Enchanted

Enchanted

Chapter 5: "Unexpected Events"

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Hermione bit back a gasp as the cabin door smashed open revealing none other than the loathed Lucius Malfoy, his luxurious designer robes sinisterly billowing in the violent wind, as if Lucifer himself had arrived. His flawless blonde hair was swept back in an aristocratic black bow, revealing his sneering face. His handsome features did not escape Hermione's skilled observation--Draco inherited his good looks from somewhere. The resemblance the Grecian nose, high cheekbones, cold yet entrancing steel eyes and smirking mouth held was uncanny between the elder Malfoy and his son. Lucius's gloved hands gripped his cane tightly as he stepped forward, examining the milieu with obvious disdain.

"My, my," he tutted, "What is the inner-ring of Evil coming to when the décor is this insipid? I would have at least expected a few statues of Famous Dark Wizards or a few pots of Devil's Snare or venomous tentacula to brighten up this dreadful filth."

"Must have slipped the decorator's mind. Hello Father," Draco drawled, stepping forward to greet the evil wizard. Hermione remained motionless in her chair, cinnamon orbs wide in panic.

"Son," he nodded in acknowledgement, spitting the word out venomously.

Hermione released a small gasp at their hateful exchange. How could family abhor one another so much? The thought simply baffled her. That gasp, however, cost Hermione the miniscule chance of simply being overlooked, and Lucius snapped his sharp gaze around to her, his steel gaze darkening. A creepy smirk crept across his mouth and Hermione involuntarily began to shudder. Tauntingly, Lucius sauntered over to her, his expensive dragon hide boots clinking on the wooden floor.

"Look what we have here, the Mudblood," he whispered patronizingly, trailing his gloved hand over her right cheek. Hermione whipped her face away from his touch, openly glaring at the dark wizard. He chuckled at her display of defiance and roughly grabbed her chin, yanking her head to face him. She struggled in his grasp, her mouth pressing into a firm line.

"Why have you not disposed of this yet?" he snapped at Draco, his grasp still firm on Hermione's chin.

"The required information has yet to be extracted. I thought it best to make the process...slow and painful."

Lucius stared at Draco, analyzing his offspring as if doubting the truthfulness behind that statement. He turned to face him, twisting Hermione's head into a painful angle in the process. She sunk her teeth into her lip to keep from crying out; I'm not about to give that bastard the satisfaction of seeing me in pain she thought angrily.

"Is that so? Then you won't mind me...Beginning the process, as you say."

With a cackle, Lucius wound his fingers around Hermione's slender throat and hauled her into the air, her bare feet dangling several inches from the cold floor. Her hands flew up to claw at his grasp, her mouth gasping for air. The elder Malfoy chuckled in delight.

"See how she squirms, Son? This is a proper interrogation."

Hermione's eyes pleadingly searched Draco's, silently begging for help. He looked away, gaze trained on the floor.

Lucius's grasp tightened and Hermione kicked her legs, struggling for freedom. Her hands continued to grasp and claw as her air supply rapidly declined. One hand slashed Lucius across the face. His free hand lightly touched his cheek. On his gloved fingers lay a few dots of red.

"Mudblood bitch!" he hissed, slamming her into a nearby wall. A strangled scream slipped from Hermione's lips, but was muffled due to her constricted throat. The cabin wall shook from the force of the impact, and a few pictures tumbled to the floor with a crash, glass shards and wood splinters littering the wooden floorboards. Lucius clenched his fingers, eyes flashing in a silvery array of delight, retaining a sick, twisted pleasure from Hermione's expression. Her eyes were filling up with water, fear and helplessness floating in their depths. She continued to struggle, but her strength was swiftly diminishing. Hermione pleadingly looked to Draco again, silently begging. He refused to meet her gaze. Weakly, she clutched at Lucius's fingers, attempting to pry them away from her neck.

"Stop!" Draco finally cried, rushing to Hermione's aid. He tore Lucius's hand away from her throat and she crumpled to the floor, coughing and gasping desperately for air.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lucius snarled, eyes ablaze with ire, and grabbed his son by the collar.

"How would she tell us what we want to know if she's dead?" Draco retorted, matching glare for glare.

Lucius seemed to consider this, releasing Draco.

"For a moment I thought you had gone soft, boy."

Draco glared at him, his gaze flickering to where Hermione lay in a heap on the floor. He hastily turned away.

"Fine. I'll leave you to your methods," Lucius drawled, promenading out the door.

Draco approached Hermione's crumpled form, cautiously placing a hand on her shoulder. Carefully he turned her over, silently praying he would not find her dead. Hermione's cinnamon eyes weakly met his as she coughed, accepting his help to sit up. Draco brought a hand to her cheek, but Hermione cringed, backing away slightly. Wearily, he pushed a few stray chocolate curls away from her face. Red-rimmed eyes stared up at him curiously, a fresh trail of tears coursing down from the pain. Hermione gingerly fingered her neck, wincing upon contact as a sharp sting, like the aching bite of a basilisk tore through her throat. Soft thumbs brushed her cheeks. Shocked, Hermione stiffened. Draco Malfoy was wiping away her tears.

The boy who had tormented her endlessly since First year--bringing her to cry out in fitful sobs from his countless cruel measures--was wiping away her tears.

Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

Oh Merlin, Hermione mentally rolled her eyes, too many Muggle songs. I've just visited the brink of death, subjected to strangulation by Voldemort's most loyal servant, and all I can think about is the irony of the situation? Sign me up for St. Mungo's Mental Ward...

Draco gently grasped Hermione by the upper arms and led her to the couch, returning moments later with a glass. Hungrily, she sipped the water, relief washing down her throat in cool waves of liquid. She leaned back lounging on the couch, examining Draco.

He appeared stressed with traces of genuine concern hinted in his stony visage, like an ancient Greek statue. His lips were pressed in a thin line in obvious contemplation. His blonde hair, usually styled to perfection, was in disarray. A line crinkled his normally smooth brow, his pallid complexion a ghost white, almost reminding Hermione of a distraught Nearly Headless Nick. Draco's steel orbs were slanted--an impervious wall erected to guard his thoughts from prying eyes. Self-consciously, Hermione glanced down at the tattered rug, once again tracing its frayed edges.

She felt the plush cushion lift slightly and watched Draco stand. He ran long fingers through his disheveled blonde mane and stormed to the door, grabbing his robes in the process. He twisted the knob and pushed open the door.

"Where are you going?" Hermione whispered, her sore throat preventing her from increasing her volume.

"Out," he snapped, slamming the door behind him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ron was running, staggering between witches and wizards in the crowded halls of the Ministry, attempting to keep pace with Harry. As soon as the three had been within viewing distance of the building, Harry had taken off in a sprint, leaving Ron and Elizabeth no choice but to huff and puff after the ebony-haired wizard. They had raced after Harry for what felt like hours to Ron's aching muscles, and--from the looks of Harry--it was not going to end anytime soon. God he is too bloody fast for his own good, Ron grumbled, panting along. He glanced back at the flushed face of Elizabeth Ashton, who, at that particular moment, had her gorgeous sky-blue eyes narrowed in anger. Her adorable mouth was twisted in agitation, with her sleek, chic blonde hair standing out like electricity (What was that Muggle contraption? Ron thought) was surging through her locks. Ron was sure that at this very moment his sexy girlfriend was devising a million and one ways to hex The Boy Who Won't Stop Bloody Racing Like He's In A Marathon.

Ron unexpectedly collided with the aforementioned man, Elizabeth skidding to a sudden stop inches before they three became a magical sandwich. Ron peeled himself off Harry and then proceeded to grab him roughly by the arm.

"Harry, would you slow the bloody hell down! We're not all Quidditch players who run every morning you know!"

Harry scratched his head sheepishly, an awkward grin inching up his face. Ron rolled his eyes and Elizabeth stood, catching her breath while muttering curses at The Boy Who Lived.

"Sorry, guess I got carried away," Harry smiled, lowering his eyes slyly.

Ron could have sworn he heard Elizabeth mutter "Sure, you little flying punk." He had to cover his mouth to contain his laughter. One icy glare from Elizabeth and he suddenly no longer found laughter appealing; now all he wanted to do was cower behind Harry. Merlin his girlfriend was intimidating.

That's the second time today I've called her that. My, Ron Weasley is actually beginning to feel attached to a witch? Never thought I'd live to see that day...A smile began to creep up Ron's face.

Another glare from the American witch.

And at this rate, I may never live through this day.

"Anyways, what's with the sudden hold up mate?" Ron asked, avoiding Elizabeth's deathly gaze.

"We're here."

"And where exactly is that?"

Harry pointed to a mahogany door. Ron and Elizabeth both followed his arm and read the dusty old plate set in the middle. Its curvy script spelled out: Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry entered through the doorway, Ron and Elizabeth trailing behind. Once inside, Ron's eyes scanned the various parchments covering the dreary department walls. One such piece caught his eye: a Wanted poster, brandishing the picture of a chubby, familiar bald man.

WANTED: Peter Pettigrew

Suspect in the Muggle Killing of 1981 and alleged right-hand man to Lord Voldemort, also known as Wormtail. Although appearing docile, Pettigrew is a dangerous and unpredictable criminal, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPROACH HIM. Contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if you have any information concerning his whereabouts.

After Sirius's name had been cleared (and the fact of Voldemort's return accepted by the Ministry) a few years previously, the magical community kept a close watch for the true murderer. Ron shuddered slightly at the picture. And to think I had him as a pet rat once...

"May I help you?" a cross-looking witch inquired unpleasantly from behind the Department counter. Her nose was wrinkled in slight disgust, her narrowed beady eyes peering out from behind her red-rimmed cat's eyes glasses. Her graying hair was pulled back in a tightly wound bun, and Ron personally thought that if the woman let her hair down out of that dreadfully uncomfortable-looking coiffure she might be less apt to be irritable.

Clearing his throat, Harry strolled over to the counter.

"We need to file a missing wizard's report," he said calmly, unperturbed by the witch's menacing glare.

Grumbling, she reached into a drawer and pulled out parchment and ink. Dipping her quill into the bottle, she fixed her gaze on Harry.

"Name of missing wizard?" she grunted apathetically.

"Witch actually," Harry muttered.

"Name?" she repeated exasperatedly.

"Hermione Granger."

"Date of disappearance?"

"Last night, the 20^th of March."

"Time?"

"Eight o'clock, I believe."

"Location of last sighting?"

"Her office in the Department of Magical Ailment Researching."

"Any suspects?"

At this Ron jumped right in with a "Thomas Shields, works in her department."

"Ron!" Elizabeth scolded. "He didn't kidnap her! He's got about as much of a clue to where she is as we do!"

"I still think it was him," he huffed, crossing his arms.

Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth approached the witch.

"We aren't sure, but it's a possibility the disappearance is Voldemort-related."

"Isn't everyone's?" the witch snorted crossly. "Now, I've got paper work to attend to if you twits are quite finished with filing false missing wizard's reports."

"It's not false!" Elizabeth cried out, slamming her fist on the counter.

"Listen up lady, I'm sick of your indifferent attitude. My boss and best friend is missing, and it IS Voldemort-related. Did you take a look at the man giving you the information?" Elizabeth demanded, pointing to the dark-haired wizard.

Perplexedly, the witch squinted at Harry.

"So? He's good-looking, how is that relevant?"

"He's Harry Potter! You know, The Boy Who Lived, sworn enemy of Voldemort? Hermione's his long-time best friend!"

The woman's eyes widened in realization, her mouth dropping.

"I'll retrieve the on-duty Auror immediately!" she exclaimed, rushing to the back of the room.

Moments later, she returned, dragging a man by the arm to the desk.

"What's all this ruckus Ms. Pushell?" a timber voice asked calmly.

"Sirius!" Harry cried, green eyes widening in surprise.

"Harry, Ron, what brings you two here?" The weary-eyed man asked. Although Sirius Black's features had softened since his release, he still held the tired countenance from those dreadful years spent in a cell at Azkaban, the wizarding prison. His black hair was no longer shaggy and unkempt, but neatly trimmed to just below his ears. His skinny, hope-starved body was replaced with a fit and healthy one, and Harry thought Sirius had never looked better.

"This sir," the witch interrupted, handing the report over. Sirius quickly scanned its length, eyes growing wide.

"Merlin, she's missing boys?" Sirius inquired in disbelief.

"Yes," Elizabeth spoke up.

"And who might you be?" Sirius asked bemusedly, winking in Ron's direction.

"Elizabeth Ashton," she replied, offering her hand, "I work with Hermione."

"Ah," Sirius smiled, shaking the witch's hand.

Turning to Harry and Ron, Sirius motioned to them. "Well, why don't the lot of you come back to my office and we can start cracking Hermione's disappearance."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I can't believe he just left like that," Hermione muttered, shakily rising from the divan. "Wonder what's got his boxers in a bunch."

The chocolate-haired witch slowly made her way to the kitchen sink, twisting the knob of the faucet. She let the cool liquid run like a mini-waterfall, filling her cup and taking a few sips. Setting the cup to the side, Hermione splashed water over her face, allowing the translucent liquid to momentarily cleanse her of her worries. Feeling slightly refreshed, she shut the faucet off and leaned against the counter. Hermione had sure had one hell of a day already, and was sure it was not even lunch yet.

Merlin...she silently cried, slipping down the sink cabinets, wrapping her arms around her legs. Tears welled up in her cinnamon eyes, and this time she let them come. A tidal wave of emotions engulfed the witch, drowning her in their troublesome waters. First, she had been snatched from her workplace, and had awoken in an alien environment, held captive by her childhood enemy. Then, she had been subjected to strangulation courtesy of Voldemort's devoted servant, to the brink of death. After her dashing rescue by her unsuspected knight in shining armor, she had been abandoned; left alone in an unfamiliar place.

The cause of this whole ordeal struck at her, another unyielding tidal wave of pain. The counter curse. They had been so close, on the verge of a breakthrough. There was no Flu remedy; that was the cover story the department had agreed to feed to curious friends, family, and even the remaining Ministry departments. Since the acknowledged return of Voldemort, an idea to research and develop counter spells had popped into Hermione's head. In her final months of her seventh year at Hogwarts, she had discussed the proposal with Dumbledore and he contacted an old acquaintance at the Ministry. The long-forgotten Department of Magical Ailment Researching (which had been shoved into the proverbial Ministry closet) was re-opened. Hermione was named Head of the department upon graduation from Hogwarts. She had carefully hired a select team of highly skilled witches and wizards; within a year the department was up and running.

The central project was easy: find a counter curse to Avada Kedavra, the widely feared and commonly used Killing Curse. Simplistic as the idea was, its mechanics were difficult. Many months were spent in dead-end research and formulas, stuck in ruts, unable to find anything to aid their cause. Finally, the months of gridlock gave way to hope, and progress began to accelerate to a point were Hermione was expecting the answer any day. Now, it seemed it was all ruined.

Their project had been top secret, all information regarding the counter curse confined within the department's walls. Even the workers did not know every detail concerning the project; that way, if misfortune was to befall one, the entire project could not be spilled, and the information could be dispelled as false, covered up, and the department could carry on with business. But Hermione was the exception; she did know every aspect in regards to the project. She was well aware that this was why she was the one captured. But how had Voldemort known this? How had he known she was the key?

The answer was clear as a bright day at Hogwarts in Hermione's mind: a mole. Someone in the department was delivering inside information to the Dark Lord, and in all probability had a hand in her kidnapping. The question, however, was who. Who could have done this?

Tears fell in huge pearl-like drops, splashing her flushed cheeks. Hermione was alone, scared, and confused. Not a wonderful combination of emotions at all. Her neck still stung and she felt light-headed. Lying down on the cold floor, exhaustion lured her into a troubled sleep.

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Ron was tired. Scratch tired--he was done in. Rubbing his eyes, he stole a glace at Elizabeth sitting next to him. This long process of researching, checking and rechecking sightings, and gathering clues was beginning to show on her features. Small bags of lilac began to form under her sky-blue eyes--eyes dulled with fatigue. Harry and Sirius were currently in the opposite corner, speaking in hushed tones. Ron reached out, taking Elizabeth's delicate hand, and gave it a little squeeze. She looked up, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her pink mouth.

Ron's brown gaze hungrily traced those pink lips, so appetizing. Without a second thought, he swooped down and caught her mouth in a kiss.

Hmm...Feels like heaven, he thought dazedly.

Breaking apart--due to lack of oxygen--Elizabeth smiled her first true genuine smile. Ron had not seen one of her breathtaking smiles in what seemed like eternity. He loved her smiles. They always made the room brighter and his mood lighter.

Merlin, I'm becoming a bloody poet, Ron chided himself.

He tugged at her hand, gently leading her out into the hallway. Elizabeth's sky-blue orbs peered mysteriously at him. Ron shrugged.

"You looked a little agitated and tired. I figured a short break was in order."

She smiled, squeezing his hand.

"How sweet of you."

The two strolled down the corridor, chatting quietly about various topics, carefully evading Hermione's disappearance. As they rounded the corner, Ron collided right into another being.

Dusting himself off, Ron glanced at Elizabeth to ascertain she was unscathed, and looked up to meet the hazel eyes of none other than Thomas Shields.

"Bloody bastard! Where is she!" Ron growled, yanking the dirty-blonde wizard into a nearby wall via his collar.

"Ron! Drop him!" Elizabeth ordered, placing her hand atop of Ron's. Reluctantly, he released Thomas but kept a malevolent glare trained on the wizard.

"Pleasure to see you again too Weasley," Thomas coughed, fingering his throat. "I suppose by 'she' you are referring to Hermione?"

"Yeah, what've you done with her?" the blazing redhead seethed, ire and contempt laced in his normally soothing voice.

"Thomas," Elizabeth interrupted, shooting a look at Ron, "What Ron means is have you seen Hermione?"

"No, she stood me up last night."

Elizabeth sighed; she had hoped it would not come to this. Holding dearly on to her last hope, she had kept high spirits, believing this could all be a simple misunderstanding; that Hermione and Thomas had just had a silly little lover's spat and all was, in reality, well. But no. Nothing was peachy-keen at all.

"She's missing, Thomas."

"What?" he gasped, hazel eyes widening slightly.

"Harry's conversing with an auror as we speak. As of yet, they have no leads, except that it's a probable kidnapping, and Voldemort had some hand in the matter."

Thomas titled his head to the side, a strange look filling his eyes, misting into an almost sea green. He backed up a little ways, his hand fiddling in a pocket.

"Excuse me," he said, and with that, disappeared into the crowded corridor.

"Well, that was weird," Elizabeth muttered.

"I'll say," Ron growled darkly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione was floating high above the clouds, like she was flying carefree on Harry's Firebolt. Funny, she never normally rode a broomstick; she was terrified of the inadequate wooden sticks, believing them to be impractical. Why fly when there were many alternative, safer, modes to travel by. It was quite odd actually--she could have sworn her chocolate tendrils brushed against her cheeks; that her robes were whipping with the wind, spread out behind her like a fan. It felt...good. Murmuring a contented sigh, she turned over, intent on remaining in this pleasurable plane. Or tried to.

She found herself restrained, confined in something warm...besieged in what felt like...arms? Groggily, she opened her cinnamon orbs. She gasped and grabbed for the closest thing she could reach. She was flying! And at quite a high altitude too. The tops of the forest green trees were like broccoli heads, so tiny and out of reach.

"About time you awoke from your dream land, Granger."

"Malfoy! What in Merlin's name are we doing?"

Malfoy's characteristic smirk spread across his handsome face, and it was at that moment, for the first time, that she realized his strong arm was wrapped securely around her waist, serving as the one element preventing her body from falling. Her hand, the one that had blindly seized hold of the nearest object, was clutching the sleeve of the said arm. A blush began to stain her cheeks, but she did not release her grip. She was on a broom, very, very, very far above the ground, and she had no death wish. In fact, she decided her grip was not tight enough. She grasped the material harder.

"What does it look like?" he shot back, sarcasm laced in his voice, yet his tone was almost...playful?

"It looks like we're flying over God knows where doing God knows what. Now you've ten seconds to educate me on this ignorance before I resort to something drastic," she threatened, gripping his arm.

I really despise flying, Hermione thought, tightening her hold on Malfoy's arm.

"Like what?" he shot back hotly, his breath tickling the exposed skin of her neck, sending a trail of goose bumps down her spine. She gulped and turned her head, trying to ignore how handsome and heroic he appeared with his short blonde locks flying in the wind.

"I'll, I'll do something quite upsetting and, and horrible."

"Ooo, I'm shaking in my little leather trousers. I think you've discovered my undoing!"

Shoving the pleasurable mental image of Malfoy strutting down a walkway in leather trousers out of her head, Hermione gulped.

"I'm serious Malfoy," she whispered, glancing down to avoid locking gazes with the charming yet insufferable wizard. I really don't like it up here, she whimpered silently as her gaze shot up to stare straight ahead.

"What? Does the Great Granger have a fear of--drum roll please--flying?"

"Yes, now answer my questions."

Malfoy mumbled an incoherent set of words.

"Pardon?" Hermione inquired, confusion creeping over her features.

"We are flying over France, and the reason is relocating. Clear?"

"Crystal," she snapped, turning back around to face the chilling wind.

"Oh, and Granger?"

"Yes?" she replied timidly.

"I know you find me undeniably sexy, but please restrain yourself and loosen your death grip. My arm might fall off from blood flow deprivation."

Obliging, she released his arm, but only slightly. She did not fancy meeting the ground at an unimaginable rate. She treasured her life quite dearly, thank you.

Suddenly, the close range at which Malfoy's body sat started to ensnare her senses. The spicy sent of his expensive cologne drifted into her nostrils, sending her head swimming in a whirl of pleasure. Her neck tingled from his breath, and itched for closer contact. Her mind wandered to his smirk, another appetizing aspect of his delicious appearance...

Whoa! Hold on a moment, did I just use delicious and Malfoy in the same sentence? That's it; the purple people-eaters have arrived and are taking over...Hermione inwardly groaned.

"Problem Granger?"

Hermione turned her face, her peripheral vision catching his enticing steel gray gaze, ablaze with a ferocious intensity that Hermione could not quite place...

Enticing?! Merlin, I must have really slammed my head on that cabinet when I fell asleep...

"Nothing Malfoy," she muttered, fighting the urge to blush.

Hermione felt his arm tighten around her waist.

I'm delusional; there's no plausible explanation otherwise.

Gulping, she stared determinedly into the distance, viewing the setting sun. Its colorful array of swirling pastels created an enchanting atmosphere, the idealistic romantic backdrop. Too bad she was just out flying with Malfoy, as a prisoner nonetheless.

Hermione's eyelids began to droop. Unconsciously, she leaned back into Malfoy's taut chest, finding the position to be quite comfortable. She tried not to dote on how perfectly she seemed to fit against him as her head nestled against his collarbone.