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Frigid waves smashed against the rocky shore, the salty spray shooting up hundreds of feet in the brewing storm. A heaving whirlwind of rain and lightning ebbed and flowed in torrential masses against the mansion house that stood tall on the peak of the stony island. The monster storm breathed life into the whipping and lashing trees like an ancient god of ice.
The windows of the mansion were framed in diaphanous light. The burning candles on the sills illuminated the stone outside walls like tiny stars burning holes in the liquid blackness of the sky. Soft music drifted on eddies of the wind, the pleasant celebration of the wedding inside opposing the ominous beast that pounded against the windows.
Inside the château, next to the glass doors of the balcony, two men conversed. One was short, bald, and supported a considerable paunch, one was tall and lithe. The first man simpered with hidden knowledge while the other remained austere and nursed his drink carefully.
"I'm afraid I cannot do that, Sir." The bald man chuckled.
"I'm sure you can, Mr Nott."
"It is out of the question. I would hope that you understand." The portly man smiled wickedly.
After a beat, the lithe man murmured something under his breath and smirked discretely. Quite suddenly, his bald counterpart became the very antithesis of what he resembled before. He retreated into a far corner in a barely contained panic. The remaining gentleman swirled his vodka on ice around his thick glass flute with the lackadaisical ease so characteristic of his personality—that is, characteristic for those who cared enough to know him. The man was Draco Malfoy, and as his eyes scanned the large ballroom, he acknowledged those he knew with an aloof inclination of his head. He downed the remaining drops of is drink quickly; he was watching for his target and wary of its presence.
With his dram gone, Malfoy strolled over to the bar in the opposite corner.
"Another vodka please, Tom. This time, make it neat." His voice was gravelly with fatigue, and his eyes were slightly dull. He decided that he needed another pick-me-up to heighten his senses.
"Coming right up, Sir." The lanky scot proffered a droll look before turning to his speed rail.
As Tom flipped back around and slid Malfoy's glass across the stainless steel, their eyes followed a corpulent man who took two tequila shots in quick succession. Tom grimaced before turning back to the other drunken occupants of the bar seats. Draco flashed a slightly sadistic smile before wandering away from the bar.
Just as he made a full turn around the ballroom, he heard a small clicking sound to his left.
When he turned, he almost choked on his drink. He couldn't believe his eyes. Forgetting all composure, he rubbed his eyes. Surely he was dreaming. "Hermione? That can't be you."
Yet there she was, dressed smartly in a floor length embroidered red dress that was tight at the bust but fell freely from her sternum to the tips of her black snakeskin heels. The only embellishment on the silk gown was a winding vine-like silver broach that sat on her agile waist. Her chestnut hair flowed in graceful curls to the small of her back. She looked much more like a grown woman since Draco had last seen her, her face having lost its youthful roundness and her dark lashes framed her guarded eyes with dramatic glamour.
"Mr Malfoy," she greeted easily with a cordial, though somewhat cold, nod. Her voice sounded the same, but with a hint of smug eloquence that surprised Draco. "Please, call me Jean." Her voice reminded him of tinted glass. It was dark and warm, but he couldn't look through it to find the hidden meaning behind her words.
Not knowing how to respond, he simply furrowed his eyebrows and took a draught from his glass.
"Are you not going to speak to me?" Jean asked, a small pout settling on her cherry-red lips. Draco grimaced at her pout. He had never seen that before.
"You really are going to stay silent, then?" She turned to go, but Malfoy cleared his throat.
"I wouldn't be terribly good company if I was so unforthcoming, would I?"
"I should think not." Jean replied and turned to survey the room. Malfoy watched her eyes flick back and forth across the faces of the guests.
Her gaze settled on the bride and groom. "Do you know the wedding party?" He wondered.
She smirked. "I believe my only connection to them would be you."
Malfoy was taken aback. "Surely you're not here to seek me out."
Her eyes were still on the groom when she answered. "Of course not. It's only a coincidence I'm seeing you here at all. But while we're together, we might as well get to know each other."
Malfoy shook his head and tossed back the rest of his drink. "I think I know enough already."
"You're as forthright as I remember, Mr Malfoy. It seems you haven't changed a bit."
Draco snorted. "And you're entirely too different for my liking."
Jean sniffed. "Malfoy, we can't all be as insipidly uniform as you are."
He turned to look at her then, eager to change the subject back to Hermione. "Are you still married to that useless buffoon from Hogwarts? Weasley?" A hint of bitterness entered his voice that he had a hard time ignoring.
"No." She smiled wittingly. "In fact, I should introduce you to my partner." She glanced around the ballroom before taking the arm of a tall, dark-skinned man who stood nearby. "Malfoy, this is my complement, Monsieur Samir Selmi, of Briska, Algeria."
The man reached his hand from out of his suit pocket and held it out to Draco, who shook quickly. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Malfoy."
"Oh, I'm sure it is." Draco replied grimly and discreetly wiped his hand on a nearby napkin. Sizing the man up, he took up a conversation. "What do you do for a living, Monsieur?"
Selmi seemed to hesitate before responding. "I'm into old money."
Jean flicked her fan open and rolled her eyes.
Intrigued by her reaction, Malfoy asked more questions. It didn't take long until he was completely positive that Hermione's complement was nothing more than a fake. He dismissed the dark man irritably after a few minutes and turned his questions to the woman beside him. Why was she with a man like that?
"You two don't seem loving."
Her answer was short. "That is because we aren't."
Playing the part of the innocent observer, Draco tried again. "Do you not have a public romance?"
"We have no romance at all."
He sighed faintly, exasperatedly. "Then why are you with him? I would have supposed that you were all over the 'fall in love like you tripped on a crack in the pavement' bullocks."
"Not at the moment. Our relationship is purely political, I can assure you." She turned to smirk at him as if she was certain he was jealous.
Unfazed by her assumptions, he raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have pegged you for the type. What does he want from you?"
She started walking away slowly, and Malfoy followed. Glancing around at the eyes that followed them, he held out his arm. Jean took it and replied. "It's more like the other way around. I want something that he possesses and he knows it."
Surprised, Draco took another sip of his drink. "And he goes along with it?"
"Naturally. He knows that once I get what I want, I'll drop him back down to the immoral hole in which I found him, so he takes this opportunity to swindle as many people out of their money as possible." They both shot a disparaging look at the Algerian man, who was talking animatedly to an older couple whilst slipping a thick wallet out of the man's pocket.
Turning his attention back to the woman on his arm, he scoffed. "Is that what you desire as well? Money?"
Her voice was as poised as a diver on a board, even though his question was harsh. "Hardly just that, Mr Malfoy. My sights lie on something—altogether more important."
"You're much more enigmatic than you once were, Ms Granger," He commented dryly.
She smiled without mirth. "Or maybe you're growing out of your oblivious nature."
"Maybe," he conceded, "but you seem to have…metamorphosed."
She sighed, and for the first time that night, passion sparked in her eyes. "Look around you. You and I are surrounded by the hierarchy of supercilious pureblood society." She started at him then, and his eyes were drawn unwillingly to her gaze. "The world of animosity and anonymity is alive and well, Mr Malfoy. You see that wretched show of open abhorrence lying in the den of falsely magnanimous actions in this very room. Each member of this society is treated kindly and civilly and then loathed behind closed doors and printed fans. You ask me if I have changed. I am here to ask if you ever will."
"You assume too much, Ms Granger. You speak quite ill of the beau monde you have no part in." Distractedly, Draco mused about how eloquent she was when angry.
"The beau monde I desire to destroy from the inside out? I should think not." She remarked aloofly, offhandedly.
He smirked. "Yet here you are."
"Indeed." He started to walk faster, but she kept this new stride nimbly.
After a short pause, he decided to change the subject. "How did you get in here?"
"I have my ways."
He exhaled roughly. He was starting to hate her evasiveness. "Such as?"
"Trust me, no one was injured indefinitely." She flashed a degenerate smile.
His brow furrowed. He was supremely confused. "This new you is not what I would have expected."
She flicked her fan open again with uncaring ease. "How do you know I wasn't always like this?"
"Because this is not the Hermione Granger I knew."
Her eyes were suddenly soft, and as she slowed, he followed suit. "You mean that this isn't the Hermione Granger you fell in love with."
"No. It's not." He said simply, searching her face for any familiarity. "Nevertheless, she's in there somewhere. Underneath all those politics."
Things were silent for a moment, but Draco had no desire to strike up a conversation. He realised then that had lost sight of his target, and began searching for it as quickly as being inconspicuous allowed.
"Tell me, Mr Malfoy, are you always this presumptuous?"
"Not everything is about you, 'Mione." He replied distractedly, then sighed in relief when he caught sight of his target. It was still in the room.
"Oh, I see." She snorted. "And it's Jean, by the way." She seemed to notice his divertissement and snapped her fingers sharply.
Grinning slightly at her need for attention, he downed the rest of his vodka and placed it on the tray of nearby garçon. "Jean? I'm guessing that you wanted a more sophisticated name since we got out of school."
"You'd be right. Nobody gives ventures to a girl named Hermione."
"But a woman named Jean Granger? I can see that, I suppose."
"Yes."
Silence once again settled over the pair, before Malfoy walked casually over to the bar, Hermione trailing a few feet behind with a curious expression.
"Another please, Tom." Draco said, absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair once he came to the speed rail.
"Tough night?" Tom teased, casting a quick glance toward Hermione. She was staring fixedly at Malfoy, and he could almost see the gears turning in her head.
"Tom." Draco warned tiredly.
The scot just laughed and poured the sulky man another glass.
As Malfoy wandered away from the bar again, Hermione grabbed his sleeve. "How is it that you're not inebriated?" She asked incredulously. "That's the third drink you're on and your eyes aren't even misty. You can't ingest that much alcohol without getting tipsy—I remember that night on the rooftop with the Strawberry Hill." She shook her head, a smile almost shining her eyes. "Those aren't even shot glasses!" She gestured to his hand, where he was swirling his glass.
Malfoy smirked, his bad mood gone. "How are you so sure that it's alcohol, Hermione?"
"I don't know—maybe because the bartender poured it from a bloody vodka bottle?"
Malfoy genuinely smiled, satisfied that he was fooling Hermione. "People are more casual when they think they're speaking with a drinking man. You have the upper hand when they don't think you'll remember anything in the morning." Malfoy raised his glass and threw it back elegantly. "Alcohol is a liquid good for preserving almost anything except secrets; and that, my dear, is why I avoid it."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, glancing from his tumbler to his eyes in tacit enquiry.
Malfoy tossed his empty glass from hand to hand. "In vino veritas, in aqua sanitas," he replied.
Jean snorted. "Is that what they taught you at the Ministry?"
"No. That's just my sheer ingenuity and knack for deception, Ms Granger." He offered his arm again, and she took it. As they passed the balcony doors, she sighed.
"There were few things I hated more as a child than people staring at me."
Malfoy looked around the susurrous crowd and observed the people looking back at him. With a blasé shrug, he turned back to Hermione. "You are dressed to the nines, what do you expect?" He observed the woman once more, listening to the scroop of her dress as she moved.
"I expect them to look elsewhere," she muttered.
"Hmmmm," Malfoy grunted. Something was off about her. He placed his left hand on her fingers that rested in the crook of his elbow, turning her towards him. "You're lying." He finally concluded.
"I am not," she replied calmly.
His eyebrows furrowed. "Why are you lying?"
"Ask me no secrets and I'll tell you no lies, Draco." She responded frostily and moved away.
He grabbed her hand. "Don't call me that," he commanded.
She stopped at his open demand. "What? Draco?"
"Yes. Don't call me that. Not when you're like this. Not when you're not you."
Sharply, she turned to face him again, their faces incredibly close. "I can't risk being me. Not now, and especially not here."
Suddenly, Draco was desperate. He had to know what was going on with her. If at all possible, Malfoy stepped closer to her. "Then let's go somewhere else, Hermione. The balcony, the hallway even. Away from listening ears."
She stepped back uncomfortably. "It's not that easy, Mr Malfoy."
"Why? Why not?" He was unexpectedly harsh.
She held his gaze. "Because we're being watched."
His training kicked in like a natural instinct. He kept her eye contact. "Who?" He asked, careful to remain casual.
"Behind you," she replied, staring straight into his eyes. "I believe it is a certain relative of yours. A cousin, maybe?"
"A man with black moustache and balding head? In a Prada suit?"
She nodded slowly, regally, and then stepped around him and onto the dance floor. "Care to join me for the next waltz?" She stretched out her hand gracefully, a knowing glint shining in her eyes.
Memories of their fight removed from his head, he smirked slightly and accepted graciously. He knew what she was doing.
As they glided across the marble floor, he took his time to access his situation. Here he was, dancing around the ballroom of his counsin's villa at midnight, ignoring the perfect way that Hermione fit into his arms, trying to come to the terms with the fact that politics had ruined her personality, looking for his target and keeping his distance from said target all at the same time. What sort of mess have I gotten myself into? He wondered, shaking his head slightly as the music changed dramatically and he switched partners with the man to his left. He watched Hermione float away from him, moving as a swan on the water. Taking a glance at the woman he was dancing with before he passed her off, he took in her drab brown hair and purple dress quickly.
The next woman was slightly more interesting, with hideous mile-high hair, bad makeup and lecherous eyes to match. Her teal rimmed lids coordinated with her dress and stilettos shoes with an exactness that made him slightly sick. They danced for a few minutes, and as they did so, Malfoy searched the room for his cousin. With every turn, he caught sight of the man and then lost him again in the labyrinthine mess of guests. As the song progress towards the climax, it became time to switch partners again. With joy, he gave the repugnant woman one last twirl and effortlessly grabbed his next partner.
As the dancers circled the room, Malfoy then made eye contact with his target from across the dance floor. The man raised a thick eyebrow and Malfoy smirked fiercely.
Being so busy intimidating his target, Draco was shocked when he smelled pomegranate. It flooded his nostrils and sent him spiralling in a wave of memories. Caught up in the past, he turned to face the woman in his arms. Reaching a hand up, he caressed her face. "Hermione." He murmured.
She looked away. "Jean, Mr Malfoy. Jean."
He shook his head to clear his mind. "Of course. Jean." Though the song wasn't over, she placed her arm in the crook of his elbow and he steered them towards the bar. For lack of a better thing to do, he drawled the first thing he could think of to say. "Fancy a real drink?"
"I always do," she smiled wryly.
"For you Miss?" Tom asked Hermione as they made their way to an empty space.
"Do you carry White Zinfandel?"
"Ah, yes Ma'am. Coming right up." The bartender seemed impressed with her choice of drink.
"Merci, Monsieur," Jean replied as he handed her an elegant glass flute.
"And for you, Mr Malfoy?"
Draco pursed his lips at the smug look that twisted the Scot's face. "Manhattan. Dry please."
"A certain blend for you, sir?" Tom smirked, bowing presumptuously.
Draco sighed a let out a small grin. "Do you have Johnnie Walker Blue on hand?"
"Certainly."
As Tom turned away, Draco raised a finger. "Straight up, Tom."
The barman scoffed and handed Draco his drink after a moment. "That's the only way I can bear to build a Manhattan, Malfoy."
"Well, thanks. You always seem to know how I like it."
"It helps that you order the same things in a similar succession every time I serve you." The bartender smiled.
Malfoy threw his arms out to the side in an arrogant manner as he walked away from the bar backwards. "What can I say? Why fix what's already perfect?"
Hermione raised an unamused eyebrow as he offered his arm once more. They started to walk around the room with poise, and Malfoy lifted his glass in the air.
"To the perfect night." Hermione proclaimed, raising her own wineglass.
He clinked his tumbler to hers. "Cheers, Granger."
They continued to promenade with calculated steps and little conversation. Malfoy caught sight of his target leave the room and felt the itch of adrenaline start to enter his system. His brain screamed for action, but his face remained impassive. Despite his perfectly schooled emotions, Hermione noticed and soon turned to face him.
"I am ill-suited to such longueurs. Shall we go somewhere else?"
"I know just the place." Draco replied gruffly.
The halls were empty. Their footsteps echoed eerily on the marble tiles and bounced through dark doorways and windowed alcoves. Some of the candles that sat on windowsills had burned down to white stubs, islands in a sea of molten wax.
As they rounded a thick pillar and entered a new hallway, Draco saw her shoulders relax and her strides shorten. She felt more at ease here; he did too. The hallway ran the length of the ballroom on the other side of the wall, the music that had previously barraged their ears softened to a sweet, ebullient murmur. Though the ballroom surpassed standing room only, the corridor in which they wandered was removed from the party with an other-worldly effectiveness.
And though he enjoyed the serenity, Draco wanted answers.
"Why are you so cold now?"
Hermione hid a hand in the folds of her dress. "I'm feeling perfectly temperate, actually."
If it had been any other time, Draco would have laughed at her evasiveness. "You know what I mean," he remarked stoically.
She sighed. "Only the cold can call themselves fit for the job, Malfoy."
He sighed as well, this time in frustration. His voice was raucous in the empty hallway, ringing through forlorn arches. "Then you're not fit for the job. Hermione, look at yourself! Is this really what you've been working towards? What you've been dreaming of?"
She shook her head roughly. "Dreams are as fragile and dangerous as broken glass. But obliterated dreams don't cut you when you pick them up. I'd rather have white powered dreams than a wineglass, sitting on an edge, waiting to crash…" She trailed off, eyes sad. "Because when dreams brake, you can be free from expectations." With her empty tumbler in hand, she firmly pressed the edge of the cup against a stone pillar they were passing. It crumpled quietly under her destroying fingers and she gently tossed the pitiful remains into a corner. Draco looked at her sadly, seeing the remains of her old self, struggling to get out.
"Hermione, freedom from self-slavery is true liberation. Don't let your fears tell you otherwise."
"And what do you know of manumission Draco? The man I see in front of me is as broken as you claim I am. You are a prevaricator and coward." This woman was an injured wolf backed into a corner—she would take him down with her if push came to shove.
"If I'm a prevaricator, then you are an arriviste." He quipped, avoiding her abrasive gaze. "What about your family, Hermione? What about the standards you set? Don't you remember what they taught us at Hogwarts? You never give up who are, not even for the best job. I may be a coward, but I don't flaunt as someone that I'm not. Remember when you felt the same way, Hermione?"
"It's Jean," she whispered.
Draco closed his eyes. "So you're not going to even think about changing?"
Jean stopped mid-step and pulled him roughly behind a granite pillar.
"What are you doing?" He yelped.
"Hold still." She breathed and held his arms in place even as he battled to get away.
"What the—"
"Quiet!" She hissed and peeked her head around a corner.
Draco saw the panic in her eyes and wisely stopped struggling. The sound of several pairs of soft footsteps meandered in between the pillars.
"Someone's coming." Draco muttered.
"Yes Mr Malfoy, how astute of you." She smiled saccharinely. "Now shut up!"
"Hello?" A low voice called out. He must have heard their whisperings.
Jean crammed against the pillar as well, her hand pressed against her heart. "He almost saw me." She panted.
"Shut up." Draco smirked. Hermione shot him a fierce glare.
"I know you're here!" The man vociferated again.
"Did you catch a glimpse?" Malfoy asked.
"You can't hide from me!"
"Yes," Jean mumbled. "It's the man in the Prada suit."
"Where are you?!"
Draco shifted his weight restlessly. "Who's with him?"
"A gaggle of idiots with guns."
"Let's talk like adults, shall we?" The voice was getting closer.
Malfoy smiled strangely and slipped his hand to the back of his belt. It was always nice when his targets came to him. "Remember Clance's third formation?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "How could I not? I hated that one."
"Come out, come out wherever you are!"
"I know you hate that one. But—"
"It's your favourite, I know." Hermione and Draco shared a dry smile as she fingered the hem of her dress.
'I'm growing impatient!"
"Now!" Draco said as he jumped from behind the pillar and drew his wand simultaneously.
Jean swore vigorously under her breath and followed suit.
The man in the cliché Prada suit yelled in surprise as Malfoy and Granger appeared suddenly in front of them. Two out of the six accomplices hit the floor before the Prada man could draw his wand and retaliate.
Draco dived behind a pillar opposite of Hermione's cover. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and determination gleamed in his eyes. The chase was the best part of the job.
The Prada man blasted a few spells at his pillar and Malfoy laughed quietly. This would be too easy. He and Hermione made eye contact from across the way and nodded sharply before delving out into the open again.
The reached the opposite sides of the hallway again—with two more men hitting the deck in pitiful unison.
Four down, two to go. And the man in the Prada suit, of course.
Easy. Almost too easy.
The door to the ballroom opened and a frightened voice screamed. "What's going on?! Clive! What is going on?!" It was the bride.
The groom stumbled into the hallway as well and surveyed the scene with horror. "Atlas?" The groom asked the Prada man, "what is this?"
Draco swore. He hated it when he was right.
"Clive," the Prada man greeted as warmly as he could with a raised wand in his hand. "I'm afraid there's been a—"
"No, Atlas." Clive stepped back. "I don't want to hear your excuses. What's going on? I thought I told you—none of your magic tricks around my family."
"As my only cousin," the Prada man laughed uncomfortably, "you should know that sometimes I have to deal with…unsightly business. I was simply having a financial conversation with a client."
"With a wand in your hand?" Clive asked, sceptical.
"Clive, I—"
Jean's laughter interrupted their conversation.
Draco, who had been watching his cousins eagerly, had forgotten all about the woman who now stood in the centre of the corridor with a revolver in her hand and wild smile in her eyes.
"Clive," Jean mocked cheekily, "you should know by now that your beloved cousin is a parvenu and bloody contemptuous prick." She shrugged and a blinding green flash exploded out of her wand. The Prada man fell to the ground without a groan. "You'll thank me later."
Draco was awed for a moment by her utter insolence, but soon slipped from behind the pillar, stupified the other two guards, grabbed Jean's hand, and bolted down the hallway parallel to the ballroom.
"I'll thank you now!" Clive yelled after the pair and Draco let out a relieved, almost hysterical laugh. It was unbelievable, but they were home free.
They ran down a few more hallways to shake off any pursuers, finally settling down in a study at the far end of the chateau.
"Well, that cleared things up," Hermione said as they collapsed on a leather couch that smelt of pipe tobacco.
"Yes, it did. Thanks, Granger, you're good at that." He commended, breathing heavily.
"No problem," Hermione panted.
"Sharp as a tack, as always."
Some time later, they left the mansion. The storm had disappeared since the exordium of the gala, the clouds had cleared and the massive expanse of the night sky was spread out above them. The pair descended the marble stairs that led into the rear gardens and started down a sloping path that led to a deserted harbour. The pavement glistened with trails of residual water, like thousands of stars had fallen from the heavens and littered the tree framed path. They walked for a minute or two in silence, wondering what to say. They both knew that time was drawing to a close.
"Xyst." Draco commented casually as they meandered.
"Pardon me?"
Draco chuckled at her confusion. "Xyst," he repeated.
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Do you mind expounding, Malfoy?"
He smiled, gliding his hands into his silken pockets. Their playful banter in the corridor had faded, replaced with their overly polite vernacular from the beginning of the night. He mourned the loss of the connection that peril had revived, but it was better this way. It had to be better. "It's an old word. I learned it from a man I met in my travels in Rome. Xyst means 'a garden walk planted with trees.' That's what this reminds me of."
"I see," Jean replied, kicking a wet pebble absentmindedly across the lane. "I am predisposed to call it an alameda."
Malfoy hummed in agreement. "Perhaps that is a better word."
"Have you been on many travels since Hogwarts?"
Malfoy nodded stiffly. "I've done some quite extensive travelling since I joined the agency, but nothing too exciting. And anything that I've done I can't disclose to you."Jean sighed and slowed to a stop beneath a giant congrio a metre off the path.
"I'm sure you understand, Miss Granger."
"I do." She sat down on a low branch of the tree and closed her eyes."I sincerely hope that you leave the agency soon. You just nearly escaped Azkaban and the Death Eaters, why are trapping yourself again?" She asked, folding her hands in her lap and looking up at him resignedly.
He fixed her with a hard stare, not appreciating that she brought up the past. They had agreed not to do that. But the longer he looked at her, the more his thoughts began to wander. "And I hope that…" He trailed off, too afraid to express what came to mind. Unaware of his indecision, she smiled wanly—fondly.
He sighed, gathering his courage. "I hope you decide to be my Hermione before all this is over. The real one."
The smile slid off her face. "And why would she be yours?" She demanded.
He winced but set his jaw anyway. "Because—she once was."
The waves smashing against the rocks was the only noise. The music inside the ballroom had ceased indefinitely, and the quiet was almost overbearing. His gaze set on her face for a few uncomfortable minutes before her shoulders slumped. Her resolve seemed to melt away like the raging storm that had retreated just minutes before. "No longer mourn for me when I am dead," she said, looking at him uncertainly, as if she hoped that he wouldn't forget.
"Then you shall hear the surely sudden bell," he replied.
Jean smiled bitterly. "Give warning to the world that I am fled."
"From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell."
She held out her hand, and he kissed it with all the fervour of their dying words.
"When I perhaps compounded am with clay," she whispered, taking a step back, but maintaining eye contact. "Do not so much as my poor name rehearse."
Draco averted his eyes roughly, attempting to break the spell. "But let your love even with my life decay."
"Lest the wise world should look into your moan, and mock you with me after I am gone."
Everything was silent for a snippet of endless eternity, the weight of their words pressing upon their shoulders. Even the ocean seemed to arrest its tossing.
"You always did love Shakespeare, Hermione." Draco murmured.
"Yes."
Silence once more.
"You realise that I have to kill you now, right?"
She responded with another quiet affirmation.
"I don't…I don't want to."
Jean bowed her head. "I know. But you have to."
"I do." The words tasted like destroyed dreams on his lips. He had expected, many years ago, that he would say those words to Hermione—but not in this context. They used to be such sweet words to me, he mused. Such perfect, such tender words transmogrified into something that ate at his soul.
Jean's eyes burned like cigarettes. Draco avoided them. "It's your modus operandi, isn't it? Kill anyone who knows too much."
He chuckled resentfully and began to pace. "Is that why you want so desperately for me to leave the agency?"
On his fifth turn around the congrio tree, Hermione caught his sleeve. "It's too late for me now, but yes. It's slowly killing you inside, I can see it."
He wrenched away from her with sudden self-loathing. "You're dying as well. Even without Avada." He shot back at her.
She smiled bitterly. Knowingly. "Any last words?" She asked.
Silence between them. The crickets chirped and the waves lapped against the shore. The storm thundered in the far reaches of the inky horizon.
"I love you, Hermione." The whispered confession was so quiet, he wasn't sure that she had heard.
She took a step closer to him, grabbing his chin softly, and made him meet her eyes. "I loved you too."
"Funny, how humans always seem to destroy that which they need the most." His voice was choked and raspy by the end. He didn't resist the urge to place a soft kiss on her lips.
"You're procrastinating," she mumbled.
"I know. I don't want to—" He stopped. He couldn't make himself say the words.
"Trust me, I feel the same way about this," Jean remarked dryly as she stepped out of his arms.
"Then run."
She scoffed as if disgusted with herself. "I can't really live without you now that I've seen you again."
He bit his lip. "I guess this is goodbye then. There really is no other way."
"Not for us. If you don't do this, it's the end for you as well—and I couldn't bear that. Goodbye, Draco."
Reaching to his belt, he closed his eyes and drew his wand. He fingered the grain of the wood. His finger curled around the handle on instinct. He raised the wand blindly. Ignoring her resigned sigh and the shaking of his hands, he pulled his wand back.