strange, since she was sure she closed it completely. Taking a careful step, she used her shoulder to ease the door open slowly. Wand at the ready, clad in nothing but her black lacy under things, she jumped out bravely, ready to confront whoever was making the clicking and shuffling. Much to her relief, there was nobody there.

Hermione's wand arm dropped to her side and she scanned the wide room quickly, finding nothing out of the ordinary, and she let the tension in her body release as she meant to slump against the wall behind her.

Immediately she came into contact with a warm, hard body. Fingers of steel gripped her wrist and spun her around, until she was pinned between the wall and none other than Draco Malfoy.

Hermione's eyes widened fearfully as they fell on his nefarious smirk. Her chest constricted and her lungs failed to function properly while she watched singular gaze travel the length of her.

"Who knew you were such a naughty, wicked girl, Granger?" He drawled lowly, "And in such a pretty package too."

"Stuff it. What do you want?" The pounding of her heart sounded heavily in her eardrums, and her voice, low and husky, seemed to come from elsewhere, and belong to someone else.

"Now, Poppet, you are getting ahead in the script. Isn't that my line? Shouldn't I be asking you what you want?" He raised an imperial brow and a sinister chuckle came from within his chest. "I mean, you have been following me all over the desert, surely I have something you covet deeply. So, what is it, and how can I accommodate you?" He let a knowing, humorous sneer grace his lips as his silver orbs bore deeply into her topaz ones.

Hermione bit her lip, thinking quickly on how to gain control of the situation, and regretfully, perhaps, came to only one conclusion. With every ounce of her weight, she threw herself forward, and crushed her mouth to his.

The force caught him unexpectedly, and he, in turn, stumbled to the neighboring wall, dragging her with him.

He gasped, allowing her sweetened tongue to tangle around his, and Hermione shivered once. Relishing the fantastic jolt of electricity that was dancing through her veins. Pulled taut like a rubber-band, she found she was very aware of his presence. Ions crackled between their bodies as she delved deeper into his soul. Searching for answers, intentions, but not really caring to find any all the same. It was want. Deep, seething, everlasting want.

Draco tore his mouth from hers, and his long fingered hand yanked at her curls. The axis of power tilted in his favor again, and he shoved her roughly towards the mahogany sideboard. As a last effort, she reached for his shirt and tried to keep herself upright. He gripped at her forearms roughly and let his body weight push her on top of the table. The vase, lamp and other knick- knacks jostled and crashed to the floor in a cacophonous clatter. But neither paused in their actions nor paid any heed.

His heavy form covered hers, and he pressed his mouth to hers again.

Hermione used his distraction and shoved the heel of her palm sharply into his shoulder, simultaneously biting his bottom lip. He growled, lost his balance, and together they tumbled the short distance to the floor.

Shattered glass bit into Draco's back and he grunted at the sharp, slicing impact. As Hermione scrambled to right herself he grasped her wrists with one hand, wrapped his legs around her waist and flipped her over, once again pinning her writhing form between himself and a surface.

She cried out as the bits of glass sliced at her bare skin, but once her composure returned she jerked her elbows stridently, colliding with his chin.

Draco swore violently, his hold loosening giving her arms absolute freedom.

Hermione took her chance and arched her back, her arm reaching blindly for her wand that lay above her, her fingers ghosting against it, as it played just out of her reach. Biting her lip in determination, she struggled enthusiastically and as a result was caught in surprise as she felt calloused hands skim her ribcage.

Splendid tingles of delight entwined with her apprehension, and she wrenched herself to bring her fist to his handsome face, but as she found his eyes, her movements stilled.

In the tempest ash of them, she saw her future, she saw his intentions, and Merlin help her, she wanted it all so very desperately.

He allowed her to sit up beneath him, and released his hold on her. His breathing was deep and erratic, out of sync with her adrenaline rushed gasps. She kept her jewel-like gaze on his, and reached tentatively for the fastenings of his shirt.

He tenderly lifted his hand and almost lovingly pushed the fringe from her forehead. His thumb swept softly past her rosy cheek and wiped the blood from the cut on her swollen bottom lip.

Hermione's lashes fluttered at the sweet contact, and Draco took that as a signal to kiss her again.

She would never be able to explain it later, and couldn't if she tried. But in that moment of compassion she shared with him, clarity rained down upon her. She finally realized why she had been so adamant about finding him. Why he had occupied her mind for the better part of her life. And yet, she stubbornly refused to admit it, even to herself.

They moved together quickly then, back to a battle of power, but for a different reason. Both demanding to be dominant and willing the other to remain submissive.

His mouth slipped to her shoulder and he sank his teeth in harshly, and her gasp was accompanied with a greedy laceration along his spine from her nails. And their tumultuous touching brought forth waves of sweetness. A rush of fire through a forest, a river plunging over a waterfall and dashing to the rocky sea, a hurricane battering against the coast, molten lava running down a mountainside. And at last, she surrendered to the delicious sensation of his mouth on her skin and returned the affection readily. Greedily soaking up his desirous growls and moans, giving him satisfied sighs and cries.

Hermione Granger allowed Draco Malfoy the liberty of her virtue on the lushly carpeted floor of a posh hotel room in the Mediterranean heat of Beirut. Over and over again.

In the early moments of dawn, as they laid entwined with each other, Draco suddenly sat up quickly. Hermione immediately followed suit.

"What's wrong?" she asked dazedly, clutching the Egyptian cotton sheet to her chest modestly.

"Get your things together. We have to go. Now." He kissed her mouth and hurried from the bed to dress.

"Go where?"

"I don't know."

"To England?" She said hopefully.

He scoffed as he buckled his trousers. "Of course not. Don't be daft."

"Then I'm not going with you." Hermione said stubbornly, as she curled her legs underneath her. Her brown-gold stare flaming with fortitude, her chin tilting up with stubborn resolve.

He gave pause and turned his slate eyes on her incredulously, never wavering over the long, eerie silence that passed over them. His fine lips were tight and thin across his face. "Fine." He growled.

He was calling her bluff, daring her. She remained firm and a shapely brow rose in elegant certainty.

He broke contact first.

Hermione sprung from the bed and before Draco had a chance to retrieve his shirt, he was against the neighboring wall, her wand pointed painfully at his jugular.

"Going to kill me, Black Widow?" He smirked smugly.

"The Silver Chalice. Where is it?"

"The Silver Chalice? Why Poppet, who knew you were such a greedy girl?" He let his eyes fall with audacity along her naked body. No shame whatsoever.

She shivered visibly, but her wand remained true. "The Chalice?"

"It's gone." He said simply.

"Gone?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

He sneered "I destroyed it."

She blinked and struggled to comprehend him. "But then why is Voldemort still alive?"

He sighed with annoyance. "Silly girl, the Dark Lord still walks because Saint Potter has yet to fulfill his destiny."

The mention of Harry broke Hermione's bravado and her wand lowered. "I have to get to Harry." She murmured dazedly and pivoted, glancing around desperately for her clothes. Her thoughts solely on an impetuous return to England, and quickly, without further ado or explanation. Harry needed her. Friends before lovers. As was the unspoken code. It did not even occur to her that Draco would misunderstand her urgency. Hermione was entirely absorbed in her imminent return.

Completely missing the dark look that passed over eyes the color of ice.

Not cognizant of the seething jealousy that trembled through blue veins.

Ignorant of a skilled arm raising an ebony wand.

Oblivious of an unforgivable curse leaving sweet, shapely lips.

After all, he wanted her.

He loved her.

And he thought he couldn't have her any other way: Imperio.

A/N: Just a few things :

Ann Eazinak Excuse me

Um Hal Talakalm Alingli'zia Um do you speak English

Na'am, yes Yes, yes

All Arabian, as best I could find through an Arabian to English dictionary. The name of the club and the atmosphere was completely Kazfeist's ideas. I owe her my sincerest gratitude. I have planned a Sequel that takes place after the third part of "As the World Falls Down". Please let me know what you think, I worked really hard on this piece and I am infinitely proud.