To the woman monitoring security scans at Schiphol, the world had just split into two parts. There were, and had always been, the average milieu of anxious, nondescript travelers who registered nothing more than acknowledgement that they existed on her radar. Then there was that guy, with the silver-white hair and the kid. The most obvious thing about him, his hair, got stares from everyone, but it was more than that. Might've been his expensive suit. She didn't know what rich people wore, but if she had to describe it, it looked like liquid black ink had been made into a soft, yet shape-forming fabric and measured to fit this man's slender body perfectly. It was a nice body. It looked like an entire wardrobe crew must've worked on his look to achieve the most striking effect possible. He appealed to her voyeuristic appreciation of people because she felt like she was watching a movie when she looked at him. He looked like the reason she'd left the US, to experience delights she simply couldn't otherwise. Europeans had a different mindset that was sometimes charming and always interesting. Illinois was home, but her need for more, had positioned her a world away.
It took a lot to impress Hattie Mayfield, who left eleven years of service behind her at JFK, because she wanted something new and fresh, and unidentified. Having grown up in Chicago, she wasn't impressed by American bravado. She didn't know when she'd have the need to speak German or French, but she learned both in college, solidifying herself as the odd sheep in the family, and an outcast among the neighborhood friends she grew up with. It only made sense that she'd try a taste of Europe when the opportunity came. It only made sense that her husband would be German, causing everyone back home to shake their heads in culture shock.
Perhaps that's why the young man stood out to her. She was the darkest person in her daily environment, and had learned to thrive being different from the norm in a new culture. He looked to be her opposite. Positively one of the whitest people she'd ever seen, and not blending in, even here. Genetics were amazing. And once she'd seen the alarm on his face, when asked to put the child down for his scan, she couldn't stop watching him. He'd survived the five seconds of not holding the little girl, then sweeping her up, only to be told he had to take her through. He recovered his watch and rings, and took a seat on the other side of the barrier. Hattie wanted to tell him that he could rent a stroller around the corner, but the way he pressed the child to his chest, as if shaken, told her that would've been tantamount to another security assault. Royals. She saw them all the time, dressed incognito. Slumming it, getting their kicks under the tabloid radar. She didn't know what blue-blooded tree this young man had fallen from, but he was not used to navigating his way through an airport with common folk. She didn't hold it against him. Poor dear. That's what happened when everything was done for you.
She spoke into her radio. "Michael. Two o'clock your way. Prettiest white boy I've ever seen."
Michael's reply was delayed. "Oh, honey. That's too much maintenance for me. But I am going to take a picture. Proof, they really do exist."
"You think that baby's his?"
"She's his. Definitely family. But he's so fucking young. Tragic. I'm glad I came to work today."
Before getting on the plane, Draco had performed breathing exercises to temper his mood and to extend his patience with the world outside of his estate. Inside, he could control everything from the temperature to the tranquil, museum quality of beauty, and any activity that took place upon the property. But in the public world, he controlled nothing but his composure, and that meant every uncertainty was a potential threat to his order. He controlled what he could. Tapping each door he opened three times, wasn't the compulsive disorder someone might've branded him with. It was a spell, intended to work in concert with all the others keeping himself and his sister safe. It got him through the flight and the process of getting a rental car. There'd been a time when an assistant would've seen to all the mundane details, but life with Harry had made him more self-reliant. It was quite handy when he had to drop everything and rethink his plans, like now. He didn't have time to wait on anyone else to get it right for him.
This was not something Jipsy could help him with. He'd given Iece a little snack bag of sliced apples, her toy 'pippo', and they were off. Because she could not say 'pillow', pippo was her name for a plump sachet-like pouch that fastened around her wrist to keep her from losing it. Sometimes she could pull small toys out of it. Sometimes it played music and sang to her, encouraging her to clap her hands to a preschool jingle. Sometimes, when it turned a certain color, and she named the color, it opened and tossed a spray of iridescent bubbles into the air. Other times, it was just a tiny pillow that she rubbed against her cheek until it lulled her to sleep. Nonmagics only ever saw the satin yellow pillow, and smiled, amused at how her tiny imagination got so much joy out of interacting with it.
Hermione's street was as neatly lined and partitioned as the muggle sensibilities that had built it. The trees were older than one normally saw in suburban neighborhoods. Their wide trunks grew up through cobbled stones that decorated their bases at each corner. They were spaced between stretches of sensible, wrought iron fences in front of each house. Two, to a bus stop, provided weatherproof canopy as well as old charm to a grid of brown brick townhouses. As an unusual amount of sun created long shadows over her quiet street, Draco thought it didn't look like such a bad place. Although, his stomach knotted at the sight of a perfectly white steeple stretching further down, to the end of her street. He stopped the car, then made himself drive on. People with magic didn't get caught in those trappings anymore. Religious people weren't allowed to harm witches and wizards anymore, but that didn't mean it didn't happen. He got it. Churches were charming and all, they gave nonmagics comfort, but she wouldn't do that to Iece, would she? She'd have to fucking swear to it.
He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Iece's head lulled on her shoulder in slumber. He told himself this was the right thing to do. It was just a precaution, not a death sentence.
When Draco pulled up behind Hermione's Hundai, he knew the first question he'd have to answer from her. By the time he'd finished with the solicitor and his new legal documents, it had been easy enough to floo to Harry's bedside, only to find him gone. Harry had checked himself out of the hospital. If that was the case, how bad could it be? Doctor Rankar insisted that he tried to get him to stay, and filled Draco in on his unusual recovery. Fuming, Draco suspected that Harry would be headed for quidditch practice as if nothing had happened. He got hold of the team's captain through Ministry Relations and insisted that Harry wasn't well. He shouldn't be allowed to practice. At a crossroads, he decided to catch up to Harry later and get his meeting with Hermione over with. For that, he needed the most compelling evidence he could arm himself with, to make his case. He'd had Jipsy pack an overnight bag and he took Iece with him to the Granger house.
They had to fly out to London. It was only a one-hour flight, but enough of an inconvenience to make Draco consider investing in a private plane. He didn't mind crying babies and knees kicking his seat as much as he minded the long queues, not having enough leg room, and rude travelers, whom he caught staring at himself and Iece every time he looked up. Exactly three times, curious onlookers asked him if she was his daughter. He'd said yes each time. It might as well be true. He caught a teenage girl sneaking a photo. What the hell did he look like to them? A private plane was looking more and more attractive. He wouldn't require it often, but when he did, it would be essential for comfortable travel.
He shut the car off and sighed. He hated waking her up when she was sleeping so well. He unfastened her and shifted her into his arms. "It's okay," he whispered when she whined at the disturbance. He made it up three steps. Hermione's door flew open before he could take another.
"Oh my god, Draco! I thought you were coming by floo. Why on earth did you drive?"
"Because I wanted to bring her. She can't travel by magic right now." She needed to know that.
The knit in her brow prompted him to add, "I'll explain. Are you alone?" Like you promised.
She blinked back her retort. "Of course. Come in."
She and Ron Weasley lived together, but had not as yet set a date for marriage. The situation suited them, apparently. Draco wasn't close enough to them to know or care about what they were waiting on. It must've had something to do with her career. She taught muggle classes for the Ministry, but was aggressively pursuing a law degree to solicit on behalf of magics and nonmagics alike. Fucking over achiever. Couldn't love herself unless she has all the awards and status. And people accused his family of clutching status symbols. Education could also be just another way of saying 'Look how superior I am.'
Fine, whatever. She wasn't perfect, but she was smart and caring, and gave that to her projects. The best that he could hope for, was that she'd let Iece become one of her projects.
But he'd have to have a different discussion with Ron, depending on Hermione's answer. Only Hermione's name, and Mrs. Weasley's, were going to be on the papers. Harry's trust of his friends carried weight, but if Ron had it in him to commit to such a level of obligation, he'd have to prove it. And if he didn't, Hermione was the one with the brains and the discipline. Single mothers with a lot less managed to raise children, though Draco didn't know how. He'd seen it, though, on the run with Harry. Muggle television and communities astonished him with how people could thrive with little-to-nothing, generation after generation. His parents would not have been able to stomach it, but you had to give it to them. They were hardy without magic. Surely, the fortune that would go with Iece, would soften the hardship he was asking of Hermione. He trusted her that much, and in some circles, that was better than liking her.
It wasn't so much as Draco not liking Ron - he didn't like Hermione any better. Respected her mental adroitness, even appreciated her once or twice, but 'like' had to be natural, and it simply wasn't there. They'd never achieved that level of comfort with each other, not even with Harry being their common ground. After seven years of rivalry, then the war, there'd been no emotional space for it. There was still too much to run from. No need to force it. This was love and business, not about waiting for conditions to be perfect in the world. He wasn't ashamed to ask for help on behalf of his sister. If that know-it-all witch had the lunacy to campaign to free all elves, she could make sure a little girl was fed, clothed, and spoken to kindly every day. That's all she had to do, and he'd leave her the money to do it with. Iece's magic would do the rest.
The problem he had with Ron was more, even going on three years, that the git lacked maturity levels that would make Draco consider asking him to be a part of the commitment. And he was sure that meant Ron wouldn't want to have anything to do with it. Hermione had proven that she couldn't stand to see anything mistreated. She wouldn't let Ron take out any grievances on his sister. So far, she'd shown she wasn't the type to put romantic ideals over responsibilities. She could do better than Ron, and that Weasley had to be on to it. She was the type to send him packing if he became unreasonable. Thank god.
In her living room, he felt his reluctance to put his sister down. Hermione's space was exactly what one would expect. Tons of family photos. Cheap paintings of sunrises and animals. The tiny sitting room and dining area were all the same room, partitioned by shelves and books. Books and plants filled every vertical flat surface, fully integrating home and professional life, as if one could not be separated from the other. Pale, laminate floors, gave the place a sleek, modern quality and crisp assurance of cleanliness. But thick, frayed throw rugs, hinted of a Weasley's homemade influence, that Hermione must've been quite at home with.
Her choice of décor, was an antique couch with carved framework. It ran to a length no longer manufactured in this day and age, and could probably seat one-quarter of the Weasely household. Its orange, crush-velvet cushions would've been too much if it wasn't for the gladiolus-printed throw pillows and accent curtains taming the entire tone of the room to something that resembled peach and amber. Sunlight filtering through the curtains helped to subdue the look. The room smelled of scented oil and reminded Draco of someone too sensible to know how to put "looks" together. Exactly like Hermione. He suspected she had an office in the house. Did she have enough room here to raise a child, with an elf?
While she rummaged in the kitchen, he gave into the desire to sit. Even a one-hour flight, packed enough bother and urgency behind it, to make his body feel all his desperation catching up with him. Iece slowly opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. She was only wearing one shoe and Draco knew she must've lost it between the car and the porch. If he didn't hurry up and get it back on, the other one, and socks, were going to end up on the floor. Hermione swept back into the room carrying a tray. He'd given her Iece's sippy cup from her sachet. When she'd offered a beverage, he held it out. "Juice, if you have it. I'll take tea."
"Now what's all this about not being able to floo with her?"
He sighed, planning on a long discussion. She already knew why he was there. Now she just had to be convinced that he was serious. Her look of grave amazement never left her face for the first forty-five minutes she listened to him.
"I wouldn't ask you this unless I had no other choice. And by the way, you were my first choice."
He thought her shoulders relaxed a bit, but he wasn't sure. "You and I both know that disaster follows Harry. It's like he's made for it. If I'm going to continue supporting him, being with him, I've got to make safer arrangements for her. Don't look at me like that. You don't know what it's like to make this decision. It's not like I'm leaving her on somebody's bloody doorstep."
She pulled in her bottom lip. "I'm not judging you. I admire you for looking out for her. I just can't believe we've come to this, you and I. It's a bit overwhelming, really."
"I know, and a huge impact on your life. Especially your relationship. I don't imagine Weasley is going to take kindly to the idea."
Her narrow shoulders lifted. "You'd be surprised. He loves children. He wants one more than anything."
"He wants his own."
"He has a big heart."
"Irrelevant. I'm putting my trust in you."
"It's hardly irrelevant. We make decisions together."
"He can't make a decision about something that's going to involve you more than it involves anybody. You don't let people make those decisions for you. That's another reason I chose you. You'll never let anyone think for you."
She looked at him squarely. "Or manipulate my emotions."
"If I thought you were that easy, we wouldn't be having this discussion. I'm laying everything I have on the table. You're emotional and reasonable at the same time. I'm giving you logic as well as honesty. I'll do whatever it takes to reassure you. You will also be financially compensated. I know this isn't about money, but you'll need help, and you'll have it. I'll make sure that you never have to worry about money."
She shook her head, distress slowed down her words. "I don't know, Draco. If anything ever happened to you and Harry, of course I'd step in and make sure she got a good home. But to volunteer myself, while both of you are perfectly well, that's a leap of tremendous faith and I'm not sure I have it in myself…"
He sat his tea down. "Stop. Do not make a decision right now. Never make a decision until you've slept on it. Lived with it. I'm asking you like this to prove to you how serious I am. I didn't have to come here. I could've done everything through lawyers. Hell, I could've willed her to you. But I want your answer after you've fully considered what it would mean for you. She has no one."
Hermione's eyes became glossy. "She has relatives. Aunts and uncles."
"I don't trust anyone in my family to take her. My father would only trick them out of custody. And even if I could convince Harry's family to take her, I'm reminded that they raised him in a cupboard, and would be even easier targets as muggles, for my father to slip away with her."
"She's not yours to will away. You haven't even discussed this with Harry."
"When I do, I have to be sure I have your answer. He has to know that I'm so serious about this, that I visited you. On my own. My magic and Harry's, register at the level of a civil marriage. Barely, but that's why our elf, Jipsy, was able to commit to both of us as a household. We're not married technically, but magically, our life is seen as a union. I can't adopt her without admitting that she's not mine. And my father won't relinquish his rights, even though no legal system would give him custody. He can still hold onto the fact that he's her father, just to keep me from adopting her. Being recognized as Harry's household, grants me relative guardianship."
"Oh, my god. Why don't you two just get married? If Harry signed a Parental Measure establishing you as a primary parent, the law would have to recognize three parental interests, not two."
Draco ran a hand down his face and squeezed his temples. "Because Harry isn't ready for that. You should've seen him freak out when I asked for a house elf. Fucking marriage still means something to him. And even if we did, that still leaves the question of what happens to his daughter if he and I go missing?"
"And that still leaves the question, how are you going to allocate custody when you have no legal right to her as long as her real father is alive? I could be saying 'yes' to a devastated heart if I fully expect she'll be mine and I watch her go to him."
"Listen to me. My father will never get custody of her. If anything happens to me and Harry, it's already fixed that what happened that night will be fully disclosed to the judicial authorities involved. They'll put her in foster care before they give her to that man."
Hermione's wilted silence gave him a second to grab Iece and bring her back to him. While talking, she'd roused and squirmed two cushions away, giggling at her newfound freedom. Her white shoe was sticking out between the cushions and she'd pulled both socks triumphantly from her wriggling toes. This won wry approval from Hermione's wounded smile, making Iece go pink and bashful from the attention.
Their discussion came back around to the issue of the floo.
Draco spoke as if he were giving her instructions on how to take care of plants. "If she keeps rubbing her eyes, say an hour after she's awakened, that means she isn't well enough to floo and you can't apparate with her. She'll get sick. It's only symptomatic for a day or two, then she's fine. But you have to pay attention to her. She can't tell you what's wrong with her."
"Symptomatic of what?"
"Her magic. That's all I can tell you until you agree."
"Is she sickly? Is there a health issue I should know about?"
"No, she's perfectly healthy. She's just extremely sensitive to movement and vibration, you might say, at certain times. Rather like humans adapting to vampirism. Until the change is complete, they get migraines from the light. But after the final phase, some of them can travel in daylight just fine. I have to know that you can handle her needs. They might be unusual. Harry and I were told that her blood would introduce new magic, and that it's unpredictable. We're in the dark, and I have to know that if anything happens, you could accept her in spite of the uncertainty."
Iece had fought her way off of Draco's lap again, and squealed in delight when her bare toes touched the floor. Hermione gasped to see the child stagger to the arrangements of flowers and a crystal collection on her coffee table. "Oh, I forgot that she's walking. Every time The Prophet has a picture, you're usually holding her. I didn't think she could walk."
Draco didn't know how he felt about that. "She walks."
"Speaking of, how on earth did you leave Harry? When Ron saw the photo this morning, we tried to go see him, but they said he'd already gone. He left word with no one. You hadn't cancelled our meeting, so I knew I'd get the story from you when you popped in. Where is he?"
"I haven't seen Harry today. What picture? When they told me he'd checked himself out, I was too disgusted. If he's well enough to walk out, he doesn't need me fussing over him. When I heard there was even more drama, my primary concern became to take care of my sister. That meant choosing to see you over tracking his arse down."
"Oh, so you don't know?"
"Know what? Doctor Rankar says he had a stroke, but he's recovered like crazy."
"A stroke? That's highly unusual." Her tone said she wasn't buying it. She reached behind her, producing the newspaper photo.
With recognition of Harry's prone body, Draco felt himself turn to stone. Muscles in his chest clamped around his heart and wouldn't let his lungs move. He had to will himself to breathe. It was like one of those dreams where you think you're peeing, but you have to ask yourself if it's real. Spreading liquid warmth meant trouble. It meant humiliation in front of classmates that wasn't survivable.
It was bad enough that someone had obviously taken the photo with a subpar, hidden camera, possibly peeking from their shirt. Harry looked so helpless and neglected. The Prophet had the audacity to pixilate the image at the crotch of Harry's shorts, implying there was something inappropriately visible, and ensuring the sales of lots more newspapers. It was bad enough that paramedics deemed it necessary to expose intimate trails of dark hair and too much pelvis. No one had been there to protect Harry, to make sure images like this didn't happen.
"How dare they!"
He didn't bother reading the article. When he looked back at Hermione, he saw fear in her eyes. Good. That meant there was no better time than the present. His boiling adrenaline told him so.
"This will not be tolerated." He stood.
"Draco."
"Do you mind keeping an eye on her? For exactly twenty seconds. That's all the time I need to address this unprofessional, illegal abuse of journalistic right to information."
"Calm down. He's my friend too, and it's not illegal."
"Then it should be. He's in his fucking underwear, unconscious. I'm certain he didn't sign a release for this."
"It was a newsworthy event of a major personality."
"It's exploitation of an unconscious celebrity."
"It's wrong, but it's not illegal. Don't go off half-cocked."
"I cannot sit here and let one second of acceptance, of this treatment of him, go by. Don't worry, I know exactly where I'm going to go and what I'm going to do. If this shit isn't illegal, it will be by the time I'm done with these people."
"Draco…"
"Can she stay here?"
"Of course. I'd rather you leave her with me for the night and go calm yourself, than do whatever ungodly thing you're about to do."
He looked at Iece, who was busy cracking Hermione's crystals against each other, then back at Hermione. "Twenty seconds."
Exasperation left her lips tight. "Be careful. That's more than enough time for a Malfoy to do a lot of damage."
He should've been insulted, but somewhere behind is anger, he thrilled to her acknowledgement of what he brought to a room. He took the newspaper with him.
He burst into the plaza unannounced. It was a common stop on Ministry-sponsored programs. What he had not anticipated, was the lobby bustling with the after effects of that day's top story. News of Harry's collapse brought out treasure trolls and gossip-hunger among clientele wealthy enough to book a room behind the story. The lobby was more crowded than usual and still swarming with reporters looking to enhance the story. Draco was reminded that Harry's room was still unprotected and made a note to staff it with security as soon as possible, until Harry could be relocated. But first he had a few choice words to share with the manager of the hotel.
His open apparation tripped the hotel wards. If there were nonmagics in the lobby, they were distracted by the fire alarm directing them to the nearest exits. To those with magic, the piercing ring was only a low, monotonous tone that warned the use of hidden magic in the presence of muggles. Anyone traveling with a muggle would have to make a choice to react to the false alarm, or to watch the floorshow unfold.
Draco knew perfectly well that his appearance magnetized the eyes of every witch and wizard in the room. Locked onto him, he pulled every stare with him as he strode across the floor to the counter. The drone of conversation dropped and receded altogether as he approached the courtesy desk. He stopped three feet from it and took out his wand as a deterrent to anyone watching. There was no friendliness in his tone when he said, "Please, I would like to speak to the manager."
The young lady behind the counter, wearing a silk-vested uniform and a name tag, Glenna, Customer Service, fixed her mouth to apologize. "I'm sorry, is there a problem?"
Draco refused to accept her ignorance. She took a step back when he said nothing. Behind her, a senior male sporting a graying ponytail, tapped her shoulder and relieved her. "Mr. Malfoy is a regular guest, Glenna. Allow me." His tag identified him as Quentin, Lobby Manager. "What can I help you with, Mr. Malfoy? May I say first, that no one regrets this morning's events more than myself. Anything less than an excellent stay, is a blight on our superb record and we hope to make it up to you and Mr. Potter."
"Too late for that. That should've been your first response to this." Draco held up the newspaper. "I'll be brief. I'm only hear to give you a fair warning." He didn't have to raise his voice. Nothing else could be heard in the room as onlookers strained to listen. "Because of this, I will buy this place and fire everyone in here. If you and your people can't run a decent hotel for respectable witches and wizards, then I'll see to it that you don't run one at all."
It was satisfying to see the man lose his color. That meant he was listening and this was not a waste of time. The message would reach those unseen faces, of whom this man represented, whether he knew it or not. Don't climb the ladder if you can't take heights.
Draco announced to the reporters behind him. "Don't misquote me. I'll sue if you get one word wrong."
He kept his eyes on the manager, but spoke for the benefit of everyone in the room. "From the person who took this picture, to the those who published it, to everyone who let it happen. I will have your jobs. I will investigate. This man was helpless and needed your assistance. Just because he's famous, you thought it was okay to expose him at his most vulnerable. Is this the kind of back stabbing treatment patrons can expect here? Is getting screwed over included in the €2000 suite? People who sleep under this roof, put a certain trust in your staff and your professionalism. We pay extra for it. When Diane Whittaker talked my great grandmother into investing in her chain of restaurants and hotels, she sold the vision as one where witches and wizards could feel safe traveling among nonmagics.
"My mother still has a seat on the Board of Directors. Diane's granddaughter, and Executive Manager, Rosalind Koche, still takes her owls. The CEO, Benedict Brandon, was recently awarded Britain's Global Excellence in thirty years of quality and service. That's a muggle award. And it stands on the shoulders of witches and wizards who prosper without being seen, thanks to establishments like this. Nobody wants to see that kind of trust and commerce shot to hell because someone thought it was a good idea to kick a wizard flat on his back."
Quentin raised his hands. "With all due respect, Mr. Malfoy. No one here published that regrettable image. We are not responsible for it. No one here authorized it."
"Yet someone here took it. And no one, here, stopped it. I suggest, Quentin, that you step up your security measures and put your guests' safety and privacy first. This image sends two messages to the magical public. When news spreads that this hotel is subject to invasion of privacy, you'll wish you'd tackled the photographer to the ground and beat the hell out of him before he destroyed the plaza's reputation."
Quentin was sweating, but he stood his ground. "And The Prophet? Will they not have to answer for an act that only they could control? While you're so busy dealing out retribution, they should be first on your list, not us. We are not your enemy, Mr. Malfoy."
"No, you're not. My enemies know better. As for The Profit, that rag will either be out of business or paying the tuition of real journalism students by way of compensation, before the year is out."
He shook the picture. "I'm going to find out who was involved in this. I'll be back for your jobs." He made of point of looking everyone directly into their eyes, sweeping his head to get the entire lobby.
The last thing he saw, were the open-mouthed expressions silently staring back at him. The last thing he heard, was the burst of a camera flash, as it caught him a split-second before apparating. That edition of The Prophet, with him looking just like his father as his eyes scornfully raked over those who presented a challenge to him, would go on to sell more copies in a shorter time than Harry's cover edition.
The wizarding world sensed that something was happening and it went deeper than damaged pride. If a humbled serpent could be roused to show venomous fangs, kept hidden after his father's downfall, and what a spectacular sight it was, then something was stirring. Something was happening. And dramatic pictures like Draco's and Harry's, were the only clues.
Thank you all SO MUCH for the kudos and comments. It gives me fuel and fun to know you're enjoying yourselves!
Notes: Reminder: This is renegade writing. There is no beta. There is no canon. There is only selfish fun or this story could not exist. It's worked for me so far.
