Le Deluge

~o~

"Apres nous, le deluge"

Attributed to Madame de Pompadour in 1757, and widely viewed as a premonition of political and social collapse in France, and of the Ancien Regime…

~o~

Chapter 1: Small things

~o~

Amongst the publications that clutter our newstands, and the roughly printed handbills that proliferate in more restrictive regimes, there has never been one as extraordinary or as influential as the Daily Prophet. Even the Red Tops of Fleet Street, screaming their conspiracies with all the gall and hype and deceit behind, cannot compete with the Prophet. Yet these scandalous sheets, reporting happenings as they wish to interpret are, and remain, a battlefield in both the Muggle and the Wizarding worlds. Odd then that the players of these games choose to wage war in an arena that they do not control or even understand.

Or perhaps not…

~o~

The sunlight filtered through the roof of the conservatory, bringing with it a gentle breeze that entered through three windows, propped open with sticks. The breeze carried the fresh scent of dew, and hinted of warmth to come. For in a few hours, when the sun rose high enough to breach the ivy-clad wall that separated the garden from the neighbour's, the heat would be unbearable to anyone with less resilience than a cactus. But for now, Hermione found it the ideal place to sit, elbows planted firmly either side of the Daily Prophet, chin resting on her hands. She shifted, turning the page and raising her mug to her lips.

"…caused outrage last night after condemning Lucius Malfoy's pro-Muggle stance.

Talking to Rita Skeeter, Correspondent for Ministry Matters, outside his London home, Mr Malfoy made this comment; "I am deeply troubled that the values of forgiveness and openness have faded so far from the heart of the magical community..."

Hermione snorted, tiny droplets of tea spattered the page. Unable to draw her eyes away she groped for a tea towel to mop up the liquid, wondering when the qualities of forgiveness and openness had become applicable to Draco's father. But as she continued to read she could almost hear his rich melodic voice stroking her consciousness, making her want to believe.

"…who that are perhaps a little less…fortunate than ourselves. We must help them to understand our ways, not castigate them for being …different. Of course, there is no pleasing some people. I'm sure that I need not remind you that only one week ago, one Arthur Weasley attempted to separate a Muggle-born witch from the wizarding roots that she so recently cultivated. I refer of course to the case of Miss Hermione Granger, a Hogwarts student who was granted special dispensation to have an off-peak connection to the Floo network from her Muggle home. Only an extraordinary chance allowed this travesty to be discovered, and the disconnection order quashed. I ask you, is this any way to develop understanding between the Muggle and the Magical worlds? I think not.

"I was particularly shocked to learn that young Miss Granger, and one of Weasley's litter recently had a falling out? I pray that this measure was only a coincidence, but could it be that the desperation of these meddlers is so great that they must resort to using playground alliances to justify their means and bring credence to their paranoid fantasies…"

Suddenly hearing a woman's voice that did not belong to her mother, Hermione rolled up the Prophet, then clutching the bamboo frame of the table, she ducked and tucked it behind a round bellied copper pot that stood on the floor. She hoped that the leaves of the plant within would hide it from view. As the door opened she arranged her face into an expression that she hoped lay between sympathy and understanding; she did this because of the woman who was with her mother.

"Hello, Mrs Beynon," Hermione said checking to make sure that everything non-Muggle was out of sight as her mother ushered her companion through the kitchen and into the conservatory. "Do have a seat."

Until a month ago, Mrs Beynon and her son Paul had lived next door to the Grangers; they'd lived there as long as Hermione could remember and until she and Paul left for school, they had been very close.

A month ago, Paul died.

It wasn't an ordinary death.

The local paper reported it as a freak weather condition, and after wheeling out an expert on such phenomena, they promptly forgot about the whole occasion. The other newspaper that reported on the story drew a slightly different conclusion. The flash was not lightening, but a Death Eater-style attack in which she, Hermione, was widely believed to have been the intended victim. She could still remember the headline, as bold and blunt as a Bludger; "Quidditch Star's Ex in AK Alarm."

That paper still ran regular conspiratorial analyses of the event.

Hermione grabbed her mug and the slightly damp teatowel and placed them on the bench that formed the border between kitchen and conservatory. "Would you like tea or coffee, Mrs Beynon?" she asked, leaning against the counter as her mother held the kettle under the gushing tap.

"Tea please, dear," replied Mrs Beynon through the scarf tied fussily about her throat. Hermione smiled and reached for the teapot.

"I hope we didn't ruin your work," whispered Hermione's mother apologetically.

"I hadn't started," Hermione replied, "I wanted to read the paper. Did you know that the Ministry nearly took away our floo connection?" she asked softly.

"Really?" her mother replied, inserting a spoon beneath the tightly sealed rim of a canister. The lid popped off, falling to the counter, spinning. She proceeded to spoon dry leaves into the green pot. "No, I didn't," she continued, "I suppose those nice Weasleys helped us out there. They helped us with the paperwork in the first place."

"Actually," Hermione said, placing her finger firmly on the lid to stop the spinning, "it was Draco's father who helped us."

"Really…Hermione." Her mother inclined her head sharply toward the table where Mrs Beynon sat, "We can talk about this later."

Just past her mothers elbow, Hermione saw Mrs Beynon leaning closer to the plant that masked the Prophet, and then she began to finger the wide leaves. "I must say, that aspidistra is coming along nicely. What's your secret?"

"Do you take sugar?" Hermione chipped, hoping to cut short the current horticultural investigations that might lead to questions that would be rather difficult to answer.

Mrs Beynon straightened. She nodded, and as she opened her mouth her expression weakened as though remembering someone she was trying hard not to dwell upon. "How was school?" she asked as if from very far away.

"Fine. You know how it is; essays, homework, exams," Hermione took a sugarbowl from the shelf and placed it on the tray that her mother had placed on the counter, "I hope I'll be Head Girl next year. Oh, excuse me, the kettle's boiled!"

The moment her back was to their visitor, Hermione began to talk quickly and quietly to her mother, breathless, like one who was greatly bothered by something; "The Malfoys have invited me to stay."

"To stay?" Her mother placed her spectacles carefully on the bridge of her nose, "All summer?"

"Just two weeks," Hermione explained.

"We can't possibly discuss it now, Hermione," she said shortly, adding, "We've got company."

~0~

In her bedroom, with her feet propped on the edge of her desk, Hermione mused on the debate with her parents. Even the prospect of spending a summer with Viktor Krum hadn't caused such deliberation. She hadn't said much to them about the Malfoys. It was difficult to interest her parents, more than superficially, in wizarding goings-on. It did however, raise the question of what the Weasleys had said. Ever since they'd met just before the start of her second year, Hermione knew that her parents had corresponded with Ron's. She twisted a strand of hair round her finger, idly watching the cloudless sky.

So, opposition from her parents wasn't too surprising. Why should they let her stay with a family they didn't know?

But eventually they had given in.

"Are you there?" an echoing voice inquired, interrupting her thoughts.

She leaned toward the iron fireplace in the corner of her room, curious to see the flames dancing, behind the now singed display of dried flowers. Kneeling, Hermione moved this aside. "How did you light my fire?" she asked.

"If you can't remember that, I can't help you," replied Draco's voice. Then the image of his head settled, cocked coyly to one side.

Hermione grunted, brushing charred petals from her wrist. "They say I can come," she said, "Still okay at your end?"

"Of course!" he shrugged, "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Did you read the Prophet today?" she asked wondering, not for the first time, how much he really knew about his father's affairs.

"Then I'd have nothing to do in the afternoon."

"Draco, I'm being serious."

"Not to mention tiresome," he sighed and appeared to stretch, "Actually, I didn't bother to read it but I know what it said. Didn't get much choice. Picture this: father struts in, crowing and cackling like an old rooster and flings it down in the middle of the table. It sent mother's scrambled eggs flying onto the floor. Then he proceeded to read it to us."

"Exactly what you want at breakfast," Hermione remarked in sympathy.

"Twice."

"Poor old you. Are you sure I can't reach through? You look like you could do with some comforting," she said, "I could get the oven gloves from downstairs."

"I thought we'd gone through that," Draco scowled, "Don't try to get through! Father's a bit paranoid about privacy and, well, let's say that you're unlikely to come through at this end with your limbs in the right place. There are…certain…measures on the grates that are actually networked. And, well I don't know how to remove them."

"Well, doesn't that give us a problem?"

"I'm not sure I understand…" he said.

"About getting to your house."

"I thought you knew the way."

"From Hogsmeade, yes. But I don't live in Hogsmeade, and if you think I'm going to let you twist me into breaking the law again, forget it! I'll not Apparate again until I have a license."

"Most people would be proud that they could do that first time...and without even knowing what the spell was…"

"Well, as you keep telling me, I'm not most people. So, can you send a map or something?"

"It'll not do much good," he announced, "We're Unplottable."

"You're really selling paranoia palace to me, Draco. Got something to hide?"

"Everyone has secrets," he said "Though the Ministry actually agrees with you. They revoked our status a few years back after… anyway, we got round it. Too many Muggles kept knocking on the door asking to look round. Father suggested that something unfortunate might happen to them if it didn't stop and… so how is Muggledom?" he asked suddenly.

"No change," she said, "I saw Paul's mum today."

"Who?"

"Mrs Beynon."

Draco's brow creased and he scratched his head, "Remind me," he suggested.

"Paul, the boy who died."

"Ah!" Through the flames she saw Draco tense, and she knew that he had remembered Paul very clearly.

It didn't occur to her to ask him why.

~o~

One week later, Hermione waited with her parents by the hedge that hid their shady garden and the Victorian villa from the street. The hedge was in need of a trim but like the road and its houses, it had grown comfortable with its identity and felt no need to smarten itself up. Her parents peered curiously at the glossy Bentley, which pulled up beside the crooked kerb-stone which retreated as it lost its silent battle to maintain order to the roots of the lime tree that lifted the uneven paving stones. In broad daylight the goblin driver popped open the door and stepped onto the pavement; because they didn't react, Hermione thought perhaps her parents weren't seeing the same thing as she. Shunning her father's offer of help, the driver began to lift Hermione's things into the boot.

"Strange little man!" Mr Granger said quietly.

"Don't mind Garak," Hermione said as if she knew him rather better than she actually did, "He's a Goblin."

"Like those at Gringotts Bank?"

"There's no other type, Dad! Thank you, Garak," she added as she noticed him ready, by the passenger door, the tip of his long nose just level with the top.

"Could you pass Crookshanks?" she asked and her father lifted the heavy wicker basket into her arms, "Thanks." She could see the cat inside, sitting stiffly with his back to her though the tip of his tail flicked against the grille, "I'll write, Mum. I'll borrow Draco's owl, then you can send it back by return."

"Enjoy yourself with these … people," her mother said.

"They don't have two heads," Hermione reminded her, though she actually thought it wise to be a little wary of the Malfoys, regardless of what new leaves they claimed to have turned. "Take care," she said, and with a wave and a flurry of bye-byes Hermione slid into the wide back seat. The door clicked shut behind her, shutting out the Muggle world.

The car purred through familiar streets, and along the coast, passing a coach that spilled its pale contents onto the wide promenade; soon the lights of arcades and fish restaurants were behind them. The coastline was green and even, and just beyond the sea glinted, silver against the blue sky.

Reaching open countryside, Garak put his foot down (if that was possible, by Hermione's reckoning he wouldn't be able to reach the pedals). The goblin wasn't talkative, though Hermione did catch him looking curious and resentful in the mirror; she knew that he was watching her because when she continued to stare, he blinked his jet black eyes and turned away.

Historically, Goblins were fiercely independent, rejecting any form of employment other than their own wit and cunning. Exceptions were common if it was with others of their kind or the enterprise promised them untold wealth. It made her wonder what his story was. Butling for the Malfoys didn't really seem to fulfil either dream…

There was plenty time to wonder about that later. Now the trees caught her attention and chocolate box villages that whizzed by, narrow lanes full of twists that the hulk of a car managed to negotiate with ease. Another town was close but this time they slowed to a more stately pace; Hermione dropped back in her seat. On the highstreet, people, normal Muggle people, wandered between Woolworths and Greggs and the butchers, naturally passing the time of day. They were back on a Muggle road - one that for some reason they could not bypass - though still unhindered by the tractor that was making such trouble for the other drivers.

Houses fell away until they were very few and far between, and finally they passed a crumbling flint encrusted church surrounded by a toothy graveyard. Then they turned sharply and swept around the foot of a hill into a wide valley.

As they approached, a pair of dark gates set in a butter coloured gatehouse swung open, then they drove straight on before going through a second set of gates. Hermione counted twenty-six twisted yew trees along the avenue as the house loomed larger, perfect in its symmetry. Draco hadn't been exaggerating when he had said that the approach from the North was impressive.

~o~

The car crunched to a halt beside the steps. Hermione paused at the bottom, gazing at the lozenge carved on the keystone, an open palm around which a snake coiled.

Not too sinister.

Then she climbed the stairs and stepped through the open door.

The air was as thick as she remembered, but that time she had Draco to goad her on. This time the experience was all her own. Nothing had changed except the light was now that of summer, not spring. The gallery ran along the front of the house, and to her left many closed doors were interspersed with alcoves that sheltered pale busts that stared, wide-eyed through the windows. Though it was tempting, she wasn't stupid enough to try and open any of those doors. She concentrated on the one at the end that stood open. It led to the drawing room. She walked with determination, heels clicking on the boards.

Maybe she should have dressed a little better, how were they going to react to faded jeans and a loose white shirt?

It was too late to worry about that now.

She pushed the door open a little further.

There was no one there.

The air that had swelled her lungs was suddenly released, then she breathed deeply, sucking in the scent of jasmine that rose through an open window. A long, diaphanous curtain billowed in the breeze, catching on a mirrored What-not. Hermione reached to detach it, glancing out onto the courtyard below; it was preferable to look at raked gravel than the dazzling whiteness of the drawing room, which was so ostentatious that it could only be described as tasteful.

"Take a seat," suggested…

"Draco!" she spun round, then darted across the room. He had been leaning, arms folded, against the moulded doorframe with a calm, contemplative, and above all satisfied look upon his face. Hermione threw herself at him as though she hadn't seen him for a year, and he caught her in his arms as she almost knocked him off his feet.

"Hmmm," he groaned, holding her close, "I could eat you." His lips were soft and dry against hers, coaxing. Her hand trailed over his jaw, his brow, into the hair that fell forward onto her face, tickling her nose. She was absorbed in the heady mix of lime and ginger that surrounded him, feeling him draw her ever closer.

"I'll show you to your room," he said, hoarsely taking her hands and drawing her toward the doorway, "I can't stand this boudoir. Mother's idea of fashion, and father's idea of a nightmare. Honestly, there's not another room like it in the place. I can't believe he lets her keep it this way! Come on."

Hand in hand they walked quickly along the hallway, attracting whispers from the Malfoy lineage who peered down their long straight noses and twisted their lips derisively as they passed. With a scornful glance over his shoulder, Draco led her up the stairs. Once upon a time he had taken her through the blue curtain at the left branch but this time they went up to the right, toward the back of the house.

The corridor faced south across fields, rippling grass separated from the smooth lawns by a ha-ha. In the nearest paddock, several horses grazed, each one as black and glossy as newly spilled ink. It was only on the second glance that Hermione noticed they had wings.

"Didn't I tell you?" said Draco, nuzzling the back of her neck, "Mother breeds them, don't you remember? … ah, I never got a far as showing you, did I. Thestrals, damned long bloodline. Seven hundred years." He paused, perhaps recalling what happened the first time she was here. "My parents will be about later. No idea where they've got to. Maybe dropping off the face of the earth or something useful for a change."

Whenever Draco started saying things like that about his family, he was very difficult. His fuse, always short, tended to burn very quickly and unpredictably. She didn't really want to start her stay with a row so Hermione said nothing and simply smiled and watched his reflection in the warped window pane.

"Here," he turned a handle and ushered her into an enormous chamber. Hermione tugged back one of the curtains and with an effort raised the sash letting a little light and air into the room. It shifted the dust that glittered in the air. More blue velvet formed the canopy of the bed and swathed a doorway through which she glimpsed a tiled floor.

"Oh, by the way, Hermione," said Draco, eyes flicking over her, "We dress for dinner here."

She bit her lip. "You could have warned me!"

"Never occurred to me," he shrugged, striding across the room and throwing open the door of her wardrobe and fingering her clothes, "Just wear a nice dress," he suggested.

"Thanks, Wardrobe Mistress!" she replied, running her fingers along the carved edge of the dressing table that stood beneath the window.

"Don't be facetious, it doesn't suit you! We'll meet in the drawing room at eight. If you need anything just pull that cord and ask loudly, it'll be done in an instant."

~o~

The moment he was gone, Hermione flopped on to her bed. She blinked. What was missing? It took her a moment, then she swung her legs off the bed and crossed to the open window.

Life, that was the problem; there wasn't any, not the buzz of an insect or even the chirrup of a bird. Perhaps the Thestrals drove it away…

Feeling the need to distract herself from that thought, Hermione pulled back the curtain to the next room. A bathroom. To one side stood a great, yellow claw footed bath, and in one corner stood a large mirror. Leaning down over the bath she twisted the tap in the middle and watched as the water gushed out, splattering over the sunflower enamel. Almost as an afterthought she popped in the plug, and as she straightened she noticed a row of bottles, some tall and jewel coloured, others dark and squat on a shelf above. Taking one down, she lifted the lid and sniffed.

Bath crystals.

As she emptied a liberal amount into the running water, which fizzled loudly, the room exploded with scent. She placed the blue glass bottle back between its more elaborate companions and began to peel off her clothes, throwing them in a heap on the floor.

Clipping her hair out of the way, Hermione padded across the tiled floor and slipped into the water, deep and clear and steamy. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift.

She didn't hear the door or even the footfall.

Draco knelt on the floor gazing at her. Her eyes were closed, head resting on a folded flannel, feet on the other edge. The tap dripped, ripples briefly distorting the figure below. Draco smiled and reached for her.

His fingertips touched hers, "Why so jumpy?" he asked as she flinched, sloshing water onto the tiles.

"You shouldn't be here!" she scolded, sinking a little deeper in to the water.

"I thought you might need someone to scrub your back," he said innocently.

"What would your parents say?"

"Don't be so middle class, Hermione! They're old enough to know what lovers do."

Reaching out, he took the clip from her hair, watching as it tumbled over the edge of the bath and over her shoulders into the water.

"It takes ages to dry," she grumbled.

"You'll cope," he said eyeing her glistening skin, "Now where was I. Ah yes." Running his fingers along hers, which curled over the rolled edge of the bath, slowly up her arm and over her shoulder and across her throat. Hermione quivered.

"Still want me to go?" he asked, craning forward with one arm braced against the rim of the tub. He could feel the pulse in her throat, quickening.

She shook her head.

"Didn't think so," his hand slipped easily over her moist skin, across her breast, smooth, like suede beneath his palm. His fingers paused over the mole beneath. "Your supernumerary nipple," he smirked, wondering if she realised how vulnerable she looked or even how vulnerable she was. "More proof that you're not really one of them."

"One of who?" She didn't move, and his hand was still, steady. He made no move to shift the sleeve of his robe, which was dangling in the water, sticking to her skin.

"That you're one of us," Again his finger flicked across that tantalisingly dark spot of skin. Then she moved, as she would if he had kissed her there. "A wizard, a witch of the true kind. You could use it to feed blood to your familiar," he added darkly.

Her lips parted, but before she could speak, he leaned further forward and brushed her lips with his. "Quiet," he whispered, pulling back. Her head followed, just as he had known it would, her head followed. He knew that she needed him but for now he would keep that little distance. His fingers resumed their exploration, across her waist, slipping round into the small of her back, raising her slightly as his arm tensed. It was agony, real pain and all just to tease her; to make her want him even more.

But the arms that snaked around his neck, drawing him downward, were irresistible to him, as were the lips that grazed his jaw. Soft words he would never remember were muttered in his ear as the warmth of the water surrounded him, seeping through his clothes, which stuck and clung and tangled about their bodies. Draco had no choice but to follow her lead; to relinquish control.

~o~

In Chapter Two: Strange Land … meet the Malfoys.

Authors Notes:

A huge thank you to my indispensable beta's whose notes and comments have kept me laughing. Wolf of Solitude, Inkbleed, I owe you a lot.

I've set myself a target of one chapter every five weeks, and I usually beat deadlines:)