Several hours later...
"No, Draco, a flick in the third quarter. Here, like this," Hermione said, demonstrating a complicated weaving pattern with her wand.
His answer consisted of some muddled grumbles about blasted know-it-all's, which she would certainly have none of.
"Hush and focus! Your wand work is abhorrent!"
She saw him tense, blood rushing to his face. "Well, pardon me for not being in a position to practice any magic these past years," he snapped back, making her chest to constrict with guilt.
After a short, tense silence, she apologized.
"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
Instead of replying, he tried to replicate the wand movements correctly; this time, he managed to get the flick on-point, but it put his wrist in the wrong position, and the spell fizzled out. Again.
"Godfuckingdammit!" he swore, jumping up and kicking the sofa he had been sitting on. Turning away, he started to pace back and forth, until coming to a stop in front of the high french doors that led to the balcony. Outside, the rain had ceased, but the sky was still obscured behind heavy, rolling clouds. Hermione rose and walked over to him, reaching out to grip his shoulder from behind. She could feel the tension in his muscles, wound as a coil. Frustration and anger rolled off of him in waves.
"It's a difficult spell, Draco," she said soothingly, sliding her hand down to rub his arm. "Harry and Ron couldn't manage it either at first."
"And exactly how long did it take them, because we've been at this an hour, and I just… I feel so fucking useless!"
"As you've said: you're out of practice. Now, how about this: let's take a break. I'm feeling rather peckish, and I know for a fact you're starving."
As if to emphasize her words, Draco's stomach emitted an audible growl. He slowly relaxed, and she let her arm drop, moving up to stand beside him.
"It's really something, isn't it?" she said quietly, peering at the Vendome column in the middle of the square. Its spiraling bas-relief plates glowed under the muted light of several street lamps. But the man next to her didn't appear to be swayed by mere illumination and metal.
"It's a pillar with a dead man on it," he said with an indifferent shrug. "They come; they go."
She disagreed, and told him so in a scolding tone: "You don't mean that. Art is a vital part of history."
"Maybe. But this – this is not art. It's a monument to one's ego, a self-aggrandizing display of hubris."
Hermione sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. She didn't like this acidic, sullen mood of his. Fortunately, he seemed to snap out of it the next second. "What did you want to get?" he asked, changing the topic.
"To eat?" The Gryffindor girl pondered that for a moment, and then drawled the next words out with a teasing twist to her lips. "I was thinking maybe a hamburger with some fries–" Draco started to make gagging noises. "–and a soda to wash it down with. Large, of course. Why, Draco," she added, innocently batting her eyes at him, "is something the matter?"
The man had turned a light shade of green and actually started to growl like some rabid dog.
"Very funny, you witch. Ugh. Just one thought of hamburgers and fucking fast food–" He shuddered. "I've had more than several lifetimes' worth working at that filthy place. Never want to see it again."
Hermione laughed. "How about some room service then?"
It was 10 by the time their food was delivered, which they spread out over a low coffee table. There was a bit of a jostle of who would sit where before they figured it out; each taking one side of the sofa. When she passed the cutlery to her companion, Hermione couldn't help but feel proud that he had finally nailed down the spell she had been struggling to teach him. The moment he had, his face had lit up with delight, like rays of sun breaking through a stormy cover of clouds. His happiness had even eclipsed her own, as he had pulled her into another impromptu hug, before breaking away with a look of embarrassment. The hug had felt good. Almost as good as the one they had shared earlier that day, when she returned his wand.
Hermione still had trouble analyzing that moment. That hug had sparked such a powerful cascade of emotions that it made her recollections all fuzzy. First, fear had come. It was numb and blank, transforming the war heroine, a veteran fighter of many battles, back into a terrified little girl. Blood pounding in her ears, all she could do was watch helplessly as the arms closed in around her, his frame cutting out her line of sight. She wanted to move, but couldn't; her body betrayed her, becoming stiff and unresponsive. Just a single, panicked thought rocketed through the cavernous expanses of her mind: that the arms would close in, locking her away from the world, blocking off the light, and she would be back there. Back in that damp cellar with its rotting vegetables, back with the silver-masked man.
It happened. Draco's arms completed the circle, and the fear, instead of suffocating her, had fled, washing away like silt down a river, leaving behind cold shock. Not the petrifying, dizzying kind that rips your soul to pieces, no! It was the shock that accompanies a dive into frigid pool of water; it grips you tight, but then relents, and you warm up, bursting to the surface with childish glee. Just like that, the arms were around her, but there was no cellar. It didn't burst forth, but remained concealed, hidden in the rear of her mind, the painful memories lying dormant within.
For a moment, she reveled in this absence of fear. Her heartbeat had slowed, and she lifted her arms to return the embrace. Hugs – and all other kinds of physical intimacies – were a rarity for her. She could accept them from a very limited circle – her few real friends. She could initiate a hug with someone else too, if she felt comfortable enough, but it was always brief, and made her feel clammy inside. Which is why her body's unexpected reaction – such a strong feeling of security in the arms of this man – was so shocking.
She remembered whispering something to the blond and trying to let go, but he wouldn't let her. His words were muted but constant, like a fresh mountain stream flowing over a bed of mossy rocks.
And then, suddenly, his arms were sliding at her sides, prompting her heart to ramp up again, sending endorphin-saturated blood racing through her veins. Breath hitching, she pressed into the broad, smooth plane of his shirt-covered chest, her palms traveling upwards, exploring the ridges of Draco's spine, delving into valleys of muscle and sinew. His scent, so masculine and simultaneously sweet, brought her consciousness to a never before experienced euphoric high; it was like she was on the edge of a massive cliff, and the whole world was spread out before her. At any moment, she could jump down and fly, free from any shackling constraints. She felt a delightful, forbidden warmth spread throughout her body, pooling in-between her thighs; vaguely, she remembered gripping him tighter, needing him closer, needing something more, and then…
And then he had ruined it all by being a complete idiot.
Which, in hindsight, she was glad for. She had not been prepared for those sudden, intoxicating emotions. They had swamped her like water gushing from a breached dam. She needed time to think, to reorganize her inner world in conjunction with the revelation that she was attracted to Draco Malfoy! How? Why? Her mind reeled.
Most men her body perceived as threats, to be kept at a distance. They were repulsive, wanting creatures. But with him… Possibly, it was because he had found and rescued her from the abysmal clutches of the muggle world. She knew he wouldn't harm her either; he had had many opportunities to do so already. Maybe it was also the result of continued proximity; she had spent a night in his house – albeit memoryless – and then used him as a glorified pillow during their ride to Paris.
He had been a good pillow.
"Sickle for you thoughts?" Draco said, popping a cut of milk-fed lamb into his mouth.
"That's it's better than a McDouble," she joked. He rolled his eyes.
"It's decent for a muggle dish, I'll give them that." Now it was Hermione rolling her eyes. Her food in particular – sea bass roasted with saffron butter, with a lead of artichokes, mousse and marinated cockles with crispy mussels – was mouthwatering. It had also cost 140 euros.
"What, Draco, can't have humans preparing your dinners? Has to be a house-elf?"
"I'll have you know," he replied, tilting his nose upwards in a mock display of pureblood arrogance, "that Linny prepares food that will put any human chef to shame–"
Hermione snorted, spying some succulent-looking stuffed eggplant on his plate. Quickly, while he was busy singing odes of praise to the cooking of his house-elf, she reached out and speared it, stealing it for herself. Draco stopped in the middle of his speech, mouth hanging wide open.
"You took my eggplant!" he exclaimed, looking as betrayed as a child that had his lollipop stolen.
Staring him straight in the eyes, she slowly inched the fork closer to her mouth, reveling in the growing look of horror on his face.
"No."
"Yes!" With a wicked grin, she closed her lips about the catch, moaning with pleasure. "Defifcious," she garbled with a full mouth, before gulping it down.
"You took my food," he said, still in an apparent state of shock.
"Oh, come off it, Draco." She waved her hand. "It's just a little eggplant."
He frowned, looking perturbed. "You don't know?" he asked.
"Know what?"
He paused before explaining. "It's only customary for married couples or family to share food. I thought you were just playing around at first, but you… you actually ate it."
Hermione wanted to blurt out what a ridiculous tradition that was, and that sharing food with friends (because he was a friend, right?) was completely normal, but then decided that insulting pureblood ways of life wasn't the wisest course of action. Instead, she allowed her inquisitiveness to lead.
"I've never read anything like that before," she said. "Nor did Ron ever mention it."
"It's just something we grow up with: we learn what's appropriate and what's not by observing the people around us. I wouldn't know if there's a book written about it. Everybody just… knows. Although, I must admit I'm not surprised about Weasley; that family has long ago broken every spoken and unspoken rule. Wait. Ew. You've shared food with him?"
Hermione felt her eyebrows rising in indignation, irritated at the implied disgust. "Not only did I share food with him, I shared a tent! For months! With him and Harry. We were on the run, Draco. What we ate… we were lucky if we went to bed without our stomachs rumbling from hunger."
Draco's face had sunk during her explanation. He fidgeted, pushing food around his plate, and then lifted his head to meet her gaze. When he spoke, his voice rang of shame.
"I'm sorry."
Hermione sighed, repressing the nightmare-inducing memories that always surfaced when the war was brought up. Instead, she hooked a piece of sea bass with her fork, and held it out towards the pureblood wizard.
"Make it up to me, then. Take a bite."
"Off your fork?"
"Well, unless you're afraid of my… germs," she said, her tone noticeably flat. The implication was clear: it was a test to see if he could go against his upbringing. Would he be able to share with a non-family member, a muggleborn at that? A mudblood? Could he do it, or was some part of him still repulsed by her unclean heritage? It wasn't entirely fair to spring such a test, but she had to know. If he had truly denounced his society's dogmas, then he could prove it to her. Right now.
Draco's face reflected his inner turmoil for a second. It seemed he understood the significance of the request. After a second, he scooted over, his decision clear. Angling the utensil for easier access, Hermione watched as Draco closed his mouth around it with deliberation, chewing and then swallowing. In doing so, he never broke eye contact. His full lips glistened with grease, and she had to quell a sudden desire to wipe them with her thumb. Instead, she took another forkful of food off her plate and edged nearer, so that he wouldn't have to lean so far. Their thighs brushed together; again, he opened his mouth, only to nibble morsels of fish off the fork with a sequence of tiny bites.
They repeated this process, as she fed him the rest of her dish, one forkful at a time. His eyes, bathed in shadow from the room's only lit lamp, never left hers. He didn't utter a single word; nor did she. A car sloshed over puddles somewhere below, and his tongue darted out, licking beads of juice from his lips.
She imagined them participants in some archaic ritual, where every movement was choreographed; every beat of the heart recorded in advance. A rhythmic tick-tock from a clock measured out seconds passing by, but for the two people here time stood still. It was just them, alone on an island of solitude and hushed silence. With every bite he took, he slid closer across the sofa, until their shoulders bumped and her side pressed into his.
Their bodies were alongside one another, their faces only inches apart. His eyes were wide, pupils like huge, dark moons in a milky sky. His breath ghosted over her skin, causing goosebumps to rise across her entire body. Pulse quickening, she felt some primordial, womanly part of her awaken, washing her body with desire. It was instinctual and ancient; it demanded that she lean in nearer, hold her breath, close her eyes, and–
Ting. The clock on the marble mantelpiece chimed. Her eyes popped open. Draco's face was only an inch away.
Ting. Ting. Ting.
A total of 11 times it rang, its sounds reverberating off the brass candle holders and silver cutlery. The magic of the moment fled; suddenly aware of their closeness, both of them sprang back.
Draco cleared his throat. His flushed skin contrasted sharply with his usual pale countenance.
A car honked in the distance.
Realizing that she was still holding her breath, Hermione exhaled slowly, tugging an errant curl back behind her ear with a self-conscious gesture.
"I should… go change. We're leaving soon?" His voice was raspy.
"In forty minutes," she replied, rising awkwardly from her seat, looking anywhere but at him.
He nodded and, without a backwards glance, fled the room.
. . . .
. . . .
The cab picked them up a quarter to midnight. It only made sense to do what they planned at night; night, after all, was the time of criminals and vigilantes. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, and they passed quickly, unhindered by any traffic. Draco watched the lights of the city float by. His mind was occupied with the events of their dinner. It was impossible to deny: he had almost kissed the Gryffindor girl.
He didn't know what to make of this. Did he regret it? His body certainly didn't; on the contrary, it was very hungry for more. Between his restrictive work schedule and the fact that most of society shunned him, he hadn't had any female company in… well, since the war. Linny didn't count.
It had been so lonely at times, that he almost made moves on his muggle coworkers. Almost.
Which is probably why he had latched on to Hermione so quick; why he felt eager to be in her presence. She was the first girl he had spent idle time with in ages, and that was clouding his judgement. They had a job to do, and he needed to restrain his urges.
Guys, after all, usually exhibit exceptionally poor judgement when thinking with their dicks.
Still, he didn't like the atmosphere surrounding them. They had spoken barely a dozen words after their dinner, all of them formally stiff. This didn't feel right.
"Hermione," he spoke up.
She was looking out the window on her side of the car, back turned to him. Her body tensed at his words; when she looked towards him, it was with a stony expression.
"Hermione," he repeated, enjoying the sound of her name on his lips. "I think we should talk about what happened."
She didn't answer at first, just looked at him with her eyes that that were the color of wild honey. Then, for a brief moment, her unreadable facade cracked, giving him a glimpse of the turbulent currents swirling beneath. She was scared, he realized. Just as scared as him, if not more.
It looked like she wanted to say something then, but held it back at the last second, biting her lip instead. Her fingers fiddled with the wool sleeve ends of her coat. He reached over to still them, giving her hand a small squeeze. Her skin felt cool to the touch.
"I'm… I'm not really good at this," he fumbled for words. "And I don't know what to say… but… it's easier to figure these things out together, right?"
She glanced down to the spot where their hands were connected. Slowly, she squeezed back and slumped in her seat with a heavy sigh.
"You're right. We should. Not right now though. It's late, and we still have a job to do."
"Tomorrow then?"
"Tomorrow. Let's focus on this for now, ok? It's too important."
He nodded.
Her lips curved upwards, and then she squeezed his hand again before letting go. She didn't turn away, however, and engaged him in some lighthearted conversation. With the tension gone, it flowed easily between them, and Hermione even laughed at one of his jokes about working with muggles. Those tinkling sounds precipitated a peculiar ache in his chest, and he couldn't stop himself from watching how the corners of her eyes crinkled with joy. When they reached their destination, he became a little sad, wishing that their ride had lasted longer. He wasn't sure, but he thought she felt the same.
The taxi stopped across the street from a long, blocky building. A backlit, white sign plastered above the entrance read 'Institut Medico-Legal de Paris' in big letters. Draco got out, breathing in the fresh, clear air. Muggle cities, he found, were much more bearable after a storm. It washed away the dirt and the mud; it swept clouds of toxic exhaust fumes far away; it chased people inside. Less people was always good. Especially muggles.
Draco walked a little ahead of his companion. When he reached the door, he pulled it open, letting her go through first. She strolled in, acknowledging his action with a brief nod of her head. It seemed Hermione had already accepted this as the norm in their rapport.
"Act like you belong," she whispered to him and headed off with a deliberate stride past a reception area. It was five minutes past midnight, and only a single guard stood watch. He must have been bored or really diligent at his job, because he instantly perked up at their entrance.
"Pardon!" he exclaimed, getting up from behind the reception desk as they walked past. "Pardon, Monsieur! Madame!"
Hermione paused and waited for him to approach, a flash of irritation passing through her eyes. Draco, standing by the witch's side, noticed the tip of her wand peeking out from under her coat. When the guard was five steps away, she pointed it at him and coolly said one word.
"Imperio."
The guard's eyes instantly glazed over, his body becoming slack. Responding to Hermione's mental commands, he turned towards one of the sterile-white corridors leaving the hall and shuffled forward.
"Oui, oui, d'accord," he droned in a monotonous voice. "Allons-y."
Hermione followed, mentioning for Draco to do the same. Draco, admittedly, was surprised. He was expecting a confounding charm or maybe a stunner. But Hermione, without a single note of hesitation, cast an unforgivable. She could make this balding, middle-aged man do anything right now. Sing a song. Lick her boots. Jump off a building.
It was kinda hot.
Noticing the stare he was giving her, Hermione quirked an eyebrow.
"You won't tattle on me to the ministry, will you, Draco?"
He grinned wolfishly in reply. Like he would dare. He remembered how she gloated over Bellatrix's death.
"Never," he said, which seemed to appease her.
The guard guided them through a series of corridors, and then down a set of stairs. Hermione mumbled the names of different departments as they passed them by. Histology. Toxicology. Forensic Anthropology.
Finally, they came to a set of doors with a plaque above them that read 'Morgue'.
"Merci beaucoup," the witch smiled sweetly and send the guard back with a twirl of her wand.
"I have to admit," Draco said, entering a short hall with several doors on either side. One of them housed the dead. "I'm impressed."
She replied with steel in her voice, "Don't say that. There is nothing good in what I did. He was innocent and didn't deserve to have his will suppressed."
"Yet you did it anyway."
Hermione followed her wand to one of the doors, which she unlocked with a softly murmured alohomora. A few seconds fumbling searching for the switch, and the lights turned on.
"It was the practical thing to do," she finally answered, her lips thinning into a straight line. "It made sense."
"And thus, I am impressed."
Hermione walked over to the far wall, where racks of coolers were stacked together floor-to-ceiling, and quickly counted the ones with tags.
"49," she groaned and then turned back to him. "You don't think I was practical in school?"
"Oh, no, you were. But, there you had–"
"–Morals?"
"Yeah. A line you would never cross. No matter the circumstances."
She put too much strength into opening the first cooler, and when the hatch popped open, it swiveled rapidly on its hinges, banging against the steel frame of its neighbor.
"Some lessons," she said harshly, sliding out a plastic-wrapped body, "you learn the hard way. Maybe the war wouldn't have lasted that long if people were willing to break a rule or two. Cast an avada instead of a stunner; crucio out some information from a Death Eater. But we were the light, so no, we couldn't do that. We'd rather watch our friends die instead. Dumbledore worried too much about souls and his own machinations when he should have been preparing us to fight. And then he died, leaving us to figure it out all by ourselves, and, well, what can you expect from a group of teenagers? Of course, we wanted to be the good guys, but that comes at a cost. By the time we paid it, it was too late. So, sometimes, it's just simpler to be bad."
Her voice turned bitter by the end of her speech, and she practically ripped open the zipper on the plastic. Draco walked over, putting a hand on her shoulder. He felt her fingers grip it tightly; then, she let go.
"Show me you can do the spell," she ordered.
Draco looked down to the slab of metal. An elderly woman's face gazed upwards with unseeing eyes, her skin as pale as snow. The rest of her body was still concealed by the plastic wrap, but they had no need of it. They just needed the mind.
"Remember, a flick in the third quarter, and then put your wrist–"
"I know, Hermione!"
She gave him a light smile and backed up, providing him with some space. "Ok."
Draco exhaled, concentrating on the magic he was about to do. Its purpose was to discover the virus they were chasing. It hid well, but Hermione and Frackenburger had created a spell that would reveal it in a body.
Raising his wand, he focused and called out to the magic he had been denied for so long. It felt bloody fantastic, like a thing of beauty was growing inside him every time he used it. He hit all the correct positions, did the flick in the third quarter, making no errors with his wrist, and completed the spell with a flourish.
It took several more minutes for it to take effect. Finally, a light-blue hue colored the woman's forehead, indicating she was not infected.
Hermione clapped. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed, looking proud of her pupil. Draco grinned with triumph and zipped up the body bag, sliding it back into cold storage.
"Now," Hermione said, while he was closing the hatch. "You start on that side, I'll continue here."
Draco looked at the long line of racks. 49, he remembered the number Hermione had counted.
"Even the ones who died of natural causes?" he whined.
"Even them. We can't afford any mistakes."
49. Draco groaned. It was going to be a long night.