Chapter 2: The Rules are Different
24 December 1924
BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY
By Rita Skeeter
Among his many admirable traits, it should be specifically noted that Mr. Malfoy was distinguished war veteran, serving his country and his people honorably and gallantly in the World War. At the start of the war, he was simply a sergeant, but by the end of the war, he had risen all the way to major. This enormous leap in leadership was unsurprising to those who served alongside Mr. Malfoy. During his service, Mr. Malfoy was awarded first the Officer of the Order of the British Empire, then the Distinguished Conduct Medal, and finally the Victoria Cross.
It was to receive the last award, the highest and most prestigious, that delivered Mr. Malfoy to Buckingham Palace on January 11, 1919 to which the public caught their first glimpse of Mr. Malfoy. After that first public appearance, the young man would go on to make many more over the course of the year and skyrocket in news and media coverage. It was his new role as leader of the family company and not only his determination, but also his deliverance to the success of several charities that held the public's adoration and attention.
Young and ambitious, he made quite the impression on not only the King, but the rest of Britain as well.
Well… Ok, then.
I hardly want to belittle or even question his acts of service while defending the country and fighting in the horrendous World War, so I'm not even going to touch on that (the Victoria Cross, by the way, is an extremely high award. It's given to those who displayed bravery, or some daring or pre-eminent act of valor or self-sacrifice, or extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy). I'll let it slide, Rita, just this once.
Instead, I'll focus on the latter portion – You know, the part where she so casually mentions his philanthropic endeavors? Draco really did labor tirelessly over the needs of the children he regularly paid homage to and gave an unspeakable amount to charity with a beatific smile on his face knowing that every hard-earned pound he donated was going toward a good cause.
Kidding.
Obviously, Draco did donate an obscene amount to various charities, however, he definitely did not do so from the bottom of his rainbow-filled, unicorn-loving heart.
What a fucking joke.
31 July 1920
Hermione had stopped asking where they were going any time that she was granted leave from the stuff manor. Firstly, because it was never fruitful and secondly, because it tipped Draco and Theo's moods toward the dangerous end of their violence spectrum.
For the past several months she had worked tirelessly to accumulate any information that may be valuable in proving their illegal pastimes. At first it had been difficult to gather little more than the names of members of their gang largely because after they realized that she was staying on, they spoke in codes or in hushed monosyllables around her. They didn't trust her. That was to be expected.
Draco Malfoy was the meticulous type; he personally overlooked every detail of any projects his evil empire took on as well as cross-referenced any illegal activities his Death Eater's partook in to coincide with his public appearances so that he – and often Theo – always had an alibi.
It was infuriating.
Hermione knew she needed to prove her value to them over and over again in order not to get her execution rescheduled, but mostly to be able to produce viable evidence for Shacklebolt and the case he was forming on Draco. She kept her head down, mouth shut, and did what was asked of her no matter where the command originated from.
Narcissa wanted her to fetch her gloves when they were arguably within her reach? Done – Hermione would get up from the other side of the room and hand them to her with a blank expression. Greg was shouting at her to for fuck's sake make herself useful and get chocolates and whiskey from the kitchen when Vince was having another episode? She did so without question – and from then on always kept a small bar and flask on her.
Today, it seemed that Hermione had been invited to attend a gala. Narcissa had practically thrown a gown in her direction with an added sneer of, "Based on your daily choice of wardrobe, I had a feeling that you were in need of a suitable dress. If my son insists that you are to accompany him to this event, then I will not have you embarrassing our family in front of the guests." She had nodded, not bothering to mutter her gratitude. Narcissa didn't want nor need it.
Under the chandelier and surrounded by fancily dressed people of importance, Hermione felt largely out of place. In the car on the ride over, Theo had eyed her expectantly, as if to say, I'm surprised that you haven't tried to ask where we're taking you. Even though Narcissa had promised it was for an important gala, Hermione felt that they could very well have dressed her up just to throw her into the Thames before they attended the gala finally having gotten rid of her.
Now, Theo dimpled at her and spoke in his most aristocratic voice, "Miss Clearwater, have you met Mr. Lockhart?" She shook her head, then held out her gloved hand for the blushing man to take and kiss. "Mr. Lockhart here is an esteemed author," Theo went on. "He's written several bestsellers. You must read them, Penny!"
She blinked, "An honour, Mr. Lockhart."
"Oh, please!" He cooed, smiling widely between her and Theo. "It's my pleasure! Mr. Nott here is of course very right, though, as he almost always is. I am in fact a very well-respected author. I don't mean to be narcissistic, of course, but one can hardly argue with the many awards in my sitting room and… Well…" He trailed off, happily shrugging his shoulders. Hermione internally wondered where Theo had found this lunatic.
As he wandered away, supposedly chasing after some woman who had been begging him all evening for an autograph, she turned to Theo with a polite smile to hide her aghast scoff. "What a character…" He returned her expression with a mildly knowing one. "Does he always grin so manically? It's positively ludicrous."
"He's won the Daily Prophet's Most Charming Smile the past five years in a row." Theo supplied, leading her further into the crowd. He chuckled under his breath at her attempt to hide her shock. "Malfoy," he said as they came up to him. "Would you mind terribly if I left Miss Clearwater in your care for a few minutes? I have to go find Miss Parkinson and Miss Greengrass and make sure they haven't snuck off to defile the ladies' room."
Draco nodded curtly. "Of course, Nott. You know I can't say no to spending more time in Penny's effervescent presence." Hermione resisted the urge to sigh at their placated exchange of her custody. It had been like this every time she'd accompanied them on some errand or another. They took turns keeping her at their side and never letting her out of their sight. "Miss Clearwater," Draco said, placing his hand lightly on her shoulder blade, "This is Mr. Ludo Bagman, an old friend of my father's."
"Miss Clearwater," the other man greeted. "What a pleasure." Then, he turned to Draco with a sparkle in his eyes. "When would you like to settle that business that we discussed last week?"
"Now is as good a time as any, eh?"
Mr. Bagman's grin extended to the far corners of his plump face. "Right you are, Mr. Malfoy. Always keeping your wits about you."
Pansy, followed by Daphne, stumbled toward them with mischievous grins on their faces, and Hermione politely pretended not to notice the smear of lipstick on the latter's neck that perfectly matched the colour that the former was wearing.
Draco produced two coins from his pocket – Hermione was briefly shocked that he even carried loose change around – and handed one to the other man with a smug expression. "Your wife is fine with you wagering her new stallion?"
Mr. Bagman laughed, "But of course not! I don't suspect your mother is too fond of you volunteering the new family car?"
"Not in the slightest," Draco confirmed, his lips twitching upwards into the hint of a genuine smile. Hermione suspected that Narcissa didn't even know her son was currently betting her beloved new car. The one – she'd noticed – that Narcissa didn't let anyone else in the family organization use.
"Hold on a minute," Pansy said, narrowing her eyes at Draco. "You are not swapping the family car for a horse!"
"Of course, I'm not swapping it. That would be mad, Miss Parkinson." Draco replied, unblinking. He glanced over to Mr. Bagman, who looked positively giddy. "We're playing two-up."
"Well, let's get on with it then, shall we?"
The two of them nodded amicably and then tossed the coins in the air, letting them fall into their hands before flipping them onto their other wrist for the big reveal. They were both face up. Draco shook the other man's hand. "Ah, here you are, Mr. Bagman. As promised." He handed over a set of keys from his coat pocket and deposited them in the man's waiting hand.
"I knew it!" Pansy shrieked. "Draco, you absolute fool."
When Mr. Bagman turned to gush to a colleague of his, Hermione leaned over to whisper in Draco's ear. "Narcissa is going to be furious."
"On the contrary," Draco replied calmly. "I think she'll be extremely pleased."
"You just gambled away her favourite car!" Hermione pointed out.
He peered down at her, amusement dancing behind his grey eyes. His lips quirked into a devilish smirk. "No," he stated. "I just won her a racing horse." She blinked. He sighed and continued. "I promised Mr. Bagman that he could take the car for a spin if he lost."
"Oh," she said dumbly.
Draco then rested his hand at the small of her back and guided her toward the far side of the room where few people lingered, throwing a quick, "Excuse me, Mr. Bagman," over his shoulder.
Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her gown. It was an unpleasant enough task following behind Draco without the addition of small talk that had to be made to a few hundred guests. How many times was she expected to nod and smile and pretend to care what the other person thought of the venue when she could practically feel Draco vibrating with rage beside her.
"Where is he?" Draco growled between his teeth, smiling at the guests milling about in front of them, occasionally nodding or waving to a notable celebrity. "It's been nearly six months," he went on. "If you for any reason gave us false information, Penny, then so help me I will personally be the one to -"
"I didn't," she hissed. His eyes flashed dangerously dark at her for a brief moment before blinking back to their false, silvery sweetness for the benefit of any onlooker. She'd crossed a line by cutting him off and while she was currently relatively safe, she wouldn't be forever. Hermione swallowed, finding her throat dry.
He motioned over her head and a moment later Theo appeared at their side. "East wing. Now." Draco said, to which Theo arched a brow questioningly. Hermione had noticed over the past few months that Theo and Narcissa were the only people in among the Death Eater's to ever question Draco. "We need to talk."
Theo nodded, "Fine, but we only have about five minutes before you have to give your speech."
They led her out of the main gallery and into the East wing as promised, and Hermione fervently hoped that talk was all they planned on doing and that it wasn't code for some method of torture among their group.
"Where is he?" Draco spat the second the door shut and locked behind them. His voice was low, but it sounded off of the high ceilings and made her shudder. "We've had eyes and ears on that fucking school for nearly six months and we have yet to gather even a bloody fucking shred of evidence that he stepped foot on its campus. Explain that, Penny."
Her false name was venom on his lips. She shook her head, scared of what he might do to her now that her only proof of usefulness to him – and thus the reason she was still living and breathing much to Narcissa's constant displeasure – was rapidly losing value. "I – I don't know." She admitted. "He was a professor at the school before the war. He should be there."
"Well, he's not." Theo reminded her; eyes cold as ice.
Draco, already looming over her, stepped forward until she backed herself against a wall and then wrapped his fingers around her throat, applying a slight pressure to her windpipe. "Where is he?" She choked a bit. He shifted his grip so that his pressure points aligned with her arteries instead. "You know what I loathe, Penny? Threatening people. I find it tiresome. You know what I hate more? Having to explain my threats to people. So, why don't you spare us both the time and effort and fucking talk."
She gulped, her hands instinctively rising to hook onto his arm. "I don't – I - " His grip wasn't altogether too tight, he knew better than to leave marks, but after a minute or so Hermione started to feel a bit woozy. She wasn't sure how much longer she could fight him. "Wait," She gasped. He didn't loosen his hold on her, merely lifting a blonde brow expectantly. "He has a son. His son goes to the school as well."
Draco let her go in a single motion, and her hand immediately lifted to her pulse. He looked at her, his grey eyes glazed over. "The son's name?"
"Neville," she rasped, coughing to try and clear her dry throat. "Neville Longbottom." He inclined his head toward Theo and gave a wordless nod. Following the silent instruction, Theo immediately left the room. Hermione's eyes flickered to Draco's waistband and pockets. She knew they had all been searched upon entry to the venue, but she still didn't trust that he wasn't currently carrying a weapon on his person.
After all, this was his event. If anyone were to smuggle weaponry into the Museum of Natural History, it would be him. Luckily, he didn't produce any. Draco gestured toward the door, holding it open for her, and beckoned her to return to the main gallery. She blinked a few times, "You're not coming?" She noted.
His lips twitched upwards into a smirk. "I have to give a speech, remember? Need a few minutes to review my notecards." She nodded dumbly as he shut the door in her face, then stumbled back toward the hundreds of cheerful guests and quickly found herself a tall glass of champagne. As she moved on to her second glass – having not been allowed to drink in Draco's presence – there was a high-pitch ringing as Draco stepped up to the microphone.
As much as Hermione hated to admit it, his speech was enrapturing and mercifully succinct. He made anecdotes that resulted in unanimous laughter from the audience as well as captivating praises for those who donated to what he considered to be a noble and necessary cause. He ended by thanking everyone for attending his family's Twentieth Annual Charity Fundraiser for Children in Need.
He stepped off the podium and slowly made his way toward her, shaking numerous hands along the way and flashing his winning smile. At her side, he took her elbow firmly in his hand and led her away. He didn't bother to look at her when he said, "We're leaving."
Hermione, frustrated and feeling slightly braver from the intoxication, tried to yank her arm free of his grip to no avail. "Where did Theo go? Wait – What about the other women we came with…? Where are we going?" She protested.
Draco didn't meet her eye, "You ask too - "
"Too many questions. I know," she sighed. When he did spare her a curious look, she pursed her lips defiantly as best as she could. "Or so Theo keeps reminding me." When he shifted to guide her into the backseat of the waiting car, she hesitated and stumbled backwards into his chest.
He helped her into the backseat not unkindly, shut the door and instructed the driver to take them back to Malfoy Manor, then rounded on her with furious eyes. "You're drunk," he noted.
"Am not," she retorted. "I am perfectly capable of handling my liquor and do not need your condescending maleness telling me otherwise." While she would have liked to imagine that her grimace was intimidating enough to make him leave her alone, she guessed it was probably coming off as more of a pout.
Amazingly, Draco did not react violently or menacingly. Instead, he coughed into his handkerchief for several minutes. At first, Hermione thought perhaps he was ill or slowly losing his mind and about to have another episode of shell shock. But then she realized that his shoulders were shaking, and his face was flushed because he was laughing.
"Are you…?" She trailed off, finding herself at a loss for words.
He finally calmed himself enough to meet her eye and she was relieved to see them light and silvery. "Did you really accost me with 'condescending maleness'?" She pursed her lips, finding it wiser not to respond, lest this was all a ruse and the blank-eyed, monster was on deck to appear. He shook his head at her, then lit a cigarette and murmured, "Oh, Penny, how extraordinarily puzzling you are."
Hermione, unhelpfully, could think of nothing but his lips the remainder of the long ride.
A few weeks later, Hermione found herself accompanying Theo and Draco on another errand. It wasn't until the door opened to reveal a young, gangly man that it occurred to her where they were. Then, Theo's fist shot out and broke the man's nose.
His hands shot up as he stumbled backwards and were instantly covered in blood. Theo stepped over the threshold and pushed their way into the large estate. "What the hell? Who – Malfoy?" The man sputtered, blood spraying out of his mouth as it trailed down his face and dripped from his chin to the floor. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Neville Longbottom," Theo spat, cackling a bit.
"Who the hell are you?" His large eyes flickered nervously between the three of them. "Why are you here? What do you want?"
A portly woman rounded the corner and immediately screamed at the scene before her. Draco looked at her with a tired expression and exhaled loudly, ignoring Longbottom. "Fetch us some tea and biscuits."
The woman trembled, tentatively reaching out to caress Longbottom's face, but he flinched away from her touch. "Get out of here, Gran." The elder woman turned and ran as fast as she could up the stairs, disappearing from the crowded foyer. "Leave her alone," he said to them.
Theo looked expectantly at Draco, awaiting an order, but Draco waved him away. "Don't you have a maid, Longbottom? You seem well-off," he commented, letting his eyes briefly wander to the spacious ceilings of the estate, lingering on a white bust of a famous scholar. "Surely, you were raised to have some form of manners. Offer your guests tea and biscuits, eh?"
"I would do as he asks," Theo commented, shoving past Mr. Longbottom and turning briskly into the front sitting room as if he was the wealthy young man who owned the place.
Neville Longbottom grimaced at Draco, then looked pleadingly at Hermione. She didn't have to glance beside her to know that Draco was watching her, studying her response. She met Longbottom's dark, anxious eyes and nodded once, slowly. He grunted, his hand rising to pinch the bridge of his broken nose and moved to stand aside, gesturing for the two of them to follow Theo into the room.
Minutes later, a young maiden showed up with a tray of tea and an impressive array of biscuits. She dutifully curtsied to the men before scurrying out of the room and leaving them to their business. Of which, Hermione hadn't the slightest idea.
"Mr. Longbottom," Draco began, his voice taking a kind tone that sent chills down Hermione's spine. It was remarkable – and terrifying – how effortlessly he and Theo were able to shift between their benevolent and malevolent personalities. "Miss Clearwater here tells me that your father is a brilliant chemist."
"Was," Longbottom corrected. "Why do you care?"
"Was?" Hermione repeated despite knowing she was not allowed to say a word. From the look Theo shot her, she sank lower in her seat, sipping at her tea.
"We're concerned you see. We haven't seen him return to Oxford since the end of the war. Miss Clearwater here was a star pupil of your father and has confessed her concerns of his wellbeing to us on several occasions. As you can understand, I thought it pertinent to stop by and see how he was doing." Draco told him.
"You were a student of my father's?" Longbottom directed toward her.
Hermione noticed the clenching of Draco's jaw, the tightening of his knuckles around his cigarette, and the tension building in his shoulders as he corrected his posture. She slid her gaze over to Theo, finding him infinitesimally easier to read. He gave her a nod, or what she perceived to be a nod. It wasn't quite clear. However, from the lack of words from any of the men before her, she opted to answer Mr. Longbottom's question.
"Yes," she told him primly. "I wasn't his star-student, per se, but I did thoroughly enjoy his lectures. He is a gifted professor."
"Was," Longbottom corrected again. She blinked a few times, finding it impossible to probe further without seeming inconsiderate. "I presume you knew that he was drafted?" He asked her. She nodded, and Theo and Draco instantly tensed up at the mention of the war. "Well, let's just say when he returned, he didn't have the same capacity he used to have. Teaching was no longer an option for him."
"I'm terribly sorry to hear that," she admitted, finding it not difficult to empathize. She was a former student of Frank Longbottom and did feel sorry that he would no longer be able to practice or teach what he loved most, chemistry. Though, a small part of her felt guilty that he was no longer capable of higher thought because of how relieved she was that he would likely not recognize her as Hermione Granger.
"Is he here?" Theo pressed.
Mr. Longbottom stuttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "As I mentioned before, he's really not well - "
"We'd like to see him." Draco interrupted. Neville Longbottom, awkward and frightened, tried to think of an excuse that would make them go away and leave him and his family alone. Hermione wanted to tell him there was no excuse under the sun that could sway Draco Malfoy away from his prey once he'd caught the scent of their tracks. "Now."
"Fine," Longbottom grumbled. "This way."
He led them to the basement of the estate, and Draco nodded to Theo to wait at the top of the stairs for them to return. He removed his cap and held it firmly in his fists, ready at a moment's notice for trouble. Hermione descended into the darkness after Mr. Longbottom and blinked back tears as the lights suddenly flashed brightly around them, illuminating the space.
What she had expected was a dank, dark and dirty basement with a single metal bed pushed into the corner and a man crying in the corner from the horrors he'd witnessed in France. Instead, she saw a renovated space that was half-lab, half-hospital containment room. She walked past the vials and powders to peer through the large glass window. The man inside the room, thin and starved, was chained to a hospital-like bed and muttering nonsense. His eyes were wild and rabid, like that of a deranged rabies-infested dog.
"I warned you," Longbottom murmured, coming to stand beside her. His eyes sank at the sight of his father and Hermione felt a pit in her stomach turn. "I would have preferred your last memory of him be of him as your teacher, probably giving some obscure and lengthy explanation about resonance and stereochemistry, with some added joke about the horrors of dyslexia and chirality."
He wasn't wrong. Professor Frank Longbottom could go on and on for the entire fifty-minute lecture about the importance of stereochemistry or how instable certain compounds would be without resonance. He also did make the very same anecdote about Thalidomide: there were two mirror forms of the compound; one (the "R" form) was therapeutically active and prescribed to pregnant women to help curve morning sickness; the other (the "S" form) was not only ineffective, but caused horrific birth defects. It wasn't until years later, and with the specific research Frank Longbottom oversaw, that it was realized that the two forms of such a drug existed and that the wrong form had been prescribed to many women.
It was that brilliant paper that had jarred Hermione's memory when faced with Draco's barrel to her head. She had, of course, already read it prior to taking Longbottom's chemistry course.
"Well," Draco said, eying Hermione with a blank expression and hooded eyes. "It's quite clear to me that you may have been misled in believing that Frank Longbottom was the curator and distributor of that particular… pharmaceutical."
"It appears I was," she sighed.
The man before them seemed incapable of holding his bladder, much less formulating extremely high-grade opium in the quantities that London was seeing.
She turned to leave, but something on the lab counter caught her eye. "Is this where your father worked?" She asked, looking over her shoulder at the younger Mr. Longbottom. He nodded, then moved to stand in front of her, casually leaning on the black surface. It was then that Hermione noticed the faint pools of sweat on palm of his hands.
Hermione reached out with a gasp and took his hand in hers – it was cold despite the heat of the insulated basement in the height of summer – turning it over and running her forefingers along the inside of his palm. He yanked his hand away from her, but not before she was able to feel to moisture collecting on his skin. She narrowed her eyes at his, noting that they weren't actually dark as she had previously thought. His pupils were dilated so much so that his – blue she would have guessed standing this close to him – irises were entirely obscured.
"You," she breathed. His eyes darted frantically between her and Draco, who had moved to stand beside her, one hand resting on the revolved in his waistband. "You're the one whose been brewing the opium." She studied the lab layout once more. "Yes, I'm sure of it. Not only do you clearly display signs of handling morphine on a regular basis without proper lab safety, but you also are left-handed."
"Penny," Draco snapped. "What the fuck does him fucking around with morphine have anything to do with opium? Didn't you say his father was the chemistry mastermind behind everything?"
"The primary source of morphine is isolation from the opium poppy," Hermione informed him. "Which should be of interest to you considering that morphine can also be used to make several other drugs once isolated, including heroin." He blinked, and she could practically see the wheels turning at an alarming pace behind his grey eyes.
"Come with me, Mr. Longbottom." Draco finally said, gesturing for them to leave the basement. "We have some matters to discuss." Once they had returned to the front sitting room. Theo joined them as Draco whispered something in his ear. Then, he turned to Neville Longbottom again. "Give me the names of everyone you sell the drugs to."
"Why?" Longbottom protested, finding some inkling of courage. "Why should I tell you anything? You're just going to steal all of my inventory and then how will I afford to live? It's not like I have a stellar resume to fall back on. I was hardly the scholar my father was. I'd rather you just kill me instead."
"I'm not here to kill you." Draco replied.
Mr. Longbottom scoffed and Hermione herself felt her head turn disbelievingly in Draco's direction. Theo's expression remained smug and alert.
"I'm not here to kill you," he repeated. "I'm here to employ you."
There was a long moment of silence, finally broken by Longbottom squawking, "What?" unintelligibly. Hermione felt her own eyes bulge. In what instance had Draco – or the rest of his gang for that matter – not chosen the path of violence and opposition? It was incredibly unlike him and she didn't trust it. Luckily, Longbottom had the sense not to, either. "Why the fuck should I trust you?"
"Because," Draco sighed. "I'm the leader of the bloody Death Eater's, and I came here to make a deal. It's a matter of business, Longbottom. Your concern with turning over your clientele is loss of profit? Nothing more personal?"
"No…" Longbottom drawled.
"So, you don't care what happens to the men you sell it to so long as you make your money, correct?" Draco pressed, raising his eyebrows expressively. After a moment of consideration, Longbottom shook his head. "Good." Draco declared. "Then, here's what I propose: You give me the names of every man, woman, or child you sell the opium to. Then, you no longer sell them so much as a bloody speck of the stuff, understood?" – "Wait – Why would I -?" – "Any product you make goes directly to me. In return for your business, I will pay you handsomely. Twice the amount you're currently making. Three times, in fact," he added sniffing as he sneered at the oriental rug beneath his leather shoes.
"Why do you want it? What could you possibly do with that much Aunti?"
Draco inhaled a deep drag of his cigarette, then deposited it into the ash tray. "That's none of your concern. Do we have a deal?"
"I - " Longbottom stuttered, eying Theo's long fingers twirling a revolver. "Do I have much of a choice?"
Draco stood and held out his hand for Neville Longbottom to shake, "Glad you came to your senses." The man shook his hand, though from the ashen look on his face, Hermione could tell he felt sick as if he had just sold his soul to the devil for two shillings. In a way, she suspected, he had. "Pleasure doing business with you," Draco said as a way of a farewell, folding the list of names into one of his inner coat pockets minutes later.
On their way out, Hermione had to stop herself, finding one of her thoughts from earlier still nagging at her. She arched a brow at Longbottom, "How did you figure out how to manufacture opium? It's not exactly a simple titration, and I don't recall your father ever mentioning your aptitude for chemistry during his lectures."
He shrugged, "I dug through his journals after doing some research on the most lucrative drugs in the black markets, and somehow taught myself the technique. He must have been a brilliant professor; his notes were so detailed. It still took a few months to really master the formula but…" He trailed off and shrugged again, averting his gaze. Then, his head snapped up. "How did you know I was left-handed?"
She gave him a shy smile, "I used to work closely with your father on a few of his pet projects. I became extremely familiar with his preferred layout of lab equipment. If even one beaker was not facing 'the right way' then he would snap a meterstick over my knuckles repeatedly." He looked at her astonished, but she could see his mouth was starting to form further inquiries. So, she added, "He was right-handed. It was clear the last person to touch any of the equipment in that lab had to be someone else, someone less meticulous and… left-handed."
"Huh," Theo muttered to himself once the three of them had settled back into the car. He exchanged a sidelong glance with Draco, who responded with, "Puzzling," but then kept the remainder of his thoughts to himself.
Hermione smiled to herself.
Draco stormed into the dining room – which was casually set as everyone was enjoying a lazy Sunday breakfast – and slammed his fist on the mahogany table. "Family meeting. Ten minutes." Hermione sighed. She'd really wanted to finish her toast and jam in peace that morning, but with no such luck it appears.
Graham looked up from the newspaper, "What about Pansy and Daphne?"
"Them too," Draco instructed. "They're still on summer holiday for another week, so they still have to attend before they go back to school." He turned and left the room as quickly as he came in.
Even though Draco had graciously given them ten minutes (it only took about ninety-seconds to cross the corridor into the main sitting room they held these meetings in) everyone sitting around Hermione moved in a flurry and fled the room, toasts and teacups in hand. Dobby and Winky quickly moved in to clear the tables and prep the kitchens for anything their employers would want or need.
Hermione, being not officially a Death Eater or even close to one, was not invited to these sorts of things. Instead, while everyone of importance in the house scurried in one direction, she went in the other. The quaint office she ducked into was easily recognizable among the hundreds of other rooms in this massive manor in that its furniture, flooring, and even walls were made of a fine, black wood.
She double-checked to make sure no one was following her. They never were. This was her prime opportunity to check on her book and while she knew they held family meetings often, she also knew that they didn't hold them for very long. Hence time was of the essence.
The bookshelf behind the desk. Fifth row up, requiring a step-up from the desk chair. Twelfth book over from the left. Old, worn brown spine with half of the title etched off. Hermione plucked it from the shelf and tore through the pages until she reached page three-hundred and ninety-four and the neat piece of parchment she stuffed in it fell out.
She'd been deep undercover for the better part of a year now and it had occurred to her only a few months into the job that there was no way she could realistically store all of the information she gathered by simply committing it to memory. As it was, memory was a fickle and deceitful thing. Better to store information in the form of writing. Hermione added a few key words and phrases she either learned or thought required some research, then placed the parchment back in the book and returned the book to its original place.
Had it occurred to her that this was insane? Yes. She was a logical enough person to work out that if this particular artefact was ever found that it would implicate her as a spy and a traitor to Draco Malfoy and his entire evil organization. However… she was also a logical enough person to use her less-dominant hand to write the notes in, keep careful track of where it was in case there was any sign of it having been moved, and most importantly she kept it hidden in a room not easily accessible from her bedroom (and she definitely didn't keep it in her bedroom).
It was as good as it was going to get for the time being.
Hermione was making her way back to the dining room, intent on bullying Dobby into procuring some fruit for her to snack on before the rest of them finished their meeting and assigned her another meaningless or tedious task. But then, of course, she heard the identifiable shrill of Pansy coming from a room to her right along with other hushed voices.
She peeked through the keyhole and, when she didn't see anyone, slipped into the room. It was peculiar. She could have sworn she'd just heard – Oh wait. Yes. There it was again. Hermione moved further into the room, ostentatiously decorated with green furniture, and pressed her ear to the wall. The muffled voices were much clearer. Then, her eye caught something even more inviting: a peep hole. She noted the colour difference in the wallpaper around it and presumed there had previously been a painting hung over it. How convenient.
"Blaise," Draco was saying, his cigarette hanging precariously between his lips. "You still have connections with the coppers who run the harbour?"
Blaise nodded. "I keep tabs on them, yeah, but I don't particularly like to spend too much time with them." He pulled a flask from his pinstripe coat and poured some of its contents into his teacup. He took a swig before letting out a sigh of content. "You need something?"
"Yeah," Draco replied. "There should be a shipment of car parts arriving in the next fortnight. I need you to acquire it."
Blaise sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and knotting his fingers together. "When you say acquire it you mean…?"
Without missing a beat, Draco said, "Steal it."
The other man nodded, "Right, of course. That's what I thought." He leaned back and stretched an arm over the velvet sofa so that it rested languorously behind Daphne's head. "I'll need the description of the shipment. Any markings, that sort of thing. The usual. Whatever you can give me."
Draco seemed to consider this, mulling it over in his head. Hermione could see from her position how calculating his grey eyes were; they were focused and intense. "Done." He said. Then, he shifted and stepped around the fireplace to address Daphne and Pansy, the latter leaning uninterestedly against the armchair closest to the fire. "You two," he pointed. "Don't get in trouble."
Daphne sighed, "Well, that's hardly fair. It's not our fault."
To which Pansy chimed in, "Yes, Draco. Everyone is out to get us. We're doubly prejudiced up there."
One of the elder boys – Marcus, Hermione recognized – scoffed. "The Scots were never known for their civility, Pans." He exchanged a series of acknowledgements with Greg and Vince.
Draco ignored his commentary, "You want to move back here?" He suggested, his tone icy and threatening. Pansy shook her head, and Daphne did the same when he glanced over to her. "Then, tell those Scottish whores to fuck off and mind their own bloody business, eh? You're officially a Death Eater now. Both of you."
They both nodded dumbly, and Theo took the opportunity to speak up. "As for the other point, remind them who you are, who you know, and what will happen to their families if they try to slander you." He shrugged. "You don't see anyone here giving either of you any trouble, right?"
Narcissa rolled her eyes, "That's because every woman in London is bright enough to know that men aren't shit." She lit a cigarette and puffed out a few rings of smoke in Daphne's direction. "I say do it in front of them next time. I'm sure they could stand to learn a trick or two from you both."
At that, Daphne and Pansy both gave genuine smiles. Draco, realizing that part of the agenda had been thoroughly and successfully dealt with, cleared his throat to move on to the next subject. Hermione secretly wished that she'd discovered this room earlier so she could include a few of the titbits they were saying in her notes for Shacklebolt.
"A few months ago, I told all of you about a little opium problem the city was having," – Graham coughed, "Little?" – "and I asked all of you to keep an eye out for it on the streets. I said that if you did happen upon some, to take it and interrogate whomever had it." They all nodded. He went on, "Well, I'd like to inform you that problem has been dealt with."
From Marcus, "Dealt with how, exactly?"
Hermione lifted her brows, stifling a gasp in case they were able to hear it, and waited to see if Draco was going to do anything about one of his gang members speaking out of turn. As it was, he hadn't so much as sneered in Graham's direction at his comment, so perhaps he was in a good mood today.
"Firstly, we found the maker. The school I had you and your boys sitting on for months?" He directed at Marcus, who nodded. "He was a professor there, but his mind got so fucked up from the war that he wasn't able to return. That's why I had you locate the son instead."
Draco glanced askance to Theo, who took the indication to continue the retelling. "From there, we interrogated the son," – a scoff from Narcissa followed by her draining her teacup, which Hermione suspected had similar consistency to that of Blaise's – "Turns out, he was the one fucking making and selling the opium to everyone in the city."
"So?" Pansy asked, arching a single dark brow as her lips pouted. "Why does it matter to us?"
"Because," Draco said. "We're going to fucking buy it off him. All of it."
Narcissa's head snapped up, her eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything. Instead, Blaise spoke up. "Whoa," he said. "Hold on a second. You asked me to run those bloody numbers, but you didn't mention we were going to turn around and sell it again!"
This time, Narcissa did speak up. "You promised me you would have nothing to do with that, Draco."
He held up his hands, bringing their tension and banter back down to an obedient silence. Hermione hated to admit how impressed she was with his overall presence and leadership skills.
"We're not selling it here." He assured them. "I'm going to tip our coppers off as to who currently has it in the city so that they can be the ones to be seen collecting it and reprimanding those who were in possession. Any product made going forward will be directed into our custody and then resold in America." He inhaled a long drag of his cigarette, then pressed it firmly into an ashtray as the silence in the room continued. "Any questions?"
Definitely in a good mood, Hermione thought. He was being especially forthcoming.
There were some of the usual inquiries that followed, like what Blaise's numbers were and if they accounted for currency exchange, transport, paying off both sets of customs, etc. Then, the conversation took another turn without so much as a mention as to Hermione's role in the discovery of Neville Longbottom and his high-grade, extremely lucrative drugs. Not that she cared. Not that she needed their acknowledgement or approval.
Dobby entered the room to refill the tea – and Blaise's flask per request – and as soon as he left the room, Theo cleared his throat. "There's something else."
"What?" Vince and Greg said in unison. Hermione noticed this was something the two of them did quite often and had once asked if they happened to time it but based on their response, she had to presume that they weren't even aware that they were doing it.
"Narcissa's new horse," Theo said, and she beamed. "We're entering him in a race, and we're fixing it, so he wins."
"That's it?" Marcus asked. "Well, let us know when the race is. I could stand to make a few extra shillings on our new stud." Next to him, Graham nodded along.
Theo sighed, brushing a hand through his dark hair. A few loose strands fell back onto his forehead, but he ignored it and poured himself a drink, foregoing the illusion of the teacup for a crystal glass. "No, that's not it. Draco?"
Draco inhaled sharply. "We're going to fix a race… in Notting Hill Park."
"Notting Hill?" Blaise immediately shouted, rising to his feet and practically slamming his teacup down on the table next to him. "Are you fucking mad, Draco?"
"Not mad," he replied calmly. "Simply methodical."
"Like bloody hell you are," Narcissa snapped. "That's Igor Karkaroff's racetrack. You can't go fixing races in his territory without him knowing." She warned him with an appropriately admonishing glare. Hermione observed that nearly everyone, excluding Theo, had generally the same heightened, angry reaction to Draco's announcement.
"I know." Draco told her.
"So, you got permission, then?" Narcissa pressed.
"No." He replied. "I did not."
There was an immediate uproar among the group. Blaise and Narcissa led the argument advising Draco, and subsequently Theo, against this idea. Pansy and Daphne gossiped nervously in the corner about what would happen if they returned to school and Draco had rightfully pissed off Karkaroff. Graham and Marcus seemed mostly concerned with their own wellbeing as they figured out that since they were Draco's top footmen, they would likely be the ones tasked with the dirty work involved in whatever he was plotting. Then, Greg and Vince seemed to be mostly chatting idly about something else entirely, blissfully ignorant.
"We're going to fix the race." Draco explained carefully to his recently quieted room of Death Eater's. "We're going to fix the race as Notting Hill Park to catch Igor Karkaroff's attention." He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and began pacing up and down the room, eying everyone as he did so. "You want to know why?"
His voice was dangerously low, every syllable drawn out. No one asked questions. No one spoke up. "We're at war with the Order. Igor Karkaroff is also at war with the Order. They're attacking his bookies and taking his money, and because there are too bloody many of them, his men can't control them. He's losing money. Loads of it. He needs help."
Blaise raised his chin, and Draco nodded for him to express his concern. "How are we going to help him? There's too many bloody Order members for us, too."
Narcissa's cool glaze slid over Blaise to Draco and Theo. She glanced back and forth between them, her eyes narrowed, and Hermione knew the interworking's of her brain were similar to those of her son. Always calculating. Always re-evaluating.
"We have connections." Draco answered. "We know how they operate. Karkaroff has the muscle, and we'll convince him that he needs us in order to be successful in ridding himself of his Order problem." He leaned against the hearth casually, and then nodded to Theo across the room.
Theo, then, provided another crucial piece of information. "We'll prep the horse to race in Notting Hill Park, fix a couple of races for it to win, and then ensure that it loses when the bets are high enough to draw Karkaroff's attention. From there, we'll meet him at Kempton Park where the Order hits him the hardest."
There were a few minutes of silence, then Narcissa stood, drained her glass and stared her son in the eye. "So," she began. "Am I to believe that you picked a fight with Potter and the Weasleys on purpose?"
"No," Theo scoffed, also finishing his glass. "I just wanted to kick Potter's arse and Draco gave me three free occasions to do so." He smiled, beaming from ear to ear as he slid a cigarette out of the pack. "That was the first."
"Pity that you only have two left." Narcissa remarked, not sounding apologetic at all.
Draco, however, sighed and took slight pity on his mother for whatever reason and said, "We're always fighting with the Order, Mother, and if the occasional fist fight in the streets happens to feed the fire a tad bit more then so be it." He waved his hand to dismiss the rest of the room, and as they hurried to leave, he added, "Trust me."
"I do trust you." She replied. "It's Karkaroff and the bloody Order that I don't trust."
Hermione scampered back away from the wall and rushed out the door, flying down the corridor in order to busy herself somewhere that wasn't clearly in earshot or in view of their family meeting. She repeated what she'd discovered over and over in her head and wished that she'd had more time so that she could have written it down before Pansy and Daphne turned around the corner, giggling about something or another and effectively blocking her access to the Room Noir.
Later that night, Hermione had gone to draw the curtains closed in her bedroom – having been up late reading – when she caught a flash of silver reflecting off the moonlight in the garden. It was Draco, and he was leaning in closely to Theo. It was clear from the way Theo traipsed off back towards the house that the conversation had been in confidence but hadn't necessarily been bad news. She had learned to read between the lines when it came to the two of them, and judging from the lack of vices, everything seemed to be alright.
Quickly, she threw on a light trench coat, slipped on some shoes, and padded down the stairs. It took a few minutes for her to find her way toward the French doors that opened out to Narcissa's main gardens, and she explained to the man standing guard at the exit that Draco was expecting her.
He let her out without any further questions, but she could feel his cold eyes boring down on her as she slid past his stocky figure and walked briskly through the lawn. The guard probably didn't think it worth his time to check her intentions seeing as either Mr. Malfoy really was expecting her, and he would be in trouble for holding her back, or Mr. Malfoy was not expecting her and would swiftly deal with her himself.
Hermione sidled up next to Draco, careful to make enough noise prior to coming close to him that he would not be startled by her presence and thus aim a weapon in her direction. Hear something suspicious? Shoot first, ask questions later. That was the Death Eater way, or perhaps it was the way of London gangs in general, she mused thinking of the Order of the Phoenix.
She dug through her coat pocket for the pack of cigarettes she kept in there and proffered him one, which he took without so much as a grateful nod. Entitled bastard, she thought. "Need a light?" This time, he did nod, and then turned to face her, lowering the bud in between his lips to her match. She lit his first and then her own. Blowing out a puff of smoke, Hermione said, "I have some thoughts."
Draco inhaled a long drag, "A clever woman like you? I would hope so."
There was a moment of silence, during which the cicadas took up a terrible song. "Did you know most of your… family members don't read the newspaper?" She let out a small, nervous chuckle. Barely more than a shaky breath. "Those who do read it don't even flip past the front page."
"What's your point, Penny?" He said, his tone testy.
She peered up at him, observing the rigidness of his bare forearm as he raised his hand to remove the cigarette from between his lips. His oxford had been rolled up past his elbow and his top two bottons were also undone, and she could just make out his clavicle peeking out from beneath the rich fabric. His attire was surprisingly casual, and it occurred to her at that moment that other than that first night when she barged into his room, she had never seen him dressed in less than a tailored three-piece suit.
"Well, as it so happens, I do read the entirety of the paper." She said primly. He swivelled his hips towards her, away from the garden and the view of the bushes of gardenias below. "The foreign section has been particularly interesting lately." She tried to keep her tone light and friendly despite the nervous chill running up her spine.
"Penny," he warned. "I also read the whole bloody newspaper unlike Graham and Blaise, so if you could just get to the fucking point?"
She swallowed, willing herself not to get off track or be intimidated by his icy glare. "Then, you know exactly what I'm referring to." Hermione told him. "Their stockpiles and personal reserves are running low. They're practically dry from what I can tell. It's been over seven months since the amendment went into effect, I mean, it's to be expected - "
"Yes, yes." Draco interrupted with an impatient sigh. "They're dry, they're miserable, and they're - "
"Desperate." Hermione cut in, eager to prove herself valuable to him. Luckily, her gamble of interrupting him in what was about to be him leaning toward a bad mood had paid off. She could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, and they immediately lightened from a dark grey. The storm was passing.
"And I'm supposed to believe that you – What – Give a fuck about them and their lack of intoxication? Or, that you have a sudden interest in how Malfoy Company Limited runs its business?" Draco said not unkindly, but she had prepared for this.
"Not at all," Hermione replied with a gentle shrug. "At least, in regard to the latter, not singularly." He arched a brow at her, reminding her to get to her point. "I'm making myself useful. This time, I took your advice and decided to do so before you aimed a gun at my head."
At that, the hint of a smirk pulled at the corners of his downturned lips. Her own mouth hiding a playful smirk at finally having done something correctly in his eyes. It was beguiling how desperately she found herself wanting his approval the longer she spent in his company. He was cruel and unusual man, but god damn he was also a charming one. A born leader.
"What exactly are you proposing?" Draco inquired.
She mulled it over, then sighed. "Well, surely you know someone who owns or operates a distillery? If not, then I'm sure you can find a way to… convince someone to take up the hobby. After that, it's just a matter of marketing, transportation… and half of that can be combined with your new pharmaceutical investment. Same shipment, same destination. That should save you some time and money." She paused to glance up at him. His eyes were following her intently and his expression openly curious. "Blaise can run the numbers, and I can verify that the distillery is efficient." When he tilted his head to the side, she shrugged and added, "It's simple chemistry."
He finished his cigarette, but instead of stomping it into the ground he crushed it on the underside of his shoes and then slipped it into his trouser pocket. "You done with that?" She nodded and he did the same to hers. Her brows furrowed, and he lifted his shoulders marginally. "Narcissa cares very deeply about her gardens."
Hermione trilled, "You mean she'll cut your balls off if you so much as litter in her garden." The smirk that had been teasing his lips finally shone through. "I'm surprised she hasn't dealt with me herself, yet. She clearly despises my lasting presence in the manor."
"That she does," he agreed. "In fact, tonight would have been your last night in the manor if you hadn't brought up the American prohibition." Then he spared her a mean, little smile. "Now, it's not."
"What? Just like that?" She asked incredulously.
He nodded, brushing his thumb across his lower lip. "As long as you are under my protection, no one in the family can touch you. As long as I say you're fine, then you're fine." The intensity of his gaze subsided as he leaned away from her and shocked her with another miniscule smile. "Cheer up, Pen. You leave to see another day in Malfoy Manor."
Detecting his good mood, Hermione opted to test just how benevolent he was feeling. She rolled her eyes pointedly at him, then swivelled her hips in his direction and teetered back and forth on the balls of her feet. "I'm delighted," she leered. "It's really such an honour not to be murdered."
"You can thank your literacy skills for that," he stated. Hermione mentally corrected him and attributed her sense of self-preservation, and the fear that if she didn't earn his trust then Shacklebolt would never receive her intel or have a compelling case against him.
Draco shifted during her internal reverie about moving up in rank in the force by saying, "These cicadas are irritating as fuck. Why don't we head back to the bloody house? Before I decide to test Narcissa's patience and set the fucking bugs, along with her entire garden, on fire." Per usual, it was not actually a request.
Hermione trailed quietly beside him and shuddered at the unexpected presence of his hand on her back as he helped her through the door and into the manor. He walked her to her bedroom door again, and Hermione wondered if this particular side of him – the gentlemanlike manners and aristocratic air of propriety – was genuine or a matter of his own creation to uphold his pristine image in society.
When they arrived at her door, she turned the knob slowly and glanced over her shoulder at him. For a moment she wondered if he would try to kiss her again; he hadn't since the last time and it had been months since then now, though there had also been very few circumstances in which the opportunity would have arisen. This would be one of them. (The fourth opportunity in twice as many months if one was counting. Which she wasn't. Obviously.)
"Goodnight," she murmured, testing the tension that hung in the air between them. His eyes sparked a brilliant silver, and when he ducked his head, she nearly closed her eyes and gave into him. But then he merely tucked a loose curl behind her ear.
"Goodnight, Penny."
Hermione got herself ready for bed, tucked herself under the duvet, and willed her mind to cease its endless spinning and overthinking and grant her a merciful night of uninterrupted sleep. No such luck. Not for the first time – and certainly not for the last, either – she tossed and turned and kicked off the heavy covers in frustration. Usually, her mind plagued her with worries about the mission. How was she supposed to get information to Shacklebolt? Was she supposed to hoard it until the end of the assignment? When would the end of the assignment even be? Next month? Next year? When?
That evening – or early morning – was different. Hermione's mind could not for the life of her stop picturing Draco's lips. It would not stop taunting her with how soft, how rough, how utterly divine they were. Then, her thoughts devolved into ones regarding her mental health and if it was somehow compromised from spending so much time surrounded by demons.
Feeling parched, Hermione wandered downstairs and rummaged through the kitchen for a glass of water and some dark chocolate to help her sleep. On her way back to her room, she heard screams pierce the air. The glass dropped and shattered at her feet. She swore loudly and padded across it without stepping on the shards as best as she could.
It was Draco again.
He hadn't had another episode in a while, perhaps even a month. She missed them sometimes, when she was so deeply asleep that not even the house collapsing around her would wake her. Other times, she would make it halfway to his room and then hear the shouts subside. It was only rarely that she was able to actually make it to him and help rouse him from his nightmarish memories.
Hermione straddled him and pressed her hands onto his chest, trying to keep him from thrashing around too wildly and injuring either him or herself in the process. After a few minutes of shushing and applying muscle-numbing pressure, he bolted upright as he regained consciousness. Hermione toppled off of his torso and onto the far side of his bed.
Draco was breathing heavily, inhaling and exhaling rapidly. His eyes were bloodshot and completely dilated. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He spat at her.
She grimaced, and dusted off her night slip, pulling it down around her knees. "You were screaming again," she retorted tartly.
"So?" He said. "I don't bloody need you running in here every damn time you feel like playing hero, Penny. For fuck's sake," He swept a hand through his damp hair, and then sighed and collapsed back onto his pillows. His eyes focused on the drapes above his bed before settling back on her with mild curiosity. "What the fuck happened to your feet?"
Hermione's eyes flickered down to her bare feet; there were several minor cuts that were now bleeding, and she even caught the glimpse of a few shards of glass that had managed to get under her skin. She scowled, "It's nothing."
She moved to step off of the precariously tall bed, but a hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her back. Hermione's head spun around to see Draco looking at her with his eyes much softer than they had been when he initially woke up. Even his jaw, previously clenched in lingering rage from his fit, had slacked noticeably.
"Wait," he muttered. She angled her torso toward him, prompting him to continue without speaking a word. "It's not nothing. Let me look at it."
A few minutes later, Draco had her sitting on his bathroom counter with her feet in the sink, soaked in red-tinted hydrogen peroxide and water. It stung, but it also felt extremely nice to have someone else care for her wounds. "Thank you," she whispered between winces as he plucked each individual glass shard from the soles of her feet.
He didn't say anything, concentrating immensely on the task at hand. Feeling extremely awkward in the relative silence and not knowing what else to say to fill the void, Hermione added, "Is there anything I can do to – I don't know – Err – I've heard psychotherapy can be alleviating and if you need someone to talk to I can - "
His head snapped up and Hermione choked on her gasp. "You're offering to help me?" He said, blinking at her as if she'd somehow grown an extra head or sprouted purple hair. Draco narrowed his eyes defensively, "Why?"
"I – You're clearly in pain." She pointed out, ironically twitching as he located yet another piece of glass between her toes. She yelped a little bit and had to bite down on her bottom lip in order to contain a string of obscenities.
Draco, finished with his task, dropped the instruments he'd been using and drained the sink. He wrapped a towel around her feet, patting them dry before letting her swing them over the edge. He hadn't said a word, but then abruptly stepped in front of her and gripped her thighs when she tensed to jump off the counter.
"I threatened to kill you earlier, in case you missed that. I specifically said I had planned to kill you up until you opened your pretty little mouth and made yourself fucking useful again." He scoffed and shook his head. His fingers dug into her thighs through the satin slip she wore, and Hermione was extremely aware of how close he was. How his hips had settled themselves between her knees. How his breath warmed the tip of her nose. "I don't understand why you would do something so selfless as volunteer to help me cope with my fucking time in France."
He was breathing laboriously, but her own chest was rising and falling with a similar rapidity. "Puzzling," was all she said to him.
Draco bit out a disbelieving laugh and it lit up his face. Then, his head dropped so that his forehead rested on the prominent bone of her clavicle. Hermione held her breath, unsure of what to do next. Deep down Hermione wanted to reach up and wind her fingers through his pale blond hair, hold his head to her chest, and whisper reassuring nonsense into his ear. She hated herself for wanting that.
In the end, she did none of those things since Draco lifted his head and backed away from her, taking his body heat with him and leaving her shivering in her stupid, ivory slip. "Come on," he beckoned, holding out a hand to help her down. He released her, much to her dismay and complete self-loathing, and then ushered her out of his bedroom. "I'll walk you back."
Not wanting to spend another minute dazed and confused by his proximity and lack of shirt, Hermione expressed how unnecessary that was – "No, that's ok – Really, I'm fine – You said so yourself that I'm a clever woman," – and how she had finally learned her way around the maze of the manor's many corridors by now. She didn't give him a chance to refute, to be the gentleman she knew he could be, and turned around the corner without another word.
This mission was going to be the death of her sanity, she was sure of it.
A/N - This chapter title is from Stormzy's song Vossi Bop from the lines the rules are kinda different when you're badding up the game / badding up the game bad it up again / had them up before have them up again xx