A little DHr story for the holidays!
Set in an alternative streampunk universe and heavily inspired by the show Arcane.
Chapter 1. An Encounter in the Shadows
"Alright there, Hermione?"
She nods silently as she removes her mask. Marcus knows her—he pushes a pint of electric blue beer her way, pocketing the coins Hermione has swiftly placed on the bar, as if afraid they're about to be stolen from him. Probably would have been, to be honest. Knockturn is filled with thieving hands and crafty thugs.
"Got anything new?" he asks, leaning forward, arms folded and elbows digging into the rough counter.
Hermione shakes her head—she never has anything new. She would have stopped coming here long ago if she had anything to hold on to. This hole-in-the-wall pub certainly isn't the place she wishes to find herself in, night in, night out. But as long as she finds herself wandering aimlessly, with only her name as a trace of her existence, she's left with no other choice. The White Wyvern is the only place she knows she can come back to, the only place she finds the least bit of solace in. Every night, she goes down to the basement and collects a few hours of restless sleep on the makeshift cot—she has nowhere else to go.
Nothing else to trace her steps back to.
"I can't give you the cot tonight, Hermione," says Marcus after a moment. She can read the apology written across his face and nods without a word. "You can come back tomorrow, though," he adds in a rush, his calloused fingers inches away from hers. "Unless… there's always my room, you know." He offers her a sympathetic gaze—but beneath his puppy dog eyes, she can discern the glint of lust, the sharp shimmer of a predator ready to pounce on his prey.
"I'm fine." She's blunt, closing the door to any potential negotiations. Her words are sealed into the moment when she downs the rest of her beer, bangs the empty pint on the counter, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand while staring him in the eye in defiance—no one owns her.
She has nothing, she has no one—she certainly will not let herself be owned by anyone. And especially not a dirty, grimy pub owner with nothing more than misplaced kindness and a rickety cot to offer. There is freedom in not knowing where you are from, even if you are heading nowhere.
She walks out without another word, leaving behind her a befuddled Marcus with dashed hopes.
The streets are still laden with green fumes—Hermione readjusts her mask over her nose, pulls her hoodie over her head and begins walking the poisonous streets. Men stare at her, their eyes dragging over the shape of her hips, her arse, the curve of her bosom. They try to guess the features of her face, hidden by the hood and the thick gas mask stuck to her skin. Some whistle, others call for her to join them—she remains stoic, though a tenseness works itself through her muscles, digging itself into her nerves, in the arrythmia of her heart. Her lungs expand in slow motion, the air finding it hard to reach her—she hastens her pace, praying for a miracle to save her from the shadows of Knockturn at night.
No such miracle comes.
The men rally around Hermione, tall and menacing figures with painfully bright smiles in the poorly lit street. A streetlamp flickers and dies.
She's alone in the dark, face to face with an army of monsters.
And all she has is a pocketknife.
No one moves for a moment—Hermione attempts to walk forward and, to her surprise—they let her. She gets ready to run, praying her luck doesn't run out, when—
"Scared, princess?" asks the leader, a burly man.
Hermione turns around, ready to face this affront, to fight against the indignity that has been committed against her, but she's shocked to see the men aren't addressing her. In fact, the person they're talking to seems to be the reason she has escaped their claws unscathed.
He's tall and cut in sharp angles—the jaw and the nose and the shoulders—slender, almost skinny in stature—but, most notable of all is his hair: blond, almost white, blinding in the darkness wrapped around them. Hermione gathers that this is what has earned him the moniker 'princess'. That—and his attire—he's not wearing a gas mask, or even a piece of cloth over his mouth. He's dressed in all the trappings of aristocracy: golden chains, expensive fabrics, light colours (mint and cream)—this is not someone native to the undercity. No—there's no mistaking his origins: he's from Diagon, the upper-city.
She wonders for a moment if she should help him—the man wandered down here without hiding the markings of his wealth, which makes him an idiot in her eyes—but even idiots do not deserve whatever fate the men have for him. She should intervene, right? She has a moral duty to—
On the other hand, jumping in would make her no more intelligent than him. She could get them both killed—
Fuck.
Hermione doesn't remember much—if anything—from her past. Only her name, really.
But she hasn't forgotten herself.
Which is why she turns around and heads straight for the danger she has narrowly escaped seconds ago.
"James! There you are! We need to hurry—you know Tom is waiting for us," she shouts, rolling out the syllables with a strength she hopes is convincing.
The man's eyes dart towards her in shades of panic and relief. He stays rooted in place, not acknowledging her words—is he really that daft?
"Come on boys," she addresses the cohort. "Let's not cost Tom the only member of the High Council he's managed to put in his pocket—do we really want Diagon to win again?" She's growing bold now—these men could very much belong to Tom's crowd. There is a fundamental risk to her rash words—and she can only pray that it pays off.
"You work with Tom?" asks the leader, doubt laced in his tone. She knows she doesn't look the part—petite, frail, almost childlike in demeanour. She doesn't have the makings of a henchman.
But she has impetuosity on her side and she'll be damned if she doesn't use it.
"Of course she does. Do you really think he could have built this big an empire without diversifying the skillset of his recruits?" the blond man says before she can open her mouth.
Maybe he's not as stupid as he looks. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but she is quite right. We're to meet him quite soon and we'd like to make it in one piece, if it suits you," he adds, taking a careful step away from the cohort.
The others look to their leader, their dumbfounded stares asking him what they should do.
"Alright then," he says. "But better remember my kindness next time I see you! I do not let easy prey go on a whim."
The tension in the air bursts at that moment, releasing every disorienting emotion it held in it, letting Hermione's lungs inflate with air again. She takes a deep breath as she waits for the blond man to join her, her nerves still rattled by the encounter, and by the rashness she displayed. She could have gotten herself killed.
"Thank you," whispers the man, now standing beside her.
"Of course," she responds, taking a first step. "Though I must say—I really didn't want to. What kind of idiot wanders the streets of the undercity dressed like that?" She gestures the outfit, her tone biting and bitter. "You were about to get yourself killed. I hope you know that."
"Yes." He doesn't offer up any explanation.
As they walk further up the street, Hermione notices the tears in his eyes and the green tint to his skin—the fumes are filtering through him, poisoning his skin and his lungs.
Annoyed at her empathy, she removes the shawl tightened around her neck and hands it to him.
"Cover your nose and your mouth with it. You'll feel better."
He thanks her with a nod and wraps the black shawl around his neck, covering the lower half of his face. The contrast against his pale skin and paler clothes is stark—unsettling.
"Do you know how to get back to Diagon?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "Even if I did, I can't see a damn thing in this smog." It's like he blames her—she has half a mind to just leave him there to stew in his own misery. In the consequences of his own misdoing.
She doesn't.
Again, she can't quite pinpoint why she goes out of her way to help this clueless aristocrat—she knows his kind and is quite certain in the knowledge that he would never return the favour. Maybe it's because she's lonely—maybe it's because she hopes someone will do for her what she's doing for him.
Whatever it is—
"Fine. I'll take you there," she offers, gesturing for him to follow her.
Hermione has been without memories for a long time now—over a year. She's been walking the streets of the undercity aimlessly, mapping them out in her mind, building new pathways in her mind, finding ways to remind herself that she exists—even if no one but her remembers. She knows every corner, every route, every factory—and every shortcut, secret passage, empty alley. It's what has allowed her to escape unwanted attention and to keep herself safe from the dangers that lurk the cement pavements and poison the brick walls.
"We'll have to go through there." The place she's pointing to is round and pitch black, an arc buried beneath a tall building, hidden from sight.
"Is that… a sewer?" The question is layered with the disgust that only men of his station can muster.
"Yes." She's annoyed and lets him hear it. "This is the shortest way to Diagon—and the safest. No one will see us—I'd like to avoid a repeat of earlier. Wouldn't you?"
His agreement comes out in a grunt—begrudging and all too unwilling to not have the last word in, but forced to accept the fate she has set out for them.
He crawls in first, his blond hair disappearing into the dark as he descends the sewer shaft, one bar after another.
Hermione keeps an eye out for anyone who might have followed them—and only goes down the sewer herself when she's satisfied that they seem to have gone unnoticed by the seedier folks of Knockturn.
"I meant to ask," begins the man as their feet wade through the dirty waters of the sewer. "How did you know I'm on the High Council?"
She didn't—and really only realises that once he asks her. How did she know?
"Seemed obvious," she elects to say, refusing to show her hand. "The way you dress, the way you carry yourself, and the fact that you refuse to blend in, even in somewhere as dangerous to your kind as Knockturn. Not even your run-of-the-mill snooty Diagonite would take that risk—it's reserved to those who think themselves above everyone else." She cannot help the biting mockery in her tone, a venom she spits on him. On what she conceives him to be.
"I didn't—" He doesn't finish the sentence, almost like he knows he'll lose the battle. Or—
Is he keeping the reason of his presence in Knockturn a secret? It's the second time now that he lets her criticism wash over him.
She decided to dig. "Why were you there anyway? The High Council doesn't pay much attention to us Knockturnans. We're cockroaches to you people."
He's irritated with her now—she can feel the denial leaking from his mouth, the desire to rebuff her.
But he doesn't. "I can't tell you," he simply says.
Keeping a secret it is.
"Way to repay the many kindnesses I have extended you so far."
"I didn't ask for your help! I could very well have defended myself!" His ire pierces through his voice—he's losing his temper, and the faint flush of anger paints his cheeks red.
Hermione laughs. "Sure. You look like you know your way around Knockturn." She barely contains the sarcasm seeping through her words. "Maybe I'm the damsel in distress here," she adds for good measure, now entirely happy to provoke him.
"I am not a damsel in distress," he retorts.
"Could have fooled me," she smiles.
Anger pummels its way out of him in shades of red—on his cheeks, the top of his ears—and white—on his knuckles and his gritted teeth, but he doesn't say anything in response.
They keep walking down the sewer, surround by the grey walls arching over their heads, neon green moss growing on the sides, a sign of the humidity and rot that festers in this place. It's the same rot that permeates Knockturn, the same diseased decay that emerges from the vapours pumped out of the factories and the laboratories gridding the city. The dirt and the stench tossed out by Diagon into the alleys of Knockturn, for the poor and the downtrodden to live on—or rather, to die of.
Soon, the passage begins to clear and the air around them thins—a sign that they're leaving the misery of Knockturn behind and edging closer to the clean lines and pure air of Diagon. Still, Hermione leaves her gas mask on—if for no reason than to keep her identity a secret. This man came from the High Council to Knockturn for reasons he refuses to dispense—additional measures of protection can't hurt.
"Well then," she says once they've reached the metal bars leading out of the sewer, "here we are. You should be safe now."
"Are you not coming?" he asks.
Hermione looks at him in shock. "Why would I?"
He dithers, like he doesn't quite know the answer himself. "I don't… I mean would you really rather go back there?"
"I have no place in Diagon, High Councillor." She emphasises his title with a biting tone, reminding him of their drastically opposed stations in this world. "One step on the pristine curbs of the upper-city and I will be snatched by members of the Brigade on accusations of terrorism." Her voice is acidic, dripping with resentment at what she knows to be true. "What do you propose I do somewhere like that? Somewhere that rejects even the idea of my existence?" She tilts her head and looks away from him. "Knockturn is imperfect, but it's my home. It's all I've ever known—and at least, there, I'm not deemed a threat by every person there."
"I can protect you," he offers. It seems genuine—almost… kind.
But Hermione is no fool—she knows how Knockturnan women are trafficked amongst members of the High Council, treated as props and property to be traded off and played with. She will not be the victim of a pretty face offering her help without a price.
"I'm good. Stay safe, Councillor."
She turns on her heel and walks back towards Knockturn, fighting the taste of salt that threaten to escape her eyes.
She has never felt as alone as she does now. She almost regrets not taking him up on his offer—almost. In truth, she knows the man likely has forgotten her kindness the moment he has stepped back into the clean streets of Diagon—knows he has tossed her to the back of his mind like all Diagonites do with Knockturnans once there is no more favour to be gained for them.
Which is why she is shocked to see him step into The White Wyvern three nights later. He has followed her advice this time—he's draped in black, a gas mask firmly placed on his face and a hood covering his head. She only recognises him by the glimpse of blonde hair poking from under the fabric.
Almost instinctively, just as he's pulling down his mask, Hermione puts back her own—for, as long as his intentions are unknown to her, she's unwilling to give him the satisfaction of even knowing what she looks like. From beneath the glass covering her eyes, she can see him scouring the crowded pub, looking for—
Her, it seems. Because, as soon as he sees her, he walks over to her corner.
"I've been looking for you," he says, taking a seat on the stool beside hers. "Don't you ever take off this mask?" he asks before she can get a word in edgewise.
"No," she lies. "I like my privacy."
She's glad Marcus is otherwise busy, or he would be quick to unravel his lies. The man could not keep a secret even if his life depended on it.
"Why were you looking for me?" She gives her beer a longing look—no way to drink that without revealing her face.
He seems to notice the discrepancy but chooses not to address it.
"I need your help," he says instead.
"Really? The powerful Diagonite needs the help of a poor helpless Knockturnan like me?" Her sarcasm is bitter, biting.
Again, he chooses not to address it. She wonders why.
"I'm looking for something—and, well, you were right. It was foolish of me to wander these streets looking the way I did. You know Knockturn like the back of your hand—and you've proven yourself trustworthy. If you help me, I'll grant you anything you wish."
It seems like a fair trade—of course, she doesn't know what he's looking for, nor does she know if she can trust him. But it has been over a year since she has lost her memories, and nothing she has tried has brought them back. The treatments she seeks, the treatments she needs, are out of her reach. Even the seedier scientists of Knockturn demand of her a price she cannot pay. She's been scraping by with theft—and, while enough to provide her with the comforts of the occasional hot meal or blue beer, she has never amassed the amount required to receive treatment.
It would be idiotic for her to pass up this opportunity—at the very least, even if the man is duplicitous, she knows him rich enough to provide the funds she has been so desperate for. Whether he does so willingly or not doesn't quite matter to her.
"Alright then. What is it you're looking for?" She grabs her pint and swirls the blue beer around, mesmerised by the splashes it makes. It reminds her of a time when the waters were blue and clear.
"The offices of Tom Riddle."
The swirling glass stops dead in its tracks, knocking against the wood counter as Hermione lets go of it.
"The what?" The shock in her voice makes it shrill, almost too high to be heard by human ears.
"You heard me."
"You're an absolute lunatic. Are you trying to get yourself killed?" She pauses. "I'm beginning to think I interrupted your suicide plans when I saved you."
He doesn't acknowledge the jab. "I'm being entirely serious."
Hermione begins to notice several patrons of the packed pub staring at them.
"Come on." She tugs on his sleeve. "Let's talk about this somewhere quieter." She surveys the sea of faces around them and rushes him out the door. "Do you have any cash on you?" she asks as soon as they're standing on the pavement.
"Why do you ask?"
"There's nowhere public where we can talk about this without risk. We need to rent a room, somewhere where we can't be overheard." The urgency in her tone loosens the rigid traits of his face.
"Do you know of such an establishment?"
She rolls her eyes. "Follow me."
They walk up the street, leaving behind them the dark corner where the White Wyvern sits and entering the centre of the City, where neon lights of all colours flood the pavements. The noise, dulled by the distance just minutes ago, is suddenly amplified, buzzing around them with energy in echoes of music and conversation. Hermione watches as the blond man takes in the grandiose landscape, from the signs advertising tattoo shops to the luminescent arrows pointing towards brothels, pubs, and establishments of a seedier nature. The aroma of hot food tickles their noses as they approach the centre, where dozens of small stalls with lit up kitchens prepare all types of street foods—fried squid tentacles dripping in purple spices, broiled cheese on long sticks of bread, pungent bowls of soup. Hermione can tell her companion is unsettled by the smell—repulsed, even. She drags him away, a smirk on the corner of her lips—there is a lot to hate about Knockturn, but the food is not one of them.
She walks him to the nearest brothel, where she knows it's unlikely for their presence to be questioned. The lodging houses are well-oiled machines in Tom Riddle's circuit, welcoming in their bosom foreign dignitaries and corrupt members of the Small Council, filled to the brim with his eyes and ears. He sees less value in the brothels, where the workers are known to switch sides as soon as they see the glimmer of gold—and where many of the women are known to have High Councillors as clients of their own.
It's a perfect cover.
"Hi there, Poppy," she greets the madam as they walk to the counter.
The place is disgustingly pink, draped in pastel velvet from floor to ceiling—a strong aroma of sandalwood and lavender festers in the air—the taste of perfume that imagines itself expensive without carrying any of the subtlety.
"Hi, luvs. What can I do for you?" asks the madam.
Poppy knows not to address Hermione by her name when she has her mask on—knows she only does so inside when she's running a con of some kind. And, really, the madam doesn't need to know the details of this particular mission.
"Can we get a room? My friend here will pay handsomely for privacy," she says gesturing towards the blond man.
He glares at her but doesn't protest.
"Certainly, doll. Here, take room 638. The entire floor is empty tonight." She hands them a pink tag from which dangles a thick golden key.
"Really? Why is that?"
"My sixth-floor girls all caught some sort of flu," shrugs Poppy. "I'd rather not them infect the clients too, you know?"
"That's too bad. I hope they recover soon," offers Hermione with a sympathetic tone while the blond man drops a purse of coins on the wood counter.
Poppy weighs it appreciatively. "Handsomely indeed," she smiles. "I'll make sure you're not bothered during your… activities."
Before her companion can refute the implication, Hermione waves Poppy off and drags him to the lift.
"You're really going to let her think that you… you…" The ire doesn't let him finish the sentence.
"That I what? Make an honest living in a city where the only two options for women are this or being trafficked?" she scolds him. "Besides, better she think that than know what we're really up to. Trust me when I say this: you do not want anyone in Knockturn knowing a High Councillor is sniffing in Tom's affairs. He employs half the city—you would be dead before we reach that floor." The steam-powered lift dings as they land on the sixth floor. "Come on."
Room 638 is as pink at the rest of the establishment—rose petals are peppered over the flamingo silk sheets; two taffy loveseats surround the bed; the carpeting is thick with bubblegum pygmy puff fur—Hermione can tell by the man's wrinkled nose that he is properly sickened by the décor.
"Alright then," she begins as she sits on the bed. "Let's discuss."
He doesn't move—his weight shifts from foot to foot, uncertainty swirling along his limbs.
"I would like you to take off your mask first," he finally declares. "I can't trust you if I don't know who you are."
"I don't even know your name," she retorts—the sarcasm drips from her voice, tilting her mouth into a snicker. "Who says I can trust you? I saved you, not the other way around."
"My name is Draco Malfoy."
Hermione's face falls beneath the mask. She knows that name. This is not just any High Councillor, this is—
"You're Lucius Malfoy's son," she whispers, shivers crawling up her spine. "This discussion is over," she adds abruptly, rising from the bed. "You can seek what you're looking for all on your own."
Draco's face twists itself in knots—she can't tell if it's in rage or in confusion.
Maybe she'll die in this room.
"What does my father have to do with any of this?" he asks, and there's a hint of desperation in there. Could he really be confused? Could he really know so little?
"You know what your father has done. You're on the High Council!" She shouts that last sentence, the agony rippling through her—does he really think she's that daft?
To her astonishment, Draco steps forward and grazes the bottom of her mask with a finger. "I promise you that I—I have no idea what you're talking about. My father has never been a kind man, but—what could he have done that's so terrifying? That would lead you to drop this endeavour over the simple knowledge of his lineage?" His voice is shaking, tremors of uncertainty and doubt rippling in waves around them.
It's irrational, almost idiotic—but she wants to believe him. There is something truly genuine in his eyes—something that calls to her heart, tugs on her instincts. Almost like she knows him intimately.
It's ridiculous.
She takes a step back, pushing him away from her. "No. You're his son. I can't trust a word that comes out of your mouth."
And, on those words, she leaves him behind to drown in the lush pink shades of room 638.
