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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter Five:

Derrick's interrogation had come to a standstill.
Harry had the man's arm pressed high against his back, his grip on the former Beater's wrist just shy of bone-cracking. The side of Derrick's face was squashed against the ceramic tiles that lined the floor and walls of the employees' loo. No one else was going to see just how little nobility and honour Harry Potter had when someone he loved was in danger.
Malfoy and Zabini lounged lethally against the sinks, just waiting to have a go at their former House-mate. Malfoy for the obvious reason— Hermione—Zabini because he was Malfoy's best mate, and hence protective of Hermione by association, and because he wanted a bit of payback for bruised, if not broken, ribs courtesy of Arsuaga, when the Italian turned the tables on him and Hermione in the emergency-exit stairwell.
"I'm not playing with you. Tell me what I need to know and—"
"Suck me, Potter," Derrick gasped, his breath short as Harry hiked his arm higher. "I like a bit of teeth."
Like a man cutting in on another man's dance partner, Malfoy took over with a well-placed glance.
*~*~*~*~
Draco was well aware of the fact that his tendency for violence had always been tempered by his intelligence. Not that he couldn't get physical; not that his mind couldn't justify kicking the shite out of someone who was threatening—or worse—someone he cared about. Not that he didn't want to pummel the man bloody for his part in Hermione's kidnapping.
But what they needed were answers, and Derrick wasn't providing any. Potter might have it in him to mangle Derrick's soft tissues, but he was no Slytherin. It was time for the Gryffindor to learn another means of persuasion.
"Blaise?"
"Yeah, Dray?" Zabini was clutching his side; his injuries amped his dangerousness. His best friend didn’t appreciate the way Arsuaga threw him down the emergency-exit stairwell. It was from his vantage point, as he gasped for breath, bracing his large arms against his damaged side, helpless to prevent Arsuaga from wrenching Granger’s dampeners off of her body and Apparate Draco’s girl away.
"You remember our friend, don't you?"
Zabini gritted his teeth. His disgust mirrored Draco's loathing. "Yeah, I reckon I do. Bit of a tosser, as I recall."
Potter looked at him, not interrupting the by-play, but clearly wanting to know where this was going. Draco acknowledged him long enough to make sure the man's Auror-ness wouldn't interfere.
"Remember his younger sister, Zabini?"
Blaise had taken up residence on Derrick's left, Draco on the man's right. Draco could feel the coolness of the tiles though the silk of his shirt and where his right hip touched the wall.

"Don't you think she'd look simply ravishing in stripes, Blaise?" Draco purred treacherously.
"There are few who do, Dray." Blaise leaned forward, his mouth closer to Derrick's ear. "Azkaban couture isn't for everyone, you know."
Potter's hold on Derrick only caused the man more pain as the implications registered. "What the fuck are you talking about! My sister has never—"
"It's a shame, really, Blaise. Someone like her…" He tsk'd maliciously. "You'd think that she'd have the brains not to harbour Carrow, let alone help that cur escape in the first place."
A toothy, predatory look bloomed across Potter's face as he cottoned on to Draco's plan. Alecto Carrow was a wanted fugitive for crimes so heinous, The Kiss would be administered upon capture. Anyone caught aiding and abetting Carrow would beg to become a Dementor's concubine.
"That's a lie!" Derrick shouted. His hot breath fogged the tiles.
Potter's lips curled wickedly. "I know that. Malfoy knows that. Zabini knows that, Derrick. But the Ministry doesn't."
"Who do you think they're going to believe, Derrick? We're all reputable men and you're nothing but a hired thug who's conspired with a foreign national to kidnap Hermione Granger." Draco ruthlessly threw the truth of matter in the other man's face. "Tell us what we need to know and your sister's 'duplicity' will stay just between us."
With that, Derrick broke.
"I'm just the decoy!"
"I KNOW THAT!" Draco thundered. Potter once more forcibly pressed Derrick into the wall, hampering his ability to breathe. "Unlike yours, my intelligence hasn't waned with age. I couldn't care less what happens to your sister, you stupid bastard."
Derrick's mouth opened, words tumbled out quickly and without any specific order. "I was hired to distract, that's all! I needed the money! All I know is that there's a Portkey waiting for Arsuaga in Hyde Park. It's set to activate at one o'clock, London time."
Draco, Zabini and Potter each glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall. From here on out, time wasn't going to be their friend.
"Who's with him?" Zabini growled.
"No one—just him." Derrick's eye, the only one Draco could see, rolled in its socket, his panic level rising. "I swear—on my magic!— that's the truth: Hyde Park, one o'clock, just him and the Granger chit!"
Neither Draco nor his friend Zabini blinked when Potter grabbed the back of the man's head and smashed it into the tiles. Derrick had told them everything he knew, and there were no more questions to ask which the Beater could adequately answer. It was clear that he had been hired to be captured. Too bad the Slytherin was too dumb to know that he'd been sold out by the very person who'd hired him.
What did give Draco pause wasn't the way Derrick lay moaning and cradling his broken nose, but the way Potter was swaying on his feet.
"Someone spiked my drink, that's all," Potter explained casually, having guessed why Draco had given him a once-over. "I didn't ingest much of it, thankfully." Potter turned to Blaise. "What about you?"
"I'll live. But I’ll only slow you down." Zabini looked at Draco, then back at Potter. "What's next?"
Potter nodded in agreement over Zabini’s assessment of his injuries. That didn’t mean that Zabini couldn’t still help.

"Find Ron. Tell him we'll meet him outside. We've got less than thirty minutes to transport Derrick and intercept Arsuaga."
Draco knew this was one night he wished Zabini would be at his side when he and Potter arrived at Hyde Park.
~*~*~*~*~
The horrible sensation of constriction abated with a significant crack. The fact that they weren't Splinched beyond recognition was nothing short of a miracle. He must've drained almost all his magical reserve to do so, or was maniacal enough not to care if they reemerged as one big tangle of interconnected body parts.
She teetered on her heels. The soft ground challenged her balance as much as the residual effect of forced Apparition. Arsuaga gave her no time to recover. Within seconds, he’d reattached her dampeners. He dragged her towards the nearest footpath and set a rapid pace. A sign mounted at the next junction told her where he'd taken her.
She didn't fight him. Not because he was bigger, stronger, or fundamentally deranged, but because someone like him would make a mistake sooner than later and she'd be better off conserving her energy until that opportunity arose. It suited her for him to believe that she was too intimidated to struggle.
She rolled her eyes at the predictability of Arsuaga's betrayal. How trite! No wonder the concept of him being in danger had never made any sense to her or to Harry. The man was, ultimately, only a danger to himself.
A man like him wouldn't do well in prison. Separation from his hair products alone would be traumatic.
She decided to tell him that.
His backhanded slap across her cheek proved that he didn't appreciate the more considerate aspect of her personality.
She didn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that he'd hurt her. Instead, she decided to ride him with all the patronizing haughtiness of her inner eleven-year-old as her younger self told a young Ron Weasley, 'it's lev-i-o-sa, not lev-i-o-sa'.
"Do you even know where you're going? You don't, do you?"
He grunted, and continued to tow her along.
"Have you ever even been to Hyde Park before? Because I don't think you have. If you had, you'd know..."
Taunts rolled off her tongue as he marched her further into the Park. The more she prodded him, the sooner he was likely to make a mistake. The sooner he made that mistake, the sooner she could take him down.
"You know, Gianni, if you'd only ask me how to get to wherever it is you obviously don't know, I'd be glad to direct you. After all, I've been here before, you know…"
The fundamental, universal given, that men refuse to ask for directions, grated on him. She could tell because he almost rose to her bait.
Almost.
"Oh! Now I understand…" She knew why they were still in the park and not elsewhere, and she made sure he heard exactly how thick she knew he was. "You haven't found the Portkey yet. That's why we're doing this little stroll in the park."
So close…
Hell, Hermione was seriously annoying herself with her snottiness. Arsuaga's hold on his self control was fraying, but it hadn't snapped. Instead, he swore in Italian and quickened their pace.
Hermione refused to let up.
"Oh, honestly, Gianni, if you'd only think about what you're doing… You should know that—"
"Chiuda in su; una non altra parola, capisce!" He stopped and breathed deeply, then released his pent up breath slowly. He switched back to English and put his nose in her face. "Not. Another. Word. Understand."
"You don't scare me, you know."
A feral smile stretched his lips. Now that made her feel a bit uneasy.
"You have everything to fear, il mia cara." Gianni's accent thickened by the moment. "Rodolphus and Rastaban have prepared a most special…ricezione… in honour of your impending arrival."
Sweet Morgana! Gianni, she could handle. The Lestranges? Not a chance. She had every reason to act, and be, afraid.
Hermione planted her feet, making it difficult for Arsuaga to move her, her persona shifting to match her desperation. "They're mad. You're mad for even getting into bed with them!"
"Elemosino per differire," he said, smoothly contradicting her assessment. "I'd say the more appropriate terms to describe them would be 'criminally insane sociopaths'." His arrogance flowed. "As for myself, I'd say that I was clever enough to seize an opportunity that was offered to me, and that I'm morally ambiguous enough not to care about what will happen to you once I deliver you to them."
His moment of overconfidence, her chance to escape!
She stamped a stiletto heel deeply into the softest part of his foot. A well-placed elbow connected with his nose and freed her from his grip as he automatically cupped his face. A hard shove to his chest propelled him several feet away from her.
Hermione ran in the opposite direction. Wherever the footpath forked, she randomly selected left and right branches.
A sudden yank on the ties that held her bodice together pitched her to the left. The only reason she didn't land on the ground was because Gianni looped his arm around her body.
Left with precious few options, she did the last thing she could do to help herself.
She screamed.
She screamed loud and long. Gianni forced his handkerchief past her lips. The dry fabric filled her mouth, sticking to her palate, tongue, and the insides of her cheeks. She couldn't spit it out.
This time, as he hauled her across the park, she struggled. She fought. She wriggled. She writhed. Anything and everything to halt their progress.
The south side of the park was their destination. A secluded nook, complete with a bench and a lighted lamp post, was just ahead. On the bench lay a newspaper. Gianni force-marched her towards it. A moment later she could read the banner. It was a copy of The Daily Prophet!
The Portkey!
Hermione redoubled her efforts. She had no idea when it was set to activate, but once they left the park, once Arsuaga delivered her to the Lestranges… She didn't fancy the odds on succeeding at some sort of escape during the precious few seconds that would occur between the removal her dampeners and the tug of the Portkey.
Gianni seemed unfazed by the effort it was taking to keep her off-balance, to prevent her from using her leg muscles for leverage. He ran his hand over her hair, down the side of her face he hadn't hit. It was as if he was trying to soothe her, calm her down, get her to accept her fate as well as reprimand her for making him manhandle her. "To behave in such an undignified fashion." He tsk'd. He looked down his nose at her. "I'd say that you're not as smart as everyone says you are."
"Underestimating Granger's intelligence is proof that you've made another gross error in judgement."
Draco!
"The first error being the fact that you were foolish enough to do this in the first place."
Harry!
Two men, diametrically opposite in looks and styles, approached them from two different directions, sharing the same agenda. Neither wore dampeners and each held their wand at the ready.
"I like what she did to your face." Draco sneered.
"Your lioness batted at me with her paw. But no matter. In a matter of moments, she'll be in the hands of those who know how to de-claw one such as her."
"Let her go, Arsuaga."
"And you'll do 'what', Potter? Let me go?" Gianni oozed derision.
"No." Harry's nonchalance was lethal. "You're going to let her go because we told you to."
"We all know how fond you are of taking orders, Arsuaga." Draco's cold and calculating demeanour was easily as dangerous as Harry's.
"No. I don't think that's going to happen." Arsuaga tilted Hermione's beaten cheek fully into the light, proof that he was serious about causing her harm. He step-shuffled them closer to the bench. "Do you really think this is about the life of some lowly Mudblood?"
Harry and Draco stepped carefully, inserting themselves as far as they dared between Gianni and the Portkey that he'd dragged her halfway across London to reach.
"Yes. It is." Draco neatly deflected Arsuaga's attempt at misdirection.
Arsuaga laughed. "You're right." He ran a hand from just under her bare underarm, along the curve of her side, all the way to the waistband of her outfit. "Your uncles will so enjoy il piacere della sua femminilità, no? She'll provide them with hours of entertainment, yes?"
Draco's glower intensified. Harry's concentration deepened.
Arsuaga managed to manoeuvre Hermione another couple of feet before he called out, "Just think what kind of message it'll send to all the other Mudbloods when she's found dead. And the ramifications!" He was enjoying himself. "Imagine the fallout when it comes to light that the saviour of the wizarding world, the boy who killed Voldemort, couldn't save his best friend from a fate worse than…" He looked at Draco. "You remember how well your uncles take care of their… toys."
Pride and admiration rose alongside the bile that clawed at the back of her throat as Hermione watched Harry remain coiled and primed, and Draco stayed unflinchingly focused. Because of her, though, there was nothing they could do to stop Arsuaga from reaching the Portkey.
A sudden breeze wafted against her skin. It feathered Harry's hair and luffed Draco's silk shirt.
Arsuaga leaned to the left, his grip on her as sure as ever, and tickled the newspaper until his fingers could pinch the pages enough to draw it into his palm. "Say goodbye to your Mudblood, gentlemen."
"Did you feel that, Potter?"
Harry leered at Arsuaga. "Such an odd breeze for such a still night, Malfoy."
"Tell me, Arsuaga." Draco's smirk dripped with the kind of confidence that they knew something Arsuaga didn't. "What time is it?"
Draco's look of amusement chilled Hermione to the bone; his unusual question lit a spark of triumph in Harry. "Because, according to Auror Davis, it's now two minutes after one o'clock."
"Your Portkey has expired, Arsuaga. And you've got no one to blame but yourself," Harry declared. His wand was levelled at the man's heart. "Let. Her. GO!"
The arm slung across Hermione's body tightened. Gianni started moving backwards, taking her with him. His free hand fumbled for something tucked into the back pocket of his trousers.
He had one more card to play. And whatever it was, it had Harry and Draco resetting their grips on their wands.
"No matter." Something sharp and cold dug into the bare skin of Hermione's lower back.
"That," Draco seethed, his eyes on what she couldn't see and could only feel, "would be the gravest error of judgement, Arsuaga."
Gianni shook his head, contradicting Draco's assessment of how their stand-off was going to play out. "I'll sink this blade into her. You might be able to hit me with a spell or two, but she'll bleed out before you or your little friend can say—"
"Stupefy!"
Gianni's dead weight suddenly keeled sideways. His grip on Hermione brought her crashing down with him. The knife at her back nicked her skin but it didn't cut her badly. The sound of feet running on concrete and a familiar voice from somewhere behind her filled her ears.
"I don't bloody think so."
Draco rolled Arsuaga off Hermione and, with his help, she found her feet. Harry was right beside him, equally concerned. She fished the handkerchief out of her mouth and, bending at the waist, gagged as she drew lungfuls of air down her throat and forced her mouth to water as to drive the dryness away. She crossed her arms around her middle tightly and willed herself to breathe calmly.
"Are you all right?"
She traced the large, freckled hand that didn't belong to either Draco or Harry on her shoulder to a face she was really glad to see.
RON!
Hermione ignored the dull throb in her head and the pain in her rasped-raw shoulder and upper arm. She knew that a dozen bruises were going to appear on different parts of her body over the next couple of hours, and that as soon as her adrenaline levels dropped, so would she. She also knew that if she didn't call attention to any of it, neither would Ron or Harry. One of the many perks of knowing each other so well.
"What took you so long?" Her broad smile struggled to match the first quip that came to her mind.
Wand still in hand, Ron grinned.
Then the adrenaline that had been sustaining her bottomed out. If it hadn't been for Draco's hand already at her waist, she would've become one with the footpath for the second time in as many minutes.
Focusing on her breathing, controlling herself, she started to claw at her dampeners, tugging at the ties, loosening the knots, scraping the charmed arm-bands down, over her elbows, her wrists, shoving them to the joints of her thumbs. Draco's hands slid underneath her hair and unclasped the dampener that hung around her neck. Wordlessly, he took them from her.
Indistinctly, she heard Ron start to give orders to various members of the team Harry must've assembled before he left Constellations.
It was Harry who told Draco to move her away from prying eyes.

~*~*~*~*~

Blatant, unadulterated anger underlay the cool detachment which had served Draco so well over the past hour.
It had enabled him to remain focused, even after Arsuaga had pulled out his knife and had been a flick of the wrist away from using it. The man had known his magic would be of no use so close to Granger's dampeners. There was no way even Salazar could have made sure that, had events played out differently and he and Potter had had to use their wands, their spells wouldn't have misfired. The gamble he and Potter had agreed to was one he didn't want to risk again any time soon.
He'd never thought he'd ever be grateful to Weaselbee—now, Weasley—for anything. But the ginger had delivered. With his best friend's life completely subject to his skills, Weasley managed to aim a difficult shot with perfect accuracy.
Draco respected the way Granger was holding herself in check. She wasn't a cold woman or a witch who thrived on indifference; her emotions ran deep. She was, however, just like him, Potter and Weasley, aware that she was very much on display. Hence her need to regain the use of her magic by scrabbling at her dampeners.
"Get her out of here, Malfoy." Potter spoke over her head, just as he could feel Granger's reserve start to fail her.
Draco passed her dampeners, still warm from her body heat, to Potter's waiting hand.
Then he pressed his fingers more firmly against her sides and looked at her. Her eyes were bright and nearly black with banked emotion. Her face was flushed with exertion. Her cheek had puffed up dramatically. He could feel the minute tremors that travelled beneath her skin.
Draco looked back to Potter, all but daring the Gryffindor to rescind the promise he'd made two nights ago. "How do I get past her wards?"
The incantations were complex and Potter provided them without hesitation.
Wand in hand, Hermione's head tucked underneath his chin, Draco left Potter and Weasley to tend to Arsuaga.
They left him to tend to Hermione.
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The Italian Job