Chapter 20 - Seduction
"Do you know Blaise Zabini?"
Orla glanced up with dark ringed eyes from where she was gathering her papers on the other side of Hermione's desk. "Know him? Slytherin, pure-blood, your year?" Hermione nodded. "Of course I don't know him. We don't exactly move in the same circles." She stood, stifling a yawn with her fist. "Why?"
"Just, you know, curiosity." Hermione said, reclining into her chair. "Just wondering what he ended up doing."
Orla must have caught something in Hermione's voice that she'd failed to disguise under poorly feigned indifference, as she jerked her head up with a frown, and Hermione saw her gaze leaping to the morning's paper, dumped on a table in the corner of the office. The photograph of old Mr Brian Montgomery, the muggle-born philanthropist whose donation Hermione had secured for the school a couple of weeks before, could just be seen, holding his arms aloft to shield his eyes from the flashes of paparazzi camera bulbs.
Hermione could just read the headline, Muggle-born Sells Wizarding Secrets to Muggle Government, which was followed by what she knew read: Montgomery's donations to Burbage High and close relationship with Head sparks fears over her true motivations for the school... The rest wasn't even worth remembering, though of course, Hermione could, word for disastrous word.
"Why?" Orla said, her voice harsh with alarm and suspicion, "Do you think he's got something to do with that?"
"No, no, he's nothing to do with it," Hermione's said hastily, regretting mentioning him at all. Orla was understandably desperate to jump on anything that could lead her to an explanation for what was happening with the press, however flimsy or unconnected. Even if that was just the passing mention of obscure, un-notable pure-bloods. "Orla - please, go home? We've done all you can today. We just have to wait to hear back from Montgomery's people."
"Home?" Orla's voice wavered dangerously. "I've got my work cut out for me! I can't go home!" She gripped the back of the chair before Hermione's desk with whitening knuckles. "This isn't just about saving the donation, you and Burbage have never looked worse! We can't possibly go home now."
"It's been a long day-" Hermione said, and then, instantly chagrined by the look of incredulity directed her way, dropped her eyes to study her desk.
It isn't because of yesterday evening. It isn't because he said he'd come, Hermione wanted to tell her, though of course Orla didn't know anything about her visit. No one did. This isn't about him, this is Albus's last night at home. Of course it's okay for me to want to spend time with my godson. Feeling slightly vindicated, she met Orla's scowl. "It's getting late-"
"Hermione, it's five-thirty," Orla snapped. "This isn't just some trashy tabloid like the Daily Post. It's spread to the Daily Prophet. "
"And you think the Prophet has more credibility than the Post?"
"No, but the readers don't know that!" Orla gave the chair a shake. "It's getting out of control! This is more than just published pictures of you drunk, or bad academic results!"
"I know, I know," Hermione muttered, dragging her fingers under her eyes. Orla was looking at her with growing irritation. I need to tell her. If there's anyone I can trust with this, it's her. Besides, she'll drive herself mad soon. And me. Hermione drew her wand and herself up straight and nonverbally cast the Muffliato charm. They were probably alone in the school, but Hermione now understood that didn't necessarily mean anything. "Listen," she began, "I know you're doing everything you can -"
"Which isn't enough given the relentless regularity of this happening -"
"- But you can't stop this."
"Why?" Orla asked, throwing her hands up into the air. "That is my job. This is why you employed me, though clearly, maybe you should just fire me now, as I'm turning out to be a huge waste of money!"
"Orla! For Gods sake, just calm down and listen to me." When Orla merely jutted out her jaw Hermione went on more gently. "You can't stop this, because this has become more than anyone should have to deal with professionally. How do you think The Prophet got wind of Montgomery's donation?"
"I'm assuming he must have told someone."
Hermione shook her head. "We're the first contact with the Wizarding World he's had for years. The information in that article had to come from us because he absolutely didn't want any news of the donation getting out. Don't you remember? The day Brian visited, I instructed everyone he met about his request for privacy, and I really want to believe that everyone to respected that..." Orla had grown utterly still as she processed what Hermione was saying. "You're right, this isn't just about trying to save the donation, but it isn't just about PR damage control either, but being aware that somehow the paper had a way of hearing our meeting. The information in that article - about his work, his background, those were things that he told me, in this very office."
"You think - someone, here, betrayed us?" Orla's dumbfounded expression was a perfect replica of what Hermione's own had been when she had first read the article that morning and also jumped to that conclusion. However, once the shock had worn off, Hermione found it easier than expected to compose herself. She'd wasted too much energy getting upset over the summer and perversely, it was almost a relief to find out it wasn't anything she'd personally been doing wrong. At least with this solid proof, she could begin to understand howthe papers were getting all the information about her and the school all summer, if not the specific way, yet.
"Well, I really don't want to jump to that conclusion." Hermione laid her palms up on the desk and fixed her gaze solidly on to the other woman's. "I absolutely believe however, think we are up against an enemy far more concrete than I imagined. One that's going to serious lengths to ruin us."
"But - the school's always had vocal critics, the WIP for one. You're- " Orla paused and raised an arm up in a short, frustrated swipe. "- Hermione Granger. I knew how challenging this job would be. You've always had a difficult time with the press. Clearly I underestimated exactly how challenging-"
"Orla," Hermione interrupted again, "You said yourself, this is more than that. How is the papers publishing, sensitive, secret information that they could only have gained through subterfuge, the usual way of things? And then using that information to not only strike against us to ensure we don't get the money we so desperately need, but use it to vilify muggle-borns even further? We are being attacked by something or someone specific with a definite agenda, can't you see? It might be the WIP, or it might be someone else. Orla, tell me how on earth you can justify that this is your fault, or sole responsibility to fix?"
Orla bit into her lips and rubbed her hand back and forth over the base of her neck. For once, she appeared lost for words. "Please, take the evening off," Hermione said. "We can deal with this when we're fresh tomorrow."
The other witch nodded slowly, but did not go for the door. Instead her eyes flicked back over to the paper and she frowned deeply and Hermione thought she might try and argue again, but instead she surprised her. "I think it's time I did a little research of my own," Orla said, measuring the words out carefully. "I might ask some of my contacts at the Prophet if they've picked up on anything unusual, or noticed anything that could back up your theory. As for the other papers - I'll think of something."
Hermione felt the humming vestiges of the Muffliato spell fade as Orla said goodbye and shut the door behind her, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day, she cast a series of revealing spells. Yet again, no listening devices, hidden animagi, or spells were uncovered. Her office was clean, and what did that mean? Hermione lost the poise she'd been trying hard to hold on to in Orla's presence and slumped in her chair, the muscles in her shoulders aching. She spent a few listless minutes organising her desk, making sure all was in place for tomorrow morning. The big day. What gift would the press bestow on her to mark the grand occasion?
Her hand came to rest on the handle of the bottom drawer. She paused, glanced at the shut door of her office and pulled it open with a slight frown.
She lifted out a small leather bag, unzipped it and brought out, one by one, a collection of small, metallic objects, lining them up on the desk and feeling as if she was doing something very wrong. Burbage's reputation was in shatters, they had potentially lost thousands of Galleons, she had a possible mole on her hands, but right now, she would apply just a hint of mascara and maybe some blusher to make her look less like she was on the brink of death.
After casting a refreshing charm to remove her old makeup and as she gradually begun to replace it with fresh, her anxiety over the school finally started to lose its grip on her attention to those other thoughts whose aggressive trespasses on her mind she'd been doing her best to fight against all day. The thoughts that had surfaced at the most inappropriate moments, and yet, she had to admit, had made the day's events that tiny bit more bearable.
Was this shade of lipstick too much? She pouted at her reflection and immediately winced at the result. Oh God, I look ridiculous. Or was it actually a bit, vampy? But really, the colour was totally over the top for a family party. Hermione raised her wand to clean it off but paused. It did make her look slightly more, interesting. Less boring, less bookish. She lowered her wand, and while looking her reflection with a dramatically arched eyebrow, she found herself asking whether or not he would like it.
Hermione shut her eyes, instantly mortified. Thank god I really am alone. What would Orla think? She's right, the school is so much more important than anything else right now. I shouldn't be going to the party. I should be doing more, even if it's triple checking the grounds for faults in the wards. But behind Hermione's closed eyelids she saw his face, as inscrutable and still as ever, yet with a gaze that traveled rapidly up and down her body before settling on her mouth.
When had anyone last looked at her like that? A treacherous thrill fluttered in her heart and trickled into her spine, causing tremors to ripple through her body. The sensation was so potent her breath caught and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, pressing her nails into her palms, waiting for it to pass.
I'll willingly reconsider my position based on your generous offer. A slight twitch of his mouth, the faintest of smirks, then a smile that was so genuine that it was impossible not to respond to, even a day later. Hermione opened her eyes and grinned, but pursed her lips and quickly brought up her hand to cover her mouth.
When have you ever failed at anything? You've earned the right to make announcements like that. Sat across the table, generous words flowing as if from a spring that had worked its way through stone. At the time, she'd doubted his sincerity, but after last night... Hermione bit into her lips and squeezed the tip of her nose hard, but it wasn't enough, the provocation of her thoughts was irresistible.
Her resolution was crumbling, but she wouldn't go down against her will. If this was going to happen, it would happen on her terms. Orla was definitely gone, and even if this no longer applied to her spoken words, at least no one could hear her thoughts, and regardless, this sort of emotional repression was probably extremely unhealthy. So Hermione dropped her hand, gazed at her reflection, thought of Draco Malfoy, and allowed herself to smile so widely her cheeks soon began to ache.
Last night he'd been so calm and cool, arms loosely folded, his long legs crossed, a spark in his eyes she'd only caught glimpses of before. She could have stood there all night, but her body been so aware of his physical presence, the absoluteness of his gaze and the confinement of the hall. After their conversation, it had been overwhelming. She hadn't even been composed enough to walk away with her back to him.
As he leant into the door, the tiniest strip of flat stomach had been revealed above where his trousers hung off his hips, the light just catching a hint of dark blond hair and highlighting the diagonal groove where abdominals met pelvis. Hermione's hands involuntarily curled into fists, so she picked up her tub of Sleekeazy's hair potion to give them something to do.
She pictured his smile once again, alive and so much brighter after shedding what he'd left behind in the flat with his words. He had looked so young, so good, so good.
She hadn't seen this version of Malfoy for a long time, and even then, only from a distance. It was from far across the Great Hall and the school grounds in the summer, when he'd gracefully lounged, (as only Malfoy could,) in his seat or on the grass, radiating confidence and flirting with the pure-blood girls. When his face hadn't been twisted in distain or hatred, no one could deny he wasn't attractive. Hermione didn't think she'd ever wanted him to regain any of the qualities he'd had at school, but this particular one, she could make an exception to.
But it hadn't been the only innate quality of his she'd been confronted with last night. She recalled what had been shared inside and her heart quickened. He'd revealed his desire to manipulate, to seek revenge, his seemingly paranoid suspicions, all pointing to qualities he must know would spark distrust or even revulsion in her. So if he was as manipulative as he had described, then why had he told her? What had inspired his sudden change of heart and what did he have to gain from it?
But perhaps it was nothing more than taking the opportunity offered by a sympathetic ear and a friendly face. By the end, despite her initial alarm, she found herself absolutely unable to judge him for any of it. He had offered her this honesty and truth and displayed such a great amount of trust in her that she would listen to him, when he so clearly needed to be listened to. Who else did he have? She couldn't judge him. She wouldn't.
She pictured his pale face, evening darkness creeping upon them faster than usual, the light from the cauldron illuminating his sharp bone structure and causing flickering shadows in his hollowed cheeks. But she'd still be able to make out his eyes; still and unmoving from her face, brimming with unexpected and sincere warmth, encouraging her to talk and talk and talk.
Hermione shivered, experiencing waves of excited yet nervous anticipation unlike any she'd ever had in the prospect of seeing anybody. Would he come tonight? He had said he would... But perhaps today he'd regretted what had happened? Realised that he'd gone too far and exposed too much. The intimacy she'd felt with him, merely over the exchange of words left her feeling tremulous and vulnerable. If he didn't show...
Stop. You've indulged yourself enough. Without giving that possibility any more thought, nor to why it mattered to her so much, Hermione swept the makeup back into its bag, gathered her things and flooed directly to Harry's. She stepped out of the fireplace, took a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness of the living room and then let out a soft groan as she recognised the raised voices of Molly and Ginny drifting in through the door to the kitchen. She should have known the Weasley's would have been out in force tonight. She had promised to protect Malfoy, but jokes aside, what if she really did have to?
But just as she reached the door to the kitchen she heard a third Weasley, and stopped dead, a cold bucket of dread extinguishing the spark that thinking of Malfoy had kept alive all day. It was unmistakably the deep generous laugh that belonged to Ron.
Draco followed the maître d' through the rows of softly lit, white linen clad tables. The chinks of crystal wine glasses, gentle piano music and murmurs of richly clad diners floated around him. It was the type of place his mother and father would have regularly dined at, and even Draco, with a sharp awareness of his current situation, couldn't help but feel at home in. It was a beautiful, symmetric room with free standing gilded columns that receded into an enchanted darkness of the Milky Way. Low hanging chandeliers created a faint, dancing pattern of light that bounced back and forth between the tarnished mirrors and potted ferns that clad the walls. It was misty, romantic reflection of those at the height of society, hiding the brutality Draco knew too well was hiding just below the surface.
Zabini was sat at a table at the back and rose eagerly to meet Draco. His deep tan was brought out by a set of exquisitely cut, olive-blue robes and as he stretched out his hand, the surface of the fabric caught the candle light and shone with a flickering, dusty opalescence not unlike the powdery bloom that coats a grape. Draco automatically ran his hand down the soft fabric on his thigh, relieved at his purchase of a set of charcoal grey robes that hinted at indigo or violet, depending on the quality of light. Nothing as ostentatious as Zabini's but they still imbued him with a feeling of capability far greater than just donning his plain old black ones would have done.
He reached the table and lifted his hand to shake Zabini's firmly and without taking his eyes off the other man, ordered a glass of Malbec from the waitress that had emerged to wait just behind him. Already feeling the mask settling comfortably in place, he smiled and gestured for Zabini to re-take his seat before sitting down himself. His back was straight, his heart beat was steady and sure, his Occlumency shields were fortified, the pretence felt as natural as breathing. Getting the truth would be easy.
"Quite a conspicuous place to meet, don't you think?" Draco asked, once the greetings were over. "I must have spotted half of the Pure-Blood Directory in here."
Zabini smirked and leant forwards. "Well, while the last place had it's charm, I wanted to be able to talk to you in slightly more comfortable surroundings this time. And don't worry about being conspicuous, or any such rubbish. We're not doing anything illegal. You're a free man, Malfoy, it's time you started acting like one."
The waitress arrived with Draco's drink and with barely an acknowledgement of thanks, he took it from the tray, swirled the wine into a whirlpool in the glass and took a sniff. It smelt rich and full bodied and he took a sip before nodding.
"We'll have a bottle," Zabini said. Draco glanced up to see him giving the girl a lecherous smile that remained in place as he watched her departing back.
"I promised Scorpius I wouldn't be home too late."
Zabini waved a languid hand through the air. "You've already convinced me to meet earlier than we planned, so don't worry, I understand you want to get away. It's the last day of the holidays isn't it?" Draco nodded while Zabini picked up the menu. Without looking up he murmured, "How I wish for that day to come for the girls."
The waitress soon returned with the bottle and after presenting it to the two wizards, topped up Draco's glass before filling Zabini's. Just before she left, his hand shot out and gripped her elbow.
"What's a pretty thing like you doing later?" His voice was silky and his smile, predatory. Draco repressed a grimace, momentarily caught the girl's eye and then looked away, his skin crawling at Zabini's hammy attempts at seduction.
When she finally left, her frantic giggles sounding like they were on the brink of disappearing off the hearing scale, Draco met Zabini's eyes and decided to amplify his distaste; this was the opportunity to move things along, to correct past 'misjudgements'.
"Don't look so offended, Malfoy, I'll go heavy on the protective spells."
"A mudblood?" As soon as the word rolled off his tongue, as easily and scornfully as if he'd never stopped using it, Zabini gave him a slow, wide smile.
"And how do you know she's a mudblood?"
"Can't you just tell?"
Zabini chuckled, rolling the wineglass between his hands. "Perhaps. What's wrong with that? You've been hidden away for too long, haven't you heard the saying? 'Once you've fucked in the mud, nothing pure is good enough?' Daphne is a perfect example. She's so tense I feel like her hips are on the brink of cracking whenever she lets me touch her." He smirked. "Oh come on, Malfoy, don't tell me you've been living as a saint these past few years? Forgoing sex completely because the only women you meet are muggles?"
"Muggles are - natural."
"Natural! Oh, that old argument. Muggles and mudbloods both have their natural purpose to serve, it's what I've been saying for years. It must be the muggle in them, makes them as eager to please us as an excited puppy. I didn't realise it was even possible for my dick to even get that wet." An elderly witch coughed pointedly from the table next to them and Zabini smirked. He leant in, speaking more gently. "Don't tell me you didn't hear the rumours at school."
"Of course I did. Didn't choose to listen though." Draco took a long drink of wine before leaning in and placing the glass down with deliberate care. "I didn't need to, Pansy was always up for it. Besides, I never had a problem with convincing Daphne to open up. Found it pretty easy, actually," he said with a smile and a deep stab of vindictive pleasure. It was said in the name of research of course: how much provocation could he get away with?
Zabini's lips curled and he leant back, picking up his menu and toying with it once more. "That whore. Slept with half of Slytherin before deciding to clam up with me."
Draco raised his eyebrows. He'd expected far more of a rebuttal; there was a big difference in insulting your own wife, and listening to someone else do it. His lack of family loyalty was as alien to Draco as it was revealing. It didn't help to convince him of Zabini's supposed reasons behind the potions at all. "She's given you two children, she can't be that bad?"
"I don't have a son." Draco was silent as he watched Zabini over his menu. Was that it? Did it all come down to not having a male heir? Zabini's eyes flickered up and down the text without appearing to settle on anything. Eventually he looked back up and met Draco's gaze. "How can you stand to send him to that place Malfoy? I don't understand."
Draco shrugged, Zabini was never going to, and he couldn't be bothered to have another repeat of this conversation. He took a deep drink instead of answering.
"Draco, please answer me."
Draco rolled his eyes. "You're the one claiming mudbloods are natural-"
"Yes," Zabini interrupted, "but their natural uses extend to being fucked, or to serve our drinks, to put together my products. Not to be educated alongside someone like Scorpius." He lay the menu back down and leant across the table, lowering his voice. "How can you bear the thought of him having to wade through all that mud? Why can't you just let us send him to Hogwarts?"
Draco drew himself up and breaking his eye contact with Zabini, looked across the restaurant, doing his best to ignore the twinge of guilt. It hadn't surfaced for a while, and now was not the time to allow it to take root. The shadowed faces of the other diners were occasionally illuminated as they lent into the candle light, gaudy jewels flashed, light shimmered across generous splashes of eyeshadow and rouge. Wrinkled and young faces blended together, all with the same vapid smiles, braying tones of laughter and glazed eyes.
He turned back to Zabini, letting only the smallest of frowns mar his features. "Scorpius is my only child. I've been apart from him for most of his life. I know you don't understand my choice, but this will be the last time I justify it to you. Maybe you'd understand if you had a son," Zabini's eye's narrowed slightly, "but for now, I will not be parted from him. Scorpius knows who he is, he won't lose sight of that. I haven't ruled out Hogwarts forever, just for a couple of years, while I sort things out."
The waitress arrived and Draco dropped his eyes to the menu, glancing at the prices for the first time that evening. Fuck. A main was nearly the amount he had spent that day on his and Scorpius's new robes. He looked up and saw Zabini watching him with a cruel set to his mouth.
"I'll have the sea bass. Malfoy?"
"The suckling pork belly," he said without a pause, snapping the menu shut.
"Of course, that isn't the only thing stopping you from sending him to Hogwarts, is it?" Zabini said, once they were alone again, barely able to contain the glee off his face. Draco felt hatred prickle within him. Zabini couldn't even make it subtle, his brass putdowns were awful to be subjected to.
Well, I did just tell him how easy it had been to fuck his wife, so maybe I deserve this one. And besides, if that's what he thinks is the real reason behind my choice of Burbage High, then all the better. So Draco clenched his hands under the table around his wand and kept his expression calm when he said, "I won't lie, money has a lot to do with it. But we're making the best out the situation."
"You are, aren't you?"
"How do you mean?"
"Don't be coy, Malfoy! You know what I mean!"
Zabini was leaning forward eagerly, displaying every one of his red wine stained teeth in a grotesque rictus of a smile. Draco had to control his urge to pull back, Zabini was practically chomping at the bit. It was in the way his eyes bored into his, the darting of his tongue as he licked the wine off his lips, straining to boast about what he knew. It was repulsive. "You'll have to be a little more clear," Draco eventually said, after taking a deep swig of wine.
Zabini slammed his hands on the table, causing the cutlery to shake. Draco raised his eyebrows. "Mudblood Granger," Zabini hissed, a few flecks of spit flying to land on Draco's face, who held himself still with almost godly willpower. Zabini reared back, panting slightly, eyes darting around the room as if to check for witnesses to his lack of restraint.
"What about her?" Draco brought up a steady hand to wipe the man's saliva off his eyelid, but otherwise was as motionless as could be, his heavily beating heart the only organ to betray how startled he was.
"I know, I know you've been out with her. I heard about your little trip to Diagon Alley." A coldness swept up Draco's spine, leaving a trail of prickling gooseflesh like the frost that crystallises in the wake of a Freezing spell.
"Just what are you insinuating?" Draco asked, his determination to control his tone causing the words to exhale from him like smoke. How did he hear? How much does he know? "Of course I'm going to be trying to ingratiate myself with the Headmistress of my son's school. I'm not an idiot. How else do you think I'm going to make the best of this situation?"
"But it's mudblood Granger! Potter and Weasley's bitch."
Draco felt his wand twitch in his hand under the table, but he merely smirked. "Quite frankly, I'm surprised that you're blowing this so out of proportion. Do you think my father enjoyed the time he spent with Dumbledore? Or with the other imbeciles on the Hogwarts Board of Governors? I'm doing what needs to be done for Scorpius. Mudbloods do have their uses, especially Granger, and that means I ought to have the right to use her if I so wish."
Zabini gave him a slow smile, and the manic look Draco glimpsed in his eyes slid back to hide within his skull. He sat back in his chair and surveyed Draco with an expression that Draco hadn't seen directed his way in a long time. A glowing smugness that reminded him immediately of his father.
"You always did take things to the extreme, Malfoy." Zabini downed his wine and then generously topped up the two glasses, giving a throaty chuckle. "Sorry for the histrionics old chap, you're quite right about the way you're going about this, but you had me worried, for a while."
Draco calmly took the proffered glass while his mind frantically turned over Zabini's words like a curse breaker sifting through Runes. "What ever do you mean?"
"Well, I must say, things are turning out very differently to how I imagined last week."
"What, after the debacle of our first meeting?"
Zabini let out a snort of laughter. "Exactly. No one knows how to handle you, Malfoy. You've been behaving very unpredictably. There were rumours that you - Well, Daphne is convinced that her sister had twisted your mind with those eccentric little ideas she used to have, but I knew you were still the same, just - well, struggling to find your feet after Azkaban."
Draco felt his heart begin to calm. "So instead of approaching me, you thought you'd help by tricking me into this, servitude?" he said, nodding towards the briefcase on the floor that help the Baranuik potion.
As predicted, Zabini tried to look contrite. "You must forgive me, but as I said before, how else could I secure your attention and confidence?" Draco opened his mouth to reply, but Zabini's hand was doing that dismissive wave once again. He found he wanted to snap it backwards in one violent, crunch. Quite a basic, muggle instinct, but it would be satisfying... "Anyway, that's in the past, forgive me and we can move on. I wasn't joking when I said I'd introduce you to certain friends of mine. You'll know some of them anyway from school. It's shaping up to be a lovely reunion." Before Draco knew it, Zabini had lurched forward, thrusting his head into the middle of the table and reached over and gripped Draco's forearm through his robes.
"I cannot tell you how relieved I am, that things have turned out this way, Malfoy." Draco kept the alarm off his face, but couldn't help it rising violently through his body, flooding the tips of his fingers with the sharp throb of adrenalin. Zabini's dark eyes were gazing unreservedly into his, he could smell his wine soured breath, feel the moist heat of his hand soaking through his robes to the Dark Mark. "I want to help you, Draco, I'm not lying. I will help you. I can tell you're still a little stubborn in some respects in modernising... You're not completely still hung up on the old ways, are you?"
Draco was struck by how vulnerable Zabini suddenly seemed, his waxy skin shining with a film of sweat in the candle light as if he were cast in bronze; his pleading eyes were unblinking, just like a statue of a prostrating muggle saint. It was almost like he was asking for Legilimency, but Draco knew better than to try. Either Zabini's acting was far better than Draco ever expected, or he really believed in what he was saying. "I - I have learnt to adapt," Draco said quietly.
Zabini nodded enthusiastically, breaking into a smile. "Good, good," he breathed. "Mass eradication of mudbloods never did make sense. I know it takes a lot, but really, you have to trust me. I can see you don't, not yet, but you will." he rasped. Draco could only bring himself to nod in return.
Their food arrived shortly after, but Draco could not rid himself of the lingering sensation of Zabini's hand on his arm, as if it had left some prickling rash. As they ate, drank and talked, which mostly comprised of Zabini garrulously reliving events from Hogwarts in which he was invariably, and inaccurately, the hero, Draco kept half a mind busy with examining the earlier part of the dinner.
His plan was working, the wizard was opening up, far more than he had the other day, but with an unexpected result. Draco was loath to admit it, but in a backhanded and totally misguided way, Zabini was coming across as if he did actually desire to help them. Or if not Draco, at least Scorpius. Did he feel a paternal responsibility to the Greengrass heir since he himself hadn't produced a son? Maybe it was a case of family pride. But it couldn't just be as simple as that, could it?
Perhaps this conclusion felt so flat and anticlimactic only due to the crescendo his thoughts had risen to regarding Zabini over the last few days. And really, could Draco trust his instincts? Was his judgement clouded by the insult of Zabini's initial deceit?
If there was nothing left to find out, what was he even doing here, missing Potter's party? Deep down, was he actually pursuing Zabini's promises of further opportunities under the guise of discovering a imagined 'truth' which was most probably born out of paranoia? Was he missing more time with his son, and losing the chance to get to know Hermione a little better for the promise of a life he'd thought he'd turned his back on?
The salty pork melted on Draco's tongue, mixing with the sharp, sweet tang of apple. It tasted heavenly. The pianist was playing a beautiful, haunting rendition of Chopin's Nocturne in C sharp Minor, one of his grandmother's favourites, (Malfoy side, of course.) He thought about the photograph of Hermione in Daily Post. Perhaps if he did follow the path Zabini seemed to be laying out for him, might he get the opportunity to be able to work out just what was going on there?
Draco started to relax, feeling full and sleepy, and began to fantasise about cornering the editor of the paper in some dark hallway at one of the great Samhain costume balls that would take place in manors up and down the country in a couple of months. Or could he get him before then? Perhaps at the Autumn Equinox. He found himself idly watching their waitress, Zabini was right, she was stunningly pretty. She noticed Draco's attention and smiled at him, running a hand through the hair that had fallen from her bun. The gesture was like a slap. Draco blinked and sat up straighter, feeling suddenly awake. Hermione.
There had been something about the way Zabini spoke about her that had alarmed him. Draco forced himself to re-examine Zabini's mannerisms when the subject of the witch had come up. He had been noticeably intense, despite his blasé trivialising of other mudbloods. Draco thought about his own visceral reaction he'd had in response. Surely that was due to more than just a surge of protectiveness? He shouldn't even be feeling that strongly about Granger given the short space of time he'd known her. But if his instincts were already under question then could he even trust his body?
He thought of how last night in the flat he'd had to fight the urge with everything he had not to walk to her and lift her up and press her to his chest. Or how every time she brushed her hand through her hair, he wanted to grasp it, and feel her fingers weaving through his, instead. What would that feel like? What would her touch feel like? Soft and tremulous like her voice had been when discussing his plans for this evening? Or firm and steady - like the way she looked at him when telling him about Scorp's muggle fighting, or rough, like -
Draco blinked, and brought his glass to his lips, gulping down several large mouthfuls. No, he absolutely couldn't trust his body's reaction to anything. He wrenched his mind away from Hermione and tried to grasp back the thread of the conversation and where he'd reached in his evaluation. He'd been thinking about Diagon Alley. He needed to think about her dispassionately, without the distraction his feelings provided.
It would be useful to know exactly when Zabini had heard about the trip. Perhaps he should consider just how coincidental it was that the potion order had arrived almost the very next day. He hadn't even linked the two in his mind: Zabini and Granger occupied such different spheres of his life he'd never considered the two threads of events over August in relation to each other.
Draco finished his third glass of wine, a slight numbness spreading through his limbs, his thoughts feeling more and more slippery, drifting away from his intent. He laughed at a joke Zabini made, and pictured how he'd look if he used the Densaugeo hex on him. But his train of thought had been important, he had to focus, he couldn't waste his time.
What if Zabini had heard about the incident, immediately? Had that been the catalyst that made Zabini reach out to him? In fact, why had it been so important that he find out Draco's intentions with her in the first place? And why did he seem to care so much about the result, and Draco's current attitude to blood? Draco decided, well after the wine had been finished, the plates cleared away and the first glasses of port had been drunk, to dig deeper, to further exploit Zabini's enthusiasm about Hermione.
"I'm curious, Zabini, why you chose now to take me under your wing? Why not years ago, when I first got out?"
Zabini took his time to answer, lavishly scratching the stubble on his neck as he leant back in his chair. "Well, you know I don't like to rush into things, Malfoy, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't realise things were becoming so dire for you until recent things were made clear to me."
"Your realisation that I was totally broke, or the sightings of me with Potter and Granger?"
Zabini grinned. "Blunt. I like it when you're blunt. Well, both actually. I thought, what could Malfoy want with them? What is he up to? If those are the kinds of people he has been driven to consort with, what are things coming to?"
"And you couldn't rest until you'd satisfied that curiosity?"
"Perhaps," Zabini said, giving a nonchalant shrug.
Draco felt suspicion swell up. Why now did Zabini decide to become taciturn? With every other turn of conversation he'd been more than forthcoming. Feeling bolstered by the alcohol, Draco said, "well, now you know all about that," he grimaced, glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "I just have to tell you, it was a hideous experience, spending time with Granger."
Zabini's eyes lit up and he leant forward. "I can imagine. What's she like? Up close? Is she as ugly as she was at school?"
I'm sorry, Hermione, Draco thought, then smirked and said, "worse. She's starting to resemble and sound like Pince, do you remember? That librarian? She's becoming an utter shrew. I had to breath through my mouth just to stand near her, she stinks of cats."
Zabini let out an uproarious laugh and Draco joined in, feeling his soul trickling black and treacle like into the floor where it could puddle in shame, far away from his mind. "That is disgusting. I'm not surprised, she was always headed that way. You poor sod, I'm sorry you're having to go through this."
Why did he use present tense? Draco sat up a little straighter. "I did what needed to be done." He gave a martyred shrug. "She lapped up my apologies easily enough. Scorp won't encounter any trouble, well actually, I'm pretty confident he'll benefit." As he spoke, Draco looked at the mirrored wall to the side of their table under the pretext of smoothing back the hair over his forehead. In fact, he was intensely studying Zabini's profile. "I'm just relieved it's all over."
Zabini's laughter died and his eyes bulged almost comically. "You're stopping?"
Draco frowned and dragged his eyes away from the reflection, just in time to see bored amusement slide back over Zabini's features. Idiot, doesn't he know how mirrors work? What's trying to hide? "Yes, would you want continued exposure to Potter's mudblood? Of course it's over." He widened his eyes slightly, but not too much. "Especially now I know I can count on you to help me get back on my feet, take you up on those contacts? I don't need Granger anymore." Make him underestimate you, Hermione's advice echoed in his head.
Zabini gave him a smile that was slightly too indulgent. "Draco, let's not be too hasty, shall we?"
"What do you mean?"
"Only that, it might be prudent, for you to stay in contact with Granger for just a while longer. School hasn't started yet, and you don't want Scorp to suffer if she realises it was all just an act?"
"Why would she realise that?" he asked slowly.
"Well, you know." Zabini raised his hand in the air and caught the attention of the waitress. "It's a bit suspicious, isn't it? Lay the Malfoy charm on thick, then pull it suddenly away. She probably didn't realise what hit her, she'll be gagging for more. The mudbloods are all the same, even Granger. Give them a taste, and they can't get enough." He winked as if he were imparting the most important secret in the world.
Draco smirked. Had Zabini just slipped up in being so obvious? Or had that been on purpose? It had been so unsubtle, it was practically an order. Zabini continued on, loudly, revelling in the throaty tones of his own voice, the wine embellishing where Draco hoped common sense had departed. "Even the ones who claim to be above it. They can't help it, they crave the feeling of being part of our world. It's tragic really, but incredibly useful. The key is making sure they're kept at their rightful station and don't go getting ideas that are above them."
"Like Granger."
"Exactly. She's always been an anomaly, refusing to get back where she belongs. Burbage was the perfect place for her, kept her from causing trouble, that was, until she became Head."
"I see."
"Do you? What exactly do you see?" Zabini asked, sitting back in his chair, out of the sphere of candle light. His face was shadowed and hard to read but Draco still got the impression he was expected to say something momentous. But what, he had no idea. All he knew was that despite Zabini's horror of Scorpius attending Burbage, he was now encouraging him to cultivate a relationship with Hermione. What the hell was he meant to make of that?
"Surely, Blaise, it would suit you if Granger decided not to let Scorp attend Burbage?"
Zabini's face twitched and he picked up his port glass and began to roll it in circles on the edge of its base. "Well," he said slowly, "I can recognise a losing battle. If you're determined to go down that path, then I have to support that. As you say, he isn't my son."
What? It was the most humility Draco had ever heard Zabini speak with, and potentially therefore, contained the least sincerity. Zabini glanced up, tilted his head forward into the candle light and opened his mouth to speak but the waitress arrived in that moment and the spell was broken. Instead, in a loud, booming voice Zabini said, "well, I better be off and you've got a boy to get home to. Before I forget, I brought this." Zabini reached his hand over the floor on the other side of the table and said, "up." A brand new Firebolt leapt into his palm. "Daphne and I visited her parents last night. I saw it and thought Scorpius must be desperate to start school with his new broom. It's such a waste to leave it lying around." He offered it to Draco, who took it, his arm feeling strangely drained.
"Thank you, Scorpius will be delighted."
Zabini grinned and handed the silver dish full of Galleons back to the witch with a wink. He then slid a cheque across the table to Draco. Zabini made to stand up, but before he could, Draco felt himself jolt into the moment, impulsively reaching out and placing his own hand on Zabini's arm. A sudden, irrepressible urge had taken hold, to not let the meeting end like this. Zabini had to have another motivation with Hermione past Scorpius's wellbeing, and he was keeping it just out of reach. Draco had to find out more, while he still had a chance. He struck out, desperately hoping he'd finally hit the mark.
"I meant what I said, Zabini," Draco's voice was low, almost rasping with tension. "I'm finished with Granger, I see no need in cultivating any relationship with her." A muscle was dancing in Zabini's neck, though his expression had not changed. Draco pushed on, the desire to provoke and with a now familiar feeling of protection over Hermione giving his words an intensity that was impossible to disguise. "The only interest I serve is that of my son, and if I think no benefit would come from feigning a relationship with her, then nothing could convince me to change my mind."
Zabini was utterly still. The silence between them was charged. Is this it? Is this is the real reason he wanted to win my favour? He needs something from me, it's to do with Hermione. What will he risk saying now to convince me, without giving the game away? Draco felt both frantic and triumphant, his heart was beating a dizzying rhythm, the sounds around them blurring to an indistinct buzz.
But Zabini sat back and just laughed, and Draco squeezed the nails of his other hand, the one that gripped his wand under the table, into his palm, fighting against the urge to draw it up and cast Legilimens and make his entry into Zabini's mind as painful and violent as possible. Why the fuck hadn't he brought along the leftover dregs of the Baraniuk, and slipped it in Zabini's drink the first chance he had? Taking the truth from his mind would have been as easy as skimming scum off the surface of a stagnant pool of water.
"Draco Malfoy, I find that very hard to believe," Zabini said, his voice as oily as his skin. Draco abruptly pulled his left hand off Zabini's arm as if burnt, the surge of disappointment and frustration crushing his brief victory. "Until next time. The potion should be finished in a few weeks time, is that right? Yes, well, that should give you plenty of time to think about what I've said. There's a small party I'm throwing towards the end of the month. I'd love for you to come. Might be able to set you up with a couple more potion contracts, if that is all you are interested in pursuing, as you say."
Draco squeezed out a thin smile and took the offered hand, shaking it with as much strength as he could muster. He knew it was over. There was nothing else Zabini would tell him now. He pocketed the cheque and rose, gave Zabini one last nod and strode back through the restaurant, desperate to be alone with his thoughts.
He stepped out on to Diagon Alley, ignored the farewell of the maître d', and without a second thought, mounted the Firebolt and kicked off into the air, skimming the roof of the antiques shop opposite with the tip of his shoe. The moon was full and bright, and as soon as he left the yellow glow of the gas lamps that lined the street, he was bathed in silver light. It was still August, but he was thankful that the air that bit at his face was sharp and sobering as he forced his way onwards and upwards, the drag caused by the broom's violent acceleration and the resultant roar of wind in his ears stripping away any lingering physical seductions dinner with Zabini had swathed over his body and mind.