Beta'd by Pidanka and jamethiel. Thank you both for putting up with me.

And thank you, Jame, for your invaluable help with Hermione's dialogue.

"King. Kelpie King." Draco cupped his hand and shouted. "It's Draco Malfoy." There was an autumn chill in the air, and Draco's breath fogged in front of him like smoke. "I need to have a word with you."

High walls surrounded Camden Lock. The smell of spices and incense from Camden Market drifted in, followed by the accompanying noises of chatter and laughter that Draco always associated with the area.

"King," Draco shouted again. His words seemed to be swallowed by the water. Its inky blackness looked as cold and as deep as a well.

There was no answer. Only an occasional hollow thunk as a barge hit the side of the canal. The canal water lapped at the brick banks, and the sound reminded Draco of the pants of a large dog.

The mooring point was empty. Suspiciously empty.

"There's no one here," Hermione said. Her nose was red, and she was rubbing her hands together for warmth.

Draco's eyes darted from side to side. "They're here. They're just hiding." He shouted the last sentence as if hoping the jeer would make them show themselves. Camden Lock was never left unguarded. If anyone or anything wanted to travel through these waters, then they had to get past Kelpie King's boys.

Hermione shivered. "Malfoy, there's no one here. You're just making a larger than usual prat of yourself." Her voice was hot and annoyed. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her large winter coat. "If I'd known you were going to have me traipsing around London, I would've brought my gloves."

Suddenly there was a laugh and the sound of heavy footfalls.

"Would you Adam and Eve it. If it ain' young Malfoy," a man said. Like a blackjack, the voice cracked and struck the words, beating them into submission. He stopped about ten meters away from where Draco and Hermione stood. "I told my lads they must be mistaken. I told 'em that Malfoy wouldn't come waltzin' into my manor as if he owned the place. And yet," he raised plate-sized hands in the air, "here you are." He smiled – or rather, he showed all his teeth. "And what have I done to deserve such an auspicious visit by his highness 'imself." His accent progressively developed more of an East London drawl. Obnoxiously so.

Well, if Kelpie King was going to play the cockney barrow boy then Draco wasn't above acting lord of the manor.

"The pleasure is all mine, King," Draco said. He polished off the greeting with a flourishing bow.

"Cheeky ponce." Kelpie King reached inside his coat pocket and produced a thick cigar. He poked it into his mouth but didn't light it. He never did. Instead, Kelpie would grind the Cuban between his back molars until it was a pulp. He'd occasionally spit the pulp at passers by, his staff, or people who had generally annoyed him.

Kelpie King was a big man. He was the approximate size of a front door. He also looked like he'd walked into one. His face was large, and flat, and shaped like a shovel, and even at this distance he towered hostilely over Draco. It was an act. Well, mostly an act. Kelpie could still probably snap him like a twig if he wanted to. Kelpie had been a player in the running of East London for the past twenty years and controlled the canal system for the whole of southern England with an iron fist, and no one got that much power by just being a gormless thug.

"Here, boy." Kelpie clicked his fingers.

There was another sound of approaching feet. Draco winced at the noise. He remembered all too well who those small pattering feet belonged to. A dog trotted into view from around the corner. The dog was tiny – or perhaps its minuscule stature was accentuated by its master's enormous build.

"Fuck," said Draco. "That little shit's still here."

The dog sat beside Kelpie. It innocently wagged its fluffy white tail.

"What's wrong with it?" Hermione asked. She was eyeing Kelpie and the dog with keen interest.

"Diminutive, treacherous bastard," he muttered, ignoring Hermione's question. "I'll make it into a pair of mittens."

Kelpie grinned and bit down on the cigar. "I said I'd chop you like a jellied eel if I ever saw your mug round here again."

"My spleen, actually," Draco said, also grinning. "You said you'd slice it into bite-sized chunks and feed it to your dog."

"That's not a dog." Hermione said, never losing out on an opportunity to correct him. "That's a phouka. I can tell by the eyes: they always have golden irises. A phouka is a magic spirit that can take on the shape of animals. They're generally regarded as harbingers of good fortune, or portents of bad luck."

Kelpie's small blue eyes cleverly darted over Hermione. "The bint's got brains. It took that one," he jerked a thumb at Draco, "months to work it out. Not the brightest thing in Christendom is he, ah'? Wasn't till Puck had found the stash –"

"I told you, King," Draco said, thinning his lips, "I didn't know about the drugs."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Drugs?" she asked Draco, astonished.
"Magical drugs. Red cap. Bloweed. Fairy's Dust." Draco folded his arms. "The reason I am out of favour with King here is due to a misunderstanding with a shipment I asked him to transport."

Kelpie spat on the ground. "Come off it. It weren't no 'misunderstanding', or Cadbury's Flake." The dog gave an annoying yap in agreement. "Yous were trynna' do me out of my bees and honey right to my boat race."

"As I explained at the time," Draco said. "I did not know that the gentleman in question was playing on both sides. I run a clean game, King. I am more scrupulous than my father."

"You didn't give me the geezer, did ya' tho?"

Draco frowned. He'd had some version of this conversation with Kelpie what felt like a hundred times.

The shipment had been from Prague. There was a demand in Britain for rare gems and ores from all over the central Europe. These gems could be used in potions and spell work, and Draco had arranged for his company to buy and distribute them to British purchasers. He'd organised the collection from the Czech Republic, and then Kelpie's men had picked up the order in Essex and floated it down the canals and into London. It was a smooth operation, and Draco had not been actively involved with it since the initial deal was struck.

He knew Kelpie. The man was a bastard, but he was a principled bastard. Kelpie didn't like Dark magic; something about it itching his skin, and he'd explained it away as part of his lucht siúil ancestry. Draco didn't particularly care. If Kelpie was punctual and trustworthy, he could have as many itches and funny feelings as he wanted.

Then along a stretch of canal in Little Venice, Kelpie got a feeling. Or rather, Puck the faithful pomeranian phouka picked up a scent. Hidden in a amethyst geode was sufficient blow to stone a mountain troll.

His working relationship with Kelpie had somewhat disintegrated after that.

"I dealt with him," Draco said. "He was my employee and therefore my problem."

"How exactly did you deal with him?" Hermione hissed in his ear.

Draco turned to her. "I brought him to the Ministry and gave him to Potter. I'm not a smuggler, and I don't personally import illegal items." He lifted an eyebrow. "What did you think I was going to say? That I'd broken his legs and thrown him into the Thames?"

"No, of course not." Hermione shook her head. She was plainly embarrassed.

True, when Draco had brought the scum to Potter, his arm had been broken in three places, but Draco had no idea how that injury occurred.

Somewhere in Amsterdam, this employee had snuck the drugs into the shipment. It was too large an amount to be for personal use or individual dealing, and Draco suspected someone higher up and significantly more intelligent had tried to take advantage of his family's less than stellar reputation and use his company as a mule.

That had all been six months ago, and his investigation into the matter had ground to a uneasy halt. Too many leads and not enough time. With Kelpie's refusal to work with him again, Draco had been forced to be a little more clever with how he transported his stock over land and sky. The marriage law had also come into effect about this time, and he'd become a little...distracted by his fiancée.

"It's a bad business, Malfoy. Left a nasty taste," Kelpie said. Like the hand of a benevolent god, Kelpie bent down and patted Puck on the head. "I ain't normally one to give a gag like yourself a second chance, but there's a lady present. On your bike now, and I won't be forced to blow a kneecap in."

"A very generous offer, King, but I'm afraid I do need to have a little chat."

"That's a shame, a real shame." Kelpie shook his head in a way which suggested it wasn't really a shame that he'd had to break Draco's knee. "You can come out now boys," Kelpie shouted to the deserted yard.

Half a dozen men appeared out of the canal boats to stand on the boats' bows. Several more walked around the corner of the craggy walls, and more still perched on top of the stone barriers that enclosed the lock.

Kelpie walked towards Draco, and the ground seemed to shake with every step.

Draco considering himself a fairly imposing figure. He had an aristocratic bearing which spoke of money and breeding even before he opened his mouth. He was taller than Potter, but not as stocky or as broad. He was bigger than Zabini, but lacked Zabini's graceful posture. However, Kelpie dwarfed him.

Kelpie's fetid breath hit Draco's nostrils, and for a moment Draco could taste fish and salt. "Which leg would you like Raspberry Rippled? Left or right?" Kelpie said, his eyes twinkling under a thick-boned brow.

"Excuse me?" Hermione said. Draco closed his eyes. She sounded like she was interrupting a teacher in class and not talking to one of the most dangerous men in London.

Kelpie didn't have much magical ability and had never received any formal training, but he didn't need it. He had other ways.

"You can't seriously be intending to break his kneecaps?" She lifted her head and stared defiantly up into Kelpie's face.

"I believe he said just the one kneecap, dear," Draco said with false joviality. His heart might have been lifted by Hermione's defence of him, but he had a feeling she would have protected anyone in the same situation.

"I won't be breaking," Kelpie said, "but my boy there will." He jabbed his banana-sized thumb in the direction of a beefed-up young man. The man smiled; his steel plated teeth glinted in the sun.

She took a purposeful step towards Kelpie. "I hope you realise," she said. She sounded like she was forcing the words out through gritted teeth; her voice was high-pitched with annoyance. "I will not stand here and let you harm him."

Kelpie made a rude noise. "You ain't got a choice. You can't pull a wand out in the middle of my patch. This is Muggle London. We ain't allowed to use magic here."

"I don't need a wand," she said, and her eyes flashed like lightning. "I'm Hermione Granger. Who are you?"

Draco wished he'd had a camera to capture Kelpie's expression for a later date, so he could have sat back with a drink and enjoyed the emotions that ruptured on Kelpie's face. The big man's mouth twisted with rage then popped opened with confusion as he finally recognised Hermione's distinctive curly hair. He looked like he was trying to catch flies.

Kelpie removed his cigar and stuffed it, half chewed, into a pocket. "Gordon Bennett! Hermione Granger," he said. He sounded as astonished as Draco had ever heard him "The Hermione Granger. Who worked with Harry Potter?" His accent had all but disappeared..

She tilted her chin a little more until she was almost looking straight up into the milky blue sky. "Yes."

"Cor'," Kelpie breathed. Draco was sure if the man had been in possession of a hat then he would have taken it off. Kelpie's mouth was still open, and he looked a little dazed as he said in reverential tones, "Hermione Granger, in my gaff. Here," he frowned, "why you hangin' out with this slimy ponce?"

Draco let out a grunt of pain as Kelpie's hand jabbed into his solar plexus.

"She's – my – wife," Draco managed to get out. Merlin, it hurt to breathe.

"What!" Kelpie looked outraged.

"Do you ever read?" Draco said, trying to control the urge to vomit. "It's been over the papers for months."

"I don't read the papers. I line the bins with 'em," Kelpie hooked his hands in his belt loops.

Hermione stepped around Draco, who was bent double, and approached Kelpie. "I have no idea what Malfoy did to you – I'm sure he deserves some of your displeasure – however, I would consider it a personal favour if you didn't break his kneecaps." Her tone was sweet and as subtle as the flavour of acacia honey.

Kelpie's sigh sounded like a wind turbine. "I'm a fan, I really am, but I can't let the ponce go without a little roughing."

"I need to talk to you," Draco said, biting out the words. "It's important."

"Is there somewhere we can discuss matters, Mr King?" Hermione said.

Mr King.

Draco ducked a little lower and smiled to the concrete.

"There is," Kelpie said it as if Hermione was dragging the admittance from him. He gave another long sigh. "Sorry about this. I'll pull it, but his nose will bleed like a pig for thirty or so."

"Sorry about what?" Hermione said, a little laugh bubbling through her voice. "I don't understand?"

Draco did. He spun up and backed away from Kelpie. "Look, King," he said and raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, "let's not be hasty. We can come to some arrang –"

Draco didn't finish his sentence because, at that moment, Kelpie raised his fist and punched him in the face.

When Draco regained consciousness, his head was balanced between Hermione's breasts. He tried to smirk up at her, but his face hurt too much to pull off the movement. He grimaced instead.

"Fuck," he said. His mouth was sore – no, his whole face was sore. He felt like he'd been smacked with the flat of a shovel. Then again, for all intents and purposes, if Kelpie King had punched him, then it was like being hit by a shovel. He clicked his tongue and winced at the taste of stale copper in his mouth. He tentatively touched his bottom lip with his tongue, and it stung at the contact. The punch had smashed his teeth into lip and cut it to ribbons.

"You're awake," Hermione said. She sounded more than a little relieved. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit in the face." His tone was parchment dry.

Her lips twitched. "I can only imagine. You look quite a sight. Black eye, bleeding nose, split lip."

"Yes, I get the picture," he said, waving a hand and immediately regretting it. Pain sprang to life in his neck. He screwed up his face and felt the dried blood crack around his nose and mouth.

They were inside Kelpie's barge; Draco recognised the godawful decorating from his previous dealings with the man. Celtic plaid curtains paired with chintz upholstery.

Hermione was sitting on a bench that ran across the back of the barge, and her back was propped against the wooden side. Draco was nestled against her with his long legs stretched out along the bench.

"I don't think your nose is broken," she said and prodded the side of his nose.

"Ouch!" Draco flinched and scowled at her. "I could've told you that." Through the barge's window, Draco could see pairs of feet walking along the pavement, but there was no sign of their host. "Where's King?" he asked.

A flicker of something passed over Hermione's face. "He's making us a cup of tea."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "Making tea? Kelpie King is making tea. What did you do to him?"

"I may have yelled at him for punching you."

Draco didn't care about the pain. He beamed at her. "I am very sorry I was indisposed. I would've enjoyed witnessing you go against King. I heard he once wrestled a ogre and won."

"I hope that wasn't a comparison between me and the ogre." Hermione pushed her hair back behind her ear. "I work in the department for Magical Cooperation, remember. I can be very convincing. I simply told him that he needn't have resorted to such violence." She flicked her eyes downwards. "He's a very odd man," she said, conversationally. "Do you think he's part giant?"

"I'm sure there is some giant in there somewhere. One of his parents hailed from Ireland, so I wouldn't be surprised if there's a Fionn mac Cumhaill in his family tree."

Hermione hesitated. "Did you – bring me here knowing that Kelpie was likely to attack you?" Draco's eyes watched as she sucked her lower lip into her mouth.

"Perhaps." Draco was becoming increasingly aware of how soft Hermione's breasts felt against his cheek. How amenable would Hermione be to having sex in a barge? He had the whole broken and battered look going on – it might be enough to swing a pity fuck. "Has he shown you his tattoo yet?"

Colour flooded Hermione's cheeks. "Yes, he did."

His lip curled into a smile, or as much as a smile as he could manage with his injuries. "I always liked the realistic specks of blood on Potter's face, and the way the light plays off Voldemort's hairless head. It's very artistic."

"Oh, do shut up." She pressed a hand to her mouth to try and stifle her giggles. "I didn't know what to do when he started to take off his shirt, but then I saw – I saw it and –" she stopped talking as her laughter overflowed into uncontrollable fits.

Her chest was shaking so much that Draco was forced to sit up. "He had it done last year. I was like you – equally baffled to why he started stripping – but then I saw it. His artistic veneration to Potter, capturing the imagined moments as he vanquished Voldemort. Potter, astride Voldemort's dead body, with his wand raised into the air in triumph. It brought a tear to my eye."

Granger looked beautiful when she laughed, and she had a beautiful laugh. It was low, breathy, and impossibly sexy. Draco hadn't heard it many times before. He'd experienced her barks, sighs, and occasional snorts, but little of her genuine laughter.

She threw her head back and exposed the long arc of her neck, and his head was filled with thoughts of marking her pale skin; branding it purple, and then watching the bruise fade to a smug green over the days.

He suddenly wanted that: to be able to lean over and press his mouth to her body and not be afraid of her rejection.

He went to bite his lip and gnaw on it until the uges went, but his front teeth reopened one of the cuts and blood filled his mouth.

"Damn," he said, and pressed the heel of his hand to his bleeding lip. Hermione abruptly stopped laughing. "Granger, would you mind doing a quick Episkey? I don't fancy bleeding everywhere while I talk to King."

She raised her wand and muttered the spell, and she also added a Tergeo.

Draco felt his face knit itself back together. The blood on his lip was sucked back into his body, and the cuts scabbed and healed in rapid progression. He gave the lip an experimental bite.

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked and put away her wand. "I hope it wasn't to ingratiate yourself with him so he'll agree to let you use the canals again. While I appreciate that you are a legitimate businessman, I don't believe Mr King is."

Draco rubbed his jaw, feeling for any spots that the magic might have missed. "Potter has asked me to continue my investigation into potential Dark magic traders –"

"You don't think Mr King is involves with such matters?" Hermione straightened her spine and worry streaked her face.

"No, not with a I-Heart-Harry-Potter tattoo on his back," he said. He briefly brushed his hand down her arm. Her coat was thick, but he could feel the shape of her arm underneath. "Kelpie King has his fingers in a lot of pies, and the likelihood is that he will know something, or someone." He crooked a smile at her. "You, my dear, are here to be ornamental and to distract King from, well...punching me in the face again."

Hermione opened her mouth – probably to argue with his description of her as 'ornamental' – but the barge gave a sudden lurch, and the unmistakable voice of Kelpie boomed through the cabin.

"I've got tea," Kelpie said. He appeared to have dropped the act. His accent wasn't as thick, and he said 'tea' rather than employ rhyming slang and call it 'Rosy Lee'.

"Thank you very much, Mr King," Hermione called back.

"I see Sleeping Beauty has arisen," Kelpie said as he pulled back the curtains – which separated either end of the long barge – with his elbow. "Your missus was beginning to fret." He handed Hermione a cup of what Draco supposed was tea. It was brown and steaming, at least.

"I highly doubt Hermione has, or ever will, fret over me," Draco said, and he fixed a smile to his face. "Where is my tea?"

"Shove it." Kelpie jerked a thumb backwards. "Kitchen's that way."

Draco didn't get up. Instead he leaned back onto the bench and casually threw his arm behind Hermione's shoulder. Kelpie's sharp eyes didn't miss a trick.

"I don't mind your lady wife being here – she can stay as long as she wants – but you," Kelpie said and there was a meanness in his voice, "can bugger off."

"Mr King has been telling me all about your disagreement," Hermione said, her voice acting as a balm on Draco's frazzled nerves. "I have to say, Mr King," Hermione turned her exacting gaze on Kelpie, "that I do believe that Malfoy didn't know anything about the stowaway narcotics. He had expressed to me, on several occasions, his desire to separate his company from his family's past. I don't believe he would put his company in jeopardy for – how did you put it – 'enough pixie dust to blow your brains.'"

"She is completely correct, King," Draco said. "If I was going to screw you over, then I would have done it for considerably more money and not been caught."

Kelpie crossed his arms, which were so big that he could only really cross his wrists. "I don't trust you, Malfoy. You're a city slicker and don't smell right – to me, or to Puck."

Draco wrapped one of Hermione's curls around his finger. "Your own odour is hardly to be desired," he curved his lip, "and don't even get me started on what your dog smells of."

All joviality left Kelpie's face at Draco's mention of the man's obnoxious little phouka, and King's brows lowered like approaching storm clouds on the horizon.

"Draco, please," Hermione quickly said. She shrugged off Draco's encroaching hand. "Both you and Mr King are injured parties, and there's no need to fight each other anymore. Mr King," she smiled, "I have a favour to ask of you, on behalf of Harry."

Predictably, Kelpie's eyes lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

"Harry Potter?" King said, his voice hoarse. "Needs a favour of me? Chuffin' Nora. Whatever it is, consider it done. I wouldn't be here if You-Know-Who was still around." He screwed up his nose. "He didn't much like magical folk workin' with Muggles."

Draco silently agreed.

Kelpie worked indiscriminately, switching between the magical and Muggle worlds with the toss of a coin. If they had the readies, then he would work with them. As long as they weren't 'posh wankers with airy-fairy ethics'. Apparently.

From broken conversations with Kelpie over the years, Draco had been able to ascertain that Kelpie had gone underground (or further underground) during the second wizarding war; having, and probably accurately, concluded that a half-blood, half-giant something-or-other, Muggle-loving wizard was going to be high on Voldemort's eradication list.

Kelpie pulled out his mangled cigar and bit into it. "How can I be of service?"

"There have been Portkey apparations in France and Germany," Hermione said, all business, "at the top on the Eiffel Tower and the Brandenburg Gate. We believe that this misuse of Portkeys could be a way of smuggling items into these countries."

Kelpie snorted. "Hardly smugglin' if it's in broad daylight. Can't think of a less hidden place. The top of the chuffin' Eiffel Tower?" He spat, and crunched on the tobacco. "How do you know it isn't kids mucking about?"

"When I tried to speak to one of the wizards that apparated, he reacted...negatively," Hermione said.

Understatement of the century. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "He stunned her unconscious for a whole day."

There was a whistling sound as Kelpie sucked in a breath.

"According to Potter," Draco continued, "this wizard was holding a bronze bull imbued with an intoxicating amount of Dark magic."

"If any tea leaf was running a new game on my patch, I would've heard," Kelpie said. "I'll keep me' ear to ground, but from the sounds of it these glitters aren't smuggling. What you have to understand, Miss," Kelpie nodded at Hermione, "is that criminals aren't smart. We don't plan a fleece to thrill, or for shits and giggles. We plan it to work, and for it to be as under the radar as possible. Excuse my French, but any buggers appearing on the top of the fuckin' Eiffel Tower want to be seen. They want to be noticed." There was a sound, like the groan of a giant, as Kelpie stood up. "You'll have to pardon me now. I've got my lawful and completely honest business attend to." He flashed a blue-eyed wink.

"Thank you for your time," Hermione said. She lowered her untouched tea to the floor. "And your help."

"Utter pleasure."

Draco didn't get up. Instead, he lounged back and crossed his ankles, and fixed Kelpie with a lazy smirk. "What about the bull, King? Do you have any insight to offer on that?"

Kelpie's eyes lowered and hardened. "I suggest you have a word with your old man. When it comes to Dark magic and that bullshit, I leave it to the experts." He offered his arm to Hermione. "May I see you safely to the Market?"

Hermione looked a little phased by Kelpie's barbarised gallantry. Her voice briefly caught in her throat before she recovered. "Eh – Yes." She hesitated but laid her hand on top of Kelpie's trunk-like forearm.

Draco was forced to watch his wife walk away on the arm of Kelpie.

He swore and quickly got up and went after them.

Hermione almost looked like she enjoyed the big oaf's company. She was smiling up at Kelpie as if spring had just come, and she seemed so diminutive and fairy-like beside Kelpie's bulk. Draco was sure he swore again. His head felt like a fish bowl, and his vision was slightly swimming. Probably an after-effect of that punch.

He raked a hand through his hair and tried to get the normally manageable locks under control.

"Oi, Malfoy."

Draco lowered his hand from his head and glared at Kelpie. "Yes. What is it now?"

"I want a word."

Draco angled his mouth upwards and blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Now he wants a word," he muttered under his breath.

Hermione's eyes were rapidly flicking to Draco and then back to Kelpie. She looked like she was watching a very quick game of tennis.

"Go ahead, Granger." Draco waved a hand at her. "I won't be a second."

"Are you sure?" she asked, and, as if drawn in pencil, her brows faintly lined

"Never been more sure," he drawled. "Run along."

That worked. Hermione glared at him and jutted her chin out in a way which Draco was finding more and more adorable. She was so incensed at Draco's dismissal of her that she turned on her heel and stormed around the corner without a backwards glance at either Draco or Kelpie.

"You know, you're a right wanker," Kelpie said. He pulled out another cigar and viciously bit off the end. "How the fuck did you," he jabbed the cigar butt in Draco's direction, "end up with her?"

Draco posed his head and smiled. "Luck of the draw."

Kelpie grunted. "She said somethin' about a law. Fuckin' disgrace." He took out his anger on the cigar. Since Hermione left, some of Kelpie's viciousness had seeped back into him. His whole body seemed to expand. Draco realised that for Hermione, Kelpie had been reducing the amount of space he took up, making smaller movements and trying to not impose his size on her. But now he seemed to be growing; bellowing and blowing like a storm in full force.

"Has anyone ever told you that is a truly repulsive habit?" Draco said and stepped back to avoid low flying tobacco.

Kelpie ignored him. "I told her, I know a bit of river bottom that no one will trench for a good long while."

"I'm sure if Granger wishes to dispose of me, then there will be many people offering their services."

Kelpie loomed over Draco, and the sheer breadth of his shoulders blocked out the sun. "I should have kicked you in the cobblers when I had the chance."

Draco readjusted his stance so he could look Kelpie full in the face. It was not a sight for the faint-hearted. From this proximity, the pores on Kelpie's nose looked like the pits and spoils of Grime's Graves.

"She wouldn't have thanked you for that," Draco said. His smile a little strained now. "It's the one part of me that she's actually attached to."

Draco watched in disdain as Kelpie's molars pulverized the cylindrical tube. The irony of the imagery was not lost on him.

"What was the word, King? Unless you were using it as a metaphor for getting another punch in." Draco quirked an eyebrow. "You do know what a metaphor is?"

"Shut it," Kelpie growled. "I don't know much about Portkeys, or apparations, or whatever you – la-de-da – educated bastards do. But there's something brewing. There's been a lot of shifty buggers trynna' hitch a ride on my boats. From France, Greece, Italy, all over Europe, and further. I've told me' lads to not take anyone on board, but a few always slip through. It's like muck spreading, Malfoy. I can smell it in the air."

Draco frowned at that information. People were always illegally entering countries, and most of them were not travelling for nefarious purposes. Yet, a marked increase – enough of an increase for King to notice it – that must be important. He'd be damned if he knew why it was important.

"Right," Draco said, suddenly grim. He turned away from Kelpie and walked towards where Hermione had disappeared.

"If I see you around –" Kelpie started, but Draco interrupted him.

"Let me guess." Draco stormed back, and his breath came out like steam. "You'll gut me like a fish? Decorate the inside of your barge with my entrails? Tie my dismembered body to the bow and sail upstream?"

Kelpie looked affronted. "It's a fucking barge. You don't sail it!" He rolled his Atlas-like shoulders back. "Nah – I was gonna give you a wedding gift. But we can do the stuff with entrails if you'd like."

"Great." Draco kicked his heels backwards and gravel skidded away from him. "Fucking fantastic."

Kelpie's laugh was broken and as subtle as a cement mixer. "You berk," he wheezed.

Draco stopped walking away. "King," he said. "I'll forgive you that one punch as I woke up with my face in my wife's breasts. However, if you ever lay a finger on me again," he gave a little shrug, "I will break it."

Kelpie cracked an uneven smile. "That's the first honest thing that's come out of your mouth."

"Have the grown ups finished talking?" Hermione's words cut the icy air.

Draco stopped in front of his wife. They were barely out of earshot of Kelpie himself, and undoubtedly the big man had one of his boys following them to make sure they left. Now the boy would get to witness their spat.

"Can we do this in a minute?" His face felt tense and numb, and like he'd been shoved face first into a bucket of freezing water.

He went to walk past her and towards Camden Market, but Hermione grabbed his upper arm and dug her fingers in. She tugged him around and forced him to look at her. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were dark and seemed to burn.

"How dare you dismiss me," she said, panting in her rage. "To have your 'men only chat'. I have more right than you to know what is going wrong: I work for the Ministry."

He held back a sigh. "It wasn't like that –"

"Then what was it? Because it seemed to me that you waved your hand and expected me to clear off –"

He wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose again to try and alleviate some of the pressure that was building there. He blinked a few times and hoped the rapid eye movements might clear his head.

"– when all I way trying to do was make sure he wasn't going to punch you again. Just, as I might add, you asked me too." She used her grip on his arm to jab the finger of her other hand into his chest. "Asked me in the most insulting way imaginable. Ornamental. Really, is that how you perceive me? As an ornament?"

He clapped his hands over his eyes. "Granger," he said, his voice muffled by his hands. "If I could interrupt the feminist tirade."

He lowered his hands and tried to school his expression. The pain in his head was blossoming and bleeding into his brain like ink in water.

"The entire reason that we had to have our 'men only chat'," he said, his tone impossibly precise, "– as you dubbed it – was because you work for the Ministry. Kelpie was hardly going to incriminate himself in front of someone who works for the magical government. Or place you in an awkward position. I know he looks thick." He gently pulled his arm out of her grasp. Her hand fell away. "But I highly doubt anyone can actually be that thick. Our chat was discrimination against your job, not because you're a woman."

The static between them was palpable, and it crackled in the air like miniaturised lightening. Draco imagined that he could see little bolts in Hermione's hair. It billowed like clouds, and her curls were shaded like the grey underbelly of a tempest.

He was expecting the sting of her slap, or the slide of her words under his skin as she cursed him. Yet nothing happened. She just looked at him: sullen and still, like the air before a summer storm.

She wanted more.

He took a breath. "I will admit that 'ornamental' was inappropriate. It was in reference to you as a war heroine and not a physical compliment. Although," he constructed a half-hearted leer, "I do find you both distracting and enjoyable to look at."

He stopped and waited.

That must be enough. He'd suitably prostrated himself, and gone through the issues she'd raised: ticking them off one by one. If he was her employer, then he would have said he'd covered actions for complaint; apart from the last comment which would have left him open for a sexual harrassment suit.

Hermione pursed her lips, but didn't open them. In response, he felt his own mouth droop.

The anger crawled up inside of him and settled somewhere below his diaphragm; a sharp biting rage that gnawed like the teeth of some unseen beast.

What more did she want from him? The question plagued him in the early hours of the morning. In the comedown of his orgasm. In those strained and reticent moments which were becoming a fixture in their relationship and as punctilious as his morning coffee break.

A muscle near his jaw twitched. "I need a drink and a sit down." He was going to be gracious even if it killed him. "Would you care to join me?"

Her brows drew together, and she tilted her head. It was as if she was staring at a painting she couldn't quite grasp the meaning of.

"Do you understand," she said, starting slowly, "that society and thousands of years of culture tell me that I'm lesser. That even a hundred and fifty years ago, I would be unable to make a decision without my husband's guidance. You compound this prejudice when you take away my choices."

He stared at her. "I waved my hand at you. That is hardly taking away your choices."

"You may feel that I need plausible deniability as a Ministry employee, but I don't agree." Her last sentence lingered the air as puffs of cloud. "Your failure to consult me on this treats me as if my opinion and time are worth less than yours, and as if I'm not a partner."

"We're hardly partners." He made a snort that slapped the back of his throat. "You simply tagged along because you were bored."

She took a step towards him until he could feel the heat of her breath on his neck. He shivered. It was cold, and she was warm. It was just an autonomic reaction.

"Either you can treat me as an equal and have my cooperation, which means discussing things with me before they happen. Or you can have me in opposition," she said, her tone infuriatingly reasonable.

He tried to keep his breathing regular; to keep it together. However, it was proving a challenge when the discomfort of his headache was rapidly being outstripped by her remarks.
She rose on her tiptoes and spoke into his ear. "Possibly you'll believe me when I say that I'm more than your equal when I devote my entire attention to a matter. Right now, I'm Gryffindor enough to set myself on fire to watch you burn."

He was glad she couldn't see his face. She would have dined out on his expression of barely-suppressed rage.

"I'll have to take option two," he said. "I dread to think a what would happen if we actually started being civil to one another. I would much rather get scorched as you burn yourself in the name of whatever fruitless cause is your current obsession."

Her sigh fluttered passed his ear. "Here was I thinking you were too much a Slytherin to stand for anything other than bigotry and self-interest. Goodbye, Malfoy."

She walked away from him and took her warmth with her.

Fuck it.