Chapter 1

Going Nowhere

-oOo-

"Oh, brilliant." The first thing Hermione saw as she exited the lift on Level 6 was Draco Malfoy, complete with the obligatory smirk.

He dropped it as she approached. Maybe he had learnt something since they left Hogwarts; it had been fourteen years, after all.

Or maybe not – he may have been reading instead.

"What is this?" Hermione wasn't addressing Malfoy as much as the notice pinned to the Portkey Office's door, which was firmly shut.

We regret to inform you that the Portkey Office has been closed due to a Doxy infestation. We expect to reopen on the 14th of August. Until then, general inquiries can be answered at Reception in the Atrium, Level 8.

"Are they joking?"

"Unfortunately not." Malfoy's voice was very close to her ear. He was lucky not to find himself at wand point.

Hermione took half a step away to create a bit of distance between them. "That's three weeks away! I can't wait that long. Surely the receptionist can issue an emergency Portkey."

She was already halfway to the lift when she realised Malfoy was following her.

"Going to the Atrium?" she asked pointedly.

"I can see why they call you the cleverest witch of our generation." One long, sleek finger pressed the button for the eighth floor, and Hermione deduced the git got his fingernails manicured. Just wait until she told Ron...

"Excuse me, did I say something funny?"

"Certainly not," Hermione assured him with complete honesty. She had been thinking about Ron's face when he was told Malfoy got his nails done, so she had barely heard what Malfoy said to her.

They fell silent as three witches filed into the lift. One stuck her stubby nose in the air and whistled tunelessly. The second, rather rotund, took a long sip from her Muggle takeaway coffee cup.

The third had long, dark hair and dissolved into a flurry of air kisses as soon as she spotted Malfoy. "Draco, darling, how fabulous! What are you doing here?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows to the skies (or rather to ground level). It wasn't as if the Ministry was inconveniently located in Outer Siberia. Most witches or wizards found themselves obliged to trudge there at least a few times a year; Crup breeding permits did not renew themselves.

"I'm trying to arrange an International Portkey, but it's turning out to be quite difficult."

"Oh, yes, of course! Did you hear what happened to old Jenkins?" The witch was almost as tall as Malfoy. She took full advantage of it, leaning in to whisper the doubtlessly salacious details into his ear.

Hermione had never understood what women saw in Malfoy. Well, other than being rich and as close to having a title as you could get among wizards. It was probably narrow-minded to write off the witch as a gold-digger, but it was satisfying.

"Excuse me, you're flicking your hair in my face," Hermione pointed out. Being a mere five foot two had its drawbacks.

"I'm so sorry! You're not – are you two here together?" The witch turned uncertainly between Hermione and Malfoy. It was easy to see why: unconsciously, they were both standing with their back against the wall of the lift.

Old habits died hard.

"No," Malfoy said at the same time as Hermione did.

"Oh. I thought I recognised you –" the witch wittered on.

"Doubtlessly from one of her many appearances in the Daily Prophet," Malfoy interjected. "I'm afraid I have to say my goodbyes – toodle-oo." He pushed his way to the front, past the dark-haired witch, who looked downcast at his abrupt departure.

Hermione followed him, sniggering. "Toodle-oo? I thought that went out of fashion at the same time as having a valet."

"What?" Malfoy looked perplexed, his pointy chin dropping a little.

"Never mind, you lot probably had house-elves instead."

She let him push his way through the crowd in the Atrium towards the reception desk. "Quite apart from not having noticed it's not the 18th century anymore," she muttered, out of his hearing.

The wizard at Reception looked young enough to have escaped from Hogwarts; his Adam's apple bobbed uncertainly as Malfoy faced him down.

"No International Portkeys? Anywhere?"

"No, sir –"

"Is the Minister aware of this?"

"I think Kingsley has enough to worry about without personally overseeing the Portkey network," Hermione said. "No matter how inconvenient it may be for those of us who are left stranded."

"The Ministry is very sorry for the inconvenience, Madam –"

Malfoy didn't let him finish this time either. "This is Hermione Granger, you dolt. Don't you recognise her? Are you telling us that the Ministry is satisfied leaving a war heroine stranded, unable to travel to – to –"

"To Dublin," Hermione finished for him. "The Ministry doesn't owe me transport, Malfoy. And if it doesn't owe it to me, it certainly doesn't owe it to you, so let the poor bo- man do his job in peace." She managed to herd him away from the reception desk, where a small crowd had gathered while they held up the line.

Malfoy did not seem to have noticed, but then he probably considered most people beneath him. "You're going to Ireland, too?"

"Well, I'm not going to Dublin, Ohio, if that's what you're asking." Hermione sighed, but there was no help for it. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get an airline ticket. It will cost an arm and a leg at this stage, but I might get there today –"

"Would you like to come with me?" Malfoy asked.

"Would I like to do what?"

"Come with me. It'll only take me ten minutes to harness the winged horses – fifteen, tops. We should be in Dublin in a few hours, depending on the winds."

Hermione finally remembered to close her mouth and focused on the most outlandish piece of his statement. It was hard to choose one. "Winged horses?"

"We breed them."

"Of course you do," she replied. No Malfoy would settle for a nice Crup. "Why would you offer me a lift?"

The obvious explanation was unlikely, she told herself. Malfoy wasn't stupid, as such – people would notice if he was the last person seen with her before she was pushed into the Irish Sea.

"I may need some assistance once we get there." His eyes wouldn't meet hers, which bizarrely helped convinced her that his offer was earnest.

"With what, exactly?" she asked.

"If I have a Muggle address, could you help me find it?"

"I suppose, as long as you have a postcode... Although I don't think they have them over there." Hermione frowned as she considered. How difficult could it be? "I'm pretty sure I could find it, yes."

She would come to regret that rash promise.

Right then, standing with Malfoy in the Atrium, an island in the steady stream of busy-looking witches and wizards gently buffeting them, it seemed very simple. Pop across to Ireland, get to wherever Malfoy wanted to go, deliver her lecture –

"Actually, I have an appointment. I will help you, but I have to be in Dublin at eight o'clock."

To her considerable surprise, Malfoy flicked his wrist and revealed a Muggle watch. "It's half-past nine now, I reckon we have time. What sort of appointment is it?"

She had kept it vague on purpose – maybe that had been a mistake, but she was damned if she backed down now. "Nothing that would interest you." That was definitely true.

"Really? It's not a date, is it?" he drawled, one eyebrow raised. Hermione suddenly remembered all the reasons she disliked him.

"None of your business. Are we leaving, or will we waste even more time hanging around here?"

He actually bowed, the bastard. "At your service, madam. I was just waiting for you."

Halfway to the transit area, she stopped walking mid-stride. The realization hit her so hard that she stopped seething, too.

Malfoy realised a step later and turned back. "Granger?"

"How – I assume your horses are at Malfoy Manor?" She hated how brittle her voice sounded, but it was too late to change that now.

She had to know. She had only ever been there once, except in her dreams.

"Yes. I see that's a problem." To her surprise, he sounded pensive rather than triumphant. Perhaps he had changed. "It's not very easy to stop mid-flight, and the Disillusionment Charms tend to spook the horses."

Oh, fuck.

Hermione had been so busy worrying about how she would get to Ireland and Malfoy's ulterior motives that she had forgotten they would be flying.

The silence would have been awkward, had her heart not been hammering as if she were running from a dragon. She barely heard when Malfoy resumed speaking:

"Would it be acceptable if you wait for me to get ready, and I send a house-elf to bring you directly to the stable yard? It's at the back of the house, so you won't be able to see much of the main building." His bright grey eyes watched her expectantly; she realised that he was trying to be kind.

Well, helpful, she amended – the reason he wanted her to come along in the first place was to further his own ends, after all.

"I suppose it would," she responded eventually.

Malfoy did what could only be described as another bow, albeit more restrained, before Disapparating. Hermione decided it must be a subconscious thing – he was treating her like an ally until he could get to whatever mysterious location he was travelling to in Ireland, and therefore she got treated to his pure-blood manners. She might have been impressed, in 1845.

As it was, imagining other obsolete courtesies he might resurrect to keep her onside kept her amused for several minutes, so it wasn't entirely wasted.

Hermione was several pages into the paperback she lugged around everywhere for occasions like these and becoming invested in 15th-century Venetian intrigues when someone tugged at her sleeve.

Drawing her wand had perhaps been an exaggerated reaction, she admitted when faced with a petrified house-elf. The little face looking up at her had a green-tinged complexion and very little hair. It also looked completely petrified.

Hermione lowered her wand.

"I'm sorry – You surprised me, and unfortunately my hand works faster than my brain sometimes. I'm very sorry," she repeated gently, still trying to calm her beating heart.

"'S no matter. Hopsy is sorry Mistress was scared."

To Hermione's surprise, Hopsy patted her on the arm; she had to stand on the tip of her toes to reach. It put paid to Hermione's fears that she would start threatening to iron her ears.

It rankled slightly, though, and Hermione tried to figure out why as Hopsy prepared to Apparate them to Malfoy Manor.

Was it the faint hint of being patronised that raised her hackles, on high alert already due to Malfoy? Or was she losing the plot in trying to find offence when she had been at fault?

Whatever the reason, it was clearly triggered by Malfoy. And here she was, swirling through the ether, feeling like she was compressed to the size of a walnut, on the way to his house.