A/N: Thanks as always to my readers and reviewers! Want to hear something funny? Whenever I upload documents here, I label the them with the story initials and chapter number. Well, that's not funny. The funny part is this: the initials for this story spell out WHIP. Awesome!
Oh yeah, and there are minor HBP spoilers here, or what could be construed as HBP spoilers but really, aren't necessarily spoilers, since this takes place a few years after the series ends, and… never mind.
ON TO
Chapter Five:
The next day, Hermione sat down and attempted to explain in a carefully encrypted letter to the Order what had happened the previous day. Her task was complicated by the fact that she had neglected to mention her other meeting with Malfoy and the message he had sent her with that ridiculous offer of… an alliance of sorts. She had not meant any harm by it, but the entire episode had just seemed rather silly to her. It would all come to nothing, or so she had thought at the time.
She had begun and discarded several when the ring of her mobile startled her. Days passed when no one called her, and when someone did, it was usually one of her students calling to cancel an appointment. Her mobile did not recognise the number, displaying a string of digits headed by the UK calling code. Besides her parents, she could not imagine who would be calling her from Britain.
"Hello?" she said cautiously.
"Oy! Hermione, is it you?"
She grinned. She definitely recognised that voice shouting over the line and imagined the spectacle he must pose at the moment. A weight that she had not known was there lifted from her heart.
"You don't have to shout, Ron. Where are you calling from?"
"It's her!" she heard and was met with cheers and whistles. "We're in a booth in Muggle London. Hold on, McGonagall wants…"
From her end, Hermione picked up sounds of shuffling and muttering for a minute or two before another familiar voice, reedy but strong, spoke.
"Miss Granger, is it really you?"
Though her former professor was nowhere nearby, Hermione stood up a little straighter and glared at the disorder around her. "Yes, headmistress, I'm here. How did you get this number?"
"Mr. Weasley first suggested the idea, and your parents owled us with you number for your… what do you call it? A mobi… telly…?"
'Best stick with mobile," she replied with a smile. "How is Mr. Weasely? And Mrs. Weasely, of course?"
"They're all well, but we're afraid that you may be in grave danger."
Hermione's throat tightened. It was suddenly hard to swallow, hard to breathe. She ordered herself to focus.
"What kind of danger?"
"We have learned that there has lately been a murder in You… in Voldemort's ranks.
We are not yet sure who has killed whom, but the most important part is where this occurred." McGonagall took a deep breath, preparing herself to deliver a difficult piece of news, but Hermione beat her to it.
"Yesterday, in Paris. I know. I was there." A dizzy spell clouded her vision for a moment, but Hermione shook it off in the next moment. A smoke would clear that up, just as soon as she finished on her mobile.
Now it was the headmistress's turn to gasp. "You were there? I don't understand. What are you saying, Miss Granger?"
She would not have to write that letter after all. As quickly as she could, she recounted the story of the previous day, from the moment she had noticed her Sensa-spell's activity until she left Malfoy at a considerably less ostentatious hotel with orders that he call a couple of people she knew who were letting flats. He would certainly not stay in the city long enough for fulfil any lease contract, but enough money would soothe any grievance.
As she spoke, it occurred to her to wonder how much time remained, how much Muggle change her friends had until she asked and McGonagall told her that Harry had helped them buy a calling card with money he had already changed. There was no time to ask after her best friend, but Hermione wished she cold have. It was not until that moment that she realised how much she missed her friends from Hogwart's: her once-boyfriend Ron; her best friend, the famous Harry Potter; his girlfriend and Hermione's closest female friend, Ginny.
She knew that they were all working together now, but that knowledge was not nearly as satisfying as a good, long chat. She would have loved to see their reactions to her story of saving Malfoy's life. It would have comforting to talk with Harry about the nightmares he had sometimes, see if he could make any sense of the one she knew she had experienced but could not remember.
"That certainly changes things," her former professor finally said when Hermione concluded. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you how dangerous Mr. Malfoy is. Of course, we'll want to take him into custody as soon as possible…"
Please, yes, take him off my hands, she thought.
"… but perhaps that would not be advisable at the moment."
Not advisable? "Headmistress?"
"You seem to have established some sort of rapport with him. He might be more amenable to sharing information with his saviour than with any of us. And unfortunately, I'm not certain that we could guarantee his safety, if Voldemort really has turned on him."
Hermione sighed and stared out the window. She had hoped that the Order might be able to take him away; he confused and frustrated her like no one she had ever known. She wondered what the headmistress would say if she admitted that she found herself more and more attracted to Malfoy and almost laughed aloud at the idea.
"I understand, headmistress. Do you have any idea how much longer I'll be here?"
In the pause that followed her question, Hermione heard the answer before her professor said anything. She repressed another sigh.
"No, I'm sorry, Miss Granger. You're doing fine work over there, and the dangers here are greater than ever. People are dying, and we cannot risk you." Her tone brooked no argument; they had debated her departure many times. She did not like it, but she could not think of any legitimate reason to stay.
"I'll try to keep an eye on Mr. Malfoy… and headmistress? I have Mrs. Lestrange's wand in my possession. Could you send someone to fetch it? It makes me a bit… edgy." A fleeting sensation that the wand was tied to her nightmare came and went almost before Hermione could make sense of it. The wand… she would have to remember to look that up the next time she had access to a wizarding library.
"A cousin of mine is visiting Lyon right now… I'll ask her to stop by that tower, that tall skeletal thing. Today, say, at five o'clock, local time."
"Thank you. I'd better say goodbye… how many people are in the phone booth?"
"You don't want to know. Goodbye, Miss Granger." A chorus of goodbyes echoed in the background was soon off by a click.
She smiled. It was so pleasant to unexpectedly hear from friends like that, even if it did make her a little melancholy. Only as she reviewed the conversation in her head did she realise that they had an appointment with a student half an hour before the intended exchange. Perhaps she could take Guillaume on a field trip, she thought. There were always English-speaking tourists, especially at the Eiffel Tower, with whom he could practice, and they could finish at one of the English pubs in the area.
The morning wore on as Hermione gratefully lit a fag, wrote, and re-wrote lesson plans for her French students of business English. Even when it was frustrating, she enjoyed the challenge and the notion that she was helping others with her knowledge. Her other work – for the Order – did not thus receive her full attention, but she had ample time to do both to everyone's satisfaction. For the Order she served as… a sort of administrative assistant and researcher, sending and receiving reports which she then categorised, processed, and synthesised. She also redirected mail through the Muggle post, so no one would become suspicious of a great number of owls coming and going from odd locations.
But she would probably not have had to leave England at all if members of the Order and people sympathetic to their cause had not come under steadily increasing attack since Voldemort's full-fledged return. She had never thought seriously about leaving herself until about a dozen people approached her, together and individually, suggesting that she take some time off until things cooled down a little.
Well, she would not take any time off while Voldemort lived, but she did agree to leave the country, for as long as the Order recommended. People had argued against her continuing Order work at all, but she could see their relief when she refused. Paris had been her idea, a different country but near enough that she could return in a matter of hours – by magical or Muggle transportation – in case of an emergency.
As she was revising a lesson plan on the internet – something she had known little about until a few weeks ago – a knock sounded at her door.
"Entrez," she called out, stubbing out her cigarette and waving her hand through the acrid smoke.
"Merci bien, Mademoiselle."
She looked over her shoulder in surprise. Then again, she was not sure why the sight of
Lucius Malfoy standing in her doorway should surprise her anymore.
Well, thank God he's alive, she thought and then realised what a strange idea that was. She wondered if she were beginning to understand that shadowy nightmare and hoped she was wrong.
"I'm in the middle of working, and I slept terribly last night. Is there something I can help you with?"
He wore another suit today, this time with pinstripes. For someone who hated everything Muggle so violently, he seemed quite desirous to pass as one.
"As a matter of fact, you can. I'm dreadfully bored today, and you are going to déjeuner with me."
In response, she picked up her notebook and waved it at him. "I said I have work. If you don't want to eat alone, I'm sure you can find a companion quite easily in this city, looking like that."
He crossed the room and plucked the notebook from her hands. "The internet," he read aloud. "While many of the business terms used online are similar to those used in face-to-face or in telephone conversations, there are some which are particular to the internet. The most well-known of these is probably 'e-mail'. In addition, many words are used informally to designate internet functions when preceded by an 'e'." He paused. "E?"
"Never mind, and put that down." She checked the time on her mobile. "It is about that time. Fine. I'll go eat with you."
Looking down at her, he regarded her with a most insulting expression. "Not dressed in that, you certainly will not."
There really was no winning with the man. In lieu of an answer, she hefted one of the cushions from the window seat and threw it at him. She missed but thought she had made her point.
"Go away, then. I have work to finish before this afternoon. And what is with you today?" The Lucius Malfoy she knew did not ask Mudbloods to a chic lunch in Paris, not even if the Mudblood in question had saved his life. Friendly was not quite the word for him… manic, perhaps.
"We're alive," he said with a touch of disbelief at her show of temper. "Yesterday I faced certain death, and so did you, for that matter. My sister-in-law would have killed me whether or not I had told her your address… and then she would have hunted you down." He inhaled deeply as Hermione shivered at the mention of that woman. "What can I say? I wish to celebrate the fact that I lived to fight another day."
Maybe he had a point. Her lesson plan did look rather dull after that speech, and he did have good reason to celebrate. "You win. Find something suitable for me to wear," she said with a nod in the direction of her bedroom, "and we'll go wherever you like, but I can't stay long. And you're paying." She resisted an urge to comb her fingers through her hair right then and there.
The look he cast at the indicated area was sceptical, to say that least. "I had something else in mind."
That was how she found herself drinking champagne for lunch, dressed for the occasion in Dior. She felt ridiculous but happy and more than anything else, paranoid that she would spill something. They sat outside, enjoying the warm spring weather and the diverse sights afforded by passers-by. A wide parasol shaded them from direct sunlight, so neither was forced to squint the entire time or worry about getting annoyingly uneven sunburn. He did not even say anything when she lit up a cigarette.
"I can't decide if my students would take me more or less seriously if I dressed like this all the time." They would definitely take her less seriously if she drank too much champagne for lunch.
Malfoy poured another glass for both of them before replying. "You could, if you wanted. I told you, a Malfoy always repays his debts."
A fleeting vision of herself strolling down tree-lined boulevards attracting envious glances passed through her mind, and she smiled at the image. "And what is the going rate for your life, Monsieur Malfoy, translated into euros?" She shook her head. "You're not going to buy me off with a new wardrobe."
He returned the smile, and it even looked genuine. "Good girl. If I could… buy you off, as you say, with a new wardrobe, you would not be worth the expense."
She frowned into her fashionably cold soup. "Is it always a test, then, with you? It must be exhausting to constantly try to live up to your standards." Spending this much time with the father, she was beginning to understand a little better the son.
He inherited your pride but not your strength. She shivered again despite the young afternoon heat.
The muscles in his face tensed a little, as if he knew what she was thinking. "Think of it more as an ongoing evaluation. Surely you continually examine yourself in order that you may better yourself. Why should you not extend that critical eye to those who surround you?"
She took a sip from her champagne flute as she pondered his question. "It seems to me that they might have different ideas about self-improvement and that it's really up to them to decide what's best for themselves."
"Even though people are generally blind to their own weaknesses?"
She nodded. "Even so." If nothing else, she decided, he was at least an engaging conversationalist. Challenging. He forced her to clearly articulate and defend her ideas, so different from his own in most areas.
"And what about you, Mr. Malfoy? Are you as blind as the general populace to the flaws in your character?"
A faint smile stole across his face. "I should hope not, but I imagine that you and I have very different ideas about what exactly they consist of."
Arrogance, vanity, bigotry… yes, he was probably right about that. They continued talking as they savoured the good food and the good weather, never on any subject that might inflame their tempers. Hermione would never have imagined that she and Lucius Malfoy shared enough interest to carry on any kind of conversation that did not descend into a wizard's duel.
They were holding a lively debate over whether the legendary Serein Sala had actually been a vampire, as rumours often claimed, when Hermione remembered to check on the time. "Bloody hell," she muttered when she looked at her mobile.
"Something wrong?"
"No, everything's fine, but if I don't leave right now, I'll be late meeting one of my students." It occurred to her to ask whether he were still spying on her, but of course asking now would only serve to rouse his suspicions. She would have to take that chance. When she stood, she found that her head swam a bit before clearing up again. Lovely. She lit another fag.
He rose when she did, looking much steadier than she felt and offered one of his mocking little bows. She was starting to hate those. "Thank you for the pleasure of your company," he said. He sounded amused but not insincere. "I've not experienced such in quite some time."
She was not sure how to respond to that. If she were honest, neither had she been so stimulated in the past few months, but she did not like to admit that even to herself. Instead, she contented herself with offering brief, reciprocal thanks and – against her better judgement – her mobile number, after making sure that he knew what to do with it.
