A/N: So… in an effort to make this story as realistic as possible I performed some pretty questionable experimentation to determine what it sounds like talking around a gag ball. During my research I kept accidentally triggering Alexa, and even more fascinating, she understood me.
Anyways, I guess what I'm trying to say is, Alexa is a closet dominatrix. I think every home should have one. And for obvious reasons this was my favorite chapter to write.
Side note: does anyone speak German? Please let me know if Google screwed me on the translations. Danke ;)
I'll provide English translations (of what I meant to say) in the next a/n.
Oh, also- I started posting a new Tomione story, the plot couldn't be more different besides the primary pairing, but if you like my writing style I hope you'll check it out, chapters will seem comically short compared to this monstrosity.
Okay, enough jib jab.
Enjoy!
Saturday April 14, 2001
Tom spotted her across the bar twenty minutes ago. He'd been focused on her ever since.
The smoky venue was crowded, rowdy, as it always was on Saturday nights. It was his go-to place when he wanted to fade into the crowd, drink himself into oblivion and watch a free show to boot. There was always at least one drunken fist fight before the final bell sounded. Tom was fascinated by people, loved to watch them go about their daily business, the way their persona changed as the liquor took effect, the person who walked into the bar becoming no more as their alter ego took possession.
It was also a great place to find company for the night. It wasn't a classy venue by any means, but it wasn't enough of a dive to attract the bottom rung of society either. It was frequented by just the type of women he preferred, attractive and open to one night stands without threat of attachment, no expectations beyond a moment's pleasure.
He didn't want attachment. Couldn't risk it in his line of work, but really, he had no desire anyway. The only recipient of his affection was long gone, a ghost haunting his dreams. He craved those dreams. He wasn't going to attempt to replace her.
But he still had urges, desires that needed to be met. Especially after the shite week he'd had, living in a fleabag motel while he tracked his prey through the underbelly of Chicago. It was his second trip to America, and vastly different than his experience in LA. He admired and detested both cities. LA for it's fake glitz and glamour, its obsession with beauty and image, but he thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful beaches and the weather was superb. Chicago reminded him a bit more of home, for better or worse, which perhaps explained his rather temperamental moods throughout the mission.
But he was back now, and was desperate to expend his pent up aggression with physical release. He never risked doing so during an assignment, too many factors at play, too many potential hazards he didn't want to worry about mitigating just to get off.
So he waited, and then came to his favorite spot, where the bartender knew his name and drink preference, and started hunting. He never moved from his seat, never so much as turned his head or conversed with anyone, but he was on the prowl. He watched every woman who entered, inspected their outfit, their made up faces, noted their choice in perfume, studied their body language, the way in which they socialized, the company they migrated towards, and built profiles in his head, cataloguing each one in order of appeal.
And they watched him, some more subtle than others, a few outright sidling up next to him, sliding hands along his shoulder and bicep, brushing their cleavage against him as they leaned over to grab a straw or napkin from the bar, fluttering lashes and cooing apologies as they attempted to engage him. Some nights he found the displays amusing enough to reward with his silver grin and a few minutes of conversation. But tonight he was at the end of his rope, his nerves grated to jagged stubs. He brushed off their advances like waving away an errant fly. They scoffed and acted affronted, but then continued to eye fuck him from across the room.
He wasn't in the mood to settle tonight, he'd go home alone and drink himself into a stupor if need be. He was resigned to doing just that when the doors opened and she entered.
The moment he spotted her he knew he had to have her. Would have her. Whatever it took, whatever persona he had to emulate, he'd be taking her home with him.
And so the game started. Tom watched her carefully, taking note of every detail, sussing out just what approach would successfully disarm her. He sipped steadily at his whiskey, eyes transfixed on her hair. Wild chestnut curls cascading down her back, mascara and lipstick but little else marring her delicate features. Her eyes were the wrong color, and her face, attractive as it was, wasn't a close enough match to fuck her from the front. But the hair… the hair was breathtaking. The color, the body, he imagined running his hands through it, grasping a fistful and pulling her head back as he took her from behind.
Yes. Yes, she would be perfect. Just the thing he needed to erase the last eight days of hell and allow a momentary escape from reality. He could pretend he was someone else, that he was with someone else, that he led a life he could never have.
He licked his lips, eyes burning bright as he watched her glance around the bar, shoulders drawn and posture turned in, uncomfortable, hesitant. Her clothes were fashionable but modest. This wasn't her normal type of venue, her normal type of crowd. The searching look she gave the space told him she was waiting for someone, hoping they'd arrive soon, rescue her.
Too late, little one. I've set my sights on you, there's no saving you now.
The stranger's mannerisms aroused him further, reminded him more of Her, made him more determined. But he continued to watch from the dark corner, waiting to see who arrived, who she intended to spend her evening with, who she'd braved this bar to see.
After twenty minutes she started to fidget, already having fended off the advances of three drunkards. Tom suspected she was meeting a man. And they were late, her frustration growing with each passing minute. He watched as one of the men who hit on her earlier started cutting a path towards her again, either too drunk to remember her previous rejection or too drunk to care. Tom decided to make his move. He was tired of sitting around, was ready to get her home.
He allowed the man to sidle up beside her, slurring something that sounded like it would be lewd and offensive if more intelligible. She shrank back, nearly toppling out of her seat to escape his hand on her arm.
Tom approached the bar and stood on the man's other side, setting down his empty glass and pinning the back of the balding head with a bored look.
"The lady doesn't look interested, mate. I suggest you try your luck elsewhere."
The man spun around, eyes glazed and face pinched. "Wha dya say?"
Tom suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He suspected the man was drunk and riled enough to attempt fighting him for the opportunity to court the obviously uninterested woman. He'd be easy enough to subdue, but Tom suspected she wasn't the type to admire a man defending her honor with violence. He didn't know her at all, but in his mind he was already fucking her, already imagining she was someone else, and that ghost of his past never appreciated when he reverted to pounding fists instead of using his wits to overcome an obstacle.
"I said, it's time to move on." He enunciated slowly, his voice a deep rumble, the threat clear in his storm cloud eyes.
The man staggered a bit on his feet, then tipped back and scoffed. The woman scooted back in her stool to avoid him leaning into her.
"Oi! Fuck off!"
Now it was really a battle not to roll his eyes.
Fucking hell. I just want to knock him unconscious already.
He met the woman's wide, fearful gaze over the drunkard's shoulder.
She's watching. This is the make or break moment. Be patient. It'll be well worth it.
He drew a deep breath and turned his focus back to the man. "You're not doing yourself any favors. She's clearly not interested. Now move on and you might find more agreeable company before the night's through."
"Shove off, dumb cunt!"
Tom sighed, shaking his head to himself. Okay, he'd give it one more try. Then he was going to break a bar stool over the idiot's head and throw the girl over his shoulder. He'd seduce her on the way to his flat.
"That's no way to speak in front of a lady. Now I'll ask you one more time to leave. I suggest you-"
He was cut off by the wide swing of a fist. His honed reflexes allowed him to dodge, even with the whiskey in his system, but unfortunately the whiskey also made him forget his original plan to abstain from violence.
His instincts kicked in and overrode the voice telling him to maintain his nice guy ruse. He caught the fist and twisted, the wrist popping loudly and causing the man to scream out in pain, his knees buckling. Tom used his downward momentum to throw him against the bar, his other hand catching the back of his sweaty neck and shoving his head into the counter.
The man had enough sense left to turn his face at the last moment, avoiding breaking his nose and instead having his cheek slammed against the wood with a loud thunk. The impact left him gasping, the entire ordeal taking no more than a three seconds. He opened and closed his mouth on a groan, looking dazed and confused.
"Now," Tom said, twisting his wrist further for emphasis, eliciting a shriek, "Apologize to the lady."
The man tried to throw Tom off but to no avail, Tom's grip was unrelenting and he twisted the sprained joint once more.
"Ah! Fuck! F-Fine! I'm s-sorry!"
Tom smirked, caught up in the moment, the predator in him enjoying playing with his food.
"Try it again, this time without the 'fuck'."
The man gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. "I-I'm sorry, Miss, p-please! I'm sorry!"
Tom nodded, releasing his neck and arm and stepping back to allow him room to stand, cradling his injured limb and blinking dumbly at the gathered crowd. Tom hadn't realized they'd attracted so much attention. He glanced at a mixture of expressions, ranging from dissapointment the brawl was over to lustful awe, the latter directed solely upon Tom. But he only cared about the reaction of one person.
He turned to face his true prey of the evening. She was sitting stiffly upon the stool, supremely uncomfortable and a bit panicked, but her eyes weren't on Tom, they were on the retreating figure of the drunkard.
Good, she's more scared of him. I can salvage this.
"I'm also sorry," he said lowly, stepping closer and gaining her attention. "I shouldn't have placed my hands on him. I'm not a violent person, I have no idea what came over me." He affected a bashful expression, embarrassed by his own actions.
She seemed to regain her senses, blinking twice and leaning in towards the bar. The crowd was back to milling about the place, the scuffle long forgotten.
She shook her head. "No, I appreciate the help. He approached me earlier and I said no, he knew I wasn't interested."
Tom tilted his head. "He already approached you? The nerve of some people."
She laughed lightly, her voice high and nervous. "Yeah, tell me about it."
He watched a blush stain her cheeks, her face turning and eyes averting down but her body still facing to him.
She's attracted to me. But still shaken up. Let me put her at ease.
"Well, I don't want to be a bother. I'll leave you to your evening. I just came to freshen my drink and overheard him speaking to you. I couldn't in good conscience ignore the situation."
She glanced back up quickly, eyes wide. "Oh no, you don't have to leave! I was just waiting for someone, but they haven't arrived."
He grinned. "Could you stand for some company while you wait?"
She smiled back. "I'd love some actually, plus it'll be nice to have a line of defense against the other idiots in this place."
He laughed good naturedly, pulling out the stool beside her. "I am really quite embarrassed. I can't believe I did that."
She bit her bottom lip, eyes darting to his mouth and then back up. "You seemed pretty comfortable pinning him down. Are you sure you don't engage in regular pub fights?"
He smirked and shook his head. "Unfortunately everything I've learned has been at the hands of my older brothers. I'm the youngest of five, that move you saw was one of the many techniques used against me throughout my youth, usually while wrestling for the remote."
She laughed again, less nervous and more delighted, her posture easing as she unconsciously drew closer. He kept a respectful distance, talking animatedly about his fake past, asking her questions about her life, her work, laughing at her jokes and buying them drinks, casually sipping his whiskey while she finished her third glass of wine with gusto. An hour later she realized she'd been stood up but didn't seem to care. Tom made a grand show of stating how stupid the absent man was, how Tom would be an hour early if he had the opportunity to take her out.
She blushed, tipsy and far more relaxed, unsure how to respond but looking very pleased by his attention. He apologized for being too forward, blamed it on the drink, and offered to walk her home. Disappointment stole her features but she quickly shook it off, sliding off her stool and swaying on her feet. Tom helped steady her, feeling her jolt at his touch, leaning against him with a sigh. He smiled down at her, eyes gleaming in the dim lights. He asked if she'd rather have a nightcap at his flat, they could continue talking. She'd already mentioned living with two roommates and detesting the lack of privacy.
She swallowed lightly and nodded, allowing him to lead her by the hand through the streets to his building, laughing on the lift ride up about some story he only half paid attention to. They stumbled into his flat with another laugh. She excused herself to the bathroom while he prepared drinks, turned on a few lights, removed his jacket. She came out with a few alterations, her lipstick refreshed, hair tamed and swept over one shoulder, another button on her blouse undone. He offered her a drink, a seat beside him on the couch. Within minutes he was kissing her, hand sliding up her thigh.
He had maintained the good guy ruse for well over an hour, at the bar and on the trip home, but the moment his eyes closed and his hand slid into her soft curls his breath seized in his chest, heart stuttering, images flashing behind his lids. He was transported to another time, another place, another woman. And the mask fell away, the beast surging within and taking over.
He was barely aware of his actions, half carrying half dragging her to his bedroom, pinning her beneath him while he stripped her bare, mouth and hands covering every inch of skin, drinking in the sounds of her gasps and moans, growling at the feel of her nails raking his back. He worked her over with his hand, heat radiating from her core, her center dripping and ready within minutes. He unceremoniously flipped her onto her stomach, hearing her gasp of surprise and rewarding it by dragging her hips up and back, unfastening his pants like a man possessed.
She keened into the bedding when he thrust into her, hard, to the hilt. He groaned, savoring the blessed heat and tightness, the long awaited release. He took on a merciless pace, pounding her hard, his grip on her waist bruising, urged on by her gasps, her low moans and soon she was driving back to meet his thrusts.
Her hair swayed wildly, but then his driving pace overwhelmed her and she couldn't support her weight on her hands, collapsing face first into the mattress, hair cascading across his sheets in beautiful chaos. He reached down and fisted a large hand in the curls, pulling her head back and eliciting a sharp gasp from her throat.
He couldn't see her face, only the long line of her back and All. That. Fucking. Hair. It drove him wild. He drove into her so hard she started sliding up the bed, he growled and dragged her back with an arm wrapped around her middle. He leaned over her, nuzzling the back of her head, drawing in the scent of her tresses. And as a sweet berry concoction reached his nose his eyes narrowed.
No. The scent was wrong.
He swallowed thickly, rearing up and releasing her hair, punishing her with his bruising grip, his relentless pace. He gazed down at her, her body rocking hard with his movements, the room filled with the sound of her high pitched keening and slicked slapping skin.
Her voice was wrong, too, not deep enough.
He growled, releasing her hips and bracing his fists on the mattress beside them, eyes locked on the bouncing curls.
Yes, the hair was perfect. He kept his attention focused solely on the pool of chestnut.
He was getting close.
He reached a hand around to manipulate her clit. She squealed, clawing at the sheets, sweat dripping down her back.
"Say my name," he growled, voice sounding demonic.
"I-I-"
"Say it!"
She gasped. "T-Tom!"
"Again!"
"Tom!"
He closed his eyes. Suddenly her voice turned deeper, her hair smelled of warm vanilla, her eyes became hazel, lips fuller, freckles dotting her skin. She became the One he wanted, the One he always wanted. She was hit. Finally, She was his.
The spell was broken as the woman beneath him screamed, eyes rolling back in her head and spine arching, her swollen passage clamping around him like a vice.
He blocked out her sounds and desperately tried to maintain the fantasy but couldn't recapture the lost moment. He sighed, searching his mind for another image to use, to push him over the edge. He settled on their parting kiss, altering the memory to something far more intimate than what actually occurred, but it was enough to give him that final push.
Stars appeared behind his lids, he wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her into his pulsating orgasm, picturing Her, saturating Her.
He groaned, slowly pulling out and collapsing beside the panting, sweat soaked feminine body. He opened his eyes, her hair was thrown over her face, and for a moment he was able to prolong the fantasy of who was lying beside him. Then her hands reached up and pushed the curls away, brown eyes stared out at him, a stranger's face, and the spell was broken.
Tom looked up at his ceiling, drawing a hand over his eyes, wiping away the sweat, his breath slowing. And as always happened after he mercilessly fucked Her dopplegangers, he felt a nauseating wave of shame steal over him, like ice water rushing through his veins.
The stranger beside him sighed softly, scooting closer and laying a hand on his chest, nuzzling into his shoulder. He wanted her gone. He wanted to shower, to wash away the evidence of his weakness, his festering obsession.
But he was too tired to make up an excuse, to deal with the anger and tears, to drag himself into the bathroom. Too tired to gaze upon his reflection in the mirror and see what new piece of himself had slipped away. Too tired to face reality, to sort through haunted memories and troubled thoughts. He just wanted a reprieve, however brief, just for a little while. Just for tonight.
Just tonight. He'd sleep, and hopefully, he'd dream of Her.
Wednesday July 13, 2005
"Tell me, my pet, are you a good little boy?"
Yaxley swallowed around the gag ball, nodding his head rapidly.
"Hm… I think you're lying to me, pet. I think you're a bad little boy."
"No, Maffer! I'm a guh voy!"
Tom paced around the bed, gazing upon the image of Yaxley, all four limbs tied to the wood posts, stripped but for his underwear, thrashing at his binds.
"I don't think so. I think you're a very bad little boy. And I think you just lied to me. You know what happens when you lie to me."
"Fwee, Maffer, I'm elling va foof!"
Tom smirked, supremely amused, but it also held a hint of cruelty that Yaxley went wild for, erection straining through the flimsy material.
"I don't think so. You lied to avoid punishment. Such a bad, bad boy you are."
"Fwee, fwee, no!"
"Are you trying to give me orders, now?" Tom came to a stop before the suitcase, wondering for the tenth time where the fuck Bella was. "My my, I'm really going to have to teach you a lesson." He peered down at the toys inside, grabbing the leather fogger, which seemed the less intrusive of his options.
"No, Maffer! Fwee, Imma guh voy!"
Tom sighed, running his fingers through the leather tassels, picturing all the things he'd like to do to Bella when she finally decided to grace them with her presence. Of course knowing her, she'd find the torture arousing, considering it more reward than punishment.
Just you wait, I'll strangle the life out of you yet, you bitch. Where the fuck are you?
He had no doubt she was drawing this out for her own amusement.
He slowly approached the bed, each step a growing threat, his confident stance radiating power and danger. He was surprised how easily he took to this role. He'd always enjoyed being dominant during sex, but he'd never considered it from an S&M standpoint. He was starting to see the appeal.
Yaxley wasn't at all arousing to Tom, besides the fact that he was a man. Tom could admit when another male was attractive without having the urge to fuck him. But this particular specimen held no appeal whatsoever, especially with his begging and groveling. Tom liked his partners to have a bit of fight, a stubborn streak, it made overpowering them with pleasure all the more fulfilling.
He ran the tassels over Yaxley's bare thighs, along his pudgy stomach, watching the man inhale sharply around the obstruction in his mouth. And Tom thought about Hermione, all the fun he intended to have with her when he got back, once he forced her to move past her insolent anger. Maybe he'd encourage a little role playing. He'd fantasized about fucking her for so long it still seemed surreal he'd actually lived it in real life. But the experience had been cut short by her unrelenting conscience. If it had been up to him he'd have taken her again, and again, and again, until she couldn't walk, a bumbling mess of raw nerve endings and marked flesh.
Alas, he'd waited eight years for her, he could certainly stand to wait a bit longer. Make her come to him, want him even a fraction as much as he wanted her. Then he'd live out every sexual fantasy he'd ever had involving her. He'd coax her to share her own desires and live them out as well. If she wanted to be the dominant one he'd allow it, only for her. He knew he could trust her, he wouldn't panic beneath her gentle, commanding touch. The thought of her pinning him down, riding him to her own completion sent a warm flush down his body.
Yaxley seemed to notice the change, the feral light in Tom's eyes, and started hyperventilating, his erection tenting his underwear obscenely.
Tom batted the end of the flogger against his palm a few times, watching the apprehension in his prey grow and swell, thickening the air. He couldn't stall any longer, the foreplay well drawn out. The only option left was to kill him or fuck him, which for Tom really wasn't a decision at all. Even if Yaxley had been a woman, an attractive one at that, he'd never stoop so low as to sexaully abuse his target, even if they thoroughly enjoyed it. Fucking and killing was Bella's specialty, not his.
As soon as Tom thought her name a muffled knock sounded from the main room, at the entrance.
About. Fucking. Time.
Yaxley called out in disappointment as Tom placed the flogger back into the case, turning his back to the bound man and walking to the bedroom door.
"Terribly sorry, pet," he said over his shoulder, leaning in to listen through the wood. "Our session is about to be cut short."
Bella smoothed a hand over the front of her uniform, a simple white blouse and black skirt, complete with the most dowdy pair of mary janes she'd ever seen. She looked absolutely ridiculous.
Still, she'd altered the uniform a touch, leaving the front unbuttoned low enough to show a swell of cleavage, adding a side slit to the skirt for added mobility and a flash of thigh. She wore her hair up in the maid's customary bun but a long golden hair stick ran through the center, adding a bit of flare. A girl had to have her accessories.
She lowered her arm after knocking on the door, tilting her head as she heard the loud tread of footsteps approaching. Whoever it was sounded big. She hoped the were big. She loved the big ones the most.
When the door swung open she wasn't disappointed. A hulking beasty eyed her with a hard gaze, already looking suspicious. Of course with a scar like that across his face he was probably always on the defensive. She could sympathize. The scars she wore along her body were a constant reminder that no one, absolutely no one, was to be trusted.
"Hello, there. You ordered room service?"
He grunted, brow raising. "It wasn't supposed to arrive for another hour."
She blinked, feigning distress. "Oh my, I'm terribly sorry. I'm new here, and I must have read the orders wrong. Please, let me take it back, I'll have them make you a new platter-"
"No, nevermind. Bring it in."
She smiled gratefully. "Thank you! You're saving me here, another mistake and I'm liable to lose my job."
His reply was another grunt but he stepped away from the threshold, allowing her room to push the serving cart inside. The two covered platters gleamed beneath the chandelier over seeing the living room. She pushed the cart to the center, eyeing another guard on the couch. He was reading a magazine, glancing up at her entrance.
"The food's here already?"
"There was a mix up," the first guard explained, no doubt hoping to cut short any renewed ramblings from the empty headed maid. "Makes no difference, we'll eat now. He won't be done for some time anyway."
Bella fought to hide her smirk, desperate to know what was happening in the bedroom across the floor. She'd give up every pence she'd ever made to see Tom in a gimp suit, licking some 5'4" accountant's toes, begging to be buggered.
The fantasy was so intense it made her wet, and it took a moment for her to settle back into the role of eager maid.
She watched the second guard stand and approach, lifting one of the lids and peering at the food, leaning down to inhale the scent. Then she watched his eyes lift and fall to her cleavage, his expression changing to something she easily recognized.
Mmm. How delightful. Why should Tommy be the only one to have any fun tonight?
She leaned over the cart, lifting the second lid, giving the guard a nice glimpse down her shirt.
"Is everything to your liking, Sir?"
A muscle in his jaw tensed, eyes still affixed to her chest. "Um… yeah. Yes."
She smiled demurely, bowing her head in subjugation. A big man like this, serving a tiny master who dangled wealth over his head like a carrot, who remanded him to wait outside the bedroom while he fucked to his heart's content, no doubt suffered from an inferiority complex. Most men did, to some extent. Societal expectations, masculine toxicity and fancy terms she'd heard traded at coffee shops and college pubs.
She's never bothered to research the topic, but she certainly used the ailment to her benefit. There was nothing more exhilarating than crushing a man, seeing the hope drain from his eyes before his life was chased away shortly after. But making him live out his greatest fear beforehand, that was the cherry on top.
She watched his pupils expand, eyeing her hungrily.
That's a good boy. Now step a little closer, my darling. Let me see you…
As though she'd spoken the command aloud the guard pulled to his full height, chest out, preening. He smirked and stepped around the cart, into her personal space.
"Hello there. I'm Elias. I've never seen you before. Are you new?"
Her hands fidgeted nervously, eyes averting in embarrassment. "Is it that obvious?"
He grinned, flexing his muscles as he tried to effect a casual stance. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the scarred guard roll his eyes, shaking his head. "Elias, we don't have time for this."
"Come on, Sebastian, you said yourself he'll be tied up for at least another hour."
She couldn't help but smirk at his choice of words.
"Elias-"
"What? We never get to have any fun. I just want to talk to her, get to know the staff. That's in my job description, right? Know who comes and goes from the room?"
Sebastian sighed, grabbing a platter off the cart and walking towards the dining space with a pinched look on his face. Elias glared at his back for another moment before turning his focus once more to Bella, grinning.
"Sorry about that, Schatz."
She bit her lip, cheeks flushing. "I just moved here. I don't speak much German. Luckily we're instructed to speak English to the guests unless otherwise requested. I'm afraid I don't know much beyond silly tourist phrases."
He laughed, crossing his large arms and pinning her with a smug look.
"Ich freue mich, dir Deutsche beizubringen, wunderschön. Ich werde dir auch andere Dinge beibringen."
She giggled, shuffling on her feet, well aware of the scowl Sebastian pinned them with across the room.
"I have no idea what you just said. Except Deutsche… that means German, right?"
"Sehr gut, mein Schatz!"
She laughed anew, shaking her head. "Now you're just showing off!"
"No, no, I spent part of my childhood in Austria, German is my first language."
She tilted her head, leaning towards him. "Really? I don't hear an accent."
"I spent most my life in Britain."
"I see. Is that where you learned to shoot?" she gestured at the gun in his holster. He peered down, patting the butt of the weapon, glancing back up with a smirk.
"Have you ever held a gun, Schatz?"
She gasped, eyes wide and wonderous. "Of course not! I'm more likely to shoot myself than my target!"
"I assure you, it is an adrenaline rush like you've never experienced. I will show you. What time does your shift end?"
"You will do no such thing, Elias!" Sebastian shouted from his seat, mouth full of food.
Elias ignored him. "I am on duty tonight but tomorrow morning I switch with the guards downstairs. Would you like to pay me a visit?"
Bella pretended to debate the idea, peeking up through her lashes. "I'm not sure… guns are so scary. What if I hurt myself?"
He smirked. "Do not fear, sweet one. I will not let you hurt yourself."
She smiled, teeth gleaming beneath the opulent lights. "What if I hurt you?"
He chuckled. "I promise, you won't shoot me."
"Of course not," she ran a hand along his wide bicep, earning an appreciative grin as his eyes traced the movement. "What would be the fun in shooting you? All this muscle… it would be so much more exciting to carve you up."
He blinked, eyes darting to her. "What was that?"
She laughed, still affecting a light, playful tone. "Oh, don't worry, Elias. I'm on a bit of a deadline. I won't have time to decorate you with my blade. Such a shame. But I promise, what I have planned for you is just as special."
He stepped back, shoulders tense. "What the fuck?"
She saw Sebastian tense in his chair, watching her with narrowed eyes, both men too taken aback to think to reach for their weapons.
Silly boys.
She reached for her blouse, unbuttoning it down to her navel, parting the fabric to reveal the black lace of her bra. Elias was caught between confusion, anger and lust, the combination left him frozen, eyes glued to her breasts. Sebastian seemed the more intelligent of the two, his eyes still firmly locked on her face.
She reached her hand up to her hair, pulling out the golden stick and letting the long dark locks tumble freely down her shoulders. Elias swallowed heavily, no doubt torn between throwing her out and throwing her over the back of the couch.
She decided to put him out of his misery.
With lightning reflexes she plunged the golden stick forward, the sharp end easily piercing his thick pectoral muscle. He jolted back, gasping in pain, and her thumb pushed the depressor at the end, injecting his body with the deadly neurotoxin.
She heard Sebastian leap to his feet, drawing his weapon. She leaned into Elias and used his huge body as a shield, gazing up into his shock blown eyes and uncurling her true smile, the mask falling away to reveal her sharp fangs, her hand wrapping around the back of his neck to hold his gaze, talons piercing his skin.
"Bleib hier, liebhaber. Ich werde für dich zurück sein," she whispered, thrilling in the look of panic that crossed his paled features.
"Get the fuck away from him!" Sebastian shouted, darting around the table to get a better shot. He walked in front of the master suite doors and missed the tall dark figure closing in behind him. Elias swayed on his feet, collapsing to his knees as his muscles went numb, struggling for breath. Bella fell with him, still using him as shield until he tipped forward, unable to provide decent cover.
She dived behind the couch as she heard a grunt and a thump. She saw the gun hit the wood floor and slide beneath the table. She didn't bother grabbing for it, a gunshot would be heard from one of the lower floors and attract unwanted attention before they were through. Instead she leaned back and watched Tom wrestle the massive guard, reflexes lighting fast, as agile as ever. The years had been good to him. He was broader, stronger than the last time she'd seen him, that fateful assignment in Edinburgh, when he unwittingly captured her attention in more ways than one.
He kneed the guard in the stomach, drove his elbow sharply into his neck, followed by a punch to his ear, all in rapid succession and knocking the wind out of him. As he staggered back Tom pulled a blade from his waistband. It was narrow and sleek, easily concealed in one of the vibrators. It had been her idea to remove the battery pack and install the weapon, an ingenious bit scheming she was quite proud of.
The guard saw the knife and quickly ducked out of the way, tackling Tom around the middle and driving them both to the floor in a crash of heavy limbs. She sat forward, rising to her knees to continue watching the show. Elias laid out on his back beside her, panting shallow breaths, his limbs dead weight at his sides.
Tom grappled with his assailant another few moments, taking a hit to side of his face that split his bottom lip, blood blossoming along the parted flesh. She inhaled sharply, wanting to lick it away, imagining his revulsion and smirking. Tom managed to keep his grip on the blade through the tumble and stabbed the man somewhere in his side, out of her line of sight. She groaned, wanting to see the bloodshed.
She crawled unceremoniously over Elias's twitching body to get a clearer view. Tom rolled with the guard, straddling him and pulling the blade free, pinning a strong forearm against the man's thick neck and driving the knife into his carotid artery. She smiled, warmth spreading through her chest, down, down, pooling in her womb.
She watched Tom rear back, panting heavily, wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. His intense stormy eyes watched the man beneath him sputter and twitch, grabbing futility at the blade and pulling it free, sealing his own doom as the blood spurted out with each heart beat.
Tom's eyes cut to her, pinning her with a heated glare that only made her wetter. The blood began to pool and spread along the glossy hardwood. She laughed.
"Nice move. Dare I say I've rubbed off on you?"
"I was forced to improvise, as you obviously had no intention of assisting."
She leaned back against the now lifeless corpse behind her. "I already got one. Was I expected to do all the work?"
Tom rolled his eyes, rising to his feet and walking to a large baroque mirror on the wall, inspecting his split lip and bruised cheek.
"Don't worry, luv, you're still as sexy as ever. Especially after a kill. Fuck, doesn't it make you horny? I'm absolutely drenched."
He licked at the wound, wiping away the fresh trail of blood.
"You're also late."
She leaned forward, slowly buttoning her shirt. "Am I? Oh dear. What did I miss?"
"Spare me. Start cleaning up, I've still got to take care of the target." He strode away from the mirror, stepping over the bloodied body and heading for the bedroom door that stood ajar.
Her attention perked.
"You haven't killed him yet? What have you boys been doing all this time?"
"Wouldn't you like to know. I'm serious, Bella, get moving."
She rose to her feet. "Oh come now, Tommy. We still have plenty of time to play."
He stopped short, dark brow raising. "Excuse me?"
She rolled her eyes, sauntering closer. "I spent all that time and money picking out those toys, explaining each one to you, and now we're just to throw them all away, unused?"
He blinked. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
"I'd rather just be fucking you."
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. 'I'm really not in the mood for this right now."
She smirked. "I remember, you're never in the mood for me. A shame. But no matter, I'd rather use my skills on a man that appreciates the beauty of pain and pleasure."
Tom opened and closed his mouth, looking perplexed, glancing at the bedroom door, then back to her. "Are you saying you want to fuck and torture the target before killing him?"
She tilted her head. "Such a prosaic description. But also apt. What?"
She didn't appreciate his laughter. People were always laughing at her expense. Which is why she made sure to laugh with them all the way through their death throes.
He continued to shake with amusement, grin splitting his face, further agitating his torn lip. "You're actually serious. Jesus fucking Christ, this day just keeps getting better and better."
Bella smiled, wicked and cruel.
Oh, Tommy, you have no idea my love.
She'd been planning to sit on the grenade a bit longer, but if he insisted on being a stubborn arse she'd happily toss him the explosive. At least it would get him off her back, give her some time to play.
"How about you leave the target to me? I'll handle the clean up as well, give you a head start."
His laughter faded, eyes turning dangerous and guarded once more. "Head start for what?"
She couldn't contain her excitement. "A head start to the airport, of course. I assume you want to return to Hermione as soon as possible. Especially after that terrible row the two of you-"
She was cut short by a hand seizing her throat, throwing her back into the wall. Her head crashed against a picture frame, the glass shattering behind her skull. She clawed at his wrist, eyes tearing, but continued to laugh silently, unable to emit sound. His rage was perfection.
"How the fuck do you know about her?" His face was close to hers, eyes murderous. She choked on a gasp, unable to form words. He slackened his grip a fraction, allowing a thin sliver of oxygen to flood her senses, she used her revived vocal chords to laugh anew.
He growled, pulling her away from the wall and throwing her back against it, the picture falling away entirely, crashing between their feet.
"I swear to whatever fucking deity is listening I will kill you here and now without hesitation, you crazy bitch. Tell me how you know about her!"
She blinked against the tears, her vision so blurred she could barely make out his silhouette.
"I-" she wheezed, desperately sucking in air, "G-Green sent me-e-" the hand holding her captive released all at once, sending her crashing to the floor atop broken shards of glass. They cut into her hands and calves. She smiled, savoring the pain, the sting of parting flesh. The reminder that she was still alive, that others weren't, because of her.
She heard him race across the room and managed to suck in enough breath to shout after his retreating figure. "Don't worry, Tommy! Green is keeping her company for you!"
As the door slammed behind him she tipped her head back and cackled, more amused than she'd been in a long time. And then a rustling sound caught her attention, stealing her laughter as she turned her head towards the bedroom.
Oh my, how could I forget? Poor dear, all alone…
She pushed up to her feet, walking into the bedroom and shining her feral smile on the bound, gagged, and terrified man laid out like a delicious human sacrifice for her consumption.
"Hello, lovely. Aren't you a pretty thing?"
She approached the bed slowly, grin broadening at his thrashing attempts to break free.
"Don't waste your strength, I chose those binds myself. I assure you, they won't break. I know from personal experience."
She ignored his muffled pleas as she walked to Tom's discarded case, peering inside at all the goodies. She squealed, clapping her palms together, a kid in a candy shoppe.
"Oh my," she peered at him over her shoulder, eyes bright, "I know all about your proclivities. And I promise, I will make your wildest fantasies come true."
He screamed behind the gag, tears streaming down his face, thrashing wildly, the binds cutting harshly into his bruised flesh. She licked her lips.
"What a wonderous way to go, dying from pleasure." She reached inside the case, drawing out her favorite tool from the items inside. Yaxley's eyes turned wide as saucers as she approached with it in hand, shaking his head desperately.
"Now now, luv, hold still for me."
Saturday August 12, 1989
Harry adjusted on the plastic chair, eyes averted to the floor, hands tucked beneath his thighs as he sat hunched over.
He'd passed the time by counting the floor tiles, the ceiling tiles, counting down from 500, starting over each time he lost his place. The TV in the waiting room was broken, a sign taped across the front apologizing for the inconvenience.
The other two occupants in the room were older gentlemen, one sat reading a thick book and the other was slumped over in his chair, asleep. The only sounds in the room were muffled voices and the chorus of equipment drifting in from the hallway, the turning of pages, the occasional snore, the ticking of the wall clock, and the sound of his own heartbeat, though Harry supposed the latter was only in his head.
He'd been here going on five hours.
His mother was declared dead at the scene.
He'd spent the following two hours waiting for the social worker to arrive, to speak with him, offer condolences, inquire as to his father and any local relatives. He knew Aunt Petunia lived outside of London but he'd only met her on two occasions, so long ago he couldn't remember her face and he certainly didn't know her number by heart.
He explained his father was on assignment for his government job and wasn't reachable by phone most of the time, he and his mother awaited his call each night, usually before Harry went to bed. His dad liked to ask him about his day and wish him a good night when he was abroad. He also liked to make his mom laugh, if her girlish giggles floating up from downstairs after Harry went to bed were anything to go by.
His chest ached, realizing he'd never hear his mother laugh again. She has several different laughs, all of them wonderful. Her light giggles were usually stirred by his dad. Her deep belly laughs were usually drawn out by Sirius. She had a slightly wild, uncontrollable laugh that was contagious to everyone around her, usually the result of seeing someone do something utterly imbecilic, as she liked to put it.
Then she had a laugh she reserved just for Harry. It was their secret laugh, the acknowledgment of some shared joke between them, a private source of amusement only they could relate to. He loved that laugh the most.
The social worker looked troubled when Harry asked her to call Sirius, asking if he was certain he didn't want them looking up his aunt's number. Finally she relented, no doubt detecting the barely contained hysteria swirling within his emerald gaze. Sirius has just gotten back from assignment abroad as well. Harry assumed he was crashed out, sleeping like the dead, as his mother used to put it, describing the coma like state his father would collapse into after several sleepless nights followed by a transcontinental flight. She'd draw the blackout curtains in their bedroom and shut the door, encasing your dad in his tomb, she'd say with a smirk, let's let papa bear hibernate while we go see a movie.
The woman left a message on Sirius's answering machine and took Harry to a playroom with disturbing clown art on the walls. He felt their maudlin eyes track his every movement. She'd let him migrate to the adult waiting room instead. Sirius called back a couple hours later and said he was on his way. The social worker looked distraught when she delivered the news to Harry. He wasn't sure why, wasn't it a good thing someone was coming to pick him up?
He was anxious for Sirius to arrive. He'd cried his eyes out in the clown room but had kept his composure out here, wanting to effect a more mature disposition while in the company of adults. But he knew he could break down in Sirius's company without fear of judgement or shame. Sirius was his dad's best mate, Harry's unofficial uncle and godfather. He'd take care of everything.
He glanced up at the sound of feet pounding down the hall, quickly approaching. He noticed that the man with the book was staring at him. Harry blinked, catching his eye. The man had a piercing gaze, pale green. Harry fidgeted in his seat once more, strangely annerved. The man nodded once, a silent acknowledgement, and then returned his focus to his book as a figure pushed open the door and burst inside, long hair wild and lungs pumping furiously.
"Harry."
Harry flew out of his seat like a bullet, crashing head first into Sirius, glasses askew, wrapping his arms around the tall man's middle while he leaned over, wrapping his arms around Harry in turn.
"My boy. I'm so sorry, Harry. Christ, I'm so sorry."
Harry felt the tears streaming down his face, soaking the material of Sirius's shirt. He turned his head away from the strangers in the waiting room, face burning with emotion and embarrassment. Sirius patted him on the back, gentle rubbing motions, speaking softly. "Come on, lad, let's head home."
Harry's eyes snapped up. "No! I don't want to go back there!" he swallowed thickly, still seeing the pool of blood staining the hardwood after they'd lifted her body into the gurney.
Sirius shook his head. "Sorry, I meant my home. My flat. You'll be staying with me while we get things sorted, I just spoke to the counselor."
Harry blinked, arms still tight around his godfather. "What about dad? Is he on his way home?"
His heart stuttered when he saw the dark look that crossed Sirius's eyes. He somehow looked more troubled than when he first entered and something foul settled into the pit of Harry's stomach, eating up his insides.
"Let's get out of here, kiddo, we'll talk more at the house."
Harry nodded, desperate to leave the hospital, to get away from the death and decay that grew over the walls like ivy.
The drive to Sirius's house had been long and ominous, so was sitting on the couch with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a steaming cup of cocoa set before him on the table. Sirius had been unusually quiet since leaving the hospital and Harry suspected something even worse was on the horizon, though what could possibly be worse than losing his mom he didn't know, and certainly didn't care to venture.
"Harry-" Sirius eventually said, sitting down across from him, dark circles beneath his eyes. "Fucking hell," he muttered to himself, pulling absently at his disheveled hair, "I don't even know how to tell you this…"
Harry blinked, his heartbeat slowing down and speeding up at the same time.
"What is it?"
Sirius inhaled sharply, gazing at Harry with tears in his eyes. "Harry, I am so very sorry to tell you this so soon after Lily. But…" he swallowed, voice cracking. "James died, Harry. He's-" he sucked in a shuddering breath. "James is gone, too."
Wednesday July 13, 2005
Harry moved his fork through the cassoulet on the plate before him. He'd been a bit overwhelmed by the menu, none of the dishes contained descriptions and the names were all in French. Harry spoke a bit of conversational French but he lacked the vocabulary to converse with a waiter at a three star restaurant.
Luckily Remus has gone through a cooking show phase when Harry was about eighteen and had spent months trying to emulate the fancy cuisine the Michelin star chefs created on tv. Remus was a good cook, but the majority of the dishes were far more complex than Harry really preferred. However there was one meal he thoroughly enjoyed, a hearty casserole made in the slow cooker he could recall the smell and flavor of even years later. And luckily he remembered the name as well, a small saving grace when it came time to order.
Malfoy had gone with the duck confit and was methodically cutting into the breast with pristine, impeccable manners. Harry had requested additional background data on the man prior to their meeting, to gain a better sense of what to expect. The youngest member of the Malfoy empire attended Eton like his father and grandfather before him, the Malfoys were major donors to the prestigious boarding school and held a seat on the board. He'd then gone onto Oxford where he majored in business, preparing for his role at the family company.
He was blue blood through and through, and paired with his good looks, he'd become quite the media sensation as well. Gossip rags chronicled his every move, featured photographs of every event he attended, made wild speculations as to his relationships with models and actresses around the world. But Harry didn't give two shites about whether or not the Malfoy heir was carrying on a secret love affair with the up and coming fashion model Jadea Warbeck, daughter of the renowned singer, or if his heart truly lied with his childhood sweetheart Pansy Parkinson, another paperazzi worshipped socialite.
All Harry cared about was whether or not Draco Malfoy was behind his parent's killings, or whether he held viable information that could lead to whoever was.
Unfortunately, the man was proving to be a very difficult read.
"So tell me something, Potter, why bother continuing this investigation even after your dismissal? Is it to prove to the Ministry what a mistake they made by firing you or do you contain no other skill set beyond running blindly into danger?"
Harry chewed his bite, used to Draco's casual, scathing remarks at this point.
"Neither," he said after swallowing, "Well, perhaps a bit of the latter. But my primary motivation is removing the killer from play. And once we have him in custody he can lead us to a larger network, the possibilities are vast."
Draco sipped his wine, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "But you aren't an Officer any longer. Why bother?"
Harry studied the blonde in return. "If you spent the better part of your adult life working on a project, only to be tossed from the team overnight, would you be able to just walk away?"
"If I was tossed far enough, I don't suppose I'd have to walk far."
Harry smirked. "I don't believe that for a second. You've been groomed from a young age to take over your family business someday. I bet you know the company like the back of your hand, have become an expert in the industry. If the board were to issue your walking papers tomorrow I highly doubt you'd be able to sever all ties at once."
Draco leaned back in his chair. "Quite a thing to assume when we've only just met."
"Well, then tell me about yourself. I'd like to know more."
Draco smirked humorlessly. "I dare say there's an overabundance of information that's been published already. You only need to pick up the latest edition of The Sun to read the ten page biography they've just published."
Harry kept his face blank, recalling the article he spoke of. Luna had ran to the corner newsstand and bought various papers to better gauge what details of the murders the public was being made privy to. She'd snatched up The Sun upon seeing a close up of Draco's face on the cover. The write up was complete sensationalism, dripping with speculation, and offered no legit sources to back its rather asinine claims. But one thing was certain, the media loved Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy loathed the media.
Neville had been hard pressed to find any accounts of Draco willingly submitting information for publishing. The most recent thing he could dig up was a twenty second interview Draco provided the local news station following a court hearing where Malfoy Enterprises was the defendant, some five years ago. He was fresh out of Oxford then but held himself with as much poise and confidence as the regal patriarch at his side.
The memory spurred a bevy of questions in Harry.
"I apologize if this is abrupt, but I'd like to inquire as to your relationship with your parents."
Draco raised a pale brow. "Will personal information somehow lead you to the killer's door?"
Harry picked up his water glass, studying the condensation along the side. "It may lead us to the door of whoever hired him."
He took a long sip, chomping lightly on a stray ice cube. He glanced up after a prolonged bout of silence to see Draco watching him angrily.
"And let me guess, I'm suspect number one?"
Harry leaned back, absently running his fingers over the napkin on his lap. In the brief time he'd spent in Draco's company he'd learned one thing, the man liked to cut through the bullshite to get to the core of the matter. Harry could relate to the sentiment, appreciated it even. He'd been expecting an uptight politician that talked circles around the truth. What he met instead was an uptight business mogul that talked a straight line that was dagger sharp, cutting down everything in its path with little regard for impact.
Harry decided to meet him head on with equal straight talk. He hoped providing blatant honesty would prove he held no tricks up his sleeves, nothing in his pockets, only saying what he meant and meaning what he said.
"As of this moment, yes. You stood to gain the most by your parents' demise. Until we can expand the circle of suspects further, you are my primary lead."
Draco's jaw ticked once, eyes still narrowed, but his rigid posture seemed to deflate a bit.
"I will admit, had my father been the only victim, I would warrant such investigation. However I can assure you I would never bring harm to my mother. And when I find the person responsible for doing so no courtroom or prison cell will be able to protect them from me."
Harry took another bite, chewing thoughtfully, intrigued by the revelation.
"You weren't close with your father?"
Draco picked up his utensils, resuming his meal as well. "We had our ups and down, same as any family. I admit, during some of our more heated rows I may have wished him ill will. But never death. And certainly not the gruesome way in which it was met."
He sliced into a spear of asparagus with extra force, the knife glancing off the fine china with a sharp scrape. The blonde cringed, setting the blade down and looking up with an annoyed air.
"I don't like speaking ill of the dead. We had our disagreements in the manner any father and son would fight. Nothing abnormal. Didn't you ever have an argument with your father about the way in which you wanted to lead your life? Or did your parents support your every decision from the time you were weaned?"
Harry took another bite. "My parents died when I was twelve. They were both MI6 operatives with several near death experiences between them before I was even born. So while I have no doubt they'd both be immensely proud I was able to make something of myself in their absence, I also think they'd have liked for me to have chosen a less dangerous line of work."
Draco's face fell blank as he seemed to process the information. Harry waited for him to respond, curious as to what category he'd fall into. When Harry revealed his parent's fate there were a set amount of responses he usually received, with the occasional outlier. His money was on Draco asking follow up questions, pushing for sordid details without a hint of sympathy. So he was immensely surprised when the man's pale brows drew together and a flash of emotion shined through his pale gaze, gone in an instant.
"I see. How fortunate you had such freedom during your most formative years."
Ah, that was more like it.
Harry nodded once, smirking. "Yes, I consider myself very lucky."
Draco's expression remained unaffected but his eyes held a glint of amusement. Apparently they could find common ground on having a morbid sense of humor. At least it was something.
"So, did you and your father fight about any subject in particular, or was it a general array of topics?"
Draco sighed, swirling his wine in the glass, gazing at the deep ruby hue. "My father was of the belief I should lead my life according to the same set of rules and schedules he followed. I was willing to compromise to an extent. After school I had hoped to have earned enough of his esteem to persuade him to loosen the reins a bit. But he had other ideas, tightening them at every turn."
Harry continued to chew, hoping Draco would expand on the metaphors and provide actual substance without him having to ask. Draco paused, sipping his drink, eyes distant.
"We disagreed over my private life," he continued, still studying the contents of the glass, "far more than we disagreed on business. Which was fortunate, as things would have been unbearable otherwise. I assure you, I had no reason to want my feather dead, from a personal and a practical standpoint. He ran the company with an iron fist, revolutionized it after taking over from my grandfather. There's no one who could run it better, including me."
Harry raised a brow. Draco didn't seem the most modest of men, the statement took him off guard.
Draco's mercurial gaze cut to him. "You're surprised to hear me admit such a thing?" Then he smiled, somewhat sardonically. "You aren't alone. My father would no doubt roll over in his grave if he could hear me, figuratively of course, as he's yet to be buried. I never would have made such a claim while he was alive. Alas, now it seems pointless to deny. Lucius Malfoy was the rigid backbone of the company, my mother was the heart, and without those two vital pieces I just don't see how we can go on as we did before."
Harry leaned forward, resting his forearms against the table. "Are you thinking of disbanding?"
Draco took another large swig. "There's many discussions taking place. It's far too early for me to make any credible statements on the matter."
Harry's eyes trailed over him, thoughts going a mile a minute. His emerald gaze snapped back up. "You said your father revolutionized the business. What did you mean by that?"
Draco leaned back and sighed, seeming bored by the story before it began. "My great grandfather, the original Lucius Malfoy, founded Malfoy Enterprises in 1910. We were a shipping company back then, performing modestly. Then the war began and Lucius had the forethought to secure a private contract with the Royal Navy, acting as merchant marine transport vessels during that time and turning quite the profit. Abraxas, my grandfather, joined the company at eighteen, just as the second war began and Lucius secured a similar agreement. But the shipping industry faced rocky waters in the decades to follow, no pun intended."
He paused to casually sip his wine, affecting a casual sprawl that somehow still managed to look graceful. "There were many new maritime laws in place, territory and boundary wars happening throughout international waters. The railway thrived while the shipping industry declined. Abraxas had been raised on ships, it was what he lived and breathed, all he knew. He didn't know how to diversify, to see beyond the sea. He managed to keep the company afloat, that pun was intended, but our stock was quickly plummeting. Then my father joined the business with a new vision in mind. Technology. All types of advancements were being made to merchant and Naval vessels. He employed some of the brightest minds to stay at the forefront of that curve, equipping our ships with the most cutting edge technology available. By the early 80s the maritime industry was facing a multitude of hardships but Abraxas wanted to stay on the sinking ship. The board forced him into early retirement and gave my father controlling rights. He expanded our R&D departments, built new manufacturing plants, and secured patents on a bevy of technologies that were utilized by companies the world over, from railroads and automotive to major utilities. Essentially, he single handedly made the company what it is today."
Harry blinked, trying to process all the information, storing it away into a file in his mind.
"Your grandfather couldn't have been pleased being forced into early retirement."
Draco smirked. "As much as I'd love to transfer suspicion to another member of my family, I must tell you that grandfather has been dead for fifteen years."
Harry leaned back in his chair. "I see. How fortunate you don't have to listen to him drone on about the war."
Draco blinked, eyes brow arching. Then a slow grin broke out across his face, transforming his features and aging him back at least five years.
"Touché, Potter. Touché."
Harry smirked, finding Draco slightly less abrasive the longer he spent in his company.
"I'll be direct, Malfoy, is there anyone you can think of who would have cause to target your father, or your family in general? Remember, I'm not with the Ministry, I can keep things off the record if need be."
Draco's smile fell. "Are you insinuating I have something to hide, Potter?"
"We all have something to hide. I'm just trying to figure out if your father's secrets led to his murder."
"I wasn't privy to all my father's secrets."
"But you were privy to some of them."
Draco's shoulders drew back, posture turning guarded once more. "We're beginning to talk in circles, and I have better things to do with my evening. You called this meeting to learn more about me, about my likelihood of being the orchestrator of my parent's murders. I have no way of proving to you I am innocent beyond my character, the final conclusion is up to you to determine. However, if you're half the investigator you seem to think you are then you'll surely come to the conclusion that I am not your perpetrator, rather I am a source of endless capital for you to utilize beyond whatever meager funding you no doubt currently possess."
Harry opened his mouth, words lost in his mind.
"I know your time with a mother was limited, Potter, but surely you've been told if you wear a dumbfounded expression for too long your face will freeze that way."
Harry snapped out of his daze. "You want to provide funding?"
"You're hunting my parents' killer. Why wouldn't I offer funding? It's one of the few resources I possess that can be useful in this matter, but I certainly have it in abundance."
Harry cleared his throat. "I appreciate the offer, Malfoy, but we-"
"Don't so something as daft as reject my offer to help at this stage in the game. Certainly after spending time as an Officer you've learned to keep every possible option open. Nothing in life is certain. You never know if or when your current donor will cut you off, or become too controlling, dictating your every move by tightening the purse strings."
Harry tilted his head back, equal parts annerved and impressed by Draco's succinct deduction of the situation, even with the limited information he possessed.
"Alright," he finally said, "I'll let you know if I need additional funding to supplement the investigation."
Draco polished off the wine in his glass, fingers dancing along the stem. "Excellent. I dare say we end our evening here, before you say something daft that causes me to lose my already limited faith in you."
Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes, watching Draco flag the waiter down.
"Will you be in town this weekend?" Draco asked, eyes still averted to the side.
"As of now I intend to be."
Draco's gaze cut back to him. "The funeral is this Saturday. Brompton. It will be dual as they're both entering the family mausoleum."
Harry felt his chest constrict, breath evading him.
"You're welcome to attend, from an investigational standpoint if you'd like to meet others in their social network. Also from a personal one if my mother's death really holds the significance to you that you claim."
Harry swallowed, nodding. "Yes, I'll be there."
Draco held his gaze as the waiter approached with the bill in hand.
"Fantastic. It'll be a party. But I must insist you shop for a suitable outfit beforehand. If you attend in the rags you're currently wearing my mother's liable to haunt you from beyond the grave."
Harry shook his head, wondering if Draco Malfoy would prove to be his greatest ally or his arch nemesis.
Tom raced out of Paradies Hotel in a blur, barely remembering to use the staff exit to avoid providing a time stamp for his departure.
His ears still rang with Bella's shrill laughter. If he wasn't in such a rush he would have happily killed her. But he needed her to stay behind and take care of the target. Regulus wasn't a hitman, had never pulled the trigger before, to Tom's knowledge. And he didn't have time to explain his sudden departure to the third member of their team.
A part of him wondered if Reggie was in on it, too. But he quickly banished the idea. He had no reason to cross Tom. Bella didn't need a reason. Causing chaos and destruction was her modus operandi, regardless of who she harmed.
His heart was racing faster than the cab that took him to the airport. He didn't bother going back to his hotel, he'd brought nothing with him he couldn't easily replace. And he always kept his passport on his person, one of many, never knowing when he'd need to make a quick exit.
His thoughts churned violently, a storm raging inside him. He thought back to all the comments Green made over the last few days, all the little hints he dropped that Tom disregarded, assured by his own stealth. But he'd been careless, blinded by her presence once more, losing his edge. And now that grave error in reasoning was going to cost him.
Everything.
He won't kill her. He knows I'd come after him, until he's forced to put me down as well.
But why else send me on this little mission with Bella as his spy?
What could he possibly want with Hermione if not to kill her?
His chest seized painfully, picturing all the horrific things that could have transpired over the long course of the day. His leg jostled up and down up and down while he leaned over to speak to the cabbie.
"Faster!"
The man peered over his shoulder, English stilted but annoyance clear as day on his face. "I go speed limit."
Tom glared, reaching into his jacket and extracting several bills, tossing them onto the seat in front.
"Sod the bloody speed limit! I'll give you double that if you get me to the airport in the next ten minutes."
The man glanced at the bills, then up and Tom, and nodded. Tom was lurched back into his seat as the cab picked up speed, zipping through the streets.
Tuesday May 6, 2003
Hermione lost her virginity on a Tuesday.
She wasn't sure why that fact was of any particular note. Perhaps because it was a weekday, and in her abstract view of sex everything scandalous happened on the weekend, at night, behind closed doors.
It had still been light out when Victor laid her on his bed. There'd been no candles, no rose petals, no violin solo taking place in the corner of the room. All the bodice ripping romance novels she'd perused from Carmen's collection when she had nothing better to kill the time had greatly mislead her. And she couldn't have been more relieved.
As far as she was concerned her first time was perfect.
Really, it was.
Well… perhaps she would go back and tweak a few minor details, if given the opportunity. But that was just because Hermione was a perfectionist, a bit OCD at times. Any normal person would say her first time was just perfectly fine.
Victor was gentle, patient, considerate. He took it slow, asked her throughout if she was okay, how it felt, if she wanted him to stop or move a different way. It was very sweet, and while she felt a sting during the act and a general soreness after, he managed to make her orgasm using his hand and held her in bed for hours after. The sex was great, but the pillow talk was her favorite part of the experience. She'd never felt so close, so intimately tied to another person.
After he fell asleep she carefully slipped out from beneath his arm and crept to the bathroom down the hall, shutting the door and sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at her reflection in the mirror for several heavy beats before bursting into tears.
She felt a mixture of overwhelming emotions, all of them warring within her for dominance. But she'd be lying to herself if she said she didn't know what lay at the core of tangled branches.
At one point when Victor was inside her she felt the urge to cry, and was mortified of the prospect. She knew he'd misinterpret the tears, think he was hurting her or that she'd changed her mind. She didn't want him to stop, she didn't want him to see her fall apart, she didn't want to feel this never ending tug of war on her heart.
She'd managed to keep her composure by doing something that greatly shamed her. She'd closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down so his face was hidden in the side of her neck, and pretended it was someone else making love to her.
It took several minutes for the fantasy to take effect, for her to transform Victor's sounds into smooth honey, for his tanned skin to turn pale as marble, feathered with familiar scars, for his close cropped hair to lengthen, darken, black silk sliding through her fingers. And just like that, Tom was laid atop her, thrusting into her, arms wrapped tight around her body, moaning his pleasure in her ear.
It caused a stirring of pleasure that had been absent up to that point, the pain finally overridden. She squeezed her lids so tight the pressure hurt, but it was worth it to chase the electrical current sparking along her nerve endings, making her core clench rhythmically. Tom whispered sweet nothings and encouragements in her ear, told her how beautiful she was, how good she felt, how wonderful she made him feel. He gently kissed her neck, her shoulder, her jaw.
She tipped her head back to grant him better access to the column of her throat. He'd always been so fascinated with her pulse, watching the thrum of her heart to gauge her reaction to something. Sometimes he'd rest a hand along her neck, thumb pressed against the gentle throb, head tilted as he studied her like a page of an anatomy book. She couldn't abide when he dragged her around by her wrist, but she didn't mind his hand around her throat, as much as she told herself she should. It felt like a warm brand, a possessive gesture he was hardly aware of, and it caused such stirrings in her chest and someplace lower she simply couldn't formulate any kind of dissent.
But to her great disappointment he didn't caress her neck, didn't pay any attention to her exposed throat. Some traitorous voice whispered to her that this was wrong, she knew what she was doing and it wasn't fair to the boy that actually laid atop her. She silenced that voice by raking her nails down Tom's back, taking great pleasure in the animalistic growl that tore from his throat. His thrusts increased, became more erratic, and she tightened her legs around him, knees lifting to allow him deeper entry. It hurt, the feeling of him pounding against the back of her womb, but it was also necessary, she needed him as deep as possible, to mark her here the same way he'd marked her everywhere else.
She realized she liked it when he was rough, it was what she expected of him, made the fantasy more real, easier to get lost in. She encouraged his quickened pace by clenching her pelvic floor and was rewarded with the most erotic sounding growls. Yes, this was what Tom was, an animal, a beast, taking her with unrestrained passion.
She felt her climax building, she teetered on the edge, and at the last moment before freefalling she heard the words she'd always longed to hear Tom say, but they were delivered in the wrong voice, the heavy accent shattering her fantasy in one fell swoop.
"I love you, Hermione."
Her eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling with tears brimming in her eyes as Victor thrust into her once, twice, three more times and groaned like a man on the torturing rack, his entire body convulsing with the force of his release, her core flooding with liquid warmth.
She blinked rapidly, trying to talk herself down from a hysterical outburst, any chance of orgasm long forgotten. She'd managed to regain her composure by the time he relieved her of his weight, lying beside her and brushing his hand along her face, asking if she was okay, if she enjoyed it.
She forced herself to smile, guilt and shame riding her hard, telling him how wonderful it was. She wanted to dash to the bathroom then and there, but he insisted on finishing her off manually. She told him it was fine, but the hurt look in his eyes stabbed further at her heart. She had relented and allowed him to slip his hand between her legs. She kept her eyes on him the entire time, terrified of losing herself to the dark fantasy yet again. She didn't think she could survive being pulled from it a second time.
Afterwards Victor had spooned her and they'd talked. Her nerves had settled, she told herself she was fine, that the fantasy, the betrayal, was a one time occurence that would never happen again. The next time she slept with Victor she'd be fully invested in him, and only him.
But as soon as he nodded off and she had no conversation to distract her racing mind, thoughts of Him started surfacing like ripples on a lake. She subconsciously reached for the pendant she no longer wore and suddenly felt the storm rising, a hurricane tearing across the horizon. While frustrated with herself, she was also relieved she'd managed to hold it all in until she was afforded some privacy.
So in the bathroom Hermione sat, and wept, and thought about all the things that could have been, but would never be. And she cried because she was finally learning to accept it.
Wednesday July 13, 2005
Tom ran down the street leading to Hermione's flat. He knew Green would be at her place. Yet another way to demonstrate how much power he had, how much control he exerted over Tom's life. The message was clear: I know everything, Tom.
He took the back entrance, the side her windows didn't face, and threw open the door so hard it banged off the bricks. He panted, taking the stairs two at a time, long legs quickly eating up the distance.
He burst onto her floor, adrenaline through the roof, running down the hall as quietly as possible. It was late, most people would be sleeping, though he heard the sound of muffled television sets as he passed neighbors' doors. He took comfort in the fact that Green hated large clean ups and would be unlikely to conduct a gruesome torture session in her flat and risk alerting the entire floor.
Still, he had no idea what he'd find inside, and he refused to think about it, trying to maintain his composure. For her sake.
He skid to a stop before her door and swallowed thickly upon seeing it ajar, a sliver of light pouring out into the hall. He inhaled sharply, braced for the worst, and stepped inside.
His eyes immediately fell upon her.
His heart stopped.