Chapter 3: Birds of a Feather
"Stop," Theo interrupted flatly, rising to his feet. "Start over. From the beginning."
Draco sighed.
"Once upon a time," he muttered, "Harry Potter was born, and right from the start he made my life an utter fucking hellscape - "
"Go forward a bit more," Pansy sniffed impatiently, her foot tapping against Nott Manor's marble floor. "Did you say you told him that we're party planners?"
"Event planners," Draco corrected unnecessarily, to which Blaise rolled his eyes.
"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you were obviously cornered," Blaise remarked, eyeing the condensation on the glass of grappa he held delicately between his fingers, "because even you, had you been remotely logical, could not possibly have thought that was an acceptable cover for what we actually do."
"Look, he offered us a job, okay?" Draco insisted, and then flinched. "Well. Me a job," he amended, "but I think the company is implied."
"A job doing what?" Theo demanded. "Does Potter want someone killed? Oh," he said, pausing in momentary delight. "Does he? Is it Weasley? Because I would happily - "
"Stop," Draco said, shaking his head. "No. He wants us to solve an international case. Protective services," he added. "Investigation." He shrugged. "That stuff."
"And you told him," Blaise supplied drily, "that we're event planners."
They each wore grim expressions of disapproval, and Draco sighed again.
"Yeah," he confirmed. "I mean, I get it. Not my finest moment."
"Draco, the time you failed to match your belt to your shoes was 'not your finest moment,'" Pansy snapped, her ankle dancing agitatedly as she crossed one leg over the other. "This is catastrophically idiotic. We don't know the first thing about party planning, firstly - "
"Event planning," Draco mumbled.
" - and secondly, we can't work for the Ministry!" Pansy reminded him, gritting her teeth. "They'll put us all in Azkaban without even blinking - "
"Yeah, well, they won't find out, will they?" Draco cut in, glowering at her. "Look, it'll be simple. I'll work under the guise of Ministry approval for a while, and then when we're done we can resume our usual business. Except," he said emphatically, "we might actually be respected in society again, so - "
"Hold on. Resume our business?" Blaise demanded, cutting him off. "We can't stop working, Draco. We already have a new mark - "
"Yes, and I'm telling you now that we can't follow through," Draco replied impatiently. "Let the vampires handle their own murders for a week or so. If we work out these international poisonings, we'll be lauded in the papers, and then we won't have to fucking" - he grimaced, gesturing to the glass in Blaise's hand - "hide out in Theo's house. We can actually go places, and do things, and have lives - "
"We understand the appeal," Theo acknowledged unhappily, "but still. How do you plan to get away with this?"
"Not much has to change," Draco told him. "I figure, what? A little investigation, maybe a little surveillance? Easy. Even if we have to throw some kind of event to look legitimate - how hard can that be?" he prompted, eyeing them expectantly. "We'll put Pansy on the details, and in the meantime, the rest of us can - "
"Wait - why do I have to be the party planner?" Pansy cut in loudly, glaring at him. "Because I'm a woman?"
"Yeah," Draco said, shrugging. "I mean, not just that, but - "
"I've killed just as many people as these two have!" she reminded him, her fingers clenched tightly in fury. "It's not my job to figure out whether we need music, or - " she paused, looking genuinely adrift. "Or fucking - doilies, or whatever - "
"First of all, no matter what happens, we do not need doilies," Draco muttered, rubbing his forehead. "And secondly, unless - I don't know. Unless Blaise wants to be" - he flapped a hand, shrugging - "intensely gayer, I really don't think either of these two are going to sell it."
"Really, Draco?" Theo drawled, pursing his lips in disapproval. "Stereotypes, much?"
"I mean, if you're trying to tell me I have suspiciously refined taste," Blaise suggested, eying his fingernails, "and impeccable grooming - "
"I'm trying to tell you that you're an assassin, and that anyone who spends five minutes with you is going to pick up on it," Draco snapped. "And since Theo's just generally fucking unbearable - "
"Too true," Theo agreed.
" - that leaves Pansy, who could very conceivably be someone who plans events," he finished, glaring pointedly at her. "Is that clear enough?"
"What about you?" she asked stubbornly. "You're the only person I've ever met who has an opinion about gardenias."
"That was one time," Draco reminded her. "And it wasn't gardenias, it was gladiolus, so - "
"Not an effective sell," Blaise pointed out, and Draco groaned aloud in frustration.
"Look, you miscreants," he snapped. "I'm going to be the one dealing with Potter and Granger, okay? So if you could all find it within yourselves to not be cunts about this, then - "
"Hold up," Theo said. "Did you say Granger?"
"Yes," Draco muttered, shuddering with displeasure. "Granger's also working on this, so the quieter you three can be, the bet-"
"Granger," Theo interrupted flatly, "will figure you out in ten seconds. Or less!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "We're fucking doomed, Draco - "
"Put the apocalypse away, Theodore, your neuroticism is showing," Blaise sniffed to him, rising to his feet and refilling his glass before pouring another, handing it to Draco. "So," he ventured listlessly, lifting the glass in a silent toast. "What's the deal with Granger?"
Draco accepted the drink, raising it to his lips with a bitter grimace.
"Potter said the Ministry wouldn't agree to me working with him unless Granger was attached," Draco admitted eventually, feeling irritable all over again at the reminder. It dug into him, bristling up the expanse of his arms and thundering back down his spine; fury, really, that he would need her to babysit him. "I'm supposed to be working with her."
"Well, you'll have to keep her at arm's length," Pansy pointed out. "If she figures out what we've been doing - "
Draco groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Granger's discreet, okay?" he said. "It's not a big deal. I've got this."
"Discreet?" Theo echoed dubiously. "You're calling the woman who once openly slapped you 'discreet'?"
"I just - " Draco grimaced. "She's - " He chewed his lip, biding his time with another deliberate sip. "She's just not going to say anything, alright?" he managed eventually, not looking up.
The other three of them abruptly froze in place, all sharing a collective look of displeasure before turning back to Draco, arms crossed.
"How the fuck," Theo began, "would you know that?"
He sighed. "I just - "
"She already knows," Pansy scoffed. "Doesn't she? You already told her."
"I didn't tell her shit," Draco snarled, bristling. "She figured it out once, okay? She doesn't know specifics, and she certainly doesn't have proof. We don't have to worry about her."
"Still," Blaise said uneasily. "The more we can do without her, the better off we'll be, I think."
"No arguing that," Pansy agreed. "I mean, how can we be sure Potter didn't recruit her just to watch you?"
Draco remained silent, not wanting to indulge her.
"That would be unusually cunning of Potter," Theo commented thoughtfully, "but stranger things have happened. Like Draco agreeing to do this," he added, smirking. "Which about takes the cake for strange things."
"Well, the sooner we can work out who's behind the Wizengamot poisonings, the better," Draco muttered, slumping down in his seat. "We've got better networks of information than the Ministry. Isn't there someone who would know? The draught," he ventured, remembering. "The poison. Someone in the circuit had to've recognized the signature."
After all, he thought, everyone certainly knew his; effective obliteration, delivered by post.
"It's possible," Blaise admitted, "though the international contacts are normally fairly tight-lipped." He paused, thinking. "Maybe you can ask Trelawney."
"Trelawney?" Draco echoed skeptically, balking. "That Divination loon?"
"No, not her," Blaise amended hastily, making a face. "Her sister. Runs a brothel of sorts in Knockturn."
"Oh, I volunteer," Theo offered loudly. Pansy glared at him.
"She's been an informant for my mother in the past," Blaise continued, ignoring Theo. "I think her first name's Dionisia. Up to her ears in criminal activity," he added, smirking, "and oddly, sex is the least of it."
"Seems a good enough place to start," Draco agreed. "Better than waiting for Potter to give me instructions like I'm some kind of lap dog. Oh, though, speaking of him - before I forget," he recalled, turning to Theo. "We have to change the company name. Today."
"Why?" Theo demanded. "And how am I supposed to come up with a clever new pun on such short notice?"
"I know you don't want to hear this, but maybe no puns?" Draco suggested, to which Theo made a face. "And don't blame me, blame Potter. He said something about a film, or a ship, or something about planetary space exploration - "
"BALLS," Theo declared, as Pansy let out a loud, dramatic sigh.
"I'll tell you one thing, Draco Malfoy," she informed him snottily. "Potter and Granger are bad enough, but if I have to speak to any Weasleys - "
"You won't," Draco assured her, rising to his feet and reaching for his robes. "I'll give Trelawney a try, then. Are we all clear on our instructions?" he asked, shrugging on the garment and eyeing them expectantly.
"Abandon our brilliantly sophisticated name with unsavory haste," Theo confirmed.
"Disappoint our numerous blood-thirsty clients," Blaise contributed.
"Determine the negligible difference between ivory and ecru," Pansy muttered belligerently, "and bask in the searing inequity of antiquated gender roles."
"Excellent," Draco asserted, and pivoted to exit the room, heading for the Floo.
"Give me someone," Hermione demanded brusquely, throwing her things down at Seamus' feet and yanking her shirt over her head. "Anyone."
"Well, hello to you too, sunshine," Marcus commented, patting the top of her head as she tossed the garment into her bag and pulled out her athletic tape. "Charmed, I'm sure."
"You're not on the board," Seamus reminded her, glancing up from his ledger to gesture to the wall behind her. "Thought you said you were busy today?"
"I was," she replied, wrapping the tape tightly around her knuckles. "And now I'd like to ruin someone else's day, if you don't mind."
"That bad, huh?" Marcus asked. "What'd Potter have you do?"
"Nothing," she muttered, rolling a kink out of her neck and glancing over at the ring. "Who's that?" she asked, eyeing the man who was taking a few practice swings mid-air. He was superficially muscled, she noticed; a little bulky where leanness would better serve.
A little slow, too, which was her favorite of possible weaknesses.
"Some Welsh bloke," Oliver supplied, as she watched the man shake a bit of nerves out of his shoulders. "New to the sport."
"Looks clean," Hermione noted with interest, eyeing the lack of bruising on his bare chest, and set her jaw, determined. "I'll take him," she offered briskly, taking the whisky from Marcus' hand and knocking back a full shot.
"He's mine," Oliver told her, gesturing pointedly to his pre-taped knuckles as she wiped the liquid from her lips, returning the glass to Marcus' hand. "Not exactly in your weight class, Granger."
"Aw, worried about me, Wood?" she asked, blinking coquettishly at him as she pulled her arm across her chest, stretching. "Gone noble, have you?"
"More worried about him, I'd guess," Marcus remarked, yawning. "You get him on his back, he'll hurt something for sure. He's got, what - " he squinted, frowning. "Fifty-some pounds more than he needs on him?"
"And about a hundred more on him than on her," Seamus pointed out, grimacing. "Not your best idea, Hermione."
"Believe me," she told him, shaking her head. "After today? Not my worst."
"You're making this up to me, Granger," Oliver muttered in displeasure, and she tossed the tape over to Marcus, winking at him.
"Flint can do the honors," she called back, and headed into the ring, taking a couple quick warm-up jabs and then walking up to the Welshman, tapping him on the shoulder.
"You ready?" she prompted.
He grinned at her, his overly-moussed dark hair falling into his eyes.
"Brought me a kiss for luck, darling?" he asked, giving her a smile that she briefly considered might have been roguish, had she not been about to ruin it entirely.
"Not quite," she admitted, and then she coiled a fist, striking him hard on the right side of his jaw to watch him stagger backwards, colliding with the wooden barricade and blinking, staring at her with confusion.
"You're not Oliver Wood," he croaked, dazed, and she smiled, beckoning for him to counter.
"No," she agreed, taking a step towards him. "I'm much, much worse."
His smile broadened.
Then he threw a jab, aiming for her cheek; she darted to the side, dancing to his left and drawing him forward. He threw another, intended for her nose this time, and she stepped back onto her left foot before ducking his shot to strike forward, hitting him in the stomach.
She hissed slightly, drawing her hand back from the impact of her knuckles against his muscle, and he circled her predatorily, looking pleased.
"Not just for decoration, doll," he told her cheekily, gesturing to his abs, and struck again.
This time she swung back, just missing his fist, and ducked under his arm, drawing it over her shoulder to thrust her heel directly onto his toe, sending him howling as he hunched over in pain. She leaned back, pulling her arm up, and struck him behind the ear with her elbow, throwing her body weight into the motion until he had dropped to the ground, breaking his fall with his hands.
"Bad move," she noted, circling him. He drew himself up and winced, sucking in a breath of displeasure. "All that weight on your wrists? You're not going to be able to take much more, darling."
"Jesus," he gasped, shaking his head. "What kind of demon are you?"
"The quick kind," she assured him, waiting for him to stand. "The worst kind."
"GRANGER, STOP FLIRTING AND KNOCK HIS LIGHTS OUT," Marcus shouted, and she rolled her eyes, watching the Welshman stagger to his feet.
"Okay," the Welshman said, swaying slightly. "Let me get in one shot, will you? My reputation's on the line here - "
"If it helps, you wouldn't have gotten one on Wood, either," she informed him, matching each of his steps as he struggled to regain control of his faculties. "Have to learn to be a bit quicker."
"Like this?" he asked, and shot a fist out at her stomach, nearly catching her around her ribs as she quickly spun out of reach.
"Almost," she agreed, breathing heavily for the first time in their match-up. She grinned, feeling elated; feeling alive, and remembering just why she loved to do this, bruises and all. "Nearly had me."
"Nearly," the Welshman agreed, licking a spot of blood from his lips. "Any chance you'll let yourself be caught?"
She laughed. "Never," she said, and from the side of the ring, she heard a loud groan.
"For this I gave up my spot?" Oliver muttered to her, leaning sulkily against the barrier with Marcus' arm thrown over his shoulders. "Come on - "
She turned, blowing him a kiss.
"This is for you, Wood," she sang, and as the Welshman's eyes widened in alarm, she lunged forward, feinting to the right and then, as his balance shifted, she ducked the return shot and hit him in the stomach - bracing herself this time. He aimed for her face; she blocked with her forearm, dropping low, and as he leaned forward she took her elbow to his kidney, sending him lurching forward and then pivoting to strike her knee against his face, swiftly breaking his nose.
He let out a groan of pain and dropped, hitting his chest against the floor.
"You gonna get up?" she asked him, innocently eyeing her fingernails.
"Can't - " he paused, spitting blood, and shook his head as one of the goblins began counting down, watching him struggle to lift his head. "Can't you leave me my dignity?" he asked, more breathless than broken.
"Mm, no, sorry," she told him, shaking her head. "There's really only one way to get me on my back - but you'll have to buy me a drink first, sweetheart," she added, smirking down at him.
He blinked, staring up at her.
"You really are a demon," he ruled deliriously, but then he shook his head, slamming his palm against the floor. "I'm done," he announced, and Hermione nodded her approval, promptly exiting the ring and accepting the towel Seamus offered her, using it to mop up perspiration from her forehead before tossing it across her shoulders.
"So," Seamus noted, half-smiling. "Potter got you all worked up, huh?"
"Not him," Hermione corrected, grimacing as Draco Malfoy's pointed blond face resumed its insufferable sneer in her mind. "Though it's entirely his fault."
"What'd he need?" Seamus asked. "Something for the Ministry?"
"Yes and no," Hermione confirmed, shrugging as she hefted herself into a seat at one of the barstools. "Has to do with those Wizengamot poisonings."
"What, you mean the one in New York?" Seamus asked, frowning. "What've you got to do with that?"
"Nothing yet," Hermione said. "But there was another one, so the Ministry's trying to be prepared. The unfortunate thing," she sighed, "is that Harry wants me to work with - "
"Oi, Granger," Marcus drawled, cutting in beside her and taking the seat on her left. "Good show, minus all the chatty bits."
"Shut up, Flint," she told him, rolling her eyes. "Go punch Wood."
"Not a bad idea," he agreed, and glanced between Hermione and Seamus. "What're you hens clucking about?"
"Nothing that concerns you," she informed him, and he made a face as Seamus chuckled.
"You know," Seamus told her, "if it's information you're wanting, it might be worth it to go see Lady Revel in Knockturn. Knows pretty much everything there is to know," he remarked, looking thoughtful, and then grimaced. "And also quite a lot that isn't worth knowing at all."
"Lady Revel," Hermione repeated, frowning. "In Knockturn Alley? Sounds - " she paused. "Illicit."
"Sounds like a good time, more like," Marcus chimed in, smirking, as Oliver appeared behind them.
"Flint," he said sharply, gesturing to the ring. "You in for a round?"
"One round?" Marcus asked, drawing a hand to his chest in mocking disbelief. "Oliver Wood, how dare you underestimate my stamina - "
"Oh, shut up, you blathering peacock," Oliver growled, grabbing the back of his neck and half-hauling him out to the ring as Marcus saluted Hermione, winking at her and smacking his palm against Oliver's backside.
"Look," Seamus continued, after Hermione had shaken her head and turned back to the bar. "The Ministry'll be left in the dark, but anyone with international assets is going to have a close watch on these things. The seedier networks'll know quite a bit more about the attacks than will Potter and his boys," he added, grimacing. "However good they are."
"Guess it's worth looking into," Hermione permitted, shrugging. "From the discussion we had, I don't think Harry really knows anything yet."
"There you go," Seamus agreed, nodding. "Get your answers right away, and then you won't have to spend much time with whoever it is that's making you feel the need to destroy men's egos."
"God, if only you knew," she said, rolling her eyes. "Harry wants me to work with - "
"Hey," someone interrupted, and Hermione turned as a glass of Ogden's slid towards her across the bar.
"Bought you a drink," said the Welshman.
His face had been healed, she noted, and looked about as good as it had when they'd started. His hair was a bit askew, but it served to improve him now; enhanced him, really, to see him a little mussed.
"That you did," she noted carefully, as Seamus discreetly passed her a wink. "Takes a pretty remarkable man to recover so quickly from a loss like that," she commented, raising the glass to her lips.
She watched the Welshman eye the motion of her mouth as she took a sip, letting it burn soothingly on her tongue.
"I'm fairly remarkable," he agreed. "Though I do have a bit to learn about fighting demons."
"That you do," she confirmed, and turned to Seamus. "When does this Lady Revel person leave her - " she hesitated. "Establishment?"
Seamus checked his watch. "An hour," he guessed. "About."
"Mm, pity," Hermione muttered, taking another sip from her glass and reaching into her bag for her shirt, slipping it over her head before turning back to the Welshman. "I'm afraid I have some things to do before my night is over," she said, handing the glass back to him. "You understand."
Their fingers touched momentarily, his gaze drifting down to the liquid in the glass before returning, with a deliberate suggestiveness, to her face.
"I stay up late," the Welshman offered.
Hermione smiled.
"Keep the light on for me, then," she suggested, and then, with a nod to Seamus, she slid from the barstool, picking up her bag and letting the Welshman's gaze follow the motion of her hips to the door.
Percy Weasley was a very busy man.
Which was a fact, unfortunately, that his family didn't seem to understand, his brother Ronald included.
Percy's recent appointment to the Wizengamot was by far the highlight of his career, and served, to him, as proof of what he'd always known - that despite the constant mocking of his siblings, his professional success was quite within reach; an inevitability, even. And despite the misalignment of his priorities in the past, he was quite certain that his position among the other judges, if played correctly, would soon catapult him to political success, providing him the means for an election run.
Within four years, he estimated, nodding to himself. Four years, and then he'd have solidified enough of a platform on which to run, and with supporters along the way.
Four years, and then Minister Weasley. Not even the rise and fall of a Dark Lord could derail his plan, which had been scribbled in his diary at the tender age of six.
The trouble, of course, was the stigma.
It was no great pleasure to disclose that the early part of his career had been spent under the purview of a literal puppet. The very public revelation that Pius Thicknesse had been under the Imperius curse, and yet Percy himself had not noticed, nor revealed the transgression, had been a major point of contention with regard to his appointment to the Wizengamot. In fact, had the person whose name had been tossed in with his not ended up having some kind of terrible scandal (something involving a Knockturn brothel, as he'd heard among horrified whispers) Percy wasn't entirely sure he would manage to outrun his past indiscretions.
It also helped very little that he was a Weasley - and a forgettable one, considering his elder brother, the infamous curse breaker, and his younger brother, the war hero - and so, without the Wizengamot appointment, he had very nearly lost sight of his goals.
Very nearly.
But not quite.
Now, of course, he was back on track; even if it wasn't quite the track he'd intended.
Percy had no great love for magical law; not comparatively, anyway. As far as careers went, it was a death trap, leading its victims to a droning life of paperwork and case law and trapping them inside dreary courtrooms. The better political foothold was in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, really. While Percy might come to find some level of approval by more intellectual circles if he were to find success among the Wizengamot, it was still going to be his brother Ron in the papers for his work as an Auror.
But Percy did not begrudge his brother his accomplishments, and he certainly knew the value of connections; so while he was far too busy to have dinner with his brother when asked, he relented. Despite their mutual discomfort in the past, he knew that the possibility of a fruitful relationship with Ron could ultimately prove worthwhile.
After all, Ron had at least been a Prefect, and he had once been engaged to quite a lovely young witch.
Though, come to think of it, Percy had not heard anything about her in rather a long while.
"How's Hermione?" he asked, taking a deliberate sip of wine as Ron fidgeted across the table. Percy assumed the invitation to discuss Ron's personal life might aid his agitation, but he quickly found his presumption quite incorrect as his brother's ears promptly reddened. "I'm sorry," Percy offered. "Are you two not - "
"Actually, that's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about," Ron admitted, clearing his throat. "So. As you know, Hermione and I broke up three years ago - "
Ah, Percy thought. That's right.
" - and while we're on well enough terms now," Ron added hastily, "we're still not particularly, um." He fidgeted. "Close."
"I understand," Percy offered kindly, attempting familiarity. "I like to think Penelope and I are friends, but we certainly don't communicate more than necessary."
In truth, she'd been assigned to his office for about three months last year.
They only fucked on his desk once.
Twice.
Well, there was no use in counting, was there?
"Yeah, well, I think something's going on with Hermione," Ron continued, distracting Percy from his reverie. "I've asked Harry to look into it, but all he did was send me an owl saying everything was fine - but she hasn't been home for three years," he insisted, looking concerned, "and now she's back, so I was just hoping you might - "
He trailed off, and Percy frowned.
"Ronald," he said, blinking. "Are you suggesting I speak with Hermione? In some sort of - " he grimaced. "Social situation?"
"Well, you two always got on, didn't you?" Ron said, looking flustered and very much like the younger brother Percy had known rather than the Auror he'd become. "She's just gotten back into town a couple of weeks ago, so I thought maybe you could ask her for drinks or dinner or something."
Percy paused, considering the request.
"You're not suggesting I take your ex-fiancée on a date, are you?" Percy asked him. "I'm afraid I'm rather not interested, Ronald. Though it's kind of you to offer, considering - "
"No, no, not a date," Ron snapped, the color rising in his cheeks. "Just - a friendly visit. See if she'll tell you what she's been up to. That sort of thing."
"Seems as though you should ask her yourself," Percy replied, mulling it over. "Though I'm no great study of human nature," he added under his breath, recalling the arguments the Wizengamot had made against him and feeling the taste of their accusations souring on his tongue.
"Well, I'd like to, but she's avoiding me," Ron said, looking disheartened. "I mean, we were engaged, and now it's like she doesn't want me to know what's going on with her life at all."
He slumped slightly in his chair, and Percy sighed, taking in the dejected look on his brother's face.
"Well," Percy said. "I suppose if it would help, then I can certainly extend an offer."
Instantly, Ron seemed to relax.
"Oh good," Ron exhaled, relieved. "Thanks, Perce."
"You're welcome," Percy replied, picking up his glass again.
A few minutes passed in silence; Percy tried not to think about the paperwork waiting on his desk, or the owls he'd have to reply to in the morning, or the -
"So," Ron said, interrupting again. "What's new?"
Percy blinked.
"With what?" he asked.
"Uh." Ron cleared his throat. "You?"
Percy paused, thinking about it.
"I recently purchased a new bookcase," he said. "Mahogany."
He was pleased with it. It was nice, frankly, having things. Perhaps it was selfish, but he'd found there was a rare kind of delight in owning things that had never belonged to someone else.
"Oh," Ron remarked. "For all your leather-bound books?"
Percy paused, glancing at him, and recognized this as yet another of his brother's jokes; Percy found Ron was quite prone to them when uncomfortable.
"Some of them are leather-bound," Percy agreed. "Though it's certainly not a requirement."
Ron's brow furrowed.
"Right," he said, and shifted uncomfortably.
Percy's mind drifted again, wondering whether he had remembered to sign the paperwork his legal clerk had left for him that morning. The brief itself was finished, he knew, but had he -
"So," Ron said, interrupting his thoughts again. "Anything else?"
Percy paused again, dragging himself back to the conversation.
"We're hearing a very interesting case," he began, missing the look of dismay on his brother's face, "about the merits of upholding mandatory minimum sentences with regard to longevity-related crimes, meaning that - "
"You know what? I'm sure you're very busy," Ron cut in hurriedly, an observation Percy was privately relieved to see his brother actually recognized. "If you want, we can take dinner back to the Ministry. Harry's working late," he babbled, "so - "
"Oh," Percy said, unable to prevent himself from leaning forward. "You're going to see Harry?"
That was the golden ticket, of course. Any endorsement by the Chosen One himself was no small thing by any standards, and to Percy's dismay, Harry had clearly never cared much for him. Percy had hoped that perhaps Harry Potter's relationship with his sister Ginny would have improved the state of things - she was, after all, more inclined to give him a chance that the rest of their brothers, despite her not being much of a vault of secrecy - but then those two had broken up as well, and Percy saw Harry less and less as time went on. The previous year Harry had not even stayed for Christmas, so Percy supposed he should take his chances where they came.
"Yes," Ron confirmed. "Do you, er - want to come?"
"Yes, actually," Percy said, feeling pleased that he came out with his brother after all. "Yes, I think I would."
"Hey," Ron said, peeking his head into Harry's office. "You busy? I've got Percy with me."
"Oh, come in," Harry said surprise, looking up and briefly removing his glasses, rubbing wearily at his eyelids. "I was just finishing up."
"Writing poetry?" Ron asked wryly as Percy strode in behind him, looking over what appeared to be a rapidly updating agenda. A quill floated beside him, furiously scribbling dates and times, and he himself nearly walked into the doorframe.
"Not quite," Harry chuckled, rising to his feet and abandoning his letter to the MACUSA Head Auror to greet Percy as he entered. "Good to see you, Percy."
Ron's older brother looked up, slightly startled.
"Oh, thank you, Harry," he said, nudging his horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose.
It was funny how much Percy looked like Bill, Harry thought, despite sharing almost none of his characteristics. He was incredibly awkward company for the most part, literal to the point of near madness, and always seemed to be occupied by some other, more lofty thought. Percy had learned to relax his appearance, though, at the very least; he had grown into his lanky frame, and while he remained tall and thin, there was a distinctive sense of adulthood about him. His features had sharpened, coming to mimic Bill's expression; albeit, of course, with a persistent furrow between the brows of his dark blue eyes.
Serious, Harry thought. If Bill was cool, and Ron was sort of goofily charming, then Percy Weasley was definitely serious.
"What are you working on?" Harry asked, gesturing to the quill beside Percy's head. "Looks like you've got quite a lot on your plate."
Percy sighed, seeming to finally orient himself in the room.
"I do," he admitted. "It seems it's a bit of a hazing ritual to make the newest member of the Wizengamot plan the annual Ministry Address," he lamented, "so I'm afraid I'm a bit up to my ears in details at the moment."
Harry paused, dropping his quill.
"Wizengamot," he repeated, realizing he'd forgotten about Percy's recent appointment. "Yes, of course, Percy," he said quickly, his brain buzzing with opportunity. "Anything my department can do to help?"
"Not unless you can fill out venue insurance permits," Percy returned with a burdened sigh, "or arrange seating charts - "
"Huh," Harry cut in, pausing. "So this is an event planning situation, is it?"
"It is, I'm afraid," Percy confirmed. "An utter headache, really, and I wouldn't want to trouble you with it at all, Harry, so - "
"Owl," Ron commented loudly, gesturing to the window. He was slumped down in his seat, looking incurably bored, and Harry stepped towards the waiting owl, giving him a questioning glance.
Why'd you bring him? Harry asked tacitly, gesturing to Percy, and Ron shrugged.
No reason, he mouthed, and then, sorry.
Harry chuckled, taking a set of papers marked with the Malfoy Incorporated seal. "Oh, Percy," he said brightly, realizing what he held in his hands. "I actually might have someone who might be able to help. A company, I mean," he clarified. "Event planners."
"Oh," Percy noted, nudging his glasses up to stare, unblinking, at Harry. "Whose company?"
"Draco Malfoy," Harry replied, as Ron's face contorted in a scowl.
"You're not really going to hire Malfoy, are you?" Ron groaned. "Harry, come on."
"Well, now, let's not be too hasty, Ronald," Percy said primly, admonishing his brother. "After all, provided they have some sort of portfolio of work, or previous Ministry clientele - "
"Just my endorsement, I'm afraid," Harry said, shrugging. "Hope that's enough for you?"
Privately, he guessed that it would be.
"Hm," Percy remarked, looking oddly thoughtful. "What's the name of Malfoy's company?"
"Well, I believe they've just changed it," Harry replied, looking over his paperwork. "Ah, yes, these are the name change forms. It's called Potter Stinks Enterpr-" Harry stopped, sighing. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'm sure this is an error. Wait, please," he told the owl, and then walked over to his desk, scribbling out the name.
Malfoy, he wrote. I have VERY GRACIOUSLY declined to reference the events of our past, but if I need to personally refile this paperwork under the name 'Incredible Bouncing Ferret and Co.,' I absolutely will. - HP
"Here," he said to the owl, sending it back from whence it came, and then turned back to Percy. "Anyway, if you'd like, I can have Malfoy work on the, um." He paused. "What was it, again?"
"A conference," Percy explained. "Three days. Mostly talks, et cetera, and certainly an unholy level of schmoozing, but all in all mostly speeches."
"Wonderful," Harry said, ignoring Ron's look of utter horror at the concept. "Malfoy will love that."
"Excellent. Have his people owl my people the details, then," Percy said, rising to his feet. "I should let you get back to your work, Harry. I'm sure you have quite a lot of it."
"Well, it was great seeing you," Harry offered, and Percy extended a hand stiffly, forcing a smile that looked like it caused him considerable pain.
"And you," he returned grandly, nodding to his brother. "Have a lovely evening, Ronald. I'll be sure to proceed as discussed with regard to your favor."
Favor? Harry mouthed, and Ron's face flushed.
"Thanks," Ron returned uncomfortably, and Percy nodded curtly, gesturing for his quill and diary to follow as he slipped out of Harry's office.
"What," Harry began as the door closed, "possibly possessed you to bring Percy Weasley to my office?"
"Obviously turned out useful, didn't it?" Ron countered, looking more than a little smug. "I saw your face. You got that smacked-in-the-arse look you always get when you're having an idea. And anyway, what's this about Malfoy?" he pressed, leaning forward. "Does this have to do with why you called him in this morning?"
"It does," Harry confirmed grimly, falling back into his desk chair. "You'll have to keep this quiet, but there's a possible threat to the Wizengamot."
"Really?" Ron asked, concern flitting over his brow. "Is Percy in danger?"
Harry shrugged. "Hope not," he said. "But this Ministry conference does seem like a good opportunity to kill someone off, were someone in a mind to do so."
"So you're having Malfoy plan it?" Ron asked, bewildered. "Why?"
"Well, not just him," Harry supplied, purposefully busying himself with nonexistent work and declining to look Ron in the eye. "Hermione's working on it, too," he said, as casually as possible.
It took a moment.
"WHAT," Ron erupted, rising to his feet with a clatter. "I thought you said you were - "
"I checked in with her," Harry confirmed, motioning for Ron to calm down. "She's fine. She's more than fine. There's a logical reason for the bruises," he added, but closed his mouth on further commentary, clearing his throat and glancing back down at his desk.
"Well?" Ron demanded, waiting. "What is it?"
Harry sighed.
"She'll tell you in her own time, I'm sure," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "Please don't make me betray her confidence, Ron."
Gratifyingly, Ron sat back down, grimacing.
"This is the woman I almost married, Harry," he ventured after a moment, sounding unusually pained. "I've got a right to know that she's okay, don't I?"
"She's definitely okay," Harry assured him. "She just needs time, I think."
Ron groaned, sliding down in his chair. "Guess I didn't need to meet up with Percy after all, then," he muttered, shaking his head. "What a waste."
"Ron," Harry sighed, glancing up at him. "You weren't going to have Percy spy on her, were you?"
"Not spy," Ron protested guiltily. "Just - have a little check-in, that's all." He looked away, sheepish and crimson. "I know," he said, and Harry, rather than make it worse, simply shrugged.
"Well, much as I hate to say it, perhaps that's for the best," Harry suggested, drumming his fingers against the desk. "After all, she might end up spending quite a lot of time with Percy, considering."
"God, poor thing," Ron remarked, letting out a breath and then straightening in the chair, looking for a change in topic. "What about Malfoy?" he asked casually. "You still trying to legitimize him or something?"
"Something like that," Harry agreed. "I feel bad for the guy. Katie said he once tried to go out for dinner and got refused service at four different places because, you know." He shrugged. "He's Draco Malfoy."
"Look, don't ask me to sympathize, okay?" Ron grumbled. "It's a shit situation, but the prat did make our lives hell for seven years, so - "
"I'm not asking you to sympathize," Harry assured him. "Just try to keep your cool if you run into him, would you?"
"So long as he stays away from Hermione," Ron said. "If I so much as hear him breathe insultingly in her presence, I swear to Godric - "
"This," Harry said, pointedly nudging his quill at Ron. "This is why she can't talk to you."
Ron groaned.
"Fine," he muttered. "But if something goes horribly wrong - "
"After what I saw today?" Harry said, rubbing his temple. "I'll be satisfied with them managing not to kill each other."
Lady Revel's House of Fortune
Knockturn Alley
Somewhere around midnight
The shop was somewhat off the beaten path - even a path so beaten as Knockturn Alley, where truly, nobody seemed to sleep - and there was nothing but an iron placard beside a single wooden door. Hermione took a couple of deep breaths, steeling herself, before lifting her hand to the knocker.
"Okay," she told herself, glancing again over her shoulder. "One, two, thr-"
There was a soft pop behind her, and then an all-too familiar scoff.
"Great," drawled Draco Malfoy, as Hermione stifled a growl of displeasure. "Thank goodness you're here. To think, I was nearly forced to live my life unencumbered by the exhaustion of your presence," he lamented dramatically, his usual smirk stretched across his face as she spun around to face him. "By all means, let the nightmare continue."
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Are you following me?"
At that, he drew back, comically affronted.
"I most certainly am not following you, Granger, you vainglorious menace," he informed her, his expression souring. "I think the better question is what are you doing here?"
"I'm - " she frowned, glancing again at the sign. "I'm, um. Playing cards."
Draco paused, staring at her, and then he laughed; a rather patronizing laugh, she thought, and one that leaned more towards mockery than humor.
"That," he said, taking a step towards her and gesturing to Lady Revel's placard, "is not the kind of 'fortune' that the lady of this house sells, Granger."
She felt her cheeks heat, realizing the naivety of her mistake.
"I'm here for sex, then," she attempted brusquely, and Draco crossed his arms over his chest, consummately unconvinced. "Fine," she muttered, grimacing. "I was told Lady Revel might have information about the other poisonings."
"Why you little snake," Draco remarked, tutting as he took another step towards her. He leaned his elbow against the wall, eyeing her with amusement. "It's not even twenty-four hours after agreeing to be partners, and already you're plotting to leave me in the dark?"
She refused - refused - to let him make her feel guilty.
"Isn't that the same reason you're here?" she demanded. "If anyone's a snake, Malfoy, I think we know it's you."
He scowled.
"Perhaps I want my dick sucked, Granger," he retorted, looking as though he luxuriated in her discomfort. "I'm Draco Malfoy, after all. Widely known for my deviance, and my impenetrable inhumanity." At that, his mouth tightened, and she saw, for the first time - or second, perhaps, but certainly a rare occurrence - the amount of disillusionment the world had managed to bestow upon him. "Who says I'm here for anything other than a nice bit of explicit impropriety?"
"Stop," she said. "You're being ridiculous. Besides," she added, giving into a brush of irritation. "Don't tell me Draco Malfoy himself would ever stoop to pay for his attentions."
The corners of his mouth quirked up; a near indication of satisfaction.
"If I did, that'd be no concern of yours," he replied, leaning towards her. "And anyway, why don't you just admit that y- "
They both cut off as the door opened, revealing a rather extravagantly dressed woman in the frame. She looked as though she could have been anywhere from thirty to seventy years old, the majority of her features buried beneath layers of pastel blush, but Hermione was largely struck by something familiar about the eyes; a bit of lunacy, which wasn't particularly aided by what looked to be an elaborate powdered wig.
"You two," the woman said stiffly, "are making life extremely difficult for anyone trying to get anything done."
At her appearance, Draco's expression changed in an instant; he seemed to have slithered into an entirely different persona, and the vastness of it - the enormity of whatever he was now pretending to be - served to practically fill the doorway, nearly blocking Hermione from sight.
"My sincerest apologies," Draco offered smoothly, cutting Hermione off before she could speak and offering the woman an elaborate bow. "Miss Dionisia Trelawney, I presume?"
"Trelawney?" Hermione echoed, alarmed. "You're - "
"If either of you mention my sister, I'll have you both strapped down and mercilessly teased," the woman replied, turning around and walking down the hallway. "Shut the door after you," she called over her shoulder, and Hermione obliged, letting Draco follow before pulling the door shut behind her.
"Are you two Aurors?" Dionisia asked them, scrutinizing them closely as she led them into her parlor. It was a bit of a mish-mash of contrasting aesthetics, combining gothic iron-wrought fixtures and Georgian pastels. "You both stink of good behavior."
Hermione and Draco exchanged dubious glances.
"We're not Aurors," Hermione assured her. "Though we did wonder if you had some information about the poisoni-"
"Please excuse my associate," Draco cut in, glaring at Hermione once before turning back to Dionisia, softening to a level Hermione would have deemed seductive, had she ever experienced such a thing from Draco Malfoy. "She's rather overeager, I'm afraid."
"Ah, yes," Dionisia remarked knowingly. "Well, then it was earnestness I smelled, I suppose. Have a seat," she added, gesturing to two chairs near the parlor's fireplace. "I'll bring champagne."
"Oh," Hermione said, shaking her head as she eased herself into her seat, the chair lasciviously stroking the small of her back. "No, that's quite alr-"
"I said," Dionisia sniffed, "I'll bring champagne. Come, Morton," she said, speaking to a small, gloomy-looking house elf who had been playing the harpsichord in the corner of the room. "We have guests to attend to," she coaxed him, and then they disappeared, her heeled progress slowly echoing down the corridor.
The moment she was gone, Draco leaned over, glaring at Hermione.
"It's tit-for-tat, Granger," he hissed, looking supremely irritated. "You can't just come in here - " he paused, sputtering, and gestured with his hands. "Waving your Gryffindor around," he gritted out, "blindly saying whatever you want - "
"How'd you know about this place?" Hermione interrupted, not feeling quite in the mood for any of his snobbish commentary. "How is it that you know how to behave, Malfoy? And what sort of 'tit' am I expected to - "
He cut her off with a warning glance as Dionisia's footsteps resumed themselves in the corridor, followed by the appearance of the woman herself.
"You know," Dionisia remarked, sweeping into the room as Morton struggled to balance three crystal glasses atop an overlarge tray. "On another night I'd have simply told you to leave my stoop, but if I'm being honest, it's been quite awhile since I've had a couple. Personally," she added, snapping her fingers for Morton to pour, "I find I'm rather delighted."
"Oh god," Hermione whispered to Draco, as Morton handed them each a glass. "You didn't mean literal tit, did you?"
"We're not a couple," Draco told Dionisia loudly, ignoring Hermione. "Sorry to disappoint you, my Lady Revel, but we are in the business of procuring your expertise."
"In what, pray tell?" Dionisia asked him, smirking as she draped herself against a patterned fainting couch. "You know, you both nearly woke the whole neighborhood with your prattling," she commented, drawing her champagne flute slowly to her lips. "In my experience, that sort of opposition is rather magnificent in the bedroom. Some people want spark," she murmured, toasting them from afar. "But I rather prefer a wildfire."
"Oh, no," Hermione corrected quickly. "We hate each other," she declared, making a face, and Dionisia turned, fixing her with an unnervingly scrutinizing stare.
"My darling," she offered softly, her painted lips curling up in a smile. "You pretty little fool." Dionisia leaned her head back, indulging a laugh that was nearly as false as her wig. "Hatred," she continued, burying the remains of a chuckle in her glass, "is merely nature's most sadistic form of foreplay. Have a libation," she suggested, gesturing to the champagne in Hermione's hand. "Then we'll see what you really think."
Hermione, despite an overwhelming urge to run, shuddered violently, eyeing her glass with discomfort.
"I was sent here by a friend of yours. Lady Songbird, as you might know her," Draco supplied, thankfully interrupting. He leaned forward, engaging a bit of a conspiratorial posture. "A mutual friend, I believe."
Dionisia shifted, lips pursed, to lock eyes with Draco.
"I believe you mean Lady Songbird's little princeling, don't you?" she corrected, and Hermione saw the slightest flicker in Draco's brow; the tiniest indication of uncertainty. "Oh yes, I know quite well who's sent you. I've heard it told you're a very busy man these days, Draco Malfoy. My goodness, have you heard the latest?" she prompted innocently, sipping from her champagne flute. "A Hungarian just up and disappeared the other day. Blown to dust, they say," she added, laughing delightedly into her glass. "Isn't that sensational?"
Hermione frowned as Draco's gaze drifted, his mouth lined with discomfort.
"So," Dionisia continued, looking euphoric at having earned a step. "You wish to know about the Wizengamot killings, then?"
Hermione leaned forward. "Ye-"
"Well, I've got nothing," Dionisia informed her flatly. "So if that's all you want from me, you'll have to just go."
Hermione gaped at her, unconvinced. "But - "
"Drink this," Draco muttered to her, lifting the champagne glass towards her mouth and flashing her a warning glare. "Let me handle it," he muttered between gritted teeth, and she tightened a fist, furious, but relented, feigning a sip.
"Lady Revel," he ventured, resuming his slicker persona and turning back to Dionisia. "I've heard it told you like to play games."
She smiled a rather fox-like grin.
"I'm a lady of revelry, am I not?" she prompted. "I adore a good game, Mr Malfoy, like anyone subject to a healthy sense of whimsy."
"Perhaps we could indulge you in one, then," Draco suggested, prompting Hermione to cough indelicately into her glass. "Within the realm of reason, of course. My associate and I are not very experienced in your particular - " he hesitated. "Specialities."
"Oh, but just a very small game," Dionisia offered him, smiling, "as it will be a very small tidbit, I'm afraid."
"That's certainly fair," Draco confirmed, turning to Hermione. "Isn't it, Grang- " he stopped. "Isn't it?" he prompted emphatically, and she sighed.
"Fine," she permitted. "What game?"
"Hmm," Dionisia murmured, tapping her mouth. "Tell me, Miss - Granger, is it?" she asked, and Hermione blanched uncertainly. "Well, you know my name, so it's only fair," Dionisia reminded her, and Hermione grimaced, but permitted a hesitant nod. "So, Miss Granger, indulge me." She leaned forward, setting her glass down on the side table. "Why do you hate Mr Malfoy?"
"I - " Hermione blinked. "What?"
"You hate him, yes?" Dionisia asked. "Tell me why."
"Um - " she looked uncertainly at Draco, who shrugged. You're getting off easy, he mouthed, and she rolled her eyes. "Fine. He's arrogant," she said. "Unbearably so. Conceited and smug."
"Mm, quite," Dionisia greedily confirmed. "Go on."
Once she had started, it was difficult to stop. "He undervalues me," Hermione continued. "Underestimates me. Treats me as inferior. And all his rubbish about blood purity - "
"That's not fair," Draco cut in sharply, growling under his breath. "That's - leave that out of it."
"Leave it out?" Hermione demanded in disbelief, turning to him. "How can I leave it out when it's been the basis of our entire relationship?"
"Ah," Dionisia noted, looking smug. "So you admit that you have one, then."
"Have what?" Hermione snapped, and she smiled.
"A relationship," she said gleefully, as Draco leaned forward.
"Some things have changed, Granger," he told her gruffly. "I don't much appreciate being held to the limitations of my childish misconceptions."
"You're calling everything you did a simple 'misconception'?" Hermione echoed in disbelief. "How can you be so - so flippant?" she demanded, her fingers tightening around the crystal glass. "You can't put on all these different faces and expect me to forget the ones I've seen from you before, Malfoy - "
"Ah, so that's it, is it?" Dionisia interrupted, her eyes widening as she suddenly sat upright. "The man bears too much falsehood for you? Then what he needs is to show you his true face. His true self." She paused, her lips curling upwards. "What he needs," she added, shifting her gaze from Hermione to Draco, "is to be stripped."
"I - " Hermione inhaled sharply, watching Draco's expression stiffen. "What?"
Dionisia clapped her hands together, elated.
"Here is the game," she declared, and Hermione, who had been certain they'd played several games already, felt a wave of nausea. "You, Miss Granger," she said, gesturing to her, "will divest Mr Malfoy of his clothing. For each item you remove, I will reveal a bit of information." She leaned back, predatorily revealing her teeth as she smiled. "Fair, isn't it?"
Draco passed his tongue over his lips, looking grim.
"Fine," he said, his voice clipped, and rose to his feet. "Come on, then, Granger," he beckoned, seemingly unable to look at her. "Let's get this over with."
She gaped at him. "But - "
"They're just clothes, Granger, come on," he sighed impatiently, jutting his chin out. "Just give the lady what she wants. However demented it is," he added unhappily, arching a brow, and Dionisia lifted her glass, toasting him.
Hermione let out a growl of displeasure, rising to her feet. "Fine," she said, standing behind him. He didn't turn to look at her, and she reached up, briskly nudging his traveling robes over his shoulders and letting them fall to the ground, leaving him in a shirt and trousers.
And presumably underwear, she told herself, flinching slightly.
She desperately hoped he was wearing underwear.
Dionisia smiled.
"The poison," she said, "is developed by a master potioneer."
"That's obvious," Draco gritted out, and Hermione, still standing behind him, blinked temporarily, watching the motion of his shoulders and back as he shifted his stance, shaking his head combatively. "Don't toy with us, Dionisia. I won't play the game if there's nothing in it for me."
"Oh, hush," Dionisia said, waving a hand. "You're hardly even playing yet. Continue," she added, gesturing to Hermione, who grimaced. "His shirt, I believe?"
Hermione shifted around to face him, standing in front of him and reaching for the button at his neck. Draco swallowed uncomfortably - her fingers grazed the bobbing motion of his throat as she slipped the first button from its hold - and he looked down, locking eyes with her.
He was so much taller than she remembered.
"Granger," he said, clearing a rasp from his throat. "Can we get moving, please?"
She blinked.
"Right," she agreed, dropping to the next button. Her fingers brushed his chest and she felt him inhale sharply, holding his breath.
When she reached the next button, he let the breath out. She could smell something sweet; dessert wine, she guessed.
Another button; she felt the motion of his ribs.
Another; his abdomen stuttered under her touch.
There were so many fucking buttons.
Hermione slid the hem of his shirt from his trousers, her fingers briefly brushing skin, and then hastily yanked the last button apart, shoving the fabric over his shoulders - pointedly not looking at the muscle on his stomach and chest, lean and intently coiled, and not at all like the Welshman's showy bulk - before turning around to face Dionisia.
"Well?" she prompted furiously, knowing her cheeks were burning.
Dionisia looked positively euphoric.
"There's a group," Dionisia said. "A society of sorts. They're incredibly secretive. So secretive, in fact," she said hesitantly, looking slightly less confident for the first time, "that I'm afraid I cannot even give you proof that they exist; but it's been said that - "
She broke off as two sets of stags suddenly materialized from the walls; one each that trotted themselves directly in front of Hermione and Draco.
"Hermione," one said in Harry's voice, as the other said, "Draco," and continued. "I need you to come into my office at the DMLE tomorrow morning. 9 am sharp, don't be late. I have more details for you. And please," he added, "try to get along. See you then."
Hermione's message cut off, while Draco's stag remained, flashing him a withering look.
"'Potter Stinks,' Malfoy, really? At least be creative," it said, and Hermione had the odd inclination that if the stag could have eyed Draco through the bottom half of a pair of glasses, it would have. "I'll look out for new paperwork in the morning. Welcome to the Ministry, you prat."
The stag dissolved, and then Hermione blinked.
"What was th-"
"So much for not being Aurors," Dionisia remarked bluntly, rising to her feet and casting them off with a wave of her hand. "The game is done."
"Wait," Hermione said, taking a step towards her. "You have to at least finish your sentence. This - this group," she said frantically. "This society, what do they - "
"I do not have to do anything," Dionisia corrected her, her painted lips bearing, for the first time, a rather impatient frown, and one that reminded Hermione of quite another Trelawney who'd been persistently dissatisfied with her. "Please leave," Dionisia said lazily, exiting the room as Draco reached for his shirt, pulling it back on. "And do not return. You," she added to Draco, who was re-fastening his buttons with a stoic look of displeasure. "Tell both Princeling and Songbird that they have lost my employ as well."
"Wait," Hermione pleaded. "But - "
"Morton," Dionisia said impatiently, and the elf appeared at her side with a pop. "Remove them."
"WAIT," Hermione said again, but the elf had already snapped his fingers and she landed in the street with a thud, Draco materializing to land on his back beside her.
"Well," he said, after a moment of two of silence. "Remind me to strangle Potter when I see him, will you?"
Hermione sighed, rubbing her backside where she'd landed. "It's not his fault," she said, and Draco shrugged.
"No, it isn't," he agreed. "But recreationally, I find I'm inclined." He stood, dusting himself off, and reached down, offering her a hand.
"Better call it a night, Granger," he told her. "Early meeting with our scar-faced overlord, after all. Unless, of course, you have other forms of revelry planned for the evening," he added, as she placed her hand in his and he quickly pulled her to her feet, hastily dropping her hand. "In which case, be sure to work the buttons with a bit more urgency."
He was taunting her.
After everything, he was still taunting her.
"You're completely intolerable," she informed him, and he tipped his head, shrugging.
"Until tomorrow, Granger," he said, and disapparated, leaving her behind in the street.
Hermione sighed, checking the time, and wondered whether the Welshman were still awake. She supposed it was possible; though, suddenly, she realized she felt rather exhausted.
Just her luck, she supposed.
"Damn you, Draco Malfoy," she muttered into the dark, and headed down the street, walking off her unsettled nerves and heading, alone, to her bed.
a/n: Dedicated to Saay, fluidangles, and arayabrown!
