Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Word Count: 995 words
Setting: The Man from UNCLE AU (Ron is Solo, Hermione Gaby, Draco obviously Illya; and Astoria is Victoria)
"Evening, comrade." Godric's voice interrupts Draco's fumbling, pathetically rehearsed speech. Good.
Draco still snarls under his breath, smoothing the rest of his face back into his mask. He snarls because it's Godric, and Draco just can't shake the bloody man from their tail. "We're not supposed to be making contact in public."
Godric clucks his tongue. "Lucius, you're being followed."
Draco sees the faux nonchalance from Rowena's face crack, splutter. She stands up rod-straight; her stocking-ed leg strays in the range of the gushing fountain, but she doesn't notice. Her eyes dart around them, skittish; her eyelashes flutter too quickly to remain calm.
"I know. Two men from hotel lobby." And gods, of course Draco's noticed. Gray Cap and Leather are begging to be caught, almost trying to tease agitation from him. "I know what they are doing here, but I don't know what you're doing here. I told you I don't need your help." On the other hand, Godric, who is lovingly adjusting the mirrors of his scooter, is fishing. Taunting Draco's temper out to play. The front of Godric's red hair is coiled slick from his face, and he is still in his suit, the knot of his tie clenched too tightly. He looks ridiculous on his moped. "I imagine they are waiting ahead for you." Godric continues as if his assessment is even needed.
Draco is aware the waist of his jacket is riding up, but if he goes to smooth it back, a well-respected man that he is, Godric will smirk and laugh. Rowena will roll her eyes at his vanity: Draco wants to punch Godric's long, freckled nose into his skull, and Draco wants to wipe the smart from Rowena's mouth with his fingers. "I will handle them."
"Handle?" Godric repeats, rolling the word in-between his teeth, "Just to avoid any confusion, you do mean… giving your wallet and act scared?"
"Scared, Godric?" Draco spits, his boot crunching the ground beneath him as he tries to keep his temper from flaring openly.
"What do you think they want from us?" Rowena tugs on her earring, trying to stifle the irritation brimming forth from her collarbones.
"You're being tested." Godric reveals, grandly, smugly, "Someone is trying to make sure your fiancé is really an architect. And not someone who's trained how to fight. An Inquisition Squad agent, for example."
Is this man trying to fail this mission? Is this sorry excuse of an agent of Dumbledore's trying to get Draco's head on a platter? "I said: you're not needed here."
"I think you should do as he says." Rowena's gathered herself, her shoulders drawn back. Her tone, volume high to carry over the crowded plaza, is endearing, but Draco's not fooled. But Rowena's transferred her glare from Draco, towards Godric.
"And remember," Godric is smirking now, "do what a meerkat would."
Godric's moped sputters away and Draco unceremoniously hauls Rowena to the opposite direction. Her short legs strides twice as quick, annoyance in heels. Her brand of annoyance and displeasure of him, that is. She's not as snappy with Godric as she is with him. Then, again, Rowena isn't assigned with Godric, isn't engaged to Godric.
He hurries them, fashionably idle and sight-seeing, towards the quieter streets. Draco lets his gaze travel over the rooftops, at the sparse street lamps, the Anti-Riddle graffiti smeared on the walls.
The first of the bookends appear in front of them. It's Gray Cap, waiting on a hedge. Heels clicking as he taps them against the concrete.
The other shadow, Leather, appears behind them. Draco only sensed him when Rowena inhales sharply, her hand on his arm tightening.
"Sir, any money for a coffee?"
Draco hesitates. It's perfectly natural, with a petite and beautiful woman dressed so nicely next to him, to resort to fists before threats, but then, what? He would have just proved Godric and his superior's right: Draco is an ill-tempered man, a loose canon of an agent. Draco reaches into his suit and takes his wallet out. He hands a twenty to Leather, who thanks him—and snatches Draco's wallet from him. Then Leather crumbles the note into his fist, and tosses it over Rowena's head. Draco reaches forward, instinctually, for his wallet, but Leather takes his other hand out from his trouser pocket, and this time, Rowena speaks: "Darling, it's fine." Leather leers at Rowena's plea; still snaps the knife open.
Draco still moves to surge forward, but Rowena places a hand over his chest, her hip and leg against his thigh. "Darling." She murmurs, again.
"Beautiful ring," Leather drawls, twirling the pocket knife, too close to Rowena's hair.
"You already have the money," Rowena says, eyes hard, but she's leaning her weight into Draco, conscious with the proximity of the glint of blade.
Draco stares unblinkingly into her copper eyes, framed by moonlight, and watches her lips form words: calm down . The way her fuller lower lip meets the upper, the bow of it flattening and then plump again. Her wrists brushing his cuffs. Her perfume, the perfume she'd begrudgingly let him show her how to apply. If he raises his arm, her hand still attached around his wrist, would he be able to smell it on her skin?
Later, Rowena will ask him, no—interrogate him, why would you even take your fiancé to the back of the boulevard, where they are just begging to be mobbed, arranged or not. She says this, ranting, really, but all Draco can do is stare at the scratches on her knuckles, the harsh, red line on her empty ring finger from the scuffle, and the heat of her small hands over his reddened cheek. He will forget to flinch back from the burn of the antiseptic she's applying over the cut below his eye socket.
On his left, Gray Cap is gloating, a grin slashed across his scarred face. Draco sees his hand strike, and he lets it hit contact.
