Author's Chapter Notes:
Underlined sections represent prompt lines that had to be incorporated into the story.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
"What do you mean only one room and only one bed?"
Hermione tugged subtly on the sleeve of Malfoy's t-shirt to let him know he was being loud and obnoxious. He brushed her hand away. Several departing patrons were eyeing them with interest. The pretty witch with the yellow parasol had even followed them inside the establishment and was currently looking at Malfoy as if he were a particularly nice pair of shoes that she could not afford, but would like to try on anyway.
"Look here," Malfoy said, stabbing his finger into the worn counter. "I sent an Owl ahead of time to make a reservation."
The innkeeper of the Cobblestone was apparently the poster person for Cheerfully Indifferent. "That you did, Mister Merrybones, sir. We received your letter and payment this morning. Thing is, sonny, we were fully booked from two weeks ago. It's this Cauldron Makers Convention, see? Every room in town's been taken. I'm afraid the only vacancy we have is a-"
Malfoy narrowed his eyes and dared the man to say it.
"Single," the innkeeper finished, with a self-satisfied smile. Malfoy's uppity manner was obviously amusing to him.
"Just take it, will you?" Hermione prodded. "Forget the two rooms already."
She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Malfoy transferred the full force of his displeasure onto her. It was like being blasted with an arctic wind. She took a step back to thaw out.
He was not enjoying some of the side effects of being incognito, namely the fact that people did not cower, did not throw rose petals at his feet or shove their young, unmarried daughters forward for 'Mr. George Merrybones', as they were wont to do for Mr. Draco Malfoy.
"I'll throw in a whole extra day's stay, for half of whatever she's chargin','" said the witch with the parasol, inclining her head towards Hermione.
Hermione glared at the girl, wondering at which point in time she had sidled up to Malfoy and pressed her lightly rouged bosom against his bicep. Malfoy, meanwhile, was looking down at her as one would an affectionate kitten you were a little too busy to pet at the moment, but if it could perhaps come back a little later?
"I happen to be his wife," Hermione said to the witch, tartly. She felt Malfoy's internal eyebrow rise upwards at this proclamation.
Well, sod them all. They were supposed to play the part of a married couple weren't they?
The witch grinned at her. "Uhuh. And I'm his mama." "Sally, would you mind?" the innkeeper asked, tiredly. "Am tyring to run a business."
"As am I," Sally the Strumpet replied, but she sashayed away without looking aggrieved. When she was at the entrance, she turned to blow a kiss at Malfoy.
Hermione resisted the urge to intercept the kiss and hurl it back at the girl's face.
"We can provide a few expansion charms at minimal cost, if that's too your liking?" the innkeeper was saying. He obviously sensed a potentially profitable encounter.
"That would be fine, thank you," Hermione rushed out, interrupting whatever it was Malfoy was about to threaten the man with. The git was still slightly distracted by Sally with The Swaying Hips.
The innkeeper cleared his throat, happy to have reached an accord. "I'll just refund you for the two rooms and write you a new invoice." He reached under the counter, but Draco stopped him. It would be better if there were no record of their stay.
Hermione drummed her fingers against the counter. She was actually rather eager to see what a Bordello invoice looked like.
"Keep the money." Additionally, Malfoy passed a small stack of Galleons across to the man. "For your discretion."
Apparently, this was not a new or surprising request, for the innkeeper merely nodded and neatly scooped up the money. "Discretion is our motto, young man. Now, you enjoy your stay at our fine establishment."
Satisfied that his plans had not gone too awry, Malfoy removed the Nutrisoil cap with a sigh of pleasure and ran a hand through his hair to unflatten it. It was just such a normal, 'boy' thing to do, and Hermione was struck by the fact that she liked seeing him be himself. He didn't do it very often.
In fact, the more time she spent in his company, the more she liked about him. Though you really needed to peel away all the many layers of insulating arrogance and ambivalence…
He was still these things, but they were not the sum of him. All the cloak and dagger nonsense did him good, apparently. He had a very attractive tint to his cheeks and his eyes were, for lack of a better word, sparkling.
"I think I like Knockturn Alley," he informed, giving her a lascivious smile.
Hermione didn't doubt it. It was his kind of place.
**
The last time they had shared a room together, they had been blind drunk, laughing, happy, freshly tattooed and completely out of their minds with magic-induced lust. This time around, they were sober, both in body and in mind. There was a dark cloud of responsibility hanging over them, though Hermione was not to know that Draco's concerns were not only about his inheritance.
The spying business was weighing heavy.
Their room was the third, skinny, red door, along the curving corridor on the fourth floor. They had been given a key and a wash towel the size of Hermione's palm. The tiny little towel, to their joint amusement, was actually monogrammed. Hermione silently claimed it as a souvenir, to giggle over in better times.
"We put in a water closet, but best not to stay in there too long lest in collapses in on ye!" cackled the janitor. Who was also the bellboy-slash-doorman-slash-cook.
"Lovely," Malfoy said, blinking exactly twice. He launched up the stairs, careful not to touch the banister or the walls or the working ladies going up and down the establishment, lest common-ness proved to be something you could catch.
They had an awkward moment when they reached their room and stopped short at the threshold. Malfoy fiddled with a strap on his backpack and ushered her forward after the door was opened.
"Ladies first."
Surely she could not be blamed for thinking the worst of him before she considered the fact that he might have just been trying to be civil? A polite and courteous Draco Malfoy was rather like a ballroom dancing Harry Potter.
If you saw such a thing, you'd want to take a photo.
Hermione peered into the room, highly suspicious. It wasn't nearly as bad as she had anticipated. It was about the size of her room at Hogwarts. The bed was tiny, with a threadbare coverlet that had been darned to such an extent that it was more neatly joined scraps, rather than original duvet. But the floorboards were scrubbed clean and there was a pleasant lemony, furniture polish sort of scent. Beside the tiny bed, was a small dresser with a ceramic pitcher and base that screamed 'rustic'. There was also a window, but it was boarded up such that only slivers of afternoon sunshine managed to sneak through. The ceilings were slightly concave, but that was expected when you used expansion charms.
Perhaps someone had arranged an accident? Perhaps the expansion charms were faulty? Perhaps there was an inter-dimensional portal in the floor which would swallow her and spit her out over the Thames?
Hermione gave Draco a canny look. "You first."
He frowned at her and hiked his backpack further up his shoulder. "Get in, Granger."
"You get in!" she snapped, with growing hysteria.
He opened his mouth, gave her a disgusted look and then without any warning, picked her up. Hermione barely had time to squeal before she was unceremoniously carried into the room and dumped onto the bed. He loomed over her, looking acutely insulted.
"Still alive? Still in once piece? Limbs still attached?"
Blushing, she gave him a sheepish look. "Sorry! I'm just naturally er, cautious."
"If I really wanted to harm you, I'd..." he trailed off.
Hermione sighed. The bed was really quite comfortable. "Yes, yes, you would have done it by now."
He wasn't staring at her anymore. He was staring at her leg. More precisely, he was staring at her damnable dragon tattoo.
Her skirt had ridden up. Suddenly feeling tremendously self-conscious, she blushed and smoothed her skirt down, but he dropped his backpack and caught her hand.
"No, let me look." His voice was incredibly gentle. It wasn't a demand, it was a suggestion. He took her leg just under her knee. "It's changed."
He flicked off her sandal and it thumped to the floor, sounding almost muted to Hermione. No doubt because blood seemed to be rushing past her ears at top speed, rendering all other sounds muffled. Her bare foot was pressed against his chest and she could feel the steady, strong thumping of his heart. His thumb and index finger squeezed her Achilles tendon lightly before he moved his hand slowly upwards, under her smooth calve.
He paused to cup her knee lightly. And then, with no urgency, he pushed her skirt aside, so that the thin, blue strap of her underwear was visible at her hip. Otherwise, he seemed careful to preserve her modesty.
"See here," he began, reminding a reeling Hermione a little of David Attenborough at his most enthusiastic, "it's not just silver anymore, it's sparkling like you have diamond dust in your skin," he said, his voice thick. He ran a fingertip over the tail. "It doesn't look like it's been painted on, it looks like it's actually etched into your skin now. It even feels raised. Remarkable."
She shivered when his finger traced up the tail, over the hip bone and back again. And then his warm palm slid up under her thigh and then around, until he was effectively holding the inside of her thigh where the dragon's tail ended. Parts of her that seemed lately to be disconnected from the section of her brain that produced common sense, were alive, pulsing and needing. Unconsciously, she was arching up to him.
If he touched her, her better judgement would crumble and there would be no going back. Still, she wanted it.
She wanted to be caught up in that same time-pausing whirlwind that made her forget about every other care she had apart from where he would touch her next. He had that ability, which was why he was dangerous.
Hermione wondered if he felt the same way about her. It had become an ache within her. It was as if they were two attracting magnets, called to each other and yet trying their best to maintain safe distance. It was becoming tiring.
He was almost straddling her, over the tiny bed. It seemed a threatening and precarious position for her to be in, but she'd spent the previous evening bundled an affectionate, unguarded Draco and there was very little fear left in her.
Oh there was some, but it wasn't an overpowering distraction any more.
His fingers tensed experimentally into her soft, pale flesh and then released, leaving a very faint, red imprint.
"Your skin's like rose petals," he breathed. The unfeigned reverence in his voice gave her chills. "You bruise too easy."
She looked up at him, his beautiful eyes were downcast and he was so close to her she thought she could count each dark, blond eyelash. His fringe tickled her nose.
"Maybe we should have pushed for two rooms after all," she said.
Abruptly, Draco shook his head, as if that would clear the fog that had descended over the both of them. He cleared his throat, got off the bed and went to stand by the window. He made a show of looking out between the boarded slats at the human traffic below.
The expression on his face was unreadable. They were silent for a painfully long, minute.
"This is not how I planned to spend the last few weeks of my final year." There was a melancholy in his voice which Hermione knew was more than just the bother of Fida Mia.
His words also spun possibilities in the air between them.
"I'm sorry," she said. She really was, too. She was sorry for being weak on the night of the party, sorry for her bad judgement, sorry for not looking out of the both of them when she could have prevented the disaster. Sorry for being away from Harry and the others when they needed her.
She was just sorry.
Her shoulders slumped. To her horror, she felt hot tears welling up.
Malfoy was looking at her oddly. "Come here," he said.
She went to him, shaking a bit and with only one shoe. If what she thought was happening between them was really happening, they had terrible timing.
It was a strange thing, to feel the safest she had ever felt, standing within the warm circle of the arms of the person who had once been her enemy. Maybe all enemies could be friends or lovers if you gave them half a chance. Maybe nothing was ever written in stone, no matter how sure you were.
As always, he smelled unbelievable. Laundry soap. Clean skin. Draco.
The bump on his forehead was almost completely healed up. She couldn't help herself and didn't bother trying. She prodded at it.
"Still not friends?" she asked him.
He sighed. It was a beautiful, warm day outside. And they had a few hours to kill before their scheduled meeting with the Fida Mia expert.
**
An excerpt from Hermione's notes on Fida Mia (from Chapter Six).
- 1762. Danish Charms expert and famed polygamist, Lars Hendricks, upon being denied official Ministry permission to marry his five lovers, developed a personalised marriage ritual. Fida Mia was selected as the base of the invented enchantment. Note of interest: Lars was later prosecuted and fined by local authorities for improper magical 'handling' of a goat. Note to self: look up any association with 'Aberforth Dumbledore'.
- 1800. Fida Mia, the marriage spell was developed by the Hendricks family (numbering some thirty-six members) and marketed as a fashionable marriage alternative to 'staid' wizarding marriage vows. And less than a hundred years later, the spell was declared illegal in Britain, but was still practiced in parts of Eastern Europe.
**
The young man removed his jacket, pocket watch and cufflinks, tossing the latter two onto a coffee table. He rolled up his sleeves, kicked off his shoes and unfastened the first two buttons of his fine, white shirt. There was a worn sofa in a corner of the room and he collapsed into it, looking thoughtful.
An elderly, silver-haired woman, stooped but far from frail, walked into the room bearing a tray of lemonade.
They usually celebrated a successful con with a stiff drink, but his great-grandmother's health was not what it used to be. So, it was lemonade these days, or sometimes a nice, mulled wine if it was particularly cold.
"Feet off the table, please," the old lady said, setting her tray down. "I may only be renting, but I rather like this place."
"The lounge smells like dead weasel."
She she poured him a glass. "Well? How are our young lovebirds getting on?"
He accepted the drink and stared up at her with worry in his mismatched eyes. They were identical to hers – one green and one blue - a curious trait which marked them as being from the same, curious family. Only hers were notably cloudy with age.
"They're children, Nana." "Pah, they're not children! The boy's seen more than you have. When I was their age I already had three children and was running the family business." The woman stood with her hand on her broad hip and adjusted her monocle. " I think you should have picked better candidates. We could be the cause of quite a bit of trouble. Did you know the boy's father is a Death Eater? The girl happens to be a good friend of Harry Potter."
Nana Hendricks waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yes, that odious man, Borgin, mentioned it. I of course said I had no idea what a Death Eater was."
The young man gaped at her. "You can't be serious."
"When it comes to the family business, I am always serious, my boy."
"Next you'll be telling me you have no idea who this Voldemort chap is…"
The old woman nodded. "Ah, now that name I know. Had a bit of a run in with him in an alley down in Copenhagen forty years ago. He was watering a wall."
"You are such a fibber, Nana."
She gave her great-grandson a beady eyed look. "You haven't been working with me long enough to know when I'm fibbing."
He made a frustrated sound. "Back to the matter at hand, I think we have a problem."
"Nonsense!" she patted him on the knee. "We have never encountered a problem before and I've been doing this for almost a century. You are much better at this than your dear great-grandfather. That man had a face that was too honest, by far."
Her great-grandson was giving her a sceptical look.
"The game has always been the same," she continued, with familial pride. "I, mysterious old crone of lamentable oral hygiene, marry the pair." She clapped her hands together. "They wake up; they panic when the charm starts to take effect. They look high and low for a cure. Lo' there just happens to be an expert in town that very week! You step in with a timely, rare and expensive cure, where previously they assumed there was none. It's a very tidy living, if I say so myself."
He folded his arms. "Except there's no real cure for real Fida Mia."
The old woman frowned at him. "Yes, I know that, lad, my own grand-dad invented the spell after all." "What I mean to say is that there won't be a cure for this pair."
The old lady was very quick on the uptake, despite her grand age. Her monocle fell from its perch. "Come again?"
"The spell has taken! For real this time!"
She sat down heavily beside him on the sofa and put a wrinkled hand to her throat. "I haven't successfully cast Fida Mia in over eighty years." She glanced up at him with a frown. "Are you sure? Are you very sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! Just standing next to them was like wading through honey."
She gasped, looking astonished. "Yes! Yes, that's what it feels like. For us anyway. We read it differently, us Hendrickses…"! "You're supposed to pick bad matches, Nana. That's the whole point. The couple balks because the spell doesn't fit, and we reap the benefits when we take the bloody charm off. We can't do that if it's permanent."
"I never said they looked to be a good match!" she protested. The young man stood up. "We should disappear. London's been good to us. I'd hate to never be able to work here again."
She shook her head. "Oh, no! I want to see this for myself. Call me a sentimental old fool, but each case is different. Unique. If you say the spell has actually stuck this time, I'd like to take a look."
"We can't offer them a cure, you realise? Pity, the boy's rich. We could have charged three times the usual price and he'll still pay it."
The old woman shrugged. "That may be so, but we can still charge for consultation, my boy."
Yes, they could, couldn't they? Her great-grandson smiled at her. Working in the family business was turning out better than he could have anticipated.
The Hendrickses had always been a very pragmatic family.
