Chapter 5: Level Number Nine
24 December 1924
BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY
By Rita Skeeter
A child born to a golden pacifier was, as to be expected, awarded a gifted childhood and given the best circumstances to make a name for himself. It is no surprise to the British public that Mr. Draco Malfoy was a successful and affluent young man with an entire company – an entire empire –
You can say that again.
-under his thumb by his late twenties. The British public was, however, enormously shocked to learn that, unlike most people with insurmountable wealth, Mr. Malfoy was extremely humble and exceedingly amicable. It is to his parents, Mr. Lucius Malfoy and Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, that this unusual but refreshing demeanor is attributed. Mr. Lucius Malfoy, the former head of Malfoy Company Limited, was a decorated war veteran as well, however due to the most unfortunate circumstance of losing Mr. Lucius Malfoy during the battle of Somme, not much else is known about Mr. Draco Malfoy's father.
Conversely, ever since Mr. Draco Malfoy has been a welcomed figure in the British press, there is an abundance of information on Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, especially after the summer that her son took a step back from the spotlight. She was famously captured by the press for nearly four uninterrupted months while her son was suspected to be working on a new project.
Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy is as radiant and cherished as her son and it is no wonder as to where he learned his benevolent behavior from (if not from both of his parents!). The Black family has had a long standing, albeit rocky as of lately, reputation among the English aristocratic families as the most ancient and noble. Both of Mrs. Malfoy's sisters – she herself being the youngest – though, are not nearly as poised or popular as she is. She is a woman of great stature and grace, and it cannot be understated that the public is eager to see who Mr. Draco Malfoy chooses to be his intended wife and to follow in his mother's footsteps.
Ah, yes.
Who is going to be the unfortunate broad that fills Narcissa's blood-stained designer heels? Personally, my money – should I actually have any outside of the stipend provided by Draco under some ill-form of employment – would have been on Astoria, but since she seems keener to follow after Narcissa without marrying her son, well…
That's not important.
What is important is what Rita so casually glossed over amidst her supposedly thorough rendition of Draco's life and legacy. Fucking rubbish, the whole thing. As you may have guessed, there is not a lot of vital information provided that would possibly clue the British public into the kind of life and legacy Draco actually left behind. As the leader of a notoriously violent and well-connected gang, there isn't much that he was involved in that was even remotely legal.
What Rita failed to investigate, or even bother to elaborate on, was the summer that Draco retreated from the public eye. It was decidedly not to take an ostentatious holiday in the sun. But, of course, that is probably a story best saved for another time.
After all, I'm getting ahead of myself.
In order to explain how I survived that summer – and what it did to my resolve – then I need to go back to the previous winter and how I survived (yet another) threat on my life.
25 December 1921
"What on earth are you doing out here all by yourself, love?" Sirius drawled, his yellow teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Don't you know it's dangerous for a woman to… Well," he shrugged. "To be a woman, I suppose."
Hermione's chest tightened; her pulse quickening though her body stood rigid and unmoving. Her eyes didn't leave the man staring her down. His features were sharp and precise; the blackness of his eyes was eerily focused on her and the pale of his cheekbone jutting out from his hollowed, starved face. His hunger, steeped in a chilling smile, prominent as ever; his gaze trailing down her cloaked figure with a scary intensity suggesting that he had been fasting for far too long. Starved for warmth. Starved for touch. Starved for her.
"I'm not your love," Hermione snapped, the words leaving her mouth and summoning a hidden lick of courage she wasn't sure she currently contained.
Black chuckled, stepping closer to her. "No," he taunted. "I suppose you are not, though I must say I'm thrilled that you are still as mouthy as I remember." He took another step forward, and in turn, Hermione stepped back, colliding with the brick wall beside the door with which Astoria disappeared through.
The thought that Draco might appear any moment now nudged her out of her catatonic state, and Hemione balled her gloved hands into fists at her side. All she had to do was bade her time. She could do that. Heaven knows she's had to do it before. This time, though, she was less certain whether or not Draco would make it in time.
To prove her point, Sirius Black lurched forward.
His dirty, grimy hands reached for her and she narrowly avoided his grasp, stumbling off the path and into the blanket of snow. Her feet sank through the cloud, depositing her on her side and soaking her in the cold, white ground. It swallowed her up, making it immensely difficult for her to get up and run.
Hermione's heart thudded in her chest, "You don't want to do this," she said, scrambling to her knees and meeting his hooded gaze. "Narcissa," she breathed, remembering Draco mentioning her importance in Black's precarious position. "Narcissa wouldn't want you to – Uh – Hurt the family, and – Err - "
"Family?" Black spat. "What fucking family? The one who cast me and my brother aside? Like we were nothing; less than nothing. The one who blamed me – framed me – for murder I didn't commit? As if I were some deranged animal that needed to be punished, caged, put down." He seethed.
Hermione realized, too late, the misstep she'd taken.
"You don't understand, child," Black went on. "You could never understand what they put me through, what they continue to put me through. They think they're so special, so gifted, and perhaps they are. Fuck knows Draco is immersed in gold, but Narcissa? She forgets her place."
He inhaled and exhaled heavily, glaring down at her and inching toward her all the same.
"Narcissa was the shining star of the family," he said. "She was the one to return the Black's to a pedestal of nobility; she provided her parents with a much-needed future. A promise. A death wish, though, all the same. That fucking scum, that fucking pathetic excuse for a man, gave her everything she needed to turn the tables back for her family. But at what cost?" He huffed, fuming. "At what cost, hm? A life, child. A life. She traded it willingly, of course, because it was not hers. It was not hers, and yet she felt it was hers to give."
Black looked at her, tilting his head with an angle that sent a shiver up her spine. "You have no idea the family you have so easily enveloped yourself in." He told her, taunting her with information he clearly had no plan to clarify. "Did you ever wonder how the Malfoy's rose to their wealth and power? Did you ever stop to think about what they call themselves? The Death Eater's," he sneered, "is not a name born from fair negotiations, and you would be unclever to presume it came at the price of anything less than bloodshed."
She blinked.
"I would not think you unclever, hm?" He choked on a throaty laugh, "And they call me a murderer."
Hermione swallowed, watching his blown-out pupils slowly constrict and focus once again on her. He was quick; impossibly quicker than one would expect of a starved, bedraggled, deranged man. Her hand thrust out, encasing him in a fistful of snow as she struggled to her knees and to her feet. A weight tugged her back down into the depth of white, bringing her to the mercy of Draco's timed rescue; should that still be the case for her.
She screamed, wailing as she blindly kicked at his hands. They made their way up her body; wrapped tightly around her ankle, nails digging into the silky fabric and clawing at her calves, thighs, hips.
"You," Black seethed, pressing his hips into hers and forcing her hands above her head. "You will be the price my power-hungry cousin must pay."
Hermione bowed her spine, trying to wriggle free of his impenetrable grip. Trying, and failing. "Black," she choked out. "Sirius Black. You don't – I'm not – You don't want me. I'm nothing."
Anger flashed behind his black eyes, and his lips parted, his tongue flicking across them. "It is not you that I want. You are right, you are nothing. Nothing special, certainly, and not worth looking at much less," he paused to grimace, "other things."
Fear ripped through her; she thought his want – his hunger – was for her. To claim her and to own her. But she had been wrong to presume that her body would be enough to satiate his hunger. Hermione had been so, so very wrong. It was not her body that he craved, but her blood. All of it. Tainting the snow for Draco to see come the morning light.
Hermione felt panic bubbling in her veins and willed it to give her strength; strength to fight back. Fight back.
Black shifted to grip her wrists with one, dirty hand. With the other, he took her breath between his fingers, roughly pressing them deeper and deeper into the delicate skin of her throat. Burying her in the frostbitten snow and robbing her of her clear mind. Her one – unbelievably fragile – strength.
There were stars. The night sky behind his ebony, greasy hair gleamed. It swarmed her vision with its tints of sparkling silver stark against the dark backdrop of the universe. Her vision blurred and the silver fractured and splintered.
It had been a long time – in the back of her mind, Hermione heard a voice whisper that it had been too long of a time – since she took a full breath but when she did, the silver that flashed before her eyes was more mesmerizing than before. It trapped her, pulled her in, and then was gone.
Hermione blinked, inhaling a shaky breath. She found it difficult to bring herself upright and was forced to survey her surroundings from where she lay in the freezing blanket of snow.
"What the fuck did I tell you?" Came the feral, enraged voice of Draco. He loomed over Black, the other man's musty coat tangled in his fist. "I can only give you so many chances at life, Black."
"You think this is life?" Black responded, shoving Draco back. "You think I am living, do you? You are more delusional, more ruthless, than your father and mother combined, cousin. It may bring you power and allow you to reach for the stars after which you are named, but do not forget that the higher you climb, the farther you fall… and you will fall."
Draco spat at the feet of the other man, his lips curling angrily. "Is that meant to intimidate me?" His deft fingers curled into fists moments before one of them swung out at lightning speed, imitating that of a snake. It connected with Black's jaw squarely, causing him to stumble back and spit out blood. "Get the fuck out of here before I decide I don't care what Mother thinks of having your blood on my conscience."
"Is that meant to intimidate me?" Black countered, narrowing his eyes but laughing through the threat. He raised his hands, taunting Draco, and cackled, "You want my blood, cousin? Come get it, then."
A shaky breath rattled through Hermione's lungs, tearing her ribs apart, and there a moment. A moment of silence, of reprieve, where time seemed to stop, and then –
Draco advanced.
It was as if something in him shifted; part of him, she could see from the blank expression, shut down while another part of him, evident in the tension in his muscles, came to life. He was a well-oiled machine, throwing punch and punch at Black. Hardly a jab that left his coiled body did not strike its intended target without a sickening crunch following it.
"Oh, fuck," cursed a new voice, the sentiment leaving with a gasp. "Fuck, Draco." It was Theo. He come up to Draco – who was bent over Black in the snow, the two of them tumbling and exchanging elbows and grunts spattered in blood – and tugged at his mate's coat, "Hey, Draco, think of Narcissa. She wouldn't want - "
"Penny," he growled, swatting away Theo's grasping hands. The other boy's blue eyes glinted. "Penny," Draco repeated, sparing a glance in her direction and indicating toward Theo with a lowered chin. "He – Can you - "
"Yes," Theo responded immediately, "Of course."
A moment later, Hermione's visions swarmed with icy blue tainted with wisps of fury and disapproval. At who, she wasn't sure. Her? Likely. Draco? Black? Considerably less so, though she wasn't entirely sure the possibility could be altogether ruled out.
"Penny," Theo murmured, bending to peer at her. The longer strands of his black hair fell from their slicked back state to land precariously onto his forehead. He swept them away impatiently. His eyes flickered down her face, landing on her throat. "Fuck," he choked.
She was sure what he saw mirrored how horribly she ached.
"Draco," the shrill, identifiable voice of Narcissa screamed. Her heels clacked loudly against the stone path as she barreled toward him and Black. The two of them finally pulled apart at her furious gaze. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Not waiting for a response, she turned to Black. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Black coughed, spitting blood at Narcissa's feet, and quipped, "It's Christmas, Cissy, surely you're not cold enough to deny a man time with his family on such a day." He wiped at the blood running down his nose, trickling into his mouth, and winced. Hermione was certain from its crooked angle that his nose had been broken in not one, but two places. "Or," he added, "Am I to understand that would rather carry on in your enormous, warm home without my ghost around to haunt you? To remind you of the choices you made once upon a time."
Her lips twitched into a grimace before flattening back into a thin line. "Leave," she spat. "Leave now, and we'll forget all of this happened."
"Like hell we will," Draco shot back, but Narcissa's arm whipped out to brace against his chest, pushing him behind her and away from Black. "He needs to pay for what he did," Draco seethed.
Narcissa glared at him, "My darling son," she said, the words dripping with venom. "Don't do anything - "
A booming sound echoed through the night, silencing them all with its finality. Draco stood tall with one arm extended toward Black, and a revolver smoking from the end of his bloodied and bruised hand. Hermione, leaning heavily on Theo as he helped her to her feet, slinging an arm around her waist to steady her, gaped.
Black's eyes dropped to his chest, waiting for the blood to spurt and soak his linen shirt. Instead, nothing came. Narcissa's manicured hands wrapped around the top of the barrel of the gun; she had managed to do the impossible and match her son's swiftness – beat it, even – and sent the bullet spiraling into the night rather than into Black's empty, cavernous heart.
"Leave," she repeated, shooting a warning look at the man.
"What the bloody hell happened?" Astoria gasped, rising from her armchair.
Draco tightened his grip on Hermione's waist, "Don't," he warned. "Don't act like you don't know." He reluctantly let go of Hermione, helping her sink between the soft velvet cushions before rounding on Astoria with furious, stormy eyes. "You are a spiteful bitch, you know that, don't you?"
Astoria blinked. Her body language registering the accusation in his tone and tensing, prepared to engage in the fight. "What the fuck are you talking about?" She demanded, rouge lips grimacing.
"Sirius Black," Narcissa supplied, stepping between the two of them to take up a cigarette and light it. She exhaled several rings of smoke, then added, "He was here." Then, she nodded to Draco as evidence, "There was a bit of a fight. Bloody fucking idiots," she said, knocking back a glass full of dark, spiced liquid.
"Black," Astoria repeated, tasting the name on her venomous tongue. Her green eyes flared, sparking with fury as she directed her attention back to the blond towering over her. "You think I had something to do with him? That I – What? – invited him here?" Her gaze flickered to Hermione and settled on the dark marks coloring her neck. She visibly swallowed, then gasped at Draco. "You think I set this up, don't you?"
"I certainly wouldn't put it past your treacherous mind to come up with something as vile as this for vengeance." He replied coldly.
"Fuck you," Astoria snapped.
She turned swiftly from Draco and stepped toward Hermione, though he slid to block her path. "Move," she commanded. When he didn't budge, she looked past him to meet Hermione's brown eyes. "Penny," she said. "You know I would never do that to you. To him. Think about it," she demanded, too proud to openly beg. "Think."
Hermione cleared her throat, finding her voice rasp and hollow. "Draco," she said, her eyes flickering up from Astoria's dilated jewel-toned ones to meet his bloodshot slate ones. He sighed heavily, then inched out of Astoria's path just enough to let her kneel beside the chair Hermione sat in.
"You're fine," she said drily, brushing her fingers gingerly against Hermione's swollen throat.
From behind them, Theo scoffed. "She's clearly not,"
"She is," Astoria insisted. Her lips quirked upwards momentarily before settling back into their usual taunting smirk. "You are." She told Hermione firmly. "You're fine. You're strong. You're resilient." Astoria rocked back on her heels and stood, dusting off her dress and joining Narcissa for a smoke, filling a glass and handing it to Hermione. "Drink this," she instructed.
Hermione felt Draco's eyes boring into her. For what it's worth, she knew that the two of them – she and Astoria – were two sides of the same coin, and in the short time they had known each other, Hermione knew with absolute certainty that the other could be trusted. They were infallibly similar.
She imagined that in another life, had she been born to a different family with different ambitions, she would be the same dangerous, demanding, brilliant woman that Astoria was. No, she corrected herself, they did not have different ambitions. Had Hermione not gone into the academy and yearned to roam the streets with a glint of silver on her breast with the intention to bring change about the dirty streets of London? Was that any different than what Astoria did? What any of the Death Eater's did?
Sure, their methods for going about the change – like buying entire warehouse-loads of opium and selling it abroad rather than simply arresting the maker to prevent it circulating about their own streets – was not what she had been taught was right. Then again… did that necessarily make them wrong?
Did it make them any less than her?
No, she ruled.
Hermione took the proffered glass with a hint of a smile tugging at her cracked lips, nodding her understanding to the woman. Her silent gratitude. Draco's eyes never left hers as she tipped back the expensive glass and emptied the contents. The spiced liquid burned her throat, searing against the nerves lining it and bringing about a new, welcomed sensation of numbness.
Her eyes met Astoria's and saw the haunting look in her eyes and wondered if Astoria had known what Hermione needed from her own experience.
You're fine –
You're strong –
You're resilient –
"Another one?" Astoria asked, taking the glass from Hermione's gentle grasp and refilling it. "A couple more will help. Blur the images," she whispered in her ear, bending to place the glass in her hands and give them a firm squeeze. "Don't go all soft on me, now, Penny. I have high expectations for you still." She winked.
Hermione's mouth curved into a genuine smile at that, and pushed the other woman back, coming to her feet. Draco immediately reached out to wrap his strong, bruised hands around her waist, but she batted him away as well. "Bloody hell, Draco, I don't need a babysitter. I can do it myself." When he grunted and back away, granting her the space she asked for, Hermione sent a quick wink over her shoulder to Astoria, who lifted her chin minutely.
"So," Pansy said, clearing her throat and reminding Hermione of the other half of the family who had stayed in the Manor. "Would I be correct in presuming Sirius Black no longer has to wonder if hell has a special place in its fiery depths for him?"
Draco shifted, but Narcissa spoke up before he could. "No," she told Pansy and the others watching with wide eyes. "He lives to inhale another smog-filled breath."
"For now," Draco grumbled under his breath so low that only Hermione and Theo – standing on the other side of him – caught it. They exchanged a wary glance, but he tilted his head toward the other side of the room where the corridor led to the grand staircase. She nodded, then lifted her gaze to analyze the sharp angle of Draco's jaw.
"Draco," Hermione murmured, nudging him gently. His head bent down to take her in; his darkened, hooded eyes softened immediately to a bright silver. "Let's go,"
Hermione rummaged through the cabinets underneath the sink, knowing that she would find a miniature medical kit suitable for patching him up. She carried the box back into his bedroom and settled it on the nightstand, searching through its contents for alcohol and gauze, then gestured for Draco to sit on the bed.
He stripped off his cold, wet coat and shirts until his chest was bare. "Have you ever done this before?" He asked, motioning to the array of bandages and sutures.
"More or less," she taunted with a smirk, pulling her lower lip in between her teeth.
His eyes gleamed, "You're not going to butcher me, are you Penny? I don't think the papers would take too kindly to you scarring my face." Draco teased, though from the uneven rising and falling of his chest, Hermione could see that he was anxious.
"I won't scar you," she reassured him gently. "I don't even need to touch that stuff," she nodded to the glinting silver in the kit as she assessed the gash on his cheekbone. "The cut isn't that deep. It won't need sutures, so I'll just apply a bit of skin glue and tape it up. Let your body do its magic to repair the damage," she said.
He didn't say anything else, and so Hermione took a deep breath and steadied herself, focusing on the task at hand. She was extremely talented at that; prioritizing and training her thoughts not to sway from whatever it was her body needed to do. Which, at the moment, was mend Draco's bloodied and bruised body. Hermione gritted her teeth and got to work.
She dampened a cloth and ran it along his split knuckles, marveling at how Draco didn't even flinch when the warm, soothing water turned to cold, stinging alcohol. She tediously wrapped his hands in clean gauze, holding her breath as she trailed her fingers over the roughness of his fingertips. She finished her doctoring of his hands and flickered her eyes up to meet his, then swallowed as she reached out to swipe away loose, sweat-slicked strands of his translucent, golden hair.
His bandaged hand wrapped around her wrist, but none of the signature force or vehemence that was usually reserved for her was present. His grey eyes lowered and blinked at his fingers closed around her raised wrist as if he didn't recognize his own hand. As if it had moved without his consent.
He swallowed, the bob in his throat bouncing animatedly.
"Ask me," he rasped.
Hermione blinked. Her voice caught in the back of her sore throat and she felt the familiar strain of her muscles anxiously awaiting his touch; her pulse racing and buzzing with anticipation.
"I know you're dying to," Draco went on. "I know you. I know that clever mind of yours has no shy of a million questions plaguing your thoughts. I know that one of them is haunting you, cursing you for standing so close to me," he told her. "So, go on then. Ask me."
Her breath hitched, unhelpfully relaying the congruence of his observation. "What do you want me to ask you?" She countered, raising a brow in a small act of defiance. However, he seemed genuinely pleased by her resistance to follow normality and unwrapped his fingers from around her wrist, clasping them in his lap.
"You've seen who I am," he stated. His eyes – always an indication of the mood his body language failed to convey – darkened as the truth of his words echoed in the depths of her thoughts. "You've seen what I'm capable of. I've seen your taste in literature, Penny, and I can assure I am not a suitable husband. I am no Mr. Darcy and certainly no John Brooke."
Hermione sighed, "You think I resemble Meg most of all of the March sisters?" She pressed, dubiously. "I would think, Draco, that you would know better than anyone that she is the least of them that I would compare myself to, if anything." Her tone was light, reprimanding but still playful.
To her utter delight, he pursued the witticism. "That is true," he breathed. "Your temper and stubborn personality are far closer to that of Jo. Still, independence and strong-will aside since we do not live in the 19th century any longer, I would like to think that a woman like you, Penny – a romantic like you – would aspire to marriage, children, a normal life."
"There are more important things in life, to me," she clarified with a careful brush of her thumb against his newly bandaged cheekbone.
"Such as?" He implored.
Hermione took her time, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "Trust," she murmured. "Knowledge," she stated, stepping closer to the bed so that her knees collided with the frame and secured her firmly between his thighs. "Family," she whispered; a nearly inaudible admission of the heart.
"Hm," Draco uttered. "All themes of fairytales still, are they not? I am not a prince, Penny. I am not good for you. I will never be good for you," he swallowed visibly, practically choking on the confession. "I regret introducing you to this life. To my life." He shut his eyes for a long moment, then snapped them open to regard her with renewed intensity. "This is not a fairytale, Penny. I am not your prince, and I will not save you. I've never known how to give," his nails dug into the bone of her hip. "Only take. Only ever take."
"You give yourself far too much credit if you believe yourself the villain," Hermione replied tautly. "And you give me far too little if you believe me to be a simple damsel in distress. I am not a woman waiting to be rescued," she informed him.
"No," he said, his split lip quirking into a telling smirk. "You are definitely not that,"
Then, Hermione took a shallow breath, steeling herself for the upcoming tumble of words straining against her swollen throat, eager to come out despite what it meant for her subsequent fate. "I am, however, suffering," she whispered, "without you, Draco."
His typical cold exterior gave way to pure reaction and she luxuriated in it; his fingers digging into the silky fabric of her dress and his lips parting to allow a sharp hiss to escape. "Pen," he rasped. "Ask me." His chest puffed, stretching, reaching, yearning toward hers. Hermione peered into the silvery hue of his eyes, falling hopelessly for its glimmer and promise.
"Why me?"
He shook his head. "No," Draco panted. "That's not it."
Hermione fought the urge to flee. To leave this godforsaken Manor behind and run for the hills. To crawl back to Shacklebolt with her beaten and ruined body and mind and ask – demand – a reassignment. To beg for his forgiveness and lament ever having met Mr. Draco Malfoy and his enigmatic, deplorable gang.
But then she silently condemned herself.
Because she didn't wish that at all. Not anymore. In nearly two years of deep undercover work meant for the good of the public she had never had the pleasure of hearing from her employers and supposed protectors. They clearly didn't value her. Trust her.
The Death Eater's did – and more importantly, Draco did.
She was sure of it. So certain that she was willing to put her own life on the line.
Hermione did not want to flee. She did not want to run from the perils of the Manor and its secrets and its hoard of rebels and criminals. She wanted to run toward it and the people she had come to call her family. To chatty breakfasts with Theo, mirrored gazes shared with Astoria, aloof and oddly proud sentiments from Narcissa, and – above all and despite her best effort to avoid it – to quiet moments in Draco's embrace with his lips pressed firmly against hers; the ache and the burn of their shared breath.
There was something in him. Something dangerous and haunting, still, but something else. There was something that she was absolutely positive that no one else had ever had the privilege of seeing: his vulnerability. Not even Theo, she imagined, had seen him like this; leaning toward her as if she was his sun and he a lonely planet trapped, encircling her for all eternity.
Little did he know, though, that he was the glorious, golden sun and she but a modest, irreparably fucked planet in his outer rim.
Draco kept Hermione in his orbit.
She tried. God knows she tried to resist his charismatic gravitation and their devastating energy, but every time she thought she was free, he pulled her back to him. Every fucking time. It was like something so horribly tragic and comedic all in one, that she imagined even Shakespeare himself could not have written a story comparable to theirs.
There was a string, attached to both of them by the fates, that had no doubt been spun and woven to deliver them precisely to this moment and this time. Hermione was aware that their meeting was under no normal circumstances, and that even one decision along the way could have brought them to very different places in their lives. The turmoil within her churned unhappily, willing the burning sensation in her lower abdomen to find a way to release itself.
To release her.
Hermione could not have, in her wildest imagination, dreamed Draco Malfoy into her life, yet she knew without absolute certainty that from this moment forward there was no other option for her. It would be beside Draco, or not at all. With him, and never without. If he was to rule his evil empire from his throne in the pits of hell, then she would gladly join him.
There was no longer the chance to guide him toward the light – and any foolish belief on her part that any part of her own soul was worth saving dissolved into ash – and she accepted that.
She accepted him.
The universe was cruel for delivering her to him as Miss Penelope Clearwater, but until she could find a way to cross that bridge without it burning and drowning her in the process, but she would orbit him just the same because if Hermione Granger was sure of one thing, it was that Draco Malfoy was her destiny.
"Ask me," Draco implored with a tone of finality.
Hermione didn't hesitate to give him what he had been waiting for, "Why you?" She whispered, arching a brow. His chin dipped slightly – not a nod, but close enough to one with the lack of space between them now.
She felt his breath on her neck as her forehead fell against his. "Why me?" He croaked, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her chest closer to his. Ever closer. Never close enough.
"I don't know," she lied effortlessly. He sighed. His hold on her loosened infinitesimally and it drove her mad, igniting a flame inside of her. "I want you." She told him, trailing her fingers along his jawline. "I want to call you mine."
"I hope you never live to regret the day you say that." Draco murmured against her lips.
Me fucking too, she thought.
The air around them stirred, buzzing with electricity and taking with it something deep inside of her, suffocating her and robbing her of every last gasp of air in her lungs. It was a vacuum. Space itself – existing in an abyss of nothing but always taking, and taking, and taking. The moment she felt her cavernous lungs reach desperately for air, she inhaled and found liberation against Draco's lips.
When Draco kissed her, it was unlike any other time.
Hermione had imagined this, imagined him, imagined the taste of his lips on hers more times than she could count. He was the sun, gold and glorious and burning. The heat of his fingertips on her skin enough to draw her perilously close to him, closer, closer, closer. The flick of his tongue along her bottom lip, demanding entry, searing and numbing, indulging her in her fantasies of his tongue elsewhere and bringing her closer, closer, closer.
But it was not how she imagined it.
Perhaps, she was the sun after all – It was her who would stand to burn him to ashes in the end, was it not? Draco pulled her closer to him until she fell helplessly on top of him, burrowing them in her curls; he gently turned her over again until he was fixed above her, and he began worshipping her in small touches and soft kisses like the devoted, spellbound planet he was.
Hermione had imagined Draco would singe her, drowning her in the powerlessness of needing him. Instead, he was sweet in a way; far sweeter than she had ever witnessed of him. As sweet as an emerging breath. A gasp after near drowning. As sweet as life renewed. All of which she was unfortunate enough to have been privy to at the mercy of his hand, from wanting him and needing him closer.
Ever closer.
Never close enough.
Draco was saccharine, melting on her tongue. The longing, the burning, was still there between them, and she didn't expect it to dissipate any time soon for what true passion could ever only be sweet? She was not a fool; No, Hermione Granger had always been a clever girl. Sometimes too clever. She knew this watermelon sugar high was not likely to last, not likely to ever show its face again, but she reveled in it all the same.
"Penny," Draco choked, as if the word himself was a prayer, the only thing that could possibly save his soul; save him.
It snapped her out of her daydreamy haze and sugar high. Penny, she repeated internally as his lips slid from her lips to her jaw, then ear, leaving soft touches – barely kisses at all – along the way. Hermione coughed, tasting sour and poison on her tongue. This wasn't right; she wasn't right. This couldn't happen… or could it?
Her mission hardly seemed worth it anymore. Shacklebolt and Fudge had not once tried to contact her or check up on her. Even when Slughorn had stopped by, he had not once mentioned a frizzy-haired brunette or deigned to ask about her employment in the household. For all intents and purposes, Hermione could have been shot that very first night and buried beneath Narcissa's gardenias and they would have never known different. How dare they? She thought vehemently.
After all that she'd sacrificed. After all that she'd been through. They never appreciated her, valued her, or trusted her and she could see that now. Hermione tasted copper on her tongue and realized that in her quiet rage she had bitten her lip, piercing the skin.
Draco pulled back, tasting the copper on his tongue as well and eyed her cautiously.
"Penny?" He blinked, his grey eyes surveying her face with genuine concern. His expression was open and vulnerable; unlike the usual cold and calculated stern face he wore. Hermione flicked her tongue over her bottom lip, savoring the salty taste of realization and pulled him back to her.
"Don't," she murmured against his lips, a desperate supplication as their breaths leapt apart for a moment. "Don't do that. Don't say my name like it's a prayer, like it's all you ever wanted, and don't," she warned, running her hands through the short strands at the nape of his neck. "Don't kiss me and touch me with any kindness if you don't mean it."
In answer, Draco dipped his head and placed gentle kisses against the soreness of her throat; his fingers circling the dark marks on her windpipe. "I'm sorry," he murmured against her fragile skin. "I am so, so sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt, to get involved in this business – this life – but I am sorry, Penny, because now that you're here I can't let you go." A forced swallow. "I wish I was strong enough to let you go but I'm not. I'm not strong enough, Pen. I want you. No, fuck. I need you."
"Then have me," she whispered, taking his face between her hands and lifting it to meet his slate, clouded gaze. "Have me, Draco."
The obvious torment behind his grey eyes waged on in a dark, troubling storm of want and longing and fear. Hermione knew her own brown, teary eyes mirrored his; torn and starved. The hunger won – as it always did. His hands gripped her waist, tugging her down so that her hips collided with his, and he slowly lifted her dress, dragging the silky soft material up her body, leaving sparks where his fingertips grazed her ribs.
"Are you sure?" He whispered against her pantyhose, flicking his tongue against the slickened material and wetting it, soaking it, more than she already had.
"Yes," she said, choking on the word as it tore through her. Her hands fisting the sheets. "Yes. I want this. I want you."
Draco nipped at the thin fabric, tearing it from her aching, burning body and depositing it carelessly on the floor as he had done with her dress. The lacy, flimsy bralette she wore was next to go. It slipped from her shoulders, leaving her breasts to shiver momentarily before Draco replaced its material with his hands.
Her back arched, reaching toward him to destroy the distance that cursed the space between them. Hermione sat up, wrapping one hand around his neck to steady herself, knowing that he would never let her fall, never let her go, and slid the other hand down his torso. He shivered as she did at the touch and violently shuddered, a hiss emanating from his lips as her fingers closed around the bulge of his already hardened cock in his trousers.
"Mine," she murmured possessively in his ear. "You belong to no one else, Draco Malfoy, I am yours and you are mine."
"Always," he replied, his voice rasping and straining as he gritted his teeth; her hands quickly ridding them of the only cursed thing between them and elation – of the high and the need and closer, closer, closer. "It was always you," he told her, lowering her back onto the mattress and swinging her legs above his shoulders. "It was always us. Extraordinarily puzzling and undeniably - "
He paused, grunting as he bent lower, his fingers sliding against her velvet-smooth slickness. Hermione bit back a moan and confessed, "Inevitable." His head snapped up and their eyes met – some of the longer strands of his pale golden hair falling onto his sweat-covered forehead; his lips parted in an inaudible agreement, a prayer – and then he slipped two fingers deep inside of her.
There was a familiar need burning in her that coiled and coiled and begged for release. Her legs quivered as her thighs reflexively tightening, constricting his hold on her. The absence of his hold on her sent chills up her spine despite the stifling heat of his body pressed against hers, and she came undone not long after his fingers were replaced by his mouth.
"I need you," he whispered in her ear, pressing a kiss to her cheek and then to her lips; she tasted the salty victory of her release on him and savored it. "I always needed you," Draco said, pulling her legs over his shoulders once again and nearly bending her in half.
Hermione hummed, every muscle in her body reeling and tensing, ready to coil and coil again as his cock throbbed against her slit. The anticipation was killing her, slow and relentless torture, and she tasted strawberry on his lips this time, drowning in the saccharine sweetness.
"I'm here," she swore to him, lost in the delirium of him filling her, completely and gradually until she felt so full that she wondered if she had not always been starved before him. "Have me, Draco, because I'm yours and you are mine."
Hands tangled in her hair. Sweat dripping down his chest and onto hers, mixing with her own expiration as if it had never known how to be apart. Sweet murmurs of promises and yesyesDraco – thereyesyes – fuckme – and closer, closer, closer that was followed by a release so blinding and so euphoric that it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps they were both the sun. Burning and shining and colliding until there was nothing left of them, until destruction was –
Inevitable.
A blinding light invaded the room, stirring Hermione from the abyss of sleep and causing her to blink back the sunlight and survey her surroundings. Swiping at her groggy, heavy lids, she craned her neck – still sore, but miraculously less so than before – and smiled at the beautiful blond god beside her. His limbs were tangled between hers and it took several long minutes of meticulous and quiet maneuvering to free herself from his embrace. Another smile crept up her lips at the thought of what brought them to this circumstance.
Hermione reached out to brush the translucent hairs away from his closed eyes, marveling at the tiny silvery hairs resting against his cheekbones but stopped herself at the last second. Deciding it was best not to wake him yet, she crept silently out of the bedroom with one of his oxfords draped over her.
Her head was clear, but her throat was still sore, and so she wandered towards the kitchen with the intent to convince Dobby to find a searing glass of whiskey for her. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of a petite brunette sitting on one of the kitchen counters, kicking her bare legs back and forth as she sipped at her tea and flipped lazily at a newspaper.
"Astoria," Hermione blinked, startled.
The other woman smirked, her sage eyes trailing down Hermione's choice of attire. "Good morning," she taunted, lifting the tea to her lips. "Sleep well?"
"I - "
"There's no need to lie or hide with me, Penny." She reminded her primly. "We've been over this, haven't we?" She chuckled under her breath and hopped gracefully down from the counter without spilling any of the hot liquid on her pretty white dress. "I take it you're here for more medication?"
Hermione eyed the bottle Astoria produced from one of the cabinets and took is with a grateful nod, "Yes." She said, pouring herself a glass and downing it quickly, welcoming the pain and subsequent pleasure of the numbing liquid. "Why are you awake so early?"
Astoria shrugged, not meeting Hermione's eye.
"Is it - " She paused, frowning. "Is it because me?" Suddenly, Hermione felt a rush of guilt wash over her. She had taken the other woman's plead for granted and chose to believe her when she said that Draco's moving on did not bother her, and that she and Hermione should be friends. But did she mean it? The dark circles prominent under her jewel-toned eyes despite the heavy makeup proved otherwise. "I thought you said - "
"I meant what I said," Astoria cut in, exasperated. "It's not about Draco. It's not even about you – I just – I couldn't sleep, that's all. I was restless. Had a lot on my mind." She quipped, flicking a speck of dust that dared to sit on her shoulder. "I told you, Penny, don't do that to yourself. Us women need to band together," she challenged. Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I know you are a clever and capable woman, but there is still so much you have to learn if you want to be part of this family, this life – Draco's life."
She paused, sighing. "I'm his ex, I would know."
Hermione bit her lip, remembering something cold and unforgiving that had been whispered in her ear. You will be the price my power-hungry cousin must pay. She gasped, her eyes widening in horror. "Astoria," she breathed tentatively. "Astoria - " She began but was cut off with a sharp glare.
"Don't," she warned.
"But - " Hermione fought the bile rising in her throat and stepped toward the other woman, holding onto her wrist and holding her in place. Her other hand trailed softly up her forearm, comforting her as best as she knew how with the stale air between them and the wild look in Astoria's green eyes. "What did he do to you?" She whispered.
Astoria blinked, tilting her chin upward. Defiantly. Proudly. "It is what he did not do that matters," she replied. "He did not bend me, Penny, and he did not break me." She paused, exhaling a shaky breath and meeting Hermione's worried gaze. "Remember what I told you? You are strong. You will come back from this. You will make him pay."
"What about you?" Hermione insisted, "Why hasn't he paid for what he did to you?"
"Because no one knows what he did to me," Astoria sniffed, "and I won't let you tell them. I won't have it." Hermione opened her mouth to argue shut it as Astoria shot her another piercing glare. "They will look at me like I'm weak, like I'm damaged, like I'm broken. Then, he will win."
"Astoria," Hermione said, gripping her hand tightly between her own. "That's not - "
"No, Penny." She scolded. Then, the tension in her delicate shoulders wilted and she leaned into Hermione's touch, spent from the confession. Hermione held onto her tightly and brushed her ebony hair, soothing her and comforting her. "I am sorry, though," Astoria went on quietly. "If I had said something, then he probably wouldn't have – He wouldn't have figured out that his violence and torment of Draco needed escalating. I'm sorry that my silence resulted in an attempt on your life."
"Don't be sorry," Hermione beseeched, shaking her head. "Don't ever apologize for what happened – for what he did to you – and how you reacted. It was a survival technique," she said. "Besides, as you keep on reminding me, we'll be fine."
"Yes," Astoria sighed. "We will be."
"You know," Astoria said, reaching for a Welsh cake, "I never thought I would say this, but I miss Daphne."
Theo, pulling the plate of cakes closer to him, shot her a conspiratorial smirk, "Well, Satan, you're always welcome to join her. I'm sure those Scottish brutes could stand to teach you a few things of importance," he taunted.
"Unlikely," Astoria snapped back. "In any case, Theodore, you aren't getting rid of me that easily."
"Delightful," he remarked drily.
Hermione, sitting between the two of them, snatched a couple of cakes from Theo and handed them to Astoria with a tired sigh. She often felt like the withering mother, a widow even, raising two hellish teenagers when she spent much time around them.
"I would love to see that," Graham commented, stepping into the dining room with Marcus on his heels. "Astoria unleashed upon the Scottish nuns?" He let out a low whistle, "Bet we would make a killing off the inevitable fight," They took their seats opposite Hermione and on either side of Blaise, who immediately backhanded Marcus in the stomach.
"What the fuck was that for?" Marcus seethed, grasping his abdomen and scowling at the other man.
Blaise arched a dark brow at him, pointedly trailing his gaze up and down Marcus' suit. "For thinking you could pull off that shade of grey this late in the season," he replied primly. "I second that motion, Astoria," he said, turning to face her and carefully selecting a biscuit to dunk in his tea – actual tea this time, too – "If Daphne were here, she would reprimand Flint on his taste as well. Make him see reason,"
"Fuck off," Marcus snapped.
Hermione plopped a strawberry in her mouth and tilted her chin toward Graham, "Who would you bet on?"
"Me, obviously," Astoria scoffed. "I could take those Highlander women any day." She chewed on a cake and wiggled her brows suggestively, leaning in to whisper in Hermione's ear. "I would never speak ill of my sister, of course, but if it were me having trouble up there, let's just say there wouldn't be a university left once I was done with it."
Hermione chuckled, turning her attention back to the men as they went on bickering about the two missing women. They were back in school now, their holiday break long over, and business was back to usual.
"If you missed us so much," a sickly-sweet voice trilled from the doorway, "All you had to do was say so." Pansy smirked at the gaping mouths and tucked her hand around Daphne's waist as the two of them stood beside the table, not taking a seat.
"What the bloody hell are you two doing here?" Theo said, aghast. "Shouldn't you be – I don't know – learning how to analyze Shakespeare or something?"
Daphne shrugged nonchalantly, "We already know everything there is to know about the old bastard. We're English, after all, Nott." She sniffed. "Be not afraid,"
Theo frowned, leaning back in his chair and resting an arm over the back of Hermione's, "Am I supposed to believe you think you were born great?" He countered.
Pansy arched a brow, "Perhaps," she stated. "Though, don't get your hopes up, Nott, that doesn't apply to you. Nor, I imagine," she added, her dark eyes lingering on his casual suit, "does it apply to you. Maybe if you're lucky, you will achieve greatness one day."
Theo's eyes twinkled, but it was Hermione who spoke up in his defense. She took a sip from her tea and met the two other women's gazes with a toying one of her own, "Sorry Pansy, Daphne, but Theo and I are quite busy having greatness thrust upon us today to join you with," – she paused, noticing the extremely formal gowns they wore – "whatever you two are up to today."
"Ah," Narcissa said, joining them in the room with Draco on her heels. "I'm so glad you said that Penny, as they will be accompanying Draco to another fundraiser gala today." She crossed the room to stand behind Astoria, then bent her head to whisper in her ear.
Hermione yearned to hear what she said, and she was close enough that she thought she could make most of it out, but then a cold hand slid behind her neck and caused her to nearly jump in her seat had she not trained herself to suppress those instincts.
"Hey," Draco murmured in her ear, tugging at the wayward curls at the nape of her neck, pulling them loose from her attempt at a chignon. "I hope you don't mind that you won't be the woman on my arm this afternoon."
"Or one of them," she teased, her brown eyes flickering over to where Pansy and Daphne continued to berate Theo. He himself angling dutifully and respectfully away from their hushed conversation.
"It's because I trust you, you know that, don't you?" He implored, his silvery eyes dancing. Other than his eyes, his posture and expression remained stoic; rigid and cold. She nodded her understanding. Her fingers brushed across his knuckles behind her head before dropping back into her lap, and he pulled away, shoving his hands in his pockets.
They were careful to keep their intimacy at a minimum in the company of others. For one thing, it was how Draco operated with maintaining control over his Death Eater's and his household – he could not afford to appear weak or vulnerable even in front of them – and for another, it allowed them the habit of separation in public should anyone else decide to attack them the way Black did.
"See you tonight," she whispered, and his lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile before he turned away and clapped Theo on the back.
"Oi," Theo grunted.
He ducked swiftly as Draco aimed another harmless smack at the back of his head, then shot him a bird as he sauntered off toward Pansy and Daphne, directing them out of the room with one last glance at Hermione, winking at her.
She melted momentarily before Theo roughly dragged her focus back to the matter at hand, the task that Draco had entrusted her and Theo to take care of with the utmost discretion. "Come on, Penny," Theo chimed, elbowing her and stealing the last bit of her Welsh cake from her grasp and depositing it into his mouth. "We better get going,"
"I'm just saying," Theo drawled, stepping out of the car and opening the large door for Hermione, incapable of acting less than the perfect gentlemen in public despite his bickering with her. "If you were upset about it, I would understand. Daph is a very beautiful woman."
Hermione's heels echoed against the original stonework, "and Pansy?" Theo gave her a roguish smile, opting to say nothing and Hermione shook her head at him. "You're incorrigible." She said under her breath as the two of them came up to an older woman standing behind the bar situated behind the lobby.
"Rosmerta," Theo greeted with a wide grin, dazzling the elder woman effortlessly. "How are you today?"
The woman – Rosmerta – set down a glass she'd been drying and regarded Theo warily as her gaze flickered emphatically to Hermione beside him. "I'm fine," she supplied flatly. "How can I help you Mr. Nott?"
"So formal," he reprimanded playfully, then waved a hand across Hermione's face. "Don't mind her, Rosie, she's nobody."
Hermione nodded along with the charade they'd taken up, "Just a humble assistant, ma'am, of no importance." At the bat of her lashes, meant to demonstrate her innocence, Hermione blinked up from the woman to Theo expectantly. He waved her off and flicked his wrist back toward the lobby.
"I'll be out in a minute, Penny," he said, sparing Rosmerta a conspiratorial wink, "Be a good little assistant and pick up my delivery, will you?"
Back in the car, Hermione shifted so that the bursting envelope with international stamps fell from her coat and into the box hidden underneath her seat. She filed it behind the other four and grinned at the messy handwriting, the same on all of the envelopes, and rolled her eyes at Theo as he started the car and drove off to their next destination.
"It's a wonder that anyone in the post can even read Vince's scripture," she laughed. "He should really work on that because I can't imagine Draco would take kindly to them getting misdelivered or flagged for inspection."
Theo shrugged, "It's a lost cause, Penny, not that you would know the history of it."
"Oh?" She remarked lightly, "Is that because I am but a good little assistant?" He glanced askance at her apparent tone of distaste and outright laughed at the disapproving twist of her mouth and the small arms folded over her chest.
However, his laugh quickly dissipated once he glanced back up at the road ahead. Hermione looked up to see what caused his mood to turn sour suddenly and groaned aloud at the sight of messy black hair and jewel-toned eyes staring them down.
"No," she grumbled. "Theo, don't - "
"Don't worry, Penny," Theo said between gritted teeth as he pulled the car over. "I'm not going to ask you to stay in the bloody car. On the contrary, actually," he huffed, reaching over her to open her door and shove her hastily out of it.
Hermione was barely able to regain her footing and rounded on him, glaring, "Theo,"
"Tell Draco I'm claiming my second voucher," he replied sternly, cutting her off.
She, however, was less inclined than her other counterpart to indulge Theo in his death wish. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She screeched, crossing to the other side of the car as Theo hopped out and lowered his newsboy cap, the silver edge glinting. "Leave that stupid man alone," Hermione shouted.
"Listen, Penny, just tell Draco - "
"No!" She fumed, her eyes darting toward the mansion at the top of the hill. "No, Theo, you have to come with me."
"Penny," he seethed, cracking his knuckles and pushing her toward the path up the hill. "You'll be fine. You have your little blade. Go over to Longbottom's – he won't do anything – and I'll meet you there." His icy blue eyes shifted from her stunned expression to Potter's defiant one. "This won't take long."
"Theo," she tried again.
"Fucking go."
Hermione groaned, screaming her frustration as she stomped her heels against the cobblestone and strode up the hill. Her mind was still reeling – her pulse still racing – by the time she made it to the house and knocked on the door.
Neville Longbottom opened it slightly then, seeing her disastrous curls in the small space, closed it to unlatch the locks and grant her entry into the foyer. The first thing Hermione perceived was the abundant scent of roses wafting from him, and the impeccably stylish yet thoughtful black suit stretching across his gangly limbs.
She was so startled by his uncharacteristic posh demeanor that she failed to notice the screeching of tires and the loud announcement of police until it was too late. Longbottom's eyes widened in horror, mirroring hers, and clueing her in that he had not arranged this as a set up. It gave her a moment of reprieve, but a fleeting one.
"This is the police!" A male voice shouted, barging into the room. "Hands up! Put your bloody hands up!"
Hermione and Longbottom did as they were told, and she felt the panic in her veins go into overdrive at the sight of the two uniformed constables stepping into the foyer with their guns raised. Neither of them, she knew with a sinking feeling, were on the Death Eater's payroll. If they had been, they wouldn't have been stupid enough to disrupt a pickup.
"Get on the fucking ground," one of them sneered at Longbottom. "My name is PC Boot, and you're under arrest for the suspicions of opiate creation and intent to distribute. My partner here, PC Corner, will read you your rights and - " He broke off as his narrowed eyes settled on Hermione.
He paused, then blinked. "Granger?" The other man looked up at that as well, and added, "What the bloody hell are you doing here? I didn't know you were back, much less that you had been assigned to this case."
Fuck you, she swore internally, fuckfuckfuck.
How dare the PC's give her away like that? How dare they? Fudge had explained to her that she would be pronounced to be on an extended personal leave should any of her fellow law enforcement coworkers have any questions regarding her whereabouts (thinking back to that day, she should have known then that her mission would have been extensive).
She tried to swallow the pit stuck in the back of her throat but found she was unable to; her chest heaved and cracked as her eyes slid from one of her old coworkers to the other, finally resting on Longbottom's. The horrible part was that he was an easy read, unlike her usual company, and she could see it plain as day on his face. Recognition, and worse, comprehension.
"Granger," Longbottom croaked. "Hermione Granger?"
Double fuck.
Boot radioed in the arrest, requesting back-up to sort through the house and specifically asked for a drug unit to come while Corner wrangled Longbottom into the backseat of a cruiser. Hermione pocketed a note from the entry table and followed them outside, gaping at the sheer audacity they had to go about their arrest as if it was just a normal day. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along.
After they'd pulled away, Theo came screeching up the drive and bounded out of the car, barreling towards her with his fists clenched and eyes narrowed. "What the fuck was that?" He demanded. "What were they doing here?"
Hermione shook the panic from her mind, willing herself to remain in character and hope – pray – that it would not destroy her. "We don't have time. We have to go."
"Penny, what the fucking hell happened?"
"We have to bloody leave, Theo, they called for back-up. More coppers will be here any minute, and I don't know about you, but I definitely don't want to be here when they arrive." She climbed into the car and scowled at him before he finally took up the gear shift and peeled out of the driveway at a dangerous speed, tearing down the road and delivering them straight to Malfoy Manor.
"Are you going to fucking explain anything?" Theo shouted at her.
"They got Longbottom," she said, ignoring the violent glare he sent her and focusing on the road. If she didn't think about it too intensely, she was sure she could keep her voice at an even, unsuspecting level. "I'm fine," she lied. "They didn't see me. I slipped out before they noticed I was there."
"How fucking lucky for you," he hissed.
Hermione bit her lip, staring out the window and remaining quiet for the remainder of the drive.
"What the fuck are we going to do?" Blaise wailed, tapping his nervous fingers against the teacup that was filled to the brim with not-tea.
"We're going to keep a level head, that's what we're going to bloody fucking do." Draco snapped, pausing in his pacing to glare at the beautiful man. "You know we don't have any hard evidence tying us to Longbottom. Everything has been dealt with in-person, in cash, and in every way imaginable that would protect us from that. You know that, Zabini, so tighten up."
Blaise nodded forcefully, swallowing a large gulp of dark, burning liquid without so much as a wince.
Narcissa and Astoria were huddled in the corner in hushed conversation; their pale eyes flickering toward Draco and the others occasionally, but for the most part they existed in their own little world surrounded by clouds of smoke.
Draco carried on, ignoring their obvious disengagement, and berated his men for not trusting that he would take care of things. That he would find a solution, and a brilliant one. However, Theo was quick to bring up the one argument that Draco could not form a formidable defense for, and it was this: What the bloody hell do we do if he outs us?
"He won't," Draco insisted, lips curling in displeasure. "He wouldn't want his father's head on his hands, because he knows we'd cease providing care for him if he ratted us out to the dirty coppers."
Hermione fished out a crumpled paper from her coat pocket and held it out for Draco to take, and when he did, she provided an explanation for the rest of those who couldn't read the black and white notecard. "Frank Longbottom passed away," she said drily. "The funeral service was today."
"Fuck," Theo swore, depositing a butt in the ashtray and automatically lighting another cigarette.
"Here's what we're going to do," Draco bellowed definitively, "We're going to shut this fucking shit down, right now." He aimed a finger in Marcus and Graham's direction. "Minimize the Death Eater appearances, pull everyone from the streets and don't let any of them out until I say so. Only the ones who are absolutely necessary go about their usual business," he sighed. "We can't have the coppers noticing any sudden change in behavior, either."
Then, he turned to Theo and Blaise, "We're taking a step back, boys, and letting the women run this show. We can't risk being seen or heard in the public until we're sure Longbottom isn't suicidal enough to leak our names to the coppers."
Hermione drowned out the sound of Draco's temper and let her own insecurities run their course in her mind. Draco was too busy, too concerned, for his men and his empire to fall into the depths at the hand of Neville Longbottom's tongue to pay much attention to her at the moment.
She, however, was primarily concerned with the haunted look of recognition that displayed across Neville Longbottom's face to think about much else. His tongue – whether or not he was going to talk – was another immediate concern of hers, of course, because unlike the others she had to worry about him talking about her two-fold.
He clearly knew who she was.
Who she really was.
Hermione's eyes refocused on the scene before her as she surveyed the group of people that she had come to call family and wondered if they would ever forgive her if she were to tell them the truth. Her gaze fell, as it always did, on Draco and she lamented having to confess her true identity to him. Surely, surely, he would not understand. She was, after all, not a little assistant but a dirty copper.
Draco, as if sensing her eyes on him, shifted to peer at her over his shoulder and Hermione felt her blood run cold. The anger, the ice, that shone through his darkened eyes were that of an endless abyss. The vacuum and nothingness of space itself; cold and unforgiving.
It was the moment she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would never accept her if he knew the truth about her. Hermione closed her eyes and silently craved something she knew she had no right, no fucking right, asking for.
To be granted the luxury of orbiting his star. No matter the cost. No matter the consequences.
A/N - To Relentless Sphinx, I am so thrilled you find the parallel between Aunt Polly and Narcissa amusing because that's what spurred this fic to begin with! Funnily enough, both characters are played by the talented Helen McCrory. Also, for those of you who find that intriguing, the reference made in this chapter of Hermione to Meg March is another example of two characters played by Emma Watson (I am beyond excited for that new film to come out!).
This chapter title comes from Kendrick Lamar's song DNA from the lines sex, money, murder, these are the breaks / these are the times, level number nine / look up in the sky, ten is on the way and I implore you to make of that what you will xx
