Guys, the notification for the previous update never went out. So, if you haven't read chapter 16 - go do that now.
Malfoy, as it turned out, was a huge fucking chicken.
"It's just a plane!" she yelled at him from within her bedroom, tossing the last of her luggage into a suitcase and slamming the lid. It made a haphazard mess, but she was too frustrated to care. She had already paid for the tickets! First class, just to appease this blond, entitled git; they had cost a fortune! And now he was adamantly refusing to get in that 'ungainly death contraption'.
"It's a metal tube packed with filthy muggles like sardines in a can! It flies on prayer!" his voice carried from her kitchen. From the sounds of it, he was busy opening and closing every single drawer in there, which was beginning to drive her up the wall. She had told him to stay put - not touch all her stuff! Why had she even invited him here?! Oh, that's right - because she had left all the packing to the last minute, and their plane was departing in several hours. That same plane that Malfoy was refusing to board!
"It's spacious and roomy!" she retorted, throwing a make-up kit into a tote bag. "First class, Malfoy: you'll be treated like the king you imagine yourself to be- What are you doing?" She froze in the doorway, startled by the sight in front of her.
Malfoy, who had been kneeling on her kitchen table, jumped down, straightening his clothes.
"Nothing," he lied without a shred of guilt.
If she believed that even for a second, she was a nargle.
"You were just on the table, what in heaven's name possessed you to go there?!"
"Oh, alright," Malfoy admitted, thoroughly inspecting his neatly pressed robes for any leftover wrinkles. "I was just checking to see if they were originals." He pointed to the two Turner paintings on the wall.
"Why would you think-" for a few seconds, Hermione was lost for words, her mouth gaping wide open. She must have looked quite a fright, because he gave her the trademark Malfoy smirk.
"Of course not!" she snapped then, angry at him, herself, and the world at large. "These are just reproductions, the originals are in a museum!"
Malfoy shrugged. "Muggles sometimes produce good art, and wizards want the real deal," he explained. "So, there are several groups I know that specialize in making indistinguishable - well, for muggles anyway - fakes and using them to replace with the original. The wizard then gets the original painting, the muggles - a quality fake that they couldn't tell apart anyway, and everyone's happy. I can get you in contact with them if you like. You'll have the have real Turners hanging on your wall in no time."
Aghast, she wasted a whole minute processing such barefaced impudence and then another in search of the words that would adequately express her indignance. "Is that would you've done then?" she finally asked, beginning to slowly advance on his remorseless form. "Steal priceless works of art from museums and galleries?"
Malfoy blinked several times, possibly realizing he had crossed some sort of line.
"Oh, err… no, of course not," he said somewhat unconvincingly, taking several steps back, and then added for good measure: "That would be bad."
Shockingly, his pro forma tone did nothing to allay her disgust, and she continued to slowly approach him with a deliberate determination, like a lioness stalking her prey. Hermione's mind pictured a thousand small angry birds tearing the arrogant pureblood's clothes to shreds and ripping apart that slimy, gelled hairstyle. Malfoy, who's observational and survival skills had become rather acute after surviving months of cohabitation with Voldemort and Co., quickly moved to place the table between them.
"Hey, Granger!" he nervously chuckled. "Let's focus here! Priorities, you know. Thousands of infected muggles; apocalypse impending. Let's not get hung up on a pair of paintings and a sculpture or two."
"Oh, a sculpture or two?!" she growled with a predatory glint in her eyes. "Another prime example of muggle abuse, you mean?"
"Look, I never… it's just… accepted behavior among us. I never personally contributed to it in any way, I swear. As you know, I've been busy these last years."
She paused, drawing her lips into a thin line.
"Pinky promise?" sensing her weakening resolve, he offering her a digit.
"Ugh, that's not what that means- never mind," she responded, shaking her head as a slight grin broke through her stern countenance. Seeing him botch such an inherently muggle gesture was amusing, and he was right: they had more pressing issues. Later, she promised herself.
When this matter is taken care of, she'll return to the ministry, take back her position in magical law enforcement. She was still popular, and, if this endeavour turned out a success, her star would shine for years to come. With many pureblood factions gutted, rising through the ranks of the ministry was all but a guarantee. In fact, she mused, reaching the summit itself was a very real possibility. Imagine that: the first muggleborn Minister for Magic. She would enact real change, burn away all the archaic and abusive traditions like the one Malfoy just mentioned, and reform this stagnant swamp of a society! Oh, the dreams she dreamed.
"Granger?" His pinky was still outstretched, and she begrudgingly offered up her own, feeling rather silly. Malfoy beamed and shook it. "I still won't fly on any planes, though," he said.
"Why?!" Hermione exploded, tearing her hand back. "Thousands of people do!"
"Thousands of people have a deathwish, you mean."
"That's not true!" she sputtered in return. "It's perfectly safe: the odds of-"
"Oh, don't be such a swot with your statistics; flying in such a manner is completely unnatural!"
"You fly on a broom all the time!"
"I control a broom," he snapped, tugging at the edge of his robes. "But I refuse to place my life in the hands of a muggle."
She paused, distracted by the motions his hands were making. Seeing her glance, he quickly hid them in his pockets and nervously shifted from foot to foot. And that was when she realized - he was scared. The more she pondered on that thought, the more it made sense. Even with his recent exposure to the muggle world, the idea of being strapped into a seat, stuck on a piece of metal powered by turbofan engines, tearing through clouds at hundreds of miles per hour - it must be terrifying for the insular pureblood. Not that he'd ever admit it directly.
"The tickets are non-refundable," she grumbled for show, gauging his reaction. It didn't disappoint: he visibly relaxed at her apparent surrender.
"I'll cover it," Malfoy chirped. Of course - his net worth was still in the millions.
"Remind me again how the ministry didn't confiscate all the contents of your family's vaults?"
"You've read my file," he responded, face darkening. "You know they tried."
...
...
Magnanimously, Malfoy agreed to travel by train. How one hollow tube under the English Channel was superior to one above it, was beyond Hermione, but she didn't argue. Brightest witch of her age, and all that.
"Floo, Granger," Malfoy said, his lip curling at the sight of muggle crowds inside London's St. Pancras Station. "The way normal people travel."
Biting back her remark about what the Hogwarts Express was then, Hermione stuck to a reasonable counter: "Floo connections are monitored."
"Portkey, in that case."
"Also monitored. Give it up, Malfoy: you know we can't risk any magical means of travel. We've talked about this."
The man by her side was ready to argue the point, if out of sheer stubbornness, but had to swerve suddenly to avoid getting entangled in a group of Chinese tourists. Swearing profusely, he dodged left, then right, trying very hard not to touch anyone, lest he become contaminated by some deadly muggle illness. Hermione's suitcase clacked over the tiled floor behind him. It was a roller, but still - if someone had told her in Hogwarts that Draco Malfoy would be carrying her luggage, she would have marched them up to the Hospital Wing, pronto. Now, Hermione couldn't help feeling a sort of smug satisfaction at the incongruous image.
Huffing a little from exertion, Malfoy caught up to her, and they boarded the train. Hermione took a seat and tugged off her pumps, flexing her toes. What she wouldn't give for a nap and a nice foot massage. She hadn't slept much these past days, her brain overactive with planning for every contingency.
"Remind me again why we plan on traipsing over the whole continent instead of just searching for Dolohov in London?" Malfoy said, stowing her suitcase into the luggage rack and dropping into an adjacent seat.
"We don't know that it is Dolohov, Malfoy - that's just speculation at this point. And we have no leads in London whatsoever. I found him - if it is him - once by following his trail across Europe; I can do it again."
"We."
"What?"
"We can do it, Granger," he corrected her inattentively, scowling at passing muggles. He didn't notice the look of brief surprise that flashed over his companion's face.
"We," she agreed.
The train filled up, rendering any continued conversation on magical topics impossible. Hermione tugged a book out of her tote and flipped to the marked page. In the next minute, the sounds of the train and its passengers receded, and she was lying next to Bolkonsky on the war-torn fields of Austerlitz, gazing up at a lofty, infinite sky. Cannons fired in the distance; drummers beat marching rhythms; men cried in pain. "Vive l'Empereur!" someone yelled nearby, but she didn't flinch, because the sky - all-encompassing and forgiving - was right there, and together with the fallen Russian prince, she marveled at its glory. If only others could witness such beauty, instead of occupying their attentions with petty disputes and short-sighted prejudices. After all, what do man's ambitions mean before the grace of God?
Lost in thoughts of how her life would have turned out had there been no class warfare and no Voldemort, Hermione's eyelids slowly drooped, and she nodded off.
Draco, who had stopped paying any attention to his companion the second he saw her nose buried in a book, startled as he felt something press into his shoulder. With a strange feeling that he couldn't identify (nor did he want to), he turned his head to stare at the Gryffindor girl nestled against him. The same girl that he had bullied in school; that was tortured in his house. The girl that should hate him, but didn't. A few strands of her rebellious hair tickled his chin, and her scent - aster and foxberries - washed over him again.
The train departed the station with a soft hiss, slowly gathering momentum towards the City of Lights. He looked over the top of Hermione's head, out the window, watching people he didn't know and buildings he couldn't recognize. He was happy.