Chapter Three - Second Subject
"May I sit down?"
His expression bland and courteous, Malfoy drew a visitor's chair towards Hermione's desk and lowered himself into it, leaning one elbow on the arm.
At that moment, Hermione's emotions ran the gamut from astonishment bordering on stupefaction to extreme anger and disgust. Her vision almost greyed out as she took in the implications of this new development. Pausing for a moment, she took a deep breath through her nose as a wave of sickness threatened to overwhelm her.
"Coffee, Denis," she said quietly, without taking her eyes from the figure before her. Her voice betrayed none of her inner turmoil. Wide-eyed, Denis scuttled over to a small sideboard, wand at the ready; Hermione made a private note to ball him out later for failing to give her prior warning of this little piece of intelligence.
"Don't be too hard on him," her guest drawled as if reading her mind. Hermione stared; Malfoy shrugged.
"My transfer was only confirmed last night," he told her. "My rank is now Inquisitor Senior, but I am attached to the Chinese Office, and only seconded to Paris for a limited time."
Small mercies, and all that. Hermione started to breathe again. Denis levitated two steaming coffee cups to her desk, the spoons rattling slightly in their saucers.
If Draco Malfoy noticed that the concoction he was served had been brewed largely from chicory leaves, he gave no outward sign. His face remained deadpan as he slowly swallowed the hot liquid and his watchful eyes studied Hermione carefully over the rim of his cup. Hermione smiled with a certain weary satisfaction; coffee was scarce, and she would not waste what little they had left on a Death Eater.
Once the refreshments were consumed, Hermione was the first to break the ensuing silence.
"So," she began, placing her wand in front of her on the desk and folding her hands together over it in the classic wizards' posture for parley. "Draco Malfoy returns from the dead; interesting. It must be, what, four - five years since that little incident in Borneo that apparently robbed the Malfoy bloodline of its heir?"
The blond man smiled but without any real humour.
"Four years," he replied succinctly. "And many scars, both physical and mental. Borneo is a hostile place. I am indeed fortunate to be alive today."
Hermione raised her eyebrows but declined to make any further comment.
"And you, Dr. Granger," Malfoy continued, fixing her with a keen stare. "What attracts you to this particularly dangerous part of the world? Dangerous for Muggle-borns, that is. Surely the Ministry could have found you a nice cosy little sinecure somewhere in London, or even Moscow?"
Hermione maintained her polite lack of expression without effort, but elected to make no answer. He just wants you to know that his Intelligence is as good as yours.
After a moment, Malfoy's thin lips curved into a small smile.
"But of course!" He leaned back in his chair, raising his arms to cup the back of his head. "The revered Dr. Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin Second Class, would never bury herself in a backwoods. You would always have to be in the centre, moving and shaking, using your formidable intelligence and stubborn persistence to make a real difference where it matters."
Malfoy uncrossed his legs and leaned forward intently.
"All of which makes me wonder why you are here in France, Dr. Granger," he said curiously. "What is it that makes this country so interesting to you?"
Hermione raised a slightly surprised eyebrow.
"I would have thought that was obvious," she replied, trying to ignore the rise of her breath. "France is a border country. Many people here need help and assistance to co-exist with the Empire government. My function is to provide that support."
"Yes, indeed." Malfoy stroked his smooth-shaven chin. "But there are countless such countries now that our glorious Empire has spread its wings. France is but one of many." He continued to hold her gaze steadily throughout the pause that followed.
To her horror, Hermione felt a bead of perspiration slide slowly from her temple towards her ear. She forced down stirrings of panic, her carefully maintained expression of polite enquiry congealing on stiff facial muscles. Still she did not speak.
Malfoy's grey eyes narrowed and a gleam of triumph, or was it discovery, escaped him. Eyes never leaving Hermione's face, he picked up his empty cup and held it towards a wide-eyed Denis.
"If I may," Malfoy said smoothly, "I would very much appreciate a second cup of your delicious coffee."
Hermione had no time for surprise. For the second time that morning, flames leaped in her fireplace.
"Melanie," Hermione snapped sharply. "I distinctly told you to hold all calls!"
"Ambassador, I know you did," apologised the young witch. "But this is a sensitive communication, a Priority Call."
Hermione paused to absorb this, and then she nodded her head.
"Very well," she replied. "Patch it through."
Sliding her wand from her sleeve holster, Hermione turned to face Draco Malfoy.
"Please forgive the interruption," she apologised. "I will ascertain the substance of this call and see if I can postpone it. Dissimulo!"
Draco Malfoy sat back in his chair, swilling the cold dregs of his coffee around in its plain white cup. Denis quickly retrieved and replenished it, smiling nervously. Malfoy accepted the refill politely, his eyes still on Hermione. He knew that the Dissimulo spell gave total privacy and was impenetrable, so he did not bother to eavesdrop. Instead he watched the Ambassador's face, trying to decipher her cryptic body language. It seemed to Malfoy that she took rather longer than was necessary to ascertain the identity of her caller. Or perhaps it was simply the sheer awfulness of the "coffee" made it seem that way. What did they put into the stuff to make it taste so vile? Were things so bad with the Alliance that even their Ambassador couldn't afford the real thing?
"Recludo!" Hermione slid her wand smoothly into its sleeve sheath and turned to face the Inquisitor Senior. Her face was pale.
"Lord Malfoy," she said formally. "I regret that I must terminate this interview forthwith. The Minister for Magic awaits my return call - it was only the mention of your name that secured me some brief time to curtail our meeting with dignity."
Draco Malfoy rose fluidly out of the office chair and reached for his cloak. The two Securitates either side of Hermione's office door snapped to attention.
"Unfortunately," he replied, with the merest hint of a smile, "even I must make way for the Minister of Magic."
Malfoy settled his cloak elegantly around his shoulders but left the hood thrown back.
"Ambassador, may I have your permission to return later today in order to continue our discussions?" he asked politely. Hermione gave a slight shrug.
"Lord Malfoy," she replied. "As you are well aware, I am in no position to deny you an audience whenever you care to visit the Embassy."
Malfoy nodded in agreement.
"This is true," he replied gravely. "But to a Malfoy, common civility demands that I make this a request, not a demand."
"Indeed?" Hermione arched her eyebrows. "Even to a Mudblood?"
Malfoy winced almost involuntarily at the coarseness of her language, and had the grace to look a little shamefaced.
"Ambassador, I would be betraying myself and my own values," he replied with dignity, "if I were to treat you with anything other than the respect due to your rank and status."
Draco Malfoy clicked his heels together and gave a neat little bow.
"Until later then," he told her, donning black leather gloves over those deceptively fragile hands.
With military precision, the cohort of Securitates left Hermione's office, closing the door behind them. There was a moment's pause then Hermione let out a shaking breath, sharing with Denis a look of intense relief. She jerked her head towards the door and turned to the fireplace, reaching for her wand. Denis, with the ease of long practice, promptly cast privacy spells over all the entrances and exits.
"Damn! She's put up Wards." Marley sheathed his wand, frowning in annoyance.
"Of course she has." Malfoy gave him a contemptuous look. "Hermione Granger was the cleverest witch of her generation at Hogwarts. She is also one of the most practical, down to earth people I have ever met. You don't for one moment believe that she would let a little piece of slime like you steal a march on her, do you?"
Marley stared in surprise, hardly crediting his superior's words.
"But, My Lord," he protested. "You only have her word that the Minister was waiting to speak to her; there's no proof one way or another. And with these Privacy spells in place, she could be speaking to anyone ."
Marley's voice choked off as a hand gripped the neck of his cloak and lifted him bodily from the floor. His feet dangled helplessly and small sounds of distress issued from his rapidly purpling face.
"The Alliance Ambassador in France must be granted the privacy she is due under the terms of the Truce," Draco Malfoy told him conversationally. "The Truce also forbids any interference by Securitates or any other Empire officers in her official duties. And conversation with her direct superior is, by my interpretation, an official duty. Do you understand me?"
The hapless Spokesman nodded with difficulty.
"Are you certain?"
A strangled squawk was the only reply possible through swollen lips.
"Good boy."
Malfoy opened his hand and let the man fall to the floor, turning on his heel in distaste at the frenzied gasping and gagging. As he crossed in front of the Ambassador's office, he caught sight of her impassive face through the glass panel. The Privacy spells prevented him from seeing who was in the fireplace of course, but he noted that the call was brief and to the point, and Hermione curtailed it as quickly as possible.
"May I sit down?"
His expression bland and courteous, Malfoy drew a visitor's chair towards Hermione's desk and lowered himself into it, leaning one elbow on the arm.
At that moment, Hermione's emotions ran the gamut from astonishment bordering on stupefaction to extreme anger and disgust. Her vision almost greyed out as she took in the implications of this new development. Pausing for a moment, she took a deep breath through her nose as a wave of sickness threatened to overwhelm her.
"Coffee, Denis," she said quietly, without taking her eyes from the figure before her. Her voice betrayed none of her inner turmoil. Wide-eyed, Denis scuttled over to a small sideboard, wand at the ready; Hermione made a private note to ball him out later for failing to give her prior warning of this little piece of intelligence.
"Don't be too hard on him," her guest drawled as if reading her mind. Hermione stared; Malfoy shrugged.
"My transfer was only confirmed last night," he told her. "My rank is now Inquisitor Senior, but I am attached to the Chinese Office, and only seconded to Paris for a limited time."
Small mercies, and all that. Hermione started to breathe again. Denis levitated two steaming coffee cups to her desk, the spoons rattling slightly in their saucers.
If Draco Malfoy noticed that the concoction he was served had been brewed largely from chicory leaves, he gave no outward sign. His face remained deadpan as he slowly swallowed the hot liquid and his watchful eyes studied Hermione carefully over the rim of his cup. Hermione smiled with a certain weary satisfaction; coffee was scarce, and she would not waste what little they had left on a Death Eater.
Once the refreshments were consumed, Hermione was the first to break the ensuing silence.
"So," she began, placing her wand in front of her on the desk and folding her hands together over it in the classic wizards' posture for parley. "Draco Malfoy returns from the dead; interesting. It must be, what, four - five years since that little incident in Borneo that apparently robbed the Malfoy bloodline of its heir?"
The blond man smiled but without any real humour.
"Four years," he replied succinctly. "And many scars, both physical and mental. Borneo is a hostile place. I am indeed fortunate to be alive today."
Hermione raised her eyebrows but declined to make any further comment.
"And you, Dr. Granger," Malfoy continued, fixing her with a keen stare. "What attracts you to this particularly dangerous part of the world? Dangerous for Muggle-borns, that is. Surely the Ministry could have found you a nice cosy little sinecure somewhere in London, or even Moscow?"
Hermione maintained her polite lack of expression without effort, but elected to make no answer. He just wants you to know that his Intelligence is as good as yours.
After a moment, Malfoy's thin lips curved into a small smile.
"But of course!" He leaned back in his chair, raising his arms to cup the back of his head. "The revered Dr. Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin Second Class, would never bury herself in a backwoods. You would always have to be in the centre, moving and shaking, using your formidable intelligence and stubborn persistence to make a real difference where it matters."
Malfoy uncrossed his legs and leaned forward intently.
"All of which makes me wonder why you are here in France, Dr. Granger," he said curiously. "What is it that makes this country so interesting to you?"
Hermione raised a slightly surprised eyebrow.
"I would have thought that was obvious," she replied, trying to ignore the rise of her breath. "France is a border country. Many people here need help and assistance to co-exist with the Empire government. My function is to provide that support."
"Yes, indeed." Malfoy stroked his smooth-shaven chin. "But there are countless such countries now that our glorious Empire has spread its wings. France is but one of many." He continued to hold her gaze steadily throughout the pause that followed.
To her horror, Hermione felt a bead of perspiration slide slowly from her temple towards her ear. She forced down stirrings of panic, her carefully maintained expression of polite enquiry congealing on stiff facial muscles. Still she did not speak.
Malfoy's grey eyes narrowed and a gleam of triumph, or was it discovery, escaped him. Eyes never leaving Hermione's face, he picked up his empty cup and held it towards a wide-eyed Denis.
"If I may," Malfoy said smoothly, "I would very much appreciate a second cup of your delicious coffee."
Hermione had no time for surprise. For the second time that morning, flames leaped in her fireplace.
"Melanie," Hermione snapped sharply. "I distinctly told you to hold all calls!"
"Ambassador, I know you did," apologised the young witch. "But this is a sensitive communication, a Priority Call."
Hermione paused to absorb this, and then she nodded her head.
"Very well," she replied. "Patch it through."
Sliding her wand from her sleeve holster, Hermione turned to face Draco Malfoy.
"Please forgive the interruption," she apologised. "I will ascertain the substance of this call and see if I can postpone it. Dissimulo!"
Draco Malfoy sat back in his chair, swilling the cold dregs of his coffee around in its plain white cup. Denis quickly retrieved and replenished it, smiling nervously. Malfoy accepted the refill politely, his eyes still on Hermione. He knew that the Dissimulo spell gave total privacy and was impenetrable, so he did not bother to eavesdrop. Instead he watched the Ambassador's face, trying to decipher her cryptic body language. It seemed to Malfoy that she took rather longer than was necessary to ascertain the identity of her caller. Or perhaps it was simply the sheer awfulness of the "coffee" made it seem that way. What did they put into the stuff to make it taste so vile? Were things so bad with the Alliance that even their Ambassador couldn't afford the real thing?
"Recludo!" Hermione slid her wand smoothly into its sleeve sheath and turned to face the Inquisitor Senior. Her face was pale.
"Lord Malfoy," she said formally. "I regret that I must terminate this interview forthwith. The Minister for Magic awaits my return call - it was only the mention of your name that secured me some brief time to curtail our meeting with dignity."
Draco Malfoy rose fluidly out of the office chair and reached for his cloak. The two Securitates either side of Hermione's office door snapped to attention.
"Unfortunately," he replied, with the merest hint of a smile, "even I must make way for the Minister of Magic."
Malfoy settled his cloak elegantly around his shoulders but left the hood thrown back.
"Ambassador, may I have your permission to return later today in order to continue our discussions?" he asked politely. Hermione gave a slight shrug.
"Lord Malfoy," she replied. "As you are well aware, I am in no position to deny you an audience whenever you care to visit the Embassy."
Malfoy nodded in agreement.
"This is true," he replied gravely. "But to a Malfoy, common civility demands that I make this a request, not a demand."
"Indeed?" Hermione arched her eyebrows. "Even to a Mudblood?"
Malfoy winced almost involuntarily at the coarseness of her language, and had the grace to look a little shamefaced.
"Ambassador, I would be betraying myself and my own values," he replied with dignity, "if I were to treat you with anything other than the respect due to your rank and status."
Draco Malfoy clicked his heels together and gave a neat little bow.
"Until later then," he told her, donning black leather gloves over those deceptively fragile hands.
With military precision, the cohort of Securitates left Hermione's office, closing the door behind them. There was a moment's pause then Hermione let out a shaking breath, sharing with Denis a look of intense relief. She jerked her head towards the door and turned to the fireplace, reaching for her wand. Denis, with the ease of long practice, promptly cast privacy spells over all the entrances and exits.
"Damn! She's put up Wards." Marley sheathed his wand, frowning in annoyance.
"Of course she has." Malfoy gave him a contemptuous look. "Hermione Granger was the cleverest witch of her generation at Hogwarts. She is also one of the most practical, down to earth people I have ever met. You don't for one moment believe that she would let a little piece of slime like you steal a march on her, do you?"
Marley stared in surprise, hardly crediting his superior's words.
"But, My Lord," he protested. "You only have her word that the Minister was waiting to speak to her; there's no proof one way or another. And with these Privacy spells in place, she could be speaking to anyone ."
Marley's voice choked off as a hand gripped the neck of his cloak and lifted him bodily from the floor. His feet dangled helplessly and small sounds of distress issued from his rapidly purpling face.
"The Alliance Ambassador in France must be granted the privacy she is due under the terms of the Truce," Draco Malfoy told him conversationally. "The Truce also forbids any interference by Securitates or any other Empire officers in her official duties. And conversation with her direct superior is, by my interpretation, an official duty. Do you understand me?"
The hapless Spokesman nodded with difficulty.
"Are you certain?"
A strangled squawk was the only reply possible through swollen lips.
"Good boy."
Malfoy opened his hand and let the man fall to the floor, turning on his heel in distaste at the frenzied gasping and gagging. As he crossed in front of the Ambassador's office, he caught sight of her impassive face through the glass panel. The Privacy spells prevented him from seeing who was in the fireplace of course, but he noted that the call was brief and to the point, and Hermione curtailed it as quickly as possible.