Les Liaisons Serpentines

Les Liaisons Serpentines

By The Tonio

Chapter Three: Casting a Wide Net

In the next few weeks Draco and Hermione began meeting secretly in the library, back in her area of quiet, private carrels. At first she acted very irritated by his regular drop-ins, huffing in an exaggerated manner as he plopped his books down in the carrel adjacent hers, drawing his outer robes off and tossing them over a chair as if staking his claim.

"Can't you find your own corner of the library to study in?" she complained, flicking a quill against her thigh in aggravation.

"No one's stopping you from moving elsewhere," Draco remarked, his eyelids held at half-mast in a gesture of boredom. "And the scenery here is quite nice," he added, opening his eyes wide enough to make a pointed show of lighting his gaze upon her legs, which were exposed in the gap of her robes.

She made a dim noise of disgust and tucked her legs under the table.

"One of your stockings is pulled up higher than the other," Draco said helpfully, then cracked a tiny half-grin when she automatically reached down to haul up the traitorous knee-sock, then slapped her own leg in annoyance at having done so. Draco stared at her openly as she pretended to go back to reading, her teeth working at her bottom lip anxiously. She was clearly dying to have a private gnaw on her quill, but instead twisted it in her hand until it threatened to snap in half.

"Would you quit staring already!" she barked, forgetting for a moment that they were in the secluded hush zone of the library stacks.

"I was just thinking..." Draco began, ignoring her muted rage. "While you do look better with your hair tied back like that--much neater, to say the least--your forehead is really too high to pull off such a look."

"What do you mean?" Hermione's hand fluttered up to her head, and a brief flash of distress crossed her features, as if she had toiled very hard indeed to get her hair just right.

"Well." Draco took this opportunity to slide his chair closer, until they were sitting side by side. Without asking permission he reached up tugged a few strands of hair loose, feeling her flinch but not completely pull away. He twisted the hair around his fingers until she had two or three wispy tendrils framing her face. "Something a little less severe," he muttered, his tone impassive.

"I had no idea that the Malfoy's fancied themselves hair-dressers," Hermione said darkly, though she reached up to touch the coils of hair gingerly, as if unable to contain her curiosity.

"You're not at all bad looking." Draco offered this as if it were a most precious gift. And it was, really; beneath the table he was wiping his hand off on the knee of his trousers.

Hermione laughed gruffly, the sound almost a snort. "Beauty experts too, are they? Pageant judges, perhaps?"

Draco smirked. "I gather you're not used to compliments."

"That was your idea of a compliment?"

"Snatch them up while they're hot," Draco said, shrugging. In response, Hermione managed to look both appalled and faintly flattered. He was, after all, the one who had publicly mocked her teeth not too many years ago, as well as being the first person to have ever called her mudblood to her face. Draco supposed he ought to be sorry for that, but found that he couldn't really manage it. She was a mudblood, after all. There really wasn't any way to escape that particular fact.

"I'm far too busy to worry about hair or compliments, anyway," Hermione said, flipping through the pages of the book set out before her. "I'll gladly leave that domain to you."

"Surely that over-grown, freckled sweetheart of yours lays on a compliment now and then," Draco said, reaching over and shutting the book, just missing her fingers.

"Yes," Hermione said stiffly, finally turning towards him, her face taut and even more pale than usual. "Just yesterday Ron gave me one. He said I love how you never complain about the way my feet smell, Herm. How's that for an ego boost?"

Draco let out a hard laugh. "I imagine Weasley spent weeks pumping himself up to reveal that little heart-felt gem."

"Don't laugh," Hermione said, frowning. "We're just...comfortable around each other. Flowery declarations are for insecure fourth-years."

"Perhaps." He leaned in closer, his nose nearly brushing her ear, quite enjoying the way she squirmed at his close proximity. "But you sound more like friends than lovers," he breathed, voice nearly a whisper.

"Well of course we're not lovers. Good grief!" she burst out, cheeks tinged scarlet.

"I can't imagine why not," Draco said, falling back against his chair, lips puffed out in disappointment. "You're young and in love...a good shagging's in order."

Hermione sighed, her face a struggle of awkward emotions. "It's not as easy as all that," she said, her voice smaller than usual.

Draco leaned forward at once, almost surprised at the degree of his own enthusiasm--which was not feigned at this point but genuine. This was the opening he had been waiting for, and though she was pinch-lipped and flushed with discomfort, he knew that a part of her was waiting for him to push further. Working her was like peeling a stubborn fruit; if he could dig through the bitter rind there was bound to be a juicy reward laying in wait.

"Tell me about it," he said, touching her wrist with the tip of his fingernails.

***

Funnily enough, Draco had Marty to thank for his triumph over Hermione--or his soon-to-be-triumph, which was how he thought of it. Narcissa had sent Draco to Marty not long after their move to America; during those first few weeks Draco had been despondent and spent all hours locked in his room, wishing himself back at Malfoy Manor. When in his mother's company, he griped bitterly about the filthiness of New York City, about the over-abundance of muggles, about the unpleasant, greasy quality of the food. Finally, his mother had had enough. Usually so cool and restrained, she whipped out her wand during Sunday brunch and took aim. "Confuto!" she cried, and Draco had felt his mouth seal shut, his lips quite literally zipped up so that he could no longer utter a word. "Mummy has a headache, darling," she murmured, rubbing at her temple. He'd been shipped out to Marty's office that following Tuesday.

Draco had refused to speak at first; no low-down wizard who dabbled in a pointless, muggle science was going to get the best of him. But Marty was good, he knew just which buttons to prod. One question about Lamia, or how he was enjoying America, or how he felt about being separated from his father, or, well...Draco had found it hard to stay silent for very long. Once he had permission to speak his mind, it felt incredibly liberating to do so.

Through Marty Draco had learned the value of having a friendly ear to bend; all he had done was offer Hermione his own ear and she had snatched up the chance, soon unloading all her painfully dull problems on his doorstep, from the burdens of being Head Girl to her remarkably dispassionate romance with the red-headed Weasel. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this," she often said, looking him over with narrowed eyes. But Draco knew why; because it was easier to vent all you poison out on a stranger--or even an enemy--than a loved one.

The added bonus that Draco hadn't counted on was Hermione's one spot of vulnerability: her eagerness to please, especially to please those who held thorough disdain for her. That was why she had spent the last six or so years bouncing up and down in her seat, waving her hand wildly, shouting out answers before being called on--making an especially desperate show for professors and students alike. Though she herself was rather stoic, her actions often betrayed her one hidden want: Like me! I'm worthy of being here! You can trust me, you can!

In those sidelong glances she made toward him when she thought him unaware, Draco read her intentions loud and clear: She wanted to win him over. She despised him, true, but that didn't mean that she didn't want to gain the approval of the boy who'd always called her a dirty mudblood. Draco Malfoy's approval did not come easy; anyone would see his nod of acceptance as a rare and great coup.

Anyone except perhaps Lamia. In his second week of making progress on Hermione she caught him alone in an east wing corridor, making his way towards in the kitchens in hopes of nicking a snack from one of the house elves.

"You there!" she ordered, hands on her hips in an authoritative way. "Halt or it'll be a thousand points from Slytherin."

He raised an eyebrow in response. "And here I thought you liked being popular."

She ignored him and swooped forward, clutching at his hand and bringing it up to her nose. "Please tell me that's mudblood I smell on your fingers," she said, taking a delicate sniff.

"Grindylow guts from potions class. Though I hear the two smell quite alike," he said, smiling at her shudder of revulsion.

"Don't tell me you're still psychoanalyzing her?" Lamia pursed her lips in disapproval, shaking her head lightly. "Forget about her mind and aim for her panties, Malfoy."

"Knickers, you mean. And you really don't know a thing about subtlety, do you?"

Lamia looked amused. "You'd be surprised," she said, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Not to mention I've got two birds to worry about now, thanks to your ill-timed bet." He had yet to make a move on Ginny Weasley, and in fact had no idea to proceed with such a task--not that he'd ever admit this to Lamia.

"Two!" Lamia exclaimed, tugging playfully at the cuff of his robes. "I thought Malfoys were used to carrying on with five or more women at a time?"

"Sometimes," he admitted, thinking of Lamia's mother, the Ministry receptionist who was now stuck somewhere in the Siberian salt mines. For the first time, Draco thought it rather curious that Lamia was so interested in her biological father, Lucius, but had never once in his company said a word about her biological mother. Not that Draco even knew the woman's name, but perhaps that was because of the fact the Narcissa had cursed it so that if anyone said her name aloud in the Malfoy house, that person would go mute for two to three hours afterwards.

"Well." Lamia drew upright, suddenly quite severe. "You ought to hustle then. You've only got until Christmas, remember?

Draco tried to look nonchalant. "That's plenty of time."

Lamia let out a tinkling little laugh. "I might as well start packing my summer trunk for England now," she said, then turned on her heel and walked away, her plaited hair swinging from side to side.

For the sake of avoiding further mockery at his half-sister's hands, Draco decided he had better do something about Ginny Weasley. Hermione had been so easy...but he was expecting Ginny to be more of a challenge, in part because he knew so very little about her aside from the fact she'd had a massive crush on Harry Potter during her first year. If she had actually associated with Harry a bit more Draco might have had more of a chance to observe her. That's how he had come to learn a thing or two about Granger, after all; she'd always been hovering around in the background whenever Draco took a shine to making Potter's life miserable. As such, the most contact he'd had with Ginny Weasley was...on the Quidditch field.

That was how he came to find himself striding across the Quidditch pitch just after dawn the next day, swathed in a heavy warm-ups and a Slytherin hooded parka. According to Lamia, Ginny was an avid morning person who spent the hours before breakfast running sprints and doing stretches. Draco, however, was not a morning person, and he coughed and snuffled and fussed over his hair as he walked across the dewy grass, wishing desperately for a fresh shot of espresso. The pitch was located on the far end of the island, and Draco could hear waves splashing up on the beach, gulls reeling and screeching in the sky overhead.

For a Quidditch player, 'running sprints' meant mounting one's broom and zooming back and forth from one end of the pitch to the other, practicing speed and control. That's why Draco was surprised to discover that Ginny was doing actual sprints, running on foot across the length of lawn at top speed, her red hair streaming out behind her. Draco lowered his Nimbus broomstick to the ground and watched her with growing uncertainty. Though she was already a good chaser, it appeared that Ginny was bent on further conditioning her athletic performance; the Weasleys had always been annoyingly fit without much effort, and Ginny was no different. The extra bulk she carried beneath her robes--which Draco had always assumed to be baby fat--was revealed as well-muscled contours once clearly outline beneath the thin fabric of her tee-shirt. She was tall and had an amazingly long stride; Draco knew that if he started running at her side, she would out-pace him by half.

She seemed not to notice him as she ran, and it wasn't until she stopped and lowered herself to the ground, stretching out her legs, that he dared approach her. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, puffing slowly as he began to jog in a circle around the pitch, taking care to pass near her as she did so.

When he finally passed near her, she was doing a fierce round of sit-ups, making small grunts as she see-sawed her body up and into her bent knees, then slammed it down into the grass again, back and forth as if she were hooked up to a motor. She didn't pause at his approach, though her eyes did roll up to look at him, her brow wrinkled in mild disdain.

"Hey," he said, flicking his cigarette onto the grass beside her, where it continued to smolder until he stubbed it out with the toe of his trainer.

She flopped up and rested against her knees, panting heavily. "Smoking on the pitch?" she asked, incredulous. "That's a fine way to get into shape, Malfoy."

He yawned against the back of his hand. "I'm already in shape," he said, shrugging. "But I could spot you a few quaffles if you wanted to mount your broom and get some actual chasing practice in."

"No, thank you." It seemed as if she were struggling to appear polite, a tight smile of suspicion pasted across her face. Draco fought the urge to roll eyes; had he known that proudly displaying his arrogance would work against him in the future, he might have been a little more polite back in his formative years.

"Suit yourself," he said, un-zipping his parka and letting it drop to the grass before doing a couple of side-to-side stretches of his own. She looked a bit disappointed that he clearly had no intention of leaving, but at least made effort to suppress her displeasure, pulling her eyes away and launching into another vigorous round of sit-ups. Draco found her willingness to maintain civility refreshing; it was good to know that Ron Weasley's hatred of him hadn't swayed Ginny in the way it had so many others, including Harry Potter and most of the other Gryffindors in his year, who all tended to avoid contact with Draco at all costs. Though the animosity between Lucius and Mr. Weasley probably meant that Draco himself wasn't high up on Ginny's list of favorite people, she was apparently smart enough to realize that father and son were two distinct, separate individuals with very different motives in life.

He conveniently forgot for a moment that his own motives weren't exactly kind and chivalrous.

Draco had started in on some brisk toe-touches, uncertain how to next proceed, when he was struck with a sudden idea; it would cost him a few ounces of his dignity, perhaps, but was virtually guaranteed to capture the Weasley girl's attention, for however brief a moment. Shooting his arms high up in the air, he yowled in pain and clutched at his shoulder as if experiencing a severe cramp. "Owww," he moaned, falling to the grass on his knees, still favoring his right arm.

Ginny halted in mid sit-up. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

"Bloody trick shoulder," Draco gasped, his face twisted in pain. "It tends to pop out of joint if I over exert myself."

Ginny sat upright and scooted a bit closer. "Did it pop out just now?" She seemed vaguely fascinated, as if a dislocated shoulder was something she was quite keen on checking out.

"Can't tell," Draco said, still wincing. "Sometimes it jerks part-way out and hurts so badly that I think I've gone and dislocated it again."

Tentatively, Ginny reached out and placed her hand on the spot where his shoulder was socketed in, feeling it out in an experimental way. "It feels..." she paused and squeezed a bit harder, eliciting another gasp from him. "...fairly normal. You must have just pulled it."

Draco nodded. "I'm used to it," he said, drawing upright and putting on a brave face. He didn't want her to think him a great blubbering baby, after all.

Ginny cocked her head to one side, a streamer of red hair falling across her cheek almost prettily, and opened her mouth to say something. But before any words could form, a voice calling from the other end of the pitch, interrupted them.

"GINNY! IT'S SEVEN-THIRTY!"

Draco looked in the direction of the voice and was most displeased to see Harry Potter shifting from one foot to the next under the goal posts, early morning sunlight bouncing off his spectacles. Draco barely stopped himself from growling What's he doing here?--remembering just in time that Harry and Ginny were well acquainted, if not good friends.

"Oh!" Ginny jumped to her feet, brushing loose grass from the back of her thighs. "Prefects are meeting before breakfast today...I nearly forgot!" She began to trot off, gathering her hair into a ponytail as she went. "Bye," she called over her shoulder, not bothering to turn her head and look at him as she did so.

"Bye then," Draco said, unable to stop his voice from wilting in defeat. He was so intent in watching her go that he scarcely noticed Harry Potter approaching, his steps wide and resolute, his jaw set as if he had something quite serious to say.

"Top of the morning to you, Potter," Draco said, a shade too cheerful even to his own ears. "Got a date with a broomstick?" he added snidely, just for good measure.

Harry stopped a few feet away from where Draco was crouched, his feet splayed apart, jaw working silently as if he were having difficulty forming proper words. "You shouldn't be talking with Ginny," he finally said, his brow wrinkling in concern.

"Why's that?" Draco asked, leisurely coming to his feet. "You had your shot at her back in second year...bit late to be jealous now, isn't it?"

"I'm not jealous," Harry said quietly, burying his hands deep into the pockets of his robes. "But whatever it is you're up to, I'm asking you to stop." He spoke with his head down, staring at the ground rather than meeting Draco's eye.

Draco widened his eyes in a show of mock innocence. "What makes you think I'm up to something?"

Harry blinked. "Since when are you not? I've seen you speak with Hermione in the hall twice this week, then I find you and Ginny out here...practically hugging on the Quidditch pitch."

"Oh, so you saw that, did you?" Draco was unable to suppress his smile; so what if Harry was on to him? If driving Potter mad was a consequence of seducing both Ginny and Hermione, all the better. Draco hadn't had a good crack at Potter since the war broke out, which was a long time considering that since their first year Draco had lived by the philosophy that if he couldn't be as famous as Harry-Bloody-Potter, then he would at least be an infamous thorn in his side.

"I saw." Harry dropped his air of civility and glared openly, his eyes finally locking with Draco's. A dozen of so taunting digs danced along the end of Draco's tongue, all begging to be voiced, but he hesitated, drawing in a breath and holding it as he chose his next words carefully.

"As much as I'd like to ruin your day, I'm afraid it's not what you think, Potter," he finally said. "I was doing push-ups and was hit with a shoulder cramp. The Weasley girl was just making sure I was all right."

"Oh." An uneasy relief washed over Harry's face, causing Draco's spirits to sink quite low. He would have much rather rubbed Potter's nose in a pile of dirty innuendo, but to do so would most certainly jeopardize the outcome of Draco's competition with Lamia. Whatever happened, Lamia could not be allowed to slink her way into Malfoy Manor. Draco far preferred being an only child; in practice if not in reality.

Draco was quite gratified, however, when a rather concerned expression presented itself of Harry's face. "You're better now, I hope? Should I fetch Pomfrey?" he asked, his owlish eyes absolutely sopping with sincerity--so much that Draco had to fight not to snicker aloud at Potter's naivety.

"Eh, I think I'll survive," he managed, making a haggard, poor me face as he limped off, forgetting for a moment that it was his shoulder--not his leg--that he was supposed to have hurt. Oh well. He limped anyway...let Potter wonder.

"Be careful!" Potter called to his retreating back.

Draco shook his head in amazement. Idiot Gryffindors: so easy to bait; so easy to reel in.

***

The following weekend Draco found himself on the ferry back to Manhattan; Uncle Theo and Auntie Freesia were apparating to the Poconos for a society auction, which meant that Draco could at last spend a Saturday alone with his mother for once. Or he could have if Lamia hadn't insisted on coming home as well, shadowing him all the way from one end of the ferry to the other, silent but smiling in a knowing, triumphant sort of way.

"Must you follow me home every weekend?" Draco asked, not bothering to veil the disgust he felt. "All your friends stay at school, so why can't you? I imagine that they miss all the latest vicious gossip in your absence."

"Think of me as a painful reminder of your eventual failure," Lamia said, her fine hair blowing about and catching on her eyelashes as she spoke.

"A painful reminder of the Malfoy's failure, you mean," Draco spat. "Father never could resist a face as pretty as his own, even if it was attached to someone as lowly as a Ministry receptionist."

Lamia let out a small sigh and leaned against him, wrapping her cold hand around his. The ferry was entering the bay and the Manhattan skyline thrust up before them, a brick-and-steel monstrosity that looked to Draco like a gate that opened straight into hell.

"Let's not fight," she said. "I want us to enjoy our time together while we can."

Draco glanced down at her. "You mean the time before I ruin Granger's reputation, shag the she-Weasley and finally get you out of my hair for good?"

"Hair?" Lamia giggled and reached up to tug at a strand of his own hair, which was wind-tousled and swept wrongways across his forehead. "Your hair is just like mine, in case you hadn't noticed. Even if you win--which you won't--you'll never be quite free of me, will you?"

Draco clicked his tongue against his teeth in irritation. "That remains to be seen," he said, though he allowed her to clutch his hand, enjoying the contact for reasons he didn't quite understand. He mostly despised her, true, but now that she was in his life he was having a hard time imagining his life before. It almost frightened him, her ability to seep in through the cracks, to take up private residence in his heart, growing like a black cancer that he wanted to be rid of but couldn't quite manage to properly cure into oblivion.

"There are a few other students wandering around on this ferry, you realize," he said quietly, keeping his eyes to the water. "They may find it odd that you're holding your so-called cousin's hand."

She dropped his hand and moved away from him slightly, still looking up at him with that sly smile that she reserved solely for him--for everyone else it was a sunny smile of carefree innocence; a trustworthy prefect's smile. She stepped up on the base of the railing that surrounding the ferry, which put her at nearly an inch taller than him. She spread her arms wide and anchored them on the railing itself, her posture defiant. "You're Draco-Fucking-Malfoy," she said, her voice a low trill. "Why do you care what other's think?"

"I don't." Draco stared at her. She had changed into muggle clothing before leaving the school and was now outfitted in a thin dress of that icy-blue hue that she seemed to favor; it brought out the blue flecks in her gray eyes, highlighting the fine blue veins that ran down the slope of her neck. Blueblood...it was a muggle word that Draco had heard before but was perhaps only beginning to fully understand. On the pedestal of the ferry railing she resembled nothing short of a figure carved in alabaster--cold and unyielding, challenging those beneath her to drop down in worship. To his own horror, Draco felt his own knees nearly cave.

"Prove it," she hissed, the final syllable issued in a clear note of challenge.

Draco thrust forward and firmly pressed his lips to her own, his gloved hands coming down on either side of her face and raking through her hair, the fine strands tangling around his fingers. She made a humming noise of pleasure in her throat and he parted his mouth slightly, allowing his tongue to trace the edge of her bottom lip ever-so-slightly as he pulled her closer to him, dimly surprised at how warm she felt against him. Just as he opened his eyes and began to fall back into his senses, he felt her hands move away from his hips--where she'd only just before been clutching him--and plant themselves against his chest, pushing him away with surprising force.

"Don't!" she cried, her voice a high-pitched yelp of fear. "Don't Draco...we're cousins! Please stop it...please!" She backed away from him, her hands visibly shaking and held out before her body as if to ward him away.

"What the...?" Draco watched her fall to her knees and begin to sob, utterly dumbfounded until he realized that a small crowd of Hogwart's students had hurriedly gathered nearby at the sound of her cries, and were now staring and exchanging whispers. No...not staring--glaring. A sixth year prefect that Draco didn't know came forward and helped Lamia to her feet, patting her on the shoulder and murmuring soothing words that he couldn't quite hear.

"I keep telling him that I only love him as a cousin, but he just doesn't understand..."

Lamia's parting words were just barely audible as the small crowd drew her into their collective embrace, buzzing furiously and occasionally glancing his way, deep suspicion present on each angry face.

Draco sighed in disgust, wrapping his coat tightly around his body despite the fact that he wasn't a bit cold. Even he had to admit that--this time around--it was he who had been easily baited and hooked.

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