4

Monday 17 February 2003: AM

Hermione sits at her tiny table, sipping a mug of the strongest coffee she could find in her modest pantry. Yesterday evening, she'd set her customary 6AM alarm for work in a foolish fit of rebellion; a decision she'd regretted as soon as it had shrilled insistently in her ear two hours ago. The multitude of lingering physical discomforts and overarching mental fuzziness had her reluctantly acceding to Draco's advice to call in sick for the day.

Her brief Floo call to her supervisor needn't have been met with such open-mouthed consternation at her temporary absence, Hermione thinks waspishly. Marilda Sandore had positively goggled at the news and insistently pushed for Hermione to immediately consult a Healer and owl her the results. Somehow Hermione had held her temper and coolly pointed out that the nature of her illness was confidential, as was her decision whether to seek medical assistance. Knowing that Marilda meant well and was genuinely concerned for her wellbeing helped soothe Hermione's irritation at her supervisor's overstep.

Swallowing another blessed mouthful of coffee, Hermione lets her eyes wander her humble lodgings. Her middling salary as a fledgling lawyer in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn't allow for much outside of paying for the basics and a careful savings plan.

She cannot help but draw comparisons between her small (mostly) serviceable kitchen and Draco's gleaming gallery. Hermione habitually keeps her home clean and tidy, but her love of books spills out into almost every room of her flat, including the kitchen. Consequently, her home appears cosy (not cluttered), she reassures herself.

And yet – compared to Draco's expensive real estate – her one bedroom flat seems positively cramped and lacking a cohesive décor. Most of her furniture has been sourced from cheap furniture shop chains, jumble sales, or flea markets. The flimsy wooden table she is currently seated at was brought home from a yard sale and its cream paint is uneven and slightly scratched. Hermione chose every item in her home because she liked it or particularly needed it; but it would be lovely to buy everything new and complementary, she reflects wistfully. Then laughs at her inanity – she has everything she needs and is grateful for it.

But thinking about Malfoy's townhouse leaves Hermione with a distinct sense of bewildered dissonance. Not only is he living in the categorically Muggle upscale neighbourhood of St John's Wood, but he's chosen to decorate his domicile in the style of… Hermione settles on 'Scandinavian minimalism', absentmindedly tapping her slim index finger against her glossy ceramic mug. Lots of natural light, pale wood, clean lines: beautiful and functional simplicity. Expensive, of course – impossible to imagine a Malfoy hunting for battered bargains in a yard sale – but fundamentally opposed to the oppressive Gothic sumptuousness of Malfoy Manor. Nary a peacock in sight.

Hermione is aware that mulling over Draco's diametric change of dwelling is her way of avoiding addressing the highly dangerous ordeal she underwent on Saturday night; the fact that she was drugged and helpless and almost abducted has her breath shortening and stomach clenching in dread. She sets aside her half-drunk coffee and rests her still-aching head on her hands, willing herself to inhale and exhale slowly. Not being able to recall how she escaped from the perilous scene is frustrating and frightening, but she did evade her would-be assailant. By fleeing to Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

Not only that: she felt safe with Malfoy. The boy who bullied her regularly for years somehow became the man who protected her from harm. Brought her into his home, cleaned up her vomit, bathed and clothed her, put her to bed and made her a meal. Gave her medicine, lent her his coat, and walked her to her door. Incredible. If Hermione didn't know better, she'd infer that Malfoy must have been Imperiused into behaving like a Good Samaritan.

Certainly, Malfoy hasn't foregone any of his most irritating qualities: arrogant, haughty, impatient, blunt. Quick with a cutting rejoinder. Wickedly teasing – his stunt with her silly hairball, for example.

And yet… Draco had reassured her of her safety when she'd almost begun crying in shocked reaction, patting her shoulder gently, calming her fears. He'd been unmistakably incensed – and ashamed - when she'd used the term Mudblood. He'd used her fork to eat her leftovers… and then shrugged indifferently when she'd pointed it out. Draco had gone to the trouble of analyzing the nefarious substance that roofied her and had insisted that he remain involved in her troubles.

Hermione doesn't have the foggiest idea of how to make sense of the conflicting vignettes of Draco Malfoy. Is his apparent reluctant kindness a new facet of his character? Or was it part of him all along, suppressed by his familial conditioning of blood prejudice and snobbery?

And what of her unexplained decision to seek out Malfoy in the first place? What does that say about my headspace? Hermione wonders. For the fiftieth time this morning, she tries to remember more details about that hazy night. It's no use – she cannot recall anything from Saturday night after she entered the pub, until she awoke in Malfoy's bed on Sunday afternoon. "Bloody buggering bollocks," Hermione grouses aloud.

Booting up her computer last night had failed to shed any light on the identity of 'Christopher Atkinson'. His profile on no longer exists, and the website's personal messaging feature had been deleted of their initial communications and arrangement to meet at the Wonky Donkey. Hermione had quickly drafted and sent an email to the company requesting contact details for the mystery man, but she has little hope that she will receive any reply beyond a polite refusal citing members' rights to privacy. Barring a formal notice being served by the Muggle police, Hermione is unhappily aware that asking the website for more information is another dead end.

If 'Christopher Atkinson' is indeed a wizard pretending to be a Muggle for the purposes of entrapping Hermione in a violent nightmare (and there can be little doubt of that, after Draco's revelations about the potion ingredients), she has to figure out what the hell is going on as quickly as possible. And she'd rather keep the investigation private. At least until she has a bit more to go on than a vial of vomit and a deleted dating profile. Supposing that the Ministry takes her seriously. Plenty of her professional colleagues harbour resentment about her unsought fame and acclaim. Being called 'the Golden Girl' serves as a popular snide insult, as well as homage. Weather permitting, Hermione has taken to eating her lunch in a nearby park after regularly overhearing derogatory comments in the Ministry's cafeteria.

And despite the Ministry promising complete confidentiality – someone always talks. Usually to the Daily Prophet. Hermione winces as she flashes back to the media shitstorm when her messy break-up with Ron became public last year. Her teeth involuntarily grind together as she muses on how that sly bitch Rita Skeeter conducted the frenzy like a maestro, dribbling just enough snippets of dubious 'alleged' misinformation that Hermione hadn't been able to outright accuse her of libel.

This sluggish vacillation is foreign to Hermione's usual personality: she is used to having all the answers. Swiftly weighing up the options, formulating plans and charging into action. Now she feels lost, uncertain, afraid.

And confused. Hermione blames the lingering effects of her poisoned drink for the enhanced physical allurement she felt towards Malfoy yesterday. Bad enough he'd caught her gawking at him when she'd awoken and called her out on it; when his hand had guided hers to the water glass, she'd experienced an actual zing race through her body at the simple touch. Ditto when he'd subtly stroked her shoulder to calm her down… and after they'd Apparated to Foot's Cray Meadows, undeniable heat had burned through her when Draco placed his hand at the small of her back as they'd crossed the street and walked to her flat. Just like when Malfoy had steadied her progress as she'd wobbled to his bathroom, various layers of clothing hadn't seemed to make any difference to the unusually intense sensation.

Rationally, Hermione knows that Malfoy was merely acting out of ingrained good manners and old-fashioned Pureblood chivalry. Reading anything more into Draco's occasional solicitous gestures is ridiculous; he would have done the same for any sick witch who landed on his doorstep. Possibly. Probably. Definitely.

Besides, Draco has always been a handsome devil and a graceful prat, Hermione unwillingly accedes. She can appreciate his sophisticated masculine beauty without it meaning anything other than having two working eyes. Avidly watching Draco yesterday was simply a combination of the potion's effects and Hermione's driving need to solve a puzzle.

Once the modified 'roofie' potion completely wears off, Hermione is confident that her sudden surges of cupidity for the tall blond Slytherin will also disappear. Obviously, her hormones are sadly out of whack thanks to unwittingly imbibing a lust concoction. Which also explains why she is wearing Malfoy's expensive black coat around her flat instead of her dressing gown; it's not her fault that he smells so damnably good. Draco's cologne clings to the garment and Hermione can't stop savouring small sniffs of the entrancing olfactory combination of layered citrus, pine, warm grass and cedar: smoky, woodsy, earthy and fresh.

The same redolent scent still clings to Hermione's skin and hair… leaving her to visualize Malfoy washing her unconscious form on Saturday night. Her hair is relatively tangle-free: Draco must have dumped a crazy amount of lush conditioner in it to avoid a wild frizz. Apart from her parents (when she was a child) no one has ever performed that verily intimate service for her before. Not even Ron, and he was her boyfriend for the better part of four years.

Hermione is still contemplating the baffling dichotomy of Draco's recent behaviours when she hears movement in her living room and a brief flash of green light. She has barely risen from her chair when a familiar voice rings out.

"Hermione? Are you home? It's me," yells Harry Potter.

"Harry!" She rounds the corner in a mad rush, nearly knocking over her black-haired friend as he steps out of her Floo fireplace. Hermione hugs Harry tightly, her melancholy disposition immediately uplifted by the comforting embrace. Her long-time friend looks a little tired and rumpled, his crimson Auror robes still bearing traces of grime and wear. Hermione smiles tremulously at his habitual dishevelment; her eyes are suspiciously damp as her haphazard emotions threaten to take hold.

"Hey, are you ok?" Harry steps back a little, his bright green eyes searching hers worriedly. "I heard on the Ministry grapevine that you weren't at work today – is everything alright?". Harry rubs her arm soothingly. Hermione is exceedingly relieved that Harry's touch fails to trigger any sensual reaction. Thank Merlin – the potion must have worked its course.

Hermione sniffs back her impending tears at the joyful realization that her bodily autonomy is restored. She is even able to (mostly) suppress her irritation upon hearing that Marilda wasted little time sharing the earth-shattering information that Hermione had taken a day off work.

"Harry, I thought you were in Germany for another week at least?" Hermione questions, making her own quick assessment. Apart from needing a hot shower and a definite change of garb, Harry looks wonderfully normal and physically unscathed. Harry doesn't like to talk shop during their infrequent catch-ups, but Hermione knows (from the blasted Ministry grapevine, of course) that Harry's team of Aurors have been as busy as a blue-arsed fly for the past six weeks, tracking a ring of suspected Neo-Death Eaters across Europe.

"Just got in this morning," Harry admits, scraping his right hand through his shock of raven hair in a hopeless attempt to restore order to natural chaos. "Came straight here because I can't remember the last day you took a day off work without being forcibly hospitalized," he declares half-jokingly. His grin fades as he scrutinizes her pale complexion. "Seriously though, Hermione – are you unwell? Can I do anything?".

For a fleeting moment, Hermione deliberates confessing the whole muddled tale of her bizarre weekend to Harry. Just opening her mouth and blurting out the fantastical, disorienting, ridiculous and downright discombobulating experience to her oldest friend would unquestionably ease her burden… but it would have the counter effect of significantly increasing Harry's stressors. Hermione feels guilty enough that her failed romantic relationship with Ron placed Harry in the unenviable position of piggy-in-the-middle during their strained break-up. It is primarily because of Harry's persistent peacekeeping efforts that Hermione and Ron have been able to revisit a warily civil version of their triumvirate alliance.

Also, Harry is fiercely protective of Hermione's safety. He would activate every Auror on the Ministry's books to track down the perpetrator of the crime committed against her – and she'd be back to square one, facing another media maelstrom. Thousands of wizards and witches privy to her personal pain… judging and censoring her actions and motives. The multiplied weight of condemnatory stares that already follow her every move.

No. She can't tell Harry - not yet, anyway. Especially regarding Draco Malfoy's involvement. Harry testified in Draco's defence at his trial, but Hermione knows that Harry retains considerable mistrust and skepticism of his old school nemesis. Hearing that Malfoy is involved – however innocuously – would likely spark Harry's infamous quick temper and an impulsive hot-headed reaction.

Hermione bites her lip as she states reassuringly, "It's nothing serious, Harry. I'm not feeling quite the thing this morning. Even I'm allowed to throw a sickie once in a blue moon without the Ministry collapsing, you know," she gently mocks his overprotectiveness. It is nice to know that someone cares about her.

"Can I make you a cuppa?" Hermione asks, sliding her hand to Harry's sinewy forearm as she turns for the kitchen. Harry doesn't have Ron's bulk, but his Auror training has beefed up his wiry physique admirably. He's an attractive man, and the closest thing Hermione has to a brother; she is doubly glad that the 'roofie' potion has worn off. Uncontrollably lusting after Harry would be too icky for words.

Harry regretfully shakes his head in refusal. "Sorry love, I can't stay. Just wanted to make sure you're safe and well. Later this week, maybe? I'm free Friday night – come for supper?"

Shelving her disappointment, Hermione readily agrees. "Friday night works for me. I'll bring dinner to Grimmauld Place around seven?". Her whiskey eyes cloud over as she hesitantly qualifies: "If that's OK with Ginny?".

Harry slowly blinks once. "We're 'off' again," he informs Hermione quietly. "She moved back to the Burrow while I was abroad."

"Oh, Harry, I'm sorry –" but her sympathy is interrupted by Harry's resolute gesture to desist.

"I'm alright, don't worry. I'm starting to realize that we both have issues to work through," he admits, both hands unconsciously tugging at his shaggy jet mop before he rubs his palms against his robes and holds his arms out again.

"Enough of this sad sack crap – let's hug it out, witch," Harry laughs. Hermione obeys, her generous heart aching for Harry. The current bad blood between her and Ginny doesn't mean that she is anything other than sad for her friend. I just want Harry to find – and keep – the happiness he so richly deserves, Hermione reflects sorrowfully.

"Hey, what's this fancy coat you're wearing?" Harry inquires curiously, his fingers rubbing at the lapels as he withdraws from their embrace. "Is this cashmere?" he whistles softly. "Wizard-made if I'm not mistaken. Finally spending some of your hard-earned Galleons on some upmarket threads, hmm?" Harry teases further. "It's a few sizes too big for you though. Where's that ratty pink dressing gown you usually favour?"

Her mind racing, Hermione temporizes, "It's in the wash – and it's not ratty, it's comfortable, Harry. The coat is… something I'm flirting with. That's all," Hermione defends. Well, that's not entirely untrue, she rationalizes. Fortunately, Harry lets his curiosity drop.

"I'll see you Friday," Harry promises. He places a light fraternal kiss upon her forehead before he steps back into the fireplace, grabs a pinch of Floo powder and vocalizes, "The Ministry of Magic!" before disappearing in a puff of emerald smoke.

Sighing, Hermione wraps her arms around her middle and stares unseeingly at the spot Harry recently occupied. Part of her cannot believe that she has just chosen to keep Draco Malfoy as her sole confidante and - how did he couch it? – ungracious ally. As Hagrid is wont to say - Gallopin' Gorgons! How did her life morph into an outlandish circus?

And isn't it well past time that she took off this wickedly beguiling Draco-infused pea coat?