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The Italian Job	By : Maevenly Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5176 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
- 5
Chapter 4:

The soles of Hermione's shoes skidded and dragged on the occasional sticky spot that dotted the dance floor. Thankfully, mostly due to the fact that Malfoy and Zabini routinely claimed the area around her as theirs, no one had crashed into her and she was able to keep her eyes on Arsuaga at all times.
She still didn't like the fact that the man was so exposed. She couldn't see Victoria or Natalie due to the crush, but she knew they wouldn't be far away. Harry was here, somewhere near enough to be on-hand if needed, but otherwise invisible. She'd bet a week's worth of home-cooked dinners that he was doing his all-but-patented 'pervy-lone-wolf' thing to keep the interested at bay, but still look the part so as to not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. Tracey was also somewhere close. Hermione couldn't help but think that Davis would totally rock Zabini's world if the two of them were to have a one-off.
No matter how talented her people were, there just weren't enough of them to cover all the new contingencies that stemmed from Arsuaga's latest demand.
She was hardly moving, but the way Draco kept touching her, his hands skimming her arms, sides, hips and back, insinuating a leg between hers, made her heart beat in a way that had nothing to do with her level of exertion. She reached for him, one hand on the tense muscle of his right shoulder, her other hand bracketing his left hip. Her non-too-gentle insistence drew him close, so close that the silk of his shirt fluttered against the thin film of dampness that covered her exposed skin. Being so close meant that they slowed down, moving more sensuously than before. Somewhere, she was aware that Zabini had stepped back to give them some semblance of privacy.
Her hand at Draco's hip rose and tangled itself in his mussed hair. She stretched upwards until she could rub her cheek against his. He helped by fanning a large hand against the curve of her back, holding her steady and yet loosely enough so that they could continue to sway to the music.
"Find Harry."
She felt him stiffen at her words, but he didn't break character or their rhythm.
"Tell him: the pitch needs more players."
His only answer was to pull her even closer to him. Their bodies were now pressed together from chest to thigh. He tilted his pelvis deliberately once, twice, thrice; her breath hitched and her fingers found purchase on the bunched muscles of his arm and on the solid wall of his abdomen.
Malfoy leaned back. His hands snaked upwards.
Hermione stopped him before he could undo the clasp of her choker. Relocating his hands to her hips and tracing the leather bands that encircled his wrists told him what she didn't have to say: the dampeners stay on. It was her way of conveying to him that the risk of her being discovered outweighed the potential physical risk to her person.
He didn't like it—he had to abide by her decision, but he definitely didn't like doing so.
Ostensibly summoned by a look Draco most likely cast over her head, Zabini stepped back into her personal space. Talk about being forced to accept something she didn't like. Malfoy knew exactly how to give her a taste of her own medicine. If he couldn't protect her himself, Zabini was the next best alternative.
He let go of her when the song ended, miming, purely for effect, that he was going to the bar to buy them a round of drinks.
The next song rolled through the crowd. Drawn by the call of provocative lyrics and primal rhythms, dancers flooded onto the dance floor.
Within seconds, Hermione couldn't see Draco or Arsuaga.

One minute the queue for the bar was ten-people deep, and as the next song hit the airwaves, the number of thirsty clubbers was cut by half. Draco lost sight of Hermione almost immediately. He couldn't see Blaise either. He didn't like it. He didn't like that fact that she refused to remove her dampeners and he didn't like the way Arsuaga treated her. The woman could hold her own, no question. He hadn't been paying her lip-service when he'd told Potter what she was capable of protecting herself. But there was just something… off… about his new Florentine 'friend' and that nasty bint of an assistant.
He had no intention of actually heading back out onto the floor with any drinks. He was there to deliver Hermione's message to Potter, and that was it. The sooner he did, the sooner he could get back to her. But seeing as how there were only three bartenders on duty and he was nearly last in line, he allowed his thoughts to roam—especially his thoughts about her.
This was the fifth time in seven memorable encounters that he'd been able to touch the woman, and he was going to take full advantage of his time with her—despite being forced to share her with DIWA, a handful of Aurors, Arsuaga and his ridiculous friends, and all the Muggles in this blasted club.
He hadn't always been so… magnanimous.
Pansy had phrased it best, and Theo and Blaise had seconded her when, one night, as the four of them sat in Nott's country house, passing around a bottle of Ogden's Gold Standard, and talked about the past, the present and their collective futures.
She said that the boy he was forced to be, had, despite everything, become the man he was always meant to be, and that it took a megalomaniac to facilitate that level of personal evolution.
He had to admit that she was right. Especially when Theo ticked off the number of changes he saw in Draco, along with the inherent traits that were part of his personality.
Yes, he had daddy-issues. And yes, he had an 'I'll-bite-you-first-if-I-think-you're-going-to-bite-me-harder' sense of personal and professional preservation. But Draco, in his friends' eyes and to himself, wasn't the cowardly, spiteful, immature wizard who'd bullied those he perceived to be below him. He'd found purpose in managing the family's extensive accounts and pursuing ways of elevating the Malfoy and Black names beyond any Dark connotations. He'd been conditioned since birth with the doctrine that loyalty to family was a pillar of personal strength, but he'd learned that family wasn't defined by blood. Theo, Blaise and Pansy were his brothers and sister in a way that transcended sibling-hood. Potter had, indeed, been correct when he'd said that what he, Granger and Weaslebee had paralleled Draco's relationships with the four—hopefully, soon to be five—most important people in his life. Such interconnections were as easy to see as they were impossible to put into words.
Two years ago, Narcissa had asked him to escort her to the gala that followed the opening performance of the Romanian Wizarding Ballet Company.

Somehow, some way, during the course of that event, Granger was the first person outside of his protective circle to recognize the change in his personal logic.
The emotional tension conveyed by nearly three hours of movement and music was rivalled by the sexual tension that thrummed between him and Granger as they gravitated towards one another during the formal reception that followed. That's when he'd learned what she did, an interesting position that suited her skills and potential perfectly. She'd even gone so far as to admit that ever since their 'eighth year', she'd paid attention whenever anyone she knew, or didn't know, had mentioned his name.
He'd been surprised to learn that she'd spent three years after they'd graduated from Hogwarts—yes, he knew the importance of sitting for his N.E.W.T.s—with only half a foot in the wizarding world while she'd acquired a combined degree in Political Science and International Relations from Cambridge University, sigma cum laude, thank you very much.
In a room full of potential business contacts, social vultures, general acquaintances, political rivals, and fair-weather allies, he'd found himself fully engaged by her. Later that night, as he'd stared into the all-but-spent fire in the hearth of his study, he'd come to the same conclusion about Hermione Granger that his friends had drawn about him.
Granger had grown into the kind of witch and woman she was meant to be, despite the fact that her girlhood had been sacrificed on the same Altar of Darkness that reduced his innocence to ashes.
She was still bookish, and had that arrogance to which a learned academic was actually entitled to carry. But she was refined, and confident, with a wry wit that showed her cleverness. Her genuine compassion was curbed by the fact that she understood—as much as any of them could given their ages and life-experiences—how both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds really worked. She epitomized of the lioness he had professed her to be.
She wasn't perfect. Far from it. She was aggressive, assertive, and stubborn. Among those in her chosen field, she was the alpha-female. She had no trouble making decisions for others when she believed she knew what was better for them then they did, and could, when the mood suited her, be condescending to those who didn't meet the standards she set for them. Yet, interestingly enough, she abhorred the spotlight.
The next time their paths crossed, a month later, had been at a charity function hosted on behalf of St. Mungos by the Brotherhood of Magical Creatures. He'd warranted an invitation due to the size of the Malfoy family vaults. She was there in an official capacity, as there were many visiting dignitaries. All it took for him to be buried to the hilt inside her, against the wall of some Healer's tastefully decorated office, was an hour's worth of fleeting eye contact and unspoken agreements. It was fast, furious, and fantastic. He fucked her as hard as she fucked him. Twenty minutes of sexual bliss from beginning to end.
The third time, nearly six months later, she'd found him at the Cedric Diggory Commemorative Duelling Tournament. They'd stalked each other during the three day event. He'd ended up being her prey. He left Cardiff with undeniable proof that Granger's oral skills were exceptional.
So, naturally, during a Quidditch match between Puddlemere United and the Chudley Cannons, even though months had passed, he'd returned the favour. The way she'd come apart under his expert and prolonged application of tongue, teeth, fingers and hand had brought him to an equally powerful finish.
Augusta Longbottom's seventy-fifth birthday extravaganza had been a smashing success. As guests from all over the wizarding world toasted to Augusta's longevity and continued health, he and Hermione—definitely Hermione at that point—had spent an hour doing things the memory of which still made him hard. It was during that encounter they'd kissed for the first time.
Before, they'd each made overtures, but had held back. Not that time. Their lips had all but fused the second the door to some obscure corner of the main house had been kicked shut. Once they'd started, neither one of them had stopped. They'd rolled, groped, caressed, fondled, gripped, and plundered each other's bodies with tangled tongues and sweet, sweet, suction.
The sixth time he'd seen her, three months ago, they'd been at the British Wizarding Embassy in Vienna during Carnivale. She'd successfully avoided getting any where near him. Several times he'd tried to finagle one of her stupor-inducing kisses or even a simple brushing of fingers. The physical contact was going to be his inroad to demanding to know why, after they'd thoroughly shagged each other senseless at Longbottom’s familial home, she'd bunched her elegant dress around her strappy sandals and had Apparated away wearing nothing but an enigmatic look and his scent. He'd left the Ambassador’s party wearing a scowl and more questions than he had answers.
The slightly disconcerting discovery was that a lot of the answers he sought lay with him and the true state of his feelings for Gryffindor's de facto princess.
"What can I get ya?"
Perfect timing.
Draco scanned the labels that towered behind the bartender. He needed something that would indicate to Potter that it definitely came from him. It took a moment, but he finally found a brand he recognized that would be suitable. "Remy Martin, two fingers, neat."
The bartender didn't blink as he moved to fill Draco's order. Nor did he question Draco when Draco asked to use the man's biro.
Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of Muggle money. He peeled off a couple of the pieces of the colourful paper and laid it on the bar top. He jutted his chin in the direction of a dark-haired twenty-something man who drank alone. "See that bloke over there?"
"Yeah."
Draco couldn't scribble if his life depended on it. His handwriting was neat and elegant as he spelled out Granger's message on the napkin on which the bartender had set his drink.
"I want this," he made sure the bartender knew that the napkin and snifter of liquor were a matched set, "delivered there."
The bartender didn't move until Draco slid enough Muggle money towards him to ensure that Potter received Granger's message five minutes ago. He pocketed it discreetly. "No worries, mate."
Draco acknowledged the bartender just enough as to not to alienate the fellow. Once the napkin and drink were in motion, he turned on his heel and made for the dance floor once more.
Tonight, after Granger's baby-sitting gig wrapped for the night—or morning—he was going to have her. She was going to be under him, over him, in his mouth and in his hands until Monday morning dawned bright and fresh. During the interim, he was going to make her listen to every to every wishful thought and iron-clad conviction he had about them.
It had taken him nearly two years to reach this point. Salazar be damned if he was going to celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday without this witch at his side.

Harry watched Malfoy saunter up to the bar. Then he lost sight of the tall blond as a sudden shift rippled throughout the second floor of the club.
So far, the night was a strategic and logistical success. Despite having been given only three days—two, really—to develop and implement a comprehensive security plan, both teams were fulfilling their roles with all due skill and professionalism.
Granted, he was going to have to face the punishment Hermione would rain down on him for withholding Malfoy's identity as the name of their Freelancer. But even she'd have to admit, once he'd reassured that it would never happen again—until it did, of course—that Malfoy had been the best possible choice given the circumstances and the time constraints. The blond man and his friend Zabini had inserted themselves seamlessly into Arsuaga's circle; they were the perfect conduits.
Hermione would also know soon enough that Malfoy's motivations had very little to do with keeping Arsuaga safe or with facilitating the contract she had successfully negotiated, which was going to provide the very best raw materials, in the form of a vast array of flora, necessary for healing draughts, elixirs, potions, and salves. The Arsuaga family farms were renowned for their outstanding cultivation of magical and non-magical plants.
Mentally, Harry delved into what he knew of Gianni de Arsuaga. From everything he'd read, he completely agreed with Hermione's assessment of the man. Arsuaga would be the last person to warrant a death threat. He was the fourth of five children. He had no allegiances other than to his own whims, which had included Hermione for the past two years, ever since she'd come into her position at DIWA. The man liked to spend money, bed men and women alike, and flaunt his family's name. The only thing the man did that caused a few raised eyebrows was Gianni's pursuit of the title of 'celebutaunt' among Muggle 'Society'. Harry didn't doubt that Italy's version of the Wizarding Secrecy Act was similar to Britain's. Someone, somewhere, had to be worried about Arsuaga's need for personal exposure.
Pondering that, Harry asked himself the most obvious questions.
Why would anyone want Arsuaga dead? Who would want him dead? What would that person, or persons, stand to gain by assassinating the wannabe celebutaunt?
The appearance of a waitress didn't disturb his train of thought. She set down a drink he hadn't ordered with a modicum of grace and waited, expectantly, for him to say something. He nodded in understanding; she was flirting with him. He gave her a creepy grin—one he'd perfected for just such an occasion—and took a very small sip.
The dark amber liquor slipped down his throat with the smoothest burn he'd tasted in a long time. The choice of beverage and the precise lettering on the underlying napkin left him in no doubt as to who had sent it to him. He couldn't read the note until the waitress had moved on. He reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out an extremely wrinkled piece of Muggle money, dropped it on her tray and upped his perve-factor. The waitress scampered away and he was able to pick up where he'd left off before she'd delivered Malfoy's message.
He turned his gaze on the dance floor. It took a moment, but eventually the gyrating bodies shifted enough for him to catch a glimpse of Malfoy through the throng. Hermione was still out of sight. Surreptitiously, Harry read Hermione's conveyed message.
He ought to have been surprised, but he wasn't. This was just one more example of how Arsuaga loved to make Hermione's life difficult.
He chased that fact with another swallow of Malfoy's generosity, then crumpled the napkin and crammed it into one of his pockets. He fingered the coin in his pocket and conveyed a brief message to Ron: reserve players, now.
Three thoughts, in rapid succession, flared bright and hot.

Since it didn't make sense that Arsuaga was the target, didn't it stand to reason that someone else, someone Arsuaga was connected to, was?
What if Arsuaga was just a means to access the true target?
Who could Arsuaga possibly be connected to that would draw the kind of attention of, provide the necessary motivation to, someone who'd have the means to hire an assassin?
The music changed. A slower-tempo song reverberated throughout the club. The dance floor was significantly less populated. He now had an unhindered view of Malfoy, Zabini, Arsuaga and Hermione.
Harry watched Arsuaga eye Malfoy and Hermione. Hermione watched Arsuaga. Zabini flitted his gaze between Malfoy, Hermione, and Arsuaga. Malfoy clearly didn't like the way Arsuaga's gaze kept shifting to Hermione.
The common denominator…
Hermione!
The target wasn't Arsuaga! It never had been!
And Malfoy… Malfoy could get caught in the cross-fire and it would be all his fault!
Sweet Morgana!
Harry's mind whirled. One action after another was discarded as soon as it was formulated.
Rationally, Harry had to admire the perpetrators' plan. Constellations was the best possible setting for the assassination of a magical person. The use of dampeners negated the use of magic. The selection of an extremely popular Muggle venue meant that there were too many non-magical people on-sight for the Ministry to sanction the deployment of a Memory Correction Squad if Harry decided to chuck out the Secrecy laws in favour of saving one of his own.
Secondary questions crowded in on his desperate need to protect his best friend: how did they, who ever 'they' were, know she'd be here?
The answer was right in front of him, literally.
Gianni de Arsuaga!
All the pieces of a puzzle that had refused to come together over the past four days suddenly started to snap into place: Arsuaga's sudden arrival with his too-good-to-pass-up export deal, his demand that Hermione be assigned to him, his insistence on avoiding wizarding London, the fact that Constellations was his choice…
Harry surged to his feet.

She was right where he left her – under Blaise's watchful eyes.
He made the most of his approach. He knew she was tracking his every step. He enjoyed her slight jump when he slid the back of his hand down her all but bare back only to bracket her hips with his palms.
He respected the fact that she was 'on duty' and that she took her need to protect such a useless prat seriously. But he wanted – needed – another moment with her that was just between them.
He applied a bit of his strength and used it draw her nearly naked back flush against his chest.
He tilted his head so that his mouth hovered a scant inch from the shell of her ear. He made sure that she could hear his appreciation of her scent
"You're not going home tonight."
The music shifted. It became slower, more sultry, intensely provocative. It suited his intentions perfectly.
She tipped her head back. It fit all too neatly between his collarbone and heart.
"Is that so?"
Hermione's challenge carried a hint of raggedness.
He encased her in his arms. It was she who now swayed them sensuously to the tempo of the music.
"Yes, it is." He gave her his guarantee. "And no running away afterwards." He held back the accusation in favour of enticing her to stay with him after they'd slaked their initial lust. "The things we're going to do…"
He detailed what they were going to do physically. What he held back from her was the fact that he wasn't going to let her go until she'd acknowledged what it was that had taken root between them. If the best way to breach her emotional defences was by pleasuring her mind and body, then so be it.
She separated his arms just enough so that she could turn and look at him directly. She was still close, though. Not close enough for his liking, but at the moment, it was all he could demand of her.
"What makes you think that's what's going to happen?"
Oh how he loved it when his lioness all but reared up on her hind paws and dared him to step in front of her still-sheathed claws.
"Just because you want something, Draco, doesn't mean you're going to get it."
He felt his lips curl and his cheeks curve as a dozen possible responses pressed against the inside of his teeth. No, he definitely hadn't missed the faintest whisper of wistfulness that underscored her bravado. He crooked a finger and used it to lift her chin, to make sure she saw exactly why he spoke in such absolutes.
"I'm going to get what I want because that's what you want, Hermione."

Something was wrong with him. He could feel it.
The instincts that had seen him through childhood perils and numerous Auror missions had Harry scanning the area between the bar and the dance floor for a suspect.
There!
Someone—a face he couldn't see but the general build and height indicated a man—was threading his way through the crowd with a deliberateness and determination that didn't match the environment.
Harry's legs suddenly felt wobbly, like he'd been hit with a Jelly Legs jinx. He knew he hadn't. His vision was blurred and his disorientation came from within, not from some outside influence. He had to brace himself against the table lest he fall to the floor. With a concerted effort, he looked to see who he could call on for back up.
The entryway to the Observatory was unguarded. Harry's head pounded, but he forced himself to concentrate. He quartered the room and searched each section for…
A fight had broken out in the far corner. Two men were fighting over Tracey and the bouncers were trying to break it up!
A flash of syncopated light revealed Natalie and Victoria slumped in one of the padded arm chairs in the lounge area. Their eyes were closed and their limbs hung limp. Tall glasses on cocktail napkins rested on the low-lying table in front of them.
Harry glanced at his own drink, the one that waitress had insisted he drink in front her…
Mordred's missing nut sack! Their drinks! They'd been spiked!
Another wave of wooziness washed over him.
He had to fight the effects… The man walking his way through the crowd exuded purpose and determination.
Harry had to get to Hermione, or at the very least, to Malfoy!

His focus on her face shifted from sensual awareness to on-guard concentration as he tried to follow why she'd tilted her head to the side and held up a hand to tell him that she was trying to listen for something she shouldn't be hearing.
There it was again!

The screech of feedback clawed at her back teeth. She knew she hadn't been hearing something that wasn't there. Her gaze darted from the spot on the floor, where she'd fixed it to minimize distractions, to the projectors mounted high over her head.
There! The lights!
The sudden barrage of erratically, unchoreographed, flashes of light confirmed it.

There's an undampened witch or wizard nearby!
Hermione's mind and body dovetailed with her training and instincts. Someone had finally come for Arsuaga and she was the only one close enough to stop them!
"Go get Harry!" She all but shoved Draco away from her. Freelancer or not, she couldn't—wouldn't— take the chance of him getting caught in the crossfire. "Tell him: extraction point number four."
Malfoy's hand, the one he'd meant to use to snag her arm, closed around nothing but air. She was already forcing her way through the crowd, toward Arsuaga. Draco's knee-jerk reaction to protect her was unwelcome and unnecessary.
The sooner he learned that, the better they both be.

Draco snarled at his empty hand. His witch, his Gryffindor lioness, wasn't to be caged. That didn't mean that he had to like the fact that she didn't hesitate to put herself, and the bit of himself that he'd already entrusted to her, between Arsuaga and the person intent on ending Arsuaga's life.
A blur of movement had him turning on his heels. A drawn wand; the matching face vaguely familiar, but yet unnamable.
Behind him, the sounds of Hermione facilitating Arsuaga's escape were swallowed by the crowd. Zabini would follow her. He could trust his mate to do that for him. His focus stayed on the length of polished wood currently pointed in Arsuaga's direction.
Draco's adrenaline level spiked. Everything around him was minimized. The music was a dull whisper. The uncontrolled lights failed to distract him. The mental and physical charge of the crowd had no bearing on him. His focus was fixed on the wizard who held his wand at the ready.
No time to remove his dampeners. He relied on his athleticism to race against the swish-and-flick of man's hand.
Too late!
His shoulder collided with the other wizard a split second after a jet of red light—a Stupefy!—streaked across the dance floor. Reflexively, he tracked the spell. It struck the casement of the emergency exit just as Hermione wrestled, verbally and physically, a distraught Gianni through the hastily opened door. Zabini followed, shielding Hermione.
Draco's momentum sent both of them to the floor. He rolled to his knees, gained his feet a fraction of second before his opponent. Derrick—yes, now he recognized the man—held every advantage. Save one. No one threatened someone who was important to Draco Malfoy.
Sights and sounds rushed over him. Time reset. Draco heard the crowd chanting: fight! fight! fight!. Audio feedback interrupted the music. Derrick's wand arm readied…

The former Slytherin Beater never got a chance to fire a second spell. He hadn't counted on Draco Malfoy closing the gap between them, so that he couldn't use his wand, nor had he expected to land on his arse when the former Seeker's fist connected with his jaw.
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The Italian Job