Chapter 8

Last night had been painful, Draco thought as he sat on the side of his bed. The room was warm, but the weather was cool outside, not unlike his temperament last night. Fucking Flint and his gloating. A sheer slap in the face if there ever was one.

His mind swung between expecting something like this and being outraged that Flint would dare. There weren't a lot of people who said no to him. Granted, behind the opportunism, it was Granger saying no to him. Still, anger burned deep inside his belly. People didn't say no to him.

In a way, he respected her for it, but Flint was doing this just to fuck with him. There was nothing for him to gain. Well, maybe a plaything for a moment's distraction from his useless life, but Hermione didn't mean anything to Flint.

Not that she meant anything to him either. That strictly wasn't true. She meant something, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. But then she'd always been the source of his discontentment. Her mere presence had always sent crawling displeasure up his spine. And she persisted when everyone else was gone, she was still there.

In all honesty, he still didn't know exactly what it was that had made his make the initial bid for her. It had been a whim because he had the power to and he'd been bored. Being opposed was what really got him. Somewhere in all that lay his relationship to her too—she opposed him and always had.

Maybe he was just getting desperate for someone to fight. It had become so second nature, he couldn't settle into the mundane life that now existed after the war. Fucking salons and balls, dealing with self-aggrandizing officials and his father's edicts for peaceful prosperity. Years of this stretched in front of him and it made his skin crawl. So he sought out the last source of discontent, and as was typical with her, he got more than he bargained for.

So along with his anger, there was also something that really irked him about all this.

This was Granger's move and Flint was capitalizing on it. The two would be dealt with separately. Granger would be his, eventually. Flint. Well, he needed to be punished. The problem was that Flint was perfectly happy with his tedious and pointless life. Content people were harder to manipulate.

So what did Flint want—other than to fuck with him? There had to be something he could use as leverage. The problem with the pointless and degenerate was exactly that—they were pointless and degenerate. Flint had no particular ambition. Deep down, his lack of substance had to bother him. Flint wanted to be seen as someone scary, someone with clout, and his family wealth provided both. But it wasn't his own, and that would mean something—even if he wasn't aware of it. There was only so much respect to be had from riding on your predecessors' coattails.

A plan hadn't come to him, but it would.

Standing up, he walked over to his wardrobe and dressed. Going to work irked him too. There was no excitement in it, nothing that fed him. Tedious meetings talking about things that really didn't matter.

What he wanted to do was go over to the Flint manor and rip things to pieces. But there was also something to look down on in losing control. No finesse. Revenge only really worked if there was finesse in it.

"Father," Draco said as she sat down in the chair opposite his father at the linen covered table. A Himalayan rose sat in a vase, struggling through it's last days of existence. Around dined the elite of the wizarding world.

"I trust all is well with you. You mother wants you to drop by." If that was true or not, Draco didn't dare guess. The relationship between his parents wasn't one Draco chose to understand, but it would surprise them if they spoke at all.

"Is she in England?"

"At the moment. How are things at work?"

Boring. "Nothing that needs concerted attention at the moment."

"It is important work," Lucius stressed. "But I suspect it will take you a moment to get into the swing of things."

"Of course," Draco said, like he did every time when it wasn't worth diverting his father from whatever it was it the man wished to speak to him about.

"It's imperative that we normalize relations with our international friends."

"Yes," Draco agreed. He understood, but it was still mind-numbingly boring.

"I suppose you'll go to see your friends after this. You are, of course, welcome to stay as I meet with the Gringott's governor."

"No, I have plans," Draco lied, not understanding his father's tolerance for spending his evenings with the dullest people this community had produced. But as he aged, it was becoming clear that he and his father were nothing alike. Draco understood him and his objectives—he just couldn't feel the thrill in it. Perhaps he was damaged from his war. He wasn't settling, and he didn't know what to do about it.

"Are you sure you won't stay to eat? I understand they have Southern Hemisphere lobster on the menu tonight."

"I'm not hungry," Draco said, knowing if Lucius' guests arrived before he left, it would be harder for him to extricate himself. The opportunity came when someone stopped to say hello to his father. Draco excused himself and left the restaurant. Dark chill met him outside, and for a moment, he didn't know where to go—or rather what he wanted to do. Drink. The catch-all when there was nothing else.

There was a club nearby and he walked toward it. The moon shone above and for a moment he was taken back to the raids they'd done. Hiding in the dark until it had been time to strike, the adrenalin coursing through his body. He missed it, but at the same time he didn't. It wasn't as though he wished the war back. There had been more negatives than positives with the war, but he missed the excitement, the fear and the urgency. The stakes.

The walls were dressed with red velvet and the furniture was dark. This was a place Pansy and her crowd didn't come. Off limits to all but the most degenerate women. Whores, in other words. A vital distraction in the throes of war. He'd spent a few nights here when things had been bad. It survived the war and the trade here was exactly the same. Nothing ever changed in here.

"A whiskey," he said to the bartender and was promptly served.

"Malfoy," a voice said and clapped him on the back.

"Fuck off."

The person disappeared without more encouragement and Draco felt pleased by it. Tonight he wanted to drink, not talk.

Taking his drink he turned and was astonished. Granger was on the small stage, dancing. He had to blink and wonder if something had been slipped to him in his drink, but he hadn't taken a sip yet. Granger was on stage dancing. The world had slid sideways somehow. What the hell had happened?

Searching the crowd, he saw Flint sitting at one of the tables, watching her. Draco wondered what he'd had to do to get Granger to dance for him. An irrational spear of jealousy shot through him. This was humiliation he should be enjoying, not Flint.

Granger wasn't crying. She danced competently but without any relish. Her attention wasn't on the audience, and Draco wondered where she'd taken her mind off to.

She wore a dress, dark green and black. Slytherin colors. That had to burn. She wasn't the Gryffindor princess on display tonight. Instead a conquered prize. Her hair was lush. Flint must have done something to it. Who knew he was so gifted with women's hair?

Turning back to Flint, Draco saw his presence had been noted. More gloating. Draco wanted to leave, but he refused to be chased away, so he move to the back and cleaned a table through a suggestive glance. Taking a seat, he watched Granger and those who watched her. She had to absolutely hate this. Now he wanted to know if her strategy had been worth it? Was the cure worse than the disease? Honestly, it was even hard for him to answer that.

The whiskey burned bitterly. That might be his own bile making it particularly bitter that night. Especially as Flint had now gotten up and was approaching. Gloating would ensue.

"Malfoy," he said. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight?"

"Didn't you?" Flint could have known he was seeing his father tonight and banking he would come here afterwards. "I see you're having fun."

"Yes. Marvelously. She'd a surprisingly good dancer, wouldn't you say?"

"I've seen better. There are professionals who work here."

"It's not everything she'd good at," Flint said suggestively.

Draco wanted to smash his face in, for gloating so damned much. It was barefaced and without sophistication. Draco yawned.

"But I am sorry for stealing her from you. I admit I did. I've always had a thing for her, and I can't say I'm not enjoying scratching the itch. Let me make it up to you."

Draco snorted and refused to ask how Flint would make it up to him. His methods were so infuriatingly see-through, and the worst was that he knew it. As if this didn't deserve any finesse.

"Why don't I give you a night with my whore?" Flint said with a smile. "That should take the burn off, wouldn't you say?"

Fuck you, was what he wanted to say. Smash in the guy's face, actually, but that was beneath him. But instead he chuckled. "That would be revoltingly sullied, wouldn't you say? If I wanted to fuck you, Flint, I wouldn't do it through an intermediary."

A glint of anger flittered through Flint's eyes.

"As much as I appreciate the offer," Draco continued and then checked his watch, "I don't have time to play games with whores. I do have things to do in the morning. But please, enjoy yourself."

"Don't worry. I haven't had so much fun in years," Flint said with a wink, before he got up and left.

Anger coursed through Draco's veins, but he wasn't disappointed at how he'd handled himself. Flint was coming at him hard. Had he discussed this with Granger? No, she would never agree to the offer. Oh, how precarious her situation was, but then Flint had known full well that his pride would never have let him accept an offer like that.

Really, what were the spoils of a small skirmish when there was a whole war to win? This was far from over. He just hadn't found the angle yet, but he was working on it. He would destroy them both.

On the stage, Granger danced and danced.