Come out to play

Chapter Two: Easy

Hermione didn't know what bed she had woken up in, but it certainly wasn't hers. She was vaguely aware of the fact that she couldn't remember very much about the events of the previous night. She really wished she were at home right now. At least she would have access to a toothbrush, let alone a shower. Her mouth felt like she had been cultivating moss in there and her throat was dry. She opened her eyes one by one, not wanting to be blinded by the sunlight. There was none and the room was in near darkness. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she realised, with dawning horror that she was in Draco's bed. She was quite alone, however, much to her relief and slight disappointment. She rolled over and sat up. At once, an explosion sounded behind her eyeballs and her head started to pound incessantly. Hordes of Cornish Pixies seemed to be attacking her skull with their minute pick-axes. A hundred cannons sounded at once. A swarm of angry bees seemed to have made a nest in her skull. "Draco?" she called out feebly. When there was no answer, she mustered up the strength to get up. At first the world swayed dangerously, and then Hermione ungraciously fell to the floor and saw Draco from a whole new perspective. She saw him from the ankles up and in a towel. She personally thanked Merlin for creating and letting her witness such a sight.

"Hermione? What are you doing there?" he sounded worried.

Hermione struggled up; vaguely aware of her disheveled appearance. She raked a hand through her hair and then realised she wasn't even wearing her own clothes. She stared down at the pale green silk shirt and then fixed Draco with a confused stare.

"Did you put this on me?" she asked, anxiously.

"No, it just flew onto your body," he answered sarcastically, "fancy some coffee?"

"You undressed me?" she asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Yes, what of it?" He sounded faintly annoyed by this exchange.

To Hermione, this was the worst news she had had so far. Aside from being incredibly hung-over, she had been undressed by Draco. She wasn't even wearing nice underwear! She hadn't shaved her legs for weeks! She raked her eyes up his body until they reached his face. She glared vehemently, knowing that her anger was only fuelled from her embarrassment. She pulled the shirt tighter around her body. Draco extended a hand and she grasped it. He hauled her up and her face was now inches from his. His body was so close, so invitingly close; yet she could not act on her desire. She slowly raised her head and looked into his eyes. She could feel him breathing and his hand still hadn't left hers. She raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, feeling as if her movements were through treacle. He wasn't doing anything. He just returned her gaze with a quizzical stare. If this were a romantic movie, the audience would all be holding their breath. Then we would kiss and everyone would go "Ahhh," Hermione thought to herself. She grasped the bull by the horns, or to be exact, Draco by the hips. It was then that she felt the overwhelming urge to talk down that big, white telephone to God. She rushed to the toilet and Draco could hear her making wet coughing sounds. She reappeared, ashen faced. She started to walk towards him, but putting a hand over her mouth, rushed back into the bathroom. Draco gave her a minute, then poked his head round the door. Hermione made a slight protesting sound.

"Please, go away," she choked out, and then a fresh wave of nausea hit her.

"I thought you might need these," he said and handed her a vial of potion and a toothbrush.

"What is it?" she asked weakly.

"That is a mixture of Pepper-up potion and a little hang-over remedy I can proudly say I formulated by myself. The other item is a toothbrush," he grinned at her, an expression uncustomary to him.

She managed a weak smile. "Thanks," she said. She drank the potion and shivered as it began to take effect.

"You can have a shower, if you want. There's a towel you can use there. We have an hour before we visit Finch-Fletchley where he is being held in Azkaban."

She looked up. "Oh? Are we going to question him?"

"Of sorts. I prefer the term interrogate, with the use of Veritaserum, if he refuses to co-operate." His eyes lit up at the pleasure of torturing one of his adversaries. He turned and shut the door after him.

******

It would have taken a very dense person not to have noticed what had happened in the bedroom, Draco mused idly, drinking his coffee. It is times like these that I am grateful for my superior intellect. He smirked; he had sensed the attraction. Women often were attracted to him; he just hadn't expected it from Granger. Making a resolution to bed her, he crossed to the sink and rinsed his mug under the tap. He heard a cellular phone ringing shrilly from somewhere in the lounge. He remembered Hermione falling asleep on the dragon-hide couch and confidently crossed to it. He stuck his hand down the back and felt around. It wasn't there. It wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't have programmed that infernal Muggle pop song as her ring-tone. He looked around the room, gritting his teeth. He looked under the cushions on the chair he had been sitting on. Still, it continued to ring. It was fair to say that now, Draco was getting a little annoyed. He moved a pile of magazines on the coffee table, and triumphantly retrieved the cellular. He held it aloft and pressed the "receive" key.

"'Mione? Thank God you answered! Where were you last night! I was so worried, you could have had the kindness to call!" The familiar voice of Harry Potter sounded from the receiver.

"I apologise, but Granger is indisposed at the moment, Potter," he drawled, wanting to aggravate him in whatever way possible.

"What do you mean?" The confusion and anger in Harry's voice was unsuccessfully contained. "Where is she?"

"She is currently enjoying a shower in my bathroom," he replied lazily. Oh, this was too easy, he thought to himself.

"What?!" There was a faint crash from the other end of the line. "Why is she with you?" Anger gave way to suspicion.

"Oh, you know. We were working," Draco replied, deliberately stressing the word for effect. It had just the effect he was waiting for.

"WHAT?! Malfoy, if you have so much as even laid one finger on her, I'll-"

"You'll what, Potter? Too bad you are too busy dressing up in women's clothing and playing 'bump bump' with your boyfriend to even have the first clue about what is going on in her life," he stated calmly.

The bathroom door opened and Hermione emerged, wrapped in a towel. "Draco? Could you chuck me my clothes?" she asked, oblivious to a smile spreading over his face like oil on water.

"Hear that, Potter?" he hissed into the cellular, "I have to go, Hermione wants her clothes, which are in my room, by the way. Ciao." He ended the call and stood up with a smile. "Sure, but perhaps you might want to reconsider wearing that shirt..."

******

She had been watching them until the light had been extinguished. She had seen Hermione's unconscious near smothering of Draco. She had watched impassively as they received her "present". And now... Now she had some plotting to do. Her hair hung in matted wisps by the side of her face and there was a light sheen of dust and grime on her clothes. She knew her next victim. She knew where to go. She watched as Granger and Malfoy left the apartment, Malfoy almost neglecting to lock the door behind him. A smile curved her face as the front page of the Daily Prophet caught her eye. So she was the murderer the whole of Britain was looking for? A murderer, but a celebrity nonetheless. She had been created for this. Murder. It was in her blood. It made her heart pump with excitement, her veins course with adrenaline. She stood up from her hiding place. Now she could walk tall, she could walk among the innocents and remain undetected. It was at night that she cast off her doubts and her mask she wore. She could be herself again. She was wild, she was feral, but she was real, she was herself. She wanted it this way.

******

Hermione followed Draco into Azkaban, feeling all her positive thoughts dissipate. This was not where she wanted to be. Not now, not today, not ever. She sighed tiredly and rubbed her aching forehead with a clammy hand. After walking through a magic security barrier, Hermione and Draco were led to an interviewing room. A pale, unshaven Justin Finch-Fletchley was slumped on a chair in front of a table. He looked up as they entered and his gaze hardened as he recognised Draco Malfoy. Draco nodded curtly to the Dementors and they glided from the room. The door clanked shut. Draco set a wad of parchment and an enchanted quill onto the table in front of them. Hermione, whom until now had remained silent, decided to take the initiative and speak, whilst the two arch-rivals glared vehemently at each other. "Good morning, Mr. Finch Fletchley. I hope you are well. I am Detective Inspector Granger and this is my colleague Detective Inspector Malfoy. We have come to question you on the matter of your wife's murder. Are you in accordance to speak and tell us your last movements, Mr. Finch-Fletchley?"

Justin nodded. "But, I will not speak without my lawyer present," he declared stoutly.

Hermione noticed a flicker of amusement pass over Draco's face. The door was flung open and a bald, portly man burst in, red in the face.

"How professional," remarked Draco sarcastically.

"Terribly sorry I'm late," he puffed, and sank down onto a chair. He helped himself to some water and drank it noisily in long gulps.

"Shall we begin, again?" Draco asked testily.

Hermione shot him a warning glance. "Where were you the night your wife was murdered, Mr. Finch Fletchley?" she asked.

"I was at work," he stated calmly, "I came home to see her being murdered and the murderer was still there. I was stupefied and the killer got away."

"At about what time was this?" Draco asked, in brusque tones.

Justin paused momentarily. "At about half-past seven," he concluded finally.

Draco frowned, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think the better of it and closed it again.

"A Mr. Seamus Finnigan was seen with your wife before she was murdered, do you know why he would have been at your house?" Draco asked. Hermione mentally cursed him for dealing with such a sensitive link in such a callous way.

Justin looked stunned. "Seamus Finnigan? He was there? My wife and Seamus were friends, but I wouldn't have said they were close," he stated.

"Were you aware that your late wife and Finnigan were together on the evening of the incident?" Draco asked, spitefully.

The lawyer stood up, leaning heavily on the table. "This is totally inappropriate! I will not tolerate this line of questioning; it could be mentally harming to my client," he huffed.

Justin waved a hand weakly. "No, I didn't know," he stated quietly, and dragged his eyes up until they were level with Malfoy's. He would not be beaten by a Malfoy.

"Let us now turn to the small matter of the murder weapon. You say that you have no recollection as to how it may have ended up in your hand?"

Justin raised his head and looked at Malfoy evenly. "I told you, I have no idea," he bit out.

"Mr. Finch-Fletchley, you are aware that we have evidence that your working day finishes at five o' clock, so would you like to rethink what you said you were doing before the death of your wife?" Draco asked smoothly.

Hermione studied her nails. The way that this interrogation was going, it didn't look like she would have a lot of input. She sighed inwardly and listened to Justin stutter out a response. But, he was no longer a 'Justin' to her now. He was part of their murder inquiry and she knew she had to remain detached. He was Mr. Finch-Fletchley; he was a murder suspect. Now was not the time to reminisce about school days. In the Interrogation Room they had no past. Their past and familiarities ended at the door. The formalities remained.

"I was working late," Justin replied, looking nervous. Hermione suspected there was more to his story, but Draco seemed not to have noticed.

"That will be all for today. We will return for more questioning at a later date," Draco said, and left the room. Hermione followed suit.

"Draco, you idiot! You didn't need to be so insensitive!" Hermione chastised as soon as they were out of earshot.

Draco feigned innocence, "What? I had to do all the work in there, I saved your ass if anything and you're complaining?"

Hermione sighed, "I just think you could have been a little less cruel. It wasn't right to deliberately hurt his feelings."

He grinned, "I know. Fancy a drink?"

******

She finished writing the letter and signed it with her usual signature. 'SIGNED'. It couldn't really get anymore anonymous, could it? It didn't suggest gender, age, race. It was perfect. She watched Harry appear at the window from her hiding place. She had to deliver it to the door; she couldn't risk sending an owl. He appeared to be pacing the room. Granger wasn't home yet. The light suddenly was turned out and she could see no further movement from inside. She crept up to the door and pushed the letter through the letterbox. Fingering the small bottle in her pocket, she pattered down the steps, pausing only once to check her hair was tucked into the hood of her robes. Her destination was Diagon Alley. Relishing the cool air, she crossed the road at a brisk pace, the slight breezing quelling the fire burning in her cheeks. A car screeched around the bend and she leaped out of the road, cursing. She continued down the street, empowerment growing with every step. She dodged the pools of light that the street-lamps created on the pavement. She came to a halt outside the Leaky Cauldron. Head down, she entered the dingy pub. She passed through into the courtyard and, using her wand, tapped one of the bricks on the far wall. The archway opened and she passed through, into Diagon Alley. Here, she stole into the shadows. She was biding her time.

******

Hermione sighed. She walked with Draco grudgingly to the Leaky Cauldron. It was not her choice of pub; she would have chosen somewhere far classier. That said, she was glad just to be able to sit down and detach herself from her work. She had always thought Draco was all work, but it seemed that there was at least a little play left in him yet. She slid into a booth in the corner of the smoke-filled pub whilst Draco went to order a few drinks at the bar. She had opted for just a Butterbeer; anything else didn't bear thinking about after what had happened the previous night. Draco returned to the table, bearing one Butterbeer and one Monkshood Tonic. He sat down, looking rather pleased with himself. Hermione gratefully accepted the proffered drink.

"Got any more letters recently?" Draco barked suddenly.

Hermione shook her head. "No, but then, I haven't been home. For all I know, there is one waiting for me," she said and smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes.

Draco took a sip of Monkshood tonic and swilled it around in his mouth, an act which Hermione found quite repulsive, yet riddled with innuendo.

"This is becoming a habit, isn't it?" Draco asked and leaned forwards, a benevolent smile on his face.

Hermione was startled. "What is?" she asked, blushing.

"You spending the evening with me. Again." Draco smirked, watching her blush deepen.

"Well... I-" Hermione started. She paused to regain her composure. "You keep asking me!" she exclaimed indignantly. A pale flush began to play on his cheekbones. Who's blushing now? Hermione thought smugly to herself.

******

She knew he would be here. He was here every Friday, wasting his life away. Pissing his life into the gutter. His depression was something of an amusement to her; she had watched him intently for a few weeks. He came here and stayed until last orders every Friday night, at which point he was roused gently and guided home by a sympathetic by-stander. Failing that, he was gently plucked from his beery pool on the bar and placed between the sheets of the bed in the Landlord's spare room. Yes, it was more than fair to say he was a regular. She perched uncomfortably on the bench, waiting for that familiar loping figure, that man who would enter the pub honourable and leave a disgrace. He was here. She could hear the rhythm of his footsteps, his expensive shoes clicking softly against the pavement. She was ready for him, although ending his short, worthless life would bring her no pleasure. He wanted to die; he just lacked the courage or imagination to turn to suicide. It was her philosophy that suicide was for all those attention-seekers in the world who thought that killing themselves would help them leave their mark on a world that was so indifferent and uncaring. She held fast to this; it was what kept her going, it was what kept her from suicide in the first place. She was no attention-seeker. And now it was her turn to stand, which she did with grace and an air of superiority. She moved to the centre of the pavement and stood in front of him, wreathed in shadow. He stopped uncomprehending, unsure what to make of this sudden obstruction. Her hand strayed to her pocket and her fingers bumped against the small bottle. She grasped it immediately. She smiled beguilingly and ran her tongue over her lips. A simple gesture, but provocative nonetheless. The man smiled easily. This would be easy.

He cocked his head on one side. "How much?"

She was caught off-guard. This wasn't the plan. She said nothing, just looked at him questioningly and bit her lip in that oh-so appealing manner. When she spoke, her tones were soft and gentle, caressing each syllable. "What do you mean?"

He looked at her, surprised and abashed. "It doesn't matter," he replied glumly. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and started to hurry across the small courtyard, into the Leaky Cauldron.

"Fifty pounds, for the hour," she called after him. He halted and turned slowly. "Cash," she added. She walked slowly towards him, swaying her hips seductively. As they met, she pulled him into a deep embrace, her tongue seeking out his with sudden ferocity. The kiss was passionless, but it was working its magic. She pulled his body to hers, feeling him tense in her embrace. He broke the kiss, panting.

"Not here," he wheezed, catching his breath. He indicated to an alley just off Diagon Alley. "In there," he said hastily.

She pulled him to the alley by his tie, and he followed like a clumsy schoolboy, all raging hormones.

She leaned against the wall and pulled him against her, hiking up her skirt as she did. His lecherous hands began to devour her, and she allowed him to lift her up. She wrapped her legs around his paunchy waist. They began to move together, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She was surprised to feel the familiar flurry of vibrations in the pit of her stomach. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth in ecstasy. She needed no further invitation. She reached into her pocket and brought out the small bottle. Uncorking it with her teeth, she poured the contents directly into his mouth. His face, upon which had been, supposedly, an expression of ecstasy, was now contorted with that of pain. He gripped desperately at her, eyes widening in fear. She pushed him away, and he fell to the floor, clutching at his throat and writhing. He coughed wetly and in the moonlight she could see spatters of blood on his hand. He rolled onto his back, lying prostrate before her. His arms thrashed and his back arched. Out of his mouth came a muffled wail of a tortured soul. She watched impassively as he began to foam at the mouth. His hand closed around her ankle and she kicked it away. The last death throes of a depressed alcoholic. Quite a sad life, and it had been easy. She walked around, smoothing down her cloak and dress. She risked a glance back at the man lying in the alleyway. Not a nice place to die, especially not alone, but she had not chosen the venue; she had merely supplied him with a means to an end. Here lies Ernie Macmillan, a depressed alcoholic, a closet philanderer and general waste of space. Rest In Peace.

******

Draco stared across the table at her, trying to regain his cool. Her so obvious amusement at his slight shortcoming was something of a mild annoyance to him. He was about to deliver a suitably sarcastic comment back, but was spared the trouble as a cloak-clad figure burst into the Leaky Cauldron. The pub fell silent at the unexpected intrusion. The figure staggered to the bar and leaned on it heavily. All eyes were now on this person. The hood of the cloak was lowered. It was Blaise Zabini. Swishing her hair, she sat on a barstool and pointed a trembling hand to the door leading out to Diagon Alley. "Someone's killed Ernie Macmillan!" There was a pandemonium in the small pub, as everyone tried to get out of the door at once. Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance. Without a word, both got up from their seats, leaving their drinks on the table. They fought their way through the seething crowds. Hermione passed through the door into the courtyard, and immediately passed into Diagon Alley through the familiar portal. Draco followed her, having being caught up in the crowd. He crossed the courtyard and entered Diagon Alley. Hermione waved her arms frantically at him and he pushed his way over to her. Hermione seemed to be having a little trouble holding the on-lookers back. Here, on the pavement lay Ernie Macmillan, eyes open, hands clenched as the rigor mortis began to set in. Foamy spittle was drying around his lips on his face.

"Get back, everyone!" Draco yelled with such ferocity that everyone fell silent for a moment. Hermione raised her eyebrows slightly at him, but said nothing and continued to take notes. He turned back to Hermione. "What have we got?" he asked, wearily and in hushed tones.

"Definitely a homicide. From the way he has died, my preliminary observations would be that he was poisoned, although we will have to wait for a toxicology report of some kind." She pointed her wand at the corpse. "Respuertas," she said. The body was bathed in a white light which formed a bubble around it. This remained like this for a few minutes, before vanishing altogether. Hermione turned back to Draco, who smiled grimly.

"All in a day's work, Granger," he said.

"I know, but it kind of brings it into perspective when the people you went to school with are being murdered," Hermione replied tiredly. She sighed, and then regarded Draco with a worried expression. "Where's Blaise?"

"What do you mean where's Blaise? She's in the bar! You don't think she could be a suspect, do you?" Draco responded.

"In this case, everyone's a suspect. I think it's a case of guilty until proven innocent in Blaise's case," Hermione said, rubbing her temples.

Draco nodded slowly. "I'll give you a lift home," he said.

******

As Hermione walked through the door, she had resigned herself to facing the wrath of Harry. Questions were fired at her as soon as she had opened it. To be fair, she was quite flattered that Harry did give a damn after all, but could not face being bombarded with questions about 'that man-whore Malfoy'. She held up a hand, enervated. "Not tonight, please. I'm too tired."

Harry sensing he shouldn't broach the subject until later offered her a cup of tea, which she gratefully accepted. She followed him meekly into the kitchen and collapsed onto the nearest chair, burying her head in her hands with a soft sigh of relief. Harry clattered around, making the tea, and when this was done he set it heavily down in front of her. Hermione's head snapped up and she grave Harry a weary smile. "Some post came for you today," he said, conversationally.

"Oh?" inquired Hermione. Silently Harry passed over the envelope, which had been pushed through the door.

"It didn't arrive by owl, someone delivered it by hand," said Harry and carried on regardless of the fact that Hermione's face was slowly draining of all colour.

She slit open the envelope and gave a short gasp as she read through the missive.

NICE DETECTIVE WORK THERE. YOU'VE GOT THE WRONG MAN. YOU'RE NOT TRYING VERY HARD, ARE YOU? DO YOU LIKE TO PLAY GAMES, GRANGER? I HOPE SO.

-SIGNED.