Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Nine

It had worked.

Hermione leaned weakly against the nearest tree, gripping herself with shaking arms and fighting the near-uncontrollable urge to vomit.

She’d done it.

One second they’d been standing there in a wild-eyed huddle, pointing trembling wands at the empty darkness - and the next, they’d vanished, leaving nothing behind them but ghostly footprints in the thick frost. And it was nothing like the friendly rehearsals with Sal, nothing like practicing on Harry and Draco and Ginny and then blinking them immediately back to the comfortable coziness of Elysium.

No, this was scary and cold and intrusive, and it felt like a violation; never mind all her good intentions, all her high-minded rationalizations about cold feet and serving the greater good … not when she could feel their fear - feel it! - beating at the inside of their sapphire prison like tiny panicked fists.

And at the same time - God help her - she was proud that it had worked, and glad for Draco’s sake that she’d done it. And just the tiniest bit .. well, elated, and ashamed of the elation too.

And tired … tired was an understatement; drained was more like it. Teeth gritted, she hauled herself away from the tree and forced her weak knees to hold her.

Before she could go back to Hogwarts and collapse, she needed to do one more thing.

Wait.

**

She was late.

Draco checked his watch again, swore, chucked Portnoy across the room, and yanked himself off the chaise longue and into a nervous stalk.

She should have been here twenty minutes ago.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Had it worked? Had eight people at once been too many? Should he have been there to help? Should he go out now to check on her - rescue her?

The possibilities piled up in his head, each more grisly than the last: she was Stunned, she was dead, Avery had raped her, they’d dragged her off to the Death-Eaters ceremony, they’d handed her over to his father … to Voldemort … they were torturing her …

And here he sat, like a maiden in a fucking tower, letting his girlfriend slay his dragons for him.

Pathetic.

Not for the first time, he found himself pondering the Granger Self-Sufficiency, which was sexy as hell but also a bit bewildering. Life with his pale, vague, troubled mother - with the undemanding, sly-but-banal Slytherin girls - hadn’t prepared him to play Albert to Hermione’s sweetly stubborn Victoria.

He didn’t mind, though. Honestly. Truth be told, that rock-steady self-assurance, that calm adherence to an absolute moral center, had long-since eclipsed her pretty face and lush body, to become the most alluring thing about her.

Only … only …

Draco sighed.

He only wished that she needed him half as much as he needed her.

**

He was about to go to Dumbledore and spill the whole sordid story, Salazar Slytherin and all, when she shimmered abruptly into view, clutching the Keyhole like a lifeline. “What took you so goddamn long?” he started to say, but only got as far as “What -“ when she dropped the book, pushed past him, and stumbled into the bathroom, hands clamped over her mouth. A moment later, Draco heard the unmistakable sound of retching, and hurried after her just in time to see her being violently ill into the toilet.

Oddly enough, this put him on firmer ground.

Draco wasn’t his mother’s son for nothing. He’d seen firsthand the deleterious effects of more than one medi-potion gone awry; if there was one thing he knew how to cope with, it was female nausea. He soaked a washcloth in cold water, wrung it out, and calmly pressed it into Hermione’s shaking hands.

“Put that on your forehead,” he directed. “And hold it there. I’ll get you some water.” Obediently, she took the wet cloth and pressed it to her brow; when Draco returned a moment later with a brimming glass, she hadn’t moved. He took the cloth out of her hand, remoistened it, and clapped it to the back of her neck. She flinched, but didn’t protest.

“Okay,” he said, tilting the glass to her lips. “Just a little. Swish and spit. Now do that again. Good.”

“Draco …” she whispered, her voice small and ragged. “Please - take it off -“

“The compress?” he asked, startled. “It’s good for you.” She shook her head weakly.

“Pendant.”

Oh. He tugged on the long gold chain disappearing under her robes, closed his hand around the sapphire. And felt fear - cold, debilitating, metallic - kick him in the guts.

He yanked the stone over her head and dropped it as if it had bitten him. Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

“It worked, didn’t it?” he asked, breathing hard. Hermione nodded. She looked pale, but already steadier.

“They’re all in there,” he said wonderingly, eyeing the glittering blue stone on the floor as if it might get up and dance. “You really did it. Holy shit.”

Another nod. “Scared,” she whispered. “Did you feel it?” She was shivering. “Oh, God, Draco - they were so damn scared -“

“Shhh.” He took the glass away from her, wrapped his arms around her and rocked her back and forth on the tile floor, surprised at how small and fragile she felt. “You can’t wear that thing next to your skin,” he said. “It’s a nightmare.”

“Have to … Sal said …”

“Fuck what Sal said. We’ll figure something else out, later. Until then it can stay where it is. Can you stand up?”

He steadied her against his body (flashback to his mother’s overdose on Dreamless Sleep when he was eight; just enough to make her sweat and shake and empty her guts on the white carpet of her adjoining bath - not enough, she’d wept later, to kill her), and steered her toward the main room. “Come on. Let’s get you horizontal.”

She allowed herself to be guided toward the chaise, but balked when he would have pushed her down on it. “Can’t go to sleep,” she said urgently. “Death Eaters. On their way to Dumbledore. I saw them.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. “You did? Where? Who?”

She was swaying on her feet, clinging to his forearms for support but stubbornly refusing to sit, her face dead white with the effort to keep herself upright. “Foxes,” she said. “One silver, one black. Animagi. Came up from the gates - stopped when the footprints ended - went sniffing all around. Don’t know why they didn’t find me. I almost trod on one. I wanted to.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “Then they … changed. Just for a minute. Avery. And your father.”

He pushed again, gently, and defeated, she let herself be eased back on the bed. “Angry,” she said. “They think Dumbledore did it. Went back to talk to the others, maybe to him. I think your father’s coming back, though.” She shot bolt upright in sudden panic. “God. What time is it?”

Draco checked his watch. “Not even eight yet,” he reassured her. “Look, you’re dead tired, you’ve worn yourself out, you’re about to collapse. You have to sleep now.”

“Can’t. … Couldn’t.”

“Try.”

Her eyelids were battling gravity. “What if they -?”

“Dumbledore’s more than a match for them,” Draco said, and sat down beside her. “You’ve done all you can.”

“No,” she said, her voice slurred with exhaustion but still emphatic. “No one ever does everything they can. No one.”

By the time he’d come up with a suitable retort for that, she was asleep. Sighing, Draco slipped off his shoes and curled up beside her.

He could do with a nap, himself.

**

They’d known well in advance that they’d top the list of likely suspects, at least in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes - why else would they have gone to the trouble to give Draco an airtight alibi? Still, it was a bit of a shock when they were shaken awake, shortly before lunchtime, by a very worried-looking Dobby.

“Wake up,” he hissed. “Mister Draco, Miss Hermione, Dobby is sorry to disturb you, but the Headmaster, he is asking Dobby to come and fetch you.”

They jerked awake, shared one quick look, and fumbled for their shoes. “Dobby,” Draco asked, “is my father in with the Headmaster?” Dobby nodded fearfully.

“Dobby is not liking to say this,” he said in a low voice, “but he is looking most upset. He is screaming and yelling at the Headmaster for an hour now, wanting to talk to you - and the Headmaster, he is just now giving in.”

Well, that was to be expected. Draco leaned down and put his mouth near Dobby’s floppy ear. “We’ll get there on our own,” he said. “You find Professor Snape and ask him to come too, all right?”

Dobby nodded and pressed a small tin into Draco’s hands. “Use this,” he said; “you is best not keep him waiting.” A moment later, he’d disappeared with a loud CRACK!

“What is it?” Hermione asked, and Draco opened his hand to show her.

Floo Powder.

**

They emerged out of the fireplace into Dumbledore’s study, to find Lucius Malfoy silent-but-raging, and the Headmaster concerned, but calm.

“For the last time, Lucius,” Dumbledore was saying patiently. “I don’t have any idea where those children are. They signed up to leave on the train with all the others.” His eyes gleamed for a moment. “Had we known you had made other … arrangements,” he said pointedly, “we would have provided a staff escort down to the village.”

Draco had never seen his father so angry: sick and shaking with fury, choking with rage on every word that rose in his blocked throat. “Don’t play dumb with me, Albus,” he growled finally, then turned on Draco. “And you,” he said, advancing a step toward the fire. “You’re in on this too, you ill-begotten, ungrateful brat. You .. and your Mudblood whore.”

“Lucius!” Dumbledore said sharply, and Hermione thought dimly that some people were just Born To Be Listened To: angry as Malfoy was, Dumbledore’s tone had him turning red and backing off like a scolded child. “Watch your language in this castle, if you please; I won’t tolerate the abuse of my students.” His tone softened slightly as he turned toward the hearth. “Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger. Please sit down.”

They sat, trying not to look at Malfoy the Elder, whose entire being was vibrating with malice and ill-controlled temper. “I’ll handle this, if you don’t mind,” Dumbledore said firmly, and fixed his gaze on Hermione and Draco.

“We’re missing some students, it seems,” he said shortly, “and your father, Draco, believes you may have some knowledge as to their whereabouts. Eight Slytherins - four from your year and four seventh-years.” He listed the names briefly; Hermione suppressed a shudder at the thought of the sapphire pendant, discarded in Elysium’s bath. “They appear to have vanished on the way down to meet their parents in Hogsmeade. Have either of you seen them this morning?”

Draco nodded. “Yes, Professor,” he said calmly. “I met them walking out this morning with Professor Snape. I needed to discuss my application to the Beauxbatons summer program with him, so we stayed behind in the Great Hall.”

Lucius Malfoy sneered. Dumbledore pretended not to notice.

“And after that?”

Draco shrugged. “We went to Professor Snape’s office so he could give me the reference he’d written - I’ve been in the library ever since.”

All of that was the truth, Hermione thought. Her part came next, and she was going to have to flat-out lie.

She wasn’t looking forward to it.

“And you, Miss Granger?” Dumbledore prompted. She met his kindly blue gaze full-on with her best Head-Girl look plastered firmly on her face, and a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“I slept until eight,” she said, “then joined Draco in the library.” Lucius Malfoy made an ugly sound in his throat; Dumbledore raised one hand in warning.

“You didn’t encounter any of the eight missing students, Miss Granger?” he persisted. “You didn’t leave the castle?”

“No, sir,” she lied. Dumbledore looked at her searchingly for a moment, then nodded slowly.

“Well, there you have it, Lucius,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t know what you imagine these two could have done in the first place, that would cause eight of their classmates to disappear. But the point is moot - neither of them, it seems, had either opportunity or motive.” He rose, his shaggy eyebrows uplifted. “Ah - and here’s Professor Snape, to shed more light on the matter. Good afternoon, Severus.”

“Headmaster.” Snape’s eyes flicked past Draco and Hermione to the pale, seething man in the armchair. “Lucius.”

“Severus.” Malfoy’s thin mouth twisted. “We’ve not seen much of you, lately.”

Snape raised one eyebrow. “No,” he agreed acerbically. “You haven’t.” Hermione watched, mesmerized, as he leaned gracefully against the doorjamb and raised one indolent arm above his head to brace himself.

Her first thought was that the pose was sexy. Her second was that it was calculated.

The loose sleeve of his robe had fallen away, exposing his upraised arm to the elbow. And Lucius Malfoy was staring open-mouthed at that bare expanse of flesh as if it were a snake poised to bite him.

In a way, Hermione supposed it was.

She felt nothing whatsoever for Malfoy the Elder but disgust and a sort of contemptuous disbelief. Even so, the naked terror fighting its way out from under the mask of his anger made her feel almost sorry for him.

As soon as he left Dumbledore’s office, he’d be obliged to go back and tell Voldemort that not only had he failed to recover their eight missing initiates, but that Severus Snape had managed to erase his Dark Mark. Oh, to be a fly on that wall, Hermione thought, and barely concealed a smirk.

There’d be no joy in Leadville tonight - that much was certain.

Lucius, it appeared, wasn’t going to stay to hear Snape’s corroboration of Draco’s alibi. He pushed himself resolutely to his feet and cast about for the shreds of his composure.

“You’ll be sorry, all of you,” he said, and the cold, certain malice in his voice made Hermione shiver. “You, Albus - captain of this sinking ship; you, Severus - you miserable turncoat … and you,” here he turned the full force of his punishing, impotent rage on Hermione, “you conniving, filthy little tramp, you’ll get yours, too. I promise you.”

His gaze rested on Draco, cold as the heart of winter, and Hermione felt a tremor run through Draco’s body. “As for you,” he said softly. “My son - my heir - flesh of my flesh - I expected more from you, at least. Consorting with fools, throwing away your future for this … this trash. You were born for better things than this.”

“Really, Father?” Draco’s spine stiffened; he chose his words carefully.

This was it - if he said what he wanted to now, he’d burned his bridges forever.

No decision, really. He squeezed Hermione’s hand defiantly.

“Born for better things,” he repeated with as much irony as he could muster. “And what would those be, Father? A pile of spareribs?” Stormy grey eyes met their shocked counterparts and locked. “Drop the bullshit,” Draco said, his voice shaky but determined. “I’ve never been a person to you - just another step up the corporate ladder toward the Number Two spot.” He took a deep breath. “Be careful, though, Father - get much closer, and you’ll have your tongue stuck so far up Tom Riddle’s ass that you’ll never get it back again.”

There. He’d finally said it.

Hermione gasped. Snape laughed out loud. And Dumbledore continued to placidly nibble on the end of his Sugar Quill. Lucius Malfoy’s face contorted.

“You’re no son of mine,” he spat. Draco laughed mirthlessly.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “how much I wish that were the truth.”

**