The Canary

A/N: In response to challenges over at the HP Fanfiction Challenge forum (Character and Prompt Challenge: Hermione/Deal and Crayola Challenge: Canary). This will be a multi chapter fic, I have an idea where it's going, but definitely a bit of a slow burn. I promise things will ramp up a little more next chapter!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

oOoOo

Wealth is a difficult thing to describe. It is difficult to comprehend one billion versus one million, so we often do it in laymen's terms. One million seconds is twelve days - a nice summer getaway. One billion seconds is thirty years - a happy, lifelong career.

oOoOo

When Draco Malfoy turned 18, his trust was released, in full, to him. At that time, Draco Malfoy received nearly fifty million pounds. He allowed himself one small luxury - an all-black Aston Martin Vanquish - and had smartly invested the rest of his trust. Now, the car was retired to his garage, part of the guilty pleasure collection he'd begun when he realized that there were simply some things Muggles did better. For example, a Firebolt maxes out at 150 miles per hour, while Draco's McLaren 720s could hit 200 miles per hour with ease.

On the eve of his thirtieth birthday, Draco Malfoy became a billionaire. He had a glass of champagne, alone in his bedroom, and toasted the clock as it struck midnight. Sure, he'd had money since birth, but this amount - this astonishing amount - was all to his credit, his investments, his multi-million dollar corporation, his collections. Draco had become a collector, and in turn a broker for fine things. Cars, property, precious gemstones and sophisticated escorts were all in his repertoire. However, art was what made him rich - art was what made him tick. He worked closely with some of the most respected art dealers in the world, obtaining sought after pieces for their many galleries, while adding to his own private collection. His own collection was now estimated at about £784 million, comprised of both muggle and magical works, every piece hand selected and truly adored by him. There were Klimt's, there were Kooning's, there was a Cézanne he loved dearly. He'd invested in sculptures, tapestries, photographs and every sort of painting known to man. Nothing made him burn quite like collecting art did. The passion he felt in finding new pieces, discovering little known artists was unparalleled. Draco Malfoy might lust over a luxury sports car, but art had him fall madly, deeply in love.

oOoOo

There was an opening at Hauser & Wirth that he was running late for. He impatiently tapped his foot against the floor of his Rolls Royce Phantom, seconds away from snapping at his driver, who had chosen the most obnoxious route from Draco's home in Knightsbridge to the gallery on Saville Row. A fifteen minute drive had somehow gone to twenty, and Draco was losing his patience. He should've driven himself. He extracted a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket and cracked the window. Exhaling smoke, he felt more calm, focused. He was attending the opening tonight for business rather than pleasure, and he was slightly on edge. Draco had been hired by a well-known private dealer to do everything in his power to obtain a piece of art before it went to auction. Initially he hadn't been concerned at all about making a deal, but the media in recent days had catapulted this particular piece into popularity. It had become the draw of the show; merely getting on the guest list for the opening night had been almost impossible, even for him.

Pulling up to the curb in front of the gallery, Draco's driver got out of the car hastily and opened his door. Draco stubbed his cigarette into the pavement with the toe of his leather dress shoe and headed in. The gallery was already buzzing, people milling around, admiring the work, networking, buying. He nearly collided with a leggy blonde in a hot pink dress, and some of her champagne sloshed onto his grey suit jacket.

"Fuck me," Draco groaned, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the offending spill. The blonde was stumbling over her words, trying to apologize.

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy, I'm so sorry," she all but sobbed, tearing the handkerchief from his hand to dab at him erratically. "Let me get that, please, oh god, I'm so sorry." Draco stood their helplessly as she prodded into his chest, painfully, over and over. An amused tittering to his left caught his attention.

Hermione Granger. His old school nemesis, dressed fashionably in a snug-fitting black wrap dress and Louboutin pumps, was snickering at his current predicament and he wanted nothing more than to physically knock the smile from her face. Instead, he caught the blonde's wrists and she blinked up at him.

"That's quite enough," he hissed, prying the handkerchief from her fingers. The blonde nodded, turning on her heel and hastening away from him, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He turned to Hermione, closing the few feet between them in no time.

"Granger," he drawled, unable to mask his disgust, "Fancy seeing you here. I was under the impression that this venue was quite exclusive." He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, handing one to her. "Seems as though I was mistaken."

Hermione smiled tightly, taking a long, slow sip from her glass. "I was thinking the same, Malfoy. I'd thought this was an event for people with taste, and then you walked in."

Draco's fingers pinched the stem of the glass so tightly he thought it may break in half.

"Nice to see you haven't changed," he drawled, scanning the room, bored with the conversation already. "I'd thought you were still curse breaking for the Ministry. What business could you possibly have here? Other than being around your people?" Hermione scoffed, crossing her arms in a way that enhanced her ample cleavage. His eyes drifted to the view, and she rolled her eyes in response.

"For your information, Malfoy, I happen to enjoy the finer arts. I know you'd never think a mudblood could be so cultured, but it's true." He grimaced at the word, and slugged down the rest of his champagne.

"Don't say that," he criticized. "I haven't said that word in years and this is hardly an appropriate time to throw my previous offenses in my face."

Hermione barked out a sharp laugh. "If not now, then when? I have quite a few bones I'd like to pick." She snatched two more glasses from a passing server, shoving one in his direction. "And I've got time."

"Well, I haven't, Granger," Draco sighed. "I'm here for business, actually, so if you'll excuse me - " he made to side step around her, but she blocked him, closing the distance between the two until their chests were pressed against each other. She was almost a head shorter than him, and looked up at him through narrowed eyes. Draco's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat uncomfortably, as he fought to ignore their proximity and not look down the front of her dress. He may hate the bint, but he was only a man and she certainly looked more of a woman now than ever before.

"I'm through with you being an absolute prick," Hermione spoke under her breath, trying not to attract the stares of those around them. "We run into each other once a year, and each time it's the same. We exchange insults, you have the last word and then my whole night is ruined and I am done with it."

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to focus on anything but how his pants seemed to be growing tighter. There was something to riling Hermione up, and maybe that's why he'd done it for so long, not that he'd ever admit it. What was she playing at?

"What are you suggesting, Granger," he drawled, regaining some composure. "That we become friends?" He couldn't help but laugh at the thought. "My time is far more expensive than your pockets are deep, so I suggest you search for a bosom buddy elsewhere." Hermione, to her credit, reached into the tiny purse slung over her shoulder and extracted a cheque book and pen.

"How much for one civilized conversation and who shall I make it out to," she asked brazenly, twirling the pen between her fingers. Draco had to admire the woman's balls.

"Okay, Granger," Draco started, taking her by the elbow and directing her across the room, towards a large photograph. "Talk the artist into parting with this piece, for no more than 250,000 quid, and you get your little conversation." Hermione glanced up at the photo, her mouth popping open lightly. The photo was a large, detailed print of naked women, entwined so intricately that you could hardly separate them from one another. Mixed in with the women were serpents, thick, writhing boa constrictors wrapped around arms and thighs and breasts.

She exhaled. "Where is he?" Draco pointed at a handsome older man, surrounded by people, each clamoring for their turn to ask their questions, to seek adoration. Hermione's lips twitched and a smile slowly spread into a grin.

"You've got yourself a deal."

oOoOo

"I've got to hand it to you, Granger, I never thought you'd pull it off." Draco raised his full martini glass gingerly in her direction before taking a long sip. "Well done."

They sat at a quiet bar near the gallery, dark and welcoming. Draco's driver idled in his car out front, but the billionaire was in no rush. Hermione Granger had just managed to convince Alexandre DuMont to sell his most well-received piece yet for £50,000 less than what Draco had been told to spend, and he could've kissed her for it. Not that he could, or even would. But he was impressed, and that was an understatement.

Hermione sipped from her glass of red wine, smiling smugly. "Never underestimate me," she said, leaning closer to him, "You'll regret it every time." Draco's eyes dropped to her plump, rose colored lips and he pushed the martini glass a little further away. His head was beginning to swim with the alcohol - or maybe it was her proximity? - and he needed to slow down.

"So, Granger, why now?" Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why, after all these years, do you want to make nice with me? If you're hoping for a chance at my wealth, I'm not interested. And if you're just hoping for a shag, I'll think it over, but you'd definitely have some convincing to do." She laughed at that, and Draco couldn't help his own smile.

"Actually," she said, motioning the glass in her hand in his direction, "it's your collection I'm after." His brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry, Granger, but none of the pieces of my personal collection are for sale. I've spent years hand-selecting everything, and I'm not willing to part with a single piece." She shook her head.

"No, no, I just want to see it. I've heard rumors, and as you now know, I'm a bit of a connoisseur myself," she reasoned, pausing for another sip. "I know we've hardly been close-" they both laughed at the understatement "but I figured it was worth asking. I know you're filthy rich now, and have little time for old school mates, but -"

He held up a finger, silencing her.

"Sure, Granger, why not? I suppose I owe you as much after all those years of torment," he appeased. Hermione couldn't mask the shock at his easy acceptance and smiled broadly.

"Thanks, Draco," she purred. "I can hardly wait."

oOoOo

A fortnight later, Hermione found herself staring timidly at the Malfoy family manor in Wiltshire. It was around two in the afternoon, and a cool fall breeze had settled into her bones, sweeping leaves across the grounds and around her ankles. She pulled her Burberry trench coat tighter but still didn't move towards the house. This was a bad idea, she thought to herself, not nearly as brazen as she'd been after several glasses of champagne the other night. Draco Malfoy hated her, and she hated him. They had for as long as she could remember, it was the way things were, as natural as the grass being green and the sky being blue. But the other night she had taken a chance - not entirely innocently - and asked to see his art collection, and here she was, staring up at the massive, pale brick manor with trepidation.

Suddenly, the front door swung open.

"Gonna stand out there all day or would you like to come in where its warm?" Draco leant against the door frame, looking handsome as ever in a cream colored cashmere jumper, hands shoved in his trouser pockets. Money truly did beget good looks, and Hermione felt frumpy in her plaid wool skirt and camel colored cardigan. She took a deep breath and headed towards the house, squeezing past Malfoy in the doorway.

"Hope it wasn't too much trouble getting here," Draco said, closing the door behind them. He snapped his fingers and a house elf appeared. "Two glasses of fire whiskey, Nix, if you would." Hermione bit her tongue to hold in a snarky comment about how polite he'd been with his elf.

"None at all," she demurred, "it was only a quick walk from the nearest apparation point and it hasn't gotten too cold yet." The house elf reappeared and Draco took the two tumblers, handing one to Hermione.

"I meant to add you to the floo, but I completely forgot." He took a sip, clearing his throat. "It's been a hell of a week. I wasn't sure I'd even be able to leave London. The trip out here was much needed though. I don't come as much since…" He paused, and she didn't push him. She read the papers. His mother had passed away a few short months ago, his father preceding her by a couple years.

"Anyway," he started, "Shall we?" He led her through the entrance way, and down the first hallway. It was like Versailles, filled with sculptures and paintings from Renaissance to Baroque. It was ostentatious, it was gorgeous. The tour continued in a similar vein, and every hallway seemed to represent a different period. Hermione was truly impressed by his collection. It was perfectly curated, and worth just as much as it was rumored. The amount of magical pieces alone were amazing; he had some of the oldest moving portraits known to exist and brushed them off as nothing. Not to mention the Picasso Hermione had spotted on the East Wing of the second floor. They sipped their firewhiskey and chatted amicably about art and life and by the time the sun had set, Hermione had almost forgotten they'd spent the last nineteen years hating each other.

"One more room, and it's my favorite," Draco said with a smile, slowly opening a door at the end of the hall. Hermione entered first and was dumbfounded. It was a large library, with floor to ceiling shelves of rich mahogany wood, filled with books. A fire roared in a magnificent hearth, casting a warm light over a worn leather sofa and two green velvet wingback chairs. The room looked well loved. A massive desk sat in front of a large window, books and papers scattered across its surface as if left hastily. Over the fire, a large painting in an antiqued gold frame - a golden yellow canary in an iron cage against a dark background.

"That piece is my most prized possession. Handed down through generations. My mother's favorite. It isn't much, but I thought you might enjoy it." Hermione warmed at his words. She did enjoy it.

"I do," she breathed, standing in the center of the room and spinning around. "It's magnificent. I'd stay here forever if I could." Her words were like a splash of cold water to them both, and they shifted uncomfortably at the change in atmosphere. Her words were a little too friendly, and although they'd both enjoyed the afternoon, it was on uncertain grounds.

Draco cleared his throats. "Would you stay for dinner," he ventured, surprising even himself. "I told the cook I'd stay, and the dining room is rather lonely for one." He glanced at his watch. "And it's definitely too late for me to invite a more suitable date from London all the way out here." Hermione rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at an insult and smiled.

"Sure, Draco, why not?"

oOoOo

They ate in comfortable silence, sipping red wine from overfilled glasses that Draco poured himself. "You'll be fine to apparate, right," he'd asked as he polished off the bottle into her glass. She laughed, pulling it to herself, careful to not slosh any over the sides.

"I'd almost say you were trying to get me drunk, Draco," Hermione mused. He blushed, and Hermione felt emboldened by the alcohol. "And I'd almost say I'd let you." His fair cheeks tinged redder yet and he drank quietly from his own glass.

"There are spare rooms, you know," he murmured quietly, not meeting her gaze. "If you were to have too much, you are welcome to stay in a guest room. I can have the elves prepare it for you, if you wish." He finally looked up and Hermione's eyes were dancing with an emotion he couldn't quite place.

"Who'd have thought," Hermione drawled, swishing the wine around in her glass, "that I, Hermione Granger, would have Draco Malfoy blushing like a schoolgirl as he invites me to a sleepover?" Draco scoffed.

"I'd hardly call it a sleepover, Granger. More of a hand out, to a poor, drunk wench who can't handle her drink," her countered, crossing his arms defensively. Silence fell between them.

"And if I said I wanted a sleepover," Hermione breathed after a lengthy pause. Draco considered her; she felt exposed and almost certain of rejection. His stare warmed her from the inside out, however, and she met it brazenly. He took another sip of wine.

"I'd say you're moving a little too fast," Draco said quietly, "but that I, admittedly, am not quite ready to retire for the evening, and would love to have your company for another drink in the library." Hermione hummed thoughtfully. The rumors preceded him, and if Hermione was learning anything, it was that they weren't as true as they seemed. Infamous playboy, my arse, she huffed to herself. Or maybe he just wasn't interested? But certainly, the blush that still stained his cheeks was a direct testament to that not being the case.

oOoOo

Draco studied her out of the corner of his eye. She was perched in one of the velvet wingback chairs, stockinged feet curled under her, skirt riding a little too high on her hips. He was probably losing his mind. He swirled the dark amber firewhiskey in his glass, contemplating her. Draco could easily have taken her up on her offer, and gods, if that didn't sound appealing right now. Their deep discussions of art had been nothing but foreplay for him, and the copious amounts of red wine only further erased the old hatred that had been worn thin by time already. Watching her now, seeing the way her cardigan pulled tight across her breasts with each inhale, studying the curvature of her hips as she sat back on her heels - it was driving him mad. He wanted nothing more than to throw her across the antique Moroccan rug and have her, right there in front of the fireplace. But he had old money manners, and he wouldn't give into his baser instincts so easily. He was still a gentleman.

"What," she cut through his train of thought. "I can't tell if that's an "I-still-hate-you" stare or a "You've-overstayed-your-welcome" stare."

"Neither," he laughed. "I don't think I hate you quite so much anymore."

"So what's the stare for?" An errant drop of red wine escaped the glass as she took a sip, and trailed down her chin. He ached to trace its path with his tongue.

"I want to kiss you." She studied him, his handsome, angular face, the light stubble that decorated his cheeks, his hair perfectly disheveled.

"Well, then, what are you waiting for?"

He stood, approaching her and knelt in front of her chair. Draco reached up, cupping her cheek with one hand, the other sliding around to the back of her neck. His stare was unrelenting and intimidating and Hermione wanted to look away but couldn't. She was trapped entirely by grey eyes, warming her to her core. It was slow, slower than any kiss she'd ever experienced. He took his time in studying her first, her eyes, her small nose, her wine-stained lips. She felt as though she were a part of his prized collection, a piece to be desired and sought after. Draco closed the distance after what seemed an eternity, kissing her reverently, slowly. The hand on her neck slid up into her hair, the tips of his fingers pushing her closer, deeper. His tongue played at the crease of her lips, seeking entry she all too readily gave. Their tongues tangled, and Hermione felt a fire start deep within her that she knew would not be soon extinguished. Her hands, frozen at her sides, reached for him suddenly, grasping at his fine blonde hair, pulling roughly until he groaned into her mouth, pulling away panting.

"Granger," he practically growled, sitting back on his haunches and looking at her in a way that could only be described as animalistic. She relished in it, proud that she had brought that out in him, against all odds. "We have to stop now." She almost wanted to whine.

"I know," she murmured, pushing herself further back into the chair, hoping that increasing the distance might help her ability to behave herself. "I know."

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