The Tiara of Mortification
Sunday, November 28th 1999
Draco didn’t much care for the prospect of being anyone's lackey. Malfoys were lackeys only to the whims of their wives—which was a different sort of honor with its own rewards and status. And, seeing as he had no intention of robbing the Weaslette of her someday-husband and stuffing an heirloom ring down Potter’s finger—he really needed to stop doing the Ministry favors. Even if these favors came with a monetary note and rubbing of elbows with the law. He very much doubted they’d be rubbing his elbow back any century soon.
Around the disgusting hour of eight in the morning, Ron the wrong Weasley, Madam Edgecombe, and her underlings would tromp up Diagon Alley to knock on the British Subscription Company and Headquarters of Floo-Pow to have a grand old discussion with the many great-grandchildren reaching back through a line of Ignatia and Ignatio Wildersmiths (dating all the way back to the thirteenth century) to supply the emergency permits for an investigation into the contamination of Floo Powder.
By noon—after a lengthy tea—(And plenty of time to plant or dispose of evidence) they would have their permits.
At a much earlier, truly revolting, hour of 5 AM, Draco Malfoy (armed only with an Auror’s unofficial permission to investigate Floo-Pow’s current supplies of Floo Powder—and lacking in general sleep) set about breaking into Floo-Pow’s warehouse. Pot-Head couldn’t risk breaking in himself but that didn’t keep him from shoving an enchanted notepad from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes down Draco’s trouser pocket to ‘keep him in the loop.’
Malfoy ignored the notepad’s vigorous buzzing as the Pot-Head scribbled for updates waiting somewhere comfortable as backup. (Probably a cozy coffee shop with his feet up. Salazar Draco would kill for a cup of coffee.) He had only just arrived, having had no sleep after seeing each of Andromeda’s friends safely home.
Wet Fall leaves glued themselves to his shiny black shoes and blanketed the morning streets in yellow and orange mulch. Quietening his steps, Draco Disillusioned himself before circling the warehouse in search of an opening.
Bzzz.
Bzzz.
Draco rolled his eyes. Flipped open the notepad.
Are you there yet?
Malfoy?
Don’t ignore me, you’re on mission.
What do you want, Potter-Pants? Draco scratched back with the idiotic candy-cane pen.
I want to make sure you packed a toothbrush. What do you think I want? Are you there yet?
Draco was going to kill the boy who lived to annoy. Why yes,Darling, did you need me to pick up the eggs on my way home? A satisfying pause of silence stretched for a time in which Draco identified a point of entry.
So, are you in?
Yes, yes, standing like an idiot wasting time writing back to you on their back door.
Great. Keep me updated.
I’m retying my shoe.
Updated on things I care about.
Are you using one of these stupid pens too?
Yes. Be sure to eat it when we’re done. Your saliva will permanently delete these notes.
Draco hummed appreciatively. Alright. So Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes might make some interesting trifles. The chocolate bar-shaped notepad still looked moronic.
I’m already feeling peckish. If he ate it now, would Potter be unable to keep bothering him?
Right, right, I’ll leave you alone. I forget how sensitive you are.
I’m not sensitive, Babygirl. I’m allergic to stupidity.
A deliciously uncomfortable pause.
You must give yourself a rash on the daily.
Only when I’m around you, Dear.
Draco smirked, tucking the candy pad away, and shuffled beneath the barred window. After de-cursing several alarm spells rigged to the window, a quick Evanesco, and the bars vanished. Draco jumped, caught the window ledge, and pulled himself up and into the dark.
Floo Pow Sizzle!
Nobody likes a knock at the door. After all, if the knocker were invited they wouldn’t need to knock. They’d let themselves in. Or (being expected) you’d be opening the door before they could scramble up your front steps.
Mind you, customers don’t knock either. Business doors are unlocked—often propped open. Sometimes an open door even has a little bell to herald in the welcome money on legs. If you have to knock at a business—they’re closed.
No. A knock at the door is an interruption. A knocker of doors is, by their very existence, an intruder. A sales person. A proselytizer. A neighbor with news you were happier not knowing. A nuisance.
Hermione Granger would know. Hermione Granger made it her business to be a nuisance of necessity. A certifiable door knocker. As a child, she’d tapped many Gryffindor dorm doors to ask if anyone had seen Neville’s frog, Ron’s rat, or Harry’s hat. A daily hazard that became an occupation.
As a career woman she knocked on far more remote doors—be they businesses or homes to witches, wizards, centaurs, veela, or merpeople.
Point being, Hermione knew not everyone liked to hear a knock. Sometimes (let’s be honest, rarely) she’d be invited in for tea, but more often she’d be humphed, no’ed, laughed, screamed, and (sadly) spit at.
Nuisance though it may be, knocking on the front door of a respectable establishment shouldn’t normally be grounds for kidnapping. Yet—if anyone should have been prepared for this unexpected outcome—it should have been Hermione Granger.
Or so she scolded herself upon waking, dizzy, hungry, and tied hand and foot, half stuffed in a sack on a stone floor surrounded by strangers.
“Is she awake?” A squeaky voice asked.
“Are you awake, hooman?”
It was too dark to see—despite a thin mist of moonlight shimmering across the distant ceiling. The watch still ticked quietly above her heart, but the dark suggested she’d been out all Saturday afternoon, and it must be Sunday morning—before sunrise.
“Give her more salts?”
“Does the hooman want water?”
Hermione guessed they were house-elves who surrounded her (in part because it had been house-elves that attacked her and in part by the anxiety in their voices.) She’d knocked on Floo-Pow’s warehouse front door, expected no one to answer lunchtime on a Saturday. No one had.
Groggily she remembered stepping back the obligatory spitting distance from the warehouse when she’d been grabbed. One house-elf at each wrist. A third had pounced on her back and broken a charm over her head. The world had spun and she woke (now) trying to piece together why house-elves had kidnapped her.
“You used too much sleepy eye! She’s too sleepy!”
Hermione’s eyes rolled trying to take in the room. Where had they brought her?
“Hoomaan?” A cold, long-fingered hand felt over her face and pinched her nose.
Hermione gasped.
“It’s awake!”
“It pretends not to hear?”
“It would like some water, please.” Hermione croaked and cleared her throat.
Screams. The house-elfs backed away, shuffling feet tripping, and more powder filled the air so Hermione coughed. She tasted Runespoor fangs. Floo Powder?
Hermione shook her head, more confused than ever. Her hearing over-sensitive.
“Why did you kidnap me?” She demanded. Her voice sounded strange. Her mouth felt strange.
“You were knocking at the door.” An elf quailed.
“Danger.”
“Danger at the door.” The others agreed.
“Then why am I tied up?!” Hermione complained.
“Floo doesn’t know. Pow tied you up!”
“Sizzle said danger!”
“Sizzle said Hermione Granger was in danger!”
“Pow heard Hermione Granger was danger!”
“Well, I will be if someone doesn’t untie me! Right. Now!” Hermione brought out her Prefect tone.
“Pow s-sorry! Pow didn’t k-know!!”
The ropes loosened and Hermione shook out her wrists and legs aching like she’d spent the night on a stone floor. She was beginning to worry that she had.
“Lumos!” She snapped. The wandless magic produced a watery light revealing a cavernous warehouse with stacks and stacks and piles of Floo Powder. She looked down to search for her wand only to find herself missing and a house-elf’s feet and hands in her place.
It was Hermione’s turn to scream. This set the others off howling.
“Stop! Stop! Why am I a house-elf?” Hermione scrambled to her enlarged feet. She—like the others—was now dressed in a Floo Powder sack.
“Show her the power, Pow?” A little female house-elf looked mournful and guilty. By which Hermione surmised Pow had something to do with this development.
“Vindicar made you pretty.” Pow pointed to her head.
Hermione felt about in her hair. Her riot of curls was stuffed under a . . . crown?
“Pretty!” Floo clapped smiling shyly at Hermione.
Sizzle nodded eagerly—the biggest of the house-elves—his powder sack more shirt than dress. He wore a second sack as trousers.
“Goblin’s not the only ones with magic jewelry,” Pow said proudly.
Hermione gaped. Was she wearing a house-elf heirloom? One that had transformed her into an elf? House-elves had heirlooms? She tugged at the crown but her hair had snared it, coiling in knots around pointy bits of metal and . . . Oh Godric, were those gemstones?
“Danger,” Floo nodded seriously. “Only house-elves come here. Only house-elves work here. The wards make it safe. Danger to remove!”
“Vindicar said to watch for you! Said you were in danger!”
“Who’s Vindicar?” Hermione latched onto the name.
“He started Free Elf movement!” Pow grinned.
“Did this Vindicar mess with the Floo Powder?” Hermione asked sternly.
Three nods.
“Is Vindicar a house-elf too?”
Three shrugs. “Sometimes elf, sometimes wizard!”
Floo leaned forward to whisper. “Said a Death-Eater follows you!”
Hermione shivered. A Death-Eater? Surely not. Suspicion roused in her mind. “Surely you don’t mean Malfoy?”
The house-elves nodded soberly.
“Malfoy was here?” Hermione gaped.
The elves shook their heads.
“Was this Vindicar here when I got here?” Hermione narrowed her eyes.
Three nods.
Godric, what a mess. She’d been so close to getting a look at this Vindicar. A chill seeped through her at the same thought from another angle. Vindicar had gotten a good look at her, passed out in the Floo Powder sacks. He might have started a house-elf movement but she’d also spent most of the night sneezing herself to death. This was a terrorist after all. A terrorist stalking her enough to know Malfoy was stalking her.
“Godric,” Hermione groaned again.
“Vindicar was very angry.” Pow studied his toes. “We used too much sleepy eye.”
Well, at least he didn’t want her dead like Malfoy had assumed.
“Vindicar asked us for help!” Floo looked proud.
“Pow messed it up.” Pow scuffed his heels.
“With what?” Hermione looked between them, confused.
“Vindicar said to help Hermione Granger. Vindicar said to expect danger.” Sizzle puffed up his chest.
“Vindicar is powerful.” Pow shivered and leaned closer, whispering. “Vindicar has old magic.” He lightly touched the tiara on her head.
“And, you all follow Vindicar? Even though you’re scared of him?”
“Vindicar has plans.” Floo wrung her hands.
“Vindicar’s followers came. His house-elves changed our powder!” Floo and Pow looked mournfully about.
Hermione leaned forward, eagerly, searching for her notepad. But her clothes and purse were gone. Even her wand.
A rustle at the window. Familiar cursing.
Black leather gloves.
A grunt.
“Danger,” Floo whispered, covering Hermione’s lips with a finger.
“Death-Eater!” Pow gulped.
The three house-elves clutched at one another and disappeared with a pop!
Left alone, Hermione cursed dousing her light—surprised to find mornings rays stretching across the ceiling. She scampered up the bags of Floo Powder into the darkest side of the room and looked for a hole to crawl in.
The Bountiful Bandolier
Draco cursed as an anti-wizard ward sizzled across his knuckles. Goblins used similar spells in Gringotts. He’d been excluded from several employee lounge rooms—relentlessly mocked by Grimbane and Rotrin when he couldn’t cross the threshold. Curious, though, that a Wizard’s establishment would employ the ward.
No matter.
Draco dug in his pocket—removed a miniaturized potion bandolier. An Engorgio later, and he fished out the potion he’d spent months crafting his first year working at the bank. A potion that altered the ward’s perception of him. He’d been his own test dummy to Grimbane and Rotrin’s amusement and eventual grudging respect.
Draco downed the potion. He’d have to brew another batch or he’d miss out on Gringotts Christmas employee poker night. Slinging the bandolier across his chest, potions for smoke, darkness, and noise ready at hand, he jotted off a note to Potty-Head.
Anti Wizard/Witch wards. Going in now, DON’T RESPOND, Darling. Silence makes the heart grow fonder.
Impatiently patient, Draco waited an obligatory thirty seconds for Potty’s inevitable buzzing reply—as no one seemed capable of NOT replying to a request to cease replying.
Jumping, Draco fisted the window ledge once more. The ward prodded but didn’t bite, eventually concluding that he was dust, light, or air. Particles not person.
Heaving himself up, Draco peered into the dark warehouse, wary of more booby traps. The light crack of several Apparitions reached his ears. A rustling in the sacks below. Lightly, Draco jumped down into the dark.
Rolling to his feet, he fetched his withered Hand of Glory from the Bandolier and lit the candle. His father had never approved of the shriveled appendage, but Draco had found his purchase worth every Knut. The candlelight revealed the room to him but left anyone else in the semi-blackness of the warehouse.
His gaze slashed across the facility, cataloging. Sacks of Floo Powder piled to the ceiling—ready to be dispersed to homes across the Wizarding world . . . and one clumsy house-elf currently crawling uncertainly in the dark away from him. Draco’s head cocked to one side. He’d never seen such a strange-looking house-elf before. For one, it had hair.
Stomping casually after it, Draco lazily tossed an Incarcerous with his wand. The house-elf shrieked in a familiar yelp of surprise, rolling down the hill of Floo Powder bags and into Draco’s shins.
A mass of curly hair topped with a tiara and big brown eyes blinked blindly up at him.
Draco cleared his throat. “Trouble Appariting away with your friends?” He crouched and tugged the massive amounts of hair from the creature's face. Was it a wig?
“What are you . . .” He blinked bringing the Hand of Glory close.
Nooo. Yes. Sublime. Thoughts clarified. The anti-witch/wizard ward, the hair, that pert, affronted glare. He grinned shaking his head with laughter and begrudging wonder.
The Tiara of Mortification
“Granger?”
Hermione’s panic turned to outrage. Of course it was bloody Malfoy.
“Granger, whatever are you doing?” Malfoy shifted in the dark, then cast a Lumos.
Hermione flinched and prayed for death as light flooded the room and ripped away the shadowy figments of dignity.
How did he know?
Malfoy crouched before her, holding a leathery severed appendage as he snickered and released her from the magical bindings—wholly failing to contain his glee.
Once she righted herself to glower up at him, he fell over laughing. His hateful, pretty eyes dripped tears of mirth. His hands gripped his stomach and his feet had the audacity to kick giddily in the air as he rolled on his back in contaminated Floo Powder.
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Gloomily she wondered if she’d ever live this moment down. But his delight was enough to bring a self-effacing smile to her unfamiliar features.
“Godric you make a horrific house-elf.” He wiped his eyes, laughter finally spent at her expense.
“How did you know?” Hermione complained.
Malfoy’s grin threatened to crack his jaw. “How could I not? I’d know that mop of hair anywhere. And that face! You’re always looking at me like I’m pissing on your lawn. It makes me feel all of thirteen. Godric, luv, where in Muggle hell did you get that tiara?”
Hermione scowled reprovingly and poked at a gemstone, desperately worried she might have bent one of the delicate prongs in her tumble down Floo Powder Hill.
“I suppose you’re here to investigate the Floo Powder?” Malfoy pulled himself together, still grinning like a loon.
“Obviously,” Hermione sniffed.
“Contain your enthusiasm, Granger.” Malfoy fetched a chocolate-shaped notepad from his pocket and scribbled with a candy pen.
Hermione dusted herself off. “Were you under the impression we’d be collaborating, Malfoy?” She inspected her hands and grimaced at the sharp house-elf nails that greeted her.
Malfoy hummed to himself. “Yes actually. Potter says you’re out of your mind being here with a stalker writing you love letters, by the way (and I agree). But you’re to cooperate or he’ll . . .” Malfoy turned the chocolate notepad side to side. “Is he writing with his toes? What is that supposed to even say?”
Hermione rolled her eyes as Malfoy proffered the notes to her inspection.
“He’s threatening me with—well actually, I can’t make it out either. Is that . . . Oh, he’s eaten the pen. You should do the same.”
Malfoy grimaced before popping the candy pen into his mouth.
“I suppose this means you’ve compromised the mission by breaking and entering the wards.” Hermione waved at the window. “We should get out before security traps us in here with vandalized Floo Powder.”
Malfoy swallowed his candy spit, scowling as he watched his notes mist and warp into illegible mist.
“No matter, I’ve already briefed three eye-witnesses to the crime and have the name of our vigilante terrorist,” Hermione preened.
“You do?” Malfoy’s pale eyebrows rose.
Hermione sniffed and slapped her too-large feet back towards the window Malfoy had used.
“Been here a while, Granger?” Malfoy followed casually after.
“Not long,” Hermione could have kicked herself. What time was it?
“Fascinating,” Malfoy’s voice dropped silkily dangerous. “You see, I remember leaving you in Longbottom’s careless hands. And I distinctly recall him mentioning dropping you off at Theo’s while I was on my way here. Do I need to warn Theo that a stranger has stopped by his London Muggle flat, or would you like to explain yourself?”
Hermione turned to find a wand tip at her throat. “Don’t be so dramatic. I checked that he was fine, and . . . decided to investigate. She pushed his wand tip aside with one (horribly long) fingertip.
Malfoy wasn’t buying it.
Curse her tongue. Curse the blasted tiara that made her feel like bragging to gain some self-respect back. Curse the number of people who paraded past her face last night.
Hermione sighed. “Are you going to continue interrogating me, or may we leave now?”
“Very well.” Malfoy tucked his wand away, and leapt lightly, catching the window seal far above Hermione’s reduced stature. He smirked down at her and lightly pulled himself up. “Feel like coming with me today?”
Hermione glowered. “I would appreciate a platonic hand up.”
“I distinctly recall the princess of the house-elves stating she would not be collaborating.” Malfoy eased out the window leaving her behind.
Hermione banged her head against the wall. Stupid.
“Almost forgot . . .”
She startled back a few steps. Malfoy’s hateful little smile peered down at her.
“Nox!” Malfoy doused the light in the warehouse.
Hermione blinked into the dark. The sun had risen, giving everything a thin, gray outline.
“Malfoy!” She hissed at the window. Then gaped as bars reappeared.
“Are you asking to collaborate, Granger?” Malfoy taunted beyond the window.
Scowling, Hermione bit on her lower lip. If there really was an anti-witch/wizard ward, she’d be in trouble if she found a way to untangle the tiara from her head. But she needed to remove the Tiara to get at her wand—at least, she hoped her clothes and wand and bag were magically transformed safely away with the rest of her—Malfoy was taking this too far.
There had to be another exit. The front door for instance. Stomping away, Hermione growled. He could taunt an empty window all morning. She wasn’t divulging any more of her secrets. And wouldn’t Harry be pissed at him for leaving her behind? His fault, really, for ratting on her in the notepad. That cheered her up.
“Floo? Pow? Sizzle?” Hermione whispered into the dark, running on her too-small legs and too-large feet towards the end of the warehouse.
“You could just ask for help, Granger,” Malfoy called.
“You could just offer, Malfoy!” Hermione poked at the wall. There had to be a door somewhere. She could feel time tick-tock-tapping away at her mental fortitude. She did not want to be found by Aurors when they inevitably arrived.
“Granger, get over here,” Malfoy growled. He’d Evanescoed the bars again.
She didn’t want to owe Malfoy for saving her either. And she did not like taking orders when he got this bossy.
“Carpe Retractum,” Malfoy hissed.
Hermione squawked with indignity as golden bands of magic lassoed her torso. Her feet left the floor and she zipped backwards through the air crashing into Malfoy’s chest. They toppled backward out the window.
Malfoy cursed, Molliare!, and Hermione found the world spinning as they floated down to the ground with the delicacy of an over-large snowflake. They had barely landed when the soft CRACK of several Apparitions from around the front of the building had them both scrambling over one another down the wet streets away from the warehouse.
After rounding several industrial street corners, Malfoy gripped her hand and Appirated them. He didn’t even jerk her around or yank his hand away when they reappeared with a soft POP on Gringotts steps.
Flushed, breath clouding before their faces, Hermione and Malfoy shared a bemused glare.
“You’re welcome.” He broke the silence, picking a yellow leaf off his coat and unslinging the bandolier from his chest. Polished dragon leather that was worn enough, he’d obviously been using it for quite some time. It shrunk and disappeared into his coat pocket, much the way Hermione kept all sorts of useful things in her purse.
“If you’re going to be helpful, Malfoy, lend me some Sleakeazy from your potion hoard.” Hermione reached up tentatively, tugging at a curl.
“Come here,” Malfoy sat down on the steps and patted the stair between his spread knees.
Hermione stared in alarm. Imagined Malfoy’s deft, quick, fingers running through her hair. Good Godric. Yes.
“No.” Hermione pinched her nose. She didn’t want him looking too closely at the tiara when she didn’t even know what it was. “I’m already running late.”
“It’s not—“ Malfoy glared up at her then back down to his wristwatch, “It’s barely past six in the morning, Granger!”
“Is it?” Hermione cleared her throat nervously.
“Truce, Granger.” Malfoy rolled his eyes and patted the steps again.
“Fine.” Hermione’s lips pinched and she took careful steps down the much steeper feeling stairs, shuffling between Malfoy’s thighs. Godric. Sitting primly, she tried not to lean too much to one side or the other—definitely not back.
Malfoy hummed approvingly. His fingers unhesitant, he shifted her curls off the back of her neck. His breath stirred the curls on her forehead and he loomed around her.
How was he so comfortable with himself? Probably because he felt he had the upper hand—and he did. For now.
The chill of the stone steps clashed in sharp contrast to the heat he produced at her back. Birds chirped, lively with morning song, and not a single store sat open. Hermione had never seen Diagon Alley so quiet.
Warm, deft fingers lightly tilted her head this way and that—brushed through her curls—undid some tangles—as Malfoy murmured to himself.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he ordered, absently.
Godric—he must comb out Teddy’s hair. Hermione wanted to bury her face into her lap at the sheer domesticity of it all. Tingles radiated from every little touch and soft puff of breath against her forehead and extra-long ears.
“Your hair is more tenacious than Devil’s Snare.” Malfoy chuckled, his fingers seemingly caught in a tangle.
“If I had my bag I’d just dump a pound of Sleakeazy on my head and be done with it.”
Malfoy snorted. “And gunk up this heirloom while you’re at it. Where did you say you got it?”
“I didn’t say,” Hermione sniffed.
“So you didn’t.” Malfoy’s voice smiled. His hands brushed the nap of her neck again as he gathered her curls in one hand, lightly tugging at her scalp to tilt her head back. “Nearly done.” His fingers gently worked around the tiara driving her mad as tingles dripped down her spine.
At last, the weight of the tiara lifted from her head, and a dizzy rush of magic flashed through her bones. Hermione grew several feet taller. Her elbows bumped and came to rest on Malfoy’s thighs, her fingers clutched his knees and she reoriented back into her own skin. Equally important was the welcome sight and feel of her own clothes, purse, and wand.
“Thank, Godric!” Hermione turned towards Malfoy. Her eyes widened as she took in the tiara. A floral twist of silver leaves and shrubs accented by delicate lilac blossoms and dripping in diamonds.
“Th-thats . . .” She’d been wearing that on her head? Tumbling in Floo Powder? What if she’d broken it?!
“A lot of diamonds?” Malfoy turned the tiara side to side in his deft fingers. “A lot of silver too. Not Goblin silver either.” He mused appreciation coloring his tone.
“Mine. That’s mine, thank you.” Hermione plucked the tiara from his hands, flustered.
“Greedy, witch.” Malfoy winked. Leaning back, he looked her over as though she had every right to paw at the house-elf heirloom. “Diamonds suit you.”
His silver gaze glimmered, eerily warm and tracing her face. As if, somewhere in that cagey head, he was dressing her in diamonds instead of mud and burrs like she’d have expected.
“Are . . . you being nice to me?” Hermione blurted.
Malfoy’s head tipped towards one shoulder. “I’ve decided something, Granger.”
“Which is?” She felt the heat of his thigh burning her palm but couldn’t force her hand to release.
“You respond best to praise.” He smirked at her.
Hermione gaped in outrage.
“So do I, by the way.” He winked. “Try it sometime. You might find me tolerable.”
Hermione’s gaze narrowed. This felt like a trap.
“Not that a cute scolding wouldn’t raise my blood, either. But aftercare is important, Granger and I don’t think you’ve a talent for it.” Malfoy smiled indulgently, his wand lifting and spinning between his fingers in a pattern that had Hermione’s toes curling.
Half mesmerized, she stared as his wand tip lowered to her chest. Her heart pounded wildly. She should slap it away. Snatch up her wand to defend herself. But his gaze gleamed so lazily indolent she sat twisted towards him.
His wand slid beneath her blouse and lifted the Time-Turner.
His eyes flashed triumphant.
Hermione slapped one hand over the watch. Twisting away, her elbow caught him in the mouth eliciting a pained grunt as she scrambled to her feet. Her face turned red as she watched blood smear his lower lip. Digging her wand into Malfoy’s throat she tucked the watch away—a half-formed memory charm on her tongue.
Malfoy’s quick hand darted forward. He caught her jaw, distorting the spell mid-cast. He clutched her face close, long fingers squished her cheeks. His palm cupped her chin.
“I wouldn’t finish that charm,” their foreheads brushed, his bloody mouth close enough to kiss. Their breath mingled in the frigid morning cold.
“One word to anyone, Malfoy, and . . .”
He licked blood off his lower lip. He watched her track his tongue’s movements.
“I’ll Obliviate you so thoroughly you’ll be drooling into your cereal for months.”
She followed the spark of fear that winked through his eyes—watched it smolder into something darker, something like want, no, greed before it coaled into a cool shell of armor.
He’d Occluded.
How often did he do that?
“Granger, luv, you say the sweetest things.” He released her face. The gentle brush of his thumb across her cheek burned as he leaned away. Casually, he rose to his feet, forcing her down a step as he swept his coattails of invisible dirt.
Hermione clutched her wand and watched Malfoy warily, heart pounding wild as her thoughts. This thing with Malfoy, this unwelcome attraction, it needed brakes. Every conversation needed guard rails.
“How much would it cost me to study that tiara, Granger?” Malfoy squinted at it.
“Not happening.” Instinctively Hermione hid it behind her back.
A buzz interrupted Malfoy’s next advance and he scowled down at his pocket before removing the chocolate notepad.
“Isn’t this thing supposed to be dead?”
“You should eat it quickly,” she advised.
“Eat it?” Malfoy sneered with disgust.
“It’s just chocolate now. But it’s likely to melt on you.”
“It’s been in my pocket, Granger.”
Hermione shrugged. “That’s why I keep them in their foil case. Harry’s probably on his way.”
“Why would—“
“You let him put his hands down your pocket, didn’t you.” Hermione shook her head. “Amateur move, Malfoy.”
CRACK. Harry spun on the stairs before regaining his balance. He looked as though he hadn’t changed clothes from last night, and his hair was in a bird's nest that suggested he’d been dragging his fingers through it in frustration.
“Sorry, I’m late. But you did trip up an intruder ward. I had to send Katie Bell out to deal with Floo Pow’s security.” Harry slung an arm over Hermione’s shoulder hugging her. “Hello, Hermione.”
Malfoy’s gaze glanced off Harry’s hand on her arm. “I haven’t had time to fetch the eggs yet, darling, why don’t you give Mum and Dad time to chat,” he drawled, searching his pockets and finding the tracker with a sneer.
“Does Ginny know about you two?” Hermione inclined her head between them.
“Sorry to disappoint, Granger, but Blaise is my current fun mistress, especially since you made off with Theo.” Malfoy winked at her. “Potter’s more like a neighbor’s dog that keeps pissing on the garden roses.”
What would it be like to have a garden? Hermione wondered drowsily.
“Who doesn’t want to take the piss out of you, Malfoy?” Harry yawned.
“I need coffee to keep up with this conversation,” Hermione tucked the tiara into her bag.
“Why don’t we three have a little chat? My place?” Harry checked his wristwatch. “Give me ten minutes to warn Ginny and put on the coffee.”
“But-“ Hermione did not feel like being interrogated so early.
“Eggs and toast?” Harry pointed between them, Appariting before he got an answer.
She and Malfoy stood silently in the cold watching morning creep down the steps. Blessedly, Malfoy seemed absorbed with his thoughts because Hermione felt as frazzled as her hair. She couldn’t look at Malfoy without staring at his bloodied lip. The sight of which left her teetering between guilt and an unholy desire to kiss it better. At last, Malfoy stirred, checked his watch, and turned towards her.
“After you, Luv.”