Chapter 3
What was he doing?
The night ticked forward, and Draco could not conjure a reasonable answer.
He was committing treason by not arresting her. And unlike the families he had smuggled out, who attracted no attention and would not be missed, the reappearance of the last surviving member of the Order of the Phoenix would not go unnoticed, even abroad. There would be an investigation, and the Dark Lord's inquisitors would find the connection.
Ivo's parting words bubbled up from the well of his mind: he will kill you.
Draco had never questioned that as true. Only the cause and timing were yet to be decided.
And maybe the decision to help her was as simple as self-sabotage. Draco had money, power, and prestige. Twenty years ago, that might have been enough. But there had been a cost to it, images he could not unsee, sounds he could not unhear. Though he wanted to keep fighting — needed to, if he were honest with himself — he was also tired. World-weary in the truest sense. Helping Hermione out of the country was an ending he could live with, a fitting coda to his regret-ridden life.
He twirled her wand around his fingers as he lay in bed. It felt like her — warm and flexible in his hands, but stubborn when used. He could not cast anything more complicated than a Lumos with it, and a weak one at that. The wand's allegiance was unquestionably with its chosen witch.
Was his allegiance with her, too?
Dawn provided no answers. It did, however, give him an excuse to check on her. Hermione was still asleep, curled up against the arm of the sofa with her back pressed firmly to the rear cushions, despite it being extended to double its usual width. Her face was serene. She had aged well, despite what must have been a rough twenty years. Crow's feet stamped the corners of her eyes and half-moons ringed the angles of her lips. Otherwise, she looked like the girl he had known.
He left to shower and found Hermione in the kitchen when he returned. He traced the line of her legs, long and lean as she stood on tiptoe, reaching for a tea tin just beyond her fingers. Memory leapt at him. Her legs around his, the roll of her hips, the slow motion of seduction, so sensuous it had almost felt real… He cleared his throat.
"Allow me."
She jumped and spun away, hands braced on the countertop as if preparing to run. He ignored her mistrust, retrieved the tin, and put the kettle on with a flick of his wand.
"Don't you have elves for this?"
"Do you think tea is beyond my ability?" He saved her the trouble of a witty retort. "Lilac is busy at the moment. You'll have to deal with my attempt."
"Part of me is surprised I'm still here."
"Why? We have a bargain."
"I know, but I'm still a…"
She clutched her wrist, and Draco felt his heart constrict. It had taken him years to adjust to his Dark Mark, and he had taken it willingly. He set the kettle down.
"I know I can't ask you for your trust, but this week will be easier if we can at least achieve an understanding. I'm not going to hurt you or turn you in. Of all the things you have to fear, I'm not one of them."
She looked down at her twined fingers. He slid a saucer toward her.
"I have to go into the office to prepare your paperwork. I want you to shop while I'm gone." He twisted a bag of Galleons from thin air and set it next to her tea. "Italian designers only. Casual wear, a few cocktail dresses, at least one ball gown. Lucciola in London should give you a good start. Anything you can't find there, we'll pick up in Italy."
He studied her expression as she pulled the bag toward her. It contained less than what he made in a month and probably more than she had had her entire life. Opportunity brightened her eyes. He offered her wand handle-first.
"I put a Trace on it," he lied. The idea he saw forming disappeared in a blink. "Yours is one of the more recognizable designs I've seen."
"I know." She set it next to the coin purse. "I don't use it very often."
"A pity," he agreed. "Your spell work was always impressive."
The comment earned him a sharp look, and he had to bite back a grin. He found her ability to be surprised endearing. It felt rare, like something to be protected and treasured. And for a week, it was his to enjoy.
"Good luck today," he said, walking past her toward the Floo. He felt her eyes follow him out.
The Department of International Magical Cooperation was rarely empty. The few low-level employees working overtime to impress their superiors were more concerned with their own work than with anything nefarious Draco might be doing, but there was still cause for caution. Exemplary work was the hard way to ascend the departmental ranks; snitching on a non-compliant coworker was much faster.
As such, Draco wore his most severe expression as he stormed off the Level 5 lift. Nearby staffers scattered, and Draco palmed his wand with a flick of his wrist. He trailed it along the threshold to Blaise's office as he passed, and the forms slithered beneath the locked door with a whisper. They followed him down the short hallway like parchment Planaria, and by the time Draco had slammed his door, they were on his desk.
He shrugged off his cloak and settled into his chair. The travel papers were relatively simple, only requiring a name, a date and city of birth, an address, and a photo. The identification form was several inches long and much more complicated. As a half-blood, Hermione would require three generations of magical lineage on either her maternal or paternal side. Draco summoned his family's personal copy of the pure-blood register, picked up his quill, and set to work.
Several hours and one blooming headache later, he had written her a convincing lineage of both German and English ancestors, including a few distant linkages with his own family through third and fourth cousins. All that remained was to attach a photo and submit the forms, along with a large sum of Galleons, to Blaise's least ambitious, most avaricious underling.
Back at his flat, he found Hermione on the couch with her feet tucked beneath her and a book in her lap. She wore the same revealing dress as last night and spared him a brief, disgusted look. The bag of Galleons sat on the glass coffee table, just as full as when he had given it to her. Annoyance picked at him.
"When I give you a task, I expect it to be completed."
"When you give me a task worth doing, it will be."
"You do realize I've been orchestrating your escape for the past four hours, yes? An escape that is contingent upon your purchase of appropriate clothing?"
She slammed the book shut.
"You don't think I tried?"
"Not very hard, apparently."
"Lucciola turned me away!" She stormed across the room and shoved her wrist at him. "They're a pure establishment. But you didn't need to consider that, did you?"
He bit back a retort and grabbed her by the wrist.
"Let's go."
He held her close as they spun through the London chimney system and swept from the hearth with a flare of his cloak and a stormy expression. The two women behind the counter straightened.
"Which of you is the owner?"
The women exchanged a look, and the blonde stepped forward, chin lifted high.
"I am, sir. Miranda Aubert." She held out a hand, which he ignored. She drew it back with a placid expression. "How may I assist you this evening?"
Draco pointed back to the fireplace.
"Her. You may assist her."
Miranda gave him a condescending look.
"Sir, this is a pure establishment." With a look over his shoulder, she continued: "There are other establishments better suited to her kind."
"Her kind," he repeated, stepping closer. "May I see your hand, Miranda?"
Her shoulders twitched with nerves, but she placed her hand in his nonetheless. Draco turned it over and pushed her sleeve back, revealing an embellished H. He traced a finger over it and felt her pulse flutter.
"Your kind."
He dropped her hand and began to unbutton the cuff of his shirt.
"Sir —"
"Would you like to know my kind, Miranda?"
She paled at the sight of his Dark Mark. The woman behind the counter gasped. And though he found no joy in wielding fear like a cudgel, it was an effective tool.
"Ask me again."
Miranda tore her eyes away from his arm.
"Sir?"
"Ask how you may assist me this evening."
"How… How may I assist you this evening?"
Draco pointed back toward the Floo.
"You may assist her. Will this be a problem?"
"No," Miranda said, voice trembling. "No, sir." She looked past Draco with tear-filled eyes and reached for Hermione with both hands. "Miss, please come in. What did you say you needed?"
"Did you enjoy that?" Hermione asked bitterly. Waiting for them at his flat, sent ahead by Lucciola at no extra charge, were three full valises of new clothes.
"Not particularly. Shopping was always my mother's idea. I tolerated it because it meant a trip to Honeydukes at the end."
"I didn't mean the shopping."
"I know what you meant." Draco turned to face her. "What do you want me to say? At one point, yes, terrifying that woman into thinking she was going to lose her livelihood or her life would've been the high point of my week."
"And now?"
"And now?" He trailed off with a grimace. "And now, maybe Machiavelli had it wrong."
She took a deep breath, as if preparing to argue, but Draco cut her off.
"We don't have time for this. I need your photo so that I can submit your paperwork tonight. Cast your charms."
As he conjured a camera, Hermione transformed into the pretty woman he had seen from across the room. She squared her shoulders and looked into the lens with a neutral expression as Draco snapped two quick photos. He lowered the camera.
"What is it?" she asked after he stared for too long.
He shook his head and smiled to himself.
"Nothing. I just —" He reached out and touched lock of her hair, straight and streaked with blonde. "I prefer it curly."
She tilted her head, a soft, confused look playing across her features. Then her eyes hardened. She knocked his hand aside.
"I don't care what you prefer."
His smile persisted as she walked away from him. The rejection didn't sting. Quite the opposite, in fact: the guileless play of emotions across her face had warmed him to his bones. She was so thoroughly herself, so genuine, even as she disguised herself with charms. She reminded him of a firefly, a spark that lit and disappeared before he could pinpoint its location. He could chase after it for a lifetime and never catch it. Never catch her. He knew that.
And yet, as he spent another half-sleepless night twirling her wand around his fingers, he couldn't help but wonder what was possible. He wanted to understand her, to uncover the source of her resilience and see if he could tap the same well. What had made her fight for survival after the Order had been destroyed? What had kept her strong and sane during her years of sex work? Why had she risked her life to come home with him, knowing who he worked for and what it could mean for her? And why had it felt real for a moment, when she was on top of him? Why had it felt better than anything he and Astoria had ever shared?
He needed to know. He needed to ask her. And somewhere near three a.m., he mustered the courage to do it. He opened the door to his bedroom, padded out into the hall, then paused.
Hermione stood before the window, her body dimly illuminated by the faint light of the quarter moon. She stood still, arms crossed as if she were cold, and stared out onto the empty London streets. He saw the hazy reflection of her face in the glass and could not mistake look in her eyes.
She was frightened.
Anxiety pulled at her brows and the corners of her mouth, and Draco's chest tightened. Guilt was a familiar emotion. It sat like a stone in his heart, and he carried it with him like a loyal man might carry an old dog. He was accustomed to its weight, comforted by it, even, because its existence proved his humanity. But looking at her shifted the stone. Made it sit a little heavier. Sink a little lower.
He had taken advantage of her. He had used her need for his own gain and conned her into an agreement that could end them both. He had every right to risk his own life, but hers? And for what?
It wasn't for politics. Not really. He could have made any excuse to go to Italy alone, and he could have talked his way out of any consequences that came from the decision. In the end, it wouldn't even matter if he were alone or with someone: the Italians would sign the agreement regardless. That's what people would remember.
It was for him. His reckless disregard for others when his own interests could be satisfied. His curiosity about her. His fear of the meager consequences of failure. It was selfish, cowardly, and, he realized with a bitter twist of his lips, perfectly in character.
He thought he'd matured. Thought he'd grown past those flaws and into a man who tried to do good in a world full of bad. He was a fool to have believed it.
He backed away slowly and returned to his bedroom. He owed her at least one last evening of peace.