Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Harry Potter or any of these characters. This silly plot is mine.
Summary: Draco and Hermione work out last minute details as the gang settles into Las Vegas. (Sequel to Friendly Fire.)
Draco was wasting away; there was no doubt about it, especially if he had to listen to one more fucking song by the annoying muggle arsehole who currently threatened the sanctity of his precious eardrums. Salazar's bloody bollocks, where the hell was Hermione? The two were meeting to go over last minute details for the next evening's stag and hen festivities. He estimated the usually punctual Hermione was at least an hour late. (Actually, it was closer to 20 minutes, but every minute seemed like four to the irate wizard.)
He thought about going outside again, but he'd forgotten his wand in the hotel room and couldn't cast a cooling charm to combat the heat. And let's be clear, it was bleeding hot. How did these freaks deal with it? Less than a minute and he felt like a dead insect plastered on the glass exterior of one of those car thingies, its entrails frying in the sun.
Inside, he was suffocating under layers of banality. The incessant so-called-music was the soundtrack to his misery as he found himself surrounded by drunk, smelly, disgusting muggles with their loud, obnoxious voices and their hideous clothing (a man nearby wore a straw hat and some kind of awful multi-colored button-down that looked like the mess on the floor of a loo after a night of binge drinking). Draco caught the lyrics to the current crapola, something about a "Cheeseburger in Paradise" and he laughed maniacally. Paradise? This place made the dungeons of Malfoy Manor seem cozy and hospitable. A nice Crucio was like a massage at the spa compared to this torture.
Just as his patience was about to run out completely (well okay, he never had any to start) Hermione walked in looking relaxed and utterly carefree. Draco was all set to launch into a whiny tirade, but the words got trapped in his throat as he noticed her unbelievably fetching appearance. Her naturally messy curls were pulled up in a loose ponytail, ringlets framing her face. She wore a short spaghetti-strap blue sundress and beige sandals on her nail-polished feet. The look accentuated her lovely figure: long legs, slim waist, perfectly proportioned breasts. That's right, she was a total fanfic hottie, despite the fact that she never worked out at the gym and ate all the fried food her little heart desired. Bitch.
Several of the bumbling, Hawaiian-shirt clad tourists that crowded the establishment stared, their tongues unfurled like cartoon characters. Draco felt a flush of manhood pride as she came up and favored him with a soft kiss. Uh huh, suckas, this my woman! Ma bitch, ma ho! Damn straight! (For some reason the author can't explain, traveling to Las Vegas had transformed the very white, very British Draco into the pimptastic Bishop Don Magic Juan from that family classic: "Pimps Up, Ho's Down".)
He was so lost in his macho-reverie that he didn't realize Hermione had started talking until he felt a sharp jab in the ribs. "Earth to Draco!"
"What's the haps, beautiful baby?" he asked, morphing into his best cool-daddy-o persona. (In preparation for their trip to Vegas, Hermione had fed him a steady diet of muggle films highlighting the sun-drenched city: Everything from The Rat Pack to "Swingers.")
"I was explaining to you why I was late, Joey Bishop."
"Hey, I'm Sinatra!" At the insult his prickly mood returned. "And yeah, what took you so long? American muggles are barbaric. I need a shower."
"Whatever," she blew off his complaints. "As I was saying, I ran into Fred just before I crossed over from the wizard part of town. He needed my input on the portkeys."
Hearing that it was Fred who caused the delay only enhanced Draco's crankiness. The Weasley prat had insinuated himself more and more into Hermione's life over the last few months. What made matters worse was that the witch was completely blind to it, refusing to believe the redhead's interest in her had rekindled. And any attempt to convince her was a sure way to get into a terrific row. Draco would be very glad once their mission was accomplished and he had Hermione all to himself... or at least more to himself. As enjoyable as scheming could be, it consumed the early stages of their relationship.
He sometimes worried about what they'd have once the thirst for revenge was quenched. If they couldn't spend hours in bed plotting, laughing, debating and fucking, would she lose interest? And would Fred, with his happy-go-lucky act, be waiting to pounce? The brilliance of the wizard's ploy to capture Hermione was that he wasn't actively trying to take her away. So he'd never appear to be the bad guy, he'd just be the nice bloke she'd run to once she realized Draco was fun for a fling, but not someone she could settle down with in the long-term.
It was this part of Draco—holding on to the lingering insecurities of youth that he'd never fully dealt with—that questioned Hermione's love. And his own doubts were like a virus that took hold of her, casting a vague shadow. It wasn't that their relationship was bad, but the subtle uncertainty haunted them both from time to time.
"What sort of input did he need?" Draco asked. He tried to sound as casual as possible.
Judging by her unruffled response, it worked. "He wanted to make sure we were all set with the coordinates," she said.
"And are we?"
"All systems go." Hermione beamed at him in a way that made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to the hotel. Okay, technically he had the urge to do that the moment she walked in, but now it was even stronger.
"Can we get out of here? Go back to the suite and order room service?" He winked as he said it, just in case she didn't catch his meaning. Then he reached over and teased one of her dangling curls.
Hermione slapped his hand away. "Later." Draco pouted, but she ignored it. "We should find a spot for tomorrow night's meeting point. And we have to arrange the limousines. I don't want you getting lost."
His eyes darted warily across the room. "Well, I'll agree with you there. This place is dodgy."
"Don't worry, I'll protect your maiden virtue." She gave him a firm pat on the rear and then took hold of his arm, "Come on, let's go."
While Draco and Hermione performed their respective duties as "Maid of Honor" and "Best Man," the rest of the early arrivals toured the muggle city. The wizard part of town really only served as a place for magic folk to crash after excessively ribald behavior in Vegas proper.
"Bloody hell, the house-elves at Hogwarts wore more clothing," said an awestruck Ron, admiring the copious amounts of flesh displayed by female muggles wherever he looked. He was walking along the Vegas Strip with Harry and Neville. His eyes widened with excitement, "Oy! It's that Elvish bloke!"
Harry sniggered, "Um, that's Elvis not Elvish." Sure enough, a fully decked-out pompadoured impersonator was strumming a guitar and swinging his hips on the street corner.
Ron was positively beside himself. "Take my picture with him!" he pleaded. He ran up next to the pseudo-King, a goofy grin on his face. Elvis nodded as if to say, "Thank-you-very-much" while doing a soulful rendition of "Love me Tender."
Harry laughed after he snapped the photo. "If you get this excited over Elvis, wait until you see the all-you-can-eat buffets."
Ron's eyes glazed over. "All you can eat?"
Meanwhile, Ginny, Pansy and Luna were discovering the "magic" of muggle credit cards at the Forum Shops in Caesars Palace. (About a month later the respective wizards in their lives would painfully regret the decision to opt for "convenient" muggle plastic.) Pansy literally cheered each time the card went through. Ginny was less reckless, having been warned by Harry to think before she charged. Not that it helped much since she got caught up in the buying frenzy with her friends.
After more than an hour in Versace, the three staggered under the weight of their purchases and settled down for lunch at Spago.
"Any idea what sort of debauchery your Maid of Honor has planned?" asked Ginny. She couldn't hide a smirk at the thought of Draco arranging the hen party. She'd offered to help, but he had flatly refused.
Pansy seemed sullen. "The git won't say."
"Well whatever it is, we'd better be cautious," warned Luna.
Ginny and Pansy wore mirrored skeptical expressions, which was pretty much always the case when their head-in-the-clouds friend spoke of mysterious and nefarious activity.
"And why is that?" questioned Ginny.
Luna looked at Ginny and sighed wearily, as if she was exasperated by her naiveté. "Honesty, don't you girls ever read anything? It's a well known fact that men in Las Vegas go on witch hunts."
Pansy couldn't control herself and burst out laughing.
"Laugh now," Luna said, her tone mild as always. "But when you wake in a bathtub full of ice with your pancreas missing, don't complain to me that you can't do magic."
Over the years of knowing the former Miss Lovegood, both women were used to her outrageous declarations. But this was too much. "What in bloody hell does the pancreas have to do with magic?" asked a befuddled Pansy, as if the rest of Luna's tale made perfect sense.
"The pancreas is the center of magical essence," she said patiently. "Haven't you ever wondered why Vampshamswipers never suck blood like real Vampires when they attack witches or wizards, but remove the pancreas instead?"
Both looked gobsmacked. It was so amazingly demented that for a moment Ginny wondered if it was true. "I can't say I have," she finally answered.
"If you'd read my Quibbler interview with Alvin Mythlander, author of "Not Quite Magical Creatures and How they Subsist," you'd know that while technically the Vampshamswiper is considered a magical creature in the same family as the Vampire, it doesn't actually contain any of its own magic. It needs to feed on magical pancreatic juices. Otherwise, it could be out-spelled by a squib."
"Um, right," said Pansy. "Well I'm sure Draco is fully aware of these, 'witch hunts' and will take the necessary precautions."
Ginny was about to comment when she saw something--or rather someone--out of the corner of her eye and shrieked, causing Pansy to nearly fall out of her chair.
"What in Merlin's name?"
She couldn't speak, so she pointed instead.
Over near the entrance to the restaurant stood a slightly sinister looking bald man in a leather jacket. Though indoors, he wore dark shades. "Who in Hades is that?" Pansy asked.
Ginny practically drooled (oddly enough, her brother was literally drooling at that very moment, presented with the astounding vision of more than 1,000 edible items at the Carnival World Buffet). It wasn't something she ever spoke about, but the witch had developed an addiction to muggle action movies. In particular, she'd become enamored with a certain tough talking, fast driving, follicley-challenged action hero. "That's Vin Diesel!" she nearly screamed.
Pansy's face remained blank. Luna's too, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.
Mrs. Potter was unfazed by their lack of enthusiasm. She started to squirm in her seat as the actor followed the hostess and was heading right toward her. Now, being married to the most famous wizard in the world, (and quite well-known in her own right) there wasn't a wizard or witch that could quicken her heart like a school girl. But her favorite muggle celebrity? Well, let's just say the witch had regressed to her 11-year-old self, staring in much the same way she had once gaped at Harry.
As he drew closer, it was hard for the buff star not to notice. And, since Ginny was a very pretty woman, he didn't seem to mind. He was seated at the next table over, facing her. When he sat down he took off his sunglasses in dramatic "handsome actor" fashion, then smiled and gave her a devilish wink.
Her face turned as red as her hair and she grinned back like she was barmy.
"How you doin'?" he asked.
For a moment, Ginny didn't realize he was talking to her, even though he was looking right at her and continued to smile. "Fine," she squeaked out, no louder than a baby chick.
He let out a gruff, testosterone-laced chuckle. He was accustomed to the affect he had on the fairer sex. "Red is my favorite color," he flirted. He glanced at Pansy and Luna, who were looking at him with--disturbingly--no recognition in their eyes. No mind, the ginger-headed babe was obviously enthralled by his animal magnetism. "What brings you lovely ladies to Vegas?"
Pansy, thankful for an opportunity to talk about herself piped in, "I'm getting married."
He gave her an approving glance. "Congratulations. I must say your future husband is a very lucky man."
Now it was her turn to blush. Maybe muggles weren't so bad, she thought, viewing him with new appreciation. Flattery was like the nectar of the gods for Pansy.
Only Luna remained suspicious of the stranger. "Just so you know," she told him evenly. "I don't have a pancreas."
Just as Luna was fending off the witch hunting Vin Diesel, Draco and Hermione found themselves viewing yet another nightclub. Draco had rejected every other venue they'd visited--which was a fair few--in the last three hours. Gilley's Saloon was "like some kind of muggle hee-haw nightmare," while Tangerine was "too orange, like some kind of Weasley orgy," and Coyote Ugly had "fit barmaids but the music was nauseating." The all-white lounge they were in now seemed the most promising, especially the name: Pure.
"This will do," Draco said, the relief at having found an appropriate option evident in his voice.
"You're still a bigot, you know that?" chided Hermione. "All of the clubs here are the same, you just prefer this one because the name reminds you of the glorious days before you had to mix with half-bloods and muggle-borns."
"Don't be ridiculous," he protested. "I like it best because it isn't blatantly distasteful like every other place in this shrine to all things tacky."
Okay, he did have a point.
A well-dressed gentleman, noticing the attractive pair, came up to them. "Can I be of assistance? Perhaps show you the Red Room?" Since they didn't respond immediately, he went on to explain, "It's the VIP area for those guests who want privacy with style. I can tell you two don't want to have to deal with the rabble, am I right? It includes a private bar and VIP restrooms."
"That sounds perfect," said Draco.
Hermione wondered for a moment what sort of treatment one could expect in a VIP toilet. The man, obviously a manager or owner, was the picture of pretension. She had to stop herself from asking whether or not they would provide arse-wiping service in the private loo.
"Right this way," he said. They followed him up a staircase and into a secluded area. The room was plush and decorated in red and champagne with extravagant chandeliers, lush draperies and upholstered walls.
Draco raised an eyebrow at Hermione. He turned to the man. "We'll take it for tomorrow night, from 3 a.m on."
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's already been reserved."
"Whatever they're paying I'll give you double," Draco offered.
The manager seemed taken aback, but he had a greedy glint in his eyes. "Very well sir. My name is Dan Tanna, I'm the owner." He put out his hand and Draco shook it. "I'll just go get the paperwork. You can stay up here as long as you wish. Come down to my office when you're ready and we can get everything settled." He smiled at Hermione and then left the room.
"Draco, are you daft? You have no idea how much this is going to cost."
He shrugged. "Like it matters?"
She shook her head. "How is it that after all this time you continue to astound me with your arrogance?"
He looked wounded for a moment, but then it passed and he took her in his arms. "Don't be self-righteous. This is exactly what we need for tomorrow night. This way when we set off the portkeys they won't just vanish out of thin air in the middle of a bunch of muggles. Not to mention," and he paused to lean in and place kisses along her jaw. He moved his lips next to hers and spoke softly. "We're finally alone. I've wanted to drag you into a corner and fuck you senseless all day."
Hermione moaned as he kissed her fervently, parting her lips and making her shiver all over as his skillful tongue danced with hers. She made a weak attempt at pushing him away, "We can't, not here," she breathed. He disregarded her "protests" and pushed her down onto a large cushioned chair.
"Not to worry, love," he said, standing above her. He pulled off his shirt and looked bloody fantastic in the room's subtle light. That's right, fanfiction had been kind to Draco, vanishing his Quidditch-watching beer gut faster than Hermione's knickers in a PWP. He crawled down between her legs, pushing her dress up, "What could be more fitting than offering you my maiden virtue in the Red Room of a bar called Pure?"
She put up a hand as if to stop him. "But this is a public place, that man could come back."
"What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas," he drawled, then proceeded to have his way with the Best Man.
TBC
A/N: Thanks to those of you who have reviewed. Thanks, I really appreciate the encouragement.
Just a few notes. The title of this chapter is a reference to the song "Margaritaville." The place where Draco is waiting for Hermione is Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville a horrid restaurant/bar on the strip in Vegas. Thankfully I didn't have to spend much time there, but just a few minutes with Buffet's songs, (which I don't usually mind) playing endlessly was plenty for me.
For those of you too young to know, "The Rat Pack was a nickname given to a group of 1950s entertainers, which included Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Joey Bishop, and Peter Lawford." (From Wikipedia) Generally speaking, Bishop was considered the lamest, Sinatra the coolest. They were known to perform in Vegas often and helped make the city popular.
Luna's paranoid concerns are actually inspired by Urban Legends linked to Las Vegas. One refers to "Hunting for Bambi" a fake web site created by a Las Vegas businessman which claimed to offer paint ball hunting of naked women for wealthy men. The other legend is the widespread "waking up in a tub without a kidney" tale. Neither legend is true.
The inclusion of Vin Diesel in this chapter is dedicated to bunney who I joked with about including cheesy celeb cameos and she encouraged me to do so. Thanks, Krissy!
Finally, the club owner Dan Tenna is named after the character played by Robert Urich in the television show "Vega$" which ran from 1978 to 1981.