Chapter 9: Friday afternoon, the Ministry of Magic

An hour later, when the potion’s worn off, Draco finds Granger waiting for him in their bedroom. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hands resting primly on her knees, wearing a robe of white silk satin.

He doesn’t tell her what he’s learned, and she doesn’t ask—that can wait.

They both know they have a bridge to repair.

Granger stands up and, untying her sash, she slips the robe off, and lets it fall to the floor. Underneath, she’s wearing a plain white brassiere, with white briefs, and natural-coloured stockings—a blank canvas for him to work upon.

Draco takes out his wand and—without a moment’s thought—transfigures her bra into a pure white corset, vanishes her briefs, and turns her stockings pearly white.

She looks like a virgin bride waiting to be deflowered. He sets down his wand, and reaches for her.

But Granger steps back. “No,” she whispers. “You sit on the bed.” She puts her hands on his shoulders, and pushes him down, and then she kneels between his open legs.

“Oh...” He grasps her head, thanking Merlin that his cock’s back to its proper size.

“Malfoy,” she says, pushing his hands away, “be patient.”

He sighs. But he knows that letting her have her way usually pays off. “All right. I’ll try.”

She takes her time unbuttoning his fly and, by the time she’s finished, his erection’s managed to force itself past the waistband of his shorts. He’s playing the game, using every shred of his self control to keep his hands on the bed and allow Granger to do her work, but when, at last, his cock springs out, and stands up proudly—long, and thick, and absolutely ready for her—he’s swearing himself hoarse with impatience.

Granger leans in and teases his hard flesh with the tip of her nose, and then with tiny, whisper-soft kisses, her wild curls tormenting his naked belly.

“Granger...”

His cock’s straining against her lips.

He loves it when she kisses him there but, right now, for Merlin’s sake, he needs more and, unable to control his hands any longer, he seizes two enormous handfuls of her hair. There’s something so erotic about that soft, bushy mane—squeezing it makes his cock stiffen and his balls pull up tight and, when Granger suddenly ducks her head and sucks one of his balls into her mouth, his spunk turns to fire, and he has to clench his muscles to hold it all in.

Fuck, he’s close!

(Who’s that, whimpering like a child?)

Granger splays a hand on his belly to hold him down, but he pushes against it, and the pressure in his balls is frightening. Her other hand’s on his cock, caressing that place that drives him crazy, her fingertips running round the rim and over the slit, and back to that place again—and, all the while, she keeps kissing him, and sucking him, and...

“Granger,” he begs, “Granger—fucking hell, Granger—please,”—because he wants to thrust—he needs to thrust—he’s fucking desperate to thrust...

And she takes pity on him, and lets him struggle to his feet, and she comes up on her knees, and—because he’s so big—she wraps both hands around him, and lets him thrust through them into her mouth.

Oh yes; oh fuck, that’s IT!

He’s so wound up now, it only takes a couple of strokes, and then the waves of pleasure are pulsing down his shaft, once, twice, and making him moan, and then—Oh Granger—it’s shooting his full length and bursting out of him, and he’s coming hard—in her mouth, and across her throat, and down her lovely, lovely tits—coming until there’s nothing left of him to come.

...

“Who was it?” she asks.

“Crabbe’s father,” he murmurs, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

...

Later

“Father took photographs,” he says, buttoning up his fly, “and we still have half the hair. I say we go to the Ministry and give it all to Potter, and let him and the Weasel take care of it.”

“Does he look like Vincent?” asks Granger, softly.

Draco pulls on his jacket. “Yes...”

“You do know that it wasn’t your fault, don’t you, Malfoy?” She comes up to him, and slides her arms around his waist. “Voldemort didn’t care what happened to his minions, that’s why the Carrows never bothered to explain that Fiendfyre can’t be controlled. Crabbe was... He was a child with a lethal weapon, Draco, and so full of hate, he didn’t think about what he was doing.”

“He followed me.”

“No. Not in the Room of Requirement. I remember him taunting you, telling you that he didn’t take your orders any more. He nearly killed you, Draco. You didn’t kill him. You have no reason to feel guilty.”

“So what are you saying, Granger? Hmm? Pull yourself together?”

“Oh, Draco! No! I’m just... Well, I am a bit surprised that you want Harry to take over. It’s not like you.”

He smiles down at her. “Sadly, Granger, it is like me. When it comes to a battle between Malfoy pride and Malfoy cowardice, I’m afraid that Malfoy cowardice wins, every time.”

...

“And you’re absolutely sure that this is Crabbe?”

They’re jammed into Potter’s cubicle at the Auror Office. Weasley’s brought in another chair, and joined them, and he and Potter are examining the photograph of Draco’s transfigured face.

“My father confirms it,” says Draco. “He knows—he knew—Crabbe, senior very well. This is my father’s memory of Crabbe’s mask,”—he takes a vial from his undetectably extended breast pocket and lays it on Potter’s desk—“as he saw it in the pensieve. And we’ve a small sample of his hair, and of the Muggle poison he’s using,”—he sets down two more vials and a scrap of paper—“and we’ve also found Delilah’s note. We thought you might be able to trace the person who owled it for her—the person who may have betrayed her to Crabbe.”

“Impressive,” says Weasley.

It’s clear that the Weasel means it and, for a split second, Draco feels almost friendly towards him.

It’s disconcerting.

“Did you question the women at Madam Mafalda’s, Harry?” asks Granger.

“We did,” says Potter. “But, apparently she had no real friends there—it seems she hardly ever spoke to anyone.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Our Legilimens confirms it.”

“Maybe she confided in the punters,” says Draco. “I mean... She used to talk to me about all sorts of things...” He gives Granger an apologetic smile.

“We thought of that,” says Potter. “We’ve got a list of almost forty men and women—”

“Women?” says Granger.

Potter nods. “A handful. Belby and Bloxam are following it up, but it’s slow work and, so far, they’ve got nothing.”

“I thought you recorded all Death Eater sightings,” says Draco. “Surely there are reports of Crabbe?”

“Not since March 2000.”

“March 2000? That’s nearly four years.”

“He’s been hiding in the Muggle world,” says Granger, as though it’s obvious. “That’s probably where he met Delilah, and it must be where he gained his knowledge of Muggle poisons. He’s either got access to a laboratory there, or he’s broken in to one, and he may have links to some criminal organisation. I thought we had reciprocal arrangements with the Muggle police?”

“We do. In theory,” says Potter. “But we don’t share information as a matter of course, only in specific cases.” Draco and Granger exchange glances. “Obviously, I’ll approach my contact.”

“Look,” says Draco, “it’s clear that Crabbe blames me for his son’s death, so,”—he ignores the flicker of alarm on Granger’s face—“suppose we lay a trap for him, with me as bait?”

“No, Draco!”

“You’re the one who’s hoping I’ll do something heroic, Granger.” He looks at Potter. “What do you say?”

“I say, ‘You’re getting married in five days, and to one of my closest friends.’” He glances at Granger—who’s looking like a rabbit in a trap—then turns back to Draco. “What exactly did you have in mind, Malfoy?”

“Nothing elaborate. Just a saunter down Knockturn Alley, with you and Weasley—suitably Disillusioned—at my heels.”

“Do you think that’ll work?” asks Weasley.

Draco shrugs. “I think it’s worth a try.”

“I’m coming with you,” says Granger.

“No, you’re not,” says Draco, and he sees both Potter and Weasley flinch in anticipation of Granger’s anger. He pushes his luck: “You’re going back to the Manor, where you’ll be safe.”

“Safe?” says Granger, icily. “Safe? Well, if you want me safe, Draco, then maybe I should cast a Protego Totalum spell around my bed. Just to be on the safe side.”

Weasley lets out a low whistle.

“I mean it,” she says. “If I can’t come with you, you won’t come with me.”

“Hermione!” says Potter, grinning like a bloody idiot.

“You’d crack before I did,” says Draco, recklessly.

“Ha!” Granger leaps to her feet, and he knows that something extremely embarrassing’s about to spill from her lips. “That’s priceless, coming from a man who needs sex every—”

“All right!” He throws his arms around her and, crushing her to his chest, silences her. “All right,” he murmurs. “But you’ll be under the Disillusionment charm, with Potter and Weasley.” She tries to break free. “No! No more arguing, Hermione.”

...

Knockturn Alley’s busier than Draco would have liked.

He’s startled—twice—by disembodied footsteps, and he passes several cloaked figures—though none appears to be his quarry—and, when he reaches Crucible Court, he’s accosted by a gang of ragamuffins, who dance around him, laughing and chanting some foolish rhyme, and he’s forced to frighten them away in case they should stumble into Granger, Potter, and Weasley, hidden beneath Potter’s Invisibility Cloak.

The house appears to be empty.

Draco pulls out his wand and performs a few disclosing and Stealth Sensoring spells, but he can find no trace of Crabbe, lurking nearby.

There’s only one thing for it. He points his wand at the door. “Alohomora.”

Nothing happens.

Draco hears Granger gasp under the cloak and he smirks, because he knows they’re both thinking exactly the same thing: Crabbe’s been here.

He’s been here, he’s realised that the place isn’t secure—perhaps he even knows that Granger and I have been inside—and he’s changed the locking charm.

Draco tries a few counter charms unsuccessfully, then he hears a whisper from Granger, tries her suggestion, and the door opens.

“Clever,” he growls, before he walks inside, closing the door slowly, to allow the others time to follow. “Well, that didn’t flush him out.”

Potter’s face appears, disconcertingly, in mid air. “Let’s check the back room,” he says, pulling out his wand.

Draco stands back and lets him and the Weasel do their kicking-the-door-open-and-leaping-through-the-gap-with-wands-raised thing, but there’s no sign of Crabbe in the torture chamber, and the two men move upstairs.

“Granger,” hisses Draco, “come out of there.”

“Some of this stuff’s missing,” she says, running a hand over the objects on the metal table. “And these,”—she bends and touches the strange green bottles beneath it—“they’re—”

“Muggle,” says Draco, still hanging back in the doorway. “Yes, I noticed that last time.”

“They’re petrol, Draco,” says Granger.

“So?”

“It—”

“Get out,” yells Potter, charging down the stairs, “OUT!”

...

Draco feels a rush of air, like the crest of a wave, threatening to engulf him, but he throws himself through the doorway, gathering Granger into his arms, and—drawing on a move he perfected during his years as a Seeker—he rides upon the blast, landing several yards from the door and rolling, shielding Granger with his own body as he pulls his robes over them to protect them from the heat.

Behind them, amidst the roar of the flames and the bangs of smaller explosions, he hears Potter and Weasley hit the ground.

For a few moments, he can do nothing but lie still and feel Granger lying beneath him. Then, when the wind has died down, and nothing more seems to be happening, he cautiously raises his head and looks at his future wife. She’s on her back, looking up at him. Her face is black, and there’s a graze on her cheek, and a strand of her bushy hair’s been crisped by flame, but her smile could blot out the sun.

You saved me, she mouths.

Draco grins back at her. “You all right?”

“Yes.” She turns her head, still beaming. “Harry? Ron?”

“Fine,” says Potter.

“Yeah,” says Weasley, patting out a flaming sleeve with his gloved hand. “What in Merlin’s name was that?”

“A Muggle bomb,” says Potter. “Undetectable...” He rolls onto his back and sits up, watching the flames with child-like fascination. “We must have triggered it, somehow—maybe we tripped a wire. Muggles have sophisticated timers, and motion sensors, but they wouldn’t work here—”

Another explosion rips the air, and the flames leap higher, burning with a new intensity.

“Fuck,” gasps Draco, urging Granger to move. “We need to get away from here!”

“It’s reached the petrol,” shouts Granger, scrambling to her feet. “That’s what I was trying to tell you: he wants to burn Draco, and he’ll want to see him suffer, so he’s probably somewhere near—”

Before she can finish, something dark swoops down from above and, swerving into Draco and knocking him back to the ground, it scoops up Granger, and carries her away.