Roman Holiday

Chapter Seventeen

Hermione half-expected to run into Draco - or Professor Dumbledore - on her way back to Gryffindor Tower, but the corridors remained deserted … she didn’t see so much as the flick of Mrs. Norris’ tail. Thank God, she thought, and yawned blearily.

All she wanted in the world, at the moment anyway, was a hot bath and a soft bed, preferably one that didn’t move underneath her. She climbed the stairs, reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, and froze in sudden, lead-stomached realization.

She didn’t have the password.

Hermione thought she might cry.

“Um …” she began, not sure what she was about to say, and the Fat Lady waved her hand and tutted kindly at her.

“I’ve been watching for you, dear,” she said. “Headmaster’s orders. The password is ‘will-o-the-wisp’. And the password for the prefects’ bath is ‘Yorkshire pudding’, in case you’re in the mind for a soak.” She beamed at Hermione and swung forward. “Your things are in your room.”

Hermione could have kissed her. “Thank you,” she said, and climbed through the portrait hole into the empty common room.

The girls’ bath reserved for prefect use was a miracle of pink Cassava marble and silver granite, with perpetual Warming Charms on the floors, acres of fluffy rose and gray towels heaped next to the cavernous shell-shaped bathtub, and relaxing music invisibly piped in after six in the evening. Tonight, it was the Debussy piano preludes. Hermione grinned; she’d long suspected that Professor McGonagall was a bit of a Francophile.

On a related note, rumor had it that McGonagall visited the hot springs at Lourdes over summer holidays each year. Hermione didn’t know if this was true, but it was on McGonagall’s orders that the spa had been installed in the Gryffindor prefects’ baths, and it was to this smaller room off the main chamber that Hermione was headed now. She stripped off her clothes, shook out her hair, and sank into the little pool of warm, cinnamon-scented clay with a sigh of pleasure. Who knew that rolling around in mud could make you feel so clean?

She’d worked out her preferred routine in the spa early last year, and it took her only a quarter of an hour to complete it tonight: after the mud bath, the cold shower; after the cold shower, the steam; after the steam, a quick plunge into a star-shaped pool of frigid water, nicknamed the Glacier, from which she rose hastily, shivering, with blue lips.

She already felt a million times better. But the bubble bath in the main bathroom was too decadent to resist, with its burbling jets, its gold lion-head fixtures, the fragrant steam rising from its roiling surface. She padded over to it, still shivering from her cold dip, and turned one of the smaller faucets.

“Freesia,” she said, after thinking for a moment. “Coconut. Tangerine.”

A tri-colored swirl of soap bubbles - lavender, orange, creamy white - began to curl toward the center of the big tub, releasing a fragrance that was pure heaven. Hermione climbed the carved marble steps to the top of the rim, slid in legs-first, submerged herself to the chin with a muffled splash, and lay back with her eyes closed.

Next to being back in Rome, this was the closest to perfection she was likely to get right now.

She let her hands fishtail lazily through the silky water and allowed her head to swim with the sweet scents of mingled fruit and flowers. Some secluded hot spring, tucked away in an island paradise - that’s where she was. Warm sun on her face. Warm, pulsing jets of water like friendly exploring hands, ducking into private tender places and smoothing away residual aches and pains from her travel-weary body.

At the time, she hadn’t noticed any pain pursuant to the loss of her virtue. But she’d been carrying around a low-grade burn between her legs since she’d woken up this morning - a vague sense of … what would you call it … stretch … that reminded her with every step, every shift in position, every bounce of the bus, that she’d let Draco Malfoy settle himself in the untried cradle of her thighs, that part of him had disappeared into part of her and left her feeling like an overdone martini.

That is to say, shaken AND stirred.

Thank goodness that he was new at it too, she thought. That he’d been just as raw and wobbly and shocked and oh-my-God-so-THIS-is-sex as she.

In other words, nothing like Snape.

Snape.

Hermione’s eyes flew open, and she abruptly arrested the hand that had been wandering hopefully around to the inside of her thigh. Best not to think about that, about him, about the practiced, knowing way he’d touched her and made her respond.

As if she was a wristwatch, to be taken apart and put back together at his whim.

As if he could have done it blindfolded.

Never mind that rash insanity of a challenge she’d tossed at him tonight. Clearly, she needed her head examined. And what was wrong with HIM, that he hadn’t jumped down her throat for impertinence?

When you counted on Snape to be cutting, and got a laugh out of him instead, it was time to doubt the workings of the universe. When he followed up his jollies with sexual innuendo that made her own feeble attempts at it sound like a Julie Andrews encore, it was time to run the other way. And fast.

The fact that the laugh had been such a young, carefree sound - the lift of that sardonic mouth into unfettered sensuality - the most-becoming snap of vitality in his eyes - that made him more dangerous still.

And Hermione had already jumped on one danger train this week. If she thought Ron had been upset about the Yule Ball, back in their fourth year? She whistled softly, imagining his reaction to the news of what she’d been up to with Malfoy. Spreading your legs for the Viking Prince of Slytherin House made dating Viktor Krum look like passing out cookies at the local kindergarten. She didn’t need lessons in kink, from Snape of all people, to add to her already-full Plate of Complications.

What was that he’d said tonight?

You have to decide what it was for you.

Oh, damn.

She frowned. Sex? Or power?

What was the thought, exactly, that had her fingers creeping up her thigh again? That she hadn’t been able to stop him? Or that she hadn’t wanted to?

She’d have to sleep on that one.

**

Breakfast in the Great Hall was sparsely attended. No teachers to speak of, with the exception of Professor McGonagall, who gave Draco a narrow-eyed stare before returning her attention to her grapefruit half, and Dumbledore, who was staring out the window and whistling what sounded suspiciously like ‘Dixie’ under his breath. The long tables were dotted with a few new prefects, mostly at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables.

Hermione wasn’t there. Either she was having a lie-in, or she’d been and gone already.

He had to talk to her, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Draco felt a stab of nostalgia for the little coffee shop in the Piazza di Spagna. For a few halcyon days, his life had pared itself down to one simple, enjoyable focus: fall for Hermione Granger.

Which he had. And how.

If it seemed out of character for him, there were a million excuses. The scenery, the vino, the warm perfumed air, the solitary howl of the saxophone that had wrapped around him like a golden snake and choked off his better judgment.

But mostly it was just the girl, who was warm and funny and adventurous and irresistible, and nothing like he’d imagined her. Draco scowled down at his prefect’s badge, at the little silver serpent forking its tongue at him. Why couldn’t he have been sorted into Ravenclaw? Why couldn’t he have had normal wizarding parents - maybe even the rumor of a Muggle-born grandparent?

Why couldn’t being a pure-blood wizard be, in reality, the good deal it was cracked up to be on the surface?

And how exactly had he gotten himself mixed up in this bullshit star-crossed lovers plot, anyway?

Easy to be a lover in Rome, he thought disgustedly. Easy to flirt, to stuff yourself on pasta and cannoli, to ride a zippy little machine through a starry night and kiss in a cathedral and slide into the wet satin grasp of her - so tight, so taut, above all so gleaming and shiny and NEW, like ripping off cellophane on Christmas morning.

He snorted. Who was he kidding? It’d be no great trial to him to do that same thing here at Hogwarts, on top of the Slytherin table in the Great Hall if he could get away with it, as often and as vigorously as either of them could stand. What he couldn’t imagine nearly as easily was walking down a corridor with her, holding hands.

He entertained a brief amused insight into the hypothetical look on Pansy Parkinson’s face, laughed out loud, then sobered again, ignoring the startled looks shot his way by students at the neighboring tables.

Impossible to regain the easy camaraderie they’d had yesterday, when the world hadn’t been set against them. Intimacy was a lot harder when you weren’t invisible, when you weren’t a Slytherin prince and a Muggle-born milkmaid, but just two more young lovers in a city full of them.

And the other thing. It was easy enough to tell Pansy and the Slytherins to go screw, if you were already an outcast. Which he’d thought would be the case, after what had happened his last morning in Rome. But his conversation with Dumbledore last night had proved most informative to the contrary, and he’d somehow found himself deep in Double Agent Land.

“I’m not loyal to Dumbledore,” he’d told Hermione back in the doorway of the Sheraton. But now it wasn’t true. Half a sandwich and a cup of tea, and he’d been pouring out his soul to the man he’d heard referred to as ‘that old bat’ for most of his life. There was something reassuring about those kind blue eyes, something about the tone of the once-deep voice, now crackly with age, that inspired confidence. And allegiance.

He’d needed sanctuary, and he had it.

He’d needed a powerful ally, and he had one.

He’d needed to be of service, and Dumbledore had given him his instructions.

Go back to Slytherin House. Be the arrogant heir to the throne. Cultivate his all-too-eager sycophants.

Keep his eyes and ears open. Report back.

Tell no one. Not even, Dumbledore had said with a knowing twinkle, the alluring Miss Granger. Not just yet, anyway.

So. Now he had to go find Hermione and sort the whole mess out, before something or someone came along to make it even more complicated than it was.

Even if that meant telling her he couldn’t kiss her in public anymore.

He squared his shoulders gloomily and headed for the library.

**

She was in the Restricted section, huddled behind the most remote study carroll and poring over what looked to Draco to be a notebook full of equations. “Hi,” he said to the top of her head, and she jumped.

“Oh. Um, hi.”

They shared a moment’s uncomfortable silence. “Can I sit down?” he asked finally, and her brow furrowed at his tone.

“Are we in trouble? What did Dumbledore say?”

He shook his head. “Not in trouble. But we need to talk, privately.”

They both glanced around cautiously. Not many visitors frequented this part of the library, even when school was in session - since they were still on holiday for another two weeks, Madam Pince probably wouldn’t see another student all day today.

Still, you never knew.

Satisfied that they were alone, Hermione hitched her chair further into the corner so he could pull his in beside her. They were so close that their knees touched. “Okay,” she said, a bit breathlessly. “Spill.”

“First,” he said, and fought the urge to look away. “It’s kind of good news, I guess. My father’s embarrassed that we got away from him, and that you managed that Petrificus. Apparently, from what Dumbledore said, he was out cold in that Muggle hotel for about twenty minutes. So he called in a big favor with Fudge and got the Ministry to hush the whole thing up. Wants to pretend it never happened.” He smiled faintly. “My school bill’s paid in full. You’re off the hook for performing underage magic. And I may not get beaten up in the Slytherin common room as much as I’d thought.”

The look of profound relief on his face had her frowning. “You’re worried about the Slytherins finding out about us.”

He flushed. “Well … yeah.” A moment of silence, then, “Aren’t you?” he burst out. “Aren’t you the least bit worried about what Potter and Weasley are going to say? About what the rest of them will?”

Silence from her, during which he searched for words, abandoned them, and finally smacked the top of the carroll in frustration.

“This isn’t Romeo and Juliet, Hermione! We have to live here for two more years!”

“I know,” she said, the back of her brain vaguely registering astonishment that he was up on his Shakespeare. “And you aren’t the only one who’s been worried.” She twisted in her chair so that she was looking at him full-on.

Was she about to get dumped?

She suddenly felt very sorry for Viktor. Had he felt like this when he’d opened the owl that ended it?

Well, give him an easy out, at least, she told herself. Don’t make it harder than it is.

“We could stop it now,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically small. “It was only one night. We could walk away now, pretend it never happened.”

Draco snorted derisively. “Go back to insulting each other in the hall? Go back to Mudblood and ferret jokes? I think not.” He was pleased to see that she looked relieved. “I was sort of hoping,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, “that we could go on as we were. But …”

“But keep it quiet,” she finished heavily.

Looking wary, he nodded.

“No commitment?” she asked. “No expectations? No publicity?”

She wasn’t taking it as badly as he’d feared. He nodded again, and they looked at each other sadly for a second or two, remembering the place they’d just left where such subterfuge wasn’t necessary.

“No insults, either,” he said finally. “To you, anyway. I make no promises regarding the Wonder Twins.” He studied her face, now carefully averted, and bit his lip. “Hermione?”

“Mm.” She didn’t look up.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that there might be a way to get some romance out of this, after all.” She sent him a sideways look under her lashes.

“Really.”

He shrugged, keeping his face calculatedly casual. “Haven’t you always wanted a secret admirer?”

At this, Hermione brightened - whether in reference to the romance or the intrigue, he wasn’t sure. She would, he reflected, have made a very good Slytherin.

He watched her consider the idea, her eyes beginning to sparkle wickedly.

“Midnight assignations,” she said slowly. “Kissing under the Invisibility Cloak. Love letters in code, delivered by owl.” She looked up at him and grinned. “It’ll drive Lavender and Parvati INSANE, trying to figure it out.”

“Well, then. Do we have a deal?”

Say yes, he thought. Damn it, say yes. If this is all we can have, let’s get to it already.

The smile was still playing around the corners of her mouth. “We’d need code names,” she demurred. “And you’re not much of a Romeo. Besides, it’s overdone.”

“I’ll do some research,” he said. “Get back to you.”

She let out a reluctant snort of laughter and spread her hands in helpless assent. God, she’s beautiful, he thought, and leaned in for a kiss.

Putting all else aside, there was at least one good thing about being a secret agent for Dumbledore.

Even in the Muggle movies, the spy always got the girl.