Les Liaisons Serpentines

Les Liaisons Serpentines

by The Tonio

Chapter One: I Hate New York in the Springtime

When Draco Malfoy made his way down the street, everyone parted to let him pass. This was one of the finer sections of the Upper East side, and wealthy Muggles, with their furs and tiny leashed dogs, were at least bright enough to know an important person when he approached. Dressed in a doe-soft leather coat, the steel of his eyes hidden behind blue-tinted shades, Draco didn't bother to say 'excuse me' as they shifted back and forth to let him pass. There was no need for pleasantries.

He was in a hurry. Pounding up the steps of a brownstone building, he thrust through the double doors of Dr. Marty McNaughton's office and marched across the reception area. The secretary, a witch in a revealing Chloe number, half-rose to greet him, but he moved along impatiently, silencing her with a wave of his gloved hand.

Marty appeared to be dozing at his desk; a half-drunk cup of espresso sat before him, and he was tilted back in his chair with his eyes closed, a blissful look on his rather round face.

"Marty!" Draco said, just loud enough to cause the other man to bolt from sleep, sputtering slightly as he did so.

"Draco Malfoy?" Marty said, looking slightly alarmed. Draco was giving him what was most likely a penetrating glare from behind his shades, and Marty began to bustle somewhat nervously with the paperwork scattered across his desk. "I thought you weren't scheduled to see me until next Tuesday," he said carefully, still stacking documents.

"I had an emergency," Draco said, tearing free his shades and tossing them on a coffeetable. Next he removed his coat, this time folding it neatly and laying it over the arm of Marty's leather sofa.

"Hmmm, yes, yes...that may be true, but I thought we covered the whole 'dropping in unannounced' issue during your last session?" Marty's voice was low and genile, almost fatherly, but his face reddened as he spoke, a faint scrim of sweat gathering on his forehead.

"This is true." Malfoy arranged himself on the sofa as he spoke, still wearing his fur-lined leather gloves. "But as my shrink, you're receiving a healthy sum of galleons from my Father's pockets. And I'm sure you'd sacrifice your nap for me if I was in a state of genuine panic, wouldn't you?" He leaned forward, sharing a knowing glance with the doctor. "I'm talking near-nervous breakdown here, Marty."

Marty sighed and ceased fiddling with his paperwork. "Very well, Draco. What's bothering you this time?"

"Everything," Draco exclaimed, waving his arms dramatically. "The new school is incredibly tacky, the Slytherins are weak, Father's stuck back in England, and my half-sister is a genuine pain in the arse."

"So you're basically having the same problems, I gather." Marty sniffed dryly. He had been Draco's therapist for roughly a month, and while having a therapist hadn't been Draco's idea, he rather enjoyed taking up Marty's precious free time. He guessed that his mother had signed him up for sessions as a way of escaping his long, rambling complaints at the breakfast table; she claimed they gave her migraines.

"Yes, the exact same problems. Plus I hate New York in the springtime. That song is bollocks."

Marty cleared his throat as subtly as possible. "The song is about Paris, Draco...plus it's not currently springtime, it's fall."

"Autumn, you mean. But about those problems--can't you do something to get rid of them?" Draco flopped back on the sofa, stretching his legs out so his feet were resting on the wide leather arm.

Marty sighed again, though wisely refrained from doing so audibly. "I've already told you that I'm not here to rid you of your problems, Draco. I'm here to help you learn to manage them better, that's all."

Draco snorted. "I've learned rubbish about managing from you. A better doctor would be more hands-on."

"I'm the only wizard who practices psychology in the city, Draco. Perhaps a Muggle psychologist would--"

"No! Forget that!" Draco protested, making a face that suggested he might soon be ill. Draco made his hands into fists and held them at his sides almost woodenly; noticing this, Marty saw that he was still wearing his expensive gloves.

"Didn't we talk about learning to remove your gloves, Draco?"

Draco was silent for a moment, then said in a small, biting voice: "I don't want to remove them."

"Now, now, Draco. The Muggle world is not that filthy. I promise you that going gloveless will not put you in danger of catching any mysterious illness..."

"It's not that," Draco shot, twisting his hands together now, managing to make the gesture elegant. "It's just so dirty out there. And I prefer to stay clean, if you don't mind."

"Very well," Marty said, willing to let the subject drop for the time being. The Malfoys were, after all, paying him a fortune. "How are you getting on with your sister?"

"Half sister," Draco corrected. "The same. The little brat has taken to brown-nosing Mum something wicked. I'd almost admire her technique if it weren't, you know, my Mother."

"How have things changed now that school has started?"

Draco shrugged. "They haven't. Except it's easier to avoid her in a crowd of Slytherins, thankfully. But she's already got built-in notoriety here, whereas I have the misfortune of more or less starting from scratch. My reputation preceded me back at the old Hogwarts, if you recall."

"Yes, yes, you've told me as much."

Draco rolled over on his side, his attractive face no longer pinched and angry, but relaxed...almost wistful. "Of course, there are plenty of other old Hogwarts students around who remember my reputation very well...the great Harry Potter and his band of trollish followers, for instance."

"Perhaps if you weren't so isolated, if you interacted with your old classmates a bit more, you'd find yourself more comfortable at school...?" Marty knew very well that Draco Malfoy felt no lost love over The-Boy-Who-Lived, but it was his secret hope that the two boys would somehow become friends--mostly because Marty was very keen to meet the Potter boy. What an honor it was to have such a hero living right here in Manhattan!

Draco was quiet for several minutes, long enough for Marty to fear that he was working himself up to a tantrum. The last time he'd thrown a tantrum, Draco had put his foot through one of Marty's most valuable Renaissance paintings. Lucuis Malfoy had paid for the damage, of course, but Marty found that he didn't much care to re-live the ordeal.

"You know..." Draco's words came out slowly, and Marty held his breath, anticipating the worst. "That's not a bad idea, Marty. Not a bad idea at all."

Marty exhaled. "Really then?" he said, his voice so bright and hopeful that it was painful to his ears.

"Yes, yes...not a bad idea at all. I haven't given old Potty trouble since we moved 'cross the pond. He's been asking for it too...walking around with his new battle scars, lapping up everyone's concern and attention. He's just begging for trouble from the likes of me!"

"Oh, well...I wasn't exactly suggesting that you trouble the Potter boy..."

"You're a genius, Marty!" Draco bounced upright, his eyes a-glow. "I'll tell Father to slip a bonus into you next check...consider it personal thanks from me to you."

"Oh..." Marty wilted in his seat a little. He thought of the little jaguar coup he'd been aching to buy. "Well, that's awfully kind of you, Draco. I'm glad to be of service."

"See you next Tuesday, then!" Draco pulled on his coat and retrieved his shades from the coffee table, looking quite refreshed and ready to face the world. Marty stood at the window and watched him exit the building and make his way down the street, his white-blond head bobbing vividly amongst the other pedestrians. It wasn't until he rounded the corner that the doctor finally relaxed, breathing deep.

***

Coming to American hadn't been his idea, it had been his Mother's. When the war started in the winter of Draco's sixth year, it had been a quiet, political war that existed inside the Ministry. Officials were divided over how to handle You-Know-Who's resurgence of power: negotiate or take a firm stand? His father had been in the 'let's negotiate' camp, naturally, and the bitter stand-still within the Ministry lasted just long enough for the Dark Lord's minions to attack the Hogwarts castle. Since almost all the students had been away on Christmas Holidays there had been no casualities, but Harry Potter had been gravely wounded during the attack, much to everyone's complete and utter panic. The school itself was utterly destroyed, and the message was clear: the safe haven of Hogwarts was a thing of the past.

Not that Draco had been concerned; he had merely sat back in preparation for a seventh year spent at Durmstrang, where he could finally practice some real black arts. But his plans to master necromancy had been rudely upset by his mother's sudden, firm decision to join the mass immigration to America. England's wizarding government was falling apart, and while Lucius was staying to fight it out for the Death Eaters (under the cover of being a 'good guy', naturally), Narcissa feared for her son's safety. When she learned that the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was being resurrected near New York City, she made her decision: Draco would go to America and finish out his seventh year at the new and improved version of Hogwarts.

The resurrection of Hogwarts was something Draco had never expected; once the castle was destroyed, he figured everyone would give up and let it die a nice, quiet death. No such luck. It had all been Minerva McGonagall's fault. Her second cousin was a teacher at a new wizardry school in the states, but the school--which had been built with the intention of being grand and prestigious--had run out of funding once the structure itself was completed. Even for young witches and wizards, public school was the norm in America, and enrollment at the new private school had been low. Too low to support staff wages and building upkeep. So the new school had simply sat empty, quietly decaying until McGonagall swept in and saved it from the dustbin.

The deal had been quite simple, or so Draco had heard. With the help of Dumbledore, McGonagall promised her cousin and the rest of the board that they would have their funding and a full enrollment, provided they allow the new school to operate under the old Hogwart's education system. Though Dumbledore lingered behind to pitch in with the war effort, he did his part to campaign hard for British wizards and witches to take refuge in the states until the war subsided, not wanting a repeat of the death-toll that had taken place during the Dark Lord's first reign. Draco had found the whole hubbub quite amusing, picturing all his former schoolmates struggling to fit in at an American version of Hogwarts--or he had found it amusing until his mother had made the announcement that he would be struggling right along with them.

Worse yet was discovering that he and his mother would be living with Auntie Freesia -Narcissa's older sister--and her fat, boorish husband, Theo. True, they did have a penthouse on Fifth Avenue that overlooked Central Park, comfortably located in an all-wizarding section of Museum Mile. But this did not make up for the fact that they were also the adoptive parents to Lamia, Draco's very own long-lost half sister. And he would have preferred it if she had never been found.

***

Draco's shoes clacked audibly against the polished parquet floors of the penthouse, announcing his arrival. Laying his coat and sunglasses down on a table in the front hall, he was surprised by the maid, Marta, who swooped in silently and picked up his belongings, taking them to a hall closet. Draco forced a hard smile at Marta; he would have preferred regular house-elves over a house-witch, but such creatures were a rarity in the states, it seemed. Not to mention that it was apparently illegal to have unregistered creatures working in a household, in addition to being politically incorrect--whatever that meant.

"Is that you, Draco?"

It was Lamia, calling out from her suite of rooms beyond the parlor. Draco glared at the parquet floors; next time he would have to remember to remove his shoes before entering.

"Yours truly," Draco shot back. He had hoped to spend a quiet Saturday alone with his mother, but it seemed that Lamia had decided not to stay at the dormitory this weekend after all. Then again, why would she do that when her favorite plaything was right here?

"Come to my room, please," she called, her tone managing to be both sweet and no-nonsense at once.

Draco didn't answer, but his feet carried him in the direction of her suite; the penthouse was roomy, but he reasoned that it would be impossible to avoid her for the remainder of the afternoon. Better to deal with her now rather than later.

Inside the cloister of her suite, Lamia was laid out on her four-poster bed like Cleopatra, propped up on pillows and picking through a half-eaten box of imported bonbons. Her frothy dressing robe matched her bed linens, silky and ice-blue, their color identical to that of her eyes. Her hair was like Draco's, white-blonde and fine, but she had enchanted it to hang in a curtain of precious ringlets--Draco was fond of comparing her to a poodle because of this. If she was hurt or angered by his insults, she didn't show it; like him, she had tempered, well-crafted emotions.

She smiled upon seeing him enter. "Come sit with me" she said, patting a smooth patch of bedding.

"Thanks but I'll stand," Draco drawled, smiling crookedly. "And let's make this fast. I have a meeting with my trainer at four."

Lamia giggled and shrugged her shoulders. "Still wearing the gloves, are we?" She nodded at his hands, her ringlets bobbing in a taunting sort of way.

Draco stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. "What's it to you?" he asked. "Marta gave me a manicure last night and I'm trying to preserve it, for your information." In truth, Draco kept the gloves on almost all the time; without them, he felt less sure of himself, less clean. The city was dirty, and in his lifetime he'd never seen so many Muggles in one place.

"I wanted to talk to you about school, actually," Lamia said, grinning in a calculated way that showed her very white, very even teeth.

"That so? We'll I'd rather not...which means you're out of luck."

"Oh, play nice." She pouted, suddenly looking very much younger than her fifteen years. Draco sighed inwardly, disgusted. This was exactly why he had hoped to never lay eyes on Lamia again; it had been bad enough when he'd been five. Back then, Lamia had still lived at Malfoy Manor, a screaming three year old who broke Draco's favorite model broomsticks and regularly shat on his bedroom rug. She hadn't changed much since then.

"No thanks." Draco pretended to study his nails--this despite the fact he was still wearing his gloves. "In addition to seeing my trainer, Father said he might floo me tonight, and I'd like to be in my room just in case he calls."

At this, Lamia stiffened, her face going visibly sour. Draco smiled at this, quite gratified; he could always count on mention of Lucius to push Lamia's buttons. He may have been her biological father, but Lucius had more or less abandoned her at the age of three and hadn't bothered to re-connect with her since then. Lamia's birth itself would have been a scandal, had the Malfoy name not concealed the truth of the matter; Narcissa informed the neighbors that baby Lamia was actually her sister Freesia's tyke, come to stay at Malfoy Manor while Freesia and Theo took a flying-carpet cruise around the world. Narcissa had ordered that Lamia's natural mother--a receptionist for the school governors--be sent to the salt mines of Siberia, and Lucius, properly cowed by his wife's wrath, had obeyed without question. Baby Lamia had been a different story; surprisingly taken by the infant, Narcissa had actually wanted to raise her as their own. Lucius, wracked with guilt over his own infidelities, had humored her for a time, but eventually put his foot down; Lamia would have to go. So off she went, off to live with Freesia and Theo, never to hear from the Malfoys again. Or never until the war had started, anyway.

"You're so mean to me," Lamia said, her voice strangled. "I don't even know why I try to be nice to you."

Draco rolled his eyes. At this point, he knew it would be best to humor his half-sister. Unfortunately, his mother still had a soft spot for Lamia, and if she was seen crying over Draco's harsh words he was likely to have his pocket money temporarily suspended. "Right, right. You wanted to talk about school then, did you?" he said, giving in.

"Yes," she said, sniffling once. "I wanted to ask how your first week of classes was?"

"It was fine." Draco chose his words carefully. With Lamia, anything you said could be snatched up and used in a variety of ways against you, if you weren't careful. But Draco was, for the most part, too crafty to get snared into any one of her many traps. Such craftiness ran in the family, it seemed.

"Oh," she said, managing to make the response sound thoughtful as she fingered through her box of sweets for a plump, chocolatey bonbon. Once taking it into her pink mouth, she slowly licked smears of chocolate from each finger, savoring her own digits as if they were made of sugar. Draco watched this display with some level of curiosity. Lamia was fond of using her sexuality at as a tool of distraction, and if she hadn't been his bastard sister, Draco might have actually found her finger-foreplay to be quite...interesting. As it was, he was merely impatient.

Once finished with her tongue-bath, she continued: "I was just wondering, you see. Because you looked so lonely this week. I was worried about you."

"Lonely?" Draco shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. "I have no idea what you mean."

She looked at him with big, luminous eyes. "Well, when you first came here you bragged about what a big man on campus you'd been back in Merry Old England. I guess I just expected you to have more friends...more respect....a better standing amongst your peers."

Draco tried not to wince, but he felt his lip twitch slightly; it was just enough to make Lamia smile, aware of how her words had cut him. In truth, Draco had been rather lonely during that long, first week of classes. Most of his old Slytherin friends had been sent to Durmstrang, and the few who had immigrated to America weren't exactly members of the Malfoy fan club. Draco was more or less left with only Pansy Parkingson for company, and even she seemed more interested in getting to know Lamia and her large flock of cohorts, all of them having been sorted into this new, America-flavored Slytherin house.

Draco shrugged as casually as he could manage. "Things are different now," he said simply.

"I'll say," Lamia said, smirking. "And I have to ask...why didn't you tell me that Harry Potter was such a looker? The newspaper pictures really don't do him justice..." she leaned back into her pillows dreamily, as if imaging that they were Potter's tender embrace. At this, Draco thought he might be sick.

"Enough," he spat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Tell me what you're playing at right this second...else I'm going to leave this room and go back to pretending you don't exist--and I can be just as good at it as father, I assure you."

"Settle down." Her eyes were laughing despite his cutting remark. "I'm offering to help you, if you'll calm down enough to hear me out."

He glared at her suspiciously. "Help me with what?"

She threw her shoulders back proudly, straightening up. "Help you gain back your glory...reclaim your rightful place as a Malfoy."

"I already am a Malfoy; you're the one who isn't." This wasn't exactly true, of course, but he enjoyed reminded her of the fact that she had been denied the right to carry the Malfoy name. Instead of being Lamia Louisa Malfoy, she had the unfortunate pleasure of being Lamia Louisa Plotte.

She went on unfazed, her eyes strangely alight. "And yet I'm the one who's popular...who has all the friends and followers. You must have had followers once, right Draco?"

"I guess," he said, thinking of Crabbe and Goyle.

"I can make you the most powerful person at school," she said, raising her chin haughtily. "Next to me, that is."

"At what price?" He asked, snorting in contempt. Privately, he was curious to hear more. He couldn't deny that Lamia ran in powerful circles behind the school walls. Despite being nowhere near a genius with a wand, she'd managed to secure a spot in the upper-level, competitive classes; in just her fifth year she was already a prefect, and even dyed-in-the-wool, Slytherine-hating Hufflepuffs had been seen treating her with awe and reverence.

She stretched out on the bed, her exposed limbs long and lean, her dressing gown parting up far enough for Draco to almost glimpse what no brother should ever lay eyes upon. But this was the sister he had never wanted, and he could appreciate her aesthetic beauty and appeal while still hating her thoroughly. So he allowed his eyes to linger on her body, a cat-like smirk on his face as she caught him looking; frowning, she seemed secretly annoyed that he hadn't dissolved into love-sick trembles at the sight of her naked legs. She covered herself at once, her demeanor suddenly stiff and prissy, and got right down to business. "I need a favor," she said, her tone level and finally stripped of all pretense.

"Is that so?" Draco leaned over and helped himself to a handful of her bonbons, tilting his head back and pouring them in all at once; the sweetness threatened to overwhelm his throat but he managed to smile through it. "Tell me all about it...sis."

Lamia blanched at the word, a flash of anger threatening to mar her face. "You know who Hermione Granger is, I presume? Frizzy hair...good with a wand...hangs about with Harry Potter?"

"Of course I know who she is," Draco said, then added, as an afterthought: "she's a mudblood, too."

"I don't care about that," Lamia said, brushing him aside.

Draco scoffed to himself; if there was one thing that separated Lamia from a real Malfoy, it was her careless attitude towards Muggles and mudbloods. American witches and wizards--even those of the purest blood who could chart their ancestors back to Salem--seemed to possess a more benign attitude toward non-magic folk, freely mixing in with them, wearing their clothes and listening to their music. Even Draco had taken to Muggle clothing since moving to New York; since it was impossible to avoid the huge Muggle population, he found it essential to at least visually fit in.

"Tell me," Lamia said, leaning forward as if he was her confidante. "Is it true that Hermione Granger is Viktor Krumb's old girlfriend?"

"I suppose so. They went to Yule Ball together, back in fourth year." Draco scratched his head, remembering the image of the stooped Qudditch player twirling 'round the ballroom with his bushy-haired dance partner. Then again, Granger had actually cleaned up quite nicely for the ball--had worn decent robes and run a comb through her hair for once.

Upon hearing Draco's confirmation, Lamia looked as if she'd been struck; her face turned a rather unholy shade of plum and her mouth hitched wordlessly. "So it's true," she finally said. "That sniveling bitch..."

Draco frowned. "What's true? What's this about?"

Lamia breathed deeply for a few moments, calming herself. "During the summer before last a number of World Cup Quidditch players were doing an exhibition tour around the states--it was very exciting for everyone...you know how bad the American Quidditch teams are, after all..."

Draco nodded. Chalk that up to another thing he missed about England: decent sporting events.

"...Anyway, while touring New York the Quidditch expedition stayed for two weeks at the Cristal Palace Hotel. I coaxed Mother and Father into taking me down for their open autograph session, where Viktor was the first player to sign my Bulgarian pennant. When I handed the pennant over, our eyes locked and he blushed..." Lamia was rapt as she spoke, clearly lost in some girly fantasy that was better suited to a diary. Draco sighed to indicate his impatience, but she rambled on, her eyes misty. "...During his stay he spent most of his free time with me. We took long walks in the park and visited the Metropolitan Museum of Magical Arts, and it was clear by the time he left that he was entirely smitten with me. He promised to write every day..."

"Let me guess," Draco interrupted. "He never wrote you."

Lamia's misty expression was fast replaced with a hard stare. "Of course he wrote," she said, then added "but only a few times," her voice slightly wilted.

"No surprise there," Draco said, smirking. "But what's this got to do with Granger?"

At mention of Hermione's name, Lamia looked mutely furious, her hands twisting viciously at her bedding. "When the owl post came on Wednesday, she received a letter from Viktor. The entire Gryffindor table was buzzing about it. Oh, she tried to look precious and modest about it, but it was so obvious that she enjoyed the attention."

"Funny, I seem to recall her as hiding behind her pumpkin juice for the remainder of breakfast."

"All a charade," Lamia sniffed.

"So you're upset because Viktor is writing to Granger and not you? I don't see what the big deal is...it's obvious that Granger's moved on to the Weasley lug--I've seem them holding hands in the library."

"I don't care if she's moved on!" Lamia spat, slapping at the mattress daintily. "My closest friends know how torn up I was over Viktor...and now they know that I was pushed aside for a dull and virginal brat with moppy hair! They'll never look at me the same again!"

"Ohhh...I see. This is about saving face then, is it? Granger has inadvertently put your superiority in question, and you want to take her down a peg."

"Not exactly," Lamia said, smiling brightly. "I'm more interested in ruining her, to be specific. And you'll help out, won't you?"

Draco studied her carefully; somehow, he had to make sure that this deal unfolded in his favor, and not hers. "You said you wanted me to do you this favor, and in return you'd help me reclaim my powerful position within the school, right?"

"That's right."

"Why should I put my reputation in the hands of one who can't even get an empty-headed Quidditch player to fall for her?" he asked, enjoying the way her face crumpled as he spoke. "I mean, if you really want my full commitment here, you need to sweeten the deal, so to speak."

"Sweeten the deal?" She asked, licking her lips slowly and tipping forward, the neckline of her robe dividing enough to reveal the pale curve of her right breast, the whole thing looking as if it would slip out at any moment. Draco stared at it blankly; there was something captivating about that moment just before nakedness--it was a delicious, slow suspension of time, usually ruined by the actual dénouement and removal of dress.

"Keep that to yourself for now," he said, reaching down and drawing her robe shut, his finger listlessly tracing her collarbone as he did so. "I'm interested in something a little more lasting."

She laughed merrily. "We can hardly get married, Draco. Even the purest of purebloods discourage brother-sister unions."

"Dream on," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest with confidence. "The only way I'll do this for you is if you agree to stay in New York with Freesia and Theo over the Christmas Holidays."

Lamia chewed her bottom lip fretfully, thinking his offer over. "But I was supposed to go to Malfoy Manor with your and your mother...I was going to see Fath--I mean, Lucius."

"Either you forgo you Christmas or I'm out," Draco said, standing his ground. He knew how much Lamia wanted to see Malfoy Manor again, how much she was hoping for a chance to omehow win over their Father. But Draco wanted none of it; he preferred things as they were now, and wanted to spend Christmas as he always had: quietly, and alone with Mother and Father.

"And you'll help me ruin Hermione Granger, then? No questions asked?" she implored, her voice tiny and hopeful.

"Sure. I won't do anything too illegal, mind you, but if you want her reputation destroyed then I'm your man."

She grinned openly. "I do love that dastardly streak of yours. It reminds me of my own."

"You wish." He laughed harshly, running a gloved hand through his hair. "But I should warn you that you have your work cut out for you. Hermione Granger has a sparkling reputation; she is the pet of every professor, the best friend of Harry-bloody-Potter, and is frightfully smart on top of all that. In fourth year a journalist named Rita Skeeter tried to run a smear campaign against her and got nowhere: Granger didn't even seem fazed by it."

"Draco, Draco," Lamia said, shaking her head as if she were dealing with an ignorant child. "I don't want you to smear Hermione's reputation. It'll be much better, I think, if Hermione manages to destroy her good name all on her own."

Draco blinked. "What do you mean?"

Lamia smiled hungrily and hissed only a single word: "Corruption."