Chapter II: The Devil's in the Details
(proverbial)
Hermione's alarm goes off at six a.m., just like it always does, holiday or not. She blinks awake. Since it's summer, her room is flooded with sunlight, gilding her bookcase and dresser.
There's a pit of excitement in her stomach. Why is there a pit of excitement in her stomach? It's Wednesday, which means today will be devoted to volunteering at her local GP's surgery with the nurse. Nothing exciting about that.
Then her eyes fall on Secrets of the Darkest Arts, sitting innocently on her bedside table, and the events of last night come back to her in a scalding rush.
She sits bolt upright in bed. Did that really happen? Did she really summon the devil and ask him for a favour?
No, of course not. She exhales a sigh of mingled disappointment and relief. Obviously it was some sort of fever dream, brought on by the stress of preparing her personal statement for university applications. It's a 4000-character statement in which the candidate has to make herself sound intelligent, appealing, and unique all at once; trying to write one is enough to drive anyone into a hallucination.
She prepares to start reading the Financial Times on her phone as she does every morning before getting out of bed. But then she sees the faded lines of the diamond on her floor, illuminated by a patch of sunlight. The knowledge that last night's events were real presses into her bones, heavy as concrete, impossible to shake off.
Yes, it did really happen. She can't deny that.
Hermione stumbles through her daily morning ritual in a daze. Brushing her teeth, getting changed into jeans and a t-shirt, making cereal – she does all of it on autopilot. Her mind is whirring with possibilities.
There are a thousand and one ways her wish could go wrong, and only one way it could go right. She hadn't thought Lucius Malfoy would grant it so quickly, but, well. He is the devil, after all.
At eight-thirty a.m. she sets out for the GP's surgery. She passed her driving test months ago, but the twenty-minute walk there is just short enough that there's no point in bringing her little Mini along. Most of the shops are beginning to open now. She passes two Co-ops, three restaurants, and a church on the way. The church is an odd one: it's called the Church of Hogwarts, and Hermione has never quite been able to ascertain precisely what denomination of Christianity they practise. It can't be a popular one. They don't advertise the saving powers of Jesus Christ on posters outside, or go knocking door-to-door, and she's never seen anyone outside.
Hermione's acquaintanceship with religion has always been rudimentary at best, but she supposes that now she knows the devil is real she ought to start looking into it more closely.
She arrives at the Montpellier Road Medical Practice just as the nurse is getting out of her car. "Ah, Hermione," Poppy Pomfrey says. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Hermione returns dutifully. She and Madam Pomfrey aren't precisely friendly, but the nurse respects her obvious intelligence and interest in learning. They've established a working relationship which might currently be the healthiest interaction in Hermione's life.
She enters the building, gaining a respite from the sunlight beating down mercilessly outside. The surgery is small – it's constituted largely by the waiting room, which has one long corridor attached to it like an ungainly limb. Down the corridor are doors belonging to the nurse's room and the three GPs' offices.
The waiting room is Hermione's least favourite part of the entire surgery. It's big but somehow airless, with uncomfortable green chairs arranged in a square around a central coffee table. There's nothing to read but NHS leaflets littered on the table and chairs. There's no television or children's toys. In fact, it's a little bit like she imagines purgatory must be like.
Only, purgatory probably doesn't have drop-dead beautiful boys like the one currently with his booted feet up on the coffee table.
He looks up as she passes through the waiting room, and Hermione feels her steps slow. He has a face like a fallen angel's: cruel yet lovely, straight-nosed and full-lipped, dominated by high cheekbones and implausibly silver eyes. His hair is closer to white than gold. Under its ruthless straightness, she can make out a single black stud glittering in his left ear.
She has never seen any human boy who looks like him.
But he is damn near the spitting image of Lucius Malfoy.
She freezes before him. "Who are you?"
He tilts his head back to look at her, smirking. He doesn't answer. Instead, Madam Pomfrey says, "Hermione, who are you talking to?"
She frowns at the nurse standing behind her. "I –"
The words die in her throat. With a slow wink, a gesture that is both sensuous and oddly threatening, the boy has disappeared.
"Nothing," she says weakly. "Nothing at all."
Madam Pomfrey looks at her askance but accepts her brushoff.
Since she's under eighteen and untrained her medical duties are obviously limited, but Hermione assists in basic things like preparing vaccinations for the nurse to inject. She's thankful for the task; without it, she knows she'd become consumed by thoughts of the boy in the waiting room. Who was he? He obviously has some sort of magical power. He disappeared the same way the devil did last night. Why was he here? Is Lucius Malfoy having her followed? The boy's resemblance to the devil is uncanny: she won't accept that there's no connection between them.
Today is the day all the new-born babies come in for their first jabs. Hermione has to deal with a steady stream of syringes and wailing infants, then with typing out the appointment notes Madam Pomfrey dictates. Her skin feels unbearably itchy the entire time. She keeps trying to scratch discreetly, but it does no good – she feels as though she'll come out of her skin if this keeps up much longer.
Finally it's lunchtime. She emerges from the nurse's room into the waiting room like a bear from hibernation, blinking as medical jargon dances before her eyes. She stops short as she sees what (or more accurately, who) is waiting for her.
The boy from this morning is back, and he's brought a friend. Sitting next to him is a frighteningly beautiful, skeletally thin young man with black hair and equally black eyes, stark against bone-white skin. He's idly ripping a square of tissue into tiny shreds which rain down on the floor.
The waiting room has filled up now with the hustle and bustle of minorly ill people, so it takes several moments before they notice her. The blond boy looks up first. He sees her watching and flashes her a vicious grin, his teeth as sharp and pointed as knives. Then he elbows the black-haired boy. They unfold themselves slowly, getting to their feet, and Hermione edges forward in the expectation that she's finally about to learn what's going on.
In the next moment, the blond boy has grown three-inch claws, which he uses to rip out his companion's slender throat.
The skin parts under his claws like butter. There's a spurt of blood which splashes all over the blond boy. Some of it gets on Hermione. The black-haired boy staggers backwards, collapsing back into his chair, and Hermione screams, tripping in her haste to back away. She keeps screaming, on and on. The patients who didn't look up when the violence was committed are looking at her now, mouths gaping, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Madam Pomfrey rushing towards her, yelling something she can't hear over the sound of her own terror.
Then everything stops.
Madam Pomfrey is frozen mid-stride and mid-sentence. Around Hermione, the other patients have been stilled in similar position. Her scream cuts off as though her own throat was cut while she gazes around in astounded horror. What the hell is going on?
The only movement in the entire waiting room comes from herself – and the two boys in front of her. Before her eyes, the black-haired boy's wound is stitching itself up, the skin knitting back together. Soon there's no sign of the fatal wound. In disbelief, she lifts her gaze to meet their faces.
"You know, if you hadn't shut up when you did, you would've been next on my hit list," the blond boy informs her. His voice is a low rasp, like he's smoked one too many cigarettes.
"Oh, my God," Hermione says feebly.
The other boy snickers. "No, darling. God has nothing to do with it." He extends a bloodstained hand in her direction. "Theodore Nott. Demon. Pleased to meet you."
She has no choice but to take it. Things seem to be coming at her as though from deep underwater, and she wonder detachedly if she's going into shock.
"Hermione Granger," she says.
"We know," the blond boy says. He holds out his own hand. When she takes it, expecting another handshake, she finds instead that he's bowing over it and his lips are brushing her knuckles. His flesh is cold as ice. She pulls back with a gasp, noting his dark grin at the movement.
"Draco Malfoy," he says. "At your service."
"Malfoy?" she repeats. "As in, Lucius Malfoy?"
"He's my father," he agrees.
She's incredulous. "Are you trying to tell me you're the devil's son? The devil has a son now?"
Theodore snorts. "You believed in the devil enough to summon him yesterday, why can't you believe he'd have a son?"
When he puts it like that, it does seem stupid. And she hates being stupid. She shakes herself a little, as though to throw off any hint of imbecility.
"Right," she says. "What are you doing here?"
"My father sent us," Draco says with a loose, catlike shrug. "He commanded us to watch over you for nights seven times seven."
She performs rapid mental calculations. "Forty-nine nights… the next month and a half? Why on earth would he do that?" A sudden thought occurs to her, and she flushes. "Did he – did he tell you what I wished for?"
"No," Theodore says, looking interestedly at her pink cheeks. "What did you wish for?"
"None of your business," she snaps.
Draco scowls. "Father won't tell me either. Can you believe it? What's so special about her, anyway?"
"Draco's an only child, and his mummy and daddy give him everything," Theodore says to Hermione in a mock-conspiring tone. "This is the first time they're denying him something he really wants to know. We're all very intrigued."
Hermione can't help but be glad for that. The last thing she wants is for a couple of teenaged demon boys to know her silly little wish.
"So you don't know why Lucius ordered you to watch me," she says. "I don't suppose you have a choice in the matter?"
Draco shakes his head. "No-one defies Father. Not even me."
Hermione sighs. "Well, you're going to have a long forty-nine nights, then. I'm a very boring person. All I do at night is sleep." She ignores Draco's expression of exaggerated horror and Theodore's snigger. "What do you plan on doing while you're here on the human plane?"
"We'll think of something. The Mudblood world is quite an intriguing one," Theodore says. "All that electricity, and cars!"
Draco sneers. "Really, Theo? The Mudbloods only came up with all that because they don't have actual magic. It's nothing special."
"What's a Mudblood?" Hermione interjects.
"You," he says succinctly. "Humans."
"You have a special name for us?" In hindsight, it's unsurprising. The term sounds sinful when it's shaped by his voluptuous lips, but there's no mistaking how he makes it drip with derision. "What do demons call themselves then?" she asks eagerly.
"Purebloods," he says, looking at her. A slow, cunning smile is spreading across his face. "You're quite the academic, aren't you, Hermione?"
"I like knowing things," she admits. "Learning things. I have so many questions about demons…"
He flashes her a dazzling smile. "What if I give you the answers?"
She's immediately on her guard. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Draco says on a purr. "Nothing you haven't done before, at least. Just a little demon deal."
"I think I've had enough of deals recently," she says warily.
"This one practically doesn't even count," he protests. "It'll be a nothing deal. Practically free. In fact, if anything, it's disadvantaging me."
Her curiosity is piqued. "What are the terms, then?"
His eyes flare with triumph, but he stifles it before she can see. "Every night, I'll answer seven of your questions," he says. "And in return, you give me seven of your kisses. Nothing more, nothing less."
She hesitates. "Just kisses," she says. "Nothing more than my mouth on yours."
"Nothing more," he confirms smoothly.
She turns it over and over in her mind, but she can't see anything wrong with that. It's true she's never kissed anyone before, but he can hardly do much damage with a simple kiss. It's not like he's asked for her blood or tears, two elements which Secrets of the Darkest Arts informs her are as integral to her as her name.
The pursuit of knowledge always was Hermione's greatest flaw.
"Deal," she says.
Draco doesn't bother to hide the triumph glittering in his eyes this time. Theodore lets out a low whistle.
"Interesting times we're living in," he comments.
Hermione rounds on him. "What do you mean?"
"You hardly need to concern yourself with that," Draco says smugly. "You can't back out of a demon deal. I own a little bit of your soul now, Hermione Granger, and do you know what? I'm not letting it go."
Her eyes narrow. "What do you mean, you own a little bit of my soul?"
"Didn't you know?" His voice goes high with faux amazement. "Someone really should have told you, you know! Once you enter a bargain you can't easily leave. Demon contract magic is one of the most powerful things in the three worlds, heaven, hell, and earth. The only thing we can't do for you is tell you the future. My father sees it, but he is forbidden to speak it."
She scoffs. Loudly. "Telling the future? Please." The future is mutable and ever-changing; not even the devil can know it.
Draco and Theodore exchange glances, and then the two burst into hysterical laughter. "She – doesn't – believe – in telling the future!" the latter gasps out in between his chuckles.
"This is going to be so fun," the former agrees, wiping a tar-black tear away. "Oh, hells, I needed that… Thanks for the laugh, Hermione."
She glowers at him. She hates being laughed at.
"When can I expect the two of you tonight?" she says stiffly.
Draco's grin turns wicked. "We'll appear in your bed tonight, Hermione. The witching hour. Wouldn't you like that?"
"That's fine," she says, refusing to be drawn in. "I'll be waiting up."
"Do it in something sexy," he advises, smirking. "I certainly will." With that, he's gone, leaving behind him the smell of smoke.
"You'll have to forgive Draco," Theodore says, looking as though he's biting back his own smile. "He is a demon, after all. We both are." He flicks his wrist. In a moment, the drying blood from when Draco slit his throat has vanished, and when Hermione glances at the waiting room clock she sees it's been reset to two minutes before the entire incident occurred. Then he's popped out himself.
The room unfreezes collectively around her. Hermione watches in stunned fascination as people unwind themselves and go back to their chatter, unaware that for a few minutes they were taken out of time. Theodore seems to have wiped their memories too, because nobody asks her why she was screaming.
It seems she has a demon date for tonight. Obviously, she won't be wearing 'something sexy.' For one, she doesn't possess anything that fits the description. For another, Draco was obviously joking. He's a demon, as Theodore pointed out: it's in his nature to be lascivious. He can't help it. It doesn't mean anything.
Unfortunately.
AN: For the foreseeable future, I've been updating every day :O Believe me, I'm just as shocked as you! This chapter is dedicated to ofunnemordi2, the first person to review the last chapter. As always, here's your daily reminder that I love hearing what you think of the story!
I should probably make it clear that this story is not intended to be religious at all.
