DISCLAIMERS in Chapter One.
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CRACK!
The sound of the pistol connecting with the side of the young lad’s face made Hermione turn her head and wince in sympathy. Lashed as she was to the mainmast with a length of heavy rigging, she found there was little she could do to avert her gaze from the punishment being doled out in front of her. Harry, who was on his knees at her feet, his hands pulled behind him and bound to his ankles, stared daggers at their captors while whispering encouragement to the distraught young woman. “It’s all right, ‘Mione… we’ll get out of this.”
“Ya’ were told to bring ‘em all alive, ya’ ruddy fool! And quit yer cryin’… this’ll seem like nothin’ when th’ Cap’n’s through wi’ ya.”
“It waren’t me fault, Crabbe… honest!”
“Ah, ‘e forced ya’ t’ run ‘im through wi’ yer sword, did ‘e?”
“’E was tryin’ t’ ‘scape!”
“’Scape?” The large, fearsome first mate with the jagged scar bisecting the left side of his unshaven face scowled down at the cowering boy. “An’ jus’ whar d’ ya’ think ‘e was off t’? We’re in th’ middle o’ the bleedin’ ocean!”
Hermione’s eyes came to rest on Ron’s crumpled form, the white cambric of his shirt stained red from blood… his blood. Impetuous by nature, the youngest Weasley son had put up a valiant fight when their ship, the “Phoenix Song,” was overtaken and boarded by the crew of the “Sea Serpent,” one of the most notorious pirate crews on the Seven Seas. Ron wasn’t known for holding his temper, and in a pique, he’d brandished his blade on any who didn’t call the Song their home. In a surprise move, the young pirate, a boy of no more than fifteen years, had managed to disarm the more experienced man and stab him, inflicting the fatal wound.
Hermione held her breath as the burly pirate grabbed the young man by the shirt collar and lifted him off the deck. With the barrel of his pistol still gripped tightly in his fist, Crabbe raised his hand as if to strike again when a commanding voice cut through the muttering and cursing of the filthy sailors around her, staying the first mate’s hand.
“Crabbe!”
Hermione’s eyes widened as a masculine figure slowly and deliberately descended the steps from the foredeck, his gaze fixed steadily on the young miscreant and his enthusiastic disciplinarian. He wore a full-sleeved white shirt, open at the throat, close-to-the-body black trousers and knee-high black leather boots. His long, platinum blond hair hung down his back in a braid, and his delicately aristocratic features spoke of good breeding somewhere in his lineage. But it was his eyes that captivated Hermione… piercing grey as cold as the icy water surrounding them, and as sharp as the steel housed in the scabbard strapped to his hip.
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Crabbe?”
“Cap’n… Young Nott ‘ere’s gone n’ kilt one o’th’ pris’ners.” He gave the weedy boy a shake as he spoke.
The captain paused on the last step, his gaze flitting quickly over the assembled crew before he stepped down and strode to stand beside Ron’s body, the heels on his boots making a loud CLACK on the wooden boards of the deck. He then slid the toe of one of those boots under Ron’s shoulder and gave a push, rolling the dead man over and revealing the wound on his back, now caked with congealed blood. Hermione involuntarily gasped, and the captain’s attention lighted on her horrified expression.
“A Weasley,” he drawled before casting his eyes downward, his lips thinning into a cruel sneer as he pressed them together with disdain, “red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford.”
Harry, who, like Hermione, had been lulled into silence by the sheer physicality of the captain, sputtered in indignation. “Here, now! How dare you? Just who do you think you are, hijacking our ship, manhandling us as though we’re nothing but cargo…?”
The captain had moved to stand in front of Harry and Hermione, his left hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword and his gaze raking over the young woman bound to the mast. The heavy rope wrapped across her shoulders, her waist and her knees, and his eyes lingered suggestively on her full bosom, thrust forward due to her position and accentuated by the gathered neckline of her chemise. A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth when he caught sight of her bare toes, peeking out from under the drape of her skirt and wiggling on the cold deck, before he turned his attention to Harry.
“Well, well… if it isn’t the great Lord Potter. Come out to play with the real men, Potter? Through hiding behind women’s skirts? Or perhaps you’re off on some grand adventure now that you’ve disposed of that rebel Riddle. Is it that rough being the most sought after hero in the realm? Life at court too tame for you?”
“I resent…”
“Ah, fickle fame. One minute you’re the most famous man to ever grace the palaces of Europe, with young ladies lining up for a dance and a glance at that most distracting of scars, and the archbishop doing everything he can to canonize you, despite the fact that you’re still breathing. And the next minute, you realize that you’ve danced with all the pretty ladies, shaken every offered hand, and will be returning home… alone. Quite a life story.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.” Harry squared his shoulders defiantly.
“Tell me,” the blond captain ignored Harry’s outburst, pacing in front of him and scratching his chin in thought, “how much would the provisional government be willing to pay for the likes of you?”
“You want to offer me for ransom?”
“Only if it’s worth my while.” He continued to pace. “Governor Lupin is granted certain discretionary liberties by the King and given an overflowing coffer to accompany that privilege. Of course, if he deems you that valuable, he can always raise taxes in the colony to pay for your release.”
“Lupin does NOT answer to blackmail, and would NOT inflict such a burden on the people of the colony just to save me.”
“How very noble, sacrificing one for the good of the many.” The captain stopped pacing, turned to Harry and shrugged. “We shall see. If it is as you say, and Lupin refuses to bargain, then you join your reckless friend in death… m’lord.” He executed a mock bow with a flourish of his arm, but his voice was in deadly earnest. Turning to a shorter, more burly sailor who’d appeared discreetly at his elbow, the captain instructed, “Mr. Goyle, take our guest below and see that he has proper accommodations as befits his station. I want a twenty-four hour guard placed on his door, and provide him with quill and parchment, that he may write a missive to the esteemed Governor, begging his mercy.”
“Ya’ wish ‘im unbound, sir?”
The captain fixed Harry with his look of cold steel. “Yes, Goyle, allow him his freedom. I do not believe Lord Potter is foolhardy enough to refuse my hospitality.”
Hermione watched as the stocky sailor motioned to another pirate lounging against the gunwale, then the pair untied Harry and lifted him to his feet. They carried him suspended between them, as his knees refused to support his weight. Struggling in their grasp, he called over his shoulder, “Wait… what about Hermione?”
The captain’s eyes met hers and she gave an involuntary shiver. “Don’t worry, Potter,” he drawled, “she’s in good hands. No harm will come to her.”
“Cap’n,” Crabbe spoke up. “Wha’ about young Nott, ‘ere?”
“Has the boarding party returned?”
“Aye, sir. Ev’rythin’ o’ value ‘as been loaded int’ th’ ‘old.”
“Has the bo’sun finished his repairs?”
“Aye, tha’ ‘e ‘as.”
“Very well. Weigh anchor. Flint, hoist the mains’l and the heads’l… we’re running wing and wing as long as the wind holds.” He pointed up at the bowsprit. “Since our Mr. Nott shows such an eagerness for his job, he may have the honor of manning the widow-maker.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Crabbe gave Nott a shove. “Go on w’ ya’. Ya’ heard th’ Cap’n. Up ya’ go!” Crabbe gave him another shove, then turned back to the captain. “Wha’ about th’ Phoenix Song?”
Grey eyes surveyed the plundered vessel floating abrest of the Sea Serpent. “She’s a deadhead, Mr. Crabbe. Scuttle her.”
Hermione’s throat tightened reflexively at his order, and she couldn’t control her tongue. “No! Please! My father’s books!”
He considered her a moment. “But I was assured that anything of value…”
She cut him off, her voice ripe with anger. “Of value to whom? A band of illiterate rogues?”
He barked a laugh, obviously amused at her irritation. “Crabbe!” he called between chuckles.
“Aye?”
“Belay my last order… take Zabini and Pucey and canvass that entire ship. I want every last item that isn’t bolted down brought aboard. See that Lady Granger’s possessions are stowed in her cabin.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Then scuttle her.”
Crabbe nodded and hurried to do as he was bid.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Hermione reprimanded him, her anger at his highhandedness bolstering her courage. “You seem to know who I am, yet I have no idea who you are.”
“Please forgive my rudeness, m’lady.” He placed his hand on his chest and bowed. “Captain Draco Malfoy, your servant.”
“Lord Malfoy?” Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Of the Wiltshire Malfoy’s?”
“The same, although I believe it is my father who holds the title, not I.”
“And what would His Lordship’s son be doing sailing the high seas and commanding a ship full of cutthroat pirates?”
“Curious lass, aren’t you? If you truly wish the answers to all your questions, then perhaps this conversation would be better suited for below deck.” Drawing his sword, he circled behind her. She heard the THUNK of the blade as it struck the mast before she felt the rigging give way. As the ropes loosened and coiled at her feet, his large hand appeared, warm and slightly calloused, and she felt another small shiver skitter up her spine as her palm slid over his and his fingers curled protectively over hers. He assisted her over the tangled mess of rope, but instead of releasing her, drew her close to his side and called up to the pirate standing at the top of the stairs.
“You have the ship, Mr. Crabbe. I’ll be in my cabin. Let me know the minute that Goyle returns and we’re ready to sail.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!”
Malfoy then led Hermione through a door just under the stairs to the foredeck, and they descended a companionway to a large, well-appointed cabin. It was obvious that the captain enjoyed his luxuries. A heavy oak table filled fully a third of the room, spread with maps and charts, a sextant, a compass, and a plate, left over from the previous meal, no doubt. Several chairs circled the table, but what caught Hermione’s eye was the leather wingback chair in the corner, which was surrounded on two walls with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with books. A huge four-poster bed filled the opposite corner, hung with sumptuous fabrics woven in intricate patterns from foreign ports-of-call.
“Please… make yourself comfortable,” Malfoy offered in her ear, his warm breath tickling her earlobe and causing the loose tendrils of hair at the side of her face to dance their own hornpipe.
“In order for me to do that, you would need to return me to England.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He moved over to a cupboard hanging on the wall and retrieved two glasses and a bottle of liquor. “You see, I myself am not welcome in England, therefore it would be detrimental to my health to set foot on British soil.”
She accepted the glass from him, needing the bracing that the alcohol would provide. “Surely your father can set things to rights.”
Malfoy snorted in derision. “My father…” His gaze settled over her shoulder, and she realized that he was lost in a memory. “My father believes me dead. And believe me, it’s best that way. When I was but a lad, I overheard him one day, telling an associate, ‘I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, though if his school marks don’t pick up, that may indeed be all he is fit for.’” He returned his focus to her and grinned a sly grin. “They didn’t, and it was.” He put his empty glass on the table while he refilled it. “How could I not accommodate him, when he seemed to have such high aspirations for me?”
Hermione scowled, slamming her glass down on the table as well and splashing alcohol on her hand. “So you just surrendered yourself to your fate, is that it? Unwilling to put forth the effort to prove him wrong?”
“There’s more to it than that,” he chastised her softly. “I just told you, I’m not welcome in England, Lady Granger. I’m accused of killing a man, a very influential man, during an attempted coup to unseat the King.”
“But you didn’t actually do it?”
“No. I was young and easily swayed. My father had gotten involved in a questionable business dealing with a gentleman of ill reputation, and when my father failed in committing the illegalities necessary to complete the transaction, the scoundrel turned to me. I was given a choice… assassinate the Chief Barrister or watch my family killed instead.” He downed his drink in one gulp and sighed. “Fortunately, a benefactor stepped in and performed the nefarious act, saving me the trouble. Unfortunately, I was left charged with the crime.”
“Surely a letter to the King, explaining everything…”
“You truly believe it’s that simple? And to what would I return, if I were indeed granted a pardon? To the open arms of my loving father, who condemned me to this fate while yet in knee breeches?”
“What of your mother?”
His face grew pained. “I know not how she fares… what she even thinks of me. If she thought ill of me, if she no longer loved me, I do not think I could bear it. I am better off not knowing.”
Hermione thought her heart would break.
Suddenly he rounded the table and grabbed her gently by the shoulders. “What is it about you? How is it possible that I have told you things that not even the men closest to me, who have sailed by my side for years, have heard tell from my lips? Are you an enchantress? Have you bewitched me?”
He pressed forward, pushing her backwards until her back met one of the bedposts. “I know who you are, you know… Lady Granger. Your father was a wealthy merchant, but it was only recently that he was granted his title. Difficult, isn’t it, being the newest of the landed gentry? The old bluebloods turn their noses up at you, damning you for your lineage. Your friends want nothing to do with you, since you’re no longer considered common.” He eyed her ruthlessly. “You don’t really belong anywhere, do you, my beauty?”
Hermione shuddered at his last statement, and he lifted a thumb, capturing one of her tears as it escaped from under her lashes and slid down her cheek. Her breath hitched as his fingers wrapped around the back of her neck and his thumb retraced the path of the tear, stroking her skin in a tender caress. He leaned his weight against her, her breasts flattening against the solid hardness of his chest, and his lips hovered a hair’s breadth from hers as he whispered, “We’re alike in that, you and I. Destined to be judged by the standards of a society that allows no room for compromise.” He brushed the tip of her nose with his. “You’ve done nothing to be outcast. You deserve to belong somewhere… you’ve earned the right to a happy life.” His head tilted and she was awaiting the taste of his kiss when…
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
Malfoy pulled away from her, his eyes still staring deep into hers. “What is it?”
Crabbe’s voice answered. “Goyle’s back, Cap’n, n’ th’ heads’l raised. We can sail a’ soon a’ th’ mains’l’s in place.”
“Very good. I want every able bodied man working, Crabbe. We need to put at least twenty leagues between us and what’s left of the Phoenix Song by sundown.”
“Aye, aye!”
“Do you have to scuttle the ship?” Hermione asked forlornly.
“I can’t leave it adrift, and I can’t tow it… it’ll slow us down too much.”
“It’s just… it was a gift.”
“I know.” Hermione failed to hide her surprise at his knowledge. “You see, I was at court when Potter was given the ship… by the man I am supposed to have murdered.”
Hermione gasped as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “He knew he was a target… he said there was trickery afoot.”
Malfoy chuckled ruefully. “There was, my lass, there was. In abundance.”
Both paused to listen as the sea-roughened voices of the men on deck, working to raise the mainsail and singing a shanty as they toiled, drifted in the open cabin window, interrupting their conversation.
“’Oh hail her, oh hail her’
Our gallant captain cried
Blow high, blow low
And so sail we
’Are you a man-o-war
Or a privateer?’ cried he
All a-cruisin' down the coast
Of High Barbary
‘Oh, I'm not a man-o-war
Nor privateer,’ said he
Blow high, blow low
And so sail we
‘But I am salt sea pirate
All a-looking for me fee’
All a-cruisin' down the coast
Of High Barbary
Hermione crossed her arms over her chest as the song faded away in the wind. “So, what will you do with me?”
“What would you have me do?” He’d moved to pace beneath the cabin windows as they’d listened to his men raising the sail. Now he stalked back to stand toe-to-toe with her, his eyes flashing with a fire that both warmed her insides and chilled her at the same time. “Other than return you to England, that is, the possibility of which we’ve already discussed.”
“Can’t you just leave me at your next port?”
“Alone? Without a traveling companion? You’d not last a week.”
“You don’t plan on seeking a ransom for me, then?”
He scowled. “I do not kidnap women for ransom.”
This angered Hermione. “Do they not bring in enough profit for you?”
The flush of Malfoy’s cheeks indicated his own rising irritation. “I find it degrading for the women. You and I both know that most Englishmen will pay handsomely for their sons, yet their wives and daughters would be considered a drain on their assets.”
“My father would pay for me.” She held her head up, lifting her chin haughtily.
“Let’s not run the risk of lowering your father in your esteem, shall we?” He sighed and grabbed her hips with both hands, pulling her against him. “Besides, we have so many other illusions to shatter this night, why concern ourselves with a ransom demand that will never leave my quill?”
“You said no harm would come to me.” Hermione’s eyes were wide with trepidation, yet the thrill coursing through her body at his touch could not be denied.
“Indeed, I did. And I will not harm you, nor will I force you to do anything which offends your sensibilities.” His hands drifted down to cup her bum and he lifted her ever so slightly, causing her hands to splay on his chest to maintain her balance. “There won’t be a need to force you… by the time this night is finished, you’ll be begging me to stay abed with you, pleading with me to brand you as mine… over, and over, and over.”
Overwhelmed by his arrogance, and awash with the sensual stimulation that being held by him created, Hermione gave him the only answer that she could, the only word that careened screaming through her mind… yes, yes, yes, yes, “Yes!”
His mouth descended to hers and she was both completely subjugated and incredibly empowered by the thoroughness and skill of his kiss. His tongue plundered her mouth as easily as his men had plundered her ship, and she melted against him as his hand plunged into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss and fully exert his control.
Her fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt as her world suddenly tilted and she found herself toppled to the bed, her body sinking into the plushness of the counterpane as he pressed her to the mattress. Unable to think and barely able to breathe, Hermione accepted his weight, sliding her arms up around his neck to hold him closer. As he broke their kiss, leaving her gasping for air, and trailed his lips along her jaw and down her neck, greedily nipping and licking at her skin, she found the end of his braid and loosened the leather thong securing it, then dropped the string over the side of the bed and worked his hair free until she was able to run her fingers through it, eliciting a deep moan from the man above her.
Long strands of platinum blond cascaded forward over his shoulders as he raised himself up, locking his elbows and staring down at her flushed face, a wicked smirk of satisfaction curling his swollen lips. “There is no delicate way to ask this… are you still a maiden?”
Hermione hesitated. While she had never married, she had been engaged for quite a long time, and chastity had seemed such a moot point…
Malfoy’s smirk widened. “Your delay in answering tells me everything I need to know.”
“Are you disappointed?” she asked, hoping that he wouldn’t cast her aside as damaged goods.
“On the contrary… it saves us both a good bit of nuisance.” He gave a tug on her chemise, pulling on the neckline until it stretched as far as it could, freeing a breast to his concentrated gaze. “I needn’t be quite as gentle as I would with a maid in full bloom.” He brushed his thumb over the nipple, watching it tighten into a hard bud under his touch while Hermione released a hiss of pleasure. “Besides, I do not hold to double standards. If I do not feel the need to remain chaste, why should I expect it of anyone else?”
He dipped his head and replaced his thumb with his lips, pressing the nipple to the roof of his mouth with his tongue and drawing hard. He chuckled when she groaned, the vibration tickling her abdomen and enticing her fingers to clutch at his hair once again while her lower legs wrapped around the back of his thighs, pressing him downward. She could feel his hard length just above the apex of her thighs, and she tried to push upward in an effort to seek release.
“Patience, my beauty,” he cooed in her ear as his other hand skimmed down over her hip, then drew her skirt upwards as he sought her bare skin between their bodies. She withdrew her hands from his hair and slid them between them as well, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt and growling in frustration when she was unable to reach more than one.
“Tell me you’re eager for my touch, lass, and I’ll take off the shirt.”
His whispered plea into the gentle curve of her neck was her undoing. Arching her neck to grant him better access she wholeheartedly surrendered, her mind shutting down completely and her senses overriding any rational judgment she had left. “Yes, yes… I want your touch… I need your touch… please, Draco, please… I ache for you… don’t tease me any longer.”
His shirt, pulled over his head at the first ‘yes,’ was followed in rapid succession by his sword and scabbard, his boots, her chemise and her skirt. As she lay sprawled on his bed in all her naked glory, she reveled in his ardent gaze as he feasted on her with his eyes. “You’re beautiful, Hermione, and I will never, never feel remorse for having brought you aboard my ship.”
“You talk too much, my captain.” Holding her arms out in invitation, she remarked, “I believe some mention was made of begging and branding…?”
“Saucy wench!” he retorted before covering her body with his and devouring her with his kiss. He was rough and greedy and demanding, and she basked in the sensations he created, in the heady reactions to his touch that she demonstrated with willing abandon.
So engrossed in each other were they that the commotion outside the cabin door failed to register at first. As the shouts and clash of swords grew louder, finally breaking through the cloud of sexual arousal that filled her mind, Hermione raised her head, listening to the escalating tumult. She laid a hand on the sweaty skin of Malfoy’s bare shoulder in an effort to gain his distracted attention, currently occupied with the pulse point in her neck, just as the door crashed open, and a raving, sword-brandishing Harry burst into the room. Their eyes met across Malfoy’s back, and Harry’s face darkened with hatred and rage.
“Thieving bastard!”
“NO!” Hermione screamed, clutching Malfoy to her as if to somehow protect him in her embrace.
It was for naught.
Harry’s sword sang as it arced through the air, and Malfoy’s body stiffened as the steel struck home…
“AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!”
Hermione jumped and her eyes snapped open -- something had woken her. It was still several hours before dawn, and even though her mind was still foggy from her dream, she remembered that she’d failed to reset the wards protecting her home, a very stupid mistake in light of the identity of her guests. While she’d slept the rain had stopped and the wind had ceased, leaving a cold calm behind. Her eyes drifted to Snape’s slumbering form, but she remained motionless, her rapid breathing the only sound in the still, pitch-dark house, waiting to see if whatever it was that woke her would repeat itself.
Seconds later, a cry of anguish drifted down the stairs, breaking the quiet of the night. Malfoy!
Tossing the blanket aside, Hermione grabbed her wand off the side table and took the stairs two at a time, her heart pounding in her throat as her imagination took flight. As she charged into the bedroom, however, her relief was instantaneous. There were no intruders, no escaped Death Eaters seeking revenge, no Harry waving a sword… only Malfoy, tangled in the sheets, his disheveled hair glowing in the pale sliver of winter moonlight as he tossed and turned, moaning as he struggled within the clutches of his nightmare.
Sighing a sympathetic sigh, Hermione laid her wand on the bedside table, then perched tentatively on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to lightly touch his shoulder. “Malfoy.” She shook him gently. “Malfoy?” He whimpered, and she caught the names ‘Mother’ and ‘Severus’ before he rolled away from her. She shook his shoulder again, harder this time. “Malfoy?... Draco!”
Malfoy sat upright like a shot, causing Hermione to lose her balance and almost tumble off the bed. “What? What happened?”
“You were having a nightmare,” she informed him as she righted herself.
Malfoy sat dazed for a moment, then lowered his head into his hands and groaned. When she noticed his shoulders shaking, Hermione realized that he was far more affected by his dream than he probably wanted her to know, but she’d suffered through too many nightmares herself to allow him to recover from it alone… not if she could help it. Still warm from her own dream and feeling a swell of compassion, she reached out a hand, wove her fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck and whispered, “Would you like to talk about it?”
She wasn’t sure exactly what she expected his response to be when she offered, but she was completely unprepared for his next move. In one smooth, continuous motion, Malfoy lifted his head from his hands, twisted his upper body around to face her, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her across his body and fully onto the bed as he lay back down. Startled, she wrapped her own arms around his bare shoulders as he rolled on top of her and pillowed his head in the crook of her neck, while tangling his legs, tight Quidditch pants and all, with hers.
Hermione almost forgot to breathe.
She could feel his desperate tension as her hands began to move of their own volition, one stroking across his back and shoulders while the other moved up to play with his hair.
His arms tightened, and then the words, sleep-roughened and just a little panicked, rose from the depths of her neck. “They were gone… all of them. Everyone I knew… Father, Mother, Severus… you. No one left; no one. The Manor was eerie… totally empty… so empty it echoed. Hogwarts… the castle was completely destroyed… blood everywhere… the carnage was incredible. Everywhere I walked I had to step over dead bodies… and I was all alone. Nothing moved; nothing breathed.” His voice deepened, thick with unshed tears. “Except for him. And he was laughing, and laughing. It was so real, so bloody real. Him, with his red eyes and that thrice-damned snake of his, standing at the gate. His voice was everywhere, all around me… telling me what a disappointment I was; telling me that I’m the one who really killed them all; telling me that I deserved their fate. I couldn’t get away from him. He was laughing as he showed me how he cursed them; laughing as they clutched at his robes, begging for mercy. My father, still chained, slaughtered like an animal. My mother, on her knees, pleading for her life… Severus, cursed and bleeding, pleading for death. He killed them all… saving Severus for last, as a final insult.”
He clutched her tighter. “He took you, too. He Imperio’d you, then he Crucio’d you. Finally, he called you a ‘filthy Mudblood’ and killed you with my wand. I’m sorry, Hermione… I’m so very, very sorry.”
Hermione had slowed her caresses when she’d first realized that he was referring to Voldemort. By the time he’d finished, she’d frozen, filled with his grief and memories of her own tortured dreams.
Moments passed, and Malfoy’s body relaxed into hers as the adrenaline slowly retreated. “Please don’t stop,” he pleaded. “I like it when you run your fingers through my hair… it feels good.”
A warm coil of satisfaction spread outward from her chest, rapidly dissipating the mantle of despair that had settled over her in the aftermath of Malfoy’s recounting of his nightmare, and she resumed her petting, content that she was able to bring him some small pleasure. She was glad that the real Malfoy’s hair wasn’t anywhere near as long as her pirate captain’s… she was enjoying the feel of the silky strands skipping through her fingers, and if it was any longer, it would be way too reminiscent of Lucius for her liking.
“Voldemort’s gone, you know,” she whispered comfortingly. “He can’t hurt them, or you, or me anymore.”
“I know,” he agreed, his voice stronger and sounding more like the Malfoy she knew. “I guess seeing Greyback reminded me of how close I came to losing everything… everyone I ever cared about. Losing them for the wrong reason.”
In the silence that followed, Hermione remembered something. “You said earlier that you and Professor Snape were heading for the Summer Isles to find your mother.”
Malfoy sighed into her neck, making her squirm. “Yeah, but given the events of the day, that was most likely false information, leaked for our benefit.” He slowly rubbed his cheek against hers, and she marveled at the too-pale-to-be-visible stubble as it grazed her skin, an occurrence that her dream hadn’t accounted for. “You haven’t heard anything about her, have you?”
“No,” she answered apologetically as she continued to stroke his hair, her fingernails lightly tickling his scalp. “The last time I heard her name mentioned publicly was right after you and the Professor disappeared. She’d been taken in for questioning, but I never read of her release, or her conviction. She just… disappeared.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “It’s really very odd.”
“I have to find her.”
Hermione’s sympathy for his conviction made her next decision for her, before she even had time to think. “I’ll help you.”
Malfoy lifted his head. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.” She met his gaze levelly, letting him know with her eyes that she had no hidden agenda couched within her offer. “I know what it’s like to be afraid for the safety of those you love. And I may have access to resources that you don’t.”
“Thanks,” he whispered, then settled his body back down on top of hers, her feet brushing his knees. “You know… you’re short.”
Hermione snorted. “I prefer to think of it as an efficient use of space.”
They spent several languid moments in silence. Hermione almost felt like pinching herself just to be sure that she was really cuddling in bed with Draco Malfoy, that she had really just offered to help him find his mother, and that she really heard him express his gratitude, in words, to her. In her wildest fantasies, it had never been this easy. Part of her was convinced that this absolutely wasn’t real, and part of her was irrationally hoping that he was hers to keep.
After all, he’d apologized for calling her names for all those years…
Malfoy…
Apologized…
Three times, if one was counting.
Suddenly she chuckled. “Was that a purr I just heard?”
“Mmm-hmm… what did you expect? You’re very good with your hands.”
Hermione flushed with his compliment, and she snuggled even deeper into his embrace, her body unconsciously seeking his warmth. A sharp intake of breath from the man atop her confirmed that she’d inadvertently found a part of him that seemed more than eager to seek her out as well. The knowledge that he’d become aroused by just holding her, by just submitting to her touch, left her dazed and drowning in her own rising excitement. Instinctively, her body arched into his again, and she could feel the warmth of his expelled breath skitter across the tip of her breast through the cotton of her shirt.
Yes… yes… yes… yes… YES!
Oblivious to her internal capitulation, Malfoy levered himself up on one elbow, sliding his body up until his face hovered just above hers. He reached a hand up to push her unruly hair off her brow, then traced his fingers down along her cheek and her jaw. “I want to kiss you,” he whispered, his words tickling her lips. “I want to kiss you so bad, Hermione, but I know, once I do, that I won’t be able to stop. I’ll want it all… all of you, and we can’t do that.”
Hermione’s hands had drifted down to rest on his shoulders, and her fingertips traced the corded sinew in his long, graceful neck. Her mind was clouded, her senses completely overloaded with the sight of him, the sound of his voice, his musky scent. “One kiss,” she begged, “just one won’t hurt.” She raised her head, her lips seeking his.
“There can’t be just one with you.” Malfoy’s nose brushed hers while he eluded her mouth, then trailed along her cheek to her ear. “I want you… make no mistake about that.”
“Draco…” She arched again as her hands trailed down over his chest, her fingernails tickling his skin.
“Uhnn… you’re killing me.” He pulled back to look her in the eye, his own eyes hooded and bright with desire. “We can’t. We can’t do this in the heat of the moment. I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
“I won’t…”
He placed his finger over her lips to silence her, then hissed when she kissed the tip. “I refuse to give you another reason to hate me.”
Like a chill breeze off the ocean, his statement cleared the fog of arousal surrounding her brain, and she stared back at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t hate you.”
He smiled gently. “But you don’t like me, either.” His voice softened. “Not that I’ve ever given you cause to.”
“What makes you so sure that I don’t?”
“Come on,” he scoffed, “after everything that’s happened between us? If I were you, I certainly wouldn’t like me.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing you’re not me. Based on our discussion earlier, I must admit, I don’t know very much about you, personally, but here’s what I do know. I know that you’re very determined, very tenacious. I know that you’re extremely resourceful, and have the ability to put those resources you have to their best and most creative use. I know that you stand by your convictions, despite what others think. I know that you’re a natural leader. And I know that you don’t love often, but when you do love someone, like your mother, for example, you love them very deeply and you’d do anything to protect them. Oh, and I now know you’re fascinated with words. What’s not to like about that?”
“You’re right… maybe I’m not such a bad guy.”
She playfully smacked his shoulder. “Modesty, humility… we’ll have to work on those.”
“Gryffindor traits!” His voice faltered. “Before I… we… go any further, I want… no, I need your forgiveness.”
Hermione tried to sound casual. “All you have to do is ask.”
“Just ask?”
“Just ask.”
Malfoy held her gaze for a moment, then pushed himself up and off her to sit cross-legged on the bed beside her. Taking her by the hands, he gave her a tug, pulling her upright to face him. Lacing his fingers with hers, he looked solemnly into her eyes and said, “Hermione… do you think you could ever find it possible to forgive me for having been such a narrow-minded chauvinist, for having constantly sought for new and better ways to torment you, for having wished you ill and for having taken pleasure from your pain?”
Stunned by both the sincerity of his plea and the level of vulnerability he was exhibiting, Hermione disentangled her hand from his, then reached up to trace her fingers along his cheek. “You’re real,” she whispered, her voice holding no small amount of awe, “and so very different from what I imagined.”
Malfoy’s brow crinkled in confusion. “And how did you imagine me?”
“Pushier.”
He grinned. “I can accommodate you, if you wish.”
“That’s okay,” she returned the smile, “and, for the record, I forgive you.”
Now it was Malfoy’s turn to sound awed. “Just like that?”
Hermione shrugged. “Just like that. I believe you, that you meant what you said, that you truly regret what happened between us when we were still children. And I know that I’ve grown up, and I want to get past all that nonsense and move on… I think we both do.” She looked down at their joined hands. “Actually, Draco, I think I need to seek your forgiveness, too.”
“Mine? Other than that truly wicked slap in third year, why would I need to forgive you?”
“I committed the same crimes you did.”
“You broke Potter’s nose, too?”
“No!” She rolled her eyes. “I mean, I was pretty quick to judge, using some very prejudicial standards of my own.” She felt her cheeks heat with her confession. “I don’t think, in those six years of school, that I ever looked at you as a person, with feelings and emotions, and dreams and desires. It was just as easy for me to stick a label on you, rather than deal with the whys or the wherefores, as it was for you to label me.”
“Ah, so every time you wanted to call me a bigot behind my back, it was really a case of pot and kettle?”
“It doesn’t matter what side you’re on, or whose philosophy you adhere to… intolerance is intolerance. We were both guilty.”
He cupped her cheeks with his hands. “Consider yourself forgiven, then.” His thumbs rubbed the crest of her cheekbones, and she placed her hands over his, then pulled them away to place a tiny kiss in each palm.
“Will you be able to sleep peacefully, or will the dreams return?” she asked, concern clouding her brown eyes.
“I could probably manage to sleep the rest of the night, if you’ll stay with me.” It was a statement, but he phrased it as a question, obviously hoping to entice her to remain upstairs.
She turned to glance at the door, then admitted, “I supposed the professor should be all right by himself. He’s sleeping well, and there’s no sign of infection.”
Malfoy took that as an affirmation of her intention, and he pulled free from her grasp and slid back under the covers, reclining on his back and holding his arms out to her. “Please?” he asked, assuming his most hang-dog look.
“Are you batting your eyelashes?”
“Would it get me anywhere if I was?”
“No,” she replied as she melted into his embrace, her head coming to rest on his shoulder as his arms pulled her close to him.
“Then it was definitely a figment of your imagination.”
“I have a very active imagination, Malfoy.”
“Draco,” he reminded her, “and I certainly hope so, if you want to keep up with me.”
The next thing she knew, daylight was pouring through the bedroom window and Hermione was pulled from her languid slumber by a deep drawl.
“Well, well, Mr. Malfoy, bedding our hostess in less than six hours... while highly unusual, it begs the question, ‘Have you set a new world’s record?’”
“Bugger off, Snape!” came the annoyed voice to her left, muffled by a pillow and a thick section of her hair.
“You will find, Miss Granger, that our young gentleman is most disagreeable in the morning.”
“I can see his point,” she returned, trying to untangle herself from both the bedclothes and Malfoy’s legs. “Of course, I suppose one could draw a direct correlation between the level of one’s ill-temper, and the rudeness with which one is awakened.”
“Here! Here!” agreed the voice beneath the quilt.
“Am I to assume, Professor,” Hermione asked once she’d managed to sit upright and shove her mane of curls out of her eyes, “that you’re feeling better this morning?”
Snape stood at the foot of the bed, his shirt buttoned and tucked into his trousers. His hair was neatly combed and pulled back in a leather tie, and his scowl, so familiar to her from years past, was firmly in place. “I do not think I would have ventured to climb that miserable excuse for a staircase if I was in any way gravely injured.”
“A simple ‘yes’ would’ve been sufficient.”
Malfoy’s head appeared from out of the pillows. “Nothing is simple where Severus is concerned.”
“There is too much to be done for the two of you to lie abed half the day.” Snape turned back towards the stairs.
“Half the day? It has to be what… 7 AM?” Malfoy slipped out from under the covers and stretched his arms overhead, then bent carefully to each side, assessing how much his ribs had healed from the night before.
“What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?” Snape’s incredulous bellow managed to rouse both occupants of the bedroom in a way that his previous needling had not.
“Potter’s pants. In some parts of London, I’d be considered very trendy.” He spun as if on a fashion show runway.
“And in other parts of London, you’d be considered very tarty.” Snape reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box, then placed it on the floor and tapped it with his wand, causing it to expand. “Here is your clothing. Please get dressed, both of you, and meet me downstairs. In the foggy recesses of my brain, I believe I recall someone mentioning something about Murtlap Essence?”
“Yes, sir,” Hermione answered as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“We should dispense with its application immediately after breakfast, then.”
Hermione stared at his back until he’d descended the stairs. “And to think, I actually missed him.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
She turned inquisitive eyes to Malfoy. “So what does spending every waking moment with him do?”
“Makes one glad that Silencio isn’t an Unforgivable.” Malfoy bent over his trunk, rooting through its contents and giving Hermione an excellent view of his assets. That she’d been ripped from her cozy, comfortable sleep in which she’d had her hands delightfully cupping those assets left her grumpy and more than eager for tea to soothe her frazzled nerves.
It was going to prove to be an interesting day.
They avoided any potential awkwardness by Malfoy volunteering to change in the bathroom. Hermione was both relieved and disappointed; with their previous night’s encounter still fresh in her mind, she hadn’t as yet had enough time to distance herself from the incredible emotional and physical response Malfoy had triggered in her. She’d never in her life had such a strong reaction to anyone, and she knew it wouldn’t take much incentive for her to willingly surrender to his persuasions. She knew, too, that he was right… she didn’t want to be merely one of his conquests, or even friends with benefits. She had a sneaking suspicion that, if offered, she’d want it all with him, just as he’d said he wanted the same with her.
But they couldn’t do anything about it until they found his mother.
Hermione and Malfoy hit the bottom of the stairs to find Snape conducting an orchestra of utensils as he magically cooked the morning meal. Crossing her arms over her chest, Hermione observed, “I thought he wasn’t much for wand waving.”
“Foolish wand waving, Miss Granger.” Snape reminded her of a Muggle bandleader with his pointing and swishing. “I find the employment of one’s wand to further culinary discourse infinitely useful.”
“Yes, one learns never to stand between Severus and his victuals,” Malfoy instructed her.
“Then please, make yourself at home.” She moved to put the kettle on. “I’m going to ask Harry to come over after breakfast,” she said cautiously.
Snape dropped his arms, leaving the enchanted utensils to fend for themselves. “Whyever would you do that? Mr. Potter would be less than pleased to find you entertaining company of such ill-repute.” His sneer was even more pronounced than in the bedroom.
“I’m not seeking Harry’s approval… I’m seeking his assistance.”
“Isn’t one contingent upon the other?” Malfoy asked, a hint of the old maliciousness coloring his tone.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, “but I’m holding out hope that today he’s going to be generous.”
“Be generous or be hexed,” Malfoy muttered, not quite under his breath.
“And how can Potter be of any assistance?” Snape practically spat the name out, his loathing of its owner clearly evident.
Ignoring his contempt for the young wizard, she explained, “Because he can tell us what happened to Narcissa Malfoy, that’s how.”
“You think he knows?” Malfoy asked, the expression on his face showing his disbelief.
“Well, if he doesn’t, he can find out. He and Ron both helped round up the rest of the Death Eaters and the most outspoken of the Voldemort supporters, and he still has official connections with law enforcement.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet… the minute he finds out it’s me he’s helping, he’ll have those ‘official connections’ all over me.” Malfoy ran his hand back through his hair. “I didn’t come back just to end up in Azkaban.”
“You’re not going to end up in prison… you’ve been acquitted, remember? “
“Only of killing the Headmaster.”
“Draco, you weren’t charged with anything else.”
Eyes flashing, he reached out and grabbed Snape’s left forearm, pushing the rolled cuff up to his elbow. “Do you think any of them will forget about this? No matter how heroic, no matter how many lives were saved, it all boils down to whether or not someone bears the Mark.”
“I don’t think…”
“And just because my arm is bare doesn’t mean that there aren’t those who’d be more than happy to lock me up because my surname is Malfoy.” His anger rolled off him in waves, and his breathing, shallow and rapid, was the only thing that could be heard in the silent kitchen, other than the bubbling of the gravy.
“Perhaps,” Snape ventured softly, “we would be better off doing this on our own.”
Hermione slammed the silver on the table. “Oh, yes! You did such an outstanding job last night, I can see why you’d be eager to try it again!”
“We’ve learned our lesson!’ Malfoy’s voice rose in volume.
“Have you really? Tell me, O Wise One, exactly how will you determine what information is legitimate? Was the lead on your mother being on the Summer Isles false, or did Fenrir find out and intercept you?”
“I don’t know!” Malfoy ran his hands back through his hair, then propped them on his hips. “But I guarantee we won’t be caught off guard like that again.”
“Will you listen to yourself?” Hermione was ready to pull her own hair out. “You have no base of operations, you have no resources, you have no inside source of information. Let’s not even mention a plan…”
“Your point, Granger?”
“My point, Malfoy, is that you need to let someone help you… someone who can make this a whole lot easier than it would be working on your own.” At Malfoy’s exaggerated sigh, she softened her voice. “Last night you seemed more than willing to accept my help. What changed?”
“Look, the more people who know, the more danger we’re in… and the more danger those who harbor us are in.” He followed her around the table. “Don’t you get it? You tell Potter, Potter tells Weasley, Weasley tells the rest of the gam, and the next thing you know, it’s in the Daily Prophet.”
She turned around and placed her hand on his arm. “I’m a big girl, Draco. I can take care of myself.”
“Agreed… I’ve been on the business end of your wand enough times myself. But the fact remains… as long as Severus and I stay here, we put you in danger.”
“You don’t know that… you’re making assumptions.”
“I’d rather overestimate my assumptions than underestimate your safety.”
“You’re not going anywhere until he’s healed.” She waved her hand in Snape’s direction.
“You wards didn’t keep me out… you think they would’ve held off Greyback?”
Hermione’s gaze held Malfoy’s troubled one for a moment before she broke contact. “We’ll talk about that later. Right now, we need to concentrate on finding your mother.”
“WE?”
“WE!”
Malfoy scowled. “Are you only this bossy in the morning, or do I have this to look forward to all day long?”
“I believe it is a cumulative trait,” Snape whispered, barely under his breath.
“This must be what my father meant when he warned me about Gryffindors,” Malfoy said, his mouth twisted into a wry grin.
“You are a very exasperating man,” Hermione retorted as she grabbed three plates out of the cupboard and set the table.
“Part of my charm.”
“Well, stop being quite so charming, then… especially when Harry gets here.”
Snape pulled her chair out to seat her, then served the biscuits and sausage gravy before suggesting, “Given the mutual affection Potter and I have for each other, perhaps I should remove myself after breakfast… I have other tasks I can attend to.” He took a seat beside her. “I believe a nice soak in a bath of Murtlap Essence would be a timely task.”
“He saved you, you know,” Hermione reminded Snape as she took a bite of biscuit.
“I am aware of Potter’s role in the proceedings.” Snape sighed, then placed his fork on his plate and softened his tone. “Miss Granger, while I consider his standing up in front of the Wizengamot and proclaiming our innocence a necessary act, I do not consider it a particularly heroic one. He could have easily ignored what Albus showed him. We both know that, in the past, Mr. Potter has often chosen to see only that which he wished to see. He did not take kindly to having his nice, neat view of the world disturbed in any fashion. That he chose to accept a different side in this particular instance only means he has begun to grow up… nothing more.”
The rest of breakfast was eaten in silence, as was Snape’s custom, and as Malfoy had gotten used to. Hermione followed their lead, giving serious thought to the viewpoint about Harry that Snape had expressed, and pondering how they would go about finding Narcissa Malfoy if Harry refused to help them.