I don't own this, I make no money off it, all rights to JK and co. I would say I own the plot, at the very least, but it's probs been done already, too. XD
AN: So now things pick up a little. I hope you like this chapter! I worked very hard on it. I even made a fanmix for the story just to help me write it! All for yooooou, my loyal readers! All for you. ;)
Taking a deep, steeling breath, Draco made sure to barrel right into Yaxley and he did it with panache, if he did say so, himself. The right amount of force caused them to go sprawling in the sand and surf and Draco put on the show of his life, coming up sputtering and wiping his face – all apologies and grimaces and even going so far as to put a hand out as he staggered to his feet, intent on helping Yaxley up.
"My apologies," he said. "Been at the beach all day, I'm afraid, bit of sunstroke, but there it is. Please, let me help you, I really can't apologize enough…"
Yaxley growled and shook his hand off, getting up and brushing himself off only to look around Draco immediately, trying to spot Hermione. His expression changed, relaxed and a moment later he refocused on the face of the man before him. His eyes widened. Draco also pretended to take a closer look and pasted a look of first revulsion, then false confidence on his face. After all, it was his natural reaction to the man so he hoped it would be believable enough.
"You…" Yaxley began and then stopped himself.
"Wait, you're the one? With her, I mean," Draco muttered quickly and a knowing smile spread across Yaxley's face.
Yaxley ignored Draco's remark and its implications. "I see why she's been so unsettled these last few visits. So that's why you were interested." He paused, as if sizing up Draco. "You've changed, Malfoy. Grown up, have you? If I'd know it was you the other week…"
"What, you would've invited me for dinner?" Draco said snidely, playing the part he'd perfected in school: the snotty prat who didn't know real life from Merlin, who was so terrorized there at the end he could only walk away and pray it had all been a dream.
Yaxley's smile narrowed, became something Draco still wasn't sure he recognized, even after living with it for so long.
"Why don't you?" he asked and Draco thought, I'm going to die. He knows this isn't who I am and knows I plan to try and save her and he's inviting me to dinner so he can kill me.
Instead of collapsing then and there or running away like his legs suddenly urged him to, Draco let a smirk slide over his lips and forced himself to clap a hand on Yaxley's shoulder, though it was clear the other man would rather Draco never touched him again. Well, that's alright, Draco thought. He'll never have to worry about me touching him again as I'll be dead by tonight, obviously.
Aloud he said, "Yaxley, old friend! I thought you'd never ask."
Yaxley insisted Draco give him the address of the hotel at which he was staying for security purposes, of course – by which he meant that if Draco tried to tell anyone or run away then Yaxley could hunt him down and kill him – and Draco agreed. Then Yaxley gave him the address of what Draco assumed was merely a point of contact and a time and then he and his…ward…were headed away, down the beach once more. Draco watched them go, knowing that all had gone as planned, at least from his point of view, though it was moving much more quickly than he'd anticipated…and inasmuch as he had a plan at all. It had been less a thing of plan B and more a thing of, hell, do something, anything. But regardless, it was good Yaxley had played right along…or he tried to tell himself that. At best it meant he'd be able to rescue Hermione that much more quickly; and maybe once he was closer to her he'd be able to remove whatever enchantments Yaxley had upon her in order to get his proof and summon the Aurors. At worst…they'd both be dead and then the sad case of Hermione Granger would only be at the point everyone already thought it was.
Draco rushed to get back to his hotel and clean himself up. He even went so far as to remove the glamour hiding his mark, though he wore a long-sleeved shirt anyhow. Standing before the mirror in his bathroom, watching his reflection closely, he decided he looked older. He was only, what, twenty-four? Hell, he couldn't even remember how old he was. He gave a hoarse laugh and reached out, placing a hand on the mirror's reflection and wished he could talk to himself – really talk. Step outside of himself and ask himself what the hell was the matter with him, when he'd gone mental.
Black or white, Draco, he thought and his eyes narrowed as he looked at himself. Then he turned and left his suite, pausing only to slip his phone – which mercifully had a camera of its own – and his wand into his pockets. He looked every inch the young, spoiled mogul that he was, dressed down in freshly pressed khakis, his linen shirt and deep tan. He'd actually bothered to shave and his short, white-blonde hair was fashionably mussed. His shoes were sensible, but clearly handcrafted from Italian leather. His posture was straight, yet his shoulders relaxed in the manner of the very wealthy and self-assured, and the aloof set of his brow warned off anyone even remotely interested in striking up a conversation as he picked up wayward stares and glances on his way out of the hotel.
It been almost too easy to slip back into his old skin and the only thing that might have betrayed the terror he felt beating out a steady rhythm high in his neck was the fine sheen of sweat along his cheeks and upper lip – the kind of sweat clearly not born from the cool evening air. The seasons were beginning to change in the land down under, after all and Autumn was swiftly coming on, though the Summer heat lingered during the daylight hours.
Draco decided to take his company car to the rendezvous point. It was a luxury he normally reserved for business purposes only, unlike some of the men and women he worked with, but it was the only insurance he could provide for himself before embarking on his rescue mission. He hadn't even dared call or text someone as innocuous as Astoria because he was so afraid something would go wrong – that Yaxley would be able to tell, just from looking at him. Which, to be fair, wasn't so far off the mark.
He took a moment – only a moment – to steel himself for whatever awaited him once he left his vehicle and then he unfolded his tall frame from the two door sedan and locked it after himself. He stood looking down the dune at the beachfront cottage he'd been given directions to and seconds after he'd arrived the backdoor opened and a figure from below waved up at him. He took a deep breath and started down the stairs to the lonesome bungalow, content that if this was the end, at least he'd finally made a firm choice for once in his life. He could face whatever happened next with the courage born of blind bravery.
He and Potter had more in common than an extended sympathy for Granger, it seemed.
The thought would have made him laugh, except the minute his foot hit the cement block that served as a back porch he felt himself being pulled forward by his stomach and his thoughts swiftly turned from Potter and Granger to panic at having knowingly entered directly into a trap. So much for blind bravery.
Draco hit the floor at what felt like light speed and rolled several times before coming to a stop – and even then only because he'd come against a wall. He lay there for a moment, gathering his breath and his bearings and then he warily sat up, rubbing fiercely at the shoulder he'd landed upon. It wasn't dislocated, that was good. He drew his knees up and continued to inspect himself – logic told him that if he wasn't in one piece he wouldn't be any good to Hermione. No broken bones, no dislocated joints…he dared breathe a quiet sigh of relief and stood up. Only then did he take stock of where the back porch Portkey had deposited him.
"Clever, isn't it?"
Yaxley's voice behind him caused Draco to turn around more quickly than he'd meant to and he noted the look of satisfaction that passed over the other man's face. Damn it all, now the bastard knew how nervous he was…though to be fair, Yaxley probably just assumed he made everyone nervous. Draco forced himself to relax outwardly and shoved his hands in his pockets, taking a more leisurely look about himself.
"Portkey?" he asked casually even as he inspected a painting on one of the shabbily wallpapered walls and he heard Yaxley's smile in his voice.
"Hardly. That would be too simple. Illusion spells to draw the guest in. The paper I gave you with the address serves as an identifying marker to the spell. Follow that with a transportation spell when the guest reaches a certain point within the wards. In normal circumstances a spell like that one would be used to deliver an unwanted visitor elsewhere, but in this case the elsewhere is here as long as you have that piece of paper. We merely assume anyone who makes it that far deserves the visit."
"We?" Draco worked hard to keep the curiosity from his voice, to keep his posture nonchalant – but not too bored, or else Yaxley would know he was trying too hard.
Yaxley snorted. "As much as Amycus constitutes a 'we'."
Draco heard Yaxley approach him as he continued to look around the room in which he'd landed and he turned his head slightly.
"Nice artwork," he murmured. "What is this one, Corot?"
"You always did have an eye for the finer things, Draco. But then, your parents spoiled you." Yaxley eyed him and Draco could feel the way they looked him up and down, measuring him, seeing only the boy who'd defected, who'd failed to defend his Dark Lord and Draco knew it was a miracle Yaxley hadn't killed him on the spot. The Death Eater sighed heavily, as if entertaining a Malfoy was torture to his poor, pureblooded, doomed soul. "Come on then," he went on. "Go ahead and ask me what you really want to know."
"I thought we'd save that for dessert," Draco replied softly, finally turning to face Yaxley head on. The older man gazed at him impassively a moment, then smiled again.
"Whatever you want, Draco. Now or later, I'm not fussed. She won't know the difference anyhow." Yaxley turned to leave the parlor – at least, Draco assumed it was a parlor. He waited until Yaxley was nearly at the door before he called out.
"I'm sorry, you think I want her?"
Yaxley turned back around slowly. His craggy face was etched with age and evil and though Draco supposed it was distinguished enough if looked at under the right light, he figured there wasn't nearly enough light in the world to make Yaxley look appealing to anyone, let alone a witch like Hermione Granger – amnesiac or not.
"I saw the way you looked at her the other week, Malfoy." It was a statement, a challenge and Draco lifted his chin slightly. He had to play his part. If he showed even an ounce of feeling for Granger aside from schoolboy derision and curiosity they would both be dead. He felt that as certainly as he felt Voldemort was really and truly dead…and yet Voldemort lived on, when evil men like Yaxley continued to work their will upon the world.
Draco shrugged. "I thought she was a Muggle," he said honestly. "You have to admit, a Muggle doppelganger of Granger…it would be enough to tempt Potter."
Yaxley snorted again and Draco wondered if the man had a breathing problem. "So you expect me to believe you thought she was a Muggle and decided she'd make an interesting conquest because you always wanted to scratch that particular itch?"
"Why not believe me? Clearly you felt the same way."
"Except I know exactly who she is," Yaxley replied, but he didn't deny the implication that he was, indeed, having his way with Hermione. The thought made Draco ill, but he forced himself to respond in a normal tone, even managing to sound a bit bored with the conversation.
"And she doesn't. Isn't that the same as shagging a Muggle lookalike?"
Yaxley stared at Draco wide-eyed for a long second, then threw his head back and laughed. "You've gotten mercenary – bloody too late, mind," he remarked, looking at Draco thoughtfully and Draco shrugged again. He turned back to the paintings.
"Not so," he denied. "Just mellowed a bit. Who is that, Gauguin?"
Yaxley muttered something Draco didn't quite catch and turned to leave the room again.
"Tell me when dinner is ready," Draco called after him. A haunting laugh was his only reply. He kept his hands in his pockets and curled his fingers about his wand. How easy it would be to draw the wand, wave it and waste the scum where he stood…but for Hermione's sake and his he needed to keep his head. First he would milk the evening for all it was worth, draw every last breath of the story from Yaxley that he could. Then, when he'd had enough time to evaluate the situation…then he would break them both free. He squeezed his wand between his fingers one last time and then drew his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms.
Draco continued to walk slowly around the parlor, investigating every inch of the space under the guise of admiring the poorly kept artwork. Originals, he'd wager, and never seen a day of restoration or climate control. He wondered where the hell the house was hidden away and was just in the middle of ruminating over that disturbing uncertainty when he felt a creeping sensation along the back of neck. Yaxley, he thought, panic rising in his chest again, or even Carrow. They've decided not to play along and are going to murder me where I stand…he forced himself to turn around and meet the gaze of whomever it was. His mouth went dry. IT was doing that an awful lot lately, in fact. He wondered if he had a condition – but if he did, what a condition to have. Unfortunate especially, that there wasn't a cure for it.
From across the room, Hermione Granger's eyes – no, the eyes of a stranger, really – watched him carefully. She'd snuck into the room and was leaning back against the wall opposite him, her arms tucked behind her demurely, her gaze almost shy. No, that was wrong. It only looked that way at first because of her body language, but he could see now her eyes were flashing the same warning they had at that second meeting. She looked like she wanted very much to say something to him and he lowered his arms, tucked his hands back into his pockets, and waited for her to speak, to direct him. How did she want things to go? It's your choice, his own, direct gaze told her and she glanced away and bit her lower lip hard, as if to keep from saying anything at all.
Swallowing thickly, Draco decided he'd better take a chance while he still could, while he was still breathing by the grace of a madman.
"We meet again," he called to her, his tone light, teasing. She looked back at him sharply and for a moment they were suspended there, a smile about to grace his lips, but arrested by the anger on her face and then life came back into the picture and she was moving, pushing off from the wall and headed right for him. He watched her come at him, his eyes wide with surprise and she stopped just short of him, glaring up at him hatefully.
"You think you're the first?" she hissed and anguish suddenly crossed her face, completely erasing the sting of her anger as Draco realized what was wrong. He wondered if he dared touch her, take her by the shoulders, try to comfort her, but a second later she was spinning away from him and back to the door.
"What happened?" he asked, raising his voice slightly. She stopped and he could see her shoulders shaking, as though she were crying.
He was at her side before he realized he was walking and he hesitated only a moment before raising a hand and settling it on her shoulder.
"You can't help," she told him and then repeated herself, as if it the words were a mantra she'd learned to tell herself to somehow make her suffering more bearable.
"Maybe not," he admitted finally and she looked back up at him, tears slipping down her cheeks. Through the glassy gaze her eyes still warned him. He discovered he didn't particularly want to listen.
"I intend to take you away," he told her suddenly, in a fit of confidence that he knew was sheer stupidity the second the words passed his lips.
"You're a fool," she told him. "I don't want your help. I don't –"
"If you try to tell me that you don't need help, I will kill you myself, you idiot," Draco informed her and she shut up. He took his hand off her shoulder. "Get out of here. I might not know what I'm doing, but I know enough that you and I shouldn't be seen together like this." He gave a short nod to the door and the woman who'd been Hermione hesitated.
"Go!" he muttered and she cast one last furtive glance at him before dashing out the door. Draco heard voices in the hallway a moment later and knew she'd bumped into someone, but he also knew that he could sham having made a pass at her or otherwise to have gotten her upset. With a sigh, he ran a hand over his hair – the same hand that had rested on her shoulder seconds ago, providing so little comfort.
It was going to be a long night.
AN: Woohoo! Drama, I live for the drama!