Chapter 4

Lead me to your door

-oOo-

"Beeping that horn at me may have caused irreparable damage." Draco was wearing sunglasses and moved as little as possible as he slipped into the passenger seat.

"Sore head?" Hermione had little sympathy, given that she had walked to retrieve the car and then returned to pick him up. Not to mention that she had stopped drinking early, while Draco had kept going. And going.

He groaned. "My long-held belief that you can't actually get hungover from Muggle alcohol has been proven incorrect."

"That explains a lot. Mind you, it doesn't reflect that well on your intellect – why did you think the day after would be different when the immediate effect of Muggle and magical alcohol is the same?"

"If you think I have enough brain cells left to explain that you are sorely mistaken. Could you drive a little slower? Those bumps nearly finished me off." He clutched his forehead in his hands

Hermione pushed down the accelerator. "The sooner we get your little errand done, the better – don't you agree?"

If she focused on the roar of the engine, it drowned out the faint groans. Almost.

A misty rain was turning the fields and hedgerows hazy. Hermione watched the road like a hawk, waiting for the right exit. The receptionist at their hotel had been helpful, to a degree – they would at least get in the general vicinity of Knockaroo before being left to their own devices.

It did exist, a tiny dot on the map – surely it couldn't be very difficult to find The Laurels, do whatever it was Draco needed to do there, and then drive back to the garage near the carriage?

Even if Topsy had grown tired of waiting for them, she could easily catch a flight back from Dublin.

This was only a formality.

She was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel so loudly it must have woken Draco.

"Where are we?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The Outer Hebrides, where did you think we were going? We're in County Laois, which apparently is pronounced Leash."

"Why didn't they just spell it that way, then?" He yawned and stretched his arms up in the air. They didn't get very far.

Hermione knew the answer to that one. "They did. In Irish."

"Insert something about eight hundred years of oppression?"

"If you must. I'm trying to find the right exit – it would be helpful if you could try and follow along on the map once we come off the motorway." Up until now, each exit had been numbered in ascending order and local places of interest indicated on the signs.

Hermione was taking nothing for granted, however – until she saw exit 18, she would not take it for granted.

"I take it the big red X indicates where we're going?" Draco bent his head over the map.

"Roughly. The receptionist had a bigger scale map, but she wouldn't sell it to me."

"You clearly didn't offer her enough, then."

"As you were still asleep, my means were somewhat limited. Even then, we still have to pay for the car, so please don't offer a king's ransom to anyone for lending you a pen or something."

"I'll just have to charm people with my lovely personality instead," he drawled, smiling widely at her in a way she never had seen him do before. The day seemed a little less dreary all of a sudden, the grey edges of the world illuminating.

"I hope you have a plan C," she mumbled, mostly to have something to say. For the first time she saw his mother's uncompromising beauty in his face – there was only time for a quick glance before she looked back at the wet road, but it could not be unseen once she had noticed it.

The next time she looked back, almost against her will, his face had changed ever so slightly. The beautiful Black mask had gone. In its place was the face of a man with smiling grey eyes and a softness around his mouth.

A man she knew.

Hermione let her shoulders drop and let out a breath, curiously unwilling to acknowledge to herself why it mattered if Draco Malfoy was putting on a mask or not.

They were carrying out a mutually beneficial business arrangement, that was all.

One that was shortly to be concluded, as soon as they reached the wretched exit 18 –

"Fuck!"

"I don't remember you swearing this much at Hogwarts. Is it a Department of Magical Law Enforcement thing – do you have a daily quota or something?" Draco asked with an air of great interested.

"I missed the bloody exit!" Hermione could see the back of the huge sign for exit 18 disappear in the rearview mirror.

"Oh. If only the Muggles would signpost those things properly. What do we do now, then?"

What they did next involved a fruitless search for secondary roads on the map (mostly by Draco), one illegal U-turn (carried out by Hermione) and rather a lot of bickering, before they finally could take the exit from the other direction.

Knockaroo turned out to be suspiciously easy to locate. It consisted of a few bungalows and a church at a crossroads. Draco insisted on inspecting each house on foot before conceding none of them was called The Laurels.

Hermione waited in the car, expecting the local police to show up anytime.

Leaning in through the window, Draco displayed his best asset to all of Knockaroo. "Nope."

"Now, what?"

"Your move, I believe – this was the quo in exchange for my quid." He stood up, depriving any watching eyes of a continuation of the show.

"Mine? I got us here!"

"Not quite all the way, I believe."

"Get into the car." She wasn't going to have this discussion in the open, no matter how devoid the place seemed of Muggles at the moment.

"With pleasure."

"Is the place we're looking for in any way magical? At all?" The obvious follow-up question sat expectantly in the air – what in the name of Merlin could Draco Malfoy be wanting from a Muggle?

He raised one eyebrow. "Obviously it's somewhat magical, given that I was going to travel there by Portkey."

"A wise witch never assumes anything. It may not have been your final destination." Counter that, Mr Supercilious Eyebrow.

"It was, however. Or is, provided you can find it."

"Me, again? Very well, then – watch this." Hermione got out of the car and made for one of the three bungalows, before turning around again. "Who is it you're trying to find?"

"Mr Waddlesworth."

"Mr who?"

"Wallace Waddlesworth." Draco did not seem to notice Hermione look at him with great suspicion.

"That's good to know – it would have been very inconvenient to have been directed to his brother, for example," she said drily.

He looked at her as if she had two heads. "What brother?"

"Never mind," she sighed. To Draco Malfoy, it probably didn't even register as an unusual name, never mind being very, very English. "You just sit there, I'm going in."

Draco may have the edge on putting on the charm, but Hermione was not about to let him loose on the local Muggle population if she could help it. She arranged her lips in her best variation on his suave smile before the door opened and revealed an elderly lady who barely reached Hermione's chin.

"Are you all right there, pet?" she asked with a quavering voice, but there was strength in her bony hand as she led Hermione into her sitting room.

"Where have you been? I was about to go in wands blazing!" Draco's hair was all over the place, as if he had been pulling his hands through it. He got out of the car faster than a Niffler who had spotted a silver spoon once Hermione re-emerged from Mrs Connelly's house.

"She insisted on offering me a cup of tea. I was eating a scone before we even got into who lives around here – you have to be polite, you know."

Draco eyed her somewhat dishevelled dress suspiciously. "That doesn't look like scone crumbs to me."

"I could hardly turn down a slice of fruit cake, could I?" Hermione quickly dusted them off her skirt.

"What about me, languishing in the car? I was waiting so long I could have atrophied here!" He had regained his composure quickly, but it was hard to forget how agitated he had been when she first came out.

"Don't worry. Mrs Connelly wouldn't let you go without. Even when I explained you're contagious." She passed him a parcel of kitchen foil.

"Contagious with what?" He tore into a thick slice of fruitcake like he hadn't seen food for a fortnight.

"I didn't care to say," Hermione said primly. "Do you want to find Mr Waddlesworth's place or not?"

"Do you know where it is?"

Those crumbs really got everywhere, Hermione thought as she brushed them aside. "It turns out Mr Waddlesworth lives on the other side of Knockaroo. Across the bog."

"Splendid."

"We'd better start walking, then." Hermione reached for her handbag.

"What do you mean, walk?"

"Wasn't it lucky you got some sustenance first? You can see his house from her back window, that's why I was in there so long," she explained.

"That, and stuffing yourself."

Even if he hadn't seen his smile, she would have known he was joking. It was nice being smiled at by Draco Malfoy, though.

She preferred not to dwell on that thought. "You're one to talk. Come on, it's this way."

"We've been walking for a few minutes now, Hermione." Splash, splash, went his feet, exquisitely clad in dragonhide boots. Hermione's runners had been soaked since step number three on the path across the moor – no, bog, Mrs Connelly had called it.

"Almost there."

Draco had insisted on walking first, which meant she had a first-rate view of his arse. This was what Ron called a win-win situation if it hadn't been for her wet feet.

"It's barely getting any closer, Hermione. It was only a few hundred yards at the beginning, it seems further away now."

She started paying attention. "You think there's magic at work?"

"Unless there is a special Muggle trick to make things appear further away than they really are, yes." He stopped without warning, so she walked right into him.

"Smooth, Draco," she told his back.

He turned to the side, grabbing her arm. "Shh!"

They stood side by side, with Hermione straining to hear whatever had made Draco stop.

Then she heard it: a keening sound, on the edge of the wind. Looking out over the bog, a silver mist was rising from the dark pools of water in between the reeds.

"Run!" She took his hand and pulled him with her, heedless of puddles or squelching shoes. "Don't take out your wand, it won't help – just run!"

He stayed behind her, despite his longer legs, a comforting presence as darkness gathered around them.

The wall of Mr Waddlesworth's house seemed as distant as ever. There was no way she was going to look behind, but Hermione knew that Mrs Connelly's house would be equally far away if she turned around.

She may not know exactly what was going on, but it far more serious than being lured out into the bog by a Hinkypunk. Something was out there and it wanted to get them – the air almost pulsated with its malevolent intent.

"Do you trust me?" Draco breathed in her ear.

There was only one answer to that: "Yes."

"Close your eyes and follow me." He pushed in front of her, placing her hands on his shoulders.

The wind shrieked and tore at her jacket, and the keening sound grew stronger. Her back prickled and she had to cling tightly to Draco to avoid pulling her wand out and turn around to face whatever was behind them.

Draco walked achingly slowly, and she had to stop herself from talking several times. She trusted him, and that was that: they could argue later.

He finally stumbled into a standstill, and Hermione crashed into him a second time. This time, he wrapped her in his arms.

"You can open your eyes now – we made it!"

They were facing a wonderfully solid wall, perched on a strip of grass at the edge of the bog. The darkness had receded and there was silence – one could even hear a bird sing.

"What was that?"

"The ancient bogs of Ireland have many secrets," a man said on the other side of the wall, and they both jumped. "I don't know what ails this one, but it does not like magic or those who use it."

"Mr Waddlesworth, I presume?" Hermione asked weakly.

The wall melted away to reveal a rotund man with a large moustache and blue eyes, holding a pair of gardening shears. "Indeed. And who may you be – oh. No need to introduce yourself, Miss Granger. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Before we get into that, what just happened out there?" Draco asked.

"As I said, the bog reacts adversely to wizards – I've never hung around long enough to find out why. Usually, I just walk the long way around.

"But Mrs Connelly said –" Hermione interjected.

"Bridget Connelly is a lovely woman, but she's about as magical as a Ford Focus. Muggles have no problems taking that path, it's only wizards and witches that set it off. Now, may I ask what brought you here?"

"My name is Draco Malfoy – I believe you were expecting me?" Draco stretched out his hand.

"Oh, yes, let me show you – "

Hermione didn't hear a thing after that. The most wonderful sight she had ever seen had just appeared in a basket next to the sunlit wall, and she got busy burying her hands in soft Kneazle fur and making cooing noises.

"Aren't you the prettiest – Come here, let me hold you! Oh, what a good boy you are!"

She was vaguely aware of negotiations going on behind her but paid it no heed. Her part of the bargain had been fulfilled, so she was going to take full advantage of the opportunity to rub round little kitten bellies.

A shadow made her look up, straight into Draco's impossibly soft eyes.

"I take it you approve of my errand?"

"You're not taking one home today, are you?" Her hands stayed among the kittens.

He crouched down to her level, carefully stroking the back of the smallest kitten, the one with the green eyes. "I'm just putting in my claim. Mr Waddlesworth insists on meeting potential owners beforehand."

"Good. They'll be ready to be away from their mother in a few weeks."

He weighed back on his heels, taking a deep breath before he spoke: "Would you like to come with me, and pick out one for yourself?"

Hermione stared at him. "That's like asking Hagrid if he'd like a Blast-Ended Skrewt – of course I would!"

One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. "Perhaps I went about this the wrong way. The kitten is a foregone conclusion. Forget about the kitten, it's yours already. What would you say to meeting me again entirely without kittens, in a non-feline capacity?"

He looked nervous and hopeful and like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop at any second.

"I would say that I can think of nothing I would rather do. As long as it doesn't involve flying," she hastened to clarify.

"Or cars."

"Or bogs." She shivered, and he wrapped his arm around her, gingerly at first and then holding her close.

"Just you and me," he whispered in her ear, and she couldn't think of anything she would rather do.

Although all that and a kitten would be even better – perhaps she could suggest it for their second date.

THE END