The Art of Betrayal

Rating: M

Summary: Enigmatic gang leader Draco Malfoy is cunning and cut-throat, but with the local authorities in his back pocket he is virtually untouchable. Newly minted secret agent Hermione Granger is tasked with going deep undercover and infiltrating the gang. M for violence, language. Darkish Dramione. 1920s Muggle AU.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I claim profit from this work. All credit is due to J.K. Rowling.

A/N – This story is a continuation of a one-shot of the name Bad Blood in my Only Everything short story collection due to the overwhelming request for a continuation (thank you!). It is (loosely) influenced by Peaky Blinders as well as Great Gatsby but is not intended to be directly based on either and no previous knowledge or experience on either of them is necessary. It is intended to be quite a dark read so please be advised there will be violence, language, etc.

[Edit: I will not be including trigger warning's so please continue to read at your own risk. However, feel free to message me privately (or review) with any specific questions or concerns pertaining to the dark themes if you have any. Language, violence, character death, near and/or implied sexual assault are all present in this fic.]

I am thrilled to be starting another story with you, and hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Bad Blood

24 December 1924

BELOVED BACHELOR MISSING: A REFLECTION OF HIS LIFE AND LEGACY

By Rita Skeeter

It is with heavy hearts that Britain comes to terms with the horrific truth of Mr. Draco Malfoy's disappearance. He was pronounced missing yesterday after notably failing to show at this year's Christmas Charity Gala at Buckingham Palace. Mr. Malfoy was expected to give a speech as elected Man of the Year. His mother, Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, was present at the gala but as of this morning, when the official notice of Mr. Malfoy as a missing person was released, withheld from making any comments on his elusive disappearance.

In honor of Mr. Malfoy's incredibly charitable life and election as Man of the Year, the Daily Prophet has allowed me the distinguished opportunity of writing a reflection on the life of such a young, generous, and kind man and the legacy he left behind. For someone who has been in the spotlight for nearly six years, there is much to cover and I hope to do it all justice as we wait anxiously for any news on Mr. Malfoy's whereabouts and wellbeing.

It's interesting, to say the least, how Rita Skeeter and arguably almost everyone in the United Kingdom believed Draco to be some darling saint sent to cure all illnesses and stop world hunger or something of the like. I knew better. I knew exactly the kind of monster he truly was behind closed doors.

Yet, against every logical cell in my brain, I loved him anyway. Love. Present tense.

You know, reading this pile of rubbish, it occurred to me that perhaps I should reflect on my own life and legacy a bit seeing as it's about to end.

I never really put much thought into how I would die, which is remarkable considering how many times I've faced death. I guess dying for the sake of a loved one is a pretty good way to go. Courageous even. Brave. I can say with absolute certainty that I consider Draco Malfoy to be a loved one of mine, though I wasn't always so sure. In fact, from the very first time we met, perhaps even earlier, I swore to myself I would never fall for a man of his likeness. He was nothing but trouble. I suppose in retrospect it's no surprise that my falling in love with him is the entire reason I'm even in this mess. That I'm about to die. Or worse, get fired.

I know, I know.

I have got to sort out my priorities.

1 January 1920

Hermione Granger was the sort of person who was always prepared. At any given time, one would find approximately three pens, two bobbles, loads of tissues, and a novel on her person. She spent hours and hours reading material on subjects most people found boring or extraneous and studying anything that had even an ounce of relevance to what she was currently working on. Hermione Granger was, plainly put, a hard worker.

It was why her boss had not been at all shocked that she had been available to come into the office on short notice and on a holiday, no less. "It's urgent," he had told her. No other explanation had been given, and no more was needed either. "I'll be right there," she had responded, quickly ditching her casual attire for an office-appropriate dress.

She shook off the snow flurries and handed her coat to the doorman, then hurried up the stairs. Her work was on an ambiguous floor of an ambiguous office building north of the Thames, just like all of the others on this side of London. However, unlike the others in London – including those who shared the same plain building – her work was anything but ordinary, well technically speaking.

Hermione had always admired the police; the brave men – and newly – women who protected the citizens of London and provided them with much-needed safety from the crime ridden city. She'd dreamt of one day joining their ranks and contributing to the greater good, and just a year ago she'd been given that opportunity (the war taking most of their men from them had a lot to do with that, but nonetheless, she was grateful).

She'd passed the entrance exam with flying colors, but in all that time she hadn't once left the bullpen. Secured firmly to her desk and its endless pile of paperwork, Hermione hadn't so much as helped an elderly woman cross the road. It was going to pay off one day, she told herself every morning. They would see her value. They would trust her.

The harsh lighting of the empty office gave an eerie glow. Hermione willed her nerves to settle, the anxiety that perhaps today would be the day she would be assigned a sector and a uniform.

"Come in," Fudge, her boss, said. He fiddled with his bowler hat and gestured to the two uncomfortable looking chairs in front of his desk. She took a seat, her eyes flickering from Fudge to the dark man leaning casually against his desk. "This is Commander Shacklebolt," he added.

The dark man extended a hand to her which she shook, the scowl on his face unmoving. "Hermione Granger," she croaked. Suddenly, she felt very ill. Her boss phoning her in over the holidays was already foreboding, but to have to actual Commander of the City of London and the Metropolitan Police sitting in on their meeting was far worse.

"Miss Granger," Fudge began, taking a seat and sparking a cigarette. "Do you know why you're here?"

"No," she replied. "But I assume you are about to inform me?"

The Commander's eyes glinted, "You are here, Miss Granger, because you are invisible. You have not made a public appearance since your entrance to the force. You haven't even attended any of the trials."

It was hardly something she needed reminding of, but she forced a smile across her face. "That's true."

"I don't mean to offend you." The Commander insisted, though his tone was hardly accommodating. "You see, the fact that you don't have any strong ties to the force is exactly why you are here."

Hermione felt her heart flutter. They were absolutely going to fire her, she thought.

"Miss Granger," Fudge interrupted, handing her a clipping from a newspaper article. "Do you know who this man is?"

Of course, she did. Not one person in the entire city of London wouldn't be able to identify him with his fair hair, impeccable dress, and smug expression. Not to mention the fact that he was practically on every front page over the past year or so, since his return from the war. He had made quite the name for himself.

"Is this a trick question?"

"No, no." Fudge glanced wearily at Shacklebolt, then back at her. "Do you know him?"

"Well, I don't know him, Sir. But this is Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune and the new face of their company." She placed the clipping on his desk, then looked nervously between the two men, both much higher in rank and playing some game she didn't deign to know. "Why does it matter if I know who he is?"

"Well, Miss Granger, we have good reason to believe Mr. Malfoy is involved in some very serious crimes." The Commander stated. "We have tried to catch him, of course, but the man is very good at covering his tracks and losing our tails."

"Crimes?" She asked, disbelieving that London's beloved bachelor could be accused of such things, much less guilty of them.

"Mostly white-collar ones," Fudge informed her with a wave of his hand. He puffed out several clouds of smoke. "Embezzlement, money laundering, tax evasion… the usual for his kind."

"So, why am I here?"

The Commander exchanged a look with her boss, then clasped his hands firmly together. "We need an inside man," he told her. "… or woman, in your case." She blinked several times, barely resisting sputtering nonsense before these two very powerful men.

Two weeks later, Hermione knocked firmly on an inconspicuous door in the middle of one of the rougher sectors of London and said, "Fortuna major," when the eye slit opened. She was ushered in quickly, then greeted by a solemn Commander Shacklebolt.

"Miss Granger," he nodded, gesturing for her to join him and the others – all men – around the table in the dimly room. "How are you feeling?"

"Nervous," she answered honestly. He didn't say anything else, which was just as well since they both knew there was not much else to be said. What they were doing was dangerous. What they were doing could get her killed.

They were the Aurors, belonging to an incredibly secret organization within the police agency known as the Ministry which had been created to step in when the Metropolitan Police were unable or unwilling to step in. In this case, both were applicable.

"From this moment on," Shacklebolt told her. "You will be known as Penelope Clearwater, understood?" She nodded. "We curated an impenetrable background for you seeing as Mr. Malfoy will no-doubt look into you as soon as you make contact. He is notoriously cunning, be warned." She nodded again, biting her lower lip. His final words, however, she found most daunting. "This is the last time we will be in contact with you, Miss Granger. You will not hear from us, do you understand? You are going deep, deep undercover. Until you have unbreakable evidence, do not contact us. I repeat, do not contact us."

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. Understood. To reveal herself was to die. Mr. Malfoy was a very dangerous man, despite his glamor in the newspapers and his appearances at grand galas. He was not to be trusted.

"Very well," Shacklebolt sighed. "Get going then, and Miss Granger?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

This was perfect, just bloody perfect.

Hermione, well technically Penelope Clearwater, was supposed to be a gifted assistant (for an accomplished and wealthy family who was actually not fictitious but had been paid well by the Ministry for their involvement in this top-secret case). How exactly was she supposed to show how talented of an assistant she was and how beneficial she would be to the young Mr. Malfoy if she couldn't even drive a car.

In her defense, she had never driven a car. Had not even so much as owned one. Only the extremely wealthy had the luxury to afford such extravagance since they had only just become part of the market a year ago and were still quite expensive to own and operate. Hermione was, of course, not part of the upper class and had never been. Though her parents were not poor by any means, both dentists with their own flourishing practice, they still had never spoiled her with unnecessary purchases.

She wondered briefly if the brilliant Commander Shacklebolt had ever considered her actual background when creating her undercover identity. Surely if he did, she wouldn't be currently standing on the side of the road with the hood propped and absolutely no idea of what to do about starting the car.

The road she found herself stranded on was a quiet, winding one that was located on the outskirts of London between where the rougher sectors ended, and the posh country homes began. When the roaring of an engine brought her attention to the road, Hermione waved frantically for them to stop and help her; if there was any way for her not to be late to meet with Mr. Malfoy's financial advisor, then she would have to take it.

Except, when the car slowed and pulled behind hers, she nearly had a heart attack upon seeing who was in it. Hermione fumbled with some important looking wiring under the propped hood and yanked several of them loose, then wiped her hands on her dark skirt and slipped them quickly back into her gloves before stepping aside with a nervous smile plastered on her face.

"Hello," the tall, dark-haired man said with a polite grin. "Do you need help?"

"Yes, please," she breathed.

The other man followed behind his friend and offered her a beaming smile, practically blinding her with all of its golden glory. He was attractive, she noticed. Far more attractive than any black-and-white, grainy newspaper clipping could ever attempt to capture.

"Well, you're in good hands," Mr. Malfoy told her as he and his friend came up beside her. "Theo here is an excellent engineer." The dark-haired man, with blazing blue eyes, peered under the hood of her car before shooting his friend a playful smirk.

Then, he turned to her with an earnest expression, "I'm really not, Miss, just good at working with my hands." At the possibly double entendre, Hermione flushed furiously and averted her gaze.

Mr. Malfoy laughed, and it lit up his entire face. His brilliant eyes sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, displaying a gorgeous shade of silver that she imagined would be difficult to not be enthralled by. It was no wonder the papers were so in love with him. Spending just seconds in his presence had already made her heart do something murderous in her chest.

He looked at her with a cheeky smile, then proffered his hand to her. She took it, and he bent to place a kiss on her gloved hand. "What is your name, Miss?"

"He - " A cough. "Err, Penelope Clearwater."

If he noticed her almost-slip, then he was polite enough not to mention it, and Hermione silently counted her blessings. She really needed to work on that because she was sure Commander Shacklebolt would be most upset if she went and got herself killed before she even collected any notable evidence on this supposed criminal. Though, as he stood before her, she couldn't imagine him to be guilty of anything aside from his godly looks.

"I am Draco Malfoy," he told her, then nodded to his friend who was elbow deep in grease. "That's Theodore Nott."

"Just Theo," the man said, pulling a handkerchief from his pinstripe suit and wiping his hands on it. He gave her a sorrowful nod, "I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done about your vehicle at the moment, Miss."

"Oh," she sighed.

"Never mind that," Mr. Malfoy said, waving a hand toward her car. "I can get someone to come and work on it properly first thing tomorrow. For now, how about you let us give you a ride to wherever you need to go?"

"I couldn't possibly, Mr. Malfoy," she started, but he cut her off with a charming smile and beckoned for her to follow him and Theo to their car.

"I insist," he told her. "Also, please call me Draco. Mr. Malfoy is far too formal and only reminds me of my father." She nodded, then let him guide her into the front seat and tried not to flush as he sat on one side of her with Theo behind the wheel on the other. "Where were you heading to?"

She bit her lip, "Malfoy Mansion, actually."

"Ah," Draco exchanged a knowing glance with Theo. "I take it you're the interviewee that Blaise was scheduled to meet with, Miss Clearwater?" He must have caught the brief grimace across her face and laughed. "You don't like your name?" There was an unspoken inquiry that reminded her sharply of the warnings Shacklebolt had given her about how dangerous he was and silently scolded herself for forgetting.

"I'm not used to being called that is all," she replied, trying to sound confident. "Everyone calls me Penelope." She lied.

"Penelope," he repeated, testing the name on his lips. "I don't think you look like a Penelope."

She saw something glint darkly behind his eyes, turning them into a dark and stormy grey. Hermione fixed him with her best flirtatious smile, "No? Then what do I look like?"

"Like a shiny new penny, all bronze and eager to be of value." He told her, his words ringing unforgivingly true. The hint of anything dark and dangerous gone in an instant, and a brilliant smile warmed his face, bringing it back to its former glory. To the Draco Malfoy that all of Britain had fallen in love with over the past year.

"Penny it is, then." She dimpled, returning his smile before directing her attention to the road ahead, noticing that they were about to pass through one of the rougher, poorer sectors just outside of the rich, new neighborhoods.

"Draco," Theo muttered, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

Hermione watched as Draco surveyed the streets, then gave Theo a clipped response of, "Stop the car." He turned to her and said in a low, warning tone, "Stay here, Penny. Whatever happens next, do not get out of the car." In a single swift movement, both he and Theo were out of the car and lowering their newsboy caps – she noticed with heightened intrigue that the minute they did, every person milling about the dirty streets immediately fled and hid – as they strode down the cobblestone paths and turned into a dark alley.

Although she was terrified, Hermione hopped out of the safety of the vehicle and followed the two of them down the dark alley. There was no way she was going to collect and useful evidence if she didn't take risks like this, and besides, how else was she expected to discover exactly what crimes Draco was guilty of or how he carried them out if she did everything he told her to do?

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?" Someone snapped. His appearance was a stark comparison of Theo and Draco's with his suit not well-fitted and covered in soot. His hair, dark as night, stood on all-ends and made him look younger while at the same time the spectacles that framed his thin face and made him look years older. In reality, Hermione would've guessed his true age was not far off from hers.

"We own these fucking streets, Potter," Theo spat, taking Hermione by complete surprise with his malicious tone and vulgar vocabulary.

"Not these, fucker," he growled. The three ginger-haired men, all equally as filthy and starved as so-called Potter, standing behind him glowered at the two sophisticated men before them and the one to his right – not one of the identical twins – whispered in his ear. Potter's head snapped up, "Who's the bird?"

All of their heads turned to look at Hermione, and she felt her swallow get caught in the back of her throat. Her eyes flickered from Theo's, predictably hostile from his previous argument with Potter, to Draco's; his eyes were dark and unreadable, though she could tell from the tension in his shoulders and the clenching of his hands into fists that he was livid.

Luckily, he spared her any harsh comments and turned back to the others. "None of your business, Potter."

"Oh?" The other man taunted. "Is she important to you? Perhaps, she has something to do with the sudden influx of Aunti in the streets. Is that how you're funding your empire now, Malfoy?"

"No idea what you're on about," Draco replied, his tone shockingly calm.

"Oh, please," Potter scoffed. "As if you don't have a hand in that. I can't think of anyone else wealthy enough in this city to sell crystals that fine-grade."

"Well, you would know, wouldn't you?" Theo sneered.

The ginger beside Potter, his apparent second-in-command, flushed instantly at the slight and produced a blade. The rest of his side following suit, all brandishing blades at Theo, Draco, and now Hermione who had moved to stand behind the two men she came with.

"I'll cut your venomous tongue out of your mouth, you Death Eater scum!" He threatened, lips snarling.

Theo chuckled, "I'd like to see you try," then he opened his arms teasingly at the dark-haired man and stepped closer into his range with no visible weapon ready. "Come on, Potter, put your blade where your filthy Order-mouth is!" Hermione inhaled sharply, suddenly very worried for him; he and Draco were easily outnumbered, and she was quite the liability, but neither of them seemed worried. If anything, they seemed amused.

Potter brandished his blade, placing it just below Theo's jaw and backing him into the brick wall; his hand holding it close enough to his throat to draw a bit of blood while his other arm pressed the tall figure firmly against the hard surface. Theo merely laughed.

Draco had shifted to stand in front of Hermione, holding out his arm as if his strong stance alone would protect her from the three menacing, knife-wielding men facing them. He took off his flat cap, holding it securely in his other hand and waving it before them as he spoke. "Come any closer, Weasleys, and none of you will make it home for your watered soup and stale bread."

"Fuck you!" One of the twins growled.

Hermione was shoved hastily aside, colliding harshly with the brick wall opposite Theo; she slid to the wet ground and blinked back tears to see one of the blades sitting not far from her, and Draco storming toward the others – the Weasleys – with his cap angled toward them. She wondered briefly if she was about to witness his horrible death at the hands of three violent gang members but was shocked to see him hold his own against them.

His fist shot out, squarely connecting with the non-twin's nose and sending him stumbling backwards, hands flying up to catch the pool of blood coming from the shattered bone. While he was momentarily out of commission, Draco took on the twins, wildly throwing his cap toward them as well as his fists; the three of them were landing blows on each other almost equally, though she could tell from the growing cuts on the twins and the lack of blood on Draco, that he was the far more skilled fighter.

Meanwhile, Theo had turned the tables on Potter and had him pinned against the wall with his fists clenched around the other's lapels. Hermione caught the glint of silver in Potter's hands and screamed, "Theo!" but he had already bent his head and knocked it into Potter's, leaving him with a massive welt and cut on his forehead.

It occurred to Hermione in that moment that Theo and Draco weren't without weapons. The fold in their caps must have a blade of some kind in it, and she found herself bewildered by the brilliance of their weapon.

There was a loud grunt from the other side of the alley where Draco had rendered the twin's unconscious, their lanky figures crumpling to the ground with a thud. He stumbled backwards for a moment, taking deep and laborious breaths, then steadied himself against the wall and turned to look at her. In that instance of vulnerability, the last brother chose to throw himself at Draco and bring him to the ground, rolling on top of him and pummeling fists at his face.

"Draco," Hermione shrieked, frozen. Something in her told her to help him, to protect him. She fumbled around, crawling toward the blade the other man had thrown at them earlier and taking it between her trembling hands. Never in her life had she had to endure such violence.

However, before she could turn back to the brawl, there were grimy hands wrapping around her neck and pressing her face into the ground. Hermione struggled, instinctually bucking against the weight of the man bearing down on her, but then the voice of her trainer at the academy kicked in and she flung her arm out, intent on digging the knife into any flesh she could.

There was a disgruntled scream and then miraculously the weight on her lifted. Hermione spun and kicked the ginger man off of her with every effort she could scrape up, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.

Draco yanked the man back and shoved him up against the brick wall, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth. "How dare you put a fucking hand on her." He snarled. "Have you absolutely no manners, Weasley, attacking a woman?" He shoved the man against the wall, likely concussing him. "You and your fucking Order swear you're all high and mighty, when you're just as much of a filthy gang as the Death Eaters. More so, in my opinion, since we don't go around messing with innocent women and children, eh?"

"Innocent?" He choked. "She was brandishing a fucking blade!"

Draco twisted the other man's arm farther behind his back until he gave an agonizing cry of pain. "I don't give a single fuck if she had a knife, Weasley. She could have had a fucking revolver aimed at your pathetic skull for all I care," he seethed. "Don't fucking touch her."

Theo came up behind Draco and pulled him away from the man, then shoved him toward Hermione as he glared at the spluttering man. "Potter, I believe your friend over here could use some help." The dark-haired man Theo had been fighting was adjusting his broken spectacles and clambering to get up from the ground, sparing Theo a vicious look before angling himself toward his entourage.

Draco clapped Theo on his back, "Let's get the fuck out of here, Nott." Then, he helped Hermione to her feet and narrowed his eyes at her, "You alright, Pen?"

"I - " She hesitated, letting her mind catch up as the buzzing of her muscles disbanded into exhaustion. "I'm fine, yeah. Thank you." Without another word, he took her elbow in his iron-clad grip and directed her toward the car.

"You what?"

A stylish woman stormed back and forth, pacing before the fireplace of a grand sitting room with her hands on her hips and her hair – half platinum blonde and half jet black – coming loose from her previously perfect chignon as she whipped her head furiously around. Hermione's shoulders snapped back at the shrillness of the woman's voice, but Draco and Theo seemed unbothered, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.

"What exactly did you think you were bloody doing?" She demanded.

"Mother," Draco sighed, removing the damp cloth from his swollen, split lip. It was the only evidence that he had been injured in the street fight.

"Don't," she warned, wagging a disapproving finger at him before storming over to a bar tray and pouring herself a tall glass of dark liquid from one of the many crystal decanters. She took a large, unladylike gulp, then narrowed her gaze at the two men, avoiding Hermione entirely. "What happened?"

Theo's icy blue eyes flickered over Hermione, "Narcissa," he ventured in a cautious tone.

"Oh, forget about her. She might as well overhear this, too. The poor girl has already seen too much," her gaze darkened, relaying something that Hermione didn't understand but both of them seemed to, nodding along. "Any bloody minute now, gentlemen. What the fuck happened?"

If Hermione hadn't been shocked by their hidden vulgarity before, then she was now. For a family whose pristine manners and saint-like demeanor was always in the news, being adored by all, they were contrasting in nearly every way imaginable behind closed doors.

"Members of the Order," Theo supplied. "They were walking around the Wandsworth like they fucking owned the place." He, like Draco, hardly had any noticeable injuries from the fight, save for a few cuts.

The woman – Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione deducted – huffed. "I've told you. I've told both of you a million times! You are not to engage them the night before any public events. Now, how the bloody hell do you expect me to cover up any bruises – or these cuts, Nott! – so that neither of you look like the heathens you are in front of the cameras, hm?"

"It's not like we planned on fighting them in the middle of the streets," Theo groaned.

"A likely story," she spat, taking another sip of the whiskey. "You say that every time and it's starting to lose all its meaning."

"Mother," Draco began, but she cut him off again.

"Don't you start with me, Draco. You're lucky that the Order has absolutely no credentials in the media given their own reputation, but this one?" She gestured to Hermione. "Something has to be done about her. Why was she even there?"

"I told her to stay in the car," he said between gritted teeth.

"Well!" Narcissa chuckled, sending shivers down Hermione's spine. "That didn't work, did it, my darling son?"

"Clearly," he replied, voice clipped.

"That doesn't explain why she was even accompanying you two in the first place." The woman noted.

Theo crossed his arms, leaning against the velvet armchair Draco was lounging in. "She's the woman Blaise was supposed to be interviewing today for the assistant position." Hermione felt all of their eyes on her before they turned back to each other, continuing to talk about her as if she wasn't even in the room. "Miss Penelope Clearwater?" He said to Narcissa.

She choked on a laugh, "As if I'm supposed to remember the name of every bloody bimbo Blaise drags into here looking for one job or another." She refilled her glass, swirling the dark liquid around. "Doesn't matter, she's still a liability. She knows too much."

"I know, Mother," Draco assured her, his jaw clenched.

"Good."

After a few minutes of silence, Narcissa sighed and sank back into a loveseat, eying the two boys before her. "What the fuck were you two thinking? Of all people and of all days and with someone else there to witness your misdeeds?"

"It was Potter," Theo grumbled, his face contorting at the mention of the boy's name.

"Bloody hell," Narcissa murmured into her glass. Her tired gaze fell on her son, "Draco, you're really going to have to try harder to keep Theo away from that retched, filthy boy."

He sighed, a hint of a smirk twitching at his lips. "I know, Mother."

She emptied the glass again, then set it aside with a loud clang as it hit the marble table. "You think you two can take on Potter and – what, the Weasleys?" Theo nodded obediently. "– You think you can take them on by yourselves, hm? Rid of us of those good-for-nothing miscreants? They have bloody army, Draco! The entire fucking Order of the Phoenix would be on our doorsteps by first light if we dared to kill one of their precious members. You think we can handle that, hm?"

"Yes, I think, Mother." Draco told her. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, toying with the pink-stained cloth in his scraped hands. "That's what I do. I think." He stood, poured himself a drink and downed it before continuing, standing over her, his voice low. "I think… so, that you don't have to."

Narcissa didn't drop her gaze, didn't surrender to him.

A timid voice sounded from the other side of the double door, and Draco reacted by backing away from his mother and throwing the cloth into the fire. Theo, recognizing the signs of dismissal, straightened from his position and crossed over to where Hermione sat, watching this entire interaction in dumbfounded silence.

"It seems that dinner is ready," Draco said.

"The girl." Narcissa reminded him.

"The girl has a name, Mother, and she can at least stay for dinner, hm?" He replied. "I heard Dobby prepared his famous roast and it would be a crime for her not to have ever tasted it." At her dubious expression, he added, "Don't worry, it won't change anything."

"It better not."

Hermione felt her throat tighten at the clear threat on her life but found no words as her tongue sat heavy and thick and completely useless in her mouth. Theo's arm was on her shoulder then, and his lips at her ear, instructing her to kindly follow him to the dining area. Hermione exhaled a shaky breath, scared out of her mind and finding her previous blade-wielding bravery to be shriveled up and dried out, and followed Theo out of the room and down the hall.

The first thing Hermione noticed after taking a seat at Narcissa's enormous dining table was the inequality of men and women present. There were seven men, though all of them appeared to be around Draco's age, and only four women including Hermione. It was evident that this was not a celebratory dinner where the numbers would have been far more even given Narcissa's stature but instead it seemed to be more of a meeting.

There was mindless chatter as the plates were brought out until a beautiful, ebony-skinned boy stared at Hermione with curious eyes and finally said, "Who are you exactly?"

She immediately looked to Draco, sitting at the head of the table with Narcissa on his right and Theo on his left next to Hermione, for a sign of approval. He nodded wordlessly to her, something sparking behind his eyes. "I'm Penelope Clearwater," she supplied with a strained, polite smile.

The man sat back with a confident smirk, "Ah," his eyes surveyed her less-than-pristine appearance with amused eyes. "That explains why you never showed for your interview this afternoon."

"You're Mr. Zabini?" Theo began immediately choking on his water, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Hermione bit her lip, resisting the urge to ask what he thought was so amusing or if she had said something horrifyingly inaccurate and embarrassing.

"Yes," the other man assured her, shooting daggers at Theo as he chewed on a vegetable. "Mr. Blaise Zabini, though most everyone calls me Blaise."

From farther down the table, one of the other two women whom Hermione hadn't been introduced to (she hadn't been introduced to any of them, rudely enough, but she suspected they didn't find it worth it seeing as she had completely ruined her potential employment here) cleared her throat, or stifled a chuckle it was hard to tell, and looked back and forth between Draco and Narcissa. "I take it she won't be filling that position, then?"

"No," Narcissa replied. "She won't be." Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to hide her anger and disappointment at her hasty reply by drinking half of her glass of water.

Then, like children being let loose on the playground, the entirety of the dinner party began conversing loudly over one another about anything and everything. At first, it calmed Hermione but as she listened closely to their individual conversations, she felt less and less sure their sudden comfort in her presence was a good sign. It seemed that they no longer cared what she overheard them say, most of which being criminal in nature.

"So," Blaise said, leaning over to talk to the man next to him. "Marcus, what do you think of those new Tommy guns, hm?"

"Bloody fucking heavy," the pale, dark-haired man – Marcus – replied with a huff.

The man across from him then chimed in with a mouthful of bread to say, "That's because you aren't the strapping young man you used to be, eh?" He laughed obnoxiously, taunting the other. He turned to one of the women next to him, the petite blonde one of the two, and said, "What do you think, Daph, you think Marcus needs to go back in the trenches and lose that gut?"

The woman narrowed her eyes at him, not replying, and instead turned to the young woman next to her who had spoken up earlier. Her raven hair cropped and curled in a similar fashion that would likely make supermodels styling the new look like plain schoolgirls, immediately making Hermione envious of their easily manageable hair and perfect complexions and style.

"Pans, did you see that the trains will be down until the end of next week? We'll have to call a car to drive us back." The blonde – Daph – said. The other woman rolled her eyes and grimaced, poking uninterestedly at her peas.

"It's ridiculous," Pans complained. "I'm not sitting in a car for that bloody long. I want a first-class train ticket in my hand by the end of this week and a glass of Chardonnay in the other. Don't they know we're practically Death Eater's ourselves?" – the man named Marcus coughed, "Don't make me laugh, Pans," but she ignored him – "How hard can it be, honestly?" The blonde then nodded her agreement and the two of them immediately devolved into a conversation comparing what Hermione guessed to be designer dressmakers.

"– one of the finest firearms I've ever handled," Blaise was boasting. When the other two he had previously been in conversation with continued to argue about whether or not it would be worth it to bet on what Hermione presumed to be a racing horse named Bullseye because they knew the race would be fixed, then Blaise turned to Theo and Draco to continue. "It can fire off nearly nine-hundred rounds a minute. Not to mention it's got a stellar range."

Theo took the bait, "Get these from your beloved coppers, did you Zabini?" At the mention of coppers, Hermione felt herself drawn to their conversation and focused on what they were saying while trying to tune out the others. She also noticed that at the same time Narcissa and Draco were exchanging a series of glances. "How much did this little investment cost the company?"

Blaise scoffed, "Please, Nott. Don't insult me."

The two of them continued bantering but Hermione felt herself lose interest as the argument steered away from the criminal act of not only owning military-grade machine guns, but also getting them from the local police. It occurred to her then that when Shacklebolt had said that previous attempts to tail and infiltrate the Malfoys had failed it must have been because the local police were already in their pocket. It confounded her.

She was trying to school her face so as not to reveal any outright opposition to the mention of dirty coppers or what they meant to her specifically when she caught Draco's eye; his eyes, she noticed, were always a dead give-away for when his body was unreadable. At the moment, his hands were relaxed as they cut at his roast and his shoulders were slumped as he leaned to the side to listen to Narcissa's quiet commentary. However, his eyes were not light and silvery and playful like how they had been when she first met him. When he had been smiling down on her with all of his godlike splendor. Instead, they were shadowy and haunting and cruel.

His punishing glance reminded her how insistent Narcissa had been that Hermione was not to be trusted. That she was a problem that needed to be dealt with immediately. That she was unwelcome. It sent shivers down her spine and caused the hair on the back of her arm to stand on its ends. It scared her.

Mr. Draco Malfoy, the papers wonderful golden boy had a dark and dangerous soul, she thought. They had no idea. They loved him, they wanted him, they practically worshipped him. It was all a lie. He was not an angel, a saint sent to lift them up and save them from this sodden earth. No. He was the devil incarnate, a threat to everything good. He had a hidden agenda; she was sure of it.

The investigator inside of her told her she needed to stay on this case, needed to stay on with the Malfoys in any way that she could, and learn everything there is to know about their evil empire. Commander Shacklebolt had been on to something, sure, with his accusations of the Malfoys being guilty of their aristocratic white-collar crimes. Hermione figured they most likely were guilty of those various crimes, but she also knew now that there was so much more that they were guilty of. There was so much more for her to uncover.

This was only the beginning.

There was the ambiguity of the Death Eaters to start. Who were they? What was their goal? Were they just some high-class gang that ran the streets of London with violence and oppression? Or, did they have a larger agenda that involved a political movement with Draco and Theo as the new, young and attractive face of the company and a hidden vengeance?

Hermione's internal reverie was interrupted as there was a loud clatter of glassware followed by an immediate scream from one of the men sitting beside her. He flung his arms about wildly, throwing plates and dishes and glassware all over the place. His screams pierced through the room and drew everyone's attention to him as he scooted back in his chair hastily trying to escape from some ghost or another that no one else could see.

"They're going to kill me!" He yelled, his eyes darting frantically around the room as he swung fists at nothing. "They're going to kill me!"

Half of the men at the table were on their feet instantly, their arms around him and dragging him to the floor. Draco and Theo were on top of him, bending his arms behind his back and applying a pressure that made Hermione squirm uncomfortably because surely the joints couldn't handle that angle for very long before snapping.

"They're going to kill me!" He repeated over and over again, his face flushing a deep crimson as the men pressed his face into the floor. The others wrangled on top of his feet and torso, helping Draco and Theo keep him secured to the hard floor.

"Vince!" Draco boomed. "Oi, Vince!"

"They're going to kill me!" The man – Vince – screamed, though the more he said it the more it dissolved into racking sobs. Pleads. "They're going to kill me, they're going to kill me,"

"Vince, you are home," Draco assured him in a calmer tone. The man's sobs continued though it seemed that the constant shushing of Theo was helping to settle his fit. "Vince, you are home. You're not in France, you are in England. You are home."

"They're not going to kill you," Theo chimed in. "You are a man. You are not an artillery shell, Vince."

"You're not a whizbang," Draco went on in a quiet, soothing voice despite the increased pressure on the man's elbow and wrist, pushing it to its breaking point. Hermione wondered if the pain was actually helping this man or if it was just their way of dealing with violence. More violence. "You're not a whizbang, Vince, you are a human being, eh?"

His sobs started to decrease in frequency and volume, leaving him quietly crying and gasping for air. Theo patted his shoulders as Draco slowly let him go, signaling for the others to do so as well. "You're alright," Theo assured him. "Come on, get up."

Hermione, from her prime seat next to the commotion, saw the man's eyes come back to reality and take in the mess of the dining table and the group of comrades encircling him. He inhaled laboriously, "Ah, fucking hell, did I do it again? Did I do it again, Draco?"

"Yeah," Draco replied, mouth tight and eyes blank. "You did it again, Vince." He patted his friend on his back then cupped a hand around the man's neck and cheek. "You have to stop doing that, Vince." There was a unanimous exhale among those in the room who had witnessed this ordeal, and Hermione felt a sinking feeling at how horrible the war had impacted the men who fought in it.

Vince let out several shaky breaths, then locked eyes with Narcissa across the room. "I'm so sorry Mrs. Malfoy. I'm so, so sorry!" She responded with an amiable nod of understanding, then returned to her glass of wine without a word.

"Come on, Vince," another man said coming up to him. He was nearly a head shorter than his friend and about twice as wide. "Let's get you to bed, eh? We'll send for some hot whiskey and a bar of chocolate. Let's go, Vince. Let's go."

"Alright, Greg." He mumbled, head down and face flushed with embarrassment. Hermione bit her lip as the two of them disappeared from the dining room. Theo let out a low whistle, then patted Draco on the back before coming to stand behind Hermione. She didn't meet his eyes. She was terrified.

"Let's go, too," Theo said to her, one hand gripping her shoulder threateningly. It was a warning, she knew, not to disobey. She nodded numbly, and let Theo lead her out of the dining room and down the hall. The minute they were on their own, away from the commotion and watchful eyes, Hermione couldn't hold her tongue anymore.

"Where are we going?" She pressed him. "Where are you taking me?"

"You ask too many questions," Theo noted, not making eye contact with her. She glowered at him and wished he and Draco didn't make her head spin with their expert change in demeanor. One minute they would be smiling and joking and flirting with her, then the next they were withdrawn and cold and throwing razor-embedded caps at foes.

He brought her to another sitting room, a smaller one than earlier, and gestured for her to sit. She did. He waited by the door, seemingly studying the dirt under the white crescents of his nails. Hermione bounced her ankle impatiently, wanting to know what the bloody hell was going on in this godforsaken manor.

"I need to use the toilettes," she said, breaking the silence. He shot her an exasperated look, but she merely bounced her legs pointedly and arched her brows at him. He sighed, then nodded for her to go through the door behind him.

"Last door on the left," Theo told her. "You have three minutes."

Hermione hurried down the corridor, checking over her shoulder and thanking god when she didn't see Theo's icy eyes watching her. She quickly assessed the paintings on the wall and tried to recall which way she'd come in. There had to be a way out of this blasted house one way or another. Surely, she was bright enough to find one. There had been something extremely sinister in Draco's eyes as they flickered from her to Theo before the latter took her away, and she didn't trust it at all.

"There's something you aren't telling me," came a voice from behind one of the many doors in the corridor.

Hermione came to an abrupt halt, then placed her ear gingerly against the hard wood. When the muted voices weren't any clearer, she moved to peer between the slit in the door to see Draco smoking, his feet propped up on a large desk, and Narcissa standing over him.

"While you and your father were off at war, I was bloody running this company so don't bother trying to pretend this has anything to do with my being a woman." There was a brief pause as Draco inhaled slowly, then exhaled smoke rings. "I'm still every bit part of this as you are, so tell me. Nothing's changed, Draco."

"Except something has changed, Mother," Draco replied. "Father didn't come back. None of them came back." He puffed out several more breaths of smoke. "But we did. I did. So, now I'm in charge of this, do you understand?"

"Draco,"

"I'm in charge of the whole bloody thing, Mother. They all look to me. I'm the leader of the fucking Death Eaters now, alright?" He swung his feet from the desk, disposed of his cigarette in an ash tray and narrowed his gaze at her. "I need you, Mother. I do. But trust me, yeah? Trust that I will tell you whatever is going on in my fucking head when the time is right."

"That's a load of crap," Narcissa flung at him. She took one of the cigarettes from his pack and lit it, exhaling smoke herself before collapsing into the seat behind her. She shook her head at her son, "You won't tell me anything until it's too late. You aren't the only one who can think, Draco. What is it, hm?"

He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with careful eyes. Hermione took a moment to check her surroundings before returning her attention to what was unfolding before her. Perhaps it would be something useful she could report back to Shacklebolt when she escaped this hellhole.

"I can always tell when you're hiding something." Narcissa added, eying her son. "Speak."

"It's the opium again." Draco finally told her.

Narcissa placed the half-used cigarette in the ash tray, "I thought that was being dealt with?"

"It was," he lamented. "I was going to have Flint take a few of the other boys who want to be recruited to go and raid one of the Order's homes. Lupin. You know, the lanky greasy one?" Narcissa nodded. Draco went on, "But today, when Theo and I jumped Potter and the Weasley brothers," – "Idiotic," she mumbled – "I discovered they weren't the ones distributing it around the city."

"How do you know?" She asked him, her brows furrowed conspiratorially.

He cleared his throat, pouring a dark liquid from a crystal decanter into two matching glasses. He handed her one, then downed half of the other one. "They told me as much." He finished the glass, then refilled it. "They think we are the ones cycling the drugs around."

"Hm," she grunted. "That's a problem."

He nodded, then pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I know. We've got to figure out who's making it, selling it. We need to find them."

Narcissa stared at him, her eyes flickering back and forth, surveying the blank expression on his face. Then, she angled herself toward him and hit him over the head several times. Draco took each blow with little more than a wince.

"Draco!" She scolded. "So, that's why there's been new coppers on the streets every week? Looking for this Aunti lab?" His mouth formed a thin line, but ultimately, he nodded. "Draco, you know we can't be seen involved in this sort of business. It's dangerous for our men to be out there knocking on doors, pulling out rifles, and searching for the drugs. The new coppers haven't been on our pay roll long enough not to snitch! You don't want to lose another man, do you? Like Yaxley?"

"Of course not," he snapped. "We don't have enough members as it is. I'm not going to send our men scouring the streets of London on no intel. I'm not that thick, Mother."

She tapped her foot petulantly, "You're not going to try and use this as a new political strategy, either, are you?"

"What, and claim to be cleaning up London, ridding it of every ounce of opium? Fuck no. Like you said, Mother, we can't be involved in anything even remotely criminal. Appearances are everything." He sighed, fingering the empty glass between his hands. "Are we going to do the usual?" His expressionless face contorting slightly at the inquiry. "About the girl."

"I don't see why not," Narcissa shrugged.

Draco sighed again, exhaling slowly and loudly. "I'll do it," he told her. She arched a brow, questioning him silently. "Don't look at me like that, Mum, I will."

Hermione didn't catch whatever Narcissa said in response because there was the loud creak of a door opening down the hall, causing her to jump back and flatten her skirt as her heart raced. She hurriedly scampered away from where she'd been eavesdropping to see Theo emerge into the corridor with a revolver in his hand. He nodded soldierly to her, but confused, Hermione turned over her shoulder to see Draco standing in the hall.

The two of them came up to her, entrapping her in the dimly light corridor with no hope of escaping now. She felt her pulse skyrocket and breathing hitch. Theo flipped the gun around, tossing it back and forth and twirling it between his deft fingers.

"Come on, Penny," Theo said, trying to guide her further down the poorly lit manor to some unseen horror. She jerked her hand away from his outstretched grasp, fumbling backwards until her spine collided with the wall behind her. Theo sighed, toying with his gun before handing it to Draco, who leveled it to her head. "Draco," Theo warned. "Narcissa won't want you to get blood on her carpet."

"No, but it doesn't look like Miss Penelope Clearwater here has any intention of following us out to the garden, either." He clicked the trigger into position, then pressed the chilled end of the barrel to her forehead. "Any last words, Penny?" Draco asked, cocking his head to the side.

Hermione tried not to panic; she tried to read his eyes, but they were vacant, cloudy and apathetic.

"Longbottom," she said, her voice rasp.

"What?" Theo questioned. His dark brows furrowed. "What did she say?" His icy, merciless eyes shifted to a more forgiving shade as he glanced between Hermione and Draco. "What did you say?"

"Longbottom," Hermione repeated. "That's who is making and distributing the opium throughout London."

She watched as Draco's eyes refocused on the scene before him; on her. He didn't move the revolver, instead pressing it further into her skin and pinning her head to the wall. "How do you know that?" – Theo shot him an accusatory glare, "How does she even know about that?" – and Hermione had to admit they were both fair questions.

The second, of course, she knew from accompanying them on their street brawl earlier. At the time, she had wondered what they had really been talking about and had been racking her brain for the code words civilians used regarding the numerous drugs on the streets. Molly. Snow. Bennies. Aunti. It had been bothering her since she heard that scraggily boy, Potter, say it and it wasn't until Draco brought up the opium influx in the city that it had registered with her as to why it had been so familiar.

That would be how she knew the first question. Among her many days and nights chained to the desk, Hermione had overseen hundreds of files of ongoing cases that active officers were dealing with in the dirty, crime-ridden streets of London. The sudden appearance of high-grade, near-professional distribution of opium had been one of those cases. It eluded all of the officers, including her, until Potter had said something, had practically accused Draco of being responsible.

She presumed since his public appearance was vastly dissimilar to what he was actually like, then the same could be applied, say, to someone who was regarded as one of the most brilliant chemists of their generation.

However, given how Hermione came to know this individual, it wasn't like she could answer neither Draco nor Theo's questions.

"How the fuck do you know who is responsible for the flood of opium in the city?" Draco pushed. His eyes were slits with the pupils constricted like that of a snake, ready to attack.

Hermione refrained from biting her lip and willed herself to calm down and pretend there wasn't a firearm ready to blow her brains out. She needed to find some way to tie herself to their predicament. If she didn't, then she was as good as dead already.

"I've spent enough time around you today to know that information is key," she told Draco, surprising herself with how steady her voice was.

"Tell me or I'll blow your fucking brains out."

Her gaze flickered to Theo, noticing the tension in his slender limbs, then back to Draco. "No," she said. "If I tell you, you'll blow my fucking brains out." Hermione had never sworn in her life, not counting the hundreds of times she said bloody, of course, but she figured now was a good enough time to start. Every other woman in this messed-up family-organization-cult seemed to do so anyway. "Besides," she continued. "You need me alive or you'll have no chance of finding the Longbottom's, much less meeting with them."

He considered her, and Hermione let out a sigh of relief as he lowered the gun and placed it back in Theo's waiting hands. "Fine," he told her, not breaking their eye contact. "But you stay here." He nodded to Theo who disappeared down the hall following unspoken instructions. "As my mother keeps reminding me, you know too much. Looks like you'll be getting that position you came here for after all, Miss Clearwater."

"Penny," she corrected him. At that, a ghost of a smile teased at his perpetually downturned lips and Hermione took her first real breath since walking into this horrifying place.

The room she'd been put in was far nicer and far bigger than the one she was used to, though she supposed anything was nicer than the squalor she called a flat. It was clearly one of the advantages of living on disposable income, though whether or not that ridiculous income was funded legally and rightfully was less clear every minute she spent in Draco's presence.

Although Hermione was frightened beyond comprehension, she was at least glad that not only had she successfully avoided death that evening, but she had also secured a place in the thick of this mess. She was sure that combined with her investigatory skills and unrelenting diligence, her presence at the enigmatic gang-leader and beloved-bachelor Mr. Draco Malfoy's side would yield plentiful of evidence. Evidence she was quite certain would implicate him in more than what Shacklebolt assumed.

She wondered if her role in uncovering this bounteous information would result in a promotion. At the very least Hermione hoped to see a new uniform waiting for her upon her return and a case file that was not meant for her to file properly, but for her to read up on prior to engaging in its contents on the streets. Perhaps Shacklebolt would even offer her a permanent position on his covert Auror team in his top-secret Ministry organization.

With Hermione's mind racing through the endless possibilities, she found it impossible to fall asleep.

There was no chance of her escaping the manor – it was as impenetrable as a military fortress and as heavily armed; there were even men guarding every entrance and exit – so Hermione was not at all surprised to see that there was no one stationed outside her bedroom door in the middle of the night. It wasn't like she would make it very far in her night slip if she even dared to navigate the maze of the manor's many corridors.

As Hermione walked barefoot through the carpeted halls, peering at what appeared to be original Rembrandt's and Renoir's and Manet's, she heard the unmistakable screams of night terrors ripping through the quiet of the house. They were close by.

She shuffled quickly to the end of the hall, turning right when the screams continued. "Get out! Get out! They're going to blow the whole bloody place up! Move, Nott. Move!" It was Draco. She was sure of it. Hermione turned the brass knob of the door on her right and found her suspicions were correct.

Draco was twitching, spasming uncontrollably, in his bed. The covers were getting twisted around his limbs, ensnaring him further. She rushed over to him, throwing her arms across his sweat-soaked shirt and trying to hold him down. Pressure was best. Force the body to calm down and the brain will follow.

"Move, Nott. Move!" He kept repeating, quieter now. Hermione struggled to keep him still and clambered up onto the mattress in order to straddle him and put the full force of her weight into subduing his fit.

From her position she could see the pain in his face. The terror of thinking he was back in France fighting for his life and his country. She'd seen shell shock before, not just hours ago with the other man named Vince, but with her own friends. The ones who had made it home. The lucky ones, she thought bitterly. Up close, she dared to disagree with the papers who so quickly dismissed the horrors these men had gone through. How were they lucky?

There was a moment of complete silence, apart from their labored breathing, jarring Hermione back to the present. She met Draco's eyes; they shined a beautiful silver in the moonlight. Her face hovered above his, her hands positioned on either side of his head, and her body pressed firmly against his.

She could feel every muscle in his abdomen as his chest rose and fell to meet hers. She could feel the heat of his hands gripping her hips as if she was anchoring him to this world, to reality, through the thin silk fabric of her slip. She could feel his breath on her face and wondered if his lips were as soft as they looked, or if they tasted like the rush of adrenaline she constantly felt when he looked at her… and, oh, was he looking at her now.

"Get off of me," he instructed.

Hermione blinked. Perchance she had been imagining the gleam in his eyes. He was so very confusing, and besides, she couldn't afford to be involved with him in any romantic capacity anyway. She had a job to do. She had a mission, and kissing Draco Malfoy was not part of that.

"Then let go of me," she retorted, arching a brow. His hands instantly dropped from her sides, taking their warmth with them and leaving her to shiver without the heat of his touch. Hermione scolded herself for getting so intimate with him in such a precarious setting.

"Why the hell are you here?" He demanded as she rolled off of him. He sat up in his bed, throwing aside the damp, tangled mess of sheets. She stood off to the side of the four-poster bed, crossing her arms over her chest and feeling suddenly very exposed as his eyes followed her every movement.

"You were screaming," she snapped back. "It was pretty hard to ignore." His expression remained blank, but his shoulders tensed, and Hermione couldn't help but let her eyes wander over his extremely attractive physique. "Woke me up," she lied effortlessly. "Interrupted my beauty sleep."

A smile broke out over his face, and his shoulders relaxed as he coughed through several laughs, attempting to hide them. "Like you need that anyway," he murmured. Her heart thudded loudly and traitorously in her chest. He arched at single platinum brow at her, "You don't seem too shook up."

"No," she admitted. "I've had experience with this sort of thing before."

"Brother?" He guessed. She shook her head. "Father?" No, she'd been lucky enough not to have to send her father off to war, unlike most others. Technically, she was supposed to be Penelope Clearwater at the moment, but luckily, she couldn't recall anything about her experience with shell shock anywhere in the file and thus took it upon herself to curate a history herself. "Then, who?" He pressed.

Hermione glanced at her bare feet, then back at him, reveling in the charming and carefree version of Draco Malfoy before her. "Ex," she lied. Noticing that she wasn't planning on elaborating any further, and somehow refraining from pushing for anymore, he simply nodded.

He shifted on the bed, then stood and gestured toward the half-open door. "Let me walk you back to your room." Hermione bit her lip but turned toward the door without another word. As it was, he hadn't been asking. It was one of the many things she imagined Draco Malfoy didn't do.

Ask permission. Check the price. Obey the law.

"I find you extraordinarily puzzling, you know." He told her, giving her a slight smirk as they turned into the corridor.

"Oh?" She challenged, hoping he would grant her an explanation. He did.

"Yes," Draco continued. "You were the image of prim and proper when Theo and I stopped by the side of the road to help you, but then you didn't hesitate to get your hands dirty and sink a blade into that pathetic weasel's ribcage." He paused to spare her another glance. This time, she pointedly kept her face forward, giving him nothing. "You didn't react at all when we brought you here, in fact you hardly said a word the whole evening, but the minute I had the gun pressed to your head you gave me that which I most desired."

Again, she didn't meet his eye.

"How peculiar," he noted, mostly to himself.

"You did say I was puzzling," she finally said.

He let out a low chuckle, "That I did, Penny, that I did. Courageous, but also cowardice. Brilliant, yet remarkably stupid."

Hermione recoiled at his commentary, unable to feign disinterest any longer. She spun to face him, stopping before her bedroom door, and practically shrieked, "Stupid?"

The hint of a smirk twitched at his mouth, taunting her. "I did have a gun to your head," he stated. "If I were you, I wouldn't have waited so long to prove myself useful." She opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it, resolving not to let him get the better of her again. Cunning, beautiful bastard. "Don't take it personally," he went on, now wearing a full look of smuggery.

"I find that hard to abide by," she remarked between gritted teeth.

He merely shrugged. "It wasn't meant to be offensive. I told you I find you extraordinary, albeit mostly in a perplexing manner, and your idiot bravery has quite a lot to do with that." He leaned in closer, adding in a whisper, "It can't be helped, I'm afraid. By either of us."

There it was.

The gleam in his eyes had returned, and the familiar gleam haunted her as much as it excited her. It drove her mad with fear and longing all at once. Hermione couldn't look away.

Suddenly, his arms were around her, holding her against him and tilting her chin up so that her next breath was lost in his. Hermione no longer had to wonder if his lips were as soft as they looked, now she knew. There were not gentle, either. Though, she supposed, Draco Malfoy wasn't the type of person to stand around and wait for something to fall into his lap. He was the type of person to take what he felt belonged to him – what he felt was owed to him – and in that moment it happened to be her.

He shoved her back against the wall with little effort, knocking the wind out of her. His teeth tugged at her bottom lip mercilessly, then rolled it between them and sucking on it. She melted beneath his touch. Her hands buried themselves in his fine hair, tugging lightly at the longer strands that fell onto his forehead. In return, he yanked her own wild curls. Hard.

Her tongue flicked against his bottom lip, exploring, and he opened his mouth to welcome her willingly. Then, his hand snaked around her neck and applied just enough pressure to make her gasp for air against his lips. His hips flushed against hers, keeping her firmly in place, pressed harshly against the wall.

Draco pulled away from her in one swift movement, muttered "Goodnight, Pen," and then aimed himself down the corridor and disappeared in a flash of silver. Hermione leaned against the wall, one hand resting on her rapidly rising chest, and tried to catch her breath.

"Goodnight, Draco," she murmured under her breath even though he had been long gone. Reluctantly and half-dazed she returned to her bed and buried herself under the covers, her body still reeling from the kiss. Everything under the sun plagued her, and she felt herself get lost in the labyrinth of her mind until the early hours of the morning. Of the many concerns she had going forward, however, only two truly troubled her.

Would Hermione somehow be able to save Draco's soul and guide him toward the light?

Or…

Would she fall from grace and end up beside him on his throne in the pits of hell?

A/N - Hello and welcome to my newest WIP! Thank you again to those of you for requesting a full fic from the intended one-shot (specifically MarauderInSecret and cgashema) xx

The title comes from Taylor Swift and Kendrick Lamar's song Bad Blood from the lines still, all my life I got money and power / and you got to live with the bad blood now