Nox

"Eleven a.m.

By now you would think that I would be up

But my bedsheets shade the heat of choices I've made

And what did I find?

I never thought I could want someone so much

Cause now you're not here and I'm knee deep in that old fear

Forgive my indecision. . ."

—Incubus, "Eleven a.m."

Chapter Nine - Ardmore and Wilde

    Sivee Lavargas rested a hand on her little sister's shoulder. "Marcie, calm down." But Marcie couldn't calm down. She was hyperventilating. She'd been through something so terribly traumatic for her it was doubtful she'd ever fully get over it. Sivee sat down beside her on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around her. "Margarita me dice por favor," she whispered. (Tell me, please.)

    "No. No, Sivee. No puedo decir," Marcie replied, a tear squeezing out between her tightly closed eyelids. (I can't tell.)

    "¿Por qué?" Sivee persisted. (Why?)

    "Más mala, Sivee. Too bad. It's too bad."

    Sivee pulled back and stood up. "It's too terrible for you to tell me, Marcie? No te creo." (I don't believe you.)

    "It is," Marcie replied, not looking up.

    "Who did I rescue you from, Margarita?"

    Marcie wiped her eyes. "I don't know. His name was Harry something. Snarly British dude with someone named Draco Malfoy, DV8TION, in his address book."

    Sivee slipped off the bed and onto the floor, staring at her sister with her mouth hanging open. Marcie looked down at her, startled. "I'd always wondered what Draco Malfoy's was. . ." she said slowly. She shook her head and looked up at Marcie. "Sorry. I just have a hard time believing that Harry Potter had you trapped in his room. I met him once, in the City. He was looking for a girl at the university. She hadn't come back that semester."

    "Sivee, eres loca," Marcie said. (You're crazy.) Inside, she was wondering what exactly the code did, but she also figured she didn't want to know.

    In actuality, the code was a very smart invention. In America the Wizarding populous couldn't really have owls anymore because the Muggles interfered too much, with their precious endangered species and all. So, American wizards thought of something better that didn't involve an animal the Muggles could recognize and hoard from them. They made up an elaborate system of codes and companies. Everyone got a small metal disk of a varied color depending on how much they paid for it and what company they used. On each card is a personalized code (such as DV8TION, for Draco's). When someone wants to send a message, they write it down on a piece of parchment and then tap their own disk with their wand and say the code of the person they want to send a message to. The disk turns into a small box to put the parchment note in. When it's in, they tap the box with their wand again to send the message. To receive a message, they tap their disk with their wand and the same box appears, so they could open the little door and check to see if there are any bits of parchment in the box.

    Sivee shook her head. "No, Margarita, I'm not crazy." She licked her lips. "Go to sleep. Sleep now because we might not get to sleep later."

    If Marcie found this weird, she didn't say anything. Her body, exhausted, welcomed the opportunity to renounce consciousness, if only for a moment.

    Sivee left the room and went to the kitchen, pulling a Rolodex out from a cabinet under where she kept her phone. She flicked through the L's until she found their other sister's work number. She dialed and when Audrey answered, "Rays of Tomorrow Day Care Centre, Audrey speaking," Sivee began telling her about Marcie's terrible experience. Audrey was a good listener, oohing and ahhing in all the right places, and being suitably angry at the proper times, too.

    "So the Golden Boy of the Wizarding World is a rapist?" Audrey asked. She didn't have magical blood like Sivee and their brother Raife, but she'd grown up with it and she'd heard all Sivee's stories.

    "Not really a rapist," Sivee said, "but he certainly beat Margarita up pretty bad. She wouldn't even speak English to me for a while."

    Audrey made a low whistle. "Thank God it's naptime here, y'know?" she laughed. "How is she now?"

    "Thankfully unconscious. Audrey, I'm afraid for her. What if this psychologically damages her? What if she's never the same Margarita again? She's our baby sister and we didn't protect her!" Sivee voiced the concern that had been bubbling in the back of her mind since she had rescued Marcie from the hotel room.

    Audrey was properly comforting. "It was her choice to move to Washington, Sivee. She could have come here or gone to New York to be with you but she didn't. It was her choice."

    "Audrey, can I send her to you? You know, to take care of her?"

    Audrey smiled into the phone. She looked around at the children sleeping on the bright blue nylon cots, and then turned back around. "Of course, Sivee. What sort of sister would I be if I denied her?"

    "Eres linda," Sivee said and hung up. She flipped through another few pages and sighed. There was so much left to do and she didn't know where to start.

    "Hello, Melanoma? It's Sivee Lavargas from New York. . ."

*

    The selfsame gold-gray light was shining down on the sage green bedspread as it had the previous evening. But the light of dawn is more positive, more carefree, and more realistic (because though dusk is darker and sadder, it's also idealistic with so many possible variables). The light of dawn, no matter how pretty it is, or how nicely it illuminates your interior decorations, is the slap of reality. And it was quite unwanted at the moment.

    Draco blinked into the land of the living as the light washed over his face. He felt a smile on his face as he remembered the fabulous dream he'd been having. He snuggled his face more into the softness of the pillow.

    He stopped moving when he felt the other body pressed up against the front of his. He stopped moving when her hair touched his cheek on the pillow. He opened his eyes completely to survey the scene before him.

    God. Fucking. Damn. It wasn't a dream.

    There she was, in all her decrepit glory, her body entwined with his under his own personal sheets. His arms were tightly clasped around her waist. The arm that wasn't under her, his right arm, he moved up their sides so he could move the hair out of her face. He wanted to watch her. Her arms were settled over his. He could feel every rib, every vertebra of her spine, and every curve of her hipbones, but he didn't care. She was still asleep as far as he could tell. Her dark lashes rested serenely against her cheeks. If he hadn't been holding her, he'd have wondered if she were breathing at all.

    Little did he know, she had been awake far longer than he had. She had been content to lie there and listen to the inexorable rhythm of his heartbeat and the slow cycle of his respiration. When he woke up, she knew it by the change in his breathing pattern.

    And thus, two restless souls had found some measure of comfort in one another.

    "Hermione?" he whispered. She shivered as his warm breath hit her cheek. "Are you awake?"

    "Yes. What's wrong?"

    "This is awkward," he said. She smiled and didn't reply right away.

    He made a move to pull away, but she tensed and held on. "Don't go, Draco," she said softly.

    "Why not?" he asked. "I have to go talk to Blaise and Ron, Hermione. I didn't last night." he tried again to pull away, this time she put up no fight. He cupped her chin with his hand and forced her to look at him. She slapped his hand away, but held his gaze.

    "Fine," she said coldly. "Leave me. But don't expect—"

    He cut her off with a kiss to the lips. "See you in an hour," he said and disappeared from her line of vision. She frowned and burrowed back under the covers. Her frown intensified when she found the bed to be far less comfortable once he was gone. The warmth seemed to accompany him away.

    About fifteen minutes later, after she was certain he was gone, she sat up and looked around the room again. It really was well decorated. The window behind the curtains and sheers was open enough for a sea-scented breeze to stir the room. She rose from the bed, slipped the shirt he'd discarded the night before over her body and went to the window. It overlooked the courtyard, and she realized this was the window with pale green curtains she'd noticed after Draco and Padma had left she and Ron alone the day before.

    Down in the courtyard, sitting around the glass-topped table were five figures and a House-elf, Loppy the Head Elf to be exact. Blaise, Ron, and Padma were easy enough to recognize. Harry was also present, his posture different from the last time she'd seen him. The last figure was tall and blonde and female, wearing a long white dress and draped elegantly in one of the chairs as she silently looked on the meeting. The only person it could have been was Narcissa Malfoy, back from Valencia early. There was a bowl of oranges in the middle of the table.

    Padma and Blaise were standing with their backs to each other. Blaise was talking briefly with Narcissa about the weather on the eastern coat of Spain while Padma listened and occasionally commented on the men's conversation. Harry was drinking a shot of Wild Augurey and kept scratching the back of his neck. Ron was fidgeting and kept glancing suspiciously around the courtyard. Loppy was flittering around their feet fixing the food on the table and adjusting the plush cushions on the chairs. And then Draco came flying out through the kitchen doors and onto the terrace. He seemed outwardly calm but Hermione, as the unnoticed observer, could tell he was internally fighting a battle. He glanced up at the window, and she was glad the sheers obstructed her appearance in the window. He could only see the vaguest shadow of her form. When he looked down again, she put her fingertips on the cool glass.

    "Mother!" he said in alarm. Narcissa glanced away from Blaise and smiled.

    "Hola, Draco," she said, standing and embracing him. After drawing back, she looked at him with mock severity. "¿Te divertiste anoche?" (Did you enjoy yourself last night?)

    He narrowed his eyes at Blaise then smiled at his mother. "Oh yes," he said. "Lots. Why are you home early?"

    She sat back down. "Oh, your father was staying in the Valencia house. He wouldn't communicate with me, naturally, like a sane British person in English. Oh no. He had to leave notes around the house in French." She rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist. "And the Valencia house is so small anyway. I couldn't bear it any longer. So, anyway, Draco, how have you been? Harry send you on any interesting excursions?"

    Harry took another sip of his Wild Augurey, curious to see how Draco would misinform his mother. To his surprise, Draco very calmly said, "I've just gotten back from Washington, DC, for a seminar about the state of our government, actually. It seems the Americans are trying to fix it again." He rolled his eyes. "While I was contributing to justice—" at this he sent a glare at the Underminister for Justice himself "—he was busy raping and pillaging Muggle Washington like he does best."

    Harry's mouth opened and closed systematically like a garbage compactor. Three outrages for the price of one, and Draco didn't look the least bit stressed. If he wasn't so furious, Harry might have been impressed.

    Narcissa smiled warmly. "That's wonderful," she said in a slightly creepy, genuine tone.

    Blaise spoke up, "We've had a particularly fruitful twenty-four hours, Draco in particular. Why, Draco's—"

    Draco, suddenly catching on, cut her off. "Had a spectacular night." He rubbed his palms together. This scheme, of his mother's creation of course, was hatched to make fun of one or all of the other three. Blaise gave him a dazzling smile. Harry and Ron shared a look of confusion, and Padma stood there silently, probably not even paying attention. Narcissa played mind games. They were her specialty. She would have never survived society or being a Malfoy wife any other way. Lucius' ancestors were perfectly insufferable primps, with the exception of his father Janlen, who collected anything to do with the decade in which his favorite son, Lucius, was born, and was heavily devoted to his sister, Audra. Of course, Draco didn't know Audra existed because she'd been excommunicated and disinherited (which caused Janlen immeasurable anguish) for who she married long before Lucius was even conceived.

    "Is she here?" Harry asked. "Hermione, I mean. Or have you sent her back to whatever seedy place you plucked her from in the first place?" The last comment was directed at Draco, though the venom intended in the statement was quite lost on him.

    Blaise shook her head and stole her brother's torch. "Silly rabbit," she said in a very Katie-like voice, "haven't you heard a word we've said?" At his blank look, she amended rather uncouthly, "In English, Draco spent last night fucking her brains out."

    Ron made a funny gurgling sound in his throat, Padma jumped and looked over at the word 'fucking,' and Narcissa gave Blaise a grumpy look. Draco looked unconcerned but for a hint of self-gratification in his jaw line. Harry's reaction was by far the funniest. His skin turned various colors, from pale peach to white to blue to green to yellow to red and back again. And then, he said with perfect indifference, "And I'm sure Draco could keep it up that long."

    Draco pretended to look downfallen. "Potter would know," he said rather sadly. Then he laughed and snatched the bottle of Wild Augurey from the table behind Harry, taking a drink directly from the bottle. After swallowing, he said, "Then how would you? I'm a b—"

    Harry cut him off, looking uncomfortable, with a bristling look. Draco, knowing he'd won, backed off. Blaise and Narcissa, still enjoying the game, grinned at each other. Ron and Padma gave up trying to understand it.

    "So, anyway," Harry said, "what have you gotten from Katie?"

    "A viable confession," said Blaise confidently, sobering.

    "Viable, how?" he pressed.

    Blaise slowed down her normal talking speed, as though she were speaking to a half-wit. "Viable enough to get Hermione acquitted completely, I can tell you now with confidence as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." She looked from Harry to Draco with more sobriety than ever. "However, I must warn you two, before you conceive these romantic notions of the future, that it's not only up to Hermione but also up to the public. There's the chance that Hermione will never be accepted back into society. And she may not want to live under such a stigma."

    "Piffft," Harry said, waving one hand. He picked his shot glass back up. ("Alcoholic!" Padma muttered under her breath as she smoothed the fabric of her sundress over her abdomen). "Why wouldn't she want to come back to England?"

    Draco opted not to voice what he'd learned about her, the prostitution thing and all, to Harry. After all, there were some bubbles that shouldn't be broken, and perhaps Harry was better off not knowing what Hermione had been through. A wave of cold chased immediately by hot crashed over him suddenly, and he nearly pitched forward. Almost shaking, he sat down. The House-elf was immediately at his side. "Is you all right, Master?" he asked.

    Draco waved him away. "Yes, yes, Loppy. I'm fine." The elf looked reluctant, but returned to his duties.

    A few minutes later, Blaise and Narcissa walked away, inside, with Loppy bobbing along with them eagerly. Draco sat with his head almost between his knees. The other two wizards seemed not to notice him.

    "So, Harry," Ron said suddenly, "did you hear that Oliver Wood's got Alicia Spinnet pregnant?"

    "Really?" Harry asked, expertly feigning interest. Even Ron, who had unfailingly been his best friend for fourteen years couldn't detect his detachment.

    "She's due in February."

*

    "You were gone a long time," Hermione said when Draco returned to his room. She was curled up in the chair with a book (The Picture of Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde). By this time, she was dressed in a short sable suede skirt and long-sleeved, scoop neck caramel brown top, made of an effervescent, floaty material. It looked like one of Blaise's, a suspicion that was confirmed when she said, "Blaise lent me this outfit in hopes I could convince you to take me around Ardmore."

    He smiled at his sister's constant care. "Sure," he said. "Let me change."

    She stood, dog-earing her page and tossing the book down on the chair seat. "You look fine," she said.

    "As reassuring as it is to hear you say that, I'm not dressed for the Muggle realm of Ardmore, County Waterford." And with that, he walked to the wardrobe and began rifling through its contents. She watched his movements, and the way his navy robes swished around his Muggle trainers.

    She returned to her book when he went into the bathroom. It seemed odd to her that he couldn't just change his clothes in front of her.

    He set the clothes he'd selected on the granite countertop and stared at his reflection. He stripped the robe off, letting it fall to the floor, never taking his eyes off the reflected eyes opposite him. He splashed cold water on his face. But nothing helped. He felt weird and uncomfortable and hot.

    But his physical feelings were pale compared to the emotional ones on his head, especially the one parading around with a ten-foot, chartreuse banner that was making nya-nya-nya sounds at him. "You like her," it said. "Silly rabbit, you'll only get hurt. Those kids of girls are dangerous! Listen to your father's lessons for once! A Mudblood, for God's sake. A Mudblood poulet at that!" (Poulet was what Lucius would call her, anyway, because not only did it mean "chicken" in French, it also meant "prostitute" and Lucius thought English was vulgar).

    "Don't touch the glass, 'cause it might break. And then what? What will you have left but fractured memories and shattered remains?"

    Draco wasn't willing to dwell on it any more. He opted for Padma's solution to troubles: bottling them and burying them and praying to God that it wouldn't be long before they behaved like good little whatsits and went away, which would be a perfectly sane, normal thing to do in a perfectly sane, normal perfect world. But of course, for obvious reasons, it is not only impractical to bury such things, it can be hazardous, as Draco would realize, albeit too late.

    He shook his head, pulled the new tee over his head, fixed his hair, straightened his boxers and nearly forgot to put on his pants before leaving the room. He caught himself just in time. His shirt for the day was tomato red and said in large, white, block letters across the front: "A Knut for your thoughts." On the back in larger letters it said: "A Galleon if you flash me." The monetary units on the shirt were charmed to vary depending on where he was and who he was surrounded by. For American Muggles, it would be penny and dollar; for a British Muggle it would be pence and quid. The shirt was rather vulgar, but it was Draco's style. After all, he'd worn a shirt just the previous day claiming he was a lesbian.

    Hermione had put The Picture of Dorian Grey down when he came out. She was standing by the window (again), looking down at the courtyard. She turned when she heard the bathroom door open. "I almost fucked Ron down there yesterday," she said with a laugh. "How insane is that?" Draco choked. "We were in that alcove with the singing Venus statue and I kissed him. And then, he's pushing me down on the bench and leaning on top of me and I realize how wrong it is. Sure, I know I've probably screwed more married men than single men over the years, but something about Ron was wrong. More than taboo." She glanced at the greenish look on Draco's face and stopped. "But I'm sure you don't care that I knocked him on his arse and left the alcove." She gave a small smile.

    He shrugged, a gesture she found rather distant and cold. And somewhere in the deepest recesses of her steely heart, she actually felt a pang of injury. Of course, she couldn't formulate any logical reason for the feeling, which bugged the hell out of her. "Come on, then," he said.

*

    Whatever Hermione had been expecting to see in town when she found herself being dragged by the wrist down the marbled front stairs of the manor and down the cobblestone driveway and past the ominous gate vanished in the blink of an eye as soon as she saw what lay around her.

    There were small houses— bungalows and cottages, if you will— lining the road, set back from the road with two sharing each gravel-paved driveway. There were your typical small cars parked in the driveways. "Almost reminds me of Pivet Drive," Hermione said, glancing at Draco. "Where the Harry's family, the Dursleys, lived."

    He shrugged. They walked along the edge of the street, her balanced on the narrow, crumbly curb like a small child and him strolling with his hands in his pockets in the gutter. They must have been quite a comical sight. She was wearing a nice brown skirt outfit and flipflop sandals, even if it was November. He was wearing jeans and the "flash me" tee. She was behaving like an energetic five-year-old making monkeyshines for her father while he shook his head and chuckled to himself at her antics.

    Before she realized they were there, they passed by the cottages and entered a bustling downtown. The waterfront road the manor was on lay perpendicular to the main road in town. The High Street was scarcely wider than any of the sidestreets in London or even Washington, DC, as she was now used to. It was crooked and paved unevenly, and lined with trees. Hermione had no idea what kind of trees they were, but she guessed they were some kind of ornamental fruit. "In the spring, they're covered in little white flowers," Draco said, pointing at the trees.

    Behind the trees were office buildings and shopfronts with apartments nestled above them, some decayed almost to a point that threatened to recall Oliver Twist's first undertaking job with Mr. Sowerberry in Oliver Twist to Hermione. There was a restaurant or pub nestled here and there, and vendors' carts were scattered up and down elevated promenade the waterfront road became. Each lamppost was wrapped with fake vines and leftover Christmas lights. She imagined the town looked lovely at night.

    "Come on," he said, "I want to take you in Dawkin's Pub. Mind you don't get pickpocketed," he added, pausing for a moment so she could look up at the hunter green and gold sign hanging above a pub with a black glass panel across the front.

    "There you go," she muttered to herself. "It is straight out of Dickens." Ignoring what she said, he helped her up onto the deeply worn sandstone step and then held the heavy steel door open for her.

    The inside of the pub wasn't as dark as some she'd been in. There were two levels. The floor was taken up by about six or seven booths, and on a large, elevated platform in the middle of the pub was the bar. There was stained glass proclaiming "Dawkin's Pub" around the top of the bar, disguising the glass racks hanging from the ceiling. There weren't any customers sitting at the bar that early in the day. All the woodwork and carpeting was dark, the wood stained mahogany and the carpet dark maroon. The upholstery on the barstools and booth seats was also maroon. A lamp with a stained glass shade hung down above every booth, and every shade was different.

    "It's charming," she commented. He missed the deadpan in her voice.

    A woman in a maroon and gold striped rugby shirt and black pants came over to them holding a stack of menus. She set them down on the ornate mahogany-stained desk and looked at them. "Hey, Draco," she said. "Usual table?" Her voice was very Irish.

    "Sure, Miranda," he said with a smile.

    Miranda led them to a booth near the back wall with a lampshade with grapes and some other green fruit Hermione couldn't identify. They sat facing each other, and Miranda grinned at Draco before leaving them with a pair of menus.

    "She likes you," Hermione said.

    Draco had his menus open and was scanning the list of soups and salads. He glanced up at her. "Of course she does. Everyone likes me." He posed suddenly like a male model, complete with pouty lower lip, then grinned and returned to the soups and salads. She opened her own menu and found that hers didn't have the list in it.

    "What's the soup du jour?" Hermione asked.

    "The soup of the day," he replied.

    She kicked him under the table. "I know that," she snapped. "What's the soup today?"

    He moved a hand down to rub his bruised shin and glared at her. "It's potato. Boring old potato."

    "Irish potato is good," she said.

    "Trust me, Hermione, you don't want Dawkin's potato." His amusingly serious expression was enough for Hermione to drop her argument. She fished into the small bag she'd brought and pulled out the small carton of menthol Newports and a cheap plastic lighter. He glared at her, but she just smiled and pulled the heavy, cut-glass ashtray nearer to herself.

*

    They emerged from the pub about forty minutes later, well-fed and contented to listen even to a soprano saxophone, which was exactly what they were hearing wafting through the air of downtown Ardmore. It wasn't actually all that unpleasant because whoever was playing it knew how to play it well.

    As they passed a bookstore with a rack outside, Draco picked up a much newer copy of the book Hermione had been reading earlier, The Picture of Dorian Gray. "The perfect example of narcissism," he said. She just looked at him. Then he put the book back, grabbed her hand, and literally dragged her down the street. She had to run to keep up.

    "What the fuck, Draco!" she snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

    He didn't answer. He forced her on until they reached a short, almond-colored building with sapphire-tinted windows. They turned the corner and he took her down the alleyway behind the building, where there were multitudes of shops and boutiques. And, on the wall between a music store called the Bent Crayon and a young men's clothing store called Defy You was a poem painted in a fancy lettering in dark purple.

    "This is my favorite thing in the entire town," he said, gesturing to the poem. "It's Oscar Wilde, but I don't know what poem. That book made me think of it."

    Hermione smoothed her hair back for a moment as she read the words painted on the wall.

Dawn follows dawn and nights grow old

and all the while this curious cat

lies couching on the Chinese mat

with eyes of satin rimmed with gold.

    "What has it got to do with anything, though?" she asked. Not that she didn't find the poem beautiful, because she did.

    "There's an old, fat cat named Louie that lives above Defy You," he said. "Everyone in Ardmore knows Louie and loves him. He used to snoop around—when he wasn't so fat, anyway—up near the wall around our estate, where he'd perch. I think he's part kneazle, personally, because a normal cat wouldn't be able to see the wall for a wall instead of a fence."

    They walked on, but Hermione glanced back over her shoulder first to the poem painted on the wall, then to the row of sunny-curtained windows above Defy You. She was almost certain there was a narrow, furry orange face looking back down at her with piercing black eyes beside a fatter, friendlier face with golden eyes set in orange fur. She shivered and ran to catch up to Draco.

    He was chattering (to himself, unknown to him) about this or that about the town. He led her past the post office, which was hardly bigger than his bedroom back at the Manor. This amused Hermione greatly, and she made a crack about it, which in turn made Draco laugh.

    "Want to head back to the Manor?" he asked.

    She nodded. "Not that Ardmore isn't lovely, but I'd like to get back. I want to meet your mum."

    "Oh, do you?" Draco asked with his eyebrows raised. "I have to warn you. She's quite neurotic."

    "More than you?"

    Both laughed.

    In fact, they were still laughing as they walked through the house and onto the terrace. As they passed through the kitchen, Draco asked a House-elf in a blue cummerbund and hounds-tooth bowler hat to bring them some lemonade and sandwiches, the type left to its discretion.

    They were still laughing as he pulled one of the chairs out from the table for her. She smoothed her skirt over her thighs and shook her head. He only laughed the harder. "You know, now that we know Katie did it you'll be cleared."

    Instantly sobered, she looked up at him with large, round eyes. "You're right," she said slowly.

    Just then Blaise came tearing through the kitchen and through the door. Literally. She crashed through the glass and didn't seem to care if and where the shards stabbed her. "Draco!" she half gasped and half shrieked. "Draco, she's gone!"

    Shaken, he abandoned Hermione at the table and ran to his sister. "Who? Who's gone?"

    Blaise swallowed, pulled a sliver from the hair over her left temple, and looked him straight in the eye. Her cobalt eyes were desperate, pleading, frightened out of her wits. "She's gone! Katie, you imbecile! She's gone!"