A/N: Two updates in a (holiday) weekend! Gasp! Here's my penance for offering such a short chapter yesterday. Funny note – a couple of times when my French stylistics class was dragging more than usual, I actually wrote out the French conversation bits in French (quite a lot of the early chapters I wrote in European geography class). I wonder how grammatically incorrect they were. But I'm starting an internship here pretty soon, so while I'll do my best to stick with weekly updates, I can't guarantee them.
Enjoy (and review)!
ON TO
Chapter Seven:
The school week passed without any sign of life from Malfoy. Hermione took this to mean that he was getting along and managing to amuse himself without her help. So much the better, she told herself, although she was annoyed that he never had provided her with any useful information. Oh well – perhaps he would repay his debt on the occasion that (God forbid) they met in battle and she found herself at his mercy. They headmistress would not be happy to learn that Hermione had lost track of him, but the latter saw no reason to enlighten her anytime soon.
What was more, she had new troubles costing her sleep. Ever since the day she had saved Malfoy's life, horrific nightmares had plagued her slumber. The content – murder, torture, obscene Dark rituals – was monstrous enough, but the truly disturbing aspect was the graphic clarity with which she lived it all and the thread of similarity that ran through them. Always, she was Bellatrix Lestrange, thinking her dark, lunatic thoughts in the midst of the horror. Hermione tried drugs from the chemist and alcohol to deaden her sleep, but the dreams kept coming.
Early Saturday morning, she awoke from another nightmare in a panic she could not explain, too alert to fall back asleep but still grainy-eyed and exhausted. She was sure that Lucius was hurt or dead somewhere beyond her reach. Heart-stopping visions of him prostate in a hospital bed or stiller yet filled her mind until she truly thought she was going insane. No matter what rational reassurances she told herself, the mental images flooded her brain. He was badly hurt, she was certain, all alone in this impersonal metropolitan, and she had no way to find him.
No, there was an easy way to check up on him. She dialled his hotel number and requested to be connected to his room. The phone rang, but no one answered. The hotel answerphone picked up, and Hermione left a short message, fearing what she might say if she lost control of herself. After that, she could not fall back asleep, so she rose to make herself a cup of tea and smoke a fag. Her hands shook a little at first, but eventually the sight of the early morning sun illuminating the little garden beneath her window calmed her nerves.
She dozed, and when she awoke from her dream-free nap, she felt rather more like herself. She was returned enough to her senses to be irritated at the stupidity of falling asleep on the flammable window seat cushions with a lit fag in her hand. At her side, nestled between those cushions, sat her mobile. She pondered it a decided to wait a while longer before calling him again. If she did not hear from him by evening, she might stop by and reassure herself that he was alive and well. A breakfast consisting of strong tea, yoghurt, and a day-old pastry made her feel even better, and she spent the large part of the daylight hours in a park, lying flat on her stomach and reading the latest reports from the Order.
If she glanced at her mobile more often than usual, she managed to concentrate regardless on her task and did not begin giving into worry again until dusk. She had tried his room every couple of hours, always hanging up when the answerphone clicked on. Of course he had the right to come and go as he pleased… and what would she say if she did find him? She returned to her flat and found continuous excuses to procrastinate that visit while part of her wanted to run straight to his hotel. She felt scared and silly and stubborn and tried to reason with herself and got nowhere doing so.
Full dark came, and her flatmates left for a party when she squared her shoulders and set out to find Lucius. Stupid git, she thought, dragging me all over the city and driving me half insane – not to mention his psychotic sister-in-law and whatever side effect nightmares carrying her wand gave me. Without stopping at the reception desk, she strode up the stairs, too impatient to wait for the lift, and headed to his room.
A tall, broad-shouldered man came down the corridor in her direction, his build so like Malfoy's that she thought she felt her heart and breath cease functioning until he stepped into the light and she could make out his face. Not even close. And there was no reason she should have been affected so strongly by the idea that it might have been him.
She knocked and waited, to no avail. For a full ten minutes, she stood there knocking and waiting, before she gave up and left back down the stairs. She was suddenly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in her cosy bed. She knew that the smart thing to do at this moment would be to ask the desk clerk if he knew anything about the occupant of room 414, but she found herself strangely hesitant to do so. Maybe she would come back and ask tomorrow. But what if he had been transported to a hospital and someone at the hotel knew which one? Her stomach roiled as she left, and she had to steady herself on a streetlight.
The nearest metro stop was very close, but the thought of all that hot, smelly air and those hot, smelly passengers made her feel sick. She was too tired to walk back home, so she decided to treat herself a taxi, rare extravagance. She climbed in and told the cabbie her address, luxuriating in the decadent sensation of ordering someone to take her home and the vanilla-scented air of the car. No limousine had ever felt so good, she was sure.
"May I smoke?" she inquired in French and could not help smiling at the driver's conspiratorial grin.
"We're not supposed to allow smoking, but you seem distressed. Open a window, and I won't tell anyone."
"Thank you very much." Paris whizzed past her as she sat and blew smoke into the mild air, enjoying the Saturday night lights and crowd.
The taxi slowed as it neared her flat, leaving her feeling a bit deflated. She was too poor to order the driver to take a turn around the city, so it was back to reality. She pulled colourful euro notes from her purse, threw the extinguished fag out the open window, and handed the money to the cabbie with an insistence that he keep the change. It was not until she scooted over to the side of the car parked by the garden that she noticed a familiar figure standing just outside. Her heart quickened. It couldn't be…
She could not puzzle out how to work the door handle for a moment and, incredibly, felt a tear come to her eyes as she struggled. This was so stupid. There was absolutely no reason for her fingers to be so clumsy, and it wasn't even him outside. It was impossible, and…
The handle gave under her frantic fingers. She looked out the window and caught her breath. It was him, sound as ever, smiling down at her with a most uncharacteristic expression. As she opened the door and set one foot on the ground, an elegant hand offered itself to help her out of the car. Her heart beat wildly as she took it and felt its strength when it closed on hers. He pulled a little harder than she had expected, and the strange magic of the moment was spoiled as she nearly fell atop him.
Spoiled, or so she thought for an agonizing moment before a new boldness seized hold of her. She had experienced this kind of recklessness a few other times in her life – the instance that came immediately to mind was when she had punched Draco Malfoy in the face, to the delight of her friends and no small shock of her own. But this time she did not hit anyone. This time, a man she'd been hunting for desperately had appeared on her doorstep, looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
So naturally, when he pulled her from the cab a little too hard, she did not resist but stepped even closer, and, noting the startled expression that crossed his face, kissed him full on the mouth. He did not respond at first, but neither did he pull away, and soon he tentatively kissed her back. She did not think she had ever seen Lucius do anything tentatively, but there it was. They pulled back at the same instant, and each noticed that the other was wearing an expression rather like the dazed look of a lightning strike survivor.
"Er, I'm afraid I'm a little sleep-deprived," Hermione said at last. "Not that I'm not… relieved to see you. I just- I didn't mean to-" To trip and fall on a Death Eater's lips? To kiss a married man twice her age? To have anything to do with Lucius Malfoy?
He interrupted her babbling. "And to imagine that for the longest time I was labouring under the illusion that sleep deprivation makes people bad-tempered."
A joke, or at least a quip. Good. That was a good sign. Now if only she could cast a memory charm without a wand…
"Just delusional. What I mean is, not that someone would have to be nutters to, well… just that I didn't sleep well last night, and I woke up with the dead certainty that you were dying in a gutter somewhere, and then there you were, and I- I didn't think, I was so relieved, and-"
"Do stop apologising," he said with a slight grimace. He pressed two fingers against his temple. "It isn't like you. It's… servile."
That made Hermione blink, and she drew a deep breath. "Right. We're both adults, we can discuss this in a rational manner." She nodded, trying to convince herself that she was at that moment a rational adult. A glance around the garden entrance to her flat seemed to restore her to her senses.
"What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you weren't speaking to me." Now that was hardly the action of a rational adult, she thought a bit smugly, ignoring me because he was mad.
"I was occupied with finding a new lodging, as you suggested. I did not return to my room until tonight, when the desk clerk informed me that a young lady had called my room repeatedly. I attempted to return your call, but you did not respond."
The metro, she thought. She must have lost reception underground.
"So you came here."
He shrugged. How he managed to look so nonchalant, she could not fathom. "You sounded upset." Then, lest she mistake his arrival for personal concern, he added, "I wondered if the Dark Lord had descended on Paris."
"Oh. Well, I'm…" She paused, trying to collect her thoughts and as she did, scrounged up a cigarette and a lighter from her bag. "Would you like one?"
A ghost of a smile flickered over his face. "I recall that they lost their appeal as soon as I came of age." He shook his head.
The image of an adolescent Lucius Malfoy made her smile around her cigarette. He probably looked much like Draco did now, but it was still difficult to imagine. Oh God, she had just kissed Draco's father. No, don't think about that.
"They hooked me young. I suppose it was the only way I could think of to rebel against my parents. They're dentists; they'd have a fit if they saw me now." She took a drag. "God, that feels better." As she spoke, she recalled that she had never quite gotten the hang of swearing like a witch. She supposed she still sounded like a Muggle at times to wizards who swore by Merlin and the gods, especially right after talking about her dentist family.
After a few seconds of watching her in silence, Malfoy sighed. "That looks wonderful. I fear you'll corrupt me yet."
She laughed at the idea and slid another fag from the pack. "No magic," she warned as she held it out. "If there is anyone in this city searching for you, the most minor spell could signal your presence. We have to do this the Muggle way."
He plucked the cigarette from her fingers and examined it for a little while before placing it between his lips. Hermione struck her lighter and held it while he inhaled deeply. Pale smoke drifted from his mouth when he exhaled and spoke again.
"That there is one of the Dark Lord's servants here is certain, but you're mistaken in your assumption that they are searching solely for me." He took another drag. "In fact, I'm quite sure that you are now his main quarry. I'm merely a disgraced turncoat; you killed his favourite and disappeared with his former second in command."
"I didn't kill her!"
He chuckled, apparently amused at her ire. "We are the only two witnesses to that fact. What other conclusion could one draw? Bellatrix was sent to punish me. Whoever found her would have seen that she was felled by the killing curse without a mark, yet blood stained the carpet, the walls, and the bathroom. The natural assumption is that she was interrupted while dealing with me and was killed before she knew what was happening.
"Of course," he added thoughtfully, "they will be wondering how you were capable of casting the killing curse. Perhaps the Dark Lord will desire a meeting with you."
A look of revulsion crossed her face. He would want a meeting with her? Not only was the thought of coming face to face with Voldement abhorrent, it was also terrifying. She was sure he would not let her get away merely with dying.
"You found me once." She spoke haltingly, and her voice shook a little. "Do you… do you suppose they will too?"
He took another slow drag, but before he could respond, a small group of her flatmates hurried outside.
"Héra!" one of them called.
She turned and forced a smile to her face. Bad timing, but it wasn't their fault.
Malfoy looked down at her, eyebrows lifted. "Hera?"
"Comme la déesse," she replied. Her flatmates, mostly French, had given her the nickname, after the Greek goddess, because they could not pronounce her very English name.
Three young people, two women and one man, kissed Hermione on the cheeks and regarded Malfoy with undisguised curiosity.
"Who's this?" one of the young ladies asked him in very informal French.
Oh dear. Hermione had not thought about how she might introduce Malfoy to others because she had never planned for the necessity of introducing him to anyone. She had not even planned to appear with him in public.
"This is my-" her mind raced and settled on a very neutral word. "friend, Monsieur Malfoy. He's, er, on holiday. M. Malfoy, this is Flore, Edmée, and Olivier, my
flatmates."
"You don't sound very sure," said Olivier, laughing.
She swallowed and didn't say anything. Luckily, Lucius stepped in at that moment.
"It's true that our… relationship is a bit unsure. You see, she's obviously very pretty, her intelligence never fails to amaze me, and she's quite engaging, but unfortunately, we are supposed to hate each other," he finished in what sounded like a regretful tone.
Hermione barely stopped herself from bursting into incredulous laughter. She was engaging? They were supposed to hate each other? Well, that last part was true, but the way he put it, they belonged in a romance novel or a Shakespearean drama.
Flore gasped. "That's terrible! Why do people want you to hate each other? You two look so good together."
"That's very nice of you to say," he replied. "It's a long and… rather stupid story. It isn't worth explaining. But where are my manners? I'm enchanted to meet all of you." He never addressed Hermione in that tone… not that she wanted him to, she reminded herself.
Flore, an olive-skinned beauty with an incongruous sprinkling of freckles, stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheeks. Edmée, a much shyer girl, followed suit, blushing brightly. For his part, Olivier extended a hand, and Malfoy shook it. Hermione wondered if he had been so cordial with Muggles in his life.
"Your friend?" Flore proceeded to ask with a smile. "Edmée saw you from her window and called me over immediately. You seem to be very good friends."
"Flore!" Edmée exclaimed.
Olivier shook his head. "My friends sadly lack hospitality. Ariane cooked for a party tonight, but it was cancelled. Now we have food for twenty-some people. You have to come and eat some, or seafood aroma will linger for days."
"Sounds charming," Malfoy said with a disarming smile. "Shall we, Mademoiselle Granger? What about you three?"
Flore spoke up before anyone else could answer. "We were going to a party, but I know the host, and he's very dull. We'd much rather stay and meet your friend, Héra."
