October 12, 1999
Draco Malfoy watched with hooded eyes as Pansy Parkinson sipped her tea through perfectly pinked, pursed lips, her littlest finger elegantly elevated. She had been on his couch for going on thirty minutes now and hadn’t said a word. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. They had exchanged all the necessary pleasantries: she was fine, thanks; work was going well, how kind of you to ask; she had been to the salon recently, so glad you noticed.
That had never counted as conversation before, and it certainly didn’t count now. It was drivel, mindless and inane.
Draco had withstood the inane for an entire year, and he was bloody sick of it. It was the Wizengamot’s fault, naturally. They had sentenced him to four years of house arrest, the first of which was to be spent in total isolation to give him ‘adequate time to reflect upon his mistakes.’ It was widely considered a lenient sentence and, as expected, there had been a very loud, very passionate objection to it by much of the magical community.
Not that the wizarding populace was wrong to complain. It was lenient, and a hell of a lot better than the torture his father was surely enduring in Azkaban. Even though Draco knew this, he felt himself start to fray by month two. He was certain he’d have gone completely mad by month three had the Ministry, fools that they were, not overlooked a rather large loophole in the ‘total isolation’ clause of his sentencing: the possession of a house elf.
Elves were still regarded as property, probably much to the indignation of a certain bushy-haired witch he remembered. This meant that his elf, Greta, had not been taken away from him. Greta had been with him since his infancy. She knew his moods, his habits, his favorite meals, how he took his tea, his favorite bath oils… She was familiar, comforting, and doted on him unashamedly.
He was amazingly fond of her, yes, and he may have even defended her had anyone been foolish enough to speak poorly of her. But there was no denying that she was not in possession of the sharpest tongue or keenest mind. Her diction was occasionally backwards and the most stimulating conversations they ever had concerned the evening’s menu.
Draco had hoped “ perhaps in vain “ that Pansy would provide more interesting mental fodder. Her first visit in August, on the one-year anniversary of his original sentencing, had left him optimistic: she was lively and had jabbered on for the entire hour about what he had missed. Her second visit in September was just as lively, but that was because it had disintegrated into a shouting match within the first twenty minutes and remained so for the next forty. They had not parted well and, if her silence now was anything to judge by, she had not forgotten it.
He glanced again as she took another sip and, with a lackadaisical twirl of his wand, turned her shoes from neon orange to butter yellow. Before that they had been pomegranate red. He was rather astounded she hadn’t noticed, in fact, and was considering an atrocious olive color when she spoke in a light, pleasant tone.
“Draco, if you change the color of my shoes one more time, I will personally geld you with a pair of rusty shears.”
He quirked a blonde eyebrow. “A bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely not. These are Jimmy Choo; they deserve your respect.”
“Gesundheit?”
She set down her cup and saucer and narrowed her eyes. Her voice remained friendly, however, almost condescending. “Choo, Draco. Jimmy Choo. It’s a Muggle brand. They cost me almost seventy Galleons.”
Both eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Holy hell.”
She smiled and flourished her wand, returning them to their original pale pink. “Worth every Knut.”
“Why did you bother?”
She gave him the patronizing smile he had loathed for so long. He hadn’t missed that at all. “Fashion is about taking risks, Draco darling. If I’m ever to make a career of it, I need to do just that. And Muggle fashion is a delightful risk. Wizards never really got the hang of five inch heels. But Jimmy?” She smiled affectionately at her feet. Draco swore she purred.
He scoffed and went back to twirling his wand. He hated when she got all snooty. Think he’d be used to it by now, after so many years at Hogwarts, but no. Her tone was as grating as ever. She knew just the way to get under his skin. It irked him to no end.
“You didn’t visit me last week,” he grumbled, intentionally baiting her.
“Or the week before that,” she agreed lightly, ignoring his jibe. She folded her hands in her lap. “In fact, I’ve never visited you two weeks in a row. I’ve told you why.”
“Oh yes.” Draco barked a bitter laugh. “Pansy, the free. Pansy, the life-liver.”
“It’s not my fault my father didn’t get mixed up with the wrong wizard,” she snapped. “And it’s not my fault either that you don’t have more connections.”
“Connections I have. It’s friends I’m lacking,” he said bitterly. He knew that his Hogwarts posse had counted firmly in the ‘toady’ category, but that didn’t make it any easier to admit.
Pansy sniffed. “From what I’ve heard, you had your chance.”
Draco sneered. “And you trust the rodent’s story over mine?”
“Stop calling him that.” Her hazel eyes flashed. Draco saw the threat behind them but continued regardless.
“A Weasley by any other name is just as poor.”
“I can’t imagine why you don’t have more friends,” she noted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You push away the only person who tolerates you and scorn the ones who “ I’m sure I needn’t remind you, but allow me anyway “ saved your life. Have you ever considered that if you showed interest in someone other than yourself, you’d do better socially?”
“I haven’t asked anyone else to visit,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You’re lying.” Draco froze for a second. He had indeed sent five other letters “ one each to Nott, Goyle, Zabini, Flint, and even Bulstrode. That had been almost two months ago. No one had responded. He had since stopped expecting them to. He wondered what had given him away when he remembered who he was talking to. He couldn’t sneak anything past Pansy. Never could. He scowled at her victorious expression and repressed the urge to call her several impolite names.
“Fine,” he groused. “So how is your new pet?”
Victorious turned to smug and, as Pansy flipped her dark hair, Draco regretted asking. “Ron and I have been together for almost eight months now. He hardly qualifies as new. But he’s doing well.” Her tone friendly once more. “He and Harry are going through Auror training, so he’s been busy. Comes home with all sorts of scrapes and bruises. I’ve become rather good at healing.”
“Clumsy git probably runs into the spells…”
She hesitated, shot him a warning look, and continued more stiffly than before. “I’ve also been invited to their Sunday brunch. I’ve never seen the Burrow before. I look forward to becoming properly acquainted with his family. Not sure what to wear yet, though.”
Draco stifled his automatic response (“Rags”), but Pansy seemed to know what he was thinking. “Forget it,” she exclaimed and stood up quickly. “You’re hopeless. Owl me when you decide to give a damn.”
He launched to his feet and reached for her wrist; his hour wasn’t up yet, after all, and he hated being cut short. “No, Pansy, wait! What about… What about the Mu-” A beam of light passed not an inch past his right elbow and reduced his chair to cinders. “Bloody-”
“Draco Malfoy, you are an absolute ogre,” she stated calmly. She exploded his tea service with a second well-aimed hex.
“Pansy! What the f-”
She tore away from his arm and stomped over to the fireplace. “My advice, though I know you won’t take it? Grow up. And do it soon. You’ll be in for a very lonely year otherwise.” She snatched a fistful of Floo Powder and tossed it into the hearth. She stepped into the green swirling flames and turned around to glare at him, arms akimbo. “And for your information, Hermione is working for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She’s done more with her life in one year than you have your entire existence. My flat!”
And with a burst of light, she was gone.
Draco stood there, completely stupefied. Pansy had always been hot tempered and irrational, but the two hardly ever caused this much destruction! He was fond of that chair, and mother wasn’t going to be pleased when he wrote her about that tea service. It had been her favorite. He scowled and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Greta!”
The elf appeared and bowed. “Master calls?”
“Pansy had an episode,” he explained tersely. The elf surveyed the damage with large brown eyes and wrung her hands upon seeing the tea service. “Please clean this up. I’ll take lunch on the patio after you finish.”
“We is doing it, Master Draco.”
He thanked her and stormed away, twisting through the manor’s halls and bursting out through the patio doors with a loud growl. There, he paced, scuffing his shoes on the paving stones.
Pansy was being ridiculous. He had been trying to show interest in someone else, just like she suggested! So what if his query happened to be caught up in a slur? Old habits died hard, and that particular habit was one he was honestly trying to stop.
And had she called him an ogre? Sweet Circe, even her metaphors were nonsensical! Draco considered himself a man of many descriptors, but none of them were ‘ogre.’ Ogres weren’t locked away in castles, after all. Princesses were, and they were guarded by dragons and moats of lava, awaiting rescue by a handsome man on a fast broomstick.
He chuffed. No one intending to keep their bollocks would ever call him a princess, but he could certainly be mistaken for a cursed prince. Malfoy Manor could be considered a castle to someone who hadn’t actually seen one. His dragon was a piece of Ministry-approved parchment and his moat was the threat of Azkaban. Where his own metaphor fell apart concerned his rescuer.
Draco did need saving “ from boredom and himself. That fact was perfectly clear, and he didn’t mind admitting it to himself. But who? Pansy’s company was no longer reliable. No one else he had written had deigned to reply. That limited his choices.
Actually, as he saw it, it gave him exactly one.
If no one was going to visit him voluntarily, he would simply have to make himself impossible to avoid.
Then, with the kind of perfect timing he expected from his brain after years of plotting, an idea struck.
“Greta!”
The elf appeared again. “Yes, Master Draco?”
“Parchment and quill, if you please. I have some letters to write.”
October 14, 1999
Granger,
Pansy has informed me of your continued employment at the Ministry. Congratulations “ you have proven once and for all that being an over-achieving know-it-all is a lucrative business. If you could pry your nose out of whatever horridly dense volume you’re currently using as a substitute for human interaction, perhaps you could put your mental powers to good use by assisting me. My question is simple: what advice would you give an enterprising Billywig keeper?
Malfoy
October 14, 1999
Malfoy,
None except this: you would do better to abandon whatever harebrained scheme you’re hatching. A Billywig hive is tremendously expensive to import and sustain, as well as illegal to those without the proper license. A license, incidentally enough, you are ineligible for. And don’t bother arguing it. I checked.
Granger
October 15, 1999
Granger,
I have to admit I’m disappointed. You’ve barreled straight to the point of my letter and completely ignored all my attempts at conversation. Some would consider that impolite, you know. And surely a friend in Regulation and Control could do something about that pesky ineligibility issue. A bloke needs a hobby, after all, and there’s quite a market for reasonably priced stings. I’d even cut you in. Say, two percent? Think about it.
Malfoy
October 15, 1999
Malfoy,
When the primary attempts at conversation are themselves impolite, you can’t honestly expect anything but the same in return. And let me make this perfectly clear:
I will not help you enterprise an underground Billywig breeding program. Ever.
As for a hobby, try knitting.
Pansy told me about your fight, by the way. I assume this is your pathetic go at making peace. Well, consider it successful. I’ve told her that I’ve forgiven you completely and that your letters have been nothing less than cordial. Both lies, of course, as you’re obviously still a complete git. However, you’ve managed to fool her and, as far as I know, she forgives you. So please stop writing.
Granger
October 15, 1999
Three percent.
-D.M.
October 16, 1999
Five.
-D.M.
October 17, 1999
Eight.
-D.M.
October 17, 1999
You’re a Galleon-grubbing harpy, Granger, I hope you realize that. Nine and a half. That’s as high as I’ll go.
Malfoy
October 19, 1999
Malfoy,
I left on Friday with a clean desk and an empty inbox only to discover this morning that my chair is covered in owl pellets, my blotter thick with feces, and my inbox full of your damned letters. I am honestly flabbergasted as to why you thought it necessary to send me twenty of the same offer when I have already said no to your first. And where the devil did you get so many owls?
By the by, all of your offers were scornfully low. The asking price for a scoop of potion-grade Billywig stings is four Galleons and Australia currently has a monopoly on the research. If I were to enter into a venture with you (don’t get your hopes up “ the answer is still, and always will be, no), I would require fifty-five percent of your total profits as well as input into the market price and research prospects. I would warn you not to underestimate me, Malfoy, but I’m sure the counsel would fall upon deaf ears.
And since warnings and reason don’t seem to resonate with you anyway, perhaps this will work better. If there is so much as a whisper of illicit activity at Malfoy Manor concerning Billywigs or any other magical creature, I will come out there and throttle you myself.
Granger
October 19, 1999
Granger,
Is that a threat?
-D.M.
October 19, 1999
Malfoy,
It’s a promise.
-H.G.
October 21, 1999
Dearest Pansy,
Despite not receiving a response, I know you’ve received my last two letters. Please, I am begging you, do me this one favor. I will never call Weasley a foul name again, I swear it. And I’ll buy you a new pair of Achoos. Yours sincerely,
Draco
October 22, 1999
Draco,
Two pairs.
Pansy
October 22, 1999
Pansy,
As ever, your impassioned negotiating has won me over. Two pairs.
Draco
October 22, 1999
Draco,
I’ll send over the catalogue tomorrow. My selections will be circled in red. Size seven, please. And I have to ask, why this?
Pansy
October 22, 1999
Pansy,
Best you not know. Plausible deniability and all that. Ever yours,
Draco
October 28, 1999
Hermione stood with her shoulders straight and her head held high. It was her power stance, and according to her father, she had invented it on her first day of nursery school at the tender age of three. Her mum had ushered her into the classroom and Hermione had stood there as if she owned it, not the least bit shy or afraid. That was her parents’ impression, at least. As it was, Hermione remembered that day. She had been afraid of that new place, of all of those new people, and it went against every instinct she had to stand there with her head up and her eyes dry instead of turning tail and clutching her father’s legs for protection.
A little less than two decades later found the situation altered slightly. Instead of standing beneath a brightly painted doorway, she was beneath a marble portico supported by four Ionic-style pillars, also marble. Instead of a backpack, she carried a satchel and a clipboard. Her markers and crayons were now ink and quills, and her jumper and denims were a new set of flattering, dark blue robes from Gladrags.
There was, however, that same small fear sprouting in the pit of her stomach. That jumpy, inexplicable anxiety which made her underarms dampen, her heart flutter, and her bladder suddenly seem too full.
Though she really should have peed before coming all the way out here. Two cups of tea this morning, knowing full well what was on her schedule? That was just foolish. The stuff moved right through her.
Hermione shook herself and took a deep breath through her nose. It was too late to worry about something as petty as urination. She would simply have to hold it until she finished. If it got really bad, she supposed she could ask to use the loo. Her cheeks flushed at the very thought of it. She cursed, turning her wand on herself to cool her flaming face and return it to a slightly more acceptable hue. She wanted to look as composed as possible for this meeting though, considering who she was seeing, her self-possession probably meant very little.
With this cheery thought doing wonders for her confidence, Hermione took another deep breath and lifted the golden doorknocker. A dragon “ how original. It fell with a resounding boom. She flinched. The noise had been loud enough to wake trolls, yet the door remained closed for two entire minutes. She reached out to lift the knocker again and jumped backward as the dragon opened its eyes. They were emerald. Literally emeralds, each about the size of a pea and shining with all the unreadable intensity of a real dragon’s. Its tongue tasted the air with a lazy flick and whatever it scented “ probably a combination of perfume and sweat (damn her nerves!) “ seemed to awaken it. It regarded her again, and she swore she saw a mixture of surprise and glee flit across its reptilian features. Then it smirked “ smirked! “ and disappeared into the door with a hiss, a wisp of smoke, and the smell of burning.
Hermione raised her hand to touch where the dragon had melted into the wood, but the surface moved away from her before she could lay a finger on it. She gasped in surprise, hand still outstretched like some sort of well-dressed, half-committed zombie.
“Granger.” Her name was a drawl; she resisted the urge to wince. She really hadn’t missed that tone. She drew her arm back immediately to clutch at her satchel, trying not to look as anxious as she felt. “To what do I owe this most dubious pleasure?”
“Mr Malfoy, I-”
“Draco,” he interrupted sternly. “Call me Draco, Granger, or just Malfoy, if you prefer. No need to be formal.”
It was actually the perfect time to be formal, but Hermione knew she would have to pick her battles. This was one that would be best left alone. So she nodded. “Malfoy, then. I’m here on behalf of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Beast Division. There has been a rumor circulating of late that you have a-”
“Beast Division? Not championing elf rights anymore?”
Caught off-guard at being interrupted again, she answered before she could stop herself. “Side project. They seem hesitant to be championed.”
“That’s because they’re elves, Granger. They like the work.”
“They would also like rights and wages, if they knew what they were missing. Studies have shown that-”
“I don’t give a gnome’s backside what your blessed studies have shown. Are you going to tell me what you’re doing at my door, or are you simply content to waste my time?”
“Waste your time?” she rebutted quickly, finally finding her feet. Her anxiousness abated. “Like you wasted mine with those bloody letters? Now why on earth would I do that?” She glared at him, her arms crossed, daring him to deny it.
The ghost of a grin pulled at his lips. “My proposal was legitimate and my offers more than fair. You’ll be sorry you turned it down, Granger.”
“And how do you know I haven’t obtained a Billywig keeper’s license on my own, hm? And I won’t be cutting you in.” Draco’s eyes widened. She felt a surge of satisfaction and grinned.
“I never would’ve taken you for a thief, Granger.”
She chuckled indulgently. “Malfoy, don’t be so self-centered. Do you really think you’re the only person who’s ever considering keeping Billywigs? For all you know, I had this idea before you wrote me.”
His silver eyes narrowed. “That’s very… Slytherin of you.” She tried, and failed, not to look smug. That was probably as close to a compliment as she would ever get from him. “Now that you’ve proven just how far the righteous can fall, will you leave? I have work to do.”
“As do I. There’s been a rumor circulating tha-”
“Since when has the Ministry put stock in rumors? Especially rumors involving me?”
“Since rumors about you often happen to be fact more often than fiction,” she deadpanned. “And will you please, for the love of Agrippa, quit interrupting me?”
He smirked. It was the same expression she had seen on the dragon, complete with the sly eyes, though they were silver now instead of emerald. Her stomach did a weird quickstep as he gestured for her to continue.
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “There has been a rumor circulating that you’ve taken to experimenting.”
Draco nodded. “The Billywig license was obviously not forthcoming and a bloke does need a hobby.”
“Knitting didn’t work out?”
“Splendidly, in fact,” he said lightly. “I’ve made the world’s longest scarf, though it may attempt to strangle its wearer. Care to try it on?”
She ignored him. “Experimentation on magical creatures is dangerous and unethical.”
“Ah, so this is you making good on your threat?”
“Obviously.”
“Well, you needn’t worry about a thing, Granger.”
She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “The rumors are unfounded. That’s good to hear. I was afraid-”
“My experiments are both harmless and humane.”
“-that you had… Wait, what?” The weight returned, significantly heavier than before. This was not going to go well. She could feel it. “You have been experimenting?”
Draco nodded. “But the Donkeyfly is harmless, I assure you.”
Her mouth was suddenly dry. “The what?” she croaked.
“The Donkeyfly. At least, that’s what I’ve been calling it. I have to do some market research before anything is finalized.”
“Come again?” She felt breathless, dizzy.
“Yes, Granger. Merlin, has your hearing gone? Donkeyfly. I assume that’s what you’ve heard about. I’m just testing the waters, so to speak. Trying to attract an investor. You know how fickle the market can be. I don’t want to begin production prematurely.”
“Malfoy, I’m afraid I don’t… Do you mean to say that you have one?”
He looked at her as if she had grown tusks. “Of course I do. It’s a bad business practice to promise something you’re not sure you can deliver.”
Draco stopped there and silence fell between them for a few minutes. Blessed, blessed silence, because Hermione wasn’t sure she could have absorbed this news in any other way.
Ron had given her the tip. He had said that a ‘reliable source’ had told him about ‘strange braying’ coming from Malfoy Manor and of a ‘very weird shape’ zooming about the heavens.
Hermione had thought nothing of it at first. Draco Malfoy may have gone a little strange during his year of isolation (as evidenced by his letters to her), but he was the least likely person to go the infamous ‘Aberforth route.’ Ever since his unpleasant encounter with Buckbeak “ or, rather, Witherwings “ Draco had been very vocal about his dislike of large, flying magical creatures. The disconnect between that nearly decade-old aversion and what he was supposedly doing now was suspicious, to say the least.
She furrowed her brow and studied him blatantly. He looked the same. Pale. Lean. Blond. Rougher around the edges than he had been at Hogwarts but other than that, largely unchanged. But strange things happened to people during isolation. Perhaps Draco was further gone than she had thought. She took another deep inhale (her third of the day), ignored his raised eyebrow and smirking lips, and unsnapped the outer pocket of her satchel, withdrawing her search warrant.
“Malfoy, you are hereby ordered to lead me to this beast so that I can conduct a preliminary investigation to determine whether or not this matter requires further legal action.” She shoved the parchment into his hands and stood back on her heels, waiting for the inevitable argument. Draco simply tossed the parchment aside and turned around.
“If you wanted to see her, Granger, you only needed to ask. No need for a warrant.” He stopped several steps in and glanced over his shoulder. “Coming?”
More evidence of his insanity. It became clearer and clearer each moment. Hermione closed her gaping mouth and crossed the threshold, catching up to him in five steps. He led her through the manor silently. Her anxiety reared its head as their shoes clicked on the marble floors, the sound reverberating through the main hall. She remembered how her screams had echoed, too; how cold the floor had been beneath her cheek; how her fingers had bled as they scrabbled for purchase over the stone, finding nothing but clawing nonetheless, beyond her control, desperate for escape...
Hermione fought a shudder. She thought she had gotten past what had happened here, thought she had worked it out on her own. Apparently, she had not. Perhaps another visit to her Healer was in order…
“It didn’t happen close by,” Draco said softly, as if reading her thoughts. “So don’t bother looking for it.”
She grimaced, though he did not see it. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied. Draco made a grunting, incredulous sort of sound and led on. Soon, they were free from the manor’s empty halls and back under the sun. Hermione gaped at scene. Gently hilled fields stretched for acres. Beyond that was forest painted with all the colors of autumn. The air was crisp and clean. Maybe it was just being free of those oppressive halls, but Hermione felt strangely uplifted.
Draco cleared his throat. She started and caught his gaze, which had become entirely too probing for her comfort. She tried not to fidget in the awkward silence. “Is that… Is that its paddock?” She pointed to a fenced field a few hundred yards away.
“Keen observation, Granger,” he drawled and headed toward the enclosure. Hermione released a breath and followed. “You’ll notice that the Donkeyfly has plenty of room to roam and graze,” Draco said, gesturing to the expanse of field. “She’s housed in the barn during ill weather.” He pointed to a well-maintained stone-and-mortar structure in the distance. “She has unlimited access to meadow hay, a mineral lick, and flowing fresh water. She likes carrots as a snack. Would you like to see her stall?”
She sighed in exasperation. “It’s not the conditions that concern me, Malfoy, it’s the fact that it even exists!” She glanced around the field and frowned. “Where… Um… Where is it?”
Draco smiled then whistled sharply. A large shadow passed overhead, accompanied by a loud bray. Hermione cried out and tossed her hands over her head as a pair of hooves sailed close to her skull. Draco laughed outright and extended a friendly hand to the beast that had landed inside the paddock.
Well, it was certainly a donkey. Its mane was short and bristly, its face rather endearing with large, expressive brown eyes, thick eyelashes, and long, strangely shaped ears. Its hide was boulder-grey and looked tinged with green at certain angles. But aside from that trick of the light, it was unremarkable.
Except, of course, that it hovered several inches off the ground.
“It flies?”
Another ‘Granger-grew-tusks’ look. Those had to stop. “What did you expect her to do? Tunnel?”
Donkeyfly. Donkeyfly.
Merlin. Hermione rubbed her forehead. She felt quite unable to form sentences longer than one word, so she didn’t bother.
“How?”
Draco scoffed and patted the Donkeyfly’s muzzle. “Trade secret.” Then he winked at it. Winked. And insanity must have been catching that day because damned if she didn’t imagine it winking back.
The headache blossoming behind her eyes intensified. She knew house arrest was going to be tough on Draco, who was used to having the world on a string to jerk up and down at his whimsy. But this? This was extreme. A sprawling place like Malfoy Manor should have staved off cabin fever for more than one measly year.
“Carrot?”
Hermione pressed her palms into her eyes. “No, thank you.”
“Pardon?”
“You just offered me a carrot,” she said impatiently, moving her fingers to her temples. “I said I don’t want one.”
“What?”
“Carrot?”
Hermione lowered her hands slowly and looked at Draco with refreshed horror. He had fished a bag of baby carrots out of his trouser pocket and was holding one out to the donkey. Donkeyfly.
She looked from one to the other and, if she hadn’t seen its lips move, Hermione would never have believed it possible.
“Carrot?”
Her mouth dropped open. “No. Malfoy, tell me this… No!”
Draco grinned as the Donkeyfly took another carrot out of his open palm. “It’s a talking, flying donkey, Granger.” He might as well have been describing the weather.
“Is it…” She swallowed thickly, remembering the wink she thought “ now ardently hoped “ she had imagined. “Is it sentient?”
Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “Not sure. She can’t say much. Usually just asks for food or company. Certainly has potential, though, doesn’t it?”
She felt faint. Honestly faint. “Malfoy…” she said weakly, clutching the fencepost. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea the consequences of this? Experimenting on an animal, charming it into fly… That’s one thing. But giving it the power of speech? Changing its anatomy and physiology for your own gain? That’s…”
“Inhumane? Cruel? Evil?”
She stared at him with wide eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. You’re up for review in a few years. You could be let out early! Something like this will delay that, possibly forever. And your chances of employment afterwards… No one will want to hire someone involved in something like… Something like this.”
“Oh Granger, I didn’t know you cared.”
She ignored him. “What the hell were you thinking?”
He smiled. “Flying mounts are a niche market. Thestrals are great, but they’re wild, difficult to keep, and only a few people can actually see them. Hippogriffs are temperamental and can be deadly. Dragons… Well, only three people I know have ridden a dragon and lived to tell about it.” She blushed as he eyed her significantly. “A donkey is easy to care for, easy to handle. A little intractable at times, sure, but that opens up another market for Muleflys. Donkeys are hardy. They can make it through all types of weather. Brooms restrict travel to clear days “ a rarity here in Britain, as you well know. They’re reliable, strong, and their survival instinct is a built-in safety mechanism. Good for families.” He smiled again and patted his creation fondly.
Hermione’s jaw had dropped open again. “You’ve lost your mind,” she said faintly.
“And isn’t it fun?” he chuckled. “I thought sanity was surely the way to go, but madness is simply intoxicating!” He rounded on her then, and something in him shifted. “Why don’t you join me in it, Hermione?” She gasped and took half a step away from him. His Cheshire cat’s grin spread wider and his voice dropped an octave or two. “Hermione, Hermione, always so buttoned and starched. Let loose your hair and unchain your inhibitions. Join me in this dance of fire and fancy, won’t you? Or are you afraid you might enjoy it?”
He was far too close to her. She could smell his breath, feel the heat of his body, see the light gold stubble on his chin and cheeks. And his words… His words were satin and sin. Had it not been for the Donkeyfly’s bray, she might have… Well, she didn’t know what she might have done. Passed out, probably.
“No.” Draco quirked a blonde eyebrow, and Hermione took a large backward step, which did nothing to cool her inflamed cheeks. “No. This… You… This situation has gotten too far out of hand! I’m sorry, Malfoy, but I have no other choice but to report this!” She dug through her satchel blindly, feeling for the emergency Ministry Portkey. Her fingers closed around a chipped snowman paperweight. “Right. You’ll be hearing from me soon. Good day.”
And even as the Portkey whisked her away, Hermione did not look away from his mercury eyes. What she saw in those eyes had either been beyond insanity or just shy of it, she wasn’t sure which. But there was an intensity there that could not be disguised. She marveled at the effect it had had on her. This confrontation with him “ which had lasted no more than fifteen minutes, at most “ had disturbed her much more than she expected.
Obviously, she had underestimated him. And, as his silver eyes finally disappeared, Hermione knew it was a mistake she could not afford to make again.
As soon as Hermione disappeared, Draco grinned. He pointed his wand at the Donkeyfly and, with a series of pops, the hovering beast of burden was transfigured back to its original form, complete with grey-green skin, brown eyes, and large bat-like ears.
“Thank you, Greta,” he said with a smile that betrayed his calm voice. “You did very, very well. Asking for a carrot was an excellent touch.”
“We is happy to be helping Master Draco,” she said with a bow.
“And Master Draco is happy for your help,” he returned. “Feel free to make an extra course for supper tonight.”
Greta smiled excitedly and bowed again. “We is thanking you, Master Draco!” Then she disappeared with a crack.
Draco took a deep breath of cool air and leaned against the paddock fence. It was a dirty trick he had played on Hermione “ selfish and redolent more of the boy he was at Hogwarts than the man he wanted to become. But he had been bored and Pansy had forced his hand. What did they expect? Sainthood?
True, Hermione’s inquiry would inconvenience him for a while. It would raise a few eyebrows in Regulation and Control and chip away at his already battered reputation. But so what? He had accomplished his goal far more successfully than he had anticipated. Maybe if he played his cards right, he could even bully her into regular correspondence.
He sighed contentedly and stared off into the horizon. He looked forward to her next visit. Her reactions had been so amusing “ dread, incredulity, horror. And to see them so clearly, too, was a weird kind of treat. Draco was accustomed to being around those who knew better than to show what they were feeling, so he was used to looking for subtlety.
There was nothing subtle about Hermione. She couldn’t have been more shocked had he been the one to start flying. And when she beheld his land, there was this lightness about her. Draco never thought brown could be anything but common until he saw her eyes sparkle like they had. Her cheeks had flushed an attractive pink and her lips had curled into something resembling a smile.
Though he doubted there would ever be a time when she didn’t annoy him, Draco thought he might be able to get used to her brand of vigor.
His brow furrowed at the idea, but he dislodged the uncertainty before it could fester. Seeing her again had been the whole point of the prank. And why shouldn’t he look forward to it? Hermione intrigued him. Especially at the end of her visit when he had attempted to unsettle her. It had worked almost too well. He had seen something flash through her eyes “indescribable, unnamable, but present nonetheless. There was great potential in that fleeting expression. He wanted to know more, to see it again, convention be damned.
Of course, if she ever found out the truth she would have him arrested faster than he could say ‘carrot’. But Greta was smart and loyal, and Draco treated her kindly. He was certain she would keep his secret. He must remember to have her press his dress robes. Hermione would follow up on this as soon as possible.
As if on cue, an owl swooped low over his head and dropped a note at his feet. He bent to retrieve it and smiled, recognizing her fastidious, even script. Draco’s smile widened as he read. Hermione would be making a return visit next Monday. And she would be bringing a camera.
Oddly enough, that suited him just fine.