Bound

Chapter 3

000

"Please, mother," Blaise found himself saying stiffly. His hands clamped the teacup in a muscular vice, a shambling semblance of a normal grip, and he knew that any further pressure would shatter the porcelain. "It would mean a great deal." He gritted out the last part, fighting not to audibly grind his teeth, and relaxed his hands. He reminded himself that frustration was the wrong way to deal with his mother.

Renalda Zabini eyed him across their tea table, eyebrows raised in an arch, questioning look that Blaise knew she had given all seven generations of husbands. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was all glamour charms, but he had grown up with those deep angular eyes and those pouty red lips, and knew that his own face reflected her well enough to see the truth to her appearance. She was beautiful, truly, but somehow in a very deliberate way.

Among his friends, Blaise was considered almost bawdy. Compared to those quiet plotters he was loud, with bold tastes and a wild sort of exhibitionism that set him apart from the calculated machinations of Draco and Pansy. And yet, even with his supposed brashness and his bluster, he had always preferred women who were more genuine. Pansy's syrupy charms, her own sort of brashness, held no sway over him, reminding him too strongly of his mother's careful manipulations. Some of the old Gryffindors, perhaps, or even Draco's icy girlfriend, Astoria, were more to his taste. He wondered how that worked out, two icicles trying to make love. Draco and Astoria fucking… Merlin, it must be rather like doing it with someone who had a full Body Bind hex on them.

He let some of his smirk show on his face. Blaise, though far from a matchmaker, had his suspicions regarding Draco's wandering eyes. Something told him that the two wouldn't be formally attached for much longer.

"What are you smirking at, Blaise?" Renalda asked, rather sharply. She hated nothing more than being privately ridiculed. Not frustration, he reminded himself, Renalda could smell that a mile a way. He had to tease her. He breathed in through his nostrils, finding composure, and let his smirk grow wider.

"Nothing, mother dearest," he practically sung. "Now, may I use the estate this weekend, or not?"

He let the question hover, confident in his ability to annoy her into his desired response, even should all else fail.

A tiny thread of guilt niggled at his mind. He ignored it, staring stonily at his mother. Even to himself, he refused to admit that his own curiosity regarding Draco's interest in a certain muggleborn had spiraled out of hand. The whole party wasn't to bring them together per se, Blaise justified frantically. It was just one of the benefits. The main benefit of the benefit, he thought to himself, smirked again at the pun, then turned the smirk into a glare at his mother.

"I really don't know, Blaise," she was saying. "House elves?"

He spread his hands wide. "You know me, mother," he simpered. "I just care."

It was Renalda's turn to grind her teeth. Blaise's smile stretched as wide as his hands, and he made his eyes round and innocent. It was the same look he used when lying or denying, and it was almost unbeatable.

His mother sighed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, fine," she said. "Well, come and kiss me in gratitude."

Anger flared in Blaise again and one of his hands trembled, itching to crush one of those petitely beautiful teacups. But he forced himself to yawn with ennui, stretching idly before strolling over to breathe quickly in the vicinity of his mother's perfumed face.

"Always a pleasure, mother dearest," he cooed.

Her pouty lips pursed, and she pulled his collar closer to plant a sticky lipstick kiss on his cheek. "When will you marry, Blaise? I yearn for more delicate company."

"Whenever I find someone as… charming… as you, of course," Blaise called over his shoulder, already walking away. He slung his coat casually over one shoulder and used the other hand to sling his fashionably long black hair off his forehead. He was so achingly casual in stance and gait that an observer might not even notice that he despised the woman still sitting. Seven men dead on her hands at the very minimum, and she was slippery as a basilisk. He shuddered, one hand wiping at the lipstick on his cheek, and slipped through the door. What a mess.

The preparation for his gala took practically the whole week. First, he had to browbeat Draco, relentlessly appearing outside of the man's house at odd hours of the day and flooding him with owls. He had to alternate between encouraging Draco's attendance, reminding him that he'd already given his word, cajoling him with promises of the fun to be had, and then threatening him with dire consequences should he refuse to show. And he had to balance it on a knife's edge, just jolly Zabini, casually herding everyone to his party at wand point.

Then, he had to invite the proper selection of guests, hire caterers, a band, tables, a podium – he was sure Granger would want a podium – and figure out décor. Then he had to chase down all the other old Slytherins (they still thought of themselves as such, of course) – and swear them to good behavior, no spells, only duels with each other, no hunting down of old grudges, etc. Just the usual pre-party precautions, but even so. And then, after all that, he had to hunt down everyone else interesting who'd been in Hogwarts in their year, and bully, beg and plead them into attending too. By the time he had sworn Pansy to an Unbreakable Vow that she wouldn't kill anyone on purpose or by accident, and tracked Zacharias Smith down between shifts at Gringotts, he was frankly exhausted.

His brain was so addled with the exhaustion that he even tried to invite Ginny Potter and her husband, but she flatly refused, though with a spark of humor in her eye that made Blaise wish he'd thought to invite them earlier.

And then it was back to the mundane details, buying food and arguing with the caterers about courses and dishes and trying to figure out how to get the damned venue clean and free of dark objects, Merlin damn Nott to hell.

Laughing to himself, Blaise thought that throwing this party would be a perfect use of a house elf – a team of house elves.

But finally, all that was left to do was spread as much gossip and drama as humanly possible before the night began, and let the chips fall as they may. A difficult task – but someone had to do it. He left fake bottles of veritaserum scattered through the men's toilets in the Ministry and told Ron Weasley in confidence that he'd bought three batches to spike the punch with. He told Ernie Macmillan that Justin Finch-Fletchley had threatened Millicent Bulstrode with a duel, and then he told Millicent Bulstrode that Hannah Abbott and Neville Longbottom had decided to elope and wanted to hold the ceremony at his party. He put on poor disguises and bought huge amounts of love potions from the Weasley store while muttering about "Friday night." He made Pansy swear a blood oath not to tell anyone that Daphne Greengrass was having an affair with Draco behind her sister Astoria's back, and then he told Astoria that Pansy had been spreading rumors about her. He wheedled and insulted Parvati and Padma Patil until they grudgingly agreed to come and then he told everyone he knew that two seers were attending. He even asked Astoria if it was true that Draco's fetishes involved putting Full-Body Bind hexes on her and couldn't restrain himself from then promptly breaking into hysterical fits of giggles.

The week crept along, then sped, then crept again, then flew, and Friday night came.

0000

Oh Merlin, did Friday night come.

The third time he saw her – oh, Merlin, did he see her – the third time he saw her was at the – thrice-damned son of Voldemort, the third time in barely as many weeks – the third time he saw her, he saw her, and it was at Blaise's damned dumb charity gala, and the charity was S.P.E.W., and Draco almost cried when he found that out, and then he saw her. It was like watching a turquoise wave break into foamy flecks as it crested the shore. It was like seeing the sun set into a shimmering veil of mist on an autumn night. It was like an unseasonably warm breeze of spring blowing tremulously across his face. It was like the first time he had ridden a broom, his stomach dropping and his pulse racing, his head spinning and wind whipping around his face, with the ground receding below him, and the surety in his chest that this was the wildest thing he could ever do, and that he would never, never set his feet down again on the grass.

So Draco Malfoy looked at Hermione Granger, and the third time – well, he sees her.

He watched her all night with hot, hungry eyes, and he was beyond caring what people thought. He knew it was probably obvious, the smoldering look in his gaze when it caught the way her hair fell, curling around one side of her neck to caress her shoulder. He knew it was obvious, yet found that his lifelong adherence to social norms had been slowly burning away over the past few years, carefully pruned and finally wilting, yielding to a much stronger force altogether. (Desire).

Later, much later, he will lie in bed trying to remember how it happened, but in the moment, all he could do was surrender.

The night blurred in his mind, everything running together like a child's painting, and Blaise kept on yammering about house elves – house elves! of all things – and Draco kept assiduously ignoring him, wholly consumed with Granger, and Astoria tried to talk to him, and maybe someone else, and then he touched her hand.

"I know you saw me in the Ministry the other day," she snapped, pulling her hand away, her voice a cool chime.

His tongue felt thick. He wondered if Blaise had put poppy in the punch, the opiate kind. Or perhaps he had made good on his Veritaserum threat. The truth burned as it rolled off his tongue. "I saw you," he said. "Granger."

She stared at him. "Malfoy, I think you're drunk," she replied, almost wonderingly, and he thought his hair must be in disarray, and perhaps he was flushed, and yet he still didn't care.

"I'm not drunk," the words came, again truthful, "but I think I'd like to be."

Hermione almost smiled at him, and the suppression of the natural instinct was somehow coquettish, even done by accident. She passed him a drink, her eyes suddenly hard and wary. "This might help. It's too strong for me."

He saw the lipstick imprint on the cusp of the martini glass from where she had sipped. He could have laughed hysterically. She thought he was sneering down at her, thinking about her blood status, thinking he would refuse to drink from the same cup as a muggle born, when in reality she couldn't have been further from the truth. When in reality, there was nothing he would like better than to crush those very same muggle born lips to – and Draco slammed a barrier down on that errant thought, realizing that the moment had already gone on far too long. Hermione's eyes were beginning to narrow.

Carefully, slowly, deliberately, as he did all things, he rotated the delicate blown-glass stem of the martini in his fingers, so the lipstick marks were directly beneath his chin. He raised it to his mouth, planted his lips atop those loud red markings, emblazoning his own skin with that which had just barely been coated on hers, and tipped the liquid into his mouth. It burned all the way down. It was like someone had poured muggle gasoline down his throat, then murmured a hurried incendio.

He would have been gratified with a gasp, or maybe an exclamation, but Hermione Granger simply watched him, eyebrows slightly raised. Radiating a mixture of fury and satisfaction, she gave a slow nod.

"Well," was all she said. "That'll certainly help with the whole drunkenness quest."

That moment would stand out in his mind for the rest of his life. The moment when he had grabbed her glass, and placed his lips where hers had been, perhaps just a second before, and tasted some lingering, infinitesimal remnant of her breath.

Then more: more conversations, a speech, and his fingers continually rose to his mouth, touching his lips, wondering if any lipstick had smeared from the glass to his lips.

He found her again.

"Granger," he murmured, leaning close to speak in her ear.

She recoiled sharply, putting distance between them. "Don't skulk, Malfoy," she snapped. "What is it?"

"The gardens," he managed to choke out. "Walk with me."

She frowned. "Was that a request, or a command? Was that even a complete sentence?" She looked surprised to have spoken the last out loud.

"Neither," he gasped. "Both." And then. "Please."

The lack of shock earlier was made up for now, as she stared at him in utter astonishment.

They were walking in the gardens, Theo Nott's old manor home that Blaise Zabini had acquired after his mother settled a very large sexual harassment lawsuit against the old Death Eater. In short, it was everything a manor home should be, with tall manicured hedges and pretty little paths, delicately carved stone benches interspersed in nooks surrounded by flowers. Silvery lights floated on strings, and the whole thing was suffused with the gentle perfume of roses.

Draco thought he might be sick. His blood simmered, sending strange tendrils and trills of nerves up and down his arms. He offered an arm to her, like any gentleman would, but she refused, and they continued to walk until he couldn't take another step. He decided to try again.

"Granger," he began, and she cut him off.

"Is that the only word you know?" she asked acidly. "I never thought I'd be subjected to a Gothic Draco Malfoy following me around all night drawling my surname in my ear."

He folded his arms. "I'm hardly Gothic," he retorted angrily. "I prefer to think of myself as pre-Romantic, anyways."

She snorted. "Listen, Malfoy, I really don't know what's gotten into you. But if you didn't notice, I'm actually the guest of honor, so—" This time, he cut her off.

"Look," he said angrily, the frustration rising in him like a tide. His blood was heating further, and he realized he was getting angry, angry at her denseness for so clever a woman. "Look, Granger, I've got to talk to you. And no, it's not some ploy or trick, so don't give me any more lipstick-coated tests."

She had the upbringing to look a bit chagrined at that, and inclined her head slightly, waiting for him to go on.

His momentary anger had faded, and he was left once again speechless, all of his senses consumed by her proximity. If it were possible, up close she seemed even more beautiful, those large dark eyes shining so intelligently out of her pale face. Her skin glowed creamy soft in the silvery light, and long ringlets of curls hugged that achingly arched neck.

"I dislike you," he said. "Historically, extremely." She frowned, but still didn't interrupt, so he barreled onwards, but suddenly the words didn't come out as he'd intended.

"I also want to kiss you," is what he said. "Extremely badly."

The memory of those words will always be accompanied by her look, of almost comedic shock and surprise, her mouth half open as she'd prepared to respond, then stopped at his confession, her eyes wide and with just a hint of anger, her eyebrows slightly drawn together. Her lower lip hung, round and full, and her tongue darted out to moisten it.

And then they were kissing.

He knew that part was right, knew that it had happened. The memory was burned into him like a brand, like her lipstick, like that martini. He was sure it had happened. It must have happened. But he could barely remember anything else. (But he did remember that).

The whole evening was dreamlike, essentially gone from his memory. Lost. He knew they had kissed – had he kissed her? Had she kissed him? – he knew they had kissed, and he had drunk from her glass, but – which was more significant? They had kissed, he had sipped, he had tasted her lipstick and her lips, she had been wearing a turquoise dress (he did remember that), he had touched her hand, but they had kissed and had she been angry after? Or had she run away? He had said something, he knew he had, he always said something and it was likely wrong but – had he drunk from her glass? What had possessed him?

Had they – had she – would she – had she kissed him?

But – but surely not. He had said he wanted to kiss her (he did remember that) – he had said "I also want to kiss you," he knew he said that – he wished he hadn't, maybe – he was glad he had, honestly – it had been the truth. (He did remember that).

If he had been a braver man, he would have admitted more than that simple truth. He would have seen the truth to the whole evening, would have had the self-knowledge to realize how a woman can consume a man and the dimness of a memory is directly correlated to the level of consumption. He might even have put a word choice to it, have recognized that evening as the first time his desire for Granger may have superseded the bounds of that word entirely.

But he had never made any pretensions to bravery.

He lay awake in bed, the vision from his left eye blurred by the pounding of his headache. He wondered if his skull was about to splinter down the middle, as the throbbing in his temples marched through his brain, an infinitesimal delay between his carotid pulse and the temporal throb of agony, the pain washing through him in waves, the nausea another beat behind.

This type of pain was familiar like an old friend, the cruel pulsatile pounding, the welcome cleansing nausea. The migraines came from stress or emotional upheaval, one of the healers had told him. There were potions he could take for them, but many were just glorified sedatives, so if he had been drinking, they weren't recommended.

Sometimes, it seemed, there was no choice but to embrace the pain, laying back against his pillows and letting it throb through him.

So he lay back and let the waves of pain wash over him, the pounding of each beat matching the answering pulse in his stomach, and every pound seemed to bring her image to the forefront of his mind, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. He thought he might die. It was unbearable.

Draco rolled over on his side, her eyes in his eyes, her lips on his lips, the searing pound of his skull, the watery, haloed vision of his left eye, and slept.

0000

She had gone to the party because she had agreed to it. Or, rather, she had agreed to it, and so she went. Blaise had tricked her into it, but she had agreed, and Hermione Granger was a woman of her word. Well, perhaps Blaise hadn't exactly tricked her, but the general idea was fairly similar.

Hermione frowned at her nail. The whole night just didn't make sense. She was a linear person. She thought in straight lines, with obvious conclusions and she didn't like guessing. But all she could do in this instance was guess.

Things had started out normally enough, Blaise had set up the usual Apparition points and taken all the typical precautions, and her speech had gone well enough. There'd been that very strange conversation with Malfoy that had resulted in him drinking her martini – she didn't even want to go into that right now – and then the night had been almost fun. She'd talked with some friends, some other ministry members, and a few people had asked her surprisingly insightful questions regarding house elf welfare. Blaise had been an excellent host, mingling people with an artistic touch, and the decorations really had been stunning.

The very human caterers, she smiled at that memory, had outdone themselves, and she'd enjoyed the selection of finger foods on a level with Molly Weasley's home cooking. The drinks, made with wizarding liquor, had been too strong for her taste, so she hadn't really drunk to excess.

Which is why she was home now, sipping on a cup of decaf coffee with just a splash of milk, wondering what in all of Dante's nine hells had just happened. She dipped her pinky finger into the liquid and dragged it over the rim of the mug.

It had all been so sudden. Her anger, his anger – Hermione blocked out the martini situation for a second time – the way he had asked her to walk with him. The raw despair of his tone when he'd said please. Honestly! As if she could have done anything but follow him. And then he'd – they'd – kissed. It had just been one of those things. One of those spur of the moment, inexplicable urges. And they'd acted on it, and now it was done, and their worlds would return to normal.

She put her hands on her eyes, pressing the palms in until fireworks exploded across her vision. If it had been such a normal thing to do, then why did she feel like she was going crazy?

What had possessed her to stare at him like that, to long for the words he said, to be surprised when he spoke what she hadn't known she'd felt, until she'd watched his lips form the thought: "I also want to kiss you." Hermione felt her stomach clench uncomfortably in remembrance. Why did she find it so satisfying that he had wanted that; that she had been the recipient of that intensity of desire. Why did she feel like she had won something?

Why did she want to continue the game?

As she moved through the ritual of getting ready for bed, sliding out of her turquoise dress robes and unclasping her hair from its cleverly crafted net of pins and clips, she wondered what Draco Malfoy would think of her now. Would he still think her pretty, even kissable, with her lipstick wiped off, dark eyes tired against her face? Hermione supposed he had kissed more women than she had kissed men, ludicrous as it was to speculate on. She had kissed Ron and one other man, a healer from Saint Mungos. And now, Draco Malfoy.

She glanced in the mirror again, the muggle toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. The oversize white T-shirt she slept in fell to mid-thigh, and her long curly hair, beginning to frizz after its release, hung around her in snares and curls alike, tangled and wild. The woman in the mirror looked awfully young, and unsure of herself.

Abruptly, the situation felt absurd. "It's just one little kiss," she snapped. "You've got an entire department to worry about and a law to pass." She pulled her hair back and firmly began to braid it. No more stray thoughts about idiotic wild women who went gallivanting about kissing men they hated in moonlit gardens. She lived in the real world, and it was time to act like it.

The next morning, Hermione headed to Diagon Alley with a grim determination. It wasn't her habit to go out on Sundays, but she felt the need to put her mind to something other than a constant recycling of the previous night's memories.

His eyes. She stomped on the thought, her foot breaking through the shimmering surface of a London puddle, and she imagined her memories shattering like the water, tiny bonds rotating and dispelling as her shoe disrupted the surface tension of the molecules. She thought about the time in primary school when they had each brought in a pound coin and used eye droppers to slowly add water to the coin, watching as the water formed a slow dome on the top, and the teacher had explained that it was all the tiny molecules, desperately clinging together – hydrogen bonds, though wizards didn't care for chemistry, but Hermione knew what they were – and she felt that her grip on reasonableness and sensibility was sometimes just as tenuous as all that water, precariously balanced on a coin.

She had added the final droplet of water to the coin and watched as the surface tension broke.

Diagon Alley. She was walking to the Leaky Cauldron, she would wander Diagon Alley a bit, maybe stop in to Weasley's for a bit of a distraction, and pick up a new book at Flourish and Blott's. She needed to remember who she was and remind herself of what she was doing.

The Leaky Cauldron was comfortably deserted and companionably filthy, exactly how it always was, and its unchanging nature despite the perceived upheaval of her world went a long way toward soothing Hermione's (admittedly frazzled) nerves. Curving through the dusty tables, she headed to the back alley, tapping the bricks and stepping through to Wizarding London.

Seized by the desire for coffee, Hermione headed to Florien Fortescue's, ordering a large espresso drink with charmed swirls of caramel on top. They made the coffee sickly sweet, but a hangover drink was a hangover drink. Turning away from the counter bursting with ice creams, hot chocolates and coffees, Hermione almost bumped into the stately blonde woman behind her. Astoria Greengrass had her long hair pulled away from her face, and was wearing some sort of Egyptian-style headdress that left one huge emerald dangling from a gold chain against her forehead. Hermione goggled at the ungainly stone, the shade of which nevertheless perfectly matched the woman's deep green dress robes. She certainly didn't look like someone who'd been up until the middle of the morning at Blaise Zabini's party, drinking like it was the end of the world.

Running her eyes over Hermione, Astoria's upper lip drew up in a sneer. "I saw Draco talking to you," she hissed.

Hermione felt as though someone was trying to drag her stomach out of chest through her esophagus, but with a huge effort of will she managed to keep her breathing normal. "Did you, now?" she mused. "Surprising, given that you were too drunk to stand."

"I saw him drink from your glass, you filth," Astoria spat. "I bet you think there is no prejudice left in the world, you in your blind little circle of idealism."

From the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Florian entering the room from the back kitchen and gave a tiny shake of her head. The grandfatherly old man backed away, closing the swinging door silently behind him.

Hermione casually shook moved her right arm, feeling the cool length of her wand slide into her hand. "You'd better watch yourself, Astoria," she said calmly, the wood in her hand heating from the warmth of her skin. "Remember who it is that I am, these days. Words like that could get you arrested, or…" Hermione trailed off, looking at the other woman meaningfully. She'd learned long ago in government that the most effective threats were ones that the other person filled in themselves.

Astoria blanched, then recovered her composure. She grabbed a half full glass from an empty table and flung it at Hermione, who was too shocked to deflect a non-magical attack. The cup hit her squarely in the middle, emptying cold coffee all over her blouse.

"You watch yourself, Granger," she spat, anger contorting her pretty features. "Draco Malfoy is my boyfriend, and I won't have him seen in the company of muggles." It was a measure of her fear of Hermione that she only used the word muggle, rather than a more insulting slur.

Watching the blonde's retreating back, Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You seem awfully worried about the attentions of your supposed boyfriend, Astoria," she called after her. "Scared he's not really yours after all?"

A handsome young man walked into the ice cream parlour after Astoria slammed the front door, and belatedly Hermione realized that she was standing in the middle of the room with her pale pink blouse drenched in cold coffee. He gave her a very strange look, and she hastily began clearing the mess, still smarting from the encounter.

First Malfoy, now this. She shook her head ruefully. Merlin send that was the worst of it, or else it seemed likely that she'd get nothing done at work tomorrow.

Leaving the shop with apologies to the owner, and her latte clutched firmly in hand, Hermione wondered idly if Malfoy really was dating Astoria. He certainly couldn't think so, and given Astoria's hysteria, it was likely a one-sided invention. Even so, the thought gave her pause. Kissing Malfoy was bad enough, but kissing a Malfoy with a girlfriend? Hermione shuddered.

And what on earth had Astoria been wearing? Suddenly Hermione let out a quick giggle. That emerald on her forehead had been absolutely hideous, set into some huge gaudy contraption of gold. She couldn't help herself, and started laughing in earnest. Several passerbys gave her odd glances, but it seemed the funniest thing in the world. What a terribly strange morning. The past twenty four hours, in fact.

"Hermione?" someone asked. "Why're you giggling to yourself like a nutter?"

Hermione looked up at George Weasley, standing outside his shop. He was wearing a cardboard cutout of a hotdog, magically enchanted so that the tail kept wiggling and the toppings continuously changed places. She looked him slowly up and down, and sighed. Truly, this day could get no more strange.