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The Italian Job	By : Maevenly Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5175 -:- 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
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This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

Chapter One:

Tuesday, 5 July 2005

Half-past one in the afternoon…
Shacklebolt’s impromptu meeting effectively re-prioritized Harry’s appointment calendar. The file he carried out of the conference room superseded all other pending cases.
Gianni de Arsuaga was due to arrive in three days and Hermione was firmly fixed in the Florentine’s cross-hairs.
Which was why, despite the inordinate amount of work Harry had to do in order to prepare for Arsuaga’s arrival, he had cleared his schedule for the afternoon, locked his door on his way out of his office, and made directly for the Department of International Wizarding Affairs.
With Arsuaga formally requesting Hermione as his official liaison—just like every other time the man set foot on British soil—Harry was automatically assigned as the Special Auror-in-Charge of Arsuaga’s supplemental security detail. As Hermione’s best friend, it also fell to him to pry her out of her office, take her to their favourite Muggle café—the one that served the tastiest all-day breakfast—and give her the time and space to vent about being saddled—yet again—with overseeing every aspect of Gianni de Arsuaga’s impending visit.
Which was why he pushed the plate of chocolate ganache cake closer to her side of the table—at the moment, she needed it more than he did. Not that she wouldn’t make sure he got his fair share. This was what they did. Every time they went out to eat, they ordered with the intention of sharing. Call it a holdover from eating in a tent for nearly a year, or from passing loaded plates to each other at the Gryffindor dining table—the reason didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to change—ever. Much like their friendship. Harry was convinced that even after he, Ron and Hermione died—which was going to be a very, very long time from now if he had anything to do with it—they’d find each other together in the afterlife. The three of them were just that connected.
The wan smile Hermione gave him pleased him immensely. It was the second genuine smile she’d flashed since he first spirited her out of Department of International Wizarding Affairs and away from the Ministry.
“Yes, Harry—that’s a-l-l my job is.” She waved her fork as she rose to the bait he’d laid about her ‘cushy’ career. “Endless cocktail parties, glamorous balls, elegant garden parties and decadent soirées at the poshest and most exclusive venues from one end of the wizarding world to the other.”
Harry waited until he’d swallowed before he called her on her sardonic tone.
“You’re so full of shite, Hermione.” His admiration for her sparkled brightly. “You love it and you know it; researching customs so that you and your team don’t commit a cultural faux pas, performing background checks on anyone and everyone associated with any event you’ve been tasked with organizing or attending.” He could never not tell her how proud of her he was or how impressive it was that she did what she did so brilliantly. “Not to mention the fact that you’re on a first-name basis with Madam Malkin. There’s nothing that woman won’t do for you. She doesn’t like anyone and only tolerates a select few.”
He wasn’t telling Hermione something she didn’t already know. Malkin had grown eccentric since Diagon Alley’s reconstruction. The fashion maven was well known for looking down on her clients because, as she said, ‘the majority of my patrons wouldn’t know wizarding couture if it draped itself over their heads’. For Hermione, though, the hoity seamstress rushed any alterations she required and never failed to meet a deadline for her dress robes and gowns.
Hermione huffed, her disdain having everything to do with Arsuaga’s proposed itinerary. “Too bad Madam Malkin doesn’t include a ‘Slag Rags’ line in any of her collections.”
Harry snorted at their mutual predicament. She wasn’t the only one who had to find an ‘appropriate’ outfit for Saturday night’s excursion. Gianni de Arsuaga only partied at the trendiest, hippest clubs. Proper attire—a euphemism for high-end, barely-there, Muggle clothes—was mandatory.
“How many people do you know that have house accounts at Tarts-R-Us?” she groaned into her next bite of pancake.
“True,” Harry conceded. There was a whole section of Hermione’s wardrobe that came from that particular boutique, even if Hermione hadn’t used the establishment’s actual name. But he knew exactly what to say to turn her mood around. “But the expression on Ron’s face when you showed up at Gianni’s hotel wearing that dress—the one barely held together by all those tiny buckles and oversized safety pins— cor, Hermione, it’s been nearly a year and he still can’t talk about it without turning all red and blotchy!”
Hermione chuckled at the shared memory of Ron’s nearly having an aneurysm when she’d stepped out of the lift. Their friend had nearly taken off his own shoes for her to wear so that no one else would be able to see the ridiculously sexy boots Hermione had teamed with that particular ensemble.
She narrowed her eyes at Harry, but her disapproval at his success in side-tracking her with food, conversation, and good cheer for the past hour was countered by her love for him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Harry James Potter.”
He spread his hands wide, the epitome of a man glad to take credit when credit was due.
The table top was cluttered with bowls, plates and dishes. A savoury vegetable frittata sat alongside a stack of extremely fluffy amaretto-laced pancakes, a bowl of clotted cream and a parfait of fruited yoghurt and house-made granola. A half-full pot of tea, a measure of warmed syrup, pats of creamy butter, the sinfully decadent chocolate cake and a generously-sized wedge of raspberry-peach pie had all been sampled. There was no way, given Hermione’s frame of mind and the reason for their joint consternation, any of that food was going to see the inside of a doggy bag.
Hermione pressed her fork into her bit of frittata, appreciating its aroma before she popped it into her mouth. Harry scooped a spoonful of cream and dotted it on his pie. They both savoured the excellent flavours. Breakfast, regardless of when it was served, was easily their favourite meal of the day.
Hermione leaned back, her tea cup balanced between her fingers. He easily read her wistful expression; he missed Ron’s presence, as well.
“When does he come back?”
“Friday morning, at the moment. He’s escorting a witness back to London and Apparation isn’t an option.”
Hermione smirked knowingly. “I hope she’s cute.”
Harry rolled his eyes. As usual, she was spot on. “Yeah—he volunteered before the rest of us even caught wind of the assignment. Crafty bastard.” But he held no grudge for being beaten-to-the-punch. Harry loved the fact that neither Hermione or Ron held any bad feelings about their half-hearted attempt—which had lasted all of three utterly uncomfortable days—to be more than just friends. She truly enjoyed encouraging Ron’s love-life, now that there was no chance of said love-life including her.
Harry couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to have her re-examine her own choices in that area. “What about you?”
His question caught her mid-sip. He knew that he was lucky that they were wearing dampeners, or she would’ve hexed his arse to next Monday for broaching the one subject she’d already declared ‘Something for Another Time’.

“You know,” was all she needed to say.
He did. He didn’t understand her… fascination, but he did understand her, on many different levels. Because of that, he pressed his luck and her indulgence.

“So, you mean you haven’t even thought about—”
She cut him off with a wave of her hand and an air of resigned finality. “You know that the only thing I think about, pertaining to him, is staying out of his line-of-sight as much as humanly possible.”
Harry didn’t push her any further. He knew better. When she was ready to tell him more, she would. Just like she’d shared the first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth times her path crossed with his over the past two years.
A good-natured wave of his hand stopped her before she could claim a bit of quid pro quo. “And no,” he said, “we’re not going to talk about my non-existent love-life either.”
“Fair enough.”
It’d been years since he and Ginny had parted ways. It had been a clean break and it was one he didn’t regret making. He was genuinely enjoying his bachelorhood. His preference for uncommitted companionship didn’t make him a man-slag, but it kept his life relatively uncomplicated. He liked the fact that he didn’t have to be responsible for anyone else—aside from those he considered his ‘family’: Ron, Hermione, Ginny on a platonic level, and a handful of others, most of whom carried the last name of Weasley. He and Ron shared a four bedroom flat. The third bedroom was always kept ready for Hermione—just as she kept a spare bedroom ready for them at her flat—and the fourth they’d converted into an office so that he and Ron could work from home. Thanks to Hermione’s cleverness, and a few well-collected favours from within the Ministry, an un-registered Floo-connection existed between their two flats and individual offices.
Harry pointed at the cake again. “You’ve got to try that, though. I think it’s better than last time. I’m definitely going to order a piece to take home with me.”
Hermione eyed the dessert warily. He could see her internal debate: should I or shouldn’t I?
“Yeah, Hermione—you so have to worry about that.” He rolled his eyes at her. He drizzled a bit more syrup on her pancake, just to prove his point.
Between her morning run, during which he sometimes joined her, the near constant state-of-motion her job demanded, and the strenuous duelling sessions the three of them shared on a regular basis, Hermione’s figure was neat and trim. Her healthy eating habits and modest indulgences made sure her curves stayed in all the right places. How did he know? One couldn’t be in someone’s pocket for as long as the three of them had without the occasional ‘whoopsee’—their code-word for when any one of them caught an eyeful, or more than an eyeful, of one of the other’s wobbly bits.
The bond between the three of them had only deepened as they’d grown older. They weren’t joined at the hip; they each had their own jobs, things they loved, and things that drove them barmy about each other. But they were joined at the soul.
At present, the fact that Gianni de Arsuaga was more of a nuisance instead of a significant threat was the reason why the Florentine walked without a limp and still had the use of his nearly negligible faculties. Harry and Ron would see to it that anyone who posed a serious threat to Hermione would spend their remaining years lamenting the worst mistake of their pathetic lives. Anyone who ever even contemplated hurting him or Ron had more to fear from Hermione than from anything or anyone else.
Back to Gianni…
Harry set down his fork. Hermione did as well, picking up on the subtle change as his persona shifted from commiserating friend to on-task Auror.
The details of his meeting that morning rose in his mind. “You do know why Arsuaga has asked to be lodged in Muggle London and party in Muggle Soho while he’s here - right?”
“What do your people have to say?” She effortlessly transitioned from lamenting female to cagey diplomat.
He didn’t take offence at her tactic of answering his question with one of her own. This was where they had to walk the fine line between who they were to each other and their chosen professions. He also knew that her network of whisperers and tittle-tattlers was as good as his own network of reputable and disreputable informants.
“That Arsuaga doesn’t feel safe inside the wizarding side of London.” Harry wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.
She picked up her cup again, and looked at him over the rim. “So far, it’s all conjecture. Nothing solid or definitive.” She tipped the cup to her lips and drank. She’d clearly been giving this a bit of thought. “What’s eluding me is the ‘why’. Granted Giannni de Arsuaga is the Prince of Prats—”
Merlin, did Harry appreciate her skill with alliteration. He finished her sentence with his own words. “—and is breathing good air you and I might need later on in life.”
“Precisely.” She clearly shared his sentiments.
“Odd though, isn’t it?” She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs—a ‘tell’ of hers, something she did when her mind was trying to suss out something she didn’t understand. She leaned forward, puzzled. “It’s not like he’s some sort of mover-and-shaker that someone would pay to have killed.”
Harry’s thoughts had travelled along a similar path. He wrinkled his upper lip, then one side of his nose. “Haven’t had a chance to look through the surveillance logs just yet. But as soon as I do…”
It was an unspoken promise that he’d send her unredacted copies as soon as possible.
“I’ll make sure Victoria drops off copies of all pertinent dossiers by noon tomorrow.”
She would, too. Harry could count on Hermione to follow through with her promise to share information—well, actually, to follow through with any promise she made to him or Ron.
“Too bad Ron won’t be back in time for this part of it. We could really use his help with this one.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ron’s unique take on political and physical strategy was often invaluable. “But he’ll be on the team come Saturday.”
“I haven’t decided who I’ll be taking with me just yet.” Hermione pursed her lips. “Certainly Natalie and Victoria will be assigned, but as for the others…”
Harry understood. He hadn’t finalized his team either. “Count on Ron, and definitely Tracey Davis. As soon as I have the other names, I’ll send them over.”
“Likewise.”
Her grimace was predicable. She didn’t like it when something as important as a travelling dignitary’s safety hung over her head. Harry and Ron were her ‘muscle’ but, ultimately, Arsuaga was her responsibility. He knew that until Gianni Portkeyed back to Florence, she was going to devote her considerable talents to foiling this assassination plot.
He draped his napkin back over his lap, and deliberately broke her introspection. “What’s Arsuaga coming to town for? Shacklebolt’s briefing had included the ‘what’ of Arsuaga’s visit—a three-day-two-night excursion that included meetings at the Ministry, ‘personal shopping’, and a night at a Muggle club—but not the ‘why’.”
“Trade agreement. He’s offering British apothecaries, healers and hospitals exclusive purchasing rights for all of Azienda Agricola della Famiglia de Arsuaga crops. Providing, of course, that we can come to an… ‘amicable’… accord.”
Harry realized just how much weighed on the outcome of the man’s visit. To which Hermione’s participation would be key—talk about the antithesis of ‘no pressure’. Harry whistled low and long. He didn’t envy her. Her proverbial plate was full. Not only did she have to hold up her—significant—end of ensuring the man’s security and jaunts, she also had to be at his beck-and-call from noon on Friday until Sunday afternoon, and sit in on the drafting sessions for the contract.

“Unlucky you.”
“Don’t I know it!” She laughed darkly. “There’s only one saving grace, Harry.”
“Oh yeah—what’s that?” He didn’t think he wanted to know, given the ‘better you than me’ look she shot at him.
“You get the pleasure of working directly with his ‘lovely’ personal assistant, verifying the finer details of his personal security.”
Harry needed a bit of that chocolate cake to counter the sour taste that flooded his mouth at the thought of the meetings he’d be forced to have with that horrible woman. “You’re sure that woman isn’t related to Umbridge?”
“I’m sure. I looked her family’s history.”
“Course you did,” Harry grumbled. It might be true, but Harry was utterly convinced that Gianni’s assistant and the one-time Headmistress of Hogwarts shared a common ancestor somewhere. “She’s such a bitch!”
Hermione knew better than to admonish him. “I shouldn’t say this but, sweet Godric’s gonads, I can’t stand her either!”
They both laughed. It took a lot for Hermione to swear like that, especially about someone she had to ‘play nice’ with on such an important matter. “She’s worse than Umbridge, Harry,” she said, authoritatively. “She makes Umbridge look like Molly!”
All the talk of those two terrible women, Umbridge and Arsuaga’s assistant, was foul enough to send both of their forks into the chocolate-covered chocolate cake, paring off big pieces.
Hermione hadn’t even swallowed before she exclaimed how good it tasted. “Oh, Merlin, Harry—you’re right! This is better than last time!”
Harry couldn’t resist being a bit smug.
She purred as she licked every bit of cake from her fork. “Don’t let me forget to order a piece to take home as well.”
Bad memories of their Fifth year chased away by the power of delicious chocolate, Hermione tucked into her frittata once again. “Once we’re done at the Ministry, it’s back to the hotel for him until I pick him up at half-nine for a late dinner. Then it’s onto Soho. At some point after that, we’re to back-track to the hotel—hopefully I won’t have to make nice with the concierge because Arsuaga missed his check-out time—where I’ll give him his Portkey home.”
Harry nodded. In the light of Arsuaga’s previous trips, this one seemed par for the course—including his demand that Hermione be directly involved in every aspect of his visit.
He mentally mapped out the rest of his week as Hermione poured them more tea. The two of them would need to get together at least two more times to hammer out the remaining details.
Hermione’s expression was contemplative, clearly doing the same thing as she stirred milk and drizzled honey into her cup. Right now, she needed Harry-the-best-friend, not Auror-in-Charge-Potter.
Harry’s gaze lingered on the beautiful bands of leather that circled her wrists, the ones that dangled past the cuffs of her stylish cardigan. The bracelets matched the belt that circled her waist. The three pieces were the set of dampeners that she kept in her desk so that she’d always have them should the need arise. He signalled to the server, his own dampeners, one on each wrist and the third around his waist that doubled as his belt, revealed when the cuff of his sleeve slid back to the top of his wrist and his jumper lifted as he turned in his seat.
The dampeners allowed him and Hermione—any witch or wizard for that matter—to be in Muggleville—Ron’s euphemism for anywhere that wasn’t wizarding by nature—and not make every electrical or mechanical device in their vicinity go haywire. Dampeners stamped down, dampened, innate magical abilities. The more powerful the witch or wizard, the more dampeners she or he had to wear. Harry and Hermione each wore three. Ron had to wear two.
Dampeners, imbued with a complex combination of charms, runes and sigils, made it possible for Harry and Ron to own a telly, have access to the Internet, and party-hearty with the likes of Gianni de Arsuaga. Dampeners were the reason Hermione could drive her car and operate her laptop.
When the server came, Harry ordered a fresh pot of tea and another slice of cake.
Hermione was his—and he was hers—for the rest of the afternoon. He’d make sure that neither one of them would leave the café any time soon. They deserved—and needed—to spend this time together.
*~*~*~
Thursday 7 July 2005

Just gone seven o’clock in the evening...
Granted the Three Broomsticks wasn’t the most original place for a clandestine meeting, but tonight—given who’d called for this little rendezvous—the pub suited Draco Malfoy’s purposes perfectly.
He had travelled from his flat in Belgravia all the way to Scotland because Harry Potter wanted something from him.
That alone had justified Draco’s arriving fifteen minutes early, securing one of the upstairs rooms—the one with a lounge separate from the bedroom—ordering a decanter of Ogden’s Finest and two glasses, and putting everything on Potter’s tab.
Now all he had to do was wait until Potter showed. There was, after all, something to be said for indulging one’s Slytherin-ness.
When the knock came at the door, it was Madam Rosemerta who announced Potter’s arrival and ushered the Gryffindor into the room. After she left, a bit of wandless magic from Potter secured their privacy.
Draco was prepared. He didn’t rise to greet the other man. He’d already selected his seat and poured himself a glass of Firewhisky, marking this previously established ‘neutral territory’ as his.
Potter took it all in without comment. If anything, his nonchalance undermined Draco’s intentional posturing a little. But Draco wasn’t insulted by the way Potter had decided to play out this part of their negotiations. Quite the contrary; Draco would’ve thought less of Potter if the Gryffindor had given any indication that he was even remotely intimidated.
For his part, Draco waved casually at the sideboard. “Drink?”
Potter shed his cloak and tugged his sleeves back into place as he considered Draco’s offer. Then, neatly and efficiently, poured himself two fingers of the excellent liquor.
Draco waited—good manners dictated as much—for Potter to take a sip of his drink and settle into the only remaining chair. Business etiquette demanded that, since Potter had called this meeting, Potter should speak first.
“Malfoy, thank you for coming.”
Draco inclined his head and leaned back into the padding of his chair. “Your message was cryptic enough to pique my interest.” The note that he’d received not two hours before had been as brief as it was vague—Draco was to provide the location of a neutral place where they could speak without being overheard, and Potter would meet him there with a proposition.
“Right.” Potter took a moment to gather his thoughts, then seemed to settle for an ‘honesty is the best policy’ approach. “I’m here to ask you to do something no one else can do.”
“Really now?” Potter’s declaration was so melodramatic, Draco was almost amused.
“Yes—really.” Potter reasserted himself.
Draco glanced at the sand-keeper mounted on the far wall, deciding that he’d give it five more minutes before he left to do other things with other people. “And Weaslebee isn’t here, because...?” he prompted. The three of them—Potter, Weaslebee, and Granger—were a matched set. The Gruesome Threesome rarely travelled without at least one of the others in tow.
“Ron’s on assignment and won’t return until tomorrow,” Potter explained. He sat back in his own chair, his drink in hand and Draco was suddenly on the receiving end of a very deliberate, knowing, look. “You know why Hermione’s not here.”
A faint tremor of something indefinably disquieting thrummed for a moment beneath Draco’s skin, but his meticulous control of his outward expressions ensured that Potter never saw it.

“Then if you know ‘know’, it stands to reason that you also know why she’s been avoiding me for the past three months.” Draco drew on his drink. His not so subtle implication—that Potter should tell him why Granger had gone to extraordinary lengths not to be anywhere near him, even when they were in the same room at some DIWA event—hung in the air.
“I do.” Potter took another swallow and, making sure he conveyed that he was, indeed, ‘in the know’ when it came to that particular witch, savoured the flavour of the aged whisky. “But that’s not something I can share with you. What I can tell you, though, is that this,” Potter gestured to the space between them, the reason for their meeting, “has to do with her—mostly to do with her.”
Draco cocked an eyebrow. Sometimes he was convinced that Potter would’ve done well in Slytherin House. Other times, like now, he knew that Potter had indeed been sorted into the right House after all. Potter had revealed more than he’d intended.
A feeling of protective possessiveness crawled up from Draco’s belly. It slinked upwards along his ribs and settled behind his eyes. He didn’t like how Potter had implied that Hermione could be in danger that was beyond the protection of her two best friends.

“Isn’t that what you and Weaselbee are for?”
“We are.”

Potter and the ginger git would step in front of an Avada for Hermione—and she’d do the same for them—without a second thought. And yet, the man was admitting to the one loop-hole in their three-way pact.

“Except when we can’t.”
Now that bit of disclosure was very interesting. So interesting, in fact, that Draco decided that he was going to stay for the duration—or until Potter said something utterly moronic. He suspected that Potter had entered their negotiations with an arsenal of ‘right’ things to say. Which meant that ‘this’, the purpose of their meeting, had everything to do with Granger.
He needed to know more and Potter was going to tell him.

“That woman is more than capable of taking care of herself.”
“She is,” Potter instantly agreed, his absolute faith in his friend’s skills and magical abilities evident. Until he pointed out another loophole: “Except when there are factors that neither of us,” he included Draco in the ‘us’, “can account for, which as you know, changes the playing field considerably.”
Draco was almost touched that Potter was alluding to the fact that he, Draco, had spent a considerable amount of time after the Battle of Hogwarts as a double-agent for the Order. There was nothing like smuggling letters detailing exactly who came to dinner in the days and months after Voldemort’s fall to Dumbledore’s barmy brother to earn a man his first down-payment on redemption. Draco was the unknown factor in Potter and Company’s ultimate ‘triumph’ over the last lingering remnants of Voldemort’s quest for supremacy.
Which meant that Potter needed…

“You need a spy.”
“Not exactly.” Potter’s smile was wicked. “No, Malfoy. We need you to be you, and watch Hermione’s back while you’re gracing Gianni de Arsuaga with your presence.”
That made Draco laugh out loud. Not because of the name that Potter dropped, but because of the expression he knew would cross Granger’s face when she read his name as the latest de facto member of Potter’s ‘team’.
“Listen, Malfoy… You do this and you’re going to have a front row seat when Hermione boxes my ears good and hard for going behind her back about this.”

The way Potter stiffened only made him laugh longer. He enjoyed the hint of moisture that touched his lashes.

“I’ve spent hours dissecting the guest lists, the dossiers, and surveillance logs and yours is the only name that cropped up with any sense of regularity at events where both Hermione and Arsuaga, not necessarily at the same time mind you, were in attendance.”
Sobering, Draco knew that Potter was leaving out several key details. The most pertinent being why Granger needed someone to watch her back. From what he knew of that pitiful excuse for a low-level aristocrat and wizard, there was no way Gianni de Arsuaga could pose any real threat to that witch.
“Be that as it may, Potter, why are you here?”
Potter sighed, and capitulated. Draco listened as Potter explained the assassination plot, how the man had demanded Hermione’s direct involvement, how Draco was the only person with the means, connections, lineage and genuine cause to travel unobtrusively within Arsuaga’s circle.
Potter also admitted, after a fortifying pull on his drink, that the idea of using a go-between, someone who could be seen without ‘being seen’, who could talk to both him and Hermione in public without arousing the faintest hint of suspicion, stemmed from a conversation he had earlier in the day, as the last of Arsuaga’s security measures were finalized. Potter was professional enough to recognise a good idea when it was presented on a salver lined with common sense and justifiable caution.
By the end of Potter’s confession, Draco’s glass was empty and his decision made. Truth be told, he’d already decided to help with whatever Potter was going to propose the moment Potter made Granger a variable in his ‘will I or won’t I’ equation.
That didn’t mean that Draco was going to make it easy for Potter to ‘persuade’ him. Nor was he going to reveal the whole truth of the matter. Truth was important. But in his experience, it was best doled out sparingly to acquaintances, and only freely shared with those who possessed one’s absolute trust. Draco could count the number of people he really trusted on one hand. And no, Lucius’s name didn’t warrant a digit.
To his credit, as Draco let the silence stretch, Potter didn’t fidget with his glass. And Draco, ever Slytherin, even if he was exceptionally well-mannered, let Potter stew for another moment more. “I take it this is to happen sometime soon?”
Potter nodded. “Arsuaga arrives tomorrow and leaves on Sunday. I have a copy of his itinerary with me.” He set his glass down on the end table, propped an ankle on his knee and rested his open palms on the arm-rests of his chair. “What do you want?”
Draco had to commend Potter. The Gryffindor was actually trying to use his carefully vague agreement to claim an upper hand. He countered Potter’s little by-play. “Who says I want something?”
Potter allowed himself to look amused. “You’re Malfoy. You never do anything unless there’s something in it for you.”
“And you don’t, Potter?” Draco called bollocks on the other man’s thinly veiled self-righteousness. “For the last half-hour, you’ve been here, wanting me to do something for you, because you want—no, need—me to do it, because you can’t.”
Potter bristled, but only fractionally. Having the truth thrown back in one’s face would do that to a person.

“You’re right.” Then Potter repeated himself. “So tell me—what do you want?”
Draco didn’t even have to think about what he wanted from Potter. He’d been waiting for a moment like this for two years. He wasn’t going to let it go when it was within his reach. He was too much of a man, a Malfoy, and a Slytherin for that.

“You know what I want.” He didn’t need to spell it out for the ‘noble’ Gryffindor.
“I’m not going play Cupid for you.” Potter’s refusal was direct and final.
Draco didn’t let Potter’s pompous presumptuousness derail him. “I don’t need—or want—your help with that, Potter.”
“Then what do you want, Malfoy?”
Draco looked at the other man through narrowed eyes. He didn’t appreciate Potter’s game-playing. “You’re being deliberately obtuse. While that suits you, the behaviour is unbecoming. You know what I want.”
Potter shook his head back and forth several times. “Name something else.”
“No.”
“Anything, Malfoy. Anything that’s within my power to grant.”
Draco could be a patient man. But that little bit of the boy he used to be, couldn’t. He wanted what he wanted, and by Salazar’s hairy arse-cheeks, he was going to get it.
“Name your price, Malfoy, and we can call this meeting ‘done’.”
Draco’s frustration peaked.
And the problem with it peaking was that, on either side of the apex, there were deep valleys exposed, laid bare, stripped of their protective layers. The question was this: did he let Potter leave the room without giving him the one thing he truly wanted?
No. He couldn’t let that happen.
That didn’t mean that he had to like the fact that he was about to break one of his cardinal rules about honesty and acquaintances.
“What I want is your word,” he leaned forward, staring intently and intensely at Potter, “on your magic, on your identity as a wizard, and on the name of your precious Godric Gryffindor that when the time comes, there be no recriminations against Granger pertaining to whatever decision she decides upon pertaining to me and my intentions pertaining to her.”
Draco’s breathing had sped up considerably. He could feel the fabric of the chair giving under his manicured nails. It was a moment before he regained total control of his outward demeanour.
“Done.” Potter, again to his credit, didn’t blink. If anything, Draco’s un-Slytherin-like declaration seemed to be exactly what the dark-haired man wanted to hear. “You have my word. On my magic, on my wizardness, on the name of Godric Gryffindor, and most importantly on my friendship and love for Hermione, my relationship with her won’t change in the slightest if and when she makes a decision about her feelings for you.”
Draco staved off the urge to preen. He’d got more than he’d asked for from Potter. Her best friend had all but confirmed what Draco had believed all along. Now it was up to him to give Hermione Granger cause to consider his attentions and intentions.
“Done.” Draco mimicked Potter’s response. “I will play my part.” He held out his hand.
As expected, Potter handed him a sealed packet that contained information about Arsuaga as well as the Italian’s itinerary.
Potter nodded, satisfied with how everything had turned out and the accord they’d reached. They were each walking away with what they wanted.
Ever the considerate host and for no other reason, Draco motioned to the sideboard. “Freshen your glass before you go, Potter?”
Potter considered his invitation, then nodded. “I think I will, Malfoy.”
They both stood. At the sideboard, Draco tipped a splash of Ogden’s into Potter’s glass and then tended to his own.
As they both sipped, the silence in the room was almost—almost—companionable.
It was Potter who broke the silence.
“You know, Malfoy, one of our,“ it was clear that Potter was speaking on behalf of himself, Weaslebee and Granger as it pertained to their interpersonal relationships, “biggest obstacles has been finding someone who won’t get jealous of what we are to one another; someone who understands what kind of connection we have and truly accept our… reality. There aren’t too many people in this world who can accept the fact that they will tie for first in all of our lives. Even fewer will be able to wrap their heads around the fact that we’ll remain that important to each other for the rest of our lives.”
Draco could see the difficulty Potter had in not only articulating something so very complicated as well as sharing the simple, particular, truths he, Granger and Weaslebee weighed against every potential relationship.
“That’s why I think you’ll ‘do’, Malfoy. You’ve been there, with us – granted not always on the same side – since the beginning. You’ve forged a similar inter-connected relationship with Parkinson, Nott and Zabini, and yet you – like Hermione – haven’t lost – nor are you likely to – lose you’re individuality.”
“Know this.” Potter drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The man clearly didn’t want to be misunderstood in any way, shape, or form. “If you do anything to hurt her, beyond the normal ups and downs that comes with sharing your life with her and her sharing her life with you, everything you ever promised that would happened to every bloke who started something with Pansy, will fall on you three-fold. Ron and I, we’re a given. Once she recovers from the shock, there’s nothing Ron and I will be able to do to stop her from extracting whatever retribution she decides is her due. And, whatever’s left of you after that, there’ll be a string of others waiting to have a go at you. And, just so you know, just like if it were Pansy, none of us would have any problems living with whatever we did in her name.”
Draco hadn’t had nearly enough to drink to even begin to process, refute, or acknowledge everything Potter had just said. He knew the truth of it, though. If anyone, e-v-e-r, deliberately set out to hurt Pansy, and succeeded, Draco’s conscience, pertaining to the level of retribution he, Blaise, and Theo would claim on her behalf, wouldn’t cause him to lose any sleep either.
Instead, he did the last thing he figured Potter would expect him to do, his way of assuring the other man that, on this matter, a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, were in perfect accord: he clinked their glasses.
“Cheers.”
*~*~*~
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The Italian Job