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Paris greeted them with low temperatures, smothering rain and heavy gusts of wind. Hermione's black wool coat offered decent protection from the elements, but she shivered nonetheless and then cast a warming charm; discreetly, of course, for she was surrounded by muggles!
...Muggles. That was how she thought of them now. Their defining characteristic – the inability to practice magic – was now a staple of her perception. She had divided the world into two camps, firmly placing herself in one and distancing from the other. It wasn't even the fact that she could do magic, and they could not. It was that magic had become her second nature; that it had changed the way she thought and acted. She knew the weather was cold, yet her impulse hadn't been to rush to the waiting taxi, no; it had been to reach for her wand.
And that was understandable, because that was how she solved everyday problems.
Cleaning? Dishes? Transportation? Accommodations? A muggle wasted so much time every day on these simple tasks, often in uncomfortable conditions, while she just cast a spell. Like now: faced with the chilly outdoors, her solution had been to simply magic the problem away. One incantation – and she was warm, while everyone else had to shiver and rub their hands together.
It felt good to be a witch: to have that, which others didn't.
And yet – that was the problem, wasn't it? If these were her feelings – a muggleborn's feelings – then what would a generational pureblood think about people who couldn't conceive of talking hats and living portraits, flying brooms and biting books, softly simmering potions or mirrors that gave you advice on your looks?
Voldemort hadn't been a cause. He was a symptom of the sheer polarity between the two worlds.
They were so remarkably different, so isolated in most regards, yet clashing in odd ways, that it was only logical for certain preconceptions to take root and grow. Muggles were weak. Muggles were stupid and filthy. They washed once a month. Muggles gathered in groups and tried to kill innocent witches and wizards. The fact that, historically, the latter was kind of true didn't help at all.
So, even despite many prevailing falsehoods, pureblood ideology actually made a little sense sometimes. After all, muggles were inferior. They couldn't do magic; they couldn't even understand it! And people often fear what they are unable to comprehend, which makes them prone to acts of aggression.
She felt lost for a moment. How could she change something as fundamental as that? Something that was already influencing her – the mudblood extraordinaire?
Maybe… maybe she shouldn't? While it was obvious that more tolerant attitudes towards muggleborns were required (she dreamed of an egalitarian society, after all), preaching love for masses of muggles would get her nowhere, nor was it even right.
The bare facts were that Hermione was a witch, and she was not cold. That woman over there – the one huddling next her husband for warmth – was not a witch, and she was cold.
That was the way the world worked. It was the natural order of things. It was–
"Hurry up, Granger, it's fucking freezing!"
Her thoughts scattered, she blushed and ran to the taxi. Casting the warming charm on just herself had been completely inconsiderate, she realized, but now it was too late. Malfoy was on her heels, arm with umbrella extended, the suitcase dutifully going clack-clack-clack behind him. He got to the car first, opening the door for her, and she dove straight in. It was only when he closed it behind her that she realized what had happened.
This was certainly not how the girl in Hogwarts would have pictured her future interactions with the Slytherin wizard. He was being awful nice, but she didn't think the act was wholly sincere. It was possible he was just still feeling guilty over their past. Or, maybe, he was trying to get on her good side for this mission. Whichever it was, though, did it matter? She got to reap the benefits either way.
"Ritz, Place Vendome!" Malfoy barked to the driver, settling in beside her, and the car took off.
Speak of the Devil… Malfoy had steadfastly refused to quarter in anything less then one of Paris's chicest hotels. He had also wanted to order the Imperial Suite, but she had draw the line somewhere. They were supposed to be keeping a low profile, and the most expensive rooms in the Ritz – even if it was just a muggle hotel – hardly qualified. In addition, without magic, the suite was probably unattainable anyway; at least, on such short notice.
Still, she had hardly argued. The Ritz was vastly superior to any alternative; certainly better than her suggestions of motels on the outskirts of the city. Truth be told, after she quit her job at ministry to pursue this plague, she had been living on savings. A frugal lifestyle had allowed to draw them out as much as possible, but they were running out, nonetheless. Buying first class plane tickets had put a major dent in whatever remained, and she was glad Malfoy had covered that expense. Not that she would ever admit it. She had done him a favor by letting them travel by train.
"So, what are the plans, Granger?" Malfoy asked, watching the Gare du Nord's sculpted facade disappear behind them.
"Well, there's a researcher in Saint-Denis I want to visit. He's a well known scholar in biomagic and hexes; he might offer some insight into this situation. Today, however, we'll head to the morgues and–" her voice tapered off as she glanced in his direction. Malfoy had shrugged off his coat, and there were still several strands of her hair on his dark poplin shirt. Oh, curses, she was still embarrassed about falling asleep on his shoulder.
Malfoy had prodded her awake once they were close to arrival; blinking rapidly to chase the sleep from her eyes, it had taken her several seconds to remember where she was and why she was so close to the blond. Then, her mind had kicked in, and she jumped back, stammering apologies. Her face at that moment, as Malfoy had so kindly informed her when they were walking through the terminal building, had turned a color of red starkly reminiscent of the Weasley's shade of hair.
She had punched in the shoulder for that.
Still, thinking back to that moment on the train, Hermione couldn't help feeling stunned at how much she had let her guard down around him. She had never, ever, been able to be so comfortable with a man after… after the assault, with the obvious exceptions of Harry and Ron. And even that had taken time, as almost a year had to pass after the war until she could reciprocate their physical signs of affection without a slimy, tense feeling forming in the bottom of her gut. It was not fair that the simple comfort of a hug had been stolen from her by that monster; that it had taken many months before she could accept a peck on the cheek from her male friends without wanting to throw up and dash somewhere far away, where it was light, and open, and free-
No. With an effort, she focused on shutting those memories down. She was fine now. She had worked through those issues. She was strong. Breathe, Hermione, breathe. One day, you will find the monster that did this to you and rip his shriveled heart out, but right now, you are fine.
"Granger?" Malfoy's voice brought her back to the present.
"Oh, and, um… just… some other places we'll check up on," she finished lamely, mind snapping back to the issue of her traitorous hair. What would she do it with it? She considered several options and then decided on 'nothing'. She would do nothing with it, because plucking it off his shoulder was certainly not something she would do. She would just wait until he noticed it, and then they could play 'we'll-pretend-this-never-happened-ok?' game.
Meanwhile, Malfoy just started at her like she was crazy, but then shrugged, clicking his tongue, and turned back to the window. His smell – the one she first noticed when she woke up – wafted over her senses. It was like an ocean breeze under the tropical sun. Cologne?
Ok, Hermione, she mentally chided herself. Get a grip.
Thankfully, a cheery melody interrupted her runaway emotional train. It could only be one of several people calling; withdrawing her cell, she confirmed it was Harry. She had to buy him a phone before leaving so that they could stay in touch without risking owl post. Before that, Harry didn't have a cell phone – he didn't need it. Just like her, he had become firmly entrenched in the wizarding community, leaving muggle life behind.
After exchanging pleasantries, Harry asked how their case was progressing and whether or not Malfoy was being a git.
"You just give the word, and Ron and I'll be there in a second, teach him a lesson or two," he said, only half-joking.
"I'm fine, he's fine; we've just arrived. I'll check for you-know-what's presence this evening, and we'll proceed with the plan tomorrow."
"Ok, 'Mione. You just be careful, alright? And don't trust Malfoy to have your back too much. You know what to do in case–"
"Yes, I know, Harry. Thank you."
"I'm sorry. You know I just worry."
She sighed. "I know," she said. "Love you."
"Love you too, 'Mione. Bye."
The conversation ended just in time for her to see the taxi turn onto the Rue de la Paix. Chic boutiques and fancy hotels, topped by steeply pitched mansard roofs, lined the street. Shifting to the middle of the seat (with Malfoy throwing her a curious glance), Hermione spied the Vendome Column through the windshield ahead. At the apex, a bronze statue of Napoleon stood on its grandly plinth. The original monument had been torn down over a century ago, but the replacement was just as imposing. It was a commemoration to the Emperor's victory at the battle of Austerlitz; Hermione remembered that some of the original bronze plates were cast by melting down cannons captured from the defeated Russian and Austrian armies.
This made her thoughts turn back to the book she had been reading on the train; to the lofty sky under which a wounded Bolkonsky realized the sheer insignificance of man with all of his aspirations. If only the world would follow suit...
Their taxi crossed the intersection where the Rue Danielle Casanova became Rue des Capucines, and entered the canted corners of Place Vendome.
The next half hour flew by Hermione in a shell-shocked daze. She had never wanted for anything in her life; her parents were dentists and made respectable salaries. They had money, but this… this was Money, with emphasis on the capital "M". Malfoy (another capital "M"), felt as comfortable here as a fish in water. With airs of haughty arrogance, he sneered at the staff, pointedly ignoring the floral cascades of greenery sprinkled through a long, carpeted, baroque hall. What did he care for gilded wingback armchairs or wall coverings of padded silk damask? He had seen it all before.
Hermione, on the other hand, tried very hard to keep her eyes from roving around the hall like some peasant from a village visiting the city for the first time. Her attire, while neat and elegant, was conspicuously out of place with these posh surroundings.
Their rooms were already prepared; Malfoy had paid ahead from his muggle bank account, which had been a surprise in and of itself. She had almost stumbled when she heard about his checking and savings' accounts.
"Why would you even need them?" she had asked. "Isn't Gringotts sufficient?"
"Can't place my work checks there," he replied with a shrug. "And Gringotts doesn't exactly accept direct deposit either."
"Wait, you're talking about your… McDonald's paychecks?!' An incredulous expression crossed her face. It's not like he needed the money; it was a drop in the ocean compared to what he had.
"Of course."
"You mean… you keep it? The minimum wage from a job you hate, working alongside people you despise?"
He had sighed with great exasperation. "Morals are morals," he explained. "Money is money."
Flexible morals were always a staple of Slytherin house, she mused, although many argued that it was simple practicality. Only Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, out of either stubbornness or loyalty, were ready to die for their ideals; most Slytherins and Ravenclaws figured it was more prudent to compromise in certain situations. Neither of these approaches was inherently wrong; it's just that some things you couldn't afford to compromise on. Ever. She knew that better than most – she had fought a war because of it.
Morality aside, though, Malfoy had one thing right: money was money, and the proof was all around her.
Their rooms were adjacent to one another. Inside hers, the walls were a butter yellow, the bed of the softest, springiest material, and the balcony opened to a fantastic view of the Place Vendome. What she wanted most right now was to go out and explore, but she simply didn't have the time. She had told Malfoy to meet her in the lobby in half an hour, and there were several things she needed to do before that. Quickly undressing, she headed towards the bathroom.
. . . .
. . . .
Twenty-five minutes later, a knock echoed through his room. Draco, fresh out of the shower and buttoning his shirt, walked to the door, feeling a bit hesitant.
"Come on, Malfoy!" Granger's impatient voice filtered through, as she banged on the door again. Draco opened it with a frown.
"I thought we were meeting down in–" he began and then stopped, his sentence hanging unfinished. He had to blink several times to make sense of the sight that had strolled into his room.
In less than half an hour Granger had… changed. Her hair, still falling down in riotous curls, was now a sandy shade of blonde; her eyes twinkled a periwinkle-blue; her skin was a tone darker, and her chest had… well, he wasn't going to stare, but he was pretty sure it had expanded a size or two.
He would have never recognized her on the street.
"You look, err… different," he hesitantly offered.
Granger scowled. "And I should have donned this little bimbo charade before we even left. It was foolish not to – we can't risk anyone seeing me, even if it unlikely."
"Hmm." That made sense, he supposed. "The eyes?" he asked.
"Contact lenses. They're–"
"I know what they are. Did you use muggle means for everything else too?"
"No. Lima's Luxuries," she admitted with a slight blush, referring to the newly-opened trendy Diagon Alley Salon & Spa. "Potions for skin and hair. Ginny got them for me."
"And the, ahh…" His gaze traveled down to her breasts. Granger obviously didn't understand the question for a second. Then, there was a moment of disbelief on her features as she realized exactly what he meant.
"Excuse me?" Snapping in a scandalized tone, she crossed her arms. Standing as straight as an arrow, and with glowering force of a thousand daggers, her pose just dared him continue this line of questioning.
Great job, Draco, he thought to himself with sarcasm. What girl doesn't like getting asked why her boobs changed? Any more holes you wanna dig, while you're at it? Maybe Avada yourself? No?
"No, I mean, err..." he stammered, nervously clearing his throat.
He had a sudden flashback to the beginning of 5'th year, when Goyle, in front of the whole common room, had asked Pansy to blow him. Draco still vividly remembered how all the conversations around them ceased, and heads swiveled to see the raven-haired witch's response. And what a spectacle she delivered. Pansy, of course, didn't know that Goyle wasn't being serious – it was just some stupid dare. Turning a vibrant shade of crimson, with a look that could murder house-elves on the spot, she jumped up and proceeded to shoot hex after hex, chasing Greg all around the common room. Everyone had laughed (well, except Goyle, of course), and it was one of Draco's few steadfast funny memories from that year. It wasn't funny anymore suddenly, because Granger was looking exactly like Pansy had before she started screaming about tearing Goyle's bollocks off, and then he could go blow himself, thank you very much!
"You, um, just look very nice," he finished, cringing from how feeble his own words sounded.
"Um?" Granger raised an eyebrow, and he quickly corrected himself.
"No 'um', I mean! You look different, but nice. Very nice." Eloquent, Draco.
Granger harrumphed, glaring suspiciously. He pasted on his most innocent-looking smile in response, trying to ignore the war beat drumming of her fingers. Several moments of staring like that at each other, and then Granger suddenly bit her lip. Her eyes, glacial just a second ago, now twinkled with mischievous glee. He had just a moment to wonder what was happening before she broke out in a hearty, delighted laugh.
"Oh, your face, Malfoy!" she wheezed, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. "You thought I was going to curse you, didn't you?"
He just stood there, shocked. Did she just…
"Wait, you… you were having me on?!"
"Of course, silly!" she chuckled. "I don't care about that. Oh, but admit it, you were terrified!"
Feeling a treacherous warmth spreading over his cheeks, he denied that vehemently: "I was not! I knew you were joking! Duh!"
"Duh!" she teased, mimicking him, and then rolled her eyes. "Sure you did!"
This was getting ridiculous. A change of subject was in order.
"Why are you here again?" he snapped. "Weren't we meeting up in the lobby?"
I took a minute or two for Granger to get the last laughs out of her system. Finally, wiping a bit of moisture from her eyes, her face became solemn.
"Sorry, Malfoy," she said with a sigh. "It's been ages since I laughed like that. Thank you for… well..."
Draco, mildly miffed that a Gryffindor had managed to trick him, just grumbled something along of the lines of it's fine and let's move on already, shall we?
"Ok, ok," Granger agreed good-naturedly. "I came here to see you, actually."
"Oh?" He quirked an eyebrow.
"Yes," she continued, her voice suddenly grave and serious. "You're here because you're supposed to have my back on this mission of ours, right?"
Draco frowned. Was she insinuating he wouldn't hold up his end of the bargain?
"I gave an oath, Granger," he growled, "And I intend to uphold it."
"I know, Malfoy, and I'm confident you will," she replied, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "So, it's not that."
She reached in her bag and pulled out a long, thin case. "It's just, well, you're not much good without a wand now, are you?"
Her bluntness went right over him. He had to take a step back, carefully, because of a sudden weakness in his knees.
"A wand?" he asked, throat dry and voice trembling.
"A wand," she repeated, extending the case towards him. "Your wand, in fact. Harry got it out of lock-up for me, and I'm putting a lot of trust in you by handing it over now, so don't fuck this up."
Vision blurry, he had to swallow an odd lump in his throat. His hand shook when he reached over and clasped the case. When she let it go, her fingers traced his for a moment, sending a warmth down his spine.
He stared at the little box in his hand. Almost four years. Four years with no magic, forced to live like a fucking muggle.
Slowly, gently, like prying open the petals of a dew-kissed morning flower, he opened the lid. There, on a bed of velvet, 10 inches long, made of hawthorn with a unicorn hair, lay his wand. He looked at it, just looked, not daring to touch. It was completely irrational, but he was scared that this was a joke, that it would vanish in a puff of smoke the second he reached for it.
Granger, understanding the significance of this moment, retreated a bit to offer him some privacy, but he didn't even notice.
"It's yours, Draco," she said softly. "Don't be afraid."
He looked up, right into her shining eyes, and grasped the wand. "Lumos," he whispered, and with an almost euphoric feeling, the magic inside him awoke, rushing through his veins and bursting forth in a brilliant, splendid glow. It was like he was bathing in the light of a dozen suns after a cold and barren winter. This was life, and meaning, and joy! His eyesight deteriorated even more; he had to blink very quickly to see anything at all.
Whatever self-control he possessed vanished at that point in time. He looked at Granger then, no, not Granger, but Hermione, soaking up her lithe frame with a ravenous hunger. This was the same girl that had testified on his behalf before the courts after the war, preventing him from landing in prison. And now – she had saved him again, giving him back his life! Never in a million years would he be worthy of her kindness, but she gave it to him nonetheless. He didn't believe in any religion or any gods, but, at that moment, what he saw in the young woman before him was an angel.
It took only two quick steps, and his arms circled around her. Hermione actually squeaked when he pressed her into his chest. She was stiff at first, and for a moment he was afraid she'd break free and push him back, but she didn't. Her heart fluttered against his, as quick as a hummingbird's; slowly, it calmed, and he felt the tension seeping out of her body. She lifted her arms and returned the embrace.
"I won't," he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. "I promise. I won't ever fuck it up."
"I know, Draco, I know," Hermione whispered back. "Shh, it's ok. Draco, we have to go now, we have a job to do."
Ignoring her dwindling protests, he continued to hold on tightly while mumbling a stream of thank you's into her hair. She relented, and, together, they stood in each other's arms, while a hushed silence descended between them.
Did a minute pass? An hour? Draco didn't know. He just knew that she was warm, and graceful, and amazing, and her hair smelled wonderful, and she was clutching him back, like he was the anchor to her whole world. Silently, he offered up a prayer of thanks to any deity that would listen for putting this woman in his life.
With a very un-Slytherin-like sniffle, he tilted his head back, releasing his grip a little. She followed suit, and their eyes, misty and tear-stained, locked together. He felt her breath ghost his lips and cheek, and his must have done the same to her, because she suddenly broke her gaze away, and a rosy blush erupted on her fair skin.
"Um," she said intelligently. There was a vulnerability to her stance now, and she looked almost scared. Well, he would be damned if this woman felt scared ever again, so her pulled her back into the hug, holding her like he would never let go. He slowly ran his hands along her sides, which she must have enjoyed, because she pressed tighter against him, a small whimper escaping her lips. Her breathing was slower and heavier now. His hands, pressing into her back, felt the band of her bra through the silk of her blouse, and with a sudden clarity – a real eureka moment – he figured it out.
"Cotton balls," he whispered.
"What?"
"That's how you modified the last part of your appearance," he explained, looking extremely pleased with himself. "You stuffed cotton balls in your, um…"
That was when a second moment of inspiration – the realization that he should not have stated this theory out loud – struck him, but by then it was too late.
Hermione broke away from their embrace, taking several steps back. The sequence of emotions crossing her face was almost fascinating to watch. There was confusion followed by disbelief, then shock mixed with incredulity, disbelief again, and then her face scrunched up into a furious storm of anger.
"No, you idiot!" she yelled. "It's just a padded bra, not… cotton balls!"
"Oh."
"I can't believe this. I legitimately cannot believe this!" She started storming back and forth, waving her arms, unable to contain the outburst to just vocalizations. It was like watching a bomb explode in slow motion. "We just share a moment, something poignant and… and meaningful, and important, and you're thinking ABOUT MY TITS?!"
Oh. Oh, shit. He may have crossed a line for real this time. Think fast, Draco.
"Well, they were right there!" he stammered the first thing that came into his mind. Maybe he should have stayed silent. Knowing when to shut your mouth is one of the golden rules of almost any successful relationship. Of course, Draco never really had any, so how would he know?
"WHAT–IS–IT–WITH–BOYS–AND–BOOBS?!" Hermione screeched, jumping towards him and punctuating each word with a painful slap.
An eternal question, really, not that Draco was in any position to answer it. Fending off a series of vicious attacks, he sprinted out the door, yelling apologies along the way. Like a lioness on the hunt, Hermione dashed in pursuit. She was out for blood…
Marie Moreau, a burly 59-year-old maid, spied the quarreling couple as she pushed her linen-filled cart down the corridor. She paused for a second, observing a wailing young lady holding some sort of stick chasing after a blond gentleman – obviously, her beau. A dreamy smile graced the old maid's crinkled features as the young couple rushed past.
"Ah, l'amour," she sighed whimsically, recalling her own memories of passion-filled youth, and then continued on her way.
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