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Hermione woke up the next morning with her blood still boiling. She rescheduled breakfast with Narcissa and locked herself away, researching and reading in angry solitude. Every time she'd let her mind wander, it would conjure images of Draco with Hermione's doppelgänger in his lap, moving as Pansy Parkinson moves and kissing like Pansy Parkinson kisses.
So she kept it occupied well past dinner time, until she was too exhausted to think.
She woke early on Sunday morning, determined to speak to Draco before breakfast. After compiling another list of questions for him — none of which had to do with the "convincing show" he and Pansy had put on two nights before — she finally left her room and rapped smartly on his door. She waited for a more than acceptable amount of time before rapping again. The door handle was immovable, as expected. She frowned in frustration. After fifteen more minutes of aggravated pacing, knocking, and waiting, she headed downstairs to meet Narcissa.
Only Narcissa wasn't at the table. The dining room was set for two, but it was empty.
Hermione had a brief flash of panic, remembering how all three Malfoys had disappeared before, leaving her alone for weeks.
"Mippy?"
A pop! sounded from behind her.
"Miss!"
"Good morning, Mippy," Hermione said, smiling down at her through the tightness in her chest. "Where might I find Narcissa?"
"Missus is in her study!"
Perhaps Narcissa had forgotten? "Thank you. I'll visit her there." She hurried out of the room before Mippy could blink her overlarge eyes.
Hermione traveled down the corridor to Narcissa's private study. She needed to see for herself. She needed to know they hadn't left her alone again. Lucius had been gone for weeks. Draco wasn't responding. If Narcissa was gone too...
She turned a corner and froze at the sound of a voice rising to biting tones, floating into the hallway from behind a cracked door.
Her pulse calmed when she recognized Narcissa's voice, then quickened with her rising curiosity. She paused, debating. Spying on Narcissa's private conversations felt like crossing a line.
Hermione took a quiet step backward, preparing to turn on her heel—
"...our son. And now he's off... dangerous and... He's out of his depth—"
Narcissa's voice cut out as she ranted. Hermione let the words wash over her, heart hammering in her ears. They were talking about Draco.
A few more heartbeats, and her self-control shattered. She tiptoed forward, ears straining for a response.
Was Lucius home?
She wasn't eavesdropping, she told herself as she crept forward, guilt twisting in her gut. She was simply going to take her time before knocking.
"... becoming a liability," she heard Narcissa hiss. "Even the Dark Lord must see. Remind him why these revels exist in the first place... not just to wet their cocks—"
Hermione's brows jumped, and she stifled a gasp at hearing such crude language from Narcissa Malfoy. She craned her neck to peek through the crack in the door and found her pacing at the opposite side of the room, in front of the fireplace. The Floo.
A low baritone rumbling from behind a pair of chairs, where Hermione couldn't see. She took a shaky breath and knocked faintly at the door, praying Narcissa wouldn't hear her.
"I will not watch my language. Your friends are running wild here in England without the Dark Lord's oversight. Do something about it before our son gets killed."
She was talking about Edinburgh. Hermione's mind tumbled through the ways that Draco could be harmed by the events that had taken place there, but before she could process it—
"I have to go. Miss Granger is at my door, and I'm late for breakfast with her. I'll send your regards."
Hermione held her breath as Narcissa's heels clicked towards the door.
"Good morning," Narcissa said. Her face was flushed, but not a hair was out of place. "I apologize for keeping you waiting."
"It's me who should be apologizing," Hermione rushed, heat creeping up her neck. "I came looking for you, and then I — heard voices. I didn't want to interrupt, but I wasn't here for very long—"
"Of course, dear," said Narcissa smoothly, the anger of the previous conversation melting away. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid I can't take breakfast with you. I have several urgent matters to attend to."
Hermione nodded her acceptance and said in a small voice, "Draco is gone?"
Narcissa took a deep breath and nodded. "He is in Italy. Dealing with an unexpected incident. I'm afraid I can't say much more than that." She pulled a thin letter from her robes and extended it to Hermione. "He asked me to give this to you."
Hermione stared at the parchment. "For me?"
"Yes," Narcissa said. "He had to leave rather abruptly, and he wanted to put your mind at ease."
Hermione blinked, gaping up at her. "He said that?"
"Technically, I believe he said, 'that bloody witch will give me hell if I disappear.' But I'm sure those were his true sentiments."
Hermione's fingers paused in grasping the note, and she looked up to see Narcissa smirking. Her cheeks heated, and she ducked her head.
Narcissa left Hermione to take breakfast in the dining room alone. Hermione managed to pour a cup of coffee from the carafe, add the sugar and milk, and stir before her curiosity won out and she ripped open the wax seal.
Granger,
I have some important business in Italy. Allow me to head off your questions.
No — I don't know for how long.
No — I can't say why. Yet.
Yes — if I am home by Friday, we will still be going to Edinburgh.
Yes — I've eaten breakfast. How kind of you to ask.
D.M.
She glared down at the letter, as if it was Draco himself, lifting a brow at her and strutting away.
Italy.
She racked her memories for mentions of Italy. Coverage of the political climate there — or any other foreign country, for that matter — had been scarce in the Prophet. She expected that would change once Voldemort had more international support.
After breakfast, Hermione visited the kitchens and asked Remmy for the Daily Prophet, like she did every morning. She blinked down at the headline, not even bothering to thank a sour-faced Remmy before she huffed and waddled away.
ITALIAN MINISTER DEAD BY HEART ATTACK
by Rita Skeeter
Antonio Bravieri, Italian Minister for Magic, was found dead in his chambers Saturday evening, suffering from a fatal heart attack.
The Minister had paid a visit to the Dark Lord's castle earlier Saturday afternoon to pledge his government's support for the Dark Lord and the Great Order. Tragically, it would be his last official act as leader of the Italian Magical community.
Constantine Romano, Head of the Transportation Department, has vowed to carry out Bravieri's final vision for his country, and has been appointed to the title of Minister in Bravieri's place. Emissaries to the Dark Lord are assisting with the transition this week, helping ensure the partnership between our two countries.
The lies jumped off the page, sticking out like thorns.
The Minister had been found dead the day after he visited Voldemort? Not likely. And his last official act was to swear fealty to Voldemort? Hermione rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the paper. He'd clearly gotten himself killed, and now Draco was part of the mission to replace him with some kind of Voldemort puppet, like Pius Thicknesse.
Hermione leaned back against the wall outside the kitchens, listening to the elves work. Unless she was very much mistaken, Voldemort had just carried out a major political coup. But why send Draco? Had he gained enough importance in the Death Eater's ranks that he was now replacing his father in his absence? She shivered, dread twisting in her stomach.
She spent the rest of the day looking into the politics of the Italian Ministry and the Bravieri family, searching for clues on why Antonio Bravieri had dared to challenge Voldemort and paid for it with his life.
~*~
By Friday morning, when Draco had still not returned, she had grimly come to terms with the fact that they would not be going to Edinburgh that night. Narcissa had spent the week distracted, inviting her to tea only to drift off and then jump up, excusing herself. Hermione assumed Italy had taken a turn for the worse, but the Prophet had been completely silent on the situation.
After two anxiety-filled days with no news of Italy or Draco, she had thrown herself back into her research to steer her mind firmly away from his absence. Only that topic was equally frustrating. She'd finished The Mysteries of Magical Asia: Volumes 1, 2, and 3, and found only a handful of irrelevant, throwaway references to magical slavery. She was no closer to finding the inspiration for the tattoos than she had been a month ago.
She was headed to breakfast when she heard voices in the entry hall. She froze at the top of the stairs, listening carefully to catch the mumbled words and ascertain their owners. Peeking over the banister, she found the top of Draco's blond head — a wave of relief through her veins — as well as two others.
Zabini and a dark-haired girl.
Gasping, she moved forward until she could see her face, fingers squeezing the polished wood.
It was the olive-skinned girl from Edinburgh. The one who had been crying through the night, the one who looked too young for all of this. She looked pale and dazed, her large eyes locked on Zabini. Thinner than the last time Hermione had seen her, she practically swam in the heavy black cloak around her shoulders.
Zabini and Draco spoke in hushed tones as Zabini reached into the bag of Floo powder, nodding his head at something Draco said. She watched Zabini turn to the girl and hum something in a cadence she recognized as Italian. They moved to the fireplace, and Blaise righted her when she stumbled in her heels.
"Grazie," she croaked.
Blaise took her elbow, and Hermione caught the faintest glimpse of gold and black letters on her arm as they disappeared through the Floo. Draco stared at the empty fireplace for several long moments after they vanished. Then he crossed the room and started to climb the stairs.
His body moved slowly, exhausted and thin. Purple-blue rings beneath his eyes. He didn't look as wasted as he had a month ago, but he clearly hadn't slept or eaten much. It wasn't until he was steps away from the platform she was on that he finally looked up and paused.
"Granger." He stood tall and took his hand off the railing, removing all weakness from his stance.
She blinked at him, heart thrumming painfully with the weight of the things she wouldn't let herself say. "Who was that?" she finally managed, nodding her head down at the fireplaces below.
His throat bobbed as his eyes took her in. "Giuliana Bravieri. She'll be staying with Blaise from now on."
"Bravieri," she repeated. "She's the Minister's—"
"Niece, yes. Excuse me, but I'm not in the mood for an inquisition right now."
He started to climb again, moving past her as her mind whirred.
"Did you rescue her?" she asked. Her heart thudded dully in her chest, and her lungs held tightly, waiting for his response.
He laughed — a dry, aged sound. "I'd hardly call it that."
A strange hope fluttered in her chest.
She spun, taking a breath to ask —
"Yes, Granger," he said flatly, walking away from her. "We'll go to Edinburgh tonight." And then under his breath, "Bloody woman..."
She watched him trudge to his door, frowning at his retreating back.
Have you had breakfast, she'd been about to ask.
~*~
At eight that evening, she did something for the second time since she'd taken up residence at Malfoy Manor — she examined her vanity dresser. She'd rummaged through it just once before, shortly after she arrived, while looking for weapons.
She pulled out the top drawer, finding basic makeup products and brushes.
Hermione didn't know much about applying powder and goo to her face, but she could remember a bit from fourth year. With Lavender Brown's voice in her mind, she laid out the tubes and gels across her counter and separated them by use. The eye makeup on her right, the lips on her left, and the rouge and powders in the center.
After half a dozen frustrating attempts, she finally was staring at a shadow of what Pansy Parkinson had been able to do to her face. Her eyes were dark, her lashes long. A dusty pink lipstick was all she could find in the drawer. She searched every drawer and cabinet for nail polish, thinking of Pansy's scarlet nails, but couldn't find any. She wasn't positive she could pull off whatever act Pansy had played, but she could come close to it.
As for her hair... Hermione had to leave it alone. She had no tools, no wand, and even if she did have a curling iron, there was no electricity in Malfoy Manor.
Mippy knocked at quarter till ten, handing her the collar, the dress, and the shoes. The elf wrung her hands and stared tremulously at the floor, clearly knowledgeable about the plans for the evening. Perhaps she'd heard Narcissa's rants as well. Hermione took pity on her and quickly dismissed her, asking her to tell Draco that she'd be downstairs momentarily.
The slip dress was black lace with a low neck. It would be tight on her body, leaving very little to the imagination. But perhaps the revelers at Edinburgh Castle no longer needed to imagine her in any way. It was possible they'd seen quite a bit of her body already.
Hermione pressed her lips together, and pushed away those thoughts.
She went to the armoire, reaching into the drawer that held her knickers. She rummaged through them and decided on the pair that looked the most sensual.
The dress slithered down her skin, needing to be tugged around her backside. She slipped the collar on, and the metal shrunk to her skin just as it had last time. She fidgeted with the chilly gold metal as she checked the clock, testing to make sure it hadn't glued itself to her. It seemed to shrink and tighten in response to her touch, attracting to her skin like a magnet. She easily fit her finger between her neck and the collar.
With shoes on and one last look in the mirror, Hermione headed down the hallway to the stairs. The portraits took the opportunity to hiss and call her names as she wobbled by, righting herself on the credenza.
She'd found her footing by the time she descended the stairs, but the sight of Draco watching her from the ground almost sent her stumbling again. His eyes dripped over her face, dress, and legs before tearing away and staring down at the marble.
He looked rested, and despite the way his gaze had lingered, he seemed to have his mask in place. She clicked down the stairs in her heels, awkwardly listening to every step until she reached the bottom.
He didn't immediately lead her out, so she asked, "Is it the same entry every time? Through the main gates?"
After a beat, he nodded at the floor, almost as if snapping out of a trance.
"What do I need to know about last week?" she asked tightly. "What will come up?"
He swallowed and said, "Everything was the same until the Lounge. The Great Hall, the champagne, the dinner."
The images flashed up in front of her eyes again — red lips on his, painted nails running through his hair, Draco's fingers dipping underneath her knickers—
"And the Lounge?" she asked as evenly as possible, shoving the pictures aside. "What do I need to know?"
"You won't be asked to do anything... Anything more." He looked up at her for the first time since she landed at the bottom of the stairs, and his eyes flickered. She caught something almost guilty in them before his mask clicked back into place. "The Lounge will be infinitely tamer tonight."
"Why?"
His jaw tensed. "There was an incident last week."
Her eyebrows shot up as he turned on his heel and headed to the door, as if he could just end the conversation there. She hurried after him, nearly jogging to catch up.
"'Incident?' Does this have to do with Italy?"
He pushed through the Manor doors, and as he swept down the stairs, she could swear she heard him mumble, "Brightest Witch of Her Age."
"Yes," he said. "The Dark Lord has forbidden the use of Flint's potion at Edinburgh. Last week, it was misused on the Italian Minister's niece."
Hermione stumbled down the Manor steps, following behind him on the stone path as her mind worked at breakneck speed.
"Antonio Bravieri didn't support the Dark Lord, did he?" she asked as he moved briskly down the path. "That's why Giuliana was taken and given to a Death Eater. To coerce him into changing his mind." Draco didn't respond, but she didn't need him to. "Bravieri found out what happened to Giuliana at the party, came to rage at the Dark Lord, and was killed for it."
They were steps away from the gate. Draco's pace didn't falter until Hermione reached out and grabbed his arm, spinning him back. He met her with a lazy expression.
Her brows furrowed, trying to work out a piece. "Why did you have to go to Italy? Are you... Have you been promoted?"
He smirked. "As Lucius Malfoy's son, I don't need a promotion. I volunteered, actually."
Her lips parted in shock. "You—"
"For Blaise," he said. "His mother was close friends with Bravieri — a well-known bit of gossip. It was in his best interest to volunteer his assistance with the 'transition.'" He stared off over her shoulder at the Manor. "And it seems to have deflected any suspicion. The Dark Lord gifted Giuliana to him as a token of gratitude for his service."
Hermione's lip curled. "So she'll have to pretend now, too. Only it was real for her. I saw her there. That girl is a child. She isn't strong enough to act like Zabini's plaything—"
"Giuliana won't be attending any time soon," he cut her off. "She's not... in any state for it. Blaise will make her excuses."
The summer wind brushed through them, and Hermione felt it dance across her spine in a shiver.
"What happened to her?"
Draco pressed his lips together. No response.
"Malfoy—"
"Do you really want to ruin your evening before it even begins, Granger?"
"Yes."
He sighed deeply. A hand came up to rub his brow. "Jugson thought it would be a bit of fun to put multiple hairs in her potion. Apparently he was plucking them at random from around the room. Half of the men didn't even realize until... it began."
She blinked up at him. "Oh." Bile crawled up the back of her throat as her imagination flickered through a series of disgusting and depraved images of... multiple people... and— "How old is she?" she croaked.
Draco paused. "Fourteen." His reply wasn't surprising, but it still hit her like a blow to the gut. She swayed her on her feet. He continued, "So Flint's potion is no longer allowed—"
"Was your hair mixed in?" she asked, her voice cracking.
His face turned to her sharply. And the disgust on his features brought her as much relief as the words from his mouth.
"No. We were at dinner when it happened."
His lip curled, and he turned away from her again as she nodded.
"And the Dark Lord was displeased?" she prompted, breathing easier now.
"The involved parties were punished. He reminded his followers of the purpose of these revels. Not just a place to amuse ourselves. A place to serve him and his ambitions."
Something was familiar about his wording, and it was only a moment before Hermione realized that they were Narcissa's words.
A smirk curved her lips. It seemed that Narcissa Malfoy had pulled not only her husband's strings, but the Dark Lord's as well.
He held out a hand for her arm, and she gave it to him. His hand was warm over her tattoo as they moved through the gate. They walked to the hill where they could Apparate from, and she felt relief thrumming through her veins that he'd made it through the last week unscathed. "Your mother was worried about you in Italy. Was it dangerous?"
He looked around them, almost like searching for enemies in the wind, and said, "The Italian Magical community knows exactly what happened to Bravieri, despite Skeeter's attempt to spin it differently. It wasn't a walk in the park."
He took her elbow and spun them to the signpost outside of Edinburgh Castle. She allowed the long walk up to the gates to center her mind, the breeze to cool her emotions, and the sound of her footsteps to confirm that it was truly happening again.
The werewolves howled, the guards smacked their lips, and the crowd of Death Eaters in the courtyard whistled. She ignored them all, hardly registering their jeers about her bare legs as she focused on a lake with still waters.
Draco was putting on a show of being quite relaxed. During their first walk into Edinburgh, he was rushed and anxious. This time, he was shouting back at the crowd with a laugh, stopping to chat with someone at the top of the stairs, and teasing someone who was coughing on their cigar. But when the spectators vanished and it was only the two of them, she watched his face fall, an empty expression in his eyes.
He led her through the doors to the Great Hall, and Hermione's breath caught to see Charlotte turning to them with a tray of champagne.
"Master Malfoy," she said with a flirty grin. "Good evening. And Miss Granger."
Charlotte's eyes met hers briefly before offering her champagne. Hermione reached for her own glass this time, hoping to draw Charlotte's eyes, but she was already reaching for the curtain and letting them into the Great Hall.
The music and the chatter hit her like a wall, stirring her memories of two weeks ago. She was flooded with terror for a freezing moment before feeling Draco's hand on her back, warm and steadying.
He stopped to talk with people as they sipped their champagne. Hermione tried to catalog the guests and conversations more fastidiously this time. Two weeks ago, she was far more focused on the girls. This time she needed to listen to the whispered jokes and unspoken clues.
Draco greeted Rabastan Lestrange while he was mid-conversation, a quick tap on his shoulder and a few polite words while Lestrange's eyes wandered down Hermione's waist and hips. He led her to a quick conversation with Mulciber, who did not have Cho hanging off of his elbow — Hermione's eyes scanned for her as inconspicuously as possible, but with no luck. She and Draco passed a pale-faced Jugson with a nod, and she noticed that he was missing a hand.
"Draco," a slimy voice called out behind them, Hermione felt a nauseous dread sliding through her veins. They turned and found Nott Sr. approaching with Theo at his side. "I didn't expect you back so soon."
"Sir." Draco shook Nott's hand and gave Theo a careless nod. "We were able to resolve the situation quickly. Yaxley is staying for another week, and Dolohov joined him as we were leaving."
"Good," Nott Sr. said. And though she was staring at the floor, she could feel his eyes slither down her body.
"Hello, little dove." The handle of his cane pushed under her chin until her face tilted back. She felt Draco's thumb twitch against her back. "I missed your little show last week. Perhaps you'll grace us with a repeat performance tonight."
Her blood froze, sound rushing in her ears. A snort from Theo as Draco's hand pressed harder into her skin. "Not likely, Father. I'm sure Draco is going to hoard her talents for at least another year or two."
"Is that so? How unfortunate." He tsked. "You know Draco, forbidding the fruit only makes it more tempting."
Hermione kept her gaze steady on Nott's, holding her breath. His cane slipped down her neck, between her clavicles, and landed between her breasts.
"Such a pretty dress," he crooned. And even with Draco standing so close, with his hand tightening on her waist, Nott Sr. stepped even closer, long fingers sliding low over her hip. She felt every muscle tighten. "It just begs to be peeled off."
"Unfortunately, Ted," Draco's voice was smooth in her ear, like a warm breeze. "I'll be the one doing the peeling."
Draco's fingers curled tightly on the curve of her waist, unsteadying her until she had to step back. She found her breath, and Draco quickly excused them, taking Theo with them.
Her talents. She imagined the other Hermione shifting sensuously on Draco's lap, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers while his hand wandered up her dress—
She breathed deep and centered her mind, ignoring the anger and disgust bubbling beneath her skin. Instead she let her eyes flit across the room, searching for Cho.
"Father's right, you know," Theo said as the three of them headed through the passage to the other building. "You're only making things worse. I heard that men in the other room have been talking about her—"
"And where's your whore tonight, Theo?" Draco drawled, leading them up the winding stairs without a look backward. "Waiting for you on his knees in the men's room?"
Hermione's eyes widened, and she heard Theo miss a step behind her. He was sputtering and scrambling for a reply when Draco reached the landing, grabbing her elbow to guide her for the last two steps and ignoring their companion.
Harper stood at the door again, and with him was the strawberry-blonde girl from two weeks ago. Harper stood up straight, and the girl batted her lashes demurely at them as they arrived.
Theo's protests died on his lips as the girl skipped to his side and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His cheeks were bright red, and his jaw clenched as he slipped his arm around her back.
Harper did his security tests on their rings and collars, and then they were headed into the snake pit. Boisterous laughter and shouting assaulted her ears, and when the door swung open, the room cheered, greeting Draco and Theo. Montague started a chant of "Fratelli d'Italia!" and the boys shook Draco's hand with mocking greetings of "Buongiorno!" and "Ciao bello!"
Draco took it all in stride, shoving them off and joining their chanting with an energy she knew was put upon. One look back at Theo showed a sour expression on his face as Draco took the praise and adulation. She caught the eye of the girl on Theo's arm, and she winked at her.
Hermione blinked, and turned around. Draco herded her to the head of the table, and Hermione took her position behind Draco's chair. She found Susan behind Goyle, Mortensen behind Pucey, and Penelope behind Flint. A few new Carrow Girls behind the others. And as the strawberry-blonde took her place behind Theo as he sat, Hermione realized the chair to Draco's left was empty.
Blaise wasn't here. She was thankful that meant Giuliana was somewhere else as well.
As soon as the boys were seated, the girls stepped forward for the wine bottles. Hermione followed, reaching beyond Draco's shoulder and pouring wine into his glass.
They repeated their toast — "To the Dark Lord's power. May he reign forevermore" — and Hermione watched as eleven boys drank deeply to his honor. There was less food on the table than two weeks ago. No opulent pig roast or decadent side dishes. As the boys settled back into conversation, the strawberry-blonde and two other girls started moving around with trays, serving light hors d'oeuvres and cheese.
Without dinner in the way, it didn't take long for the first girl to drop into a lap — a giggly waif in a silver collar who draped herself over Terrence Higgs without a fuss. As if he'd been waiting for the cue all evening, Goyle directed Susan to his lap, his arms wrapping around her stomach and his face inhaling deeply at her neck as she grimaced.
Hermione was listening to the conversations and watching the boys closely, so she saw the exact moment Flint pulled a small box out of his robes.
"What do we say, gentlemen," he called out over the noise. "Shall we lose some Galleons tonight?"
The boys laughed and jeered, ribbing one another about who had won and lost last time. Flint's long fingers opened the box and plucked out a deck of cards and three dice. He began shuffling the deck as some boys groaned about the holes in the pockets, and others rubbed their greedy hands together in glee.
Hermione had seen the Weasleys play this game at the Burrow before (usually only betting Knuts). Her rudimentary understanding was that it was similar to Muggle poker. Ron had tried to teach her in sixth year, but had gotten frustrated with her questions and gave up after only twenty minutes.
She felt a shard of ice in her chest at the memory. She'd buried Ron in a book next to Ginny weeks ago.
Pucey started divvying the chips, and the cards slid across the table with a magical push as Flint dealt them. She looked up and realized that over half of the girls were otherwise occupied. Some sat in laps or draped over the shoulders of their "dates." The other half refilled glasses and offered snacks. Only Hermione was left standing at attention.
She stepped forward as Draco plucked up his cards. Grabbing the decanter of wine, she refilled his almost full glass to look busy, and as he rearranged his cards, she brushed her fingers over his collar. "Do you have a good hand?" she murmured, doing her best to imitate Pansy's purr.
His jaw tightened for a split second. "Excellent," he said, with a confident flick of his eyes to meet Flint's.
Flint smirked, then turned his gaze on her. "How are those heels tonight, Granger?" His gaze ran over her. "If you need to sit, you know my lap's always free."
Before she could craft a response, Draco's hand was on her hip, pulling her downward without even looking up from his cards. The boys laughed.
She landed across both his legs, the right side of her chest pressing against his left. With how short and tight the dress was, she was forced to shift herself until her legs crossed, her arm slung behind Draco's shoulder. Draco provided no assistance.
Pucey started by rolling the dice, grinning down at the result. The glyphs on the sides were different than the ones she'd seen the Weasleys play with, so she gave up trying to summon the little she remembered. After the first hand was swept away, Flint called for wagers.
"Let's make it good this time, gentlemen." He nodded at Montague. "You first."
"I have the names of two defectors at the Ministry."
Flint rolled his eyes. "That's terribly dull, Graham."
"Well, that's what I have," Montague grumbled.
"Then think of something better. I'm not risking what I know for something my grandmother could have told me."
He turned his eyes on Pucey, who cleared his throat. "I have news on France."
"I'll take that," Flint said. "I'll raise you a sighting of Johnson."
Hermione's mouth felt dry, and she resisted the urge to lean forward. They were wagering secrets — sensitive topics about the war. The outside world.
She chanced a look around the table and found the strawberry-blonde meeting eyes with another Carrow Girl before quickly glancing away, reaching for a slice of cheese off Theo's plate.
"Intriguing, Flint. Who's your source?"
"Well, you'll have to beat my hand to find out, won't you Cass?"
"Goyle?" Montague asked. "Are you in? Anything new on your father?"
But Goyle was nuzzling into Susan's neck, content to fold.
"I have news on Dung. Spotted outside Edinburgh tonight," Derrick said.
"That old pikey. What's he selling now?"
"You'll just have to beat my hand to find out."
"Draco?" Flint asked. "Are you in?"
Hermione felt every pair of eyes turn on them. She glanced down to Draco's hand, unable to tell if what he had was sufficient to win. He plucked a card from the middle and replaced it on the end.
"I'm in." He tilted his head, and Hermione felt his hair tickle her neck. "Anyone interested to know who it was that skipped through the boundary at Dover last month?"
A charge pulsed through the table. Flint lifted a brow; Pucey leaned closer. Warrington set down his glass with a clink. Theo, on the other hand, stiffened.
"That's classified," he hissed from their left. "You can't give away that kind of information."
"I'm not giving it away," Draco drawled. "I'm planning to win my hand, thank you very much." He took a leisurely sip from his wine glass. "And you, Theo? Do you have anything of value?"
Theo sat up straight in his chair, jostling the arms of the strawberry-blonde hanging off of his shoulders. "I can tell you which major government official plans to pay Edinburgh a visit next month," he snarled.
"Cirillo already said she'd be back—"
"No," Theo snapped. He sneered at the interruption. "Not Cirillo."
A pause as the boys considered.
"Well, you have my interest," Flint said with a grin. "Shall we play, boys?"
Flint whispered into Penelope's ear, and with some reluctance, Penelope leaned forward and blew on the dice before Flint tossed them.
Hermione watched cards exchange hands — watched the dice roll — watched the quick shuffling as the boys laughed and drank. She still couldn't figure out how the game was played, but she was far more invested in the conversation. One by one, the boys lost, spilling their secrets, and afterward, their gold. By the time they were down to their last few wine bottles, only Draco, Flint, and Theo had kept their secrets.
She'd learned that Mundungus Fletcher had been spotted outside the Edinburgh gates attempting to sell a Time-Turner. He'd been stripped of all his possessions, tortured for a few hours, and set free.
Pucey's news on France — that the Dark Lord had lost several new recruits during a battle near Normandy — had helped Hermione puzzle together two things. First, France was publicly against the Great Order — something she'd suspected, but hadn't confirmed until now. Second, the Dark Lord was enraged about it enough to go on the offensive — something uncommon for him. She wondered why France mattered to him.
Another two hands, and she found out more. The name of a suspected traitor in Cirillo's cabinet. How Jugson was missing more than a hand.
Flint finally lost his secret to a round of jeers, revealing that Angelina was spotted in Bristol at a closed-down Apothecary. Hermione's mind conjured millions of possibilities, but in the end, she knew that she shouldn't read too much into it. After all, while she had been on the run, she'd needed Dittany and Murtlap Essence more than anything else.
Theo didn't seem terribly put out when he folded, smugly announcing that Edinburgh would be hosting the Undersecretary to the Korean Minister.
Draco didn't lose, keeping his secret of who had escaped at Dover for another round. Hermione shoved aside her irritation that he hadn't told her before. She'd take it up with him later, but now was not the time.
By the end of the next, Pucey, having lost his gold and secrets several rounds before, began kissing Mortensen's neck as he listened to the game, only piping in every now and then. Goyle was doing something similar, only it seemed he had completely disregarded the game to focus on sloppily kissing Susan's mouth.
It was Warrington's turn to throw the dice. The Carrow Girl in his lap giggled when he offered her the dice to blow on, and he caught her lips with his as the dice tumbled across the table.
Hermione looked away from the scene as Theo called out the results of the roll. They played their first hand, exchanging chips and cards. And when it was time to bet their information, Theo offered another visitor to Edinburgh in the next month.
"Don't waste our time with that," Draco drawled. "I want to know what your father was researching in my library." Theo opened his mouth. "And don't feed me any bollocks about the Apparition Line," Draco continued, cutting over him. "I saw him lurking in the other sections."
A stillness swept over the table. Theo's face flushed at being put on the spot, and clearly not in a way he enjoyed.
"I'll take that bet," Flint said with a glint in his eye. "Especially since Theodore is panicking."
The table chuckled. The strawberry-blonde cooed into Theo's ear and rubbed his shoulders as he scowled. Hermione felt her pulse spike, feeding off the intrigue, and she quickly looked down at the table to hide her eagerness.
Theo scowled, drumming his fingers on the table. "Well, I'm only in if Draco tells us where Daddy Malfoy has been."
Draco's ribs expanded against hers, and she saw the corner of his mouth lift. He made quite a show of looking down at his cards, weighing the options.
"What do you think, Granger?" he lilted. "Think my cards are good enough?"
She blinked at his hand, not sure how to answer, but knowing it didn't matter — he was only buying time. She thought of the other girls' hands trailing through the boys' hair or sliding down collar bones — the ways in which it was typical to flirt and touch and tease.
Hermione plucked a card from the middle of Draco's hand and replaced it on the end. She leaned closer, and loudly whispered, "I think Theo's about to spill all his secrets."
The boys burst into laughter — more raucous than the quip warranted. It wasn't terribly witty, but perhaps they were amused that it was said by her. That she was playing their game.
"Now the game can start!" Flint yelled over the din. "I wondered when you'd show up, Granger!"
"About time. Not nearly as cozy as they were last week—"
"Finally warming up over there—"
"—back to that swotty posture again, probably aching for a shag with Malfoy gone the last week—"
Hermione let the words wash over her, straining a tight-lipped smile down at Draco's cards. Pansy had been doing something different. Something cozier. And they'd noticed the difference.
She tried to relax back into Draco's arm and shoulder, tilting her body towards him. He was still as stone again, no help at all. Fighting back her irritation, she wiggled closer, trying to get as cozy as Pansy might have been — only to be stopped by his hand squeezing her leg in warning. As they tossed cards back and forth, she allowed the arm resting on the back of his chair to drape across his shoulders.
She tried not to feel stung, knowing he hadn't been this cold with Pansy last week. Perhaps she simply needed to try harder. Let him know that she was comfortable.
Theo won his hand, allowed to keep his secrets for a bit longer. Draco spread his cards on the table, and Hermione inferred that he had won as well.
She felt her heart pounding in her chest as she decided to try something else — celebrating his win. Pressing her forehead to his temple, and painting on a coy smile, Hermione tilted her face up, reaching for his mouth with hers.
The barest brush of her bottom lip across the corner of his mouth—
And Draco jerked his face back, the smallest movement of his neck, like he'd dodged the swing of a sword.
She froze, feeling his entire body seize up, his ribs no longer moving against hers.
Embarrassment flooded her chest and neck, working its way to her cheeks. She'd tried to kiss him, and he'd rejected her. She didn't dare look at him, staring at her lap as her face burned. He continued shuffling his new hand as if nothing had happened.
Soon enough, her embarrassment gave way to a boiling fury. He was going to jeopardize them. He couldn't accept a kiss from his Lot? What did that say?
Had anyone seen?
The sound in the room returned to her slowly as she lifted her head. The boys were chatting and passing cards. No eyes were on them, but there was something malicious about the way Marcus Flint grinned at the table, his fancy teeth cutting into his lip.
She felt Draco's ribs moving again, and heard him swallow. Hermione stiffened at the reminder that he was there.
They needed to talk. They needed a discussion about what their behavior was to consist of. He'd snarled at her last week, condescended at her ability to play-act, and then proceeded to sabotage her once she'd actually tried to play the game. She breathed deep, reminding herself that she couldn't show how she felt with so many watchful eyes in the room.
"Your roll, Malfoy."
Higgs slid the dice over to Draco, and she felt his arm extend to reach for them.
"You gonna let her wish you luck?" Pucey teased.
She'd seen almost every girl blow on the dice before they were thrown. A flirty smile and pursed lips before their heads bowed. And while she wished for nothing more than the freedom to refuse another opportunity to be humiliated, she knew she had to put on a show.
Draco held the dice in front of her. She laid delicate fingers on his wrist, holding him in place, and looked up to his eyes as she blew cool air across his fingertips.
He swallowed. And his eyes flashed.
A chuckle from across the table. "We all know how much Granger loves to 'blow.'"
She blinked, the spell broken the moment the words registered. She released his wrist, and he turned away as the cackling of hyenas ricocheted off the walls.
"Too bad, she really does need that potion to loosen up—"
Pansy had performed oral sex while in her body.
"I'd give you an 'E,' Granger. Maybe an 'O,' but you'd have to let me judge firsthand—"
It had been her mouth, her tongue.
Her throat was dry as Draco brushed them off with a forced smile and tossed the dice. She sat ramrod straight in his lap while the round was played, pushing away the images until her heart stopped pounding in her ears and her breathing steadied.
Hermione had never... she didn't know how. She could only assume that Pansy Parkinson knew what she was doing, but hopefully she didn't make Hermione out to be some kind of expert.
She shook off these questions. Draco had told her that things would be much calmer — that he and Pansy had played their parts convincingly. She had to focus on the game and the secrets. She could deal with him later.
But a stray thought snuck through as the boys threw in their Galleons. What did Draco see when he looked at her now? Did he picture her on her knees, unbuckling him? His eyes had been on her mouth last Friday night, after Pansy left through the Floo. Was he remembering it?
A hand pressed lightly between her shoulder blades. Her skin jumped, and she realized she was tense as a board and angrily staring off into space.
She breathed deep, pushing away these worrisome thoughts and refocusing. The boys were just offering their secrets as she relaxed back into Draco's hand.
"I have something that has potential — now that we're in the final round," Flint said with a smirk. His eyes locked on hers as he said, "I happen to know the fate of one Ronald Weasley."
A cold wave of dread crashed through her. And she knew she hadn't been able to temper her expression. Flint's eyes gleamed. She felt the hand on her back tense as well.
"And how would you know that?" Theo sneered. "No one's heard of him for months."
Flint shrugged, still smirking. "My potion is no longer available at Edinburgh. I have to make house calls these days. You wouldn't believe the things I've learned in exchange for a small discount."
Hermione's heart thrummed. It sounded like Ron was alive. And Flint knew where he was being kept.
"But it is a huge secret, you know," Flint said with a pout. "I feel like we should up the ante if I'm going to reveal this."
Flint looked directly at Draco. Draco responded in a level voice, "I can reveal no more than the country my father is in, I'm afraid."
"I don't care to know that. Truly." Flint shrugged, his eyes falling on Hermione again. She had the sinking sensation that he was playing with them, like a cat batting a mouse. "But I will wager that secret against a kiss from the Golden Girl."
Hermione held her breath. She heard Draco's jaw click, and the weight in her stomach dropped. He would decline. And then she would have no idea what had happened to Ron.
Her lips parted before Draco could take a breath. "One measly kiss?" She lifted a brow imitating the boy beneath her and said, "That's an easy bet to take. Hardly fair for you, though."
Flint winked at her. "You sell yourself short, Granger. Perhaps that's just how madly I desire you."
Draco tensed, about to jump in, about to end this.
"How could my master refuse?" she quickly replied. "It costs him nothing if he loses."
The hand on her back lifted, and she heard the arm of the chair creak under the strain of a hand squeezing it.
The boys were silent, watching the unspoken tennis match between the two heads of the table. But the match was won, and Draco knew it. She could feel the anger radiating off of him even as he said, "Of course. An excellent wager."
All eyes turned to the cards as Draco and Flint played, pulling new hands and rolling the dice. She judged Draco's success off of Theo, who had no poker face. The more disappointed he looked, the better Draco was doing.
When they both finally laid out their cards, the entire table released a breath. Hermione waited.
"Fuck," Montague whispered, running a hand through his hair.
"It's a draw, sweetheart," Flint said to her from across the table, his lips twisted in an arrogant smile. "Such a shame. I would have liked to have tasted you just once." He made a show of licking his lips at her as the boys laughed and Draco stoically cleaned up his cards. Flint leaned closer, schooling his features in a mock pout. "And I'm sure you desperately wanted to know about your Weasley. Such a pity."
Flint tapped his chin, as if deep in thought.
"I'll tell you what," he said, shifting Penelope off his lap. "I'll still reveal my secret if you give me that kiss. Good and proper, now."
She felt her pulse in her fingertips. Then Draco scoffed and plucked up his wine glass, draining the contents and preparing to excuse them from the room.
She thought of warm blue eyes crinkling at her. A booming laugh, freckled skin, and the smell of fresh grass. She had barely seconds. But she had to know.
Hermione stood swiftly. The room was still. They watched her as she moved to Flint, who was smirking at her with hungry eyes. She didn't spare a glance at Draco as she sat in Flint's lap, draped across his knees, and pulled his neck down to kiss him squarely on the mouth.
She heard the table erupt in cheers and groans. She felt Flint smile against her lips before returning her kiss with a vengeance, his mouth cold and rubbery against hers. She was just pulling back when his hand slipped into her hair, and his other dropped to her thigh, rubbing the skin. His lips moved under hers, his hand gripping her curls to hold her still, and then his tongue was against her mouth, pressing forward to get inside.
He'd barely managed it when she pushed back with all her might, breaking free of him and stumbling to her feet. The sound rushed back to the room as Flint grinned up at her, his thumb brushing over his lips. The boys pounded the table and howled.
"Your secret, Flint?" Hermione yelled over the din, staring down at him, resisting the urge to wipe her mouth.
Flint raised his hand to quiet the room, his new teeth shining proudly. "Your Weasley is alive, Granger. I saw him beaten and bloody at the Lestrange Estate last week, but he was still moaning when they kicked him."
She felt the blood drain from her face. There was noise somewhere in the room, but she couldn't decipher the sounds.
Ron was alive, but barely. The Lestrange Estate. Which one? Rabastan's or Rodolphus and Bellatrix's?
She tried to find the voice to ask, but her wrist was taken, an arm around her back, and then Draco was leading her out of the room. Pushing her, really. The game was over. Several others followed them out, passing Harper, moving down the stairwell.
Draco was silent. His hand on her hip was rigid as he guided her through the door, but she couldn't spare his temper a passing thought. Her mind was spinning with all the information she'd learned and the images her imagination conjured of Ron hanging on by a thread, bleeding on some manor floor. She walked the corridor in a daze, shoving her memories of Ron back into a closed book on the shelf, where he belonged.
Her mind tingled afterward, worn from the effort. She needed air. She needed space. Her lips still felt strange and dry from Flint's, and her dress felt too tight.
Draco steered her around another corner, and the sight of Charlotte waiting with a tray of drinks snapped Hermione out of her exhaustion. She was going into the Lounge. She was going into the Lounge, and she needed her wits about her. She turned to Draco and said, "I need to use the loo."
He glanced down at her sharply.
"I am allowed to relieve myself, yes?" she deadpanned.
He glared at her and tugged her to the left, around the booths full of laughing men and painted girls, towards a hallway on the left.
"There are guards inside," Draco said, his voice clipped. He pointed towards a ladies' room at the end of the hall. "Be quick about it."
Hermione paused, regretting making the request if she wouldn't have the proper space to be alone. Then she nodded and walked away without sparing him a second glance. She pushed open the door, finding an old tiled room with three stall doors for tourists visiting Edinburgh. A male guard stood near the sinks, his eyes roving over her with interest.
Hermione blushed, embarrassed at the thought of using the toilet with an audience. She hesitated in the doorway for half a second, and suddenly the door hit her as another person tried to enter. She moved aside, turning to apologize—
The strawberry-blonde smiled back at her.
Hermione blinked at her as she passed. She swallowed and hurried to a stall, feeling the attention of the guard still on her. She used the facilities quickly — the strawberry-blonde taking the cubicle next to hers — and once she was finished and washing her hands, a toilet flushed, and the girl was exiting, joining her at the sinks.
They grabbed for a towel at the same time, and when Hermione turned to apologize, she saw the strawberry-blonde's eyes flick to the guard. "Your collar is askew," she said, in a thick Scottish accent.
The guard was staring at them in the mirror as the strawberry-blonde stepped forward, into Hermione's space. She cocked her head as she reached up and began tugging at Hermione's collar.
"Oh, thank you," said Hermione, her voice thin.
"You're not supposed to talk to her," the guard barked. Hermione jumped, and the Scottish girl's hands dropped quickly.
With a sway of her hips, the girl turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. "Mmm. We don't have to talk, I suppose."
And with a wink, the Scottish girl stepped forward, cupped her hands on Hermione's face, and pressed her lips to Hermione's.
Hermione's brows shot up, eyes wide open. The girl's mouth moved over hers, her hands sliding around Hermione's neck as she pressed their bodies together.
Hermione couldn't move — couldn't think. This was... What was this?
The girl brushed her fingers around Hermione's neck and let her tongue slide out, tasting Hermione's lips. She felt stiff and useless as the girl tugged at her collar—
Her collar.
Hermione gasped into the girl's mouth, granting her tongue entrance. The girl was doing something to her collar. She could see the guard shifting out of the corner of her eye, starting to come closer to them. She felt her pulse spike, gaze darting to the door.
The girl pulled back and turned to the guard. "No, no. Ya can't touch."
The guard leered at them with a mouth full of crooked teeth, and the Scottish girl giggled before taking her hand and pulling Hermione through the door behind her. Before she could catch her breath, she was pushed against the wall outside the restrooms — hands on her neck again, soft lips against hers.
Hermione gasped as she felt the girl tug at her collar again. Was she pulling it off? Wasn't Hermione able to take it off herself?
The girl pulled back, letting the collar rest on her neck again, the metal stretching snug against her skin. Planting one last slow, deliberate kiss on Hermione's lips, the girl winked and waltzed down the corridor...
...passing Draco.
He stood still as stone, his eyes tracking the strawberry-blonde girl as she passed. His lips were parted in a strange way, as if he'd been about to speak and abruptly stopped.
Hermione pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to make sense of the last two minutes. She'd followed her in the restroom. She'd clearly wanted something. Did she get it?
"The fuck was that?"
Her eyes snapped up to find Draco scowling at her, apparently recovered.
Hermione opened her mouth. Then closed it. "She was... very friendly," she finally landed on.
As she moved to join him in the main room, he grabbed her elbow and spun them around. "Any other friends you'd like to make tonight, Granger?" he sneered.
And instead of leading to the couches in the Lounge, he dragged her straight to the fireplaces, calling out for Malfoy Manor and sweeping them back home.
Once they were in the entry hall, he dropped her arm and stomped toward the stairs. Hermione blinked after him for a moment before her anger found her.
"Why did we leave?" she demanded. "We weren't finished!"
"I think you had enough fun for one night," he hissed, starting to climb.
Her mouth fell open at his retreating back. "You're angry that I kissed Flint? You think that was fun for me?"
He spun back, several stairs higher than her. "I'm angry that you made me look weak."
She gaped at him. "Are you joking? Flint only made that bet because you refused to kiss me! You made us both look like idiots!"
His jaw snapped shut. Starting to ascend again, he bit out, "Kissing is too intimate."
Her temper boiled, bubbling over. Storming after him up the steps, she hissed, "Too intimate? Everyone else was kissing! I'm sure you kissed Pansy last week, so don't even—"
"I didn't," he spat back, half a staircase above her. "Stop talking out of your arse, Granger—"
"Oh, but you let her mouth on other places?" she shouted over him. "My mouth?!" Her voice echoed in the hall. She reached the second-floor landing just as he started up the stairs to the third floor.
"So tonight was revenge, then?" He laughed humorlessly. "You're going to go around snogging as many people as possible to get back at me?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Hermione snapped. "The girl in the bathroom was—" She didn't know if she should mention the way she'd fiddled with her collar. "Strange," she finished, "but Flint was a calculated move. He had information about Ron—"
"Oh yes," he snarled, spinning back to her, his face pink. "Ron." He dropped two steps, meeting her in the middle of the staircase. "I do wonder what your boyfriend would have to say about your method of information gathering, Granger."
She glowered at him, craning her neck up to meet his eyes. "My boy— my boyfriend?"
"Yes," he hissed. "What if your precious Weasley knew that you dropped into any lap offering the smallest crumb of information—"
"You — utter arse!" she exploded. "I wouldn't have to kiss your disgusting friends if you would just tell me what the fuck is going on!"
His jaw clenched, and he spun around to storm up the rest of the staircase.
"I answer every bloody question you ask me, Granger—"
"Merlin forbid you offer anything else!" She sprinted after him in her heels. "Like any kind of game plan for these evenings. Or having the decency to tell me about your stupid No Kissing Rule!"
She followed around the corner as he made for his bedroom door, huffing and stomping in his wake.
"You want a rule, Granger?" he yelled down the hallway, shoving open his bedroom door. "Don't throw yourself at my friends!"
"Fuck off, Malfoy!"
He glared at her and disappeared into his room, slamming the door behind him. She followed suit, marching into her bedroom, fuming with the fire in her blood.
She ripped off her heels, chucking them at the wall connecting their rooms, hoping he heard. Reaching up for the collar, her fingers pried open the clasp, and the metal fell away onto the floor —
A thin scrap of paper fluttering down with it.
Hermione stared at it, her entire body frozen at the sight.
A piece of parchment, torn off the edge of something, no wider than her little finger.
She bent down slowly, thinking of the way the girl with strawberry-blonde hair had squeezed underneath her metal collar. To slide a thin slice of paper beneath the gold.
Her shaking fingers reached for the scrap, turning it over. Her breath hitched.
A familiar handwriting from days at the Burrow spent giggling, notes passed back and forth about Harry and Ron and kisses and wishes. A hasty scribble in red lipstick that sent Hermione's mind reeling, her heart beating out of its cage.
How do I kill him? — GW