Roman Holiday

Chapter Fourteen

Bangkok.

Not exactly the end of the earth, Snape supposed. It had its merits.

The Muggles even had a song about it. Catchy little disco number - you could still hear it every so often on the radio.

Despite its virtues, however, it was missing something. Two somethings, to be exact.

No Malfoy, and no Granger.

Snape cursed himself for not doing a Location Charm in the first place, even though cursing Granger was far more satisfying. Devious, slippery little troublemakers, she and Malfoy both, playing a dangerous game for dubious motivations.

Double-crossing him was one thing, and not insignificant - his lip curled up in a sneer at the thought of what awaited them at their first Potions class of the year - but double-crossing Lucius Malfoy was nothing short of suicidal. Why bother? What did they have to gain?

He snarled to himself. Time enough to wonder about that.

The minute they stepped onto school property, they were his, body and soul.

**

To the concerned residents of the Piazza di Spagna, he was simply a shell-shocked English sightseer who’d been nearly mown down by a strange purple tour bus.

Shock, they murmured to themselves. What else could make him lie so stiff, so still, with only his eyes twitching fiercely from left to right?

They half-carried, half-dragged him back into the pensione and called for a medico. Long before the doctor arrived, however, Lucius Malfoy had found his voice - and the use of his limbs - and swept hastily out into the street, muttering to himself.

The little bitch had cursed him. Cursed him.

A sixteen-year-old chit of a girl. A commoner. A Muggle-born. And he’d felt the chilly power of that charm to his bones, staggered under the force of its righteous indignation.

He was nearly as frightened by it as he was outraged. Nearly.

He’d bet his manor that his own wife couldn’t summon a twenty-minute Petrificus, let alone his son.

His lips tightened. His son.

His son, the liar. His son, the coward. The flesh of his flesh, creeping around this filthy Muggle city, consorting with that disgusting little -

He gritted his teeth, forced his hand to drop by his side, away from his wand.

It didn’t matter. The boy was clearly deranged, but it didn’t matter.

He could dip his dick into the little Mudblood all he wanted; he could run from his responsibilities, his obligations, his own father, and scurry back to Dumbledore on that ridiculous purple bus. None of that could change what was running through his own veins. That was as pure and crystalline as hatred.

The blood of a Malfoy.

And, after all, his blood was all Lucius - or the Dark Lord, for that matter - would need.

**

Albus Dumbledore detached the note from the owl’s leg and offered the owl a corner of his crumpet. His eyes widened slightly as he read, and at least twice he let out a chuckle. Minerva McGonagall narrowed her eyes to slits, refusing to ask, and sipped her tea.

“That’s a Knight Bus owl,” she said finally, and Dumbledore beamed at her.

“Quite.” He readjusted his spectacles, folded the note, and tucked it underneath his saucer. McGonagall glared at him. She didn’t like the looks of that beatific smile.

“What?” she snapped. “Out with it, Albus!” He twinkled at her over his cup of tea.

“The planets must have shifted,” he said dreamily, and passed her the note. “Even in dark times, the benevolence of the universe makes itself apparent, Minerva.”

She raised her head from the scrap of paper. “Hermione Granger … and Draco Malfoy?!?” She snorted. “That’s your idea of benevolence? I’d call it a disaster waiting to happen.”

Dumbledore lifted a gently reproving finger. “Or a disaster averted,” he said. “After all, even a narrow bridge can join a great divide.”

McGonagall made a rude sound from behind her teacup. “Albus, honestly. You sound like a fortune cookie.” He laughed.

“Young Mr. Malfoy,” he said, “is a child of great destiny. Up to this point, it’s been decided without his assistance.” His eyes, as he swallowed the last of his crumpet, were nothing short of triumphant. “Now that the reins are in his own hands, the direction he will choose to take remains to be seen.”

“But, Albus -“

Dumbledore shook his head. “And Miss Granger,” he said. “A very level-headed young lady, and a persuasive voice for the good. Lacking only great passion, well-directed, to make her a force with which to contend.” He looked up suddenly, and smiled. “Biscuit, Minerva?”

They finished their tea in silence.

**

The Child of Destiny and the Persuasive Voice for the Good sat, side by side, on the wildly jouncing mattress assigned to them, and tried not to look either a) out the window, or b) at each other.

It was difficult.

About half an hour had passed since they’d stumbled onto the Knight Bus. Hermione hadn’t been sure it would pick them up; until she’d seen the purple hulk of it scream to a stop in front of her, she’d been half-afraid that it only ran in the British Isles.

She didn’t like to think about what would have happened, had that been the case. Too big a risk. Her heart hadn’t beat so fast since that last wild trip with the Time-Turner, back in third year. Even now, if she considered the possibilities of What Might Have Been, On A Worse Day Than This, she could feel her pulse speed up.

She wondered what Dumbledore was making of her note.

Draco, of course, had worries of his own. She sneaked a sideways look at him and immediately felt guilty that she was stewing over the disciplinary notice waiting for her from the Ministry of Magic. Thinking about what he’d done, just now, about the allegiances he’d just made - and broken - made her wince with sympathy.

It would have been so easy for him to get back in his father’s good graces.

All he would have had to do is stick out one foot to trip her.

Hold her down.

Hand her over.

Instead, he’d run with her. Pulled away and gotten on the bus and severed himself, probably forever, with his family and his old friends. And for what? Hermione asked herself. Or, more aptly, for whom?

Not a hard question, exactly, but certainly a difficult one. Hermione didn’t feel like tackling it.

“You okay?” she asked him, and he closed his eyes briefly before shooting her a tired smile.

“Yeah.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “For eleven in the morning, it’s been a long day already. You know?”

She nodded. “Feel like talking about it?”

“I don’t even feel like thinking about it,” he said wearily. “Distract me, Granger. Talk to me about something.”

She thought for a moment, then brightened. “Ever play ‘I Spy’?”

**

Playing ‘I Spy’ on the Knight Bus was considerably more challenging than playing it anywhere else, and would have been even if Draco HAD had the least inkling of what could and could not fit in a bread box. Luckily, one of the other passengers was a frequent Knight Bus traveller, and pointed out the cabinet of games at one end of the bus. They played two games of wizard chess (the second abruptly aborted when the bus went over a particularly nasty set of bumps and half of Hermione’s pieces succumbed to motion sickness), and passed the next hour in an increasingly competitive and vocal match of Exploding Snap.

At some point they got sick of the games and just started talking, and it occurred to Draco that this was new, that the easy, quick riposte they had going wasn’t something he’d experienced in the Slytherin common room. “Tell me something,” he said, and she looked at him enquiringly. “Is this how it is with you and Potter and Weasley?”

She frowned a little, as though she suspected him of sarcasm. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do the three of you just sit around and talk a lot?” Okay, he thought, that sounded incredibly stupid. “Like this, I mean,” he clarified. “Just a lot of nothing in particular, just talking to talk?”

“Sort of,” she said, and gave him a look that was half-amused, half-resigned. “You’re a better listener than they are, though. I barely get a word in edgewise around them, unless the topic is homework.” The amusement blossomed into sheer wicked humor. “What? Are you saying that Crabbe and Goyle aren’t scintillating conversationalists? And here I was about to book them for my next lecture tour.”

They started giggling and couldn’t stop, and then he leaned over and kissed her again, a really satisfying wet hard kiss that was, for all the tongue involved, inherently affectionate.

They looked around, decided the Knight Bus wasn’t deserted enough to risk any more snogging, and curled up together for a nap.

Sometimes, comfort was as simple as another warm body next to yours.

**

TBC