A/N: I can't believe this has gotten so many reviews! Thank you so much for your kind words, constructive criticism and support.
...
As soon as Hermione woke up, before she'd even opened her eyes, she knew something was different. Instead of waking under cool, crisp hotel sheets as she had yesterday morning, she was tangled with a very warm, very naked sleeping man.
Draco, to be exact.
She edged her eyelids open and peeked through her lashes. She'd been sleeping almost on top of him so the first thing she saw was his chest, pale and beautiful like the rest of him. Her cheek was pressed against his bare skin, as was, it seemed, the rest of her, and his arm was draped around her middle, keeping her curled against his side. It was warm and rather heavy, but she didn't feel inclined to wriggle away.
His chest was rising and falling quite steadily beneath her cheek, so she guessed he was still asleep. Struck with curiosity and a touch of secret triumph, she lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were closed, translucent lashes resting on his cheek, and his expression was relaxed, unguarded in a way she so rarely witnessed.
Her gaze drifted slowly across his face, as she made the most of the opportunity to scrutinise him quite openly. She settled finally on his mouth - that full lower curve, the perfect bow above - the same mouth that had explored her body so thoroughly in this very bed.
Well... she looked into the other room, eyes resting first on the dishevelled dining table, then on the wall just inside the bedroom, and finally, on a fairly innocuous looking patch of carpet near the bed.
There, there and there too, she remembered with shocking glee.
"Where's your bloody bed, Granger?" he'd growled as he walked them back across the expansive living room. She'd been wrapped around him at this point, yanking at his clothes, mouthing at his throat.
"In the bloody bedroom," she'd shot back, to which he responded with a smothered groan and a pinch on her bum.
He'd walked them into the wall - twice! - and been distracted several times by a variety of proximate surfaces before they made it to the bed, where she'd teased him about his skills of seduction, and where, much much later, she'd been forced to take it back.
Laughing, gasping, she'd taken it all back.
And now, as the early morning sunshine spilled through the open drapes, revealing bare skin and twisted sheets, she found she didn't regret it.
She'd just slept with her boss. She'd just slept with Draco Malfoy. And she didn't regret it. Not a single moment.
Maybe the regret would come later, she mused. When he opened his eyes and she had to figure out what to say. Or when they had to sit next to each other in Gouin's stuffy meeting room, knees touching, frustration building. Or on Monday, when he would call her into his office for some reason or another and she'd have to listen to him talking to her and try very hard not to remember the feel of his mouth on her inner thigh...
She smoothed a hand across his flat belly.
No. For now, she would enjoy this. Enjoy him. Enjoy a side of herself she'd denied for a long time. Intent on relaxing a little while longer, she snuggled back down beneath the covers, resting her cheek on his chest.
But, a pragmatic woman at heart, she realised she couldn't stay in bed forever - and her body stubbornly refused to settle. Sex or no, she and Malfoy were in Marseille for a reason, and they had to meet with that reason at nine o'clock this morning.
She propped herself up on his chest once more, pausing as his arm tightened briefly around her waist. But his eyelids didn't so much as flutter, and confident he hadn't been disturbed, Hermione leant over him to look at the small clock on the bedside table.
It was nearly quarter past seven. Unfortunately far too late to go back to sleep.
She lingered for a minute more, watching the steady progress of the clock hand as she galvanised herself to leave the warmth of bed. But there was no question she needed to get up. She desperately needed to take a shower - she was pretty sure her hair was a solid mass standing straight up on her head, it was that sweaty - and it was probably a good idea to order them some breakfast. If yesterday was anything to go by, today would be another long, hard day of heated negotiations.
She glanced back down at Malfoy, still slumbering below her. He looked so peaceful, the usual crease between his brows erased entirely by sleep (and, she hoped, the night with her), that she didn't want to wake him just yet. Besides, waking him up would mean talking about last night, and she wasn't entirely sure she could manage that stark naked and pressed up against him.
But how to untangle their limbs without startling him awake?
Gently, she nudged his arm from around her waist and pulled away. Their hot, damp skin clung where it had been together, and her body felt cold, bereft, as she edged quietly across the mattress and out of bed.
She showered and dressed quickly, spelling her hair dry and wrestling it back into a bun. She stared dismally at her reflection in the mirror as most of it sprang straight back out - she'd so wanted to look slick and professional when she and Malfoy finally talked this out - but since even the strongest of fixing charms had never worked for her, it would have to do.
She returned to the bedroom, but Malfoy was still dead to the world. Her escape from bed had left the covers down around his waist, and she paused a moment to admire his naked torso. She'd explored him with her mouth and fingers in the dark, discovered the long whip-like scars across his chest from the curse Harry cast so long ago, but the pale morning sunlight sent them into sharp relief.
It didn't matter. Even scarred, he was beautiful.
She observed a moment more, then shook her head and walked away. There was no use getting sappy, she told herself sharply. Draco had yet to wake up, and Hermione had no idea how he would react to finding himself in her bed - to remembering what had taken place there just a few hours ago. There was, she realised bleakly, a very good chance he'd be appalled.
The thought made her feel a bit queasy, and she reached out to brace a hand on the back of the sofa.
Ok, there's the regret, she thought. Merlin help her, what had she done?
Knowing she needed a distraction, she began picking up the clothes she and Malfoy had left strewn about the suite. His jacket by the door, her blouse under the coffee table... then into the bedroom, where she found her skirt hooked over the bed frame and her bra wrapped around the bedside lamp. Heaven knows where her knickers were.
She put her own crumpled clothes away in her suitcase, thinking that, since they would be leaving tonight, she might as well get a head start on her packing, then began folding Malfoy's over the chair by the dressing table.
"Whoops," she murmured as his jacket slipped from her grasp to the floor. When she picked it up, she saw a few scrunched up pieces of parchment had fallen from the pocket. She picked them up too, automatically smoothing out the creases and shuffling them together.
She recognised Malfoy's scrawled handwriting immediately – it was the only untidy thing about him – but there was no company letterhead, so she assumed they must be personal notes. She went to fold them right back up... but then her name on the first parchment caught her attention.
Curiosity got the better of her, and, after a furtive glance towards the bed, she smoothed it back out.
It was addressed to a wizard from the Ministry, one of the three officials she'd met during her interview last week. For a moment, she thought the letter might be her recommendation, or at least a draft of it, but then she read on, and her heart plummeted.
She had long known Draco was one of the Ministry's key corporate benefactors – he claimed PR reasons; she'd always suspected it was more a form of personal atonement – but had never known exactly to whom or where his money went.
But Malfoy clearly did. And now he was threatening to withdraw that funding from this particular wizard's pet project, unless - and here, Hermione froze in shock - unless the man voted not to hire her.
How many people will lose their jobs? the note wondered mildly. How quickly will you?
Numbly, Hermione flipped to the second parchment. This one was to another Ministry official, the only witch on the interview panel, whose department had apparently been struggling to find funding for a new welfare programme. Her eyes blurred at the figure Malfoy was offering so... so long as the woman voted not to hire her.
The third note was even worse. Hermione choked in dismay as her lover of the night before calmly informed the final wizard on the panel that he was entirely aware of his sordid extra-marital affair, had the photographs to prove it and would sell them to Rita Skeeter, unless - Godric, she could predict it - the man voted not to hire her.
She stood and stared, dazed, at the parchment until the words swam before her eyes. There had to be some mistake. Malfoy wouldn't be so... so callous.
It was with a sinking heart that Hermione realised he would. She had witnessed his ruthlessness in business before. Despite a pretty poor paternal example and some worrying teenage moments, Malfoy hadn't grown into cruel man. But he was entirely single-minded in his devotion to his company, and he defended it, along with the people that worked for him, without a modicum of mercy.
And now, to Hermione, it was all so terribly crystal clear. She was nothing but business to him. Could never be anything but business to him. No matter how hard she'd worked for him. No matter what they shared last night.
And he was prepared to sabotage her - to destroy her chances at the Ministry - so she could never leave.
She read the notes once more, quivering with growing outrage. He had lied to her face, and she had believed him. She had kissed him too. Had that been the plan? To seduce her, to distract her, while he pulled the strings in the background?
She looked up at him, sleeping blissfully, entirely oblivious to the anger trickling down her spine like drops of icy water. She had wanted to believe he had changed. That he could put others before himself. But he hadn't. He couldn't.
And she... well, she was just a silly, trusting little fool who poured her heart and mind and soul into everything she did, and really should have learnt by now that some people just didn't deserve it.
Well, no more. Malfoy had taken advantage of her for the last time.
She packed her holdall swiftly, silently, hands shaking with suppressed adrenaline. She wanted to slam it around, to throw things, to scream and rage, but she forced herself to remain quiet, biting her tongue as she bundled clothes and gathered toiletries. Luckily, there wasn't much to tidy away; she had never been so grateful for her depressing ability to only pack what she needed.
Malfoy was still asleep when she left the room - she double checked, triple checked - but she felt on edge as she hurried down to the lobby. She was still shaking, but there didn't seem much she could do about it.
Monsieur Dimont was at the front desk, looking remarkably refined for such an early hour. Today's velvet jacket was a deep plum colour, with a bow tie to match. He looked up with a warm smile as she clattered down the steps, but on seeing her, his expression grew alarmed.
"Madame?" he asked with concern. "Is everyzing all right?"
She dropped her holdall to the shiny marble floor.
"No," she said. "I need to go home."
Monsieur Dimont looked startled.
"Madame?"
"I need to go home," she repeated, and her voice was brittle, like it might snap. "Please can you arrange a lift to the airport?"
"Your portkey is scheduled for tonight," he began, but faltered as her face crumpled. "Madame?"
"I know," she swallowed, hard. "I- I'm sorry. But I can't wait. I need to leave now."
He reached for the telephone, a wonderfully ornate contraption that jangled as he dialled.
"Certainly, Madame. I will send for a car."
Hermione nearly melted with relief. It was all she could do to hold herself together – which she did, rigidly and only just. She pressed her lips together, whole body tense as she fought the sudden surge of emotion. She wouldn't cry. Not over Malfoy. Her pride wouldn't allow it.
Her internal battle must have been written transparently across her face, because the kindly hotel manager paused a moment to examine her, a troubled crease in his brow.
"I trust everyzing is ok at home?" he asked concernedly.
His obvious care for her lodged in her throat, and she nodded, unable to speak.
"And 'ow about Monsieur Draco," he asked softly. "Is everyzing ok with him?"
She blinked rapidly, feeling herself well up. Don't cry, she told herself fiercely. Don't you dare cry.
"Yes," she said. But Monsieur Dimont was entirely too perceptive. He shook his head sadly.
"What he has done, eh," he said, lifting the phone to his ear. "Is it possible to forgive?"
Hermione thought back to the harbour, when Draco had looked down at her with such warmth, such desire, and told her that he'd wanted her to be happy. She thought of that first kiss, fierce and fast, then later in her hotel room, hungry but unhurried, almost tender. Hands and tongues and lips everywhere.
And then she thought of those three letters - the threat, the bribe and the blackmail - and she couldn't reconcile the man who had kissed her so deeply with the man who'd destroyed her. She didn't believe she ever would.
"No," she said. "I don't think it is."
...
Dimont apparently saw the need for a swift getaway, because the car took mere minutes to arrive. The drive to the airport was short but took Hermione along the edge of the Vieux Port. The sight of it – the restaurants and bars, now dark and shut up, the boats drifting listlessly in the bay – flooded her mind with memories of the night before. It made her heart clench painfully in her chest, and she was glad when they left the white sails and sparkling water far behind.
The taxi dropped her at the airport just in time to book herself on the next flight to London. The price was near extortionate, and she wasn't sure Malfoy would reimburse her, but she handed the woman her muggle debit card with only the slightest hesitation. She felt a bit sick though as she tapped in her pin. It was a lot of money for someone who'd possibly just thrown her job away.
She hurried through baggage and into the queue for security, practically itching with urgency. It was still early, but the airport was busy and there was no way in hell she was missing that plane.
Malfoy would be awake by now. He'd see she wasn't there. He'd see she'd emptied the room. He'd see the crumpled parchment pieces laid out accusingly on the dressing table.
He'd guess where she'd gone. If not, he'd soon find out from Monsieur Dimont. It would be too awful if he came after her; she kept glancing, paranoid, over her shoulder as she queued to make sure he hadn't.
Getting through the strict security checks kept her mind mostly distracted, but once she was the other side, there was nothing to do but wait. She found a secluded corner and stood alone, eyes fixed on the neon departure board as she counted down the minutes. The world bustled around her - laughing holidaymakers, focused businessmen and the worst, canoodling couples - but the sounds were muted somehow, as if she were underwater.
The moment her gate opened, she was off - the first in the queue, the first on the plane. She didn't relax until the doors were closed and the plane was taxiing to the runway. Tilting her head back against the seat, she let her damp eyes flicker shut.
She was safe. She'd escaped. Malfoy hadn't come after her, and if he had, well he'd missed her.
She wondered what he'd thought when he'd woken up to an empty bed, an empty room. She felt a twinge of guilt that she'd left him no note, but she pushed it away.
He'd left her three, she thought bitterly.
Her seat was by the window, and she watched, fixedly, as the streets and buildings of Marseille grew smaller and smaller below her. It was rather therapeutic actually, like she was leaving all her problems behind. Of course, in reality, the worst was yet to come - Monday morning and Malfoy's return loomed grimly on the horizon - but it was nice, just for a moment, to pretend her personal and professional life hadn't just exploded into a raging ball of flames.
How could she have been so stupid? She was supposed to be brilliant, dammit. But it seemed even the brightest witches had their weaknesses, and hers came in the devastating combination of silver eyes, sarcasm and hair the colour of starlight.
She tried to sleep some during the flight, but the plane was noisy, the people around her more so, and she couldn't work out how to switch off the endless stream of self-accusations swirling around her mind like a snowstorm. It all seemed to build up in the enclosed space, suffocating her to the point of near hyperventilation, and she was glad when they finally landed at Heathrow. Even if it was raining buckets.
She trailed forlornly through customs and passport control. There was no one coming to meet her, so she went straight outside to find a taxi. She had no doubt she'd end up severely splinched if she attempted to apparate anywhere in her current state.
Now, settled in the back of a roomy black cab, she stared dismally through the misted window at the grey sky and sea of dark umbrellas. Her hair and coat were damp from the rain, and she could feel it on her neck and seeping up her cuffs.
The journey was uncomfortably long, even though by now it was mid-morning and the morning rush hour was long over, but eventually the taxi pulled up outside Grimmauld Place. Hermione hadn't been able to face going home to an empty house. She needed a hug and a good cry, and was desperately hoping Ginny would be around to give her that. She should be; she didn't work on a Friday.
Hermione stumbled up the steps and knocked on the door. For a long time, all was quiet. She felt tears prick hotly in her eyes. She was soaked to the skin now, shivering on the doorstep, certain she'd never been more miserable in her entire life - and that was saying something, considering she'd spent months in a tent with two tortured adolescent boys. She banged again, more loudly this time, and then thankfully, blessedly, she heard the echo of movement deep within the old house.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Ginny called, voice muffled by the heavy door. A moment later, Hermione heard the latch turn, and then the door swung open.
"Hermione!" Ginny said, taking in her bedraggled appearance with wide, startled eyes. "Merlin, Hermione, what's the matter?"
Hermione opened her mouth to tell her, but the sight of her friend, her obvious care and concern, and the expectation of the comforting hug soon to follow proved all too much.
She burst into tears.