Author's Note:
Line from "Pretty Woman":
"Do I look okay?"
"Something's missing."
Chapter 5
Draco's eyes drifted to the wall clock. Ten minutes and they would adjourn. It was their third day of meetings, each more useless than the last. He had not needed to shake hands with Adelmo's entire department or listen to his speech about how the Italy everyone knows and loves was disappearing. He had not needed a reminder of the country's import and export power or a detailed history of their trade with the United Kingdom.
And he had certainly not needed this day-long affair to discuss what was essentially a tit-for-tat agreement between their governments. Draco's undersecretary, a man ten years his junior, had done all the negotiating well in advance of the trip. Yet Draco was nevertheless subjected to a lengthy presentation regarding the logic behind the new policies. Why these items, why these amounts, why these prices…
Draco didn't care.
He never truly had; Minister of Foreign Trade was not the job he would have chosen for himself in any administration, much less one with which he disagreed. But he had at least given a token effort. There had been nothing more pressing to capture his attention.
Now there was.
His gaze drifted toward the window next. Hermione was out there somewhere, enjoying the Italian sunshine with Adelmo's wife. They had sailed off the Amalfi coast on Tuesday and explored the museums of Florence on Wednesday. She had returned to him each night with a light in her eyes and stories to tell.
He wanted that.
He wanted to see her experience something that mattered and live the story she would later remember. He wanted to experience joy. And laughter, and hope, and it all felt possible with her. It was something in her eyes, a wild belief in the goodness of people — in the goodness of him — that struck as quick and smart as a whip. Every time they touched, it was like the world realigned. Like the choices he'd made and the horrible things he'd done had been a dream. Escape was ingrained in her skin, just a touch away.
And that was the complication.
She had shown him the dream, and now he wanted it. Not just her body, not just her heart, but her ideal. A better version of himself and a better world to come with it.
It was impossible. The risk should he fail was too great to bear.
It was aspirational. She didn't think he would.
"Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco looked at his undersecretary.
"What do you think?"
He thought he'd known the calculation for opportunity cost. Now he wasn't so sure.
"Send the write-up to my suite. I'll look it over and let you know tomorrow."
"We have no meetings scheduled for tomorrow," Adelmo said.
"We'll sign the final papers at the farewell ball."
Draco stood. Adelmo rose with him.
"Signore Malfoy, we are not finished."
"We are, Mr. Rua. Gentlemen."
Draco arrived to an empty suite. He loosened his tie and called for Tia, who appeared with her customary bow.
"Where is Miss Vivian?"
"Shopping with Miss Livia, sir."
"Did she say when she'd return?"
"No, sir."
As if on cue, the door opened. Draco shot to his feet.
"Dismissed," he said, and the elf disappeared.
Hermione — Vivian, with her hair long and blonde, her face made up to be unrecognizable — stepped through the door with several large bags. She paused when he saw him, expression uncertain.
"Hi."
He couldn't help but smile.
"Hi." He started forward, reaching for her bags. "Let me."
"Oh, okay." She handed a garment bag off to him. "Livia insisted. We met for lunch, and she mentioned a ball tomorrow night, and I didn't have a dress, so I used some of the Galleons you gave me, and—"
"There's no need to apologize." He tugged at the garment bag's zipper, caught a glimpse of red before her hand covered the gap.
"No peeking."
Her playful grin made his heart skip. Inspiration struck with its next belated beat.
"Let's leave Rome. We have a free night tonight and nothing until late tomorrow."
"We can just leave?"
"We can do whatever we want." He took her hand. "Whatever you want."
She looked down at their joined hands, brows furrowed in uncertainty.
"What's gotten into you?"
He barely stopped himself from blurting it out, the truth, right where she could see it.
She had gotten into him. And if there was a way to remove her, he didn't want to know it.
"I want a change in scenery, and I want it with you."
Her breath hitched. He stepped closer.
"What do you miss?" he asked quietly. "If you had one night, what would you do? Where would you go?"
Her eyes shone as she answered.
"The theater. I would go to the theater."
The Real Teatro di San Carlo was the oldest theater in the world. Five stories of seats shone gold in the Muggle lights. The velvet chairs and polished oak floors were so diligently maintained that one would never guess that patrons had been using them for over 280 years. A heavenly scene spanned the frescoed ceiling: Minerva, radiating light and surrounded by the Muses, being presented the world's greatest poets by Apollo.
Hermione outshone it all. The theater's crowded lobby seemed to part before her, a goddess in a deep, burnished gold, as regal as Minerva herself. She hardly seemed to notice the stares. She walked beside him, her hand on his arm and her head on a swivel. He saw the theater's beauty through her eyes, breathed it with every quiet gasp.
La Traviata, likewise, could not hold his attention, and his eyes slipped from the story before him to the one beside him. She was immersed in it, living the tale as only one who was born to love opera could. Her breath rose and fell with the music, shoulders and fingers tensing and relaxing as the soprano's voice soared.
When the final note had faded and the electric lights came on, Draco made no attempt to hide his fixation. She dashed her tears away and turned to him.
"What did you think?" she asked.
There was only one possible answer.
"It was beautiful."
Then her lips were on his, warm and tender, and Draco was lost to her. One hand was in her hair, the other cupping her cheek, pulling her close and forgetting where he was until she pushed him away with a firm hand on his chest. He saw a reflection of himself in her eyes, desirous and desperate for connection.
"I don't want to go back to Rome tonight," she said.
"Then we won't."
They booked a room at the first hotel they saw. Draco hardly remembered the journey to their suite. There were searing looks across the cramped lift interior and agonizing impatience as an elderly couple tottered down the hallway ahead of them. He had fumbled with the Muggle key card until she took it from him with a curse. The hotel room door slammed shut behind him, and then he was lost again. Heat, teeth, the press of the doorknob against his lower back as Hermione pinned him against it.
"Finite," he growled. The fizzling satisfaction of the decaying spells sparked around his fingers as he struggled to pull the pins from her hair. She batted his hands away and took over, allowing him to explore the curves of her body and find the catch of the zipper at her back.
"May I?"
"Yes."
Her breath caught as he trailed warm fingers down the skin of her back and spread his hands over the swell of her hips. A shrug of her shoulders freed the dress, which landed on the floor with a soft sigh. He took a moment to look at her, at the wonder of her body — its strength, its softness, its ability to be both capable and delicate. Then he looked into her eyes, wary, even after all this time, of his judgment.
"You're beautiful." He kissed her neck, nibbled the tender skin of her collarbone as her head rolled back. "So beautiful."
"Draco…"
She captured his lips, and he carefully walked her back to the bed. She shifted herself onto the mattress, resting on her elbows to watch him strip. It made him feel vulnerable, to have her attention so singularly focused. What did she feel when she saw his Dark Mark, the black ink so prominent against his pale skin? Could she feel his shame? He clenched his fist, moved to cover it with his other hand. She reached out to stop him.
"It's you. It's not all of you."
Her earnest eyes quelled his fear, and he leaned forward to kiss her. Inches separated their bodies, and Draco could feel the heat between them, a quiet blaze of embered desire. He broke away from her mouth, trailed kisses down her neck and collarbone, her chest, the space between her breasts.
He nuzzled at the side of one, pressed his lips into the fabric of her brassiere. So similar to that first night, when she had known who he was and had gone home with him regardless. She had crawled on top of him and moved with abandon, like she had wanted him. Like he had wanted her. But unlike that first night, the feel of her breast through lace was not enough. He braced himself on one arm and ran a hand down the length of her side.
"May I?"
She nodded, and with a muttered word, Draco vanished her brassiere. He lowered his mouth over one rosy nipple and sucked. She gasped, her hips thrusting upwards and her hands fluttering against his shoulders.
"Draco…"
He paused, released his mouth. Had he misunderstood? He looked a question at her, but she didn't see it, her head thrown back and eyes closed in pleasure. She moaned as the cool air hit her skin.
"Don't stop."
He laved one nipple, then the other, making her moan and tremble with only his lips, tongue, and teeth. The power over her was sweet, but nothing was sweeter than her pleasure, than the arch of her hips and the gentle sounds of satisfaction blossoming in the dark.
She sighed as he released her and traveled down her body with his lips. He stopped at the hem of her panties.
"May I?"
She lifted her hips. Draco hooked his fingers around the waistband and tugged the lingerie down her legs. She flicked them off with a graceful kick of her foot, then tented her knees. Draco looped his arms around her thighs and breathed.
She smelled like the ocean, all salt and sweat and sweet musk, and her entire body jerked as he nosed her thigh. He pressed a gentle kiss to her skin, smiling as her breath caught. He took his time, leaving not one inch of her skin untasted, before darting his tongue out against her clit. She jerked again, releasing a primal hiss of pleasure as she lifted her hips. He met the rise of her mons with his lips and pressed her back into the mattress.
She trembled beneath him as he licked and sucked, flicked and nibbled, all while the tension in her body built. He could sense it in the muscles of her thighs, hear it in the quickness of her breath, the shallow, sighing exhales and the sharp, staccato inhales, feel it in the press of her fingers against his shoulder and the tug of her grip in his hair.
He brought her to the peak, but only she had the power to throw herself off it. And with the flick of his tongue, he felt her shudder, felt the rhythmic convulsions start to wrack her body. She arched and cried out, moaned his name, and he held onto her like a dying man to the last light of life, drinking in her pleasure like it was ambrosia, guiding her through the fall and catching her at the bottom, boneless and spent.
He crawled up next to her, and she rolled over to him, eyelids heavy. Her hand drifted down to his crotch, where his erection strained against his shorts.
"Do you want…" The question was uncertain, almost sad.
He did, almost to the point of pain. Instead, he gathered her hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. The reality of her life was not lost on him. When had she last received without having to give? When had pleasure been solely about her satisfaction? From the start, he had obligated her to him. Had threatened, blackmailed, and humiliated her. Made her be someone she wasn't where everyone had to see it. She had done enough for him. He could do one thing — however inconsequential it might be — for her.
"Yes," he answered. There was no sense in lying about it when the evidence was so clearly seen and felt. "But not right now. Not tonight."
Hermione closed her eyes with a strained smile, as if she were holding back tears.
"Thank you."
He held her close, his heart warming as she fell asleep in his arms.
The trust she had in him was shattering, and he stared into the darkness with wide eyes, trying to understand it. Everything about Hermione was a direct rebuke to the beliefs he'd held as a child and the administration he'd secretly deceived as an adult. That he didn't deserve her was obvious, but it begged the question:
Could he ever?
He thought he knew the answer. He also thought he knew how.
It kept him awake all night.
Returning to Rome the following morning was like sinking into the ocean's depths after a gasping moment at the surface. The narrow streets and tall buildings cast shadows that darkened the cloud-dappled day. Even their hotel room, with its pale, honey-gold walls and cream-colored furniture, felt dull. The artful sprays of myrtle and red rose were too plentiful for the space, making the air heavy and cloying.
"It's almost over," Hermione said, as if reading his thoughts. She sat before the vanity mirror in a white bathrobe putting the final pins into her blonde hair. She caught his eyes in the glass, the warm brown all but lost beneath the shadow and liner. "The ball tonight, breakfast tomorrow, and then —"
"And then you'll be gone," he finished for her, trying to keep his voice clear of the loss he already felt.
Their intimacy had changed something. Every conversation felt strained, as though each word supported a two-ton weight. She seemed uncertain around him, like all of her self-assuredness had withered while she slept, folding in on itself like a flower after the autumn's first frost. Several times, he'd been on the edge of confronting the issue — over their late breakfast, on the short walk through the hotel lobby up and to their room, in the early evening silence while he was reading the negotiated agreement his undersecretary had so obligingly sent up for him.
But he'd kept his mouth shut. If she needed to disengage, now was the time to do it. It was better, in fact, if they both did. They had one more night together, and then she would leave. Facing that reality was a necessary evil after what had felt like a week of dreaming. It was time to wake.
He checked his watch.
"We're expected in ten minutes."
She placed a final pin, then rose and walked into the closet. Draco rose, too, his destination the bedroom's wall safe. He kept his eyes on the combination lock, but heard keenly the soft whump of her robe as it dropped to the floor, the high-pitched hiss of the zipper as she opened the garment bag, and the rustle of silk. He opened the safe and pressed an intercom button.
"Gringotts vault 725. Draco Lucius Malfoy withdrawing the Armand."
The safe slammed shut, and Draco chanced a look at the walk-in. Another flash of red sent a spike of anticipation through him. The safe creaked open, and Draco withdrew a blue velvet box. When he turned to the closet again, his speeding heart stuttered to a stop.
Hermione stood before him in a floor-length, gravity-defying red gown. Its sleeves fell off her shoulders, and the plunging neckline came to a point between her breasts. A high slit flashed her thigh as she walked, but the movement of the fabric at her feet made it look like she was floating.
She cleared her throat.
"Do I look okay?"
Draco forced his eyes away from the curves of her body and grinned.
"Something's missing."
He opened the box and offered it to her. She drew her hands away with a gasp.
"These can't be real."
"From my family's collection, gifted to my ancestor Armand for his assistance to William the Conqueror."
She raised an eyebrow and asked skeptically, "Assistance?"
"He came on after William took England to help consolidate the new king's power. Bribes, threats, the typical political machinations."
Her lips tugged into a grudging smile.
"You Malfoys just can't help yourselves, can you?"
"No, we cannot."
She turned around.
"Would you mind?"
He withdrew a necklace of rubies the size of his thumbnail, each surrounded by sparkling pavé diamonds, and hooked the clasp around her neck. He trailed his fingers across her shoulders and down her arms, memorizing the way her skin felt, mapping every freckle and scar. She turned, and he held his hand out to her, the matching earrings in his palm.
"Perfect," he murmured. "Shall we?"
The hotel's grand ballroom sparkled in the candlelight. The Ministero's employees were well into their networking, taking full advantage of the opportunity to rub elbows with the country's wealthiest political donors. Many lingered near the bar and around high-top tables, but some congregated at the room's center on the hardwood dance floor.
"I'm not expected to dance, am I?" Hermione whispered to him.
"Not if you don't want to."
He kept a hand at her back as they wound through the ballroom, meeting Adelmo and his undersecretary at one of the dinner tables.
"Buonasera," Draco said with a nod.
"Good evening, Signore Malfoy, cara Vivian."
"Where's Livia?" Hermione asked.
"My mother-in-law was taken unexpectedly ill this evening. Livia has chosen to care for her. You will have to make do with me, I'm afraid." Adelmo's eyes raked over Hermione, his tongue darting out briefly to wet his lips. He punctuated his statement with a smile that sent a chill up Draco's spine. After a sip of his martini, he turned his attention to Draco.
"Have you reviewed our agreement from yesterday?"
"I have." It was straightforward enough, but Draco had no intention of making it easy for him. "There are still some terms I'd like to discuss." He caught the eyes of his undersecretary from across the room and summoned him with a gesture. "Perhaps we can discuss over dinner?"
Adelmo's mouth puckered in distaste, but he inclined his head.
"Please, do sit down."
Over the five courses, Draco addressed the trade agreement line by line, his amusement directly correlated with Adelmo's growing frustration. Once all the plates were cleared, he leaned toward Hermione.
"I need to use the loo. I won't be more than five minutes. Will you be okay?"
She nodded and sipped her wine; she was only just starting her second glass.
As the left, the quartet had been warming up their strings. When he returned, they were playing a smooth waltz. Couples twirled around the dance floor, their steps rising and falling in time. Among the dancers was Hermione, held close in Adelmo's arms. Her face was plastered in a benign expression of bliss, but she moved with a simile of grace, something too stiff in her limbs to be natural.
She swayed as the music ended and Adelmo pulled her close. He whispered into her ear, and she nodded, letting Adelmo wrap his arm around her waist and guide her to the ballroom's exit.
Something was wrong.
Draco intercepted them at the door.
"Rua."
Adelmo smiled at him.
"I was going to show la signorina my office."
"Like hell you are. Vivian stays with me." Draco grabbed Hermione's forearm, which earned him no more than a blank look.
Adelmo waved away his concern.
"She is fine, Malfoy. Isn't that right, Vivian?"
"I'm fine, Malfoy."
Her eyes were glazed, her voice a hair toward monotone, but it was the use of his last name that gave it all away.
"Release her," Draco snarled.
"What?"
"Release her, now."
"Malfoy, there is no need. Vivian is —"
Pain split his knuckles as his fist collided with Adelmo's chin. The Italian's head cracked backwards, and he staggered as Hermione sagged. Draco caught her around the waist.
"Hermione?" he whispered into her hair.
She clutched at his shoulders, trying to hold herself up.
"The Imperius Curse." Her voice shook. "He was so quick, and I didn't know… I couldn't fight it, I couldn't —"
"It's okay." He felt her tremble under the weight of a future avoided. "It's okay. I've got you."
"How dare you," Adelmo seethed, holding his jaw.
Draco angled Hermione away from him, his lip curling in disgust.
"Deal's off."
"You can't."
"Watch me."
He grabbed Hermione's arm and exited the ballroom, ignoring Adelmo's shouts and the commotion stirring behind him. He kept his pace controlled until they turned a corner. Then he stopped and took Hermione's face between his palms, searching her eyes as if he could find and heal the hurt himself.
"Are you okay?"
She nodded and swiped at her brimming eyes.
"Can you run?"
"I think so. Just let me…" She braced on hand on his shoulder and stripped off her heels. "Let's go."
They tore through the hotel, dashing up the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. Breathless, Draco blasted open the door to their suite.
"You're getting out of here tonight."
"Draco, wait."
"We don't have time to wait. Rua's probably Firecalling his office as we speak. It's only a matter of time before the Dark Lord hears of this. You need to be gone before he can start asking questions."
He paused as her hand cupped his cheek.
"Thank you."
He leaned in, tempted to kiss her. He rested his forehead against hers instead and tried to catch his breath.
"I promised he wouldn't touch you. I'm sorry."
"You're not responsible for his behavior."
Once their clothes had packed themselves and their luggage had disappeared, they Floo'd to Draco's flat.
"Lilac! Papers, please!"
The elf appeared at once, holding out a set of three scrolls tied with black ribbon. He opened them just long enough to verify that all of the essential information was correct. There wasn't time for a more thorough review.
"Your genealogy, your identification, and your travel papers," he said, resealing them with a snap of his fingers. He handed them to her, then reached around her and grabbed a handful of powder. The fire crackled as he reactivated the Floo.
"You'll go to the Kleijns first. They'll hide you for a day, maybe two, but you can't stay there. They'll direct you to a second safe house. I don't know whose," he said, forestalling her question. "The Kleijns trust them, and I trust the Kleijns. But don't stay there longer than a week. By then, you should have been provided housing options." He pulled a drawstring bag no larger than his fist out of thin air. "Thirty thousand Galleons," he said, handing it to her. "The bag is Featherlight and Handfast — only you will be able to withdraw from it. For your first year, trust this bag more than you trust your bank. I can't give you any more without it being traceable, but this should be enough to last until you find employment."
"Draco, I can't —"
"Hermione, you must." He took her by the shoulders. "This is all the good I'm capable of right now. Take it and go."
Her lips collided with his, and he kissed her deeply, trying to put everything he'd felt over the past week — everything she'd awakened inside of him — into the sweep of his tongue and the nip of his teeth.
"I believe you're capable of more," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. "So much more."
One last, crushing kiss. One final look into her amber eyes. Then, with her scrolls in one hand and the coin purse in the other, with his family's most precious heirlooms secured around her neck and hanging from her ears, Hermione backed into the chimney. The fire swirled up around her, and her dress flared out like a scarlet hibiscus blooming against jewel-bright leaves. She was there, beautiful and sad, and then she wasn't, the Floo sending her off with a roar that felt like his own, like the catastrophic failure inside of his chest as she left him forever.
He swayed as the emotion ran its course. The shock of seeing her go, the anguish of a separation he had known was coming but hadn't truly acknowledged. How much had he changed in just a week? How much change was possible in so short a time?
The Floo activated, and hope lit in his chest.
What if it was her?
It was impossible, dangerously foolish. But he stepped forward anyway, waiting for that flash of red, the rush of body into his arms, and the promise that they would figure it out, that they could make it work, against all odds, all sense…
He froze as Blaise appeared, dusting off the shoulders of his cloak with a flick of his fingers. His eyebrows rose.
"Expecting someone else?"
"No." Draco stepped back, schooling his expression into one approximating neutral. "Which makes your arrival quite a surprise."
"Surprise arrivals may be the theme of the evening."
The ominous click of Blaise's shoes echoed as he began to pace a circle around Draco.
"I was out to dinner with quite a beautiful blonde. The evening was progressing well enough, but when we were halfway through our entrée, guess what landed on the wine bucket?"
He paused, giving Draco half a second to answer. Draco said nothing; Blaise dipped his head and continued.
"An owl with an urgent message telling me that Draco Malfoy, the Minister of Foreign fucking Trade, had cocked up what had to have been the simplest agreement our administration had seen in a year. I excused myself, as one must when summoned by none other than the Dark Lord himself. When I asked him why, Draco, you had so gloriously bungled this deal, the Dark Lord seemed to think it was over a woman."
"Zabini…" Draco's voice was full of warning. Blaise held up a finger.
"A half-blood woman, no less. You strung Astoria, one of the most desirable purebloods in our country, along for more than three years, and the minute she bucked at your beck, you dropped her over a call. But one foreign minister makes eyes at a tart you picked up from Merlin knows where, and you knock him flat and leave?"
He stopped again, facing Draco square.
"Who is Vivian Ward?"
"A whore." A beat of silence. "I picked her up at The Devil's Snare after I ended it with Astoria. I paid her to travel to Italy with me."
"You ended a trade negotiation over a whore?"
Draco shrugged.
"She was a good whore. Besides, Rua was shorting us on wine. There's a good chance production will increase next year, and their oversupply will mean —"
"It wasn't about the agreement, and you know it. This was a symbolic, equivalent exchange of goods meant to reaffirm Britain's support for Italy's Prime Minister and vice versa. You can't expect me to believe you fucked it up all because some woman spread her legs for you."
"I don't give a shite what you believe."
"Well you'd better start. Because I'm going to find out who Vivian Ward is, and when I do, you're going to need someone to convince the Dark Lord that you're not the traitor he thinks you are."
For years, Draco had been standing on the gallows, waiting his turn. Now, he felt the coarse rasp of the rope around his neck and heard the tolling of the town's central clock. Blaise might never discover Hermione's identity, but what Draco had done for her was the most recent brick in a long path of deceit. All it took was one — one family located abroad, one troublesome wizard discovered alive — and the trap door would swing wide beneath his feet.
"If the Dark Lord doubts my loyalty, he can question me himself. I submit myself to his will."
"As do we all," Blaise replied with a snarl.
He disappeared in a rush of green. Once the fire had extinguished, Draco closed the Floo connection and sank into the nearest chair, steepling his fingers.
He had plans to make.