Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to JK Rowling. I write to learn. No money is being made.
Note: I attempted to use the French language in this chapter, which I wrote when I was living in France. I must have been pretty confident that I used French right, but now I'm not so sure. If you speak French, I beg you to correct my usage! Thank you in advance!
Heavy Lies the Crown
Chapter 25 - - The Misadventures of Draco Malfoy
- - -
Draco reviewed the packing list he'd made, comparing the items he'd checked off with what was in his suitcase. Without knowing how long he would be gone, or where he'd be going, it was difficult to predict what he'd need. Granted, he could easily return to the Manor to retrieve anything he'd forgotten, but he also wanted to be able to go in an instant.
He had plenty of clothes for a variety of climates, as well as other supplies. What he was debating about was which pieces of his and Hermione's investigation to bring along.
With a sigh, Draco sat on the bed beside the suitcase. It was Sunday afternoon, and it felt like midnight. Friday night and all day Saturday had been spent with his father, going over any and every detail about the company either of them could think of.
Neither of them mentioned Lucius' request, but Draco had thought about it increasingly as the weekend wore on. Though he hadn't expected his father to embrace his responsibilities with Muggles, he had hoped he would at least try. On top of that, the fact that he'd begged Draco to stay on … the more he thought about it, the angrier Draco got.
During Lucius' imprisonment, he had tried not to be angry with his father. Not only would it have done no good, but it wasn't his father's plan to drop him in the middle of the company with no training or instruction whatsoever. However, Draco wasn't perfect, and during especially trying times, he allowed himself moments of resentment.
Through it all, he'd tried to remember that his father cared for him. He had always trusted that his father was doing what was best for his family. From the start of the war, Lucius had wanted his family to be prominent in the Dark Lord's inner circle to insure the continuation of their elite status. Then, when things didn't go according to plan, he wanted his family name restored. Finally, he wanted his family alive, above all else. His instructions before his arrest were simple: take care of his mother and the family as best he could.
To learn that Lucius himself had not followed his own instructions and allowed his son to be blackmailed and suffer the hardships that accompanied it had deeply hurt Draco. That the man had sanctioned a much smaller amount, one that would barely have been felt, was beside the point. Why couldn't he have simply asked Draco to provide for his uncles? Why was all the secrecy and deceit necessary?
Those were just some of the questions Draco hoped to answer.
The fireplace flared, and Draco felt a thrill of excitement; only one person ever came through his closet room.
"Draco?" she called.
"In here," he responded, standing and moving toward the other room.
Hermione met him halfway, and his insides twisted delightedly upon seeing her. It had been far too long since he'd spoken with her, much less let his gaze fall upon her pretty form.
"Hey," she said with a shy smile.
Draco smoothly wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. Though she had something in her hands, she returned the gesture, pressing herself against him. He sighed contentedly as much of the anxiety he'd been feeling melted away. Then he pulled back, tipped her chin, and kissed her.
Merlin, had it really been a week since he'd last tasted her?
She responded with enthusiasm, using her free hand to grip his robes, holding him in place. Not that he had any intention of moving. The way she fit against him, the way she felt in his arms …. He couldn't imagine her not being there, not existing in his world.
When things reached the breaking point, she softened the kiss and allowed space to exist between them.
Draco groaned, not ready to be done, and pulled her back.
"Draco," she breathed heavily.
Growling, he kissed her once more, demanding, punishing, thrilling. Knowing she had something on her mind kept him from letting things progress, and soon he released her as quickly as he'd taken her, holding her upright as she stumbled under the sudden loss of support. Oh, he'd just begun savoring in the delights she offered, and he wouldn't rest until he had catalogued each and every morsel in detail.
Her eyes were wide and beautiful as they flicked back and forth between his.
"Hello," he said, his voice lower than usual. He felt her straighten up then and released her, nodding toward his suitcase. "I think I'm nearly finished."
Hermione took a few deep breaths before speaking, and it pleased him immensely to see the effect he had on her.
Finally, she seemed to have collected herself. "I brought you something."
His gaze went to her outstretched hands, holding a soft, grey, folded garment. With a frown, he accepted the item. "What is it?"
"Harry's cloak," she replied, her voice strangely hollow. "I … convinced him to let me lend it to you."
Draco was immediately suspicious, but didn't want her to know. "Why?"
She shrugged. "In case you find yourself wishing you could be invisible during your research."
Running his hands along the smooth fabric, he said, "Thank you. I'm sure this will come to good use. What did you say when Potter asked you why you wanted this?"
"I told him I couldn't say," she replied nonchalantly. "He didn't ask any more questions."
"Really?" Draco quirked an eyebrow.
"Yes. Harry trusts me." As he packed the cloak in his suitcase, Hermione sat on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest. "Where will you be staying?"
"In the flat my parents own on the Champs Èlysèes," he replied. At her questioning look, he smiled. "My mother preferred having somewhere to go 'home' to after her days of endless shopping."
"A sizable flat?" she questioned. He nodded. "So your parents own a flat on the most famous and desirable street in Europe. Surely that would have brought significant relief to the crunch you've felt over these years."
Draco chuckled. "Trust me, it crossed my mind. However, selling the property would have alerted my mother that something was wrong. It was a last resort, if things got really bad."
"And you're going to the bank tomorrow?"
He nodded. "I have a nine o'clock appointment with the bank manager. I will learn what I can, and go from there."
Hermione smiled and ran a hand over the shirts packed on top. "When do you leave?" she asked softly.
"Just under an hour," he replied. "I only have a few more things to pack."
"I'll help," she offered happily, snatching his list off the bed.
When everything was gathered, and they had decided on what Draco should bring from their previous investigation, Hermione shrunk the suitcases and put them in a small, traveling bag.
"Thanks." Draco smiled at her, then set the bag by the door. "I'll be shutting down the Floo while I'm gone. I don't want my parents getting curious."
"That makes sense," she said, crossing her arms and walking to the bed. She stared at it for a few moments, then turned around and leaned against one of the posters. Very quietly, she added, "Remember what I told you."
Draco clasped his hands behind his back and slowly walked to where she stood. He kept his eyes locked with hers until he was right in front of her, then he rested his hands on her shoulders. "What did you tell me?"
"A-about what to do if … if—"
He smirked, then leaned down and kissed her temple. She drew in a shaky breath, and he rested his head against hers. "I remember. There's nothing to worry about."
"Draco, I'm serious."
He was surprised at the strength of her voice; he could feel her pulse, and it was racing. He started kissing down her neck, pulling aside the bulky robes she wore at Hogwarts. "I am too, Hermione."
She moaned as he suckled her pulse point, and her resistance faltered.
"Wait," she said, just when he started to unbutton her robes. "We can't do this every time we see each other."
"Why not?" he whispered in her ear with a smirk.
"B-because," she stuttered as he reached her collarbone. "We have work to do."
"I'm leaving for Paris in half an hour," he argued. "Don't you want to give me a proper send-off?"
She swallowed hard, allowing him to remove her outer robes. Underneath, she wore a simple skirt and silk blouse, the buttons of which he made the target of his next attack.
"I … I do, yes," she assured him, grabbing his hands as they moved to the third button. Then she lifted her eyes to meet his. "I just need to be certain you understand."
"Hermione." He sighed, sweeping a lock of hair away from her face. "I understand perfectly. I have no desire to be with anyone but you. Why don't you believe me?"
"I believe you," she insisted.
"If something changes, you'll be the first to know." He lowered his head to kiss her, stopping a hairsbreadth from her lips.
She nodded, closing the miniscule distance between them.
Draco wrapped his arms around her and lifted her onto the bed, then set about working through the rest of the buttons. "I wish you could come with me."
Hermione sighed contentedly. "I'm going to miss you too." At his outraged expression, she laughed. "You'd better hurry. Your Portkey will activate whether you're ready or not."
He chuckled predatorily. "Oh, I'll be ready. And when I'm through with you, you won't be able to move for an hour."
ooo
Draco let out a long breath as the door closed heavily behind him. He was relieved to finally be at his destination. The silence filling the room was relaxing, a welcome change from the oppressive silence in the Manor.
The fifth-floor, nineteenth century flat was mostly dark; the foyer and living rooms were lit with moonlight and streetlights streaming through the high windows. If he strained just a little, he could hear laughter from the street below.
He'd just come from the Portkey office—after stopping for dinner, a few groceries, and dessert in St. Germain—and was already exhausted. Draco shrugged off his cloak and hung it in the coat closet, then pulled at his tie, walking further into the flat.
He had spent many nights in the Paris flat, each one focused solely on one thing: meeting his blackmailer's demands. Despite his best efforts, some of the memories flooded back.
And he missed Hermione. With a frustrated groan, Draco sat on the bed. Not even a full month together, and he was completely lost to her. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing, or if it was even totally accurate. What if his feelings were the result of mere circumstance? He had been attracted to her from the first time he saw her, but … what if the way he felt about her was manufactured? What if it was the result of having had no real relationship with a woman since Daphne? What if he'd grabbed onto the first woman who'd shown any interest in him beyond the physical, the first woman he'd allowed that close? Would he have latched on to any woman under the same circumstances? Was Hermione special to him? Or was she just … there? Did he really think he loved her?
Someone dropped a glass outside, spurring laughter and cries of delight. They broke Draco from his spiraling thoughts.
Yes, he did think he loved her. Even though he knew it was far too soon for such deep feelings. He would have to focus on enjoying being with her and not let himself think too much. Thinking about her would get him in trouble. Thinking about her, her smile, her strength, her courage … her skin in the moonlight ….
Draco growled and threw the nearest thing he could grab across the room. Something crashed against the wall, and glass shattered. Draco glanced down to see a picture frame, face down, on the floor. He flicked his wand and the mess flew into the rubbish bin.
He needed to be careful where Hermione was concerned, else he'd wind up with his heart broken. He'd already fallen too quickly, while she was still getting over Charlie.
NO.
He didn't want to think about her ex.
A glance at the clock made him groan; quarter to midnight. He needed to sleep in order to be fresh for his morning appointment. Draco stripped off his clothing and climbed into bed, staring at the pillow beside his. Then he rolled over, facing the wall instead. But the pillow was still there, taunting him.
Draco bunched his own pillow, trying to get comfortable. He lay for a few minutes, forcing himself to breathe regularly. Because there was nothing to get worked up about. It wasn't like she spent the night with him on a regular basis. In fact, there had just been the one night. So it wasn't as if he was missing her presence beside him.
He stared at the wall in frustration, then turned and threw the pillow across the room. Smirking, he repositioned himself in the middle of the bed and crossed his arms behind his head. He was alone for the first time … in his life.
The room suddenly took on a different feel. He was alone, not a single soul depending on him, waiting for him. He could miss the meeting the next day and no one would be affected—just him. He could sleep for three days, order takeaway, not leave the flat for a week. The only person who would care was Hermione. She would say he deserved it, and maybe he did.
Could he really, truly let go of everything? Maybe … but he wasn't entirely free until he solved the mystery he had recently uncovered.
And … knew his feelings for Hermione were not just circumstance. Merlin, somehow, she just got to him. She understood him. She cared about him. She filled a hole inside him so completely, he wasn't sure she could be removed without leaving permanent damage.
Draco sighed and got out of bed, padded to the wall where he'd thrown the pillow, and picked it up. He squeezed it, punched it, fluffed it, then sighed. After glancing out the window, he returned to the bed and got in, clasping the pillow to his chest as he tried to fall asleep.
ooo
The bank was located in the twelfth arrondissement, near Gare de Lyon, one of the city's many train stations. As he stood before the seemingly abandoned building, Draco looked for the broken cross-hatches he had to push in order to gain admittance to the building.
When he saw what he wanted, he followed the directions and took a deep breath before stepping through the jagged glass door … into a bright, modern bank lobby.
Draco went to the front desk, gave his name, and told the woman he had an appointment with Christophe Peronnet.
She nodded brusquely and led him into a back room. "You may seet," she said in a heavy accent.
"Merci," he replied. She left, and Draco glanced around the room. There were no windows, only a long table and filing cabinets lining one wall. It was the kind of room you take people when you don't want others to hear their screams. Perhaps it was also the kind of room where underhanded exchanges took place. Regardless, he sat in one of the metal chairs and waited.
After a few minutes, the door opened, admitting a short, bald man with a moustache. "Monsieur Malfoy." He approached, hand extended.
"Monsieur Peronnet," Draco replied, standing to shake.
"What can I do for you zis time?" he asked, clasping his hands in front of him. "It must be something important for you to make the trip all the way here."
"I would like to discuss obtaining further information from you," he replied, returning to his seat.
Peronnet nodded. "What kind of information? If I remember correctly, last time I provided you with a list of names, dates, and amounts, yes?"
"Yes." Draco fought the smirk that threatened. "You have an excellent memory."
"Well," said Christophe, opening his hands, palms out, to Draco. "In my business, is good to have good memory."
"Agreed. This time … I would like information on a specific series of deposits." Draco fingered the hem of his robes. "I understand this is a delicate request, and I'm adequately prepared."
Peronnet eyed him for a few moments before slowly pulling out the second metal chair and sitting. "I did a bit of research on you after our last meeting, Monsieur Malfoy. What exactly do you need?"
Twenty minutes and two thousand Galleons later, Draco and Peronnet were pouring over the records from when Rodolphus made his first deposits.
"'ere we go," said Peronnet, removing a few sheets of parchment from his stack. "Your uncle, under ze pseudonym Jean Valjean, was here in September, November, and December of 1997."
Draco removed the notes he and Hermione had taken on the information they'd obtained before. "Yes, I knew that."
"'e made three deposits of one hundred sousand Galleons each. We took a percentage of each deposit, of course." Peronnet raised an eyebrow.
"Exactly?" Draco asked, motioning for the pages. He scanned it until he found Valjean's name. Beneath the name was listed the three dates and the three deposits. He returned the documents to Peronnet. "Now how do we find out where the money went?"
"Zhat part could be tricky," the man said. "Ve can find when ze money went out, but not necessarily where."
"Whatever information you can find."
Peronnet nodded and handed Draco a stack. "Look for account number 47-1288."
Half an hour later, Draco was cursing how wizards were way behind Muggles when it came to technology. With a computer, the exercise would have taken mere minutes. He was ready to give up, or at least take a break, when he found a list of numbers starting with the number 47.
"I might have something," he said, sitting up straighter. "What do these numbers mean? The forty-seven?"
"It's a code for ze type of individual. Forty-seven means someone involved in opening ze account was suspicious of your uncle," Peronnet explained. "It could be something he did, something he said …." He paused, flipping through another stack until he found what he was looking for. "Ah. Voila. Margot, who no longer works here, noted a strange scar on his arm."
Draco took a deep breath. "Did she describe the scar?" He didn't really need the answer.
"No." Peronnet frowned.
"Here it is," said Draco. "The money sat in the account for six months. In that time, three transfers were made to another account at this bank, for twenty thousand Galleons each." The number left a sour taste in his mouth. "Every two months," he added, more to himself.
If he had any hopes that what he would find might contradict what he suspected about his father, they were completely dashed.
Ten thousand Galleons a month would have been barely missed, Lucius had said.
"After that, the balance was removed and the account closed," Draco finished with a sigh. "The other account number was 16-9774."
Peronnet went to a filing cabinet with drawers labeled '16'. "Okay. D'accord. We do keep records of zhese sings. Especially on zhe forty-sevens." He removed a folder and returned to the table.
"Why don't you keep all information on the account together?" Draco asked, again marveling at the lack of efficiency of wizarding systems. "You've got pieces here, pieces there …."
"We organize by type of information," Peronnet explained. "Deposits here, account data there, withdrawals somewhere else."
Draco tapped the table with a quill. Getting the wizarding world to trust, use, and understand Muggle technology wasn't likely to happen, but they desperately needed better organizational methods. He shook his head; he couldn't think about that now.
"So what does that say?" he asked.
Peronnet opened the folder. "Zhe money was transferred to zhe account of a Miss Cassiopeia White."
Draco frowned. "Who is Cassiopeia White?"
The manager folded his hands and was silent in thought for a few moments. "Zhis is beyond what you asked, Monsieur Malfoy."
"How much?" he asked, without hesitation.
"What is it you wish to know?" Peronnet asked.
Draco shrugged. "I want to know why this girl received part of the money my uncle deposited in his account here. If she knows him, or can help me find him …."
"She does much business here," Peronnet explained. "We must maintain a certain level of discretion. You understand?"
"I do," said Draco, frustrated. "I have to find this money. I mean no trouble to the girl, I assure you."
Peronnet sighed, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Another sousand."
"Done." Draco removed the required amount, ten hundred-Galleons coins, and laid them on the table.
After pocketing the gold, Peronnet continued. "Mademoiselle White … I am not sure she will be able to 'elp you. She is eleven years old. She has had an account wiss us since she was born."
Draco was at a loss. "I … I don't …. What does my uncle's money have to do with this girl? Who is she?"
Peronnet's lips thinned. "Someone opened an account for her when she was born, and don't ask. Whoever it was paid generously for anonymity."
"You don't know?" Draco asked, surprised.
"No. I wasn't 'ere zhat day."
Rodolphus had deposited the blackmail money in an account, then had sixty thousand Galleons transferred to the account of a little girl. So far, Draco wasn't uncovering a massive plot to resurrect the Death Eaters.
"What happened to the money next?" Draco asked.
"Zhe money is used to fund the girl's education in zhe city," Peronnet replied. "Zhere is a special school in zhe city for young girls. Zhe money goes zhere. A woman who works at zhe school gets zhe money."
"Where is the school? Do you know the name of the woman?" Draco asked, more confused than anything.
"I can give you zhe address …." Peronnet threw up his hands. "If I can have your word zhat you won't reveal my involvement."
"Of course. She'll never know," Draco assured him.
With a great show of resignation, he nodded, then scribbled out an address. "Not a word."
Draco shook his head and tucked the note in his pocket. "Merci, Monsieur."
ooo
The old building was four stories and looked slightly richer than the buildings surrounding it. The molding around the doors and windows had more detail, the carvings more intricate. It was a marvelous building, Draco decided as he approached the front door.
He'd done a little research into the school after leaving the bank. L'École de Paris Poise et de l'éducation was a high-class, prestigious, Muggle boarding school for young girls. Rich families applied to have their children attend the school, and the girls lived there year-round. They were taught their basic studies, as well as etiquette, manners, and gentile crafts such as knitting, baking, and weaving.
Inside, marble floors and a giant chandelier greeted him in the foyer. Ahead of him were a staircase and a hallway leading to a large window, through which Draco could see uniformed girls playing in a manicured yard. To his right was an open doorway, leading to a reception room. A matronly woman sat behind a desk, clicking away on a computer keyboard.
She looked up when the front door closed. "Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment puis-je vous aider?"
Draco stepped through the doorway. "Parlez vous Anglais?"
"Un peu," she replied.
"Sophia LeRue?" he asked. "Is she here?"
The woman frowned. "Sophia? Um, oui. Un moment. Elle parle Anglais."
Draco nodded. He'd cast a translation charm before leaving the flat that morning, but didn't want to broadcast the fact. He wanted to use any advantage he could.
While he waited for Sophia, Draco examined the front room. Behind the desk was a bookshelf covered with what looked like school books. A window faced the street, and underneath it was a low table with two books sitting open. One contained pictures of the girls in the school, and the other was a guest book, signed by visitors to the school. Curious, he wondered if Rodolphus had signed it, and started flipping through the pages.
"May I help you?" said a woman.
Draco spun around, letting the page fall closed. Standing in the door was a young, demure woman about his age. Her straight brown hair was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head.
"Are you Sophia?" he asked.
"I am," she replied, her gaze drifting to the guest book. "Would you follow me?" she asked.
"Okay." He followed her through a side door of the reception room, into a smaller office with a sofa, two chairs, and a fireplace.
"'Ave a seat, s'il vout plaîs." Sophia sat smoothly in one of the chairs.
"Thank you." Draco smiled and took the other chair, so they were facing each other. He didn't speak right away; he could sense that the woman was nervous in his presence and wanted to exploit that, if possible.
"'Ave you been in zhe city long?" she asked, crossing her ankles.
"I just arrived last night, but this is not my first trip to Paris." He glanced around the room, noting the bland paintings on the walls and the generic books on the shelves.
"Why did you want to see me?" Now she fidgeted with her hands, seemingly unsure with what to do with them.
"My name is Draco Malfoy," he began. She flinched slightly at the name, and he frowned. "Does that bother you?"
With a nervous smile, she shook her head. "I 'ave 'eard your name before."
Draco didn't want her frightened; he needed her to talk. So he changed tactics. He smiled, and she shifted in her seat, making him smile even more. "Sophia—may I call you that?"
She nodded brusquely.
"Sophia. I'm looking for someone." When she paled drastically, his smile faltered for an instant. Then he retrieved a picture of his uncle from a pocket. "Have you seen this man?"
Sophia let out her breath, then took the picture to examine it. "I do not sink so, Monsieur."
"Please. Call me Draco." He brushed her hand as he took back the photo.
"Monsieur … Draco." She smiled uneasily. "I am sorry I cannot 'elp you."
She started to stand, but Draco relaxed further in his seat. "Perhaps you still can. Did he ever give you any money?"
Again, she paled. "I-I don't know that man."
"For the care of Cassiopeia White?" he added nonchalantly.
She gasped. "Comment sait-il? Pourquoi me demande-t-il cela? Que veut-il?"
"Pardon?" he asked, knowing he had hit upon something. "Does Miss White attend school here?"
Sophia seemed to struggle a moment before straightening her back and jutting out her chin. "Cassiopeia lives 'ere, oui. She 'as been 'ere her whole life."
Draco's eyes widened. "Really? Since she was a baby?"
"Oui. Sometimes we accept girls who 'ave no parents and raise them 'ere." Her confidence seemed entirely renewed.
"I have seen your tuition rates, Sophia," he said, frowning as though confused. "How can a girl with no parents possibly afford to attend this prestigious school?"
"Our students come to us under a number of circumstances, Monsieur Malfoy," she explained. "If a girl's parents leave her wiss enough funds, and zhe desire for her to attend 'ere, we are more zhan 'appy to accommodate zheir wishes."
"Miss White is one such girl," he concluded, leaning back.
Sophia nodded primly.
Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The girl … was interesting, but not what he was looking for. The bulk of the money went elsewhere. "So you never met this man?" He flicked the picture in his hand.
Sophia met his gaze and held it. "No, Monsieur Malfoy. I 'ave never met zhis man."
"All right. Thank you, Sophia." He stood, knowing he needed to be alone in order to think through everything he'd learned. He wasn't sure if he believed Sophia—her behavior throughout their interview was quite strange—but he would get no further information from her. "I appreciate your time."
She smiled sweetly. "It was my pleasure. I am sorry you didn't find what you were looking for."
"Me too. Au Revoir."
Draco bowed slightly and left the room. He headed through the reception room and was about to leave the school, when the front door opened. A woman entered, leading a line of girls.
In French, she told them to head to their rooms before their next class, and thanked them for behaving well on their trip to the Louvre. The girls looked to be about twelve, and they obeyed the school marm without a word. When they had passed, Draco left.
ooo
There were a few voices nagging in the back of Draco's mind as he walked toward the nearest metro stop, and he didn't want to think about them. Instead of taking the metro back to the flat, he rode it to Châtelet and walked leisurely across the Seine by way of Ile de la Cité and the Petit Pont.
He then made his way into the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore and up the stairs, to the room where the portal into magical Paris was housed. All he wanted was to relax. Merlin, he needed a firewhisky.
La Balai D'or was the more upscale pub in the Place de Magique. Draco took a deep breath before entering. It wasn't even dinner yet, and he just wanted to bury his head in a box of sand and sleep for a week.
"Bon soir, Monsieur," said the bartender.
"Bon soir," he returned, sitting heavily in a bar stool.
"Que voulez-vous?" said the man.
Draco gazed over the line of bottles on the wall. "Firewhisky, s'il vout plais."
The bartender turned to fill his order, and Draco scowled at the countertop. When he had the beverage, he took a sip from it, enjoying the feel of the burn.
Half an hour and two drinks later, others started trickling into the pub. Draco paid them no attention; he tuned out the constant buzz of French, thankful he couldn't understand a word being spoken since he'd ended the translation charm.
Then someone sat down beside him. "Malfoy!"
Draco looked up, startled, to discover Ron Weasley watching him. "Weasley. What are you doing here?"
"I'm staying with Bill." He shrugged. "To help Fleur. Remember?"
"Oh. Right." He nodded.
"How about you?" Ron signaled the barkeep and ordered a drink.
"Um … business," Draco replied, finishing his drink.
Ron chuckled. "Business, huh? Why didn't you mention it last week?"
"That's none of your—"
Ron turned in his seat and Draco felt the tip of a wand press against his chest. Surprised, he did nothing but gape at the other man.
"If you think you're going to hurt Hermione, you had better think again," Ron sneered.
If Draco hadn't already been so down, so confused, so desperate to think about anything other than the sodding, he would have snapped Ron's wand in half and bloodied his nose. Instead, he just glared. "You had better point that thing elsewhere, Weasley."
"I've been watching you for ten minutes, and in that time, six witches have approached you."
Draco rolled his eyes and pushed the wand away. "And how many of those did I spare an instant of my time? For Merlin's sake, if you really wanted to hex me, you would've already done so." He raised his arm, motioning for another drink.
"So you aren't here on some … scandalous rendezvous?" Ron demanded, still holding onto his wand.
Shaking his head, Draco said, "No. Gods, no, Weasley. I would never do that to her."
"Do you swear on all the gold in all of your vaults that you aren't going to hurt Hermione?" Ron asked, his tone now light.
Draco groaned. "Of course I'm going to hurt her, as much as I hate it. It's a part of the whole relationship title. Plus, I'm not exactly the nicest bloke. But." He turned to look at Ron. "I am not going to cheat on her. Not now, not ever."
Ron stared at him for a few moments, trying to make Draco squirm. However, Draco had sat across the table from Voldemort himself; he could take Ron Weasley.
Eventually, Ron smiled. "Good to hear. You had dinner yet?"
"No," Draco replied.
"Want to come to Bill's?" the red-head asked.
Draco almost spat out his drink. "What?"
"You heard me," Ron said jovially. "Fleur's supposedly cooking, and I've tasted her offerings at Christmas. It's not a good thing. She mentioned having other guests there—don't make me face that by myself."
Draco groaned. Was this really happening? Ron Weasley inviting him over for a family dinner? All that remained was for him to invite Potter and Weasley over for a tea party. On the other hand, he could avoid thinking a while longer, and maybe get a few more ounces of alcohol in him if he was lucky. If he got sloshed, he could put off the mental exercise for the entire day.
"Sure," he agreed with a sigh. "Why not?"
"Excellent!" cried Ron, slapping down a couple of Galleons. "The drinks are on me. Let's go."
ooo
Standing outside Bill and Fleur Weasley's flat with Ron, Draco suddenly wanted to bolt.
"Why did I agree to this?" he groaned.
Ron knocked and grinned at Draco. "Because Hermione will jump you when she hears about this?"
Draco's laughed, harder than he could remember doing recently. "That's certainly an added perk."
Bill opened the door then, smiling at his brother. "Hey, Ron." Then he saw Draco and frowned, turning to Ron and then back. "Draco. Ron, I didn't know you'd be bringing anyone."
Draco tensed.
Ron just shrugged. "Fleur said she's having friends over, and I dunno. Didn't see the harm."
Bill admitted them, though he was clearly reluctant. Draco wanted to leave, but the door was already closed.
"You might have asked," Bill muttered. "Fleur's having a friend over … to set up with Charlie."
Ron groaned. "Oh, bollocks! Really?"
Draco quickly added up the pairs: Bill and Fleur, Charlie and French friend … Ron and him. Hmm.
"Yes," Bill gritted out. He glanced at Draco. "I don't know if this is a good idea."
"Why?" asked Ron, brow furrowed.
Bill stuffed his hands in his pockets and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted, however, by someone walking into the front room from the back of the flat.
"Bill, Fleur wants to know …." Charlie Weasley trailed off when his eyes landed on Draco. Then they narrowed. "Malfoy."
Absolutely perfect. "Charlie," Draco returned, all of his senses heightened.
Ron was glancing from one brother to the other, and then to Draco. After what felt like an eternity, he burst out laughing, just as someone knocked on the door.
Bill glared at Ron and answered it. "Bon soir, Juliette," he said, bending to kiss Fleur's friends on each cheek.
Juliette entered the room with a blazing smile, and Draco was momentarily stunned by how beautiful she was. Long, straight chocolate brown hair fell halfway down her back, and her light blue eyes were striking against her olive skin.
Bill indicated each man in turn. "Juliette, this is my brother Ron, his friend Draco, and my other brother, Charlie."
Juliette beamed at each one, awkwardly shaking hands with Ron and Charlie. Draco naturally greeted her the way Bill had, in the traditional French greeting, raising the eyebrows of everyone else.
"Fleur!" called Bill.
"Darling! Would you 'elp me, please?" called Fleur from the kitchen. Bill excused himself and left.
Draco could feel the tension in the air, and it almost made him laugh. Etiquette dictated that someone speak to Juliette, and since neither Weasley appeared interested, he felt he needed to step up.
"So, Juliette, how do you know Fleur?" he asked.
She turned her brilliant smile on him. "We went to school togezher."
"At Beauxbatons?" chimed Ron.
"Oui. Fleur and I were in the same year."
"What do you do?" Draco asked.
Juliette began talking about her work, and Ron managed to throw in a few comments to keep the conversation going. For some reason, Charlie seemed uninterested in speaking. When Draco looked his way, he saw that his biggest rival was watching him intently. Frowning to himself, Draco returned his attention to Juliette.
When that topic fizzled, Juliette spoke to Charlie. "Fleur tells me you work wiss dragons. Zhat sounds quite dangerous."
Charlie shrugged. "It is if you're not careful."
"Do you like what you do?" she asked.
"I do," he said, smiling roguishly.
Draco expected him to continue, and when he didn't, Juliette moved on.
"Draco is such an interesting name," she purred. "What do you do?"
"I …." Have no answer, he finished silently. "Work for my father." It was close enough.
"What does he do?" she asked.
"Nothing interesting," Draco answered, glancing to Ron. He was starting to get the feeling that Juliette wasn't entirely sold on Charlie yet, and that Charlie was content with that.
"Dinner is ready," said Bill.
Fleur entered then, carrying a large bowl. "Juliette!" she exclaimed, smiling widely at her friend. She handed the bowl to Bill and greeted Juliette with two kisses. "Comment vas-tu? Avez-vous rencontré tout le monde?"
"Oui, nous avons été mis en place," Juliette responded.
"C'est bon." Fleur smiled again, then motioned for everyone to follow her into the dining room.
The women went first, followed by Bill and Ron. Charlie grabbed Draco's wrist when they were the only two remaining, and Draco snatched it away.
"What?" he snapped.
"Where's Hermione?" Charlie demanded.
"She's … in England, Hogwarts I would imagine." Draco turned to go.
"Wait." Charlie pumped his fists against his sides and groaned. "Is she okay? Why are you here?"
Draco crossed his arms. "She's fine. She's just working and therefore unable to come with me."
"And you?"
"I'm here for personal reasons," Draco replied coolly. "I certainly don't have to answer to you."
Charlie stepped back. "Of course not. I-I was just worried about her."
Draco rolled his eyes and went into the dining room.
The meal was … interesting. Bill was clearly not thrilled about having Draco there; Fleur was oblivious to all the tension. Juliette soon grew tired of trying to force conversation with Charlie and turned all of her attention on Draco. Charlie seemed pleased by this, and even encouraged it. Ron was amused the entire time.
When Draco felt something on his leg and looked up to see Juliette eyeing him with interest, her foot brushing against his. He wanted to scream. Whenever he tried to bring up Hermione, Charlie spoke over him, talking up Draco's better qualities. Assets, to be more specific: money, prestige, and physical appearance. Draco was starting to get annoyed with it by the time Fleur brought out the cheese course.
It was obvious. Juliette wanted him, and Charlie was itching for him to take her. In fact, Charlie would probably settle for Draco mildly flirting with the girl, anything he could use to run to Hermione and tattle.
She tried him again during dessert, running her foot up his leg and licking her lips—supposedly at the delicious apple tart Fleur brought out.
Draco gritted his teeth and tucked into the treat.
"So, Juliette! What do you sink of Charlie?" Fleur asked.
Ron snickered.
"Oh, uh, 'e is very nice." Juliette smiled widely.
"Yeah?" said Fleur, resting her chin in her hand. "'E's very sweet, and 'ave you seen 'is arms?" She reached over and squeezed Charlie's bicep.
Draco set down his fork. "I have an early day tomorrow. Thank you for dinner, Fleur."
"Oh! Must you go so soon?" she pouted.
"Yes." He stood and picked up his plate, not sure what to do with it. He started for the kitchen, but Fleur called him back, so he set it back at his place. "Good night, good seeing you all again. Bill, Fleur. Charlie. Nice meeting you, Juliette. Ron … see you."
Fleur jumped up and followed him to the door, fretting the whole time about him leaving before the conclusion of the meal. "Whenever you are 'ere, Draco, you are welcome."
"Thank you," he said, spying Ron over her shoulder walking toward the door. "Good night."
When the door closed behind him, Draco waited for Ron. The door opened and Draco let out his breath. "Sweet Merlin, I thought that would never end."
"Oui, moi aussi," purred Juliette.
Draco cursed and pushed off from the wall. "I thought you were Ron."
"I too 'ave an early morning," she said, pulling out a mirror and checked her reflection. "Would you like to go somewhere?"
"No," he replied, and started walking … away from her.
"Draco?" she called.
Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn—
She grabbed his arm. "Was I wrong? Did I, how do you say, misinterpret?"
"Yes, Juliette, you did," he said sternly. "I'm not interested. I … Charlie Weasley … isn't a bad bloke. You should go back in there and give him another chance." He stepped away. "Good night."
Without waiting for a response, Draco turned on his heel, took three steps, and Disapparated.
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End Notes: Thank you so much for reading! And thank you for all the well-wishes and congratulations I received! They truly warmed my heart. **HUGS TO YOU ALL!!**
Beta thanks go to pokeystar and drcjsnider. The beautiful art in this chapter was done by scarletlady Deviant Art (mmmels LJ). Music will be a bit delayed this week, but as always, it's compiled by inadaze22. THANK YOU!!