AN at the bottom of the chapter, please read!

Chapter Twelve: Jack of All Trades

Lady Ginevra Weasley strode purposefully through the corridors of the Tower. With the departure of all the guests on the previous day, the castle was painfully empty; the only people in residence were herself, assorted family members, her fiancé, Dumbledore, and Grindelwald. Plus countless house-servants, of course, but there was no need to count them: Ginny certainly did not. Though the House of Weasley had long since become too poor to maintain a full contingent of house-servants, she treated them as her birthright and was not discomfited by their presence.

She stopped outside the door belonging to Dumbledore. "Lemon sherbet," she said briefly. It swung open to admit her.

The two men inside the room rose politely as she entered. One, of course, was Dumbledore; the other was a slim, black-haired young man of medium height who crossed over to her eagerly.

"Well?" said Harry Potter, second Viscount Potter.

Ginny smiled at him. The expression quite transformed her, softening the arrogant lines of her face. "Hook, line, and sinker," she said.

Harry frowned. "I still don't like it," he said. "Could we really not find any other plan than the one where I'm a woman-abuser?"

Dumbledore chose this moment to interject. "There's absolutely no need to worry," he said brightly. "After all, the important people know you aren't! I assure you it was necessary, Harry. It's a question of psychology."

Harry treated this new-fangled word with the suspicion it deserved. "Psychology," he repeated. "Alright, if you say so."

"You see, Miss Granger has certain – shall we say – inhibitions about individuals who are woman-abusers," Dumbledore explained. "We needed to exploit that."

"She certainly bought it," Ginny said. "Hinted very broadly that something would happen to Harry. Honestly, it took everything I had not to murder her on the spot…"

After a while, the affianced couple withdrew, and Dumbledore remained, smoking thoughtfully on a pipe as he stared at the magnificent view out of his windows.

"Lord Rabastan says that he's got two thousand men waiting in the wings to make up the base of the army," Hermione reported. "That's the limit set by Dumbledore for all the counties, of course, but we'll find it easy enough to circumvent that." She fell silent and looked expectantly at her employer.

She and Narcissa were in the White Room for today's meeting. Done up in shades of cream and pearl, it overlooked the Manor's extensive gardens, where green-liveried workers moved to and fro as they watered the plants. Narcissa herself matched the décor: she was in a clinging, sheer silvery dress beneath which her corset and chemise showed shockingly black. Hermione was in muted blue robes.

The Duchess of Slytherin shifted on her chaise-longue. "What do Bella and Rodolphus think?"

"The Princess Bellatrix favours immediate military engagement," Hermione said. "Fortunately, Lord Gringotts and Lord Rabastan agree with me that secrecy is of the utmost importance."

Truth be told, Hermione was somewhat surprised on the last point. The Princess Bellatrix could generally be counted on to endorse the most violent point of view, and usually her husband Rodolphus Lestrange, fourth Marquess of Gringotts, was of the same mind as her. This time it seemed that both he and his younger brother Lord Rabastan Lestrange were in the mood to be cautious.

Narcissa hummed thoughtfully. "Very well, very well. Tell Rabastan to train just the two thousand men for now; we'll revisit the issue at a later date. Now." She leaned forward, fixing Hermione with a penetrating look. "How are things between you and my son?"

Hermione willed herself not to look away, or blush. "Very good, my lady."

"Has he fucked you yet?"

It was fortunate she had not been drinking anything; she choked and spluttered, then was overtaken by a coughing fit, forced to subside lower into her chair. Narcissa waited patiently until she was recovered, then said, "Well?"

"N-no, my lady," she gasped out.

"Why is that? Not from lack of trying, I'll warrant," the duchess said.

Hermione wondered desperately if there was any means of escaping this situation, then resigned herself to her fate. "I'm… taking things slow, your ladyship. Draco's willing to wait."

This was not strictly true; he had grumbled, and moaned, and tried to cajole her, finishing off his attempts at persuasion by fastening his mouth between her legs. While she had returned the favour, she was obdurate in her determination not to have sex quite yet. She wasn't entirely sure what she was waiting for. Probably some last, still-sane corner of her brain wanted to protect her. But whatever the reason, she had not sealed her position as mistress, and palace gossip was afire at the fact that the princeling lay either with Hermione or alone. He had not (yet, anyway) sought out other companionship, and for that Hermione felt a secret, fiercely possessive gladness.

She abruptly realised that Narcissa was speaking and tuned back in.

"…different around you," she was saying. "We've had to pay off his whores before, and I don't believe he ever gave a good goddamn about them. But you – why, he's had nobody else since he left Eton! The mind boggles."

Hermione, unsure how to respond, remained silent.

"I have your next task," Narcissa said. "You will ensure that your personal scruples do not hamper you in its completion."

Hermione frowned. "My lady, I've always performed to your satisfaction, have I not? I would never permit personal scruples to interfere with my job."

"You never have before, that is true," Narcissa agreed. "However, this is slightly different. I wish Draco to be married, and I want you to help him find a bride."

Hermione stopped breathing. Narcissa was regarding her with benevolent calmness, but there was steel under her clear-eyed gaze. With an effort she spoke.

"He's only eighteen, my lady. Isn't he a little young to be married?"

"Not if we're going to war," she said. "We need allies, as quickly as possible, and a marriage – or the hope of one – is the surest way of securing them. There will be a bride-hunt ball in Draco's honour within the next week. You will draw up the guest list and discuss the attractions of each girl with my son."

"Yes, my lady," Hermione said mechanically.

"You needn't fear anything, child," Narcissa said. Her voice was not unkind. "I told you I had never seen my son like this with anyone before – I do believe he has a tendre for you, and I know he will keep you on after his marriage. Your place in his life – perhaps even his heart – will not change."

She nodded. "May – may I be excused, my lady? I'd better go draw up the list immediately, if I'm only to have a week."

Narcissa waved a hand in regal dismissal. Hermione rose jerkily to her feet and made her way to her own bedroom, seeing nobody and nothing on her way. She sank down onto the edge of her bed.

She had known this was coming, of course. She knew she could not have Draco to herself forever. He must get married and have heirs: things he would not do with a Mudblood. He would keep her on as his mistress, of course. Probably his wife would have her own lovers once she had presented her husband with two sons. That was the pureblood way. Even knowing that, Hermione felt a surge of unreasonable hatred for the faceless girl who would wear the Malfoy betrothal ring while she was relegated to the shadows.

But… there was one thing she could do now, while Draco still belonged to her and her alone.

Moving quickly, Hermione strode out of her room to where she knew the princeling would be at this time of day: his study. Although his parents naturally looked after most of the county, Lucius was beginning to teach his son estate management, and Draco generally spent his morning scowling over the account books. Hermione loved kissing his pout away when she saw him in this mood.

Today, she was going to do more.

She knocked on the wide oaken door of his study. "Come in," his voice said curtly.

She did so. Her heart was pounding, palms slippery, but she felt supremely confident in her decision. This was what she had been waiting for. The study was even the perfect place: located in one of the towers, it was round and cosy, with only a single door and a window so high up that nobody would see them. Books lined the entirety of the circular wall.

Draco was sitting behind the huge wooden desk. He looked up as she entered, eyes sharpening. "Ah, Granger. What a pleasant surprise." He stood lithely. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Hermione squared her shoulders and moved forward. He watched her approach, pale eyebrows climbing higher up his forehead as she skirted around the desk and came to stand in front of him.

"Hermione? Is everything alright?"

She took a deep breath and tilted her head back. "Draco," she said. "Draco." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth.

He reacted with enthusiasm, despite the concern she could sense still lurking in his body. After all, this was unusual behaviour on her part; while she was always responsive when he kissed her, natural inhibitions made her reluctant to initiate. This time, however, she was almost frantic in her aggression. She tore at his finely tailored robes and snaked her hands over the pale, hard muscles of his chest, greedily covering every inch of skin even as her tongue delved into his mouth. He let out a low, ragged moan and pulled away.

"Not that I'm ungrateful, you understand," Draco panted, "but what's brought this on?"

"I'll tell you later," she said shortly. "Just – just fuck me, would you?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "What?"

Hermione sighed impatiently. "Come on, Draco, what's taking you so long? This is what you've been working towards since you first saw me! Well, here I am, ready for the taking. So take me already, alright?"

At her words, he disentangled himself from her fully. "That," he said in irritation, "has got to be the least romantic proposition I've ever received. What is wrong with you, Granger? You can't just show up here and jump on me without some sort of – you know, soft words, build-up! Leave it to a woman to bleed all the romance out of an affair…"

She gazed at him in disbelief. Had she heard properly? Was foulmouthed, rude, arrogant Draco Malfoy berating her for her lack of romance? The very same Draco Malfoy who never spent more than one night with the same girl and ejected them unceremoniously in the mornings?

She opened her mouth to retort, but her gaze fell on the heavy Malfoy signet ring on his right hand. Her stomach lurched uncomfortably. Soon, there was going to be a wedding ring adorning those long, slim fingers, forever signalling his divided loyalties. She didn't want to waste time with petty squabbles.

"Your mother," she said abruptly, "is planning to hold a bride-hunt ball for you next week."

He went still. "What?"

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm to be in charge of the guest list. I knew you would marry at some point, of course, but I didn't realise it would be so soon…"

"I suppose it's to secure an alliance," he said distastefully. "How unpleasant." He scrutinised her, expression disturbingly knowing. "Is that what brought this all on, Granger? You needn't worry, you know. You have nothing to be jealous about. I'll have your place as my mistress written into the marriage settlements."

"I'm not jealous," Hermione objected, not entirely truthfully. "I just decided that I want to have you now, while you're still all mine. Is that such a crime?"

He grinned wolfishly. "Now that I know the cause? Not at all. But I'm not having you for the first time in my bloody study, Granger, honestly. Come here. We're going to my bedroom."

Ignoring her scandalised protests, he swung her bridal-style into his arms and shouldered out of the room.

The next week passed for Hermione in a haze of Draco: sex with him, sleeping with him, sitting and arguing with him, preparing the guest list for him…

After that initial surge, her jealousy had dissipated. She was a practical girl, and she looked at the situation practically. Of course he had to be married. It would do wonders for Slytherin's fledgling army.

It helped that it was apparent her own position would never be jeopardised by his impending nuptials. Draco, to put it vulgarly, could not get enough of her; not content to limit himself to the night-time hours, he frequently sought her out in the daytime too, flipping her skirts up and screwing her over her desk, or against a bookshelf, or on the sofa. More than once, he would begin nibbling at her neck in front of his parents or the servants, forcing Hermione to transfer them rapidly to the nearest private space. She rapidly acquired the subtle emanation of languidness that only a constantly well-fucked woman could exude. Narcissa frequently commented that she had never seen her son so smitten, and even Lucius regarded her with a faint stirring of interest in his cold grey eyes.

The day of the bride-hunt ball dawned bright and clear. Hermione yawned and, dropping a kiss onto a sleeping Draco's cheek, rolled away from him. He had a tendency to wrap himself around her like an octopus while they slept, and she had to be careful not to wake him as she untangled their limbs. If he woke up he would undoubtedly want her again, and while she would have appreciated having her mind taken off the coming ordeal, she was dutiful enough to know that they didn't have time for sex this morning.

She was cautiously excited for the night's entertainment. A wide selection of suitable girls from Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and even Hufflepuff had been gathered. Gryffindor of course was off-limits; Draco had loudly proclaimed his conviction that all Gryffindor girls were ugly hags.

"Except you, of course," he had added as an afterthought, dropping a kiss onto her nose.

Smiling at the memory, Hermione padded into the adjoining bathroom. Every morning it was a house-servant's job to fill the palatial tub with water heated in the kitchens. She slid into its still-steaming warmth and emerged half an hour later, her light brown skin flushed. Today was a special occasion: although she had no intention of dancing with any of the noblemen invited, she would certainly be present in her role as spymistress. The black-and-gold silk dress robes she slipped on were suitably fashionable without drawing any unnecessary attention to herself.

Leaving Draco to snore away in his bedroom – as a consummate pureblood, he rarely rose before noon – Hermione settled herself in her office to check the guest list one more time. Though there were scores of eligible girls, she and Draco had narrowed down the list to five.

- The Honourable Miss Horatia Slughorn

- Lady Astoria Greengrass

- Lady Leta Flint

- The Honourable Miss Belvina Burke

- Lady Lucretia Yaxley

All were blessed with wealth, high breeding, and (as the careful perusal of portraits had assured) beauty. Upon being entreated by Hermione to express a preference for one of them, Draco had irritably told her that for all he cared Hermione could pick his bride for him. Though secretly pleased by this further proof of his absolute indifference to the matter of his marriage, she had severely warned him to behave himself. She personally favoured the Lady Astoria, a sleek blonde whose father was the powerful Earl of Dungeon, but she was determined not to prejudice Draco and had kept her mouth shut.

The rest of the day was spent carrying out various errands of Narcissa's. Most important among these was the need to secrete the Slytherin spies, known as Inquisitors, everywhere throughout the Manor. Though Hermione was their chief, there was a host of underlings who reported to her, and she was kept busy working out plans and positions for them. She did not see Draco. Though she knew that he was getting ready for the ball, she felt a tiny wave of disappointment.

It vanished when she returned to her room in the early evening to do her hair. Lying on her bed was a small black box. She opened it warily; there was no telling what could be inside.

The answer turned out to be an emerald-and-diamond necklace, on a bed of black velvet.

Hermione's breath caught. Her fingers trembling, she reached inside and plucked it out. The piece of jewellery was surprisingly light for something that had no doubt cost more than her entire wardrobe: it was delicate, silvery, and possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

There was no note, but she didn't need one. Only one person would have given her a gift of this magnitude.

Shakily she fastened it around her neck. It fit close, like a collar: she had always known that Draco had a proprietary streak a mile wide, but this screamed Property of Draco Malfoy like nothing else she had witnessed to date. Hermione was independent-minded enough that she felt a slight qualm at accepting such a blatant symbol of ownership, but she had to admit the sentiment – that there was someone who actually wanted responsibility for her, wanted to look after her – was not a displeasing one, for someone who had spent her entire life alone. The qualm died a rapid death.

The gong rang out to signal seven of the clock. The guests would be arriving now. Tearing her gaze away from the reflection of the necklace in the mirror, Hermione hurried down to where an assortment of Inquisitors was waiting for last-minute instructions for her. Draco and his parents would be in the entrance hall, waiting to greet their guests. Supper would be served at half-past seven, and the dancing would commence at eight in the ballroom. She had people posted throughout the entire Manor, however: Hermione had a shrewd suspicion that more than one person would attempt to take advantage of their host's hospitality.

Her suspicion bore fruit several hours later.

It was nine of the clock. The dancing was beginning to get underway; the hall was filled with laughing, chattering, swaying guests. Hermione had just made an unobtrusive sweep of the dancefloor. She was forcing herself not to stare at Draco, who was resplendent in robes of stark black that set off his alabaster skin to perfection. They had not exchanged words so far tonight, but his gaze had dropped to the necklace as soon as he had seen her. He kept glancing at her, as though to assure himself she was still wearing it, and it seared her every time.

Currently he was dancing with Lady Lucretia Yaxley, expression suffused with boredom. Having assured herself that nothing demanded her immediate attention, Hermione leaned against a wall in a corner of the ballroom and allowed her eyes to trace the supple grace of his movements. She was unpleasantly interrupted when one of her spies meandered up to her.

"Ma'am," Dolores Umbridge muttered through a pleasant smile. "Immediate presence required. There's trouble."

Umbridge was a plump, cheerful-faced old woman whose smiling countenance hid a razor sharpness that made her one of Hermione's best Inquisitors. She was dressed in the dark grey of a house-servant, ensuring that the eyes of the pureblood guests slid over her as though she did not exist.

Hermione smiled back brightly for the benefit of any onlookers. "What's wrong?" she asked in an undertone.

There was an unusually grim look on Umbridge's face. "It's – well, you'll just have to come with me. I can't explain here."

Hermione darted a lightning-fast glance at the Malfoys one last time to reassure herself that they, at least, were safe. Draco was still dancing. Narcissa was giggling by the refreshments table with the Marchioness of Ilvermorny; out of respect for her guests, she was for once wearing a dress that did not bare her breasts. Lucius was ostensibly in conversation with Lord Burke, but his attention was on his wife, and Hermione knew from the arctic expression on his face that he was immeasurably bored with his companion. It made his resemblance to Draco sharper.

"Very well, lead on," she said, turning away from them and following Umbridge out of the ballroom.

Once they were out of sight of the guests, Umbridge sped up until she was almost running. Hermione followed suit. "What is it?" she said sharply.

"Rosier caught an intruder attempting to break into the lordship's private study," Umbridge reported. "He's got her under armed guard in the Red Room, awaiting your arrival."

Excitement rushed through Hermione's blood. A Gryffindor spy, no doubt, smuggled in to see what their army preparations were. Hadn't she known something would occur tonight? Hadn't she sensed it?

"I see," she said calmly, masking her inner exhilaration. "In that case, you're dismissed. Return to your post."

Disappointment flared in Umbridge's eyes, but she curtseyed and trotted off. Smiling faintly at the other woman's ill-concealed sadistic streak, Hermione hurried straight to the Red Room.

It was locked, of course. "Rosier, it's me," she said through the door. He opened it immediately, revealing a small chamber hung in ruby and scarlet.

"Ma'am!"

She stepped past him. Her gaze immediately fell on the chair in the middle of the room, to which a young woman had been tied with rope. She blinked.

"Miss Chang?"

The Honourable Cho Chang, only daughter of the Ravenclaw Baron Fenghuang, gazed back at her icily.

"Mudblood," she said.

AN: PLEASE READ!

I want to make it clear that, whatever it looks like now, there WILL be a happily every after for Dramione which you will all be satisfied with! I chickened out of writing a proper sex scene because I never have before... maybe I'll add it to the chapter later though if I become more confident in my writing ability.

This chapter is dedicated to the-girl-who-loves-adventures. I'm updating really regularly, so I'd LOVE it if you guys could keep me inspired me with reviews, please!

And to any other Muslims out there, Eid Mubarak!