I continue to be indebted to 89JadedPictures - she is amazing! Hugs and kisses and lots of love sent her way with this chapter.
By The Pricking Of My Thumbs
"There was this time in second year, when I brewed Polyjuice Potion-"
Draco cut her off before she even completed the first sentence of her confession. "You are the only witch in the world that could start a story with that sentence and have someone believe them. You know that, yeah? How in the bloody hell did you manage that?"
"Well, it started with Harry creating a diversion during potions class so I could liberate the needed ingredients from Snape's private stores. Then I brewed it in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. You're familiar with her, right?" Hermione asked.
"I am aware of who Moaning Myrtle is," he answered dryly.
"Oh, of course."
"I also know she frequented a girl's bathroom on the second floor which she considered "hers". Pansy dragged me in there once to snog, insisting no one would look in there because everyone avoided Myrtle. Need I tell you how much it ruins the mood to have a voyeuristic ghost offering commentary on your skills?"
"That story is gross on so many levels," Hermione said, blanching.
"So where does the embarrassing part come into this tale of your magical prowess?" the prat inquired.
"Well… Harry, Ron, and I had this theory that you were the Heir of Slytherin," she ignored his snort, soldiering on, "and we thought that we could entrap you if we could impersonate some of your housemates. Harry and Ron chose Goyle and Crabbe, and I chose Bulstrode."
"Well, since at this point in time, I have no idea what you are talking about, you must have been successful."
"I guess that it depends on your definition of successful. The potion turned out perfectly; Harry and Ron transformed easily. They even spent an hour with you in the Slytherin common room over the Christmas holiday, trying to get information." Draco sensed a BUT coming up here. "But, I didn't end up with one of Millicent's hairs in my potion. I ended up with one of her cat's hairs."
Hermione watched the dawn of realization on Draco's face swiftly morph to horror, and then to mirth, before he said archly, "Meow."
Hermione's face burned with the amount of blood that rushed to it. The trio held many secrets between them which they vowed never to reveal about each other. She trusted that neither Ron nor Harry would ever tell this story to anyone, so Draco was the first outside of Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and Minerva to learn of her mistake.
"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me, kitten." The endearment was one he'd used before, yet the inflection certainly changed the meaning.
"Yeah, yeah, bring on the feline jokes. How about you?" she huffed.
"Well, it's interesting that you bring up one of your Hogwarts misadventures…" he hedged.
"No backing out now; I shared my most embarrassing secret with you. It took weeks of me drinking potions and being hidden behind screens in the infirmary before I could return to classes again. Now spill it."
"I was constantly jealous of the rules your lot got away with breaking and the fun adventures you shared while we attended school. I wanted to be a part of that. Well, not really," he clarified, cocking his head, a small grimace forming on his face, "but I wanted something like that. Not long after I broke things off with Astoria, I travelled to the States and took part in a Murder Mystery Weekend to try out my hand at solving riddles and being a part of an adventure."
"You what?" Hermione blurted out. She'd been about to set straight his evident misinterpretation of what constituted a fun adventure, because she would certainly not call the scrapes she'd gotten into with Ron and Harry fun, when he'd blindsided her with that last bit.
Hermione was vaguely familiar with the idea of an audience participatory Murder Mystery, although she'd never known someone who'd gone to one. She listened raptly as Draco described his experience. His face remained slightly pink through most of the rendition. He'd obviously never planned to share the details of this particular life event with anyone.
It turned out a thriving business existed in San Francisco, catering strictly to witches and wizards, which put on the events every weekend. The themes and storylines rotated each time, meaning a person could go nearly a dozen times without doing the same one twice.
He concluded with, "It was interesting, although not nearly as much fun as I'd hoped. Most people attended as couples, or in a small group. I was the only single bloke."
"You didn't win, did you?" Hermione cut to the quick.
"I was at a disadvantage!" Draco defended himself emphatically.
"What, did you come in second?" she taunted.
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes, and mumbled something.
"Did you say fourth?!"
"No. I did not say fourth," he stated clearly now. "I said fifth."
She couldn't contain an errant laugh.
He picked up a biscuit from the plate in the middle of the table, where they sat on his flat's patio, and threw it at her.
"I still solved it, didn't I?" he asked petulantly.
"What if you could go back again with a partner?" Hermione broached with a gleam in her eyes.
Damn if Draco wasn't instantly turned on. The mere idea of solving a crime with Hermione Granger should not cause this type of reaction. The table hid his hardening prick while he tried to play it cool.
"Are you proposing what I think you are?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
Hermione noted the way his pupils dilated. She squirmed a little in her seat, discreetly rubbing her thighs together. Or maybe not so discreetly, since Draco's eyes flickered downwards before moving back up, looking to her for a reply to his question.
"Well, I am very good at skulking around, looking for clues, and puzzle solving. Amongst other things," she answered, her voice getting husky at the end.
"Oh, yes, and when you want something, you are nothing short of tenacious. What do you want?" Draco inquired in an equally husky voice.
"You," she replied without hesitation.
He sprang to his feet with a growl, grabbed her hand, and apparated them straight to his bed. Being a wizard had its advantages. His rough kiss cut off her appreciative laugh.
She returned the kiss with equal fervor.
They quickly divested themselves of their clothing and joined together hard and fast. Apparently, the idea of teaming up and winning something together was a mutual turn-on.
Hermione began on top with Draco's hands firmly clutching her hips. She leaned back, with her left hand gripping his thigh behind her to grant some balance as her right hand worked her clit. Hermione's orgasm quickly slammed into her and she shut her eyes tight while her head fell back.
Draco watched an enticing flush work its way down her face and neck to reach her chest as she gasped for breath. He nearly came too as his name escaped her lips in-between pants while her silky walls fluttered around him.
"Not yet," he involuntarily grunted the words meant for himself aloud as he concentrated.
Hermione opened her eyes and tilted her head back down, a radiant smile on her face. Draco lifted her off his drenched cock.
"On your back, love."
She complied, and he placed her ankles on his shoulders. He moaned in satisfaction as his slid back into her.
It still ended too soon for his liking. Mere minutes later, he laid next to her, both of them staring at the ceiling, still a bit out of breath. He turned his head to look at her.
"Give me a small rest, love, and I am going to want another go," he told her with a smirk. "Unless you have somewhere else to be?" He'd only invited her over for tea after all, not an evening of all-out shagging.
"Actually, I am meeting a few of the girls for drinks later tonight. Don't fret, I still have plenty of time," she said, turning her head to meet his eyes and smile.
They spent the next 20 minutes snogging languidly.
Theo may be shite at talking about anything related to "real" feelings with Draco, but the two wizards were open about nearly everything else with each other. One evening not too long ago, they'd ended up in a very interesting conversation regarding refractory periods. They lamented the loss of their teenage recovery time. Theo asked Draco, "Remember when a pre-date wank was a necessity?" Theo barked a laugh when Draco asked, "Back then, did you even realize your dick could get all the way soft before getting hard again? Because I sure didn't." When Draco revealed he now needed about 20-30 minutes, Theo snorted. "Bloody hell, you lucky bastard. I need at least an hour."
As Draco laved one of Hermione's rosy nipples while tweaking the other with his fingers, he ruminated on getting older. Merlin, he'd been an idiot for at least two-thirds of his life. Probably closer to three-quarters, if chose to be honest with himself. Even if Hermione had caught his eye sooner than a couple of years ago, no doubt he would have mucked it up. Teenage Draco could keep his constantly hard cock; today's Draco would happily keep Hermione.
Draco's mobile was squealing. Hermione had programed it to play a recording of an otter's vocalizations whenever she texted him. She said it sounded cute. It sounded bloody annoying.
Especially at 1:00 a.m.
He rolled over to grab it off his nightstand and look at the screen.
H: Are you awake?
H: I miss you.
H: Can I come over?
H: I may have told the girls about our upcoming San Francisco date.
H: Just some of the details. Not the embarrassing ones.
H: Ok, possibly one of the embarrassing ones. Only how randy you got.
H: Randy. That's a funny word. Do you know anyone named Randy? I don't.
H: You know what else is a funny word? Scarf.
H: You must be sleeping.
D: Not anymore.
H: Brilliant! I'm coming over!
About three minutes later Draco heard Hermione came stumbling out his Floo. He also heard a little giggle and a muttered "Oops!" before she made her way down the hall to his bedroom. Hermione's ability to retain such excellent texting skills when pissed amazed Draco. Her motor skills were clearly a different story.
Draco watched her sway a bit in his bedroom doorway as she attempted to take off a shoe. She giggled at herself again when she realized she could hold onto the bureau next to her rather than hopping on one foot.
Hermione's other alcohol-induced quirk was that she spoke in a stream of consciousness after a few too many drinks.
"I didn't tell them you'd been before, but I think Daphne suspected, something about the way she said, "San Francisco, Draco's been there before, hasn't he?" and I told her that I didn't know if you had been there before, but I don't think she believed me; at least she didn't say anything else after that, so maybe she did believe me, who knows, well I guess you could ask her, although that would definitely give it away wouldn't it? Not that it matters, because she still wouldn't know that you went because you felt jealous of Harry Potter, or rather Ron Weasley, because you thought you should be best friends with Harry Potter, not Ron, so it was Ron, ohhh hahahaha, you were jealous of a Weasley, specifically Ronald Bilius Weasley, because Ron had Harry, and you wouldn't have imagined yourself as Harry's other best friend, namely me, would you?"
She'd managed to shimmy out of her dress and now tried to look seductive as she walked unsteadily towards the bed in just her knickers and bra. Draco sat propped up on the pillows; his chest naked, with the sheet slung over his hips. Hermione's eyes were locked on the covered part of his body, obviously looking for a reaction to her little show.
A reaction that wasn't happening. Oh, sure, there'd been a twitch down there while Draco watched her. Her drunken state remained too large of turn-off. She realized it and pouted, raising her eyes up to his. He patted the spot next to him in the bed with a smile to reassure her.
"Come on, kitten, tell me more," he said, his smile turned to a smirk.
Hermione happily plopped down next to her boyfriend, recognizing that perhaps shagging wouldn't have been so much fun after all, with the way the room began to spin a bit now that she sat still.
"Ugh, I knew I should have never told you that story! Oh, that reminds me though that Hannah thinks we should go in disguise to this thing, but not Polyjuice, of course, because we can't spend an entire weekend taking shots out of flasks every two hours like we're Crouch disguised as Moody, instead we can transfigure small things about ourselves, like our hair and eyes and then use aliases." She paused to gulp down the entire glass of water Draco always kept on his nightstand.
"Why does Hannah think we should do that?" Draco inquired as he grabbed his wand to refill the glass with an Aguamenti.
"Because we are too famous, of course, and people will be distracted by us, or bother us and get in our way, or worse yet, try to sabotage us so they can claim to have beat us. I've already come up with our fake identities. You are going to be Hercules and I am going to be Jane, from Agatha Christie, the Muggle crime writer who created characters in her novels, detectives really, named Hercules Poirot and Jane Marple, which should be easy enough for us to remember since Jane is close to my middle name Jean, and Hercules is a constellation too, and they are even next to each other in the sky, did you know that?"
Of course Draco knew that his namesake's head stared directly into the Roman god's crotch. Not that the witch let him get a word in edgewise. She blithely continued on with, "And, Agatha Christie wrote a book titled By the Pricking of My Thumbs, which in turn is taken from William Shakespeare's Macbeth Act 4, Scene 1 - "By the pricking of my thumbs / Something wicked this way comes".
By now, Hermione's head lay on Draco's shoulder. She managed to continue on with her uninterrupted monologue for roughly another five minutes, although the words became slower and slurred before they devolved into a purely nonsensical sentence about a nine-fingered hippie playing a guitar in a pigpen on the hated street of San Francisco.
Draco yawned widely as he helped her snuggle into a more comfortable position. He fell asleep next to her, plotting on the excellent idea of going in disguise.
Draco detested Magical San Francisco. Far too many witches and wizards claiming to be seers milling about, looking to make a fast Galleon off you with a street corner reading. It felt like every corner held a folding table with a seer seated in a folding chair behind it. Invariably, on the table would be a deck of tarot cards and some burning incense sitting atop a series of brightly colored flowy scarves. The witch or wizard would be seemingly oblivious to their surroundings, reading a dog-eared paperback book picked out of the knut bin, unless you made the mistake of slowing down your gait.
The shops along the street were touristy and over-priced. Draco knew Hermione would want to pop into the Quidditch store for jerseys for Ron and Harry, but couldn't imagine her desiring anything else.
Luckily, this American city boasted amazing dining options. Dinner out was priced comparatively the same as home. The ethnic food choices were just as varied as London. The local cuisine was reliably fantastic, which was something Draco would never utter back in London when eating bangers and mash or fish and chips with mushy peas.
Oh, and the city views. Now, those he could live with.
Hermione chose for them to arrive on a Thursday. The event took place Friday through Sunday, kicking off with a cocktail hour and dinner on Friday evening. She said they needed time to get over their portkey lag and be sharp. They spent that first night in a little art deco boutique hotel that dated back to the 1920s.
They walked around Friday morning as the fog burned off, cappuccinos in hand, taking in the sights. By lunch time, Hermione agreed with Draco's assessment of the wizarding district. She'd happily bought two San Francisco Snidgets jerseys, but found nothing else to her taste. Not even a book.
"What do you say to lunch out on the Muggle side? I want to take you down to Fisherman's Wharf," Draco suggested.
Muggle transportation was a steal compared to London. They hopped on one of the famous cable cars and soon stood at the water's edge, eating piping hot clam chowder out of sourdough bread bowls.
"The locals call it a walking chowder when you buy it from one of the sidewalk stands," Draco told her in-between bites as they stared at the giant sea lions lounging at Pier 39.
"I call it bloody delicious," Hermione gushed.
"Decadent," he quickly added on.
"Divine."
"Delightful."
"Dandy."
"Dandy?" He turned away from the basking creatures to quirk an eyebrow at her.
"Yes, dandy."
"Alright," he conceded, spooning another creamy bite into his mouth before he spoke again, "Desirable."
She paused. "I don't think I know any other D words."
They finished off their afternoon with a trip to the Presidio. They walked around the park situated on the Northern tip of the San Francisco Penninsula for over an hour, enjoying stunning views of the Golden Gate Bridge, the San Francisco Bay, and the Pacific Ocean.
"Love, I'm afraid we don't have time for you to read every single informational plaque and historical marker," he said after pulling back the sleeve on his windbreaker to check his wristwatch. Even in the summer, the winds off the ocean here could be cool.
Hermione opened her mouth to argue that they could spare another few minutes.
"No. We need to check in and get changed for the beginning of the event," he cut her off before she could even begin.
Damn him for being right, she thought.
Before arriving at the industrial warehouse, cum hotel with a twist, the couple assiduously applied glamours and slight Transfigurations.
Hermione covered up the scar on her arm, gave herself more defined cheekbones, altered the shape of her nose, and finally, lightened her hair. These would all be easy charms to hold, even when concentrating on something else.
Draco was well-practiced at hiding his tattoo. He rarely did it nowadays. What was the point when everyone who knew him, knew of his shame? And bollocks to the people who still judged him for it. There'd been a time after the war when he couldn't stand to look at it, and hid it every minute of the day, not only from others, but from himself too. After realizing his alchemy trials would never erase it, he gave up using magic to cover it. Today, he'd chosen to soften his facial features, darken his hair, then put on a pair of glasses.
The duo checked in under their aliases, trading successful smug grins only after they were ensconced in the safety their room. There'd been a millisecond where something resembling skepticism or fleeting recognition flitted across the front desk worker's face after they'd given their names, but nothing was said, so maybe the wizard hadn't recognized the truth behind the aliases.
The fact that the theme this weekend was 1860's American Old West felt like a dream come true for Hermione. She may have gone a bit overboard in the costume department. She had multiple corsets, which Draco would clearly need to help her lace up. Such a pity, she'd decided with a smirk when purchasing them. She had hooped petticoats and bustles galore. And the dresses, oh the huge, brightly colored, lace and ribbon trimmed dresses she'd chosen.
And then, because yes, there was an "and then", Hermione decided to go the opposite direction and also obtain some of the anti-fashion of the same period. The artistic and literary types of the day eschewed the fake female forms created by the elaborately trimmed confections of high fashion, and spread a style based upon medieval influences. She'd settled on two soft-colored silk dresses adorned with hand-embroidery.
Draco watched Hermione produce a staggering number of clothing items once they began to unpack. At least, he thought they were all clothing items. Some appeared to be delightful contrivances which should never leave the privacy of their room. One dress was constructed of enough material it could have passed for a blanket. As she continued to fuss through all of it, muttering to herself all along, he enlarged his trunk and pulled out his three lonely suits to hang in the closet.
Hermione glanced over. "Oh, those are lovely period suits. Did you find them in a vintage store?"
Draco snorted. Did she not remember his near breakdown from just a few months ago at that store in Washington D.C.?
"Oh, right. Cooties," she quipped.
Apparently, she did remember his aversion.
"Did you have your tailor whip them up just for this trip?" she guessed again.
"No. When you sent me examples of the style I am expected to wear, I remembered some trunks stored in the attic at the manor," he said.
"Oh, do you have many trunks full of antique clothing kept there? How far back does it date? How many ancestors' wardrobes have your family kept?"
She was so excited about what he viewed as nothing more than trunks full of anti-pest spells; it felt comical, yet so very her. He smiled at her enthusiasm, although he knew she would be disappointed in his answer.
"The only clothing stored up there is from my grandfather, Abraxas. I truthfully have no idea why my father set it aside after grandfather's death."
"Hold on one hot minute!"
Draco considered the idea that he shouldn't feel confused by that statement, yet it didn't make a whole lot of sense. He mentally shrugged as his girlfriend continued talking at an exceptional speed.
"You're telling me these are suits your grandfather wore?" she asked, leaving her dresses and accoutrements behind on the bed to stalk across the room to the closet. She stroked the fine black wool of one frockcoat. "How old was your grandfather when he wore them? When was he born? When did he die?"
She turned to look at him, hovering near the closet, in case she needed to touch them again or inspect them more closely, depending upon his answer.
Draco felt a bit confused by her sudden interest. "He was born in 1901 and passed away in 1993. Why?"
"Merlin! How old was he when he had your dad? 1901 you say? Are you sure these weren't your great-grandfather's suits, then? Or perhaps your great-great-grandfather's?"
He attempted to answer the witch's questions roughly in the order she asked them. "My grandfather was fifty-three when my father was born. To head off your next question," he said, holding up a finger at her, "my grandmother was considerably younger than him. I distinctly remember grandfather wearing the suits, so I'm sure they are his."
She turned back around and pulled one suit out, holding it up by the hanger to scrutinize it. She whispered a spell to allow it to hang in the air directly in front of her.
"Was he the same size as you, or did you have them altered?" Hermione asked as she undid the buttons on the black wool jacket and examined the black silk waistcoat. The silver embroidery on it was outstanding. Her fingers ran down to the wool trousers, examining the placket.
"Grandfather Abraxas' shoulders were wider than mine. Also, by the time in life he wore these, he'd gained a bit of girth." Draco preened a bit – his waist still remained famously trim. "We were roughly same height. Mother knew a charm to alter them a touch so they did not have to be taken to my tailor."
"Draco…" she hesitantly began, trying to find phrasing, not wanting to belittle his culture, "you do realize…"
He cut her off. "What? That Abraxas wore something a mere sixteen or seventeen years ago that would have been better suited to a Muggle gentlemen one hundred and fifty years ago? Yes, your lack of subtly already let that kneazle out of the bag," he huffed. "I get it. Pureblood society is staggeringly behind the times."
Hermione had the grace to blush.
"Wait, what charm did your mother perform? Why doesn't everyone know a spell like that?" Curiosity always overrode embarrassment.
Draco blinked at her a few too many times. Now needed a moment to properly phrase his words. At least he had the decency to think before he spoke, he thought to himself.
"Pureblood women historically let out their own dresses in the privacy of their homes until such a time they felt it wise to announce pregnancies to society."
What he left out spoke volumes. His mother was adept at taking in garments. Pureblood witches prudently hid miscarriages, his mother among them.
In the end, Hermione decided to go with the more traditional style of period dress, suspecting others would mistake her anti-establishment nod as simply not knowing better. Most likely, the other attendees would be too polite to mention her mistake to her face. They'd probably whisper behind her back. She knew herself well enough - if she overheard it, she would feel compelled to correct their mistake. She didn't fancy explaining to someone that their perception of a faux pas was indeed their own.
"Take those knickers right back off," Draco commanded Hermione once he'd helped her lace up her corset.
"Do we have time?" she inquired, turning towards him.
The way the corset presented her breasts to him - smashed together and up - distracted him. They looked scrumptious.
"Mmm," he hummed, neither answering her, nor even bothering to look her in the eye. He leaned down, hot breath brushing over her chest before his tongue darted out to run along the skin showing above the turquoise lace. He simultaneously smoothed his hands down her hips to push her knickers down.
He deemed them fashionably late when they showed up for the pre-dinner cocktail hour ten minutes into it. Luckily, they hadn't missed anything beyond mixing and mingling with the other guests.
After observing Draco all evening, Hermione came to a new realization about her boyfriend. He couldn't act to save his life. Oh sure, the man boasted the uncanny ability to hide all emotion. He could tamp down reactions to outside stimuli like a pro. However, he couldn't properly pretend to be someone else. His posture never once devolved beyond anything short of impeccable. His drawl screamed aristocrat. His social ease evidenced a certain type of upbringing.
"You know you'd be shite at pretending to be someone else around people who would truly have a chance of figuring out your identity, right? Or heaven forbid you ever needed to actually infiltrate something."
"Maybe next time we should let me have an unassuming name. Hercules isn't a name of someone hoping to blend in, is it Jane?"
"Which guests do you think are actors?" she asked, deciding she didn't care if he recognized her abrupt change of subject.
Dinner consisted of six tables of six diners. One bartender and three servers saw to their needs. When their hostess for the weekend introduced herself, she'd made sure they all understood she was the only truly neutral person in the building. Any other employee or guests should be suspect. They were welcome to work on their own or team up with others. Over the next thirty-six hours, the game was afoot. If no one solved it by the end of Sunday brunch, there would be a reveal.
The "murder" occurred during desert service when a waitress toppled over. Seemingly every chair flung back instantly, people scrambling to get to work sleuthing. Most took the time to inspect the corpse, but a few immediately approached the bartender, and then moved to the kitchen, interrogating to the workers in there.
Poison did seem the obvious answer; checking possible sources made sense. The bartender and the other two servers acted very open and concerned about their friend. The head chef left quite quickly, leaving some suspicious of him. The sous chef and other various crew seemed confused. Hermione had immediately followed the people interrogating the employees, while Draco stayed behind by corpse, doing what he did best. Observing others quietly.
Hermione and Draco agreed they were not going to rule out a non-verbal spell just yet. Not every spell capable of killing someone emitted an obvious green light like an Avada Kedavra.
"How many did they slip in last time you came?" she asked.
"Never did find out. It turned out one of the maids killed the bellhop. The backstory was he'd been blackmailing her. No one among the guests revealed themselves to be employees."
"Anyone look familiar to you?" she continued.
"Just the hostess. The others could be wearing glamours like us or just be an entirely different lot. It has been a few years, after all."
"I think we could rule out anyone who isn't a part of a couple. I can't imagine them planting more than two actors – cuts down on profit margins. That rules out anyone in those two foursomes. Unfortunately, that leaves twenty-six witches and wizards to keep an eye on, in addition to the employees."
Hermione sat at the desk in their suite, writing up notes with her Biro. She had taken off her costume and sat in a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. Draco had donned a pair of soft drawstring pajama bottoms. The couple agreed to wear sleep attire in which they wouldn't be embarrassed to be seen by strangers, just in case something happened in the middle of the night.
The notes Hermione jotted down included information on the victim, clues they'd gathered while chatting with others, plus general statistical data. Draco read over her shoulder.
"You should note the witch who got stroppy with her husband for drinking too much before dinner," he observed.
"Didn't it seem a little loud to you? Over-the-top, perhaps?" she clearly agreed with him.
"I almost made the mistake of writing it off as a typical classless American interaction," Draco admitted.
"Hmph."
Hermione wrote that down on the page titled "Suspicious Interactions".
"Also, you saw those two blokes who are here together?" Draco asked. Hermione nodded. "Well, while you were in the kitchen, the tall one told the one with the beard he felt this was stupid so far," he shared.
Draco ran a hand through his hair and began to pace.
"I am not sure how pregnant witches are supposed to act, I haven't much experience with them, but the woman who constantly reminded everyone she shouldn't drinking anything but seltzer water rubbed me the wrong way. The bartender seemed extremely eager to talk, yet he nervously polished drink glasses the entire time, some more than once. I overheard the two servers gossiping during a lull – the gist of their conversation consisted of the dead girl behaving as bit of a slag. A kitchen worker came out at one point to check on the servers and remind them that they still had to clear the tables; the dishes needed to be washed. Judging by his body language, he recognized someone in the room, but hoped he wouldn't be recognized in turn. He kept his face turned away from the crowd as much as possible, and nearly scurried back into the kitchen after relaying the message to the servers." Draco paused, thinking about what else he wanted to tell Hermione.
"I believe our biggest competition is that foursome with the two older couples. They cover all their conversations with a muffling charm," he concluded.
Draco could see how impressed Hermione was. Merely flexing his every day Slytherin skills, he thought with a smirk. His dick started to stand up and take notice of the situation, but really, his brain needed the blood flow right now in order to remain useful. Later, he promised himself.
On a different page within Hermione's notebook, titled "Death By…", Hermione and Draco compiled a list of potions which killed cleanly, as well as a list of spells that could kill quietly. The potions each had notations next to them of possible delivery methods, while the spells noted level of complexity.
The staff's high level of competence presented a roadblock to investigating poisons. They ran a tight ship; the water glass that the deceased witch had been using at the bar was already washed, along with the plate she'd nibbled off of in the kitchen before dinner service.
"I wish we'd brought a pensieve," Draco sighed, "because I'd like to go over my memory of where everyone sat at dinner. Not more than a third of the people would have possessed a clean shot at her where she fell. Everyone jumped up so quickly once it happened, and many never returned to their seats."
Hermione smirked.
"Oh, you brilliant witch," Draco chuckled.
By breakfast the next morning, Draco and Hermione decided that if one of the guests had performed a spell, there were only four people they'd consider for it. The process of elimination moved along surprisingly easy. On the flip side, when considering a potion, the field remained nearly wide open.
Hermione wore another typical period gown. She donned a shawl over her shoulders, as would have been fashionable for daytime attire. Draco again wore one of Abraxas' black suits. Honestly, all three were remarkably similar, with the waistcoats being the only variation she could discern.
"Good morning," the wizard seated next to Hermione said with a smile when she sat down. "I'm Rob," he told her, holding out his hand.
"I'm Jane. Pleased to meet you," she answered, shaking his hand.
He gestured to the witch on his other side, "This is my wife, Claire."
Hermione nodded politely and smiled at the other woman.
"You're British, aren't you?" Claire asked.
"Yes, Hercules and I live in London," Hermione told her, tilting her head towards Draco, who had paused at the bar to order two mimosas.
He could have ordered them at the table from a server, but wanted to take a second look at exactly how the bar was set up. Hermione was leaning towards a potion being the cause of death, and the method of administration being the glass of water at the bar. Draco supplied that the two clear potions he would chose in that case would be either a Baneberry Potion or Weedosoros. In the end, it would not matter which one it was, they could get away with being a bit vague with the potion's name if they could supply the rest of the murder scenario. So, there stood Draco, watching as the bartender made their drinks.
"We're from Colorado," Rob supplied. Hermione found so many American accents to be similar. If it wasn't upper East coast, or from the South, she had trouble pinpointing where an accent originated from.
When Hermione and Draco first entered the room, she'd been excited to see one of the two suspect couples from her and Draco's death by spell scenario currently sitting alone. She strategically sat by them, hoping to figure out if she should keep them on the list. However, she did not know enough about Colorado to know what to ask them to try to break apart a cover story. No matter, she would wing it.
"Mountains and a lot of snow, right?" Gods, she sounded asinine even to her own ears.
Claire smiled that patient smile people get when they are about to correct your assumption. Well, that probably meant they really were from Colorado. "Most people think that, even those who live in other parts of the United States," she said. "But, a good portion of the state is wide open plains. We live on the edge of the plains, just where the foothills of the Rocky Mountains begin. We have more sunshine and less snow in our part of the state than you'd probably believe."
Rob softened his wife's statement with, "It's beautiful, but most likely boring compared to what you are used to, living in London."
"Have you been? To London, I mean." Hermione asked.
"No, but we hope to some day. We use up too much of our time off from work to go skiing up in the mountains near us. This is the farthest we've ventured from home in years," Rob told her, with a rueful grin.
"I love to ski. My parents and I often went to Switzerland when I was younger," Hermione shared.
"Well, then you need to visit Colorado!"
The conversation continued through Draco coming to the table and being introduced.
Halfway through their meal, a fight could be overheard in the kitchen. The sous-chef was arguing with one of the servers and shouted, "It should have been you!" The server pulled her wand and hexed the wizard. A small duel broke out with most of the guests standing in the doorway gawking. Draco knew it was staged, but why? A real clue, or something meant to throw them off the scent?
Another clue came out mid-morning. Via a Sonorus Charm, the voice of the event hostess could be heard throughout the establishment. Draco and Hermione lounged in a small nook off the main entryway, reading books when the announcement began. "We have cleaned out the work locker of our deceased employee, and you are welcome to come to the front lobby to view the items contained within. You may look, but we kindly ask that you do not touch anything."
Hermione immediately noticed an inordinate amount of makeup compared to what she remembered the woman wearing. In a profession where one worked for tips, as servers here in the States did, she would expect a woman to want to look her best at work. Yet, it seemed this particular woman was saving her "best" for somewhere, or someone, else.
She shared that with Draco back in their room.
"I would have never noticed the makeup," he confessed. "I kept searching for something more obvious, like a note."
"Let's start with the assumption that this is tied to her sex life. That means we could be looking for a jilted lover, a jealous co-worker, or someone else who would have a reason to commit a crime of passion." Hermione tapped her Biro thoughtfully against the desktop.
"All right. It would have been easiest for the bartender to poison her if it was a potion in her drink. However, after watching him and seeing the set-up in general, it wouldn't have been difficult for most anyone to slip something in her glass of water when he turned his back to grab bottles of alcohol. The servers have a habit of setting water they continuously sip on in a little niche at the far end of the bar," Draco began, summarizing their notes and thoughts.
He liked to pace while thinking, often running a hand through his hair. Hermione found how mussed his hair ended up adorable.
"I think only the head chef or sous-chef could have selectively poisoned her food. They dished up employee plates from a shared serving dish, taking part in a quick family-style meal before our dinner began. No one is allowed to leave their plate sitting around for health code reasons. That seems to rule out the rest of the kitchen staff, as well as the rest of the hotel staff, like the front desk clerk," Hermione continued.
"Unless the poison was already on the plate? Could that have been orchestrated?" Draco asked.
"It would be extremely difficult to control who got the plate, though, wouldn't it?" Draco answered his own question before Hermione could.
They continued bouncing ideas off each other until it was lunch time.
The top floor of the large warehouse had been converted to an indoor farm. The walls were all windows, as was a large portion of the ceiling, similar to a giant greenhouse. Draco estimated the roof soared a good 15 meters above their heads. Lunch was served on picnic tables situated in the shade of a small orchard. There were gardens full of various vegetables. A brood of chickens wandered freely. Penned up in a far corner stood a handful of goats. Suddenly, Hermione understood why their meals thus far tasted amazing.
"Is it ok to call a pregnant witch annoying?" Draco whispered in Hermione's ear within a mere five minutes.
"If we're talking about that one, it certainly is," Hermione whispered back, purposefully avoiding looking at the woman in question. "She's like a harpy."
"Her husband must be the most patient man in the world. He's waiting on her hand and foot. He acts like she can do no wrong. It would be sweet if she didn't respond by being so rotten." Draco looked at the mild-mannered man out of the corner of his eye. He'd replaced his wife's water twice already. The first time she'd been given tap water rather than sparkling. The second time it came with a lemon wedge rather than the lime wedge she wanted.
Hermione was about to say something else, when a small commotion at another table drew their attention. "No, you can not have a second cocktail with lunch," a woman spat at her husband. It was the same couple from the previous evening.
"You are not my keeper!" he said harshly.
The server stood behind them, eyes darting back and forth, trying to figure out if she should agree to bring the drink he'd ordered, or follow the wishes of the wife. They ignored her.
"You need one. Otherwise you end up embarrassing yourself," she sneered.
"Who is the embarrassing one now?" the man triumphantly gestured to the staring crowd around them.
"This would have never happened if you could just manage to get through a day without drinking a pint of vodka," she bit out as she stood up, pulling the napkin from her lap to toss it on the plate in front of her.
"I need the alcohol to make putting up with your frigid ass bearable," he yelled at her retreating back.
The server finally unfroze when he turned to look at her and demand, "Are you bringing my drink or not?" She nodded at him mutely.
Just then the head chef walked out to describe their lunch and talk about the farm around them he used to supply his kitchen each day. He had dark circles under his eyes and his presentation could only be described as lifeless.
The bartender came around with a bottle of white wine, from a vineyard just north of them, to pour with their lunch. Hermione couldn't seem to gulp it down quickly enough. Luckily, Draco wouldn't be judging her; he quickly did the same. The bartender paused to talk to the server quietly, neither bothering to hide that they were discussing the angry wizard who seemed determined to drink his way through the weekend.
Draco glanced over at the foursome he worried they would lose to. The quartet sat huddled, with their usual muffling charms up and hands covering mouths to thwart lipreading. He knew it would be in extremely poor taste to try Legilimency on them. And quite possibly cheating, to boot. Bloody hell, when had he become the guy who cared about winning fairly?
Hermione glanced over to the couple Draco had pointed out as containing the bored wizard. The man in question appeared to want nothing more than a good nap. He sat staring off into space, his chin held above the table on his fist. She also scrutinized the various people she still hadn't completely ruled out. No one was doing anything interesting, but wouldn't that be an excellent way to stay under the radar?
"I really don't like that bartender," Draco murmured.
"I know," Hermione said.
Mid-afternoon, one of the cleaning ladies let it slip to anyone willing to listen that she'd found a pregnancy test in the public loo trash bin.
Hermione's eyes widened and she let out a gasp before pulling Draco behind a potted plant in the lobby. She proceeded to put up some absurdly strong spells prior to speaking.
"I know who did it!" She told him the answer, and smug satisfaction washed through him when he agreed with her reasoning.
They hurried off to find the hostess.
Draco could only describe himself as giddy when they were awarded first place.
A/N: While researching where the constellation Hercules sat in the sky relative to Draco, I found something very amusing. The head of the dragon does literally sit staring straight into Hercules' bits, without a single constellation between them. Then, of course, I read all about the dragon guarding golden apples, Hercules tricking Atlas into helping him steal some, and my first thought was that a dragon going after your bollocks doesn't seem a fair price for a couple of apples. My second thought was Drapple! I really do crack myself up. I also attempted to research American Quidditch teams. I knew that the United States has a national team; it's in Quidditch Through the Ages. Alas, I couldn't find anything in canon to back up the idea that American cities would have teams too. I found a website that listed cities with league teams, and lo and behold, San Francisco is the home of the Snidgets.
A/N 2: I bet you want to know the answer to the Murder Mystery, don't you? Mwuhahahaha!