OOC by Rizzle rights Part 1. Mobster lobster it.
Wasn't going to be good news. Hermione knew this because her
father didn't speak to her about it on the short flight from
London to Paris or the slightly longer car ride from the airport
to their hotel in Batignon. Traffic was atrocious through
the perif. He didn't mention it when he
walked her mine into her hotel suite across the hall from his
own and ruffled her hair at the door as if she were a child.
Nor did he mention it when she went through the party itinerary
over breakfast that morning. No, her father asked to meet her
in the hotel restaurant instead. As if a public venue was going
to ensure that Hermione would not make a scene.
Hermione did not make scenes, at least not on purpose.
Walking around with constant bodyguards attracting attention.
But she'd already had a word with hers about trying not to
look like they stepped off the cover of Organised Crime
Monthly. To be fair, they'd improved.
The matching suits, sunglasses, and grim expressions were
replaced with smart casual attire, baseball caps, and
blank, unfortunately creepy smiles.
The sunglasses were a fixture, however.
They even wore them indoors. They wore them in the evening,
for God's sake. They were young, around the same
age as Hermione, in fact. It was interesting to note the
differences that came with age. Younger guards, or at least the
ones in Hermione's acquaintance, were headstrong and cockshaw.
They were the ones who started the and what are you looking at
type of arguments, which Hermione sometimes had to soothe
via a gentle hand laid on a tense forearm.
Older guards knew how to be so discreet you forgot they were
even there. In her customary fashion,
Hermione ensured she was running early that afternoon in case the
universe threw something at her that she couldn't organise her
way out of. Where to miss?
Said headstrong. You wanted to go somewhere
before meeting your father? Hermione grabbed to the hard
silver clutch purse she was planning to use that evening.
She then latched it to free, the silver chain strap tucked
inside, adding a bill Fold, a credit card, her ID and her
phone. The last item was a printed copy
of the evening's itinerary, which she folded and carried in
her hand. I'd like to stop at the banquet
hall and check on the set up. A curtain nod from the guard.
Instructions were relayed over the radio to the security
personnel relevant to these movements, and then the suite
doors opened. Headstrong stepped out first,
tense and alert, before Cockshaw exited with Hermione.
As per the reservation specifications, the 2 Granger
Family Suites were located opposite each other on the same
private floor, accessible only to members of the family and
their immediate staff. Since the guards acted as if
Hermione was going to be pounced on by assailants hiding in non
existent shadows at the elevators, Headstrong used his
security bracelet to activate the button that summoned the
carriage. The whirring sound of a fast
moving carriage could be heard and the doors opened with a
cheerful Bing. Mirrored panels lined the back
wall of the elevator and Hermione took a moment to check
her appearance. She had been so preoccupied
thinking about her father's Odd. Request.
That a final inspection of her outfit hadn't been a priority.
As the organiser of the evening's events, her outfit
needed to be professional, elegant and practical.
She needed to be able to move without worrying about a mishap.
No one was likely to forget Lavender Brown's wardrobe
malfunction at a recent charity gala.
That evening, Hermione was dressed in a sleeveless black
sheath dress in a dense, stretchy silk and jersey fabric.
The Sabrina neckline was elegant, leaning towards
austere, but the rest of the dress hugged her petite figure
like a second skin ending in the middle of her calves.
Though form fitted, the dress was actually extremely
comfortable. Her footwear was the weak link
in the chain. Unfortunately, Hermione hadn't
been able to resist the high heeled sandals that fastened
around her ankles via oversized black silk ribbons.
Not practical. But awfully pretty.
Her long brown hair was probably the MVP of any outfit, by virtue
of being so curly that it was impossible to tell whether
Hermione wasn't really trying. Simply piling it on top of her
head was sometimes all that was required.
Presently it was coiled and pinned into a loose bun with a
few wispy curls around her face. Very Parisian cheek, or at least
aiming to be. Her make up was minimal because
Hermione had a decent face and made no apologies about it.
When she wore black in the evenings, she tended to go with
red lips, mascara and a bit of perfume.
She wore no other accessories apart from her silver bag.
Her toenails were red to match her lips, but there'd be no time
for a manicure. Some might argue that there was
no point either because Hermione was prone to biting her
fingernails. It was a.
Disgusting habit. Hermione consoled herself with
the fact that there were going to be plenty of distractions at
the party and no one was going to be looking at her hands.
In those hands now was the party itinerary, which Hermione
consulted for the umpteenth time that day.
Anthony Granger's 60th birthday wasn't exactly a United Nations
Security Council meeting, but it was still a logistical headache
on account of her family being professional gangsters and all.
In fact, it was at another birthday party in another Paris
hotel many years ago that Hermione first realised that the
Grangers were not in the aeronautics business as she was
led to believe. Oh, Daddy definitely built
planes and manufactured plane parts.
But that was not all that Daddy did.
Normal children from normal families celebrated their 6th
birthday in their backyards or at play centres with cake in ice
cream and lots of bright primary colours.
But not Hermione. Her birthday was held in another
city, in another country no less, at a high end restaurant.
The decor and mood arguably was monochrome.
There wasn't a single balloon or party hat to be seen.
Of course, none of her friends from kindergarten in London were
in attendance because the party wasn't about her.
The only other children present belonged to executives of her
father's company, the Gryffindor Group, and they all looked as
miserable as Hermione felt. Even the cake was a bitter,
dark, dense slab that made her face grew up when she tasted it.
As a child, Hermione was serious, studious, rarely cried,
and was obedient to a fault when she was loyal to a 'cause that
required her obedience. The first 3 traits were
reminiscent of her mother. The last one was an attribute to
her father, who had the sort of personality that cultivated
obedience in others. In an unprecedented instance of
rebellion, little Hermione slipped away from her minders at
her birthday party and hid in the restaurant's cold marble
restroom. There, she locked herself in one
of the stalls and bawled her eyes out.
It didn't take her long to feel a little bit better, and quite a
bit guilty. She unlocked the stall door,
intending to go to the sink to wash her red, splotchy face
before rejoining the party in the dining room.
The man waiting just outside the stall had other ideas, though.
It happened so quickly, but every time Hermione recalled the
incident, it replayed in slow motion.
Her kidnapper was not in his right mind.
She could tell that from the way he kept muttering to himself,
switching between English and French.
She started learning French and German only the year before, but
she was still able to discern a few phrases.
Something about making her father suffer, making him pay,
making him see. Pay for what?
See what? Surely this man with his unkempt
attire, nicotine stained fingers and gut churning sour stench had
nothing to do with her handsome, elegant, gentle father.
This lunatic had obviously targeted the wrong family, the
wrong child. Daddy is the boss of Gryffindor
group. Just like the flying magical
creature from legends. Daddy makes aeroplanes, was what
she wanted to tell the man, but she couldn't because his hand
was covering her mouth and nose. Within moments they were in an
alley behind the restaurant and Hermione's blood ran cold.
When she saw his parked car. He carried her under his arm
like a sack of potatoes, making a bee line for the vehicle.
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and turned around.
Hermione heard him speak, but he didn't get to say very much
before 2 gunshots sounded. She found herself on the damp,
dirty ground, her party dress ruined, nursing a skinned knee.
Beside her was the dead kidnapper, and a short distance
away were her minders, flanked by her father's men.
They shot her kidnapper in the middle of a sentence.
And his forehead. Hermione could still recall the
acrid, burning smell of the gun, the taste of bile in her mouth,
and her mother's perfume as Hermione was scooped up.
The attempted abduction occurred only a few months before her
mother's cancer diagnosis and about a year before Catherine
Granger's death. It was odd, Hermione thought,
that the worst part of that day was not the kidnapping, but
rather the expression on Catherine Granger's face when
she looked at her husband. None of them knew she was
already terminally ill, but any fool could have diagnosed the
end of that marriage. This is the life you want for
her, Her mother said, her brown eyes, Hermione's eyes, spitting
venom at her husband. After that day, Hermione quickly
began to slot together the pieces of the puzzle that was
her life. Her father was no ordinary
businessman, and the Gryffindor group had its feathers in quite
a few nests. With understanding and
explanations came relief, because now things started to
make sense. The strange assortment of people
her father associated with, the late night meetings at that
townhouse, the constant presence of gods.
Hermione liked it when things made sense, especially after her
mother's death. Despite her father's power and
influence, Cancer could not be bribed or intimidated into
submission. In the end, killing it also
meant killing her mother. Bing the elevator doors opened
to the ballroom foyer of Level 6.
Hermione and her two guards stepped into a flurry of
activity and the aroma of a freshly prepared buffet.
The ballroom was decorated in silver and gold.
There was a stage on one end upon which a jazz sextic
conducted their final sound check as the caterers packed up.
On the opposite end of the ballroom was an enormous bar
manned by 6 bartenders. Hermione was just about to
proceed to the bar to check on the stock when she spotted an
obnoxious spread of lobster in the garlic, dill and butter
sauce. She asked one of the caterers
about it and was directed to the hotel's event manager, A woman
who flirted with anything that had a pulse.
Case in point, she was currently I fucking Cockshaw with all the
subtlety of a rhino in estrus. The poor man was starting to
fidget. Lobster isn't on the menu.
Hermione said without preamble. It's on the House, Miss
Grainger. The event manager gave her an
ingratiating smile. For our valued client.
Your valued client didn't request shellfish because the
guest of honour is allergic. The woman paled, which was a
feat considering the many layers of fake tan.
Oh dear, I didn't realise you should have realised given it's
in the very detailed information package I provided to your
hotel. I'll have it.
Removed immediately. Yes you will and you will not
make any changes to the menu. No deviations from anything that
I have already approved. Anything off menu will be
considered a security risk, and it will be my responsibility and
my problem during the event. However, I will become your
problem when I make an official complaint to the hotel after the
event. Hermione paused to let this sink
in. Is that clear?
Very clear, Miss Granger. Hermione took hold of Cockshaw's
wrist to check the time on his watch.
They needed to head down to see her father.
Soon. After speaking briefly with the
bar manager, Hermione was just about to head back to the
elevators when she approached the event manager to convey a
new request. The woman was in the process of
directing the caterers to dismantle the lobster surprise.
I just had a thought. Hermione said.
Could you send the lobster dish down to Level 3?
That's where our party guests, ancillary staff will be located
during the event. We've organised their meals
already, but I'm sure they'll appreciate this addition.
Once they were back in the elevator, Headstrong beamed at
her. That was nice of you, Miss Waste
not. Hermione said as she checked the
messages on her phone. There was no reason for
thousands of dollars of lobster to go to waste when there were
drivers, bodyguards, and other members of staff who could
partake. After all, Level 3 was going to
be the most boring, tedious place to be that evening.
OOC by Rizzle Writes Part 2 Anthony Grainger Anthony
Grainger was a handsome man. Stately was probably the better
word. Though not very tall, he carried
himself as if he was, and Hermione had always considered
this to be even more impressive than height advantage.
Upon seeing his daughter enter the restaurant, he got to his
feet to greet her. He was already dressed for the
party in a dark brown suit, a brocade black and gold tie, and
a matching silk pocket square. Her father still had a full head
of hair, slate grey and extra curly at the moment because it
was damp from a recent shower. There you are, sweetheart.
He pecked Hermione on the cheek and gestured to the seat
opposite him at the table. One of his men pulled out a
chair for her before fading into the background.
She could particularly feel Headstrong and Cockshaw taking
notes. Would you like a drink or
perhaps something to eat before the party?
I know it's been a long day for you.
Hermione declined. There were still 100 things to
do before the ballroom opened its doors to their guests.
She wished her father would get on with whatever he wanted to
drop on her. The dread was affecting her
focus. They were seated in a secluded
corner of the restaurant, a kind of VIP section but with
strategically placed pillars and alcoves in lieu of a velvet
rope. It was a clever architectural
and design detail that her late mother would have liked.
It wasn't until Hermione sat down that she noticed another
person was also at the table. She was very surprised to see
her cousin who never, ever attended formal events.
Not a single one for as long as Hermione had known him.
But of course, none of this shark registered on her face.
Hello, Cormac. Cormac grinned, well aware of
the stir his presence was causing.
High 'cause he was drinking a gaudy cocktail in a fish bowl
glass that held an umbrella. Some kind of braided candy
stick. What did the Americans call them
again? Twizzles, twazzlers, and a thin,
almost translucent wedge of watermelon perched on the rim.
Hermione was immediately irritated.
I'm so pleased you managed to find time away from your
Australian project to celebrate with us tonight.
Hermione said. It was a question posed without
an explicit question, a trick Hermione learned from her
father. Essentially, she had just asked
Cormac what the hell he was doing in Paris, considering he'd
put down a rather excessive Quan le Pleu Ron de Dance on the RSVP
4 weeks ago when a simple no would have sufficed.
I moved things around, was all he said.
How's the project going? You're operating out of Byron
Bay on the East Coast, right? The pursing of his lips as he
sucked on the straw in his cocktail was the only indication
of Cormac's reluctance to discuss his mysterious
Australian project. Hermione couldn't care less what
he did in his spare time. Which was?
100% of his time, but for the fact that the Gryffindor group
was funding the project, it was something to do with
cybersecurity. Hilarious, given that Cormac was
the sort of person who used the same password for everything,
and it was most probably something like Mclagan's 69
exclamation point. Though her dear cousin was
suspiciously vague on the details of his project, Anthony
Granger himself approved the venture without seeing any
proposals and signed the cheques.
Hermione was not Privy to whatever nonsense her cousin was
up to, but the last invoice to pass across her desk at her
London office was for a Peacock. It's coming along.
Cormac said, looking cheerful. You should visit sometime.
As Hermione raised an eyebrow. I thought you were on your own
in Australia. He blinked.
I mean, come and visit me. Oh, the bastard was definitely
up to something shady, which wasn't a problem unless it was
poorly organised shady. I'd love to.
She lied many time. He lied back.
Anthony cleared his throat. I specifically requested that
Cormac be here for the party because I'm going to make an
important announcement during the speeches and it's only right
that I tell you first, he said to Hermione.
Hermione gave her father her full attention.
What important announcement? Her father was a shrewd and
precise man, she noted. He said tell instead of ask.
This wasn't a collaborative decision that involved her.
This was informing her as a courtesy, whatever it was Cormac
was set to gain, if the look of gleeful anticipation on his face
was any indication. I'd like to wind things down, my
dear. After some thought, I think it's
time to usher in new blood at GG.
Hand over the reins to someone younger, sharper.
I can do without the metaphors. Dad, please tell me what you're
trying to say. He leaned back in his chair and
looked at her for a moment. You really are your mother's
daughter, and that's part of the problem.
Hermione's answering stare was very cool.
I don't think being my mother's daughter could ever be
considered a problem. Her father was not so easily
baited. You know that's not what I mean.
Then what do you mean? I'm announcing my successor
tonight, and it's going to be Cormac.
His words seemed to hang in the air for a while.
Hermione felt like someone was adjusting the focus in her
vision. Her father's face blurred for a
moment. The skin of her palms began to
brickle. I'm sorry, can you repeat that?
Cormac stepped in before Anthony replied.
Uncle Tony wants to retire, Hermione.
Not right away, of course. Maybe in a couple of years.
In the meantime, he thinks it's best eyeshadow.
You was the head of operations, you know, learn the ropes.
He resumed slurping on his obnoxious cocktail ropes.
Gryffindor Group was a $300 million company with holdings in
17 countries. It's business was an ecology of
legitimate and illegal enterprises, some connected,
some strategically disparate. Hermione spent almost every
waking moment since she was 12 learning everything she could
about the business, and she still had doubts whether she
could run it as well as her father.
And Cormac was hoping to learn all of that from her in two
years. What were your plans for me
then? Hermione posed this to her
father. To be honest, I was hoping you'd
take a step back like me. Let Cormac do the heavy lifting.
Cormac could barely lift his own hand to sign his own damn
cheques. Also, what heavy lifting
Gryffindor group ran like a well oiled machine?
Despite her rage, Hermione processed this news with her
usual surface calm. Her father was not fooled.
He reached across the table to touch her hand, but she pulled
it away before he made contact. So when was this decided?
I submitted Cormack's name as my successor a month ago, and the
Order Executive Committee approved it last week.
That's why he's here now. I'd like to make it official as
soon as possible so you can start working together.
And not a single person thought to mention it to me?
Hermione demanded. Because you know how these
things are women get. So he should've emotional.
From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Cockshaw flinch on
her behalf. She stared at her cousin.
I could have you killed, you know.
Cormac winked at her. True, but you love me enough.
Anthony snapped. Sweetheart, I can see you're
upset. Well, I can hardly be pleased,
can I? She interjected.
Are you or the bored unhappy with how I've been running
things? Hermione, you are excellent at
your job, that is not in dispute, but this role needs
more than excellent. More than excellent?
What did that even mean? What does the role need?
She asked. It was Cormac who supplied an
answer. A Dick?
Oh yes? Hermione sneered at him.
Well, we're in luck then, because I have one of those and
it's bigger than yours. Headstrong sniggered and
Hermione had to turn her head to glare at him until he faded back
into standby mode. Stop it, you 2.
Anthony said. The only way this is going to
work is if you work together. Brytel, what does the contents
of my pants have to do with running GG?
Hermione asked her father. This is not an industry that
treats women well. Your assisting me was always
going to be a temporary situation and I take full
responsibility for not making that fact clear to you from the
beginning. We sort of muddled through
together after your mother passed and never really
discussed the long term implications.
It was never what your mother wanted for you.
For the first time since she sat down, Hermione could detect
authentic emotion on her father's face.
Stop her bringing my mother into this.
I want you to be happy, sweetheart, and safe.
And you think making Peacock Charlie here, head of Gryffindor
group, is going to make any of us safer?
Cormac was impossible to shame. Excuse me, I'll have you know my
Peacock eggs tax deductible. Anthony pinched the bridge of
his nose. Hermione, there are and will
always be aspects of this life that are incompatible with With
what? She interrupted being a woman.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't the Order just approved
Black Ink's application for membership into the syndicate?
The head of Black Ink is a woman.
She'll be here tonight. In fact, Nosissa Black is an
outlier and her organization's membership in the Order is still
conditional. This is a trial period for them.
Whether they are worthy of permanent membership remains to
be seen. Hermione snorted.
And how long did it take for the Gryffindor group to become a
member organization within the Order?
How many applications did we make before we were finally
accepted? The question was rhetorical.
Everyone at the table knew these details well, maybe not Cormac.
8 years and three applications. Anthony answered, and Black Ink,
a company that is less than four years old, headed by a woman,
was admitted on its first go. You still want to insist that
lacking a penis is a problem? Don't be crass, my dear.
All I'm saying is that the hierarchy isn't decided on
merit. Oh please, I know that.
She rolled her eyes. It's nepotism.
How else am I running the company at 24, Hermione?
Heading up board meetings and running projects is one thing.
This position requires you to lead men.
Difficult, dangerous men whose respect and loyalty is
determined by what's in your pants.
We may not like it, but that's the way it is, she scoffed.
Like you're not difficult and dangerous.
Difficult and dangerous men who are not your father.
Anthony said. He didn't get louder when he got
angry, he just got more emphatic.
It took a lot for him to lose his patience.
Besides, you're far too young. I've been accompanying you to
meetings since Mum died. Hermione pointed at Cormac.
He can't even check his e-mail without asking for help.
Hey, that was one time. It's settled, Hermione.
Anthony said. It's done.
I'm not discussing this any further.
Cormac will take over and you will support him.
At that moment, one of her father's men bent down to
whisper in his ear and handed Anthony a phone.
Duty calls, seeing as I'm not retired quite yet.
Anthony stood up. He looked weary now, and as
complicated and stunted as their relationship was, Hermione was
not immune to her father's discomforts.
Anything I can assist you with? She asked.
He smiled at her, walking over to touch her cheek.
I'll come to you if I need any help, and when I'm not here,
will you go to Cormac? Hermione was trying very hard
not to cry. She watched her father and his
men leave. There was much to think about,
but for now, she needed to process.
In the meantime, she glared at her cousin.
What the hell are you wearing? I hope you're not planning to
show up tonight. And that Cormac was dressed in a
tropical print shirt, khaki shorts, and slip on loafers, for
God's sake. He made a tisk sound.
Of course not. Still scowling, Hermione got up
to leave. She was almost out of the VIP
section with her guards when Cormac's voice called out.
Hey Cos, do you know where I can get a suit in a hurry?
OOC by Rizzle rights Part 3. Narcissa Malfoy The party
officially kicked off with a welcome speech from the birthday
boy and the slideshow of the photographic highlights, from
Anthony Granger's 60 Years of Life to a Frank Sinatra medley
played by the band. Hermione had no desire to watch
the reel again, having seen it about 20 times already when it
was put together. Several of the senior Order
members who appeared in the slideshow were there at the
party. They were cuddly looking
grandpas with half melted Werthers Originals in their
pockets and gummy smiles. The faded photographs showed
them in their circa 1980s prime, standing beside a boxy
Lamborghini Contach that was so low to the ground it looked like
you had to crawl to get into it. And there was her father,
resplendent in a white Miami viciera suit with rolled up
jacket sleeves, aviator shades and a sinister looking Franchi
Spaz, 12, balanced at his hip. Hermione had always meant to ask
him if he actually carried such a ridiculous weapon around, or
whether it was just for the photo.
The only women featured in the photo reel were the plus ones
and never the subject of the photo.
There were the mothers, sisters, daughters, grandmothers, nieces,
aunties. And the occasional nanny.
There was 1 exception, a lovely black and white picture of
Catherine Grainger, heavily pregnant with Hermione and
standing behind a desk as she looked at blueprints for one of
Gryffindor group's manufacturing hangers.
Catherine was about the same age as Hermione was now, and the
resemblance was so uncanny that Hermione felt like she was
looking at a picture of herself. She felt a prickle run along her
scalp. When she looked across the
crowded ballroom, she saw her father staring intently at the
projector screen. His expression was difficult to
read, and he didn't need sunglasses to achieve this.
Anthony Granger was a master of masking.
If she had to guess, though, Hermione thought he looked sad.
Well, good. She was furious with him.
The band resumed playing as the MC invited the guest to the
dance floor. Hermione wasn't fond of dancing,
and she definitely wasn't fond of doing it in 4 inch heels.
It was inevitable that either her father or Cormac would ask
her to dance. To avoid this, Hermione
retreated to the bar, but not before some handshaking, air
kissing, and getting her bottom nearly smacked by a 79 year old
man in a wheelchair. Headstrong had amazing reflexes
though he intercepted the wrinkled pervy paw at the last
moment. You should eat something.
Miss Cockshaw said. He had followed this up with
before you get shit faced. He would have been out of line.
He didn't, but Hermione could tell that was what he was
thinking. This was another thing about the
younger guards. They got sentimental attached,
too personal. She was their employer, not
their friend. For a moment, Hermione
contemplated doing as Cockshaw suggested and grabbing something
to eat, but the prospect of being swarmed by people was
unappealing. While she usually relished the
opportunity to network, the thought of doing that now seemed
pointless. I'm not hungry, but you 2 go
ahead. Headstrong volunteered to fetch
plates for himself and his partner, and Coxshaw escorted
Hermione to the bar. What can I get you, Miss
Granger? Said the bar manager, a Pretty
Woman who ran the company that provided portable specialty bars
for exclusive events. She was a trusted contractor.
You don't have to come and serve me yourself, Joe Actually I do.
I swear if another geezer gets handsy, I'm glassing the
bastard. They don't dare try when you or
your. Cho trailed off, realising
Hermione was missing a bodyguard.
Where's your ginger one? I'm going to get some dinner.
Hermione said. Also, feel free to point out the
bastards and I'll ask Headstrong to have a word with their wives,
if they're still even alive. Women live longer than men,
remember? One of the few perks?
Joe said. She cocked her head in
Headstrong's direction. They'd already met a few times,
but it was always during a rush. This was their first quiet
moment, and Headstrong was currently as red as Coxshaw's
hair. He did not perform well under
close scrutiny of attractive women who paid him the same
attention. Hermione and Joe had great fun
at his expense. So is his name really
Headstrong? It's Harry actually, but I don't
use their real names. Why has he got sunglasses on?
And I think it's their factory default setting.
I can't seem to override it. Joe laughed.
Anyway, what can I get? Your boss, Boss.
Not for much longer. Hermione sighed, trying to shake
off her melancholy Bitterness was not a good look.
Besides, Hermione liked and admired Joe, and there was no
need to bring the mood down in her doldrums.
Dom Perignon. Vintage silver play.
Which one? P2?
Cho filled a crystal flute, and when she went to put the bottle
away, Hermione stopped her. Leave that, please.
At least don't drink alone. It's a touch dramatic.
Hermione was already halfway through her first class.
It is, isn't it? But I'm a mobster's daughter.
I can pull it off. Cockshaw returned with two
heaped plates of food. The guards sat a short distance
away and began to eat their dinner with headstrong, sneaking
glances at Cho every so often. I'd better go and check on my
own staff, Cho said. But before she.
Left. She passed Hermione something in
her hand, just in case. I don't see you before the end
of the night. But your past sister.
Harry, it was Cho's business card.
More to the point, Cho's phone number.
Just so you know, Headstrong has the alcohol tolerance of a 16
year old at his first unapproved house party.
Don't give me ideas. Cho said.
After Cho left, Hermione spun around on her bar stool and
observed the dance floor. Cormac was twirling around some
buxom blonde woman, somehow managing to balance a drink at
the same time. The suit Hermione sent him fit
perfectly, though he had either foregone the tie or removed it
to dance. There was a swarm of young women
hanging around him. Her stupid cousin wasn't bad
looking, Hermione supposed. His side of the family were slim
and fine boned, with lighter coloured curls that leaned
towards honey rather than the trademark Granger mahogany.
Hermione struggled to pitch a Cormac sitting at the head of a
conference table, reassuring the GG board of directors, charming
investors, agitating rivals, and standing his ground in the face
of intimidation and threats. He was the quintessential
reckless Playboy type. Anthony Granger was right when
he said that their line of work was rife with difficult and
dangerous men, but hadn't Hermione been handling that
already? And well too?
What was her father thinking, letting her become so enmeshed
in the company's operation for years, only to separate her from
it now? There had to be some other
explanation, and if so, Hermione would get to the bottom of it.
Feeling increasingly upset, she tried a tactile distraction by
rolling the glass in her palms. It was empty again.
She topped it up carefully avoiding the bubbles spilling
over. What an apartment metaphor for
her anger the fact was that the gryffindor group had ceased to
become just a job or responsibility.
It was her life. Hermione was proud of her
achievements, of what she had helped build in a short time and
at such a young age. Many of her peers from.
School went on to university while Hermione went straight to
work after high school. Spending most of her time
shadowing her father and his executives, learning on the job,
visiting factories and attending meetings in her teens.
Weekends were spent sprawled on the carpet in her mother's old
office, eating fast food and looking over stock market
reports and memos from different company divisions.
It felt like the end of a marriage.
She'd been in a relationship with the company for almost a
decade, had dedicated her formative years to the
Gryffindor group, and now they were breaking up.
To add insult to injury, she had to train her replacement.
Fuck this, Hermione muttered under her breath, swilling more
champagne. Long day, Said a woman's voice.
The room got a little fuzzy, and Hermione spun around too quickly
on her bar stool to greet the person speaking to her.
She should probably slow down her alcohol consumption.
It was Narcissa Black, the longest day, Hermione heard
herself say, a little dazzled by the older woman.
May I join you, please? The two women had never spoken
directly, but of course Narcissa's reputation preceded
her. The CEO of Black Ink looked
beautiful that evening in a gold Grecian style evening gown.
Her platinum hair was cut short. Allah Hepburn.
It worked well to showcase her excellent bone structure.
Every organization in the Order had done their homework on Black
Ink and it's elusive CEO. The Gryffindor Group's file on
Narcissa indicated that she was in her early 50s, unmarried,
single, had no other living family members, and resided on
an estate in Wiltshire with three Afghan hounds named after
the Bee Gees and a stable of thoroughbreds.
Remembering her manners, Hermione offered Narcissa the
bar stool beside her. It was difficult to look elegant
sitting on a bar stool while wearing an evening gown, but
Narcissa managed it. Can I get you something?
Hermione asked, signalling the nearest bartender.
A time machine? Narcissa said, and the smile she
gave Hermione was oddly fond. And please, call me Sissa.
Hermione assumed Narcissa was alone, but then she noticed
three men standing some distance away.
Each was dressed in a different suit without a pair of
sunglasses. Insight.
They could have passed off as guests, but Hermione knew all
the guests at the party and these men were not on the list.
They're good. Hermione said, motioning her
head towards Narcissa's guards, aren't they?
I forget they're there sometimes, which can make for
some awkward moments, let me tell you.
Hermione found herself wishing she would tell when the
bartender appeared. Not Cho this time.
Necesa placed her order. The two women were silent for a
few minutes as they watched the cocktail being prepared.
Hmm, not bad. Narcissa said after taking a
sip. Not many places do a decent old
fashioned anymore. It has to be a muddled sugar
cube. You see.
None of that artificial syrup nonsense.
Well, I have it on good authority that the bar manager
is a stickler for accuracy. Hermione was still wondering
about what The Time Machine comment meant.
Are you enjoying the party so far?
Not really. Narcissa said candidly.
I'd rather be home in my pyjamas with my dogs in a glass of wine,
but apparently there's going to be some important announcements
made during tonight's speeches. She propped her head in her hand
and looked pointedly at Hermione.
Ah, you've heard about my cousin's big news?
Seems more fitting to call it Gryffindor's big news, seeing as
your stock is about to take a nose dive.
Hermione winced. That happens when there's a
change in leadership, yes, but stability can usually be
restored after the changeover, provided the new leader is up to
the job. She shook her head.
What on earth is your father thinking?
It was gratifying to hear another person share Hermione's
incredulity about the decision. You know, you look so much like
your mother that I thought I was looking at her for a moment.
She was just as lovely, just as luminous.
That statement had Hermione reeling.
Narcissa and her mother had been friends.
This was not in the woman's dossier.
Wait, you knew my mother? I did, yes.
Not well, mind you, we attended finishing school together.
Like you, she was also very good at being quiet and
contemplative. A conspiratorial smile flashed
across her face. Used to unsettle the boys.
You'd think that it was the scariest.
Thing in the world. A woman who thinks NASA swirled
the bright amber liquid around in her glass, but her silver
eyes were fixed on Hermione. Apart from your cousin's
propensity to fail upwards, what else have you been contemplating
this evening? NASA Astaire made Hermione feel
like she was being spotlit and interrogated.
Under the charm and elegance was a surgical scalpel of her mind.
Still, it felt almost therapeutic.
When Hermione proceeded to explain the source of her low
mood, the other woman listened, occasionally nodding.
It's the same problem we face in any male dominated industry.
Organised crime is no different. We as in women?
Hermione asked. Or anyone that identifies as
such. Narcissa clarified.
Anyone who is different. She scanned the ballroom, A
faint smile on her face as she observed the guests.
But women in this business, our business, regardless of status,
we need to fight extra hard not to be relegated to tea and
biscuits duty in the boardroom. We serve croissants in our
boardroom, if that helps. Hermione said dryly.
She refilled her glass again. So what do you think we need to
succeed in this line of work? Narcissa threw the question back
at her. I'm more interested what you
think. I think brains, bravery,
ambition, passion, power, influence.
An odd from the older woman, definitely.
And mind you, most of those things you bring with you, they
might be innate qualities you already have and build on over
time. But power and influence in this
industry? For a woman?
That's not something you arrive with.
Then how do you get it? Hermione asked.
There was a flinty quality to Narcissa's eyes.
Now you take it, it already belongs to someone else, so you
find out who and where, and you take it from them.
Hermione didn't know what to say to that, but she must have
looked faintly troubled, because Narcissa gave her a reassuring
smile. You don't take it by force.
It's not about brute strength. This is pinhole surgery.
It leaves the scar. It takes strategy, planning,
patience, and so much bloody work that you'll look back on
this conversation years from now and hate me.
The conversation was fascinating.
Hermione now understood what her father meant when he said
Narcissa was an outlier. Is that what you did?
Hermione asked. To build black ink.
Narcissa drained the remains of her drink, then slipped A
generous tip under the empty glass to express her
appreciation for the well made cocktail.
Her response when it came was as enigmatic as the woman herself.
The proof is in the pudding, as they say, but in your case,
don't be in too much of a hurry. This is a long game and
experience can't be rushed. I have plenty of experience,
Hermione Counted in your job, no doubt, but life experience
counts as well. Narcissa took out a compact from
her back, flipped it open, and began to reapply her lipstick.
Do you know what adds to the metal of a good leader?
No, What? Getting your heart broken badly,
and at least once. She pressed her lips together to
blot her lipstick. It's good for the Constitution.
Hermione scoffed. I'm not interested in dating.
And usually people will tell you that relationships can be
distracting. Not helpful.
In any case, that's a future Hermione problem.
Now you sound like my son. Pardon.
Her. What?
Nasir Black did not have a son. The other woman seemed well
aware of the shocker her admission had caused.
She smirked at Hermione. Did well to keep him hidden,
didn't I? I deliberately kept him out of
my professional life. Hermione was seriously going to
fire the company investigators then Why bring him into black
ink now if you've gone to such lengths to keep him out of it?
Because he asked and despite doing my best to guaranteeing
him from this life, he seems to have all the qualities that will
enable him to thrive here. There was a lot of baggage there
that Narcissa was clearly unhappy about.
That's the other announcement that will be made tonight, by
the way. My son's decision to join the
company. Sorry to steal your cousin's
Thunder. Narcissa said, not looking sorry
at all. Hermione snorted.
Cormac's going to love that. The other woman hopped off her
bar stool and, to Hermione's mortification, actually patted
Hermione on the head. It ought to have felt
condescending if she hadn't become accustomed to Narcissa's
unusual personality. Enjoy yourself, my dear.
There are more challenging days in your future, so be young
while you can. You don't want to be looking at
a slide show 40 years from now wishing you made different
choices. Easier said than done when
you're constantly monitored. Hermione looked in the direction
of her bodyguards. Headstrong and Coxshaw had
finished their dinner and were now drinking glasses of non
alcoholic punch. Hmm.
Narcissa said, drumming her French tips on the bar.
How about my men distract Tweedles Dam and Dee over there?
If you promise that any mischief you make tonight is carried out
within the safe confines of the hotel and you'll have to be back
before the speeches, of course. Talk about unexpected turns from
unexpected sources. Mischief A Could Hermione do it?
Let her hair down, figuratively speaking, and have a little fun.
Engage in some controlled irresponsibility.
And fook the patriarchy while she was at it, perhaps even
literally. How very out of character.
The little jolt of excitement in her stomach was her answer.
She drew in a long, steady breath, and for a moment the
sounds of the party faded, as did the weighted feeling in her
chest. It had been there since her
mother died, since her father had relied on her as a kind of
surrogate partner. There was a well of anger and
frustration, too. And sadness.
It was a guilt she felt too guilty to indulge in, due to the
ironic combination of enormous responsibility and just as much
privilege. Now all of this simmered and
boiled over. Sitting there alone drinking her
sad person champagne was equivalent of running away to
cry in the bathroom when she was six years old.
Well, she was no longer a child. If her father thought that he
could treat her like any other member of staff, then she was
going to lean into that role. There was no fun to be had at
this party, not with these faded versions of once great mobsters
trying to relive their glory days.
She was going to venture below deck.
OOC by Rizzle Rights part 4. Someone brought a karaoke
machine. From the time Hermione was old
enough to attend official events, there had never been a
need for her to visit the spaces designated for staff.
The guests at a party were only the tip of the iceberg for
every. VIP.
There could be anywhere between 2 and 20 people in their
entourage. These were the employees who
were not required to be in the event venue but were
nevertheless on duty Drivers, ancillary guards, nannies,
administrative and executive assistants, photographers,
videographers, nurses, private physicians and one time a
personal psychic. The Order and it's member
organisations were generous employers providing competitive
wages, flexible working conditions, subsidised housing,
medical insurance, paid leave, pensions and other perks.
This had nothing to do with kindness and decency.
It was simply good business sense, well renumerated and well
treated. Employees were less susceptible
to bribery, blackmail and defection.
Loose lips sink ships as the saying went, and in organised
crime, when one ship sank, the whole fleet could be dragged
under Bing. The elevator doors opened on
Level 3 of the hotel, which was set aside for staff to have
their dinner and wait out the night while their employers
partied 3 floors above. Hermione expected to find a
sedate gathering of bored men in suits.
What she discovered, however, had her stunned frozen long
enough for the elevator doors to nearly shut again.
There was a party in full swing, complete with strobe light, and
was that a karaoke machine? A skinny, bespectacled man who
Hermione recognised as one of the Gryffindor group secretaries
was belting out Adele's rolling. In the deep and killing it.
Jackets wore off, ties were loosened, and a moonlighting DJ
was spinning records on a deck someone had brought for this
very purpose. This wasn't incidental.
This this was premeditated fun. Despite the music, there wasn't
any dancing happening, probably due to the stark absence of
alcohol and the fact that the party was essentially a sausage
fest Even so. The mood was 100 times better
than Anthony Granger's very expensive, very exclusive
birthday party on Level 6. Hermione's first instinct was to
be cross, but there was no justification for her anger
since no rules were broken, not technically and for her purposes
that evening, the added noise and activity was going to make
her skulking less noticeable. The First things first.
Hermione found the nearest secluded corner and removed her
shoes. Clutching her shoes and the half
empty bottle of champagne against her chest, she walked
briskly around the edges of the party, sticking close to the
walls where there was more cover and less light.
The hotel didn't have much in the way of balconies, which were
mainly narrow protruding ledges fenced off by wrought iron
railings. Nevertheless, all the smokers
were packed on every inch of balcony space, enjoying the view
of the Arc de Triomphe and the Place de Letole.
It was very convenient for the smokers to congregate because
Hermione was able to efficiently cull those men from her
shortlist. She felt a little foolish,
feeling less like a predator surveying the landscape for prey
and more like a sexual harassment complaint in the
making. Interestingly, Hermione noted
that there wasn't much intermingling going on between
the staff from various organizations in the Order, at
least not in comparison to the main party.
That made sense, she supposed, because the staff didn't need to
work on building rapport with inter Order colleagues as much
as their employers. Also, there were language
barriers. Not everyone spoke English.
The lingua franca in the Order was French.
Most staff also spoke German. With the anticipated edition of
a Korean and two Japanese organisations the following
year, the syndicate was gradually becoming more diverse.
A bit of diversity would have assisted Hermione in filling her
shortlist. As it was, the pickings were
slim. Nevertheless, she was buzzing
with anticipation. Not.
For wholesome reasons in this place.
Everyone was a subordinate. Hermione held the balance of.
Power. And she was in the mood to abuse
some of that power tonight. The trouble was that she needed
someone amiable to a bit of playful bullying.
A room consisting mainly of mafia bodyguards was perhaps not
the best place to find such an individual.
She scanned the field for contenders.
There were the serious, slick and sharp men from Raven and
Claw. Attractive, yes, but perhaps a
little too professional to make them easy targets for bossing
around. Most of the larger tomfoolery
came from the Badger holdings. In fact, one of them had just
snatched the karaoke microphone from the Adele fan and was
trying to pull up a list of ACDC songs on the screen.
Gryffindor group employees were the most relaxed looking of the
bunch. This was unsurprising
considering they were at their organization's event, which made
this their temporary home turf. Hermione ruled them out because
of the potential complications that came from fucking your
employees. Also ruled out from the list was
anyone who looked younger than her.
Although there was an absolute cutie from BH who looked like he
was playing dress up in his father's suit, anyone within two
decades of her father's age was also a no go zone.
Not just due to the ick factor, but also because these men were
more likely to have partners. Mob spouses were not to be
trifled with. Hermione didn't care for the
chunky, muscle bound drivers and guards who looked like they were
liable to RIP their suit jackets at any sudden movement.
There was no shortage of objectively good looking men in
the syndicate, but as soon as she recognised them, it worked
as a kind of invisibility shield when it came to seeing them as
potential tryst partners. A promising candidate eventually
appeared, standing with a group of men Hermione did not
recognise at all. This meant they were most likely
staff from black ink. He was a young black man in his
mid 20s, lithe and lanky. His build and refined bearing
didn't suggest he was a bodyguard.
More likely he was an administrative staff member.
Hermione would need to make up her mind before she emerged from
her hiding spot. Once she was spotted, news would
reach Headstrong and Cockshaw at the speed of SMS.
She watched the man for a few minutes, feeling more firm in
her decision when she saw him laugh at something his tall,
light haired companion said. Twin dimples appeared on his
cheeks. What a precious marshmallow.
She was going to have fun with this one.
Hermione took a swig of the champagne and then started
walking over. The death of women at the staff
party meant that her sudden appearance did not go unnoticed.
Conversation died. Thankfully, the DJ and the ACDC
fan remained oblivious, so at least the music continued
unabated. When she was almost halfway into
the man's group, she caught his gaze and smiled.
Bless him, his eyes widened, and then he actually glanced behind
him to check if Hermione was looking at someone else.
She was almost within conversation distance when the
man her targets were speaking to turned around.
Hermione's brain short circuited.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He was standing directly between
Hermione and her quarry, which meant he was standing pretty
damn close. Now Hermione was extremely well
travelled and had engaged with all manner of attractive
individuals, but this bloke had to be one of the most beautiful
men she had ever seen. For starters, he was older than
the other candidate, probably around early to mid 30s, with
white blonde hair, cheekbones you could sharpen knives on, and
light grey eyes. He was also taller than most of
the men in the room. That was not all that stood out
about him. His attire was different too.
While most staff were dressed in variations of the black suit and
white shirt theme, this gentleman wore a finely tailored
blue grey suit with a faint grey white check pattern.
His tie was blue and silver Paisley and on his feet were
black leather oxfords. The way he filled out his suit
suggested either bespoke tailoring and or an excellent
figure. Either way, it made Hermione's
mouth dry in a way that only a 10% dividend yield on Gigi stock
could achieve. There were two other men in the
group in addition to the two candidates.
They were around 30, but unlike the candidates, these beefcakes
looked like quintessential bodyguards, plainly dressed,
square jawed and stocky. Hello gents.
Hermione used her tried and tested deal making smile.
Though she greeted the whole group, her eyes were firmly
fixed on the blonde man. Good evening.
His voice, like the rest of him, was perfect.
Low, deep and slightly Husky. He sounded English, though it
was impossible to tell for certain unless she got him
talking a bit more. Hermione noticed he was holding
a glass of red wine. Oh, naughty, very naughty.
If she told HR on him, that would be an instant demerit.
He gave Hermione a once over and she had no idea if he liked what
he saw because he was harder to read than a handwritten note in
Welsh. Did you want to speak to my
friend? Only 10 words into the
conversation and Hermione could already tell that he was sharp.
Very sharp. He was not what she was after,
but he was what she wanted. Where was the fun in squishing a
marshmallow when you could have a go at cracking bulletproof
glass? No man this good looking enjoyed
a woman who was cleverer than him, so Hermione proceeded with
caution. Your friend?
She asked, blinking. Her father called this the
Columbo method. She really ought to look up the
reference one day. Yes.
He said. You seem to be walking towards
him. Was I?
Well, since I'm here, he might as well introduce himself.
Everyone stared expectantly at the younger man.
There was a ghost of a smile on Bulletproof's face as he sipped
his wine and watched whatever was about to unfold.
Oh yes, of course, said the lad. I'm Blaise Zabini, I'm working
for the architectural team at Black Ink.
He couldn't seem to decide whether to offer Hermione his
hand to shake or not. He settled on not tucking the
over eager hand behind his back. And you are?
Going to borrow your colleague for a bit if he doesn't mind.
Hermione stared at Bulletproof. One of the beefcakes snorted.
Zabini looked uncomfortable. Bulletproof looked unfazed, but
not uninterested. Are you sure it's my assistance
you're seeking this evening and not young?
Zabini's quite sure was his response as he stared at her.
Hermione was of average height, but she had to tilt her head all
the way back to look at his face.
His scrutiny was unnerving. Also, he hadn't given her a
definitive answer yet, but she was going to proceed on the
basis that it was going to be a yes.
I'd like to ask a few cursory questions before we proceed any
further, if you don't mind. This would constitute the
interview portion of his candidature.
He breathed out a low laugh. Sure.
Are you married, engaged, or in a romantic relationship with
anyone right now? No.
Are you gay? No.
Poor Zabini was looking back and forth between them like he was
watching a tennis match. Are you on duty?
And the answer better be no. Hermione said, staring pointedly
at his drink. No, I am not on duty.
Does anyone happen to have the time?
This last question was posed to the group.
Gangsters always wore watches, and a man's watch could tell you
quite a bit about him. All four men consulted their
timepieces. Bulletproof, she noticed, was
sporting diamond cufflinks and a Bulgary watch.
Hermione wasn't close enough to ID the model, but it was an
unusual choice. Sandblasted black ceramic, quite
unassuming for Bulgary. She'd been expecting at least 2
shades of gold and more diamonds.
It's 715 bulletproof. Informed her.
Damn, that didn't leave much time then.
Could you spare me 30 to 45 minutes Now?
His show of amusement actually reached his eyes.
If Armani wasn't his type, he found her interesting.
At least I might if I knew what you require of me attend a
private conference with me. Hermione said.
The Gryffindor Group is keen to welcome its black ink colleagues
to the Order. Personally, it was difficult not
to laugh. What a load of smarmy bollocks,
But he didn't seem to mind playing along.
I take it you're the Gryffindor Group representative at your
service? Hermione said cheerfully.
We'll see. He murmured so softly that
Hermione wondered if she was meant to hear that at all.
She wasn't able to contain her blush.
Headstrong and Cockshaw were going to have a collective
Nosebleed when they found out what she was up to.
Well then, Miss Gryffindor group representative Bulletproof
finished his wine and handed the anti glass to Sabini.
He held out his arm to Hermione. Shall we wait?
What just happened? Blaise looked between his
colleagues and the retreating figures of his employer and the
young woman who had, if Blaise wasn't mistaken, just
propositioned his boss for sex. Blaise had never seen anything
like it in all his time he'd worked for the man.
The whole transaction had occurred using some kind of
code. Did this sort of thing happen
often at order events? It was downright bizarre to see
anyone treat the boss like some kind of stray puppy to be picked
up and carried off. Clearly the girl had no idea who
he was, and it didn't seem like the boss knew her either.
Shouldn't you? Blaise said.
Goyle was smirking. Shouldn't we?
What? He's leaving on his own,
unescorted, with a stranger. One of you ought to go with him
at least. Crab clapped a large hand on
Blaze's shoulder. Both you and the boss are new to
black ink in the Order, so you probably.
Don't know all the executives? Blaze's eyebrows rose.
That girl is an executive. What's she doing down here at a
staff party? Shouldn't she be upstairs with
the rest of them? More guesses that much like the
boss. She goes where she wants, and
currently that seems to be wherever the boss is taking her.
Goyal go Ford elbowing crab in the ribs.
But who is she? Blaise asked.
No one the boss should be messing away with, that's for
sure, Crab said. She's trouble, my lad.
Definitely trouble, Goyal added. OOC by Rizzle writes Part 5
Bulletproof At some point, Hermione realised she was being
LED rather than leading. She wasn't sure when they
swapped roles, but she was beginning to suspect that her
choice of tryst partner was perhaps not her smartest
decision. She'd taken the arm he offered
her, holding him around the elbow.
The music, conversation, and laughter grew more distant and
muffled as they walked further away from the staff party.
Here, let me carry that. Before Hermione registered his
intentions, he'd already taken her shoes and champagne bottle
from her. Hermione probably looked like a
drunk party girl, stumbling barefoot, holding her booze and
shoes. Bulletproof carrying these same
items managed to look like James Bond on a regular night.
He took several long swallows of champagne and then sucked his
lips into his mouth. When he was done.
Hermione felt a warm flush start at her face and then bloomed
down to her chest and was proud of herself that the next words
out of her mouth were so sensible.
Where are we? Going.
She could barely make out his face in the darkness, so her
brain automatically filled in the hollows and shadows based on
her recent memory of what he looked like.
You requested a private conference I'm going to find as
a suitable venue to have that conference.
Hermione tried to understand why she felt so agitated around this
man. She suspected it had something
to do with their power dynamic. All her life, she was used to
people acting a certain way around her just because she was
Anthony Granger's kid. In contrast, Bulletproof treated
her like the aforementioned drunk party girl who needed him
to take charge, even though she was the one who propositioned
him in the 1st place. Also, his attitude towards her
didn't indicate he was in the throes of lust.
The man genuinely looked like he was going to a bloody meeting.
It was doing things to Hermione's ego to receive no
positive feedback, no hint of anticipation.
She dragged her feet a little, wanting to get her bearings and
establish more control over the situation.
They arrived at the elevators. Do you have your phone on you?
He asked. Yes, call the people you came
here with and tell them where you are and how long you'll be.
A sharp excuse me was on the tip of her tongue.
There wasn't a hint of a question like at the end of that
sentence. It was an order, not a request.
She continued to stand there, frowning at him.
He was unperturbed, and perhaps even a little amused.
I have all the time in the world, but I'm given to believe
you have 30 to 45 minutes. Hermione rolled her eyes, opened
her clutch, and took out her phone.
A sassy retort was poised on the tip of her tongue, but then she
was momentarily blinded by the backlit home screen of her own
phone. Muttering under her breath, she
typed out a quick message to her bodyguards and then put her
phone back on silent mode. There, happy.
He surprised her by smiling, and Hermione was rooted to the
ground, unable to move or think when his hand lifted and touched
her chin, thumb rubbing light along her bottom lip.
Yes, thank you. God help her.
Prior to that evening, she didn't think she had a praise
kink. That didn't even count as
praise, and already she turned into a simpering, blushing
nitwit. This night was not turning out
how she planned. Bing.
Her mind didn't even recall him pressing the elevator button,
but he must have because it was there now.
They got in and he reached for her wrist.
She assumed he was going to hold her hand and her heart started
hammering again. But then she saw that he only
needed her wrist security tag in order to press the button for
level 7. Guests could only access floors
in the hotel if they had authorisation, and as a member
of the GG host party, Hermione could technically get to any
floor she wanted. What followed felt like the
longest ride ever. The lighting was much brighter
inside the elevator, so Hermione took the opportunity to get a
better look at the man she propositioned.
Her original assessment regarding his age was correct.
Early 30s most likely. Actually, now that she had a
better look, Hermione had some concerns.
Take the suit for example. Also the cufflinks and the
wristwatch. She was trained to notice
details and these ones stood out.
It was normal for successful gangsters to have money or
pretend to have it and advertise that fact.
The same applied to their underlings who were expected to
reflect the company brand. Well dressed employers
translated to well dressed employees, but this guy was
expensive all by himself. Hermione couldn't name the
source of the suit, but it was high end.
The watch and the cufflinks were deceptively simple, but Hermione
knew about diamonds and those cufflinks could fund an East
African coup. Bing.
When they arrived at their destination, Hermione understood
why he selected it. The floor was deserted and
silent, closed off by the hotel when not in use.
This way, he said, and then tucked her shoes and champagne
bottle under one arm and reached for her hand again.
This time he really did hold it. His hand was large and warm, and
Hermione was struck by the realisation that she actually
felt safe with a stranger. If she had been.
The one taking charge from the beginning.
There would be a part of her that had to stay Hermione
Granger. She'd have to engineer her own
bad behaviour and attempt to enjoy herself whilst also
maintaining control and responsibility.
Ceding control to bulletproof effectively reduced her burden.
Still, it wasn't something that came naturally to Hermione, nor
did it come naturally to him. She was beginning to learn what
an odd pair they made. The first door he tried was
unlocked. Hermione couldn't help but
notice that he placed her just outside, flat against the
corridor while he had a quick look inside the room.
He'd been just as vigilant when they got out of the elevator
earlier. These were classic bodyguard
moves, but his attire and demeanour did not match up.
He had to be some kind of security manager, possibly.
It didn't take an MBA to tell that the man was used to calling
the shots in whatever type of work he did for black ink.
Hermione wondered if she was overthinking things, as was her
way. But don't look a gift horse in
the mouth and all that. He'd brought her to a conference
room. The rectangular room was taken
up by a long Oval table that could seat 20 people, though
there were currently only two chairs, one of which was wrapped
in plastic. There was no need to turn on the
lights, thanks to the abundance of St. and city lights spilling
through the floor to ceiling windows on the opposite wall.
And thank goodness for this, because as much as Hermione
wanted to touch, feel and see, she wasn't too keen on getting
undressed under unflattering office lighting.
Under her bare feet was soft, thick carpet and the gentle
drone of the air conditioning was audible due to the
pronounced silence. It was cool and comfortable
despite the humidity outside. The view from her window was
nothing special because that side of the hotel faced another,
taller building. But it was still a lovely summer
night in Paris, and everything was bathed in flickering dappled
gold, with the occasional flare of red from a distant emergency
vehicle. This was thrilling, yes, but it
was also nice. Bulletproof walked over to the
conference table and set down her shoes and champagne.
He made a show of wiping non existent dust from the surface
and sat on the edge, ankles folded at the end of his long
legs. One of his hands rested on top
of his thigh. Hermione wanted to test the
resilience of those thighs for herself to feel the contours of
his muscles under that spectacular suit.
The silence was longer than necessary and Hermione wondered
if he was doing it on purpose. It was a common strategy to
discombobulate and exert dominance.
The first person to speak loses. She didn't enjoy losing, so she
walked around the table and went to the window, placing her palm
on the cool glass. It didn't take long.
Hermione couldn't suppress the full body shiver when she felt
him approach and wrap his arms around her.
From behind, she could see his face reflected in the window.
His eyes looked darker now, not the fae silver grey from before.
She could smell his Cologne in the warm hollow of his neck.
Here was that strange, surprising feeling again.
Hermione thought she would feel crowded by his domineering
personality and physical encroachment, but there was a
sense of safety and security being held in his arms in this
dark, unfamiliar place. It was a feeling she could get
used to. So will this do?
Hermione felt his voice through his chest.
He would have to break his hold on her for her to turn around
and face him, and she didn't want that to happen.
So she simply let her head fall back until she was looking at
him upside down. For what?
He bent down to brush his lips between her brows, and
Hermione's eyelids fluttered for a moment.
Is this room suitable for, what did you call it personally
welcoming black ink to the Order?
Part of her itched to tell him he wasn't nearly important
enough to represent black ink for anything of the sort, but
just in case he was a sensitive arsehole, she didn't want to
risk offending him. There was no time to soothe
fragile egos, as pleasant as their banter was.
Hermione was on the clock. She spoke to his reflection.
I brought you here to fuck you. If that's not what you want,
please let me know now and I'll see if your friend is available.
What was his name again? Blaze, Blaze Zabini, he said,
and then scoffed. No way in hell I'm letting you
anywhere near that poor boy. Jealous.
She teased. She actually meant jealous of
her forgetting to debauch his precious friend.
Yes, actually, He said, surprising her.
His expression in the window made her face warm.
I thought of you. Walking away with him or anyone
else tonight would have been very annoying.
His right hand splayed across her stomach, big enough that he
nearly spanned it between his thumb and smallest finger.
The hold could hardly be described as erotic, and yet he
might as well already be touching her between her legs,
which Hermione squeezed together now to help relieve the ache.
His left hand, meanwhile, was trying to give her heart
palpitations. It dragged down the right
shoulder of her dress. The neckline was now lopsided,
bearing her collarbone. He cooked her chin and turned
her head to the side so he could press slow, hot kisses along the
side of her neck. Hermione's mind turned to mush.
Can, can we get on with it? Only I have somewhere I need to
be soon. Ah, about.
That. He was sucking on her earlobe,
speaking around the small morsel of flesh.
I don't fuck on the first date. What?
But this, this isn't a date. One of his hands was on her
backside, cupping and kneading. Don't worry, brat, that problem
is easily solved. Another hand.
How many hands was that now slowly dragged up the hem of her
dress, The tight tactile material rolled easily when it
was gathered around the tops of her legs, only just covering her
underwear. He placed a palm against her
thigh. You are so soft.
He sounded the teeniest bit gone.
Both his hands were now bracketing her hips, rubbing her
against him such that his hard length fits snugly between the
cleft of her backside. Her dress rowed up higher and
higher, dragged upwards by the steady grind and roll of his
hips. Hermione turned her head to kiss
him, but he pulled away. Any negative thoughts or
feelings on the matter were waylaid when he slid a hand over
the front of her now exposed knickers.
All he did was press down on her sensitive flesh, a single layer
of damp fabric between his fingers and her skin.
She released a long needy wine, bucking back against him.
His response was to grab her hips and keep her still.
His response was to grab her hips to keep her still and push
her away from his clothed cock. He hissed.
The unexpected shift to French was incredibly hot.
Qua sepat don't rue Don bracer? Hermione asked, breathless.
I don't kiss strangers, Was his gruff reply.
Sir, this is taking hard to get to new and painful levels.
Pun entirely intended. He breathed A shaky laugh into
her hair. Like I said, easily solved.
You asked me some questions earlier.
How about you return the favour and then I'll decide.
He was stroking his fingers up and down her bare arms, making
her goosebumps develop. Goosebumps.
How many questions? Clarification was required
because this man was wily 1035. Hermione sighed.
Fine, 5 questions. The smile he gave her conveyed
his thanks. Her chest felt a little tight
looking at him. He caught her hands and brought
them to his face, kissing the heel of 1 palm, then the tip of
his tongue, tracing wet circles on the inside of her wrists.
Hermione felt him catch the delicate skin of her wrist with
his teeth, pull lightly, and release.
The sound she made was too close to a squawk for her liking.
Why do you chew your nails? To under score the question, he
ran the pad of his thumb over her fingertips.
So much for assuming no one would be paying attention to the
sorry state of her nails that night.
Hermione gave him a withering look.
Is that really your first question?
Yes, unless you want to give me a freebie.
No freebies, sorry, bad for business.
She said in a lofty tone. And I chew them when I'm
thinking, if you must know, it's been a nervous habit since my
GCS ES. For a moment, it looked like he
was actually going to ask her about her damn GCS ES, which
would have been the unsexiest conversation ever, but
thankfully he didn't. Who are you here with tonight?
You. He nipped her earlobe.
Brat, you know what I mean. Hermione shrugged.
It occurred to her that she was having fun.
Not just sexy fun, but regular fun as well.
Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Be more specific.
Permission to withdraw that question, then I'll allow it
very occasionally. Hermione was an idiot.
A good example was the fact that she'd forgotten that she was
entirely able to touch him just as much as he was touching her.
Eager to make up for missed opportunities, she reached her
hands behind her and grabbed his hips, squeezing a couple of
times before sliding down to his oh glorious thighs.
He was just as firm as she'd imagined.
She wanted to peel his pants off and bite him.
The thought was unsettling. Did she have a thigh fetish?
Nothing against fetishes, of course people liked what they
liked, so long as liking what they liked didn't hurt anyone.
Unless pain was the point and both parties were consenting who
were into that sort of thing. Bulletproof tweaked her nose.
I'm not doing my job. If you have enough leftover
focus to overthink, then ruin my focus.
This led to him cupping her breasts.
It was a lot and simultaneously not enough due to her dress and
strapless bra being in the way. Hermione wanted his lovely warm
mouth on her bare skin. God, what would it be like if
they had a whole weekend together instead of less than an
hour fumbling around a dark office?
It was probably for the best that most of their clothes were
still on. Skin on skin contact might set
the room on fire. And the hotel sprinklers.
And then she'd be responsible for getting her father's 5715
EUR 3 tier Genoese birthday cakes.
Oggy, what's your name? He was scrambling her mind.
Her mind took too long to think of a suitable reply.
She didn't want to analyse why she instinctively knew that he'd
be able to spot a lie. Jean, Jean, he repeated under
her ear. Hermione shivered.
I'm going to ask you another question, brat, and if you lie
to me again, I promise you we'll be finished here.
Do you understand, arrogant prick?
You do not want to know who I am.
The next question came before she could retort.
Have you done this before? Something in the way he asked
this made Hermione realised he wasn't referring to her
propositioning him for sex. He was asking her about her
prior sexual experience. Either way, her answer would be
the same. No, everything stopped.
He sighed against her bare shoulder, dropped a kiss there,
and then dragged the neckline back into place.
Just my luck. Hermione could practically feel
him reining in his arousal. No, no, no, no, he was not going
to blue ball her simply because she hadn't taken a cock before.
It wasn't for lack of wanting to.
The reasons were numerous, actually.
She'd been really, really busy since she was 12 years old,
helping her father run the bloody company.
She was constantly surrounded by minders, which made it next to
impossible to even French kiss someone without said person
being in fear for their life. Also, she'd never really met
anyone who was worth the logistical hassle of asking out
on a date, let alone dropping her knickers for them.
Of course, like any other regular young person, she had
needs, and typically satisfied these needs on her own or with
receptive, discreet acquaintances.
But Hermione had no desire to mention any of this to
Bulletproof, and besides, he wasn't entitled to knowing.
She didn't want to give him any more information than was
necessary, so she tried a softer approach, turning to face him
and then sliding her arms around his neck.
There's a first time for everything.
Yes, brat, but yours isn't going to be at my hands bent over a
conference table. Undaunted, Hermione took hold of
one of those hands and rubbed her cheek against the palm.
They're such nice hands. Though.
And without breaking eye contact, she slipped an index
finger past her lips. That nice hand went from relaxed
to rigid in a heartbeat. With his finger still inside her
mouth, he used the rest of his hand to grasp the lower half of
her face, jaw and all. All of this is out of character
for you, isn't it? He gave her captured face a
little squeeze and shake, as if she was a misbehaving puppy.
His grip on her veered dangerously close to being
painful, but Hermione knew precision control when she saw
it. If she had to guess, Bulletproof
probably felt a little annoyed with himself for getting swept
up in her indecent proposal. After all, he was at least a
decade older than her. Maybe this was equally out of
character for him. Hermione assumed the question
was rhetorical, so she didn't reply.
She swallowed the saliva that was gathering at the back of her
mouth and then drew more of his finger in to suck, not taking
her eyes off his. The man looked like he was in
pain. There it was, the pay off at the
end of a calculated risk. Blackjack 21, a royal flush.
Bingo. The rush of victory, of making
this man falter in his control and arrogance was sweet.
So sweet that if nothing else transpired between them that
night, this might also be enough.
Hermione smiled around his wet finger.
How old are you? She popped his digit out of her
mouth so she could answer him. 24 I don't know if I believe
you. Oh, he looked very endearing
when he was suspicious. Hermione shrugged.
It's up to you if you believe me or not.
Who are you trying to piss off tonight, Mummy and Daddy?
Your boyfriend? Did you sneak away from your
babysitters at the party? He reached for her wrist and
tugged lightly at her security bracelet.
Who are you here with? From the Gryffindor group.
What are you, my therapist? Hermione said.
Actually, she understood Bulletproof's caution.
He was smart enough to consider that having consensual sex with
a stranger at Anthony Granger's birthday party might be a bad
idea. There could be an angry father,
brother, or fiance eager to call him out.
Given that Black Ink was the new inductee into the Order, it was
best to keep a low profile and not cause any waves.
He reached for the champagne bottle on the table and took
another long swallow that nearly emptied its contents.
Hermione's gaze automatically went to the defined line of his
jaw and the rhythmic bobbing of his Adam's apple as he drank.
She noticed he wasn't offering her any, and she didn't think it
was because he was in polite. More likely he didn't want her
to become more inebriated. When he was done, he set the
bottle back down, wiped his mouth and proceeded to remove
his jacket. It came off with a smooth swish,
draped now over one of the chairs.
Things were definitely heating up, but ironically, his stare
was giving her hypothermia. Have you sucked cock before?
You've used up all your questions.
Hermione's voice sounded steadier than she felt.
True. He said and then began to undo
the front of his trousers. I suppose I'll find out soon
enough. OOC by Rizzle writes part 6 Drop
and Catch having second thoughts.
Did she really look that nervous?
No, Are you? He'd only unzipped his fly, she
saw, but he left his trousers on.
Hermione realised this was more to go at her into changing her
mind early while he moved to less nerve wracking
preparations. She'd pulled her skirt back
down. By now all she could do was
watch and wait whatever was about to happen next.
Despite his taunting, this did not include changing her mind.
Next to be removed was his tie. He didn't just loosen the knot
enough to slip it over his head, he united it completely.
The sound of silk sliding through the stiff cotton of his
shirt collar was almost obscenely loud in the quiet
room. He tossed the tie over his
jacket and then unfastened the top 2 buttons of his white
shirt. The arsehole looked like he was
undressing for a shower, such was his demeanour.
Hermione wondered if she too could cultivate this level of
not giving a fuck. Was this something that one
honed with age? Still with me?
He asked. To her chagrin, Hermione
realised she must have missed a question, causing him to repeat
himself. Thankful for the darkness that
probably covered some of her blushing, Hermione rolled her
eyes. I'm still here, aren't I?
She made a show of tapping the front of her wrist.
Tick tock, Monsieur. Time's a wasting.
That wrung a smile from him, though it wasn't a reassuring
smile. Her earlier assessment regarding
who was predator and who was prey in this equation was
undergoing A drastic re evaluation.
Bulletproof didn't drop his smile or his gaze as he and
fastened his cufflinks and then attempted to give her an
aneurysm when he rolled up his sleeves.
Pale, firm, muscled forearms were revealed along with Mon
Dieu tattoos. He was inked all the way from an
inch or so above each wrist to where the cuffs or his shirt
sleeves were folded just under his elbows.
At this point, Hermione realized how seriously she'd fucked up.
Her error wasn't that she was here, alone with a man she
didn't know. It was that she was alone with
this man. Never fucking mind.
Every aspect of his body seemed designed to set off horny klaxon
alarms in her brain. No employee of the Syndicate's
executive, and this included their staff, was permitted to
have highly visible distinguishing body
modifications. Tattoos were not uncommon in the
criminal underground, but they were less common in the order
and downright rare in the upper echelons where 80% of their
member organization enterprises were legitimate and law abiding.
This rule had nothing to do with a conservative mindset and
everything to do with giving the authorities an advantage when it
came to identifying members of their orders respective
organisations. Top on the list of prohibitions
were tattoos, body piercings and dyed hair in colours that could
not pass off as natural, while bad decision tattoos featured
your lover's name inside a flaming, bleeding, broken heart.
Cockshaw had something like this on his bicep, could be
overlooked, there was no way 2 full sleeves could pass HR's
stringent checks. Bulletproof's left arm bore the
most extensive set based on what Hermione could see.
And dear God, she wanted to see more, wanted to unwrap him like
a gifted work of art. It was too dark to make out the
finer details, but the main design on his left arm was a
skull with a snake emerging from its mouth.
The snake's body was twisted into and through what looked
like an Infinity symbol. The rest of his arm was taken up
with an assortment of designs, some intricate and fine, some
bold and geometric block work. There was an eldritch looking
tree with a bent, twisted trunk, like something from a children's
classical fairy tale anthology. Gnarled bare branches emerged
from the top of the tree and the roots from the bottom.
The limbs wrapped around his arms several times, some of them
meeting and intertwining. When he flexed his forearms, it
looked like the tree limbs were alive as they undulated and
writhed. There was a symbol in the middle
of the trunk looking vaguely familiar.
It was a circle encased within a bisected triangle.
If his left arm was an assortment, then his right arm
was a dedication. There was a single intricate,
boldly coloured dragon wrapped around the arm, it's tail ending
in a few inches above his left wrist.
This probably meant that the Dragon's head began on his
shoulder or back. What was alarming was that this
looks like an excellent example of irizumi, a style typically
seen on Yakuza. Of course, any Jack or Jill on
the street could request the style and the end result might
be pretty, but it would have no greater significance apart from
its aesthetic value. For this to be seen on a non
Japanese gangster, well, it was bold, provocative, potentially
offensive even. Who the hell are you,
Bulletproof. He was watching her watch him.
It might be her imagination, but Hermione thought he looked just
a tad relieved. Because why?
Because she hadn't run away screeching.
Come here. His voice didn't even register
as human speech to Hermione at this point.
It sounded like a low purr, or maybe her hearing was affected
by all the blood rushing to her face.
She went to him. Jesus, was she so pent up that
her body seemed to have a mind of its own over ruling all the
red flags Now standing between his legs, Bulletproof cupped her
face, thumb stroking along her cheekbone.
His gaze dropped down to her lips, and for a moment she
thought he would kiss her. But he didn't.
Hermione felt dazed, spellbound, pinned in place like a butterfly
on a board. All good?
He asked, still stroking her cheek.
Yes, she said. Down you go, then.
She felt her slapping hand twinge.
Unfortunately, kneeling before a standing man was not her style.
Besides, there was a perfectly serviceable chair in the corner.
On the occasions Hermione gave head, it was always in a
reclining position or across the back seat of a spacious limo.
So she just stood there, impatient and keyed up, torn
between desire and compromise. Hermione could be forgiven for
assuming he was almost bored if it wasn't for the full, thick
cock he pulled out from opening in his trousers.
It felt like all the oxygen in the room had been steadily
diminishing, and the effects were only noticeable now.
Bulletproof was not small. He might even be the largest
she'd ever handled. The bottom of his shirt covered
his abdomen and Hermione wanted to lift it up and see him to
place her hands on there and feel what she suspected was
impressive muscle definition. This is what you came for, isn't
it? He said as he languidly stroked
his cock. The arrogant son of a bitch
didn't even phrase that as a question so she didn't reply.
Also, she was distracted thinking about how he would feel
in her hands and mouth. Thick, warm, tactile velvet with
just the right amount of gift. You make such beautiful sounds
for me, but I'm going to need your words as well, Yes.
She said, her voice high and thin.
I mean, yes, that's why I'm here.
Good. Oh God, what the hell was his
tone of voice now? It was completely different to
previous condescending one. Now he sounded indulgent.
He wasn't looking bored anymore either.
So then get on your knees for me and I'll give you what you want.
Hermione obeyed. There was no better word for it.
She folded like a deck chair. As she got into position, she
caught sight of the tail end of the tattoo that creeped into the
crease of the top of his thigh, just under the left side of his
V line. It was a tail, or rather, tail
feathers. There was a hint of a raptor's
claw foot behind his hip. Clearly his tattoos were not
confined to his arms. The urge to see him, all of him,
was overwhelming. But first she was going to taste
him. She was just about to reach for
his cock when he slipped his free hand under her jaw,
stroking under her chin as if she were a cat.
Then he turned his hand over and slid 2 fingers into her mouth.
Hermione's initial surprise turned into bone melting arousal
when he pushed his fingers down on her tongue.
You should. See yourself right now.
His head was tilted to the side, an almost reverent smile on his
face as he pressed down on the tongue.
No, don't suck. Keep that mouth loose and open
for me. That's it.
Hermione let her lower jaw fall slack.
His fingers slid back and forth along her tongue, gradually
going in until his knuckles grazed her nose.
Her eyes were watering, mascara undoubtedly smudged.
The hand fisting his cock began to pick up speed.
He released the pressure from the top of her tongue, now
twisted his fingers in her mouth until they were facing upwards
and caressing her palate. The moan that escaped her felt
and sounded like it came from someone else.
Hermione didn't recognise her own body at this point, not in
her wildest imaginings did she ever consider the roof of her
mouth to be anything other than ticklish.
His hand moved again, this time his fingers slid down to catch
her bottom lip, his top knuckles grazing her gums and the base of
her teeth as he squeezed and rubbed at her lip between his
thumb and index finger. He startled the hell out of her
by suddenly bending down and pulling her captured lips into
his mouth. He was there and gone before she
realized. Not really a kiss, but rather a
quick bruising suck. Hermione soothed her abused lip
with her tongue. Bullet proof groaned and the
momentarily closed his eyes, providing Hermione with some
respite from his glacial stare. I did say I wasn't going to fuck
you, didn't I? I like to keep my promises,
brat, but you're making this so damn difficult.
That was much better, Hermione thought, pleased.
Finally, some feedback. Holding her by the chin, he
rubbed the shiny head of his cock against her lips, and
Hermione was helpless to contain the desperate sound she made as
she darted her head forward to taste him.
Only her mouth never reached him.
His hand on her jaw kept her head firmly in place.
This left her face a mere inch away from his leaking cock, her
lips parted and slick. Look at you.
He breathed, like a green stem bending towards the light.
Hermione had no idea what expression she was making as she
looked up at him, but she saw something shift in his eyes.
Even in the darkness, through her bleary, tear logged vision,
she saw his eyes soften. Yes.
He said, releasing her jaw, stroking the places where his
fingers had squeezed seconds earlier.
Yes, I can work with this. It sounded like he was talking
to himself. He sat back against the table,
resting his hands on the surface on either side of his hips.
A look passed between them, and Hermione knew she had permission
to proceed. With a hungry groan, she grasped
him in both hands and was rewarded with a twitch from his
cock. He smelled more strongly of
himself here, of Musk and the underlying scent of soap or body
wash or whatever it was he used in a recent shower.
It was annoying, having to work on him through the gap in his
fly, but beggars could not be choosers.
She nuzzled at his hot, tight flesh, rubbing her cheek against
him as her hands stroked and squeezed, learning her way
around his length. It felt terribly scandalous to
be doing this to someone whose name she hadn't even asked for
and didn't care to know, but it was also incredibly liberating.
This was safe stress relief, a disposable encounter.
Though not as vocal as Hermione, he made the most delicious sound
when she ran her thumb over his slit, smearing the slippery
Sheen gathered there. Her intention was to toy with
him as he had with her. To eke back some control.
She prodded at his slit with the tip of her tongue, just for a
taste, but once she got that taste, her resolve evaporated.
Hermione wrapped her mouth around the head and then
promptly lost all sense of reason and time.
He might as well have been a disembodied cock.
She was salivating like crazy. No doubt his earlier manhandling
of her mouth was a contributing factor.
After lavishing attention on the head, she licked him all around,
bathing him with her tongue from tip to base.
She couldn't see his face, didn't think it was safe to look
at him, not yet. But she could see his hands.
They were white knuckling the edge of the table.
A bit of trial and error was required to work out how much of
him Hermione could comfortably fit in her mouth.
Once that was determined, she detoured to the underside of his
cock, lifting him so she could suck the looser skin around the
base while she reached inside his pants to cup him.
On her way back up to the top, she traced a tight vein with the
tip of her tongue. Another sound escaped him,
higher and more desperate. This was a sound that had broken
through his control. His hands, which previously
remained by his side, now sunk into her hair.
He pulled out the pins that kept her bun in place, gently
untangling her long brown hair so it tumbled down her
shoulders. Lovely, he whispered.
Hermione paused to catch her breath.
She looked up at him now as he gathered some of her hair in his
hands. His eyes were dark and hooded.
You're doing so well. The simple praise shot straight
to her core. But I think you can take more.
Tightening the grip on her hair, he tilted her head up and
slightly to the left. This was followed by an
adjustment to the angle of his hips.
Although the change seemed minimal, the effect was
undeniable. Somehow, more of him slipped
past her lips, singing further into her mouth, grazing the back
of her throat. She was going to gag.
She was. Flatten your tongue.
He hissed. Yes, yes, that's it.
His fingers massaged her scalp. Breathe through your nose.
He began alternating between short, stabbing thrusts and the
occasional long, deep slide. Hermione did her best to
maintain a tight suction seal with her lips when he went in
deep. He was quick to pull out before
she gagged. She wasn't the only one learning
patterns. Bulletproof found her limits,
and then he tested them. One particularly brutal thrust
had her scowling at him. That's better, keep your eyes on
me. He looked utterly debauched,
eyes smouldering, arms extended in front of him as he held her
head and fucked into it. Swallow as I bottom out.
He instructed through gritted teeth.
Ah yes, like that. Fuck.
Hermione's head was spinning. All the thoughts of the terrible
day, her father's betrayal, her cousin's nonchalance faded away.
Life was simpler like this. There was only his voice, the
surety of him, his scent, his taste.
His hands. The hinges of her jaw were
protesting in earnest. Her hands fisted the front of
his shirt. You don't actually want it easy
though, do you? No, not a girl like you.
Easy is boring. Her lips felt swollen and raw.
Drool was running down the sides of her mouth and down her chin.
Hermione could feel the building tension in his body stop at any
time. Really.
How novel. No, she would not stop.
He would be the one to finish first, even if it bloody killed
her. Hermione had seeded enough
ground already. She glared up at him, mouth wide
around his cock as he fucked into her pliant throat.
His hands gripped her hair. Hard.
Brat. He breathed out, the pace of his
thrusts increased. If I keep this up, I'm going to
finish. Hermione's unfaltering stare
spelled out her response. If you make me cum like this.
He paused for a moment, hissing as his hips broke rhythm.
You're going to take whatever I give you, all of it, every drop.
If you can't do that, then stop now and then.
It was almost as if he didn't trust himself to allow other
choice. He released her head and
returned his hands to the table. She had free reign to do as she
wanted. What a mine he wanted to do was
win so she didn't let up for a second.
Ay. He said gasping.
This was her first warning. The stuttering of his hips was
the second his eyelids fell shut.
He dropped his head back and released the sexiest, softest
whimper as he spilled down her throat in tight, shuddering
spasms. When he bit his bottom lip,
Hermione's brain temporarily stopped working.
Nevertheless, she tried her best to commit the entire scene to
memory so she could take it out and examine it in detail over
and over again. The taste of him was hot and
bitter. She took it all as directed and
then pumped his cock once, twice, three times, summoning
every last drop of spend. Only when he hissed from
oversensitivity did she sit back on her heels and wait for him to
look at her. His eyes blinked open, chest
rising and falling as he stared down at her, transfixed.
Hermione was pretty sure she was wearing a similar expression.
Knowing this made her feel a funny sort of way.
Fuck, he said again. Hermione thought they'd have a
minute to catch her breath, but maybe he was mindful of their
limited time together because he picked her up and brought her
over to the window. She wished he'd stopped carrying
her around like a bloody department store mannequin.
Bulletproof placed her in front of him as they looked out at the
Parisian skyline against her back.
Hermione felt his heart thrumming in his chest.
The rate was fast but gradually slowed down in time with his
breathing. He was already refastening his
pants. His chin rested on her head and
one arm held her around the middle.
She looked at his reflection in the window and saw that he was
watching her with needling intensity.
She knew this look. This was a problem solving look.
Hermione was suddenly very glad they weren't in a bedroom.
That would have been too intimate.
He broke their shared gaze first, rubbing his nose in her
hair. She felt intense for a moment
before turning his head away to sneeze.
Good Lord, was it possible to find a sneeze cute?
I don't think I've heard anyone actually say a chew when they
sneeze. Hermione's voice was hoarse.
It was a good thing she wasn't expected to deliver any speeches
later that night. I can't help the way I sneeze.
He replied, wriggling his nose. Speaking those speeches.
Hermione grabbed his wrist and read the time on his watch.
I have to be back at the party in 18 minutes.
Noted said bulletproof against her hair.
One hand began hiking up her dress until it was bunched
around her hips. I can do a lot in 18 minutes.
The sentence wasn't even finished before he dropped to
his knees. Hermione turned around until her
back was pressed against the window.
The glass felt smooth and cool on her feverish, clammy skin.
He tugged her knickers down, and Hermione's horny autopilot
kicked in as she stepped out of them.
For some reason, intrusive thoughts picked this precise
moment to plague her. Hermione thought about her
father and the news that she was not selected to lead the
Gryffindor group simply because she was a woman.
She recalled Narcissa Black's depressing advice about the
reality of trying to lead in their respective organisations
as women. She wondered if she was really
so feeble, so invisible. What more did she need to do to
prove herself? The buzz of the champagne and
the earlier surge of adrenaline was probably wearing off, too.
Bulletproof was drawing circles over her hip bones with his
thumbs. He dropped a kiss under her
belly button, sucking at the soft curve of flesh there.
She looked down at him, feeling something akin to grief.
It made her angry. There was more than enough in
front of her to keep her anchored to the moment.
He was more than enough. Hermione closed her eyes and
sought a more tactile tether by sinking her fingers into his
hair, eager to know if it was as soft as it looked.
It wasn't, but this was because he'd applied some product to it.
It was longer in the front, short in the back with a very
slight cow lick. She wondered what it would be
like to put her hands in his freshly washed and dried hair.
Would it be fluffy? What did he look like when his
bangs hung down over his bright eyes?
What did he look like under the sun?
She pictured him sleeping, his face relaxed, and in the privacy
of her mind, she saw her own hand entering that scene,
tucking his bright hair behind his ear.
The image unsettled her so much that she shoved at it with her
mind. The spell was broken and
Hermione was once again confronted with the reality that
awaited her outside the current bubble.
Bulletproof was in the process of lifting one of her legs and
draping it over his right shoulder.
He placed a dry, chased kiss on the inside of her knee and then
a slightly lest chased kiss on the inside of her thigh, sucking
at a sensitive spot until Hermione was sure he left a
mark. For the first time since she
entered that room, she actually felt genuinely uncertain.
Hermione said, hands tensing against the window ledge.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to bring her focus back to
the moment. He was in his own world, and
hadn't she much the same earlier when it had been her turn to
kneel before him. I can't stop looking at you.
He whispered, staring at her most intimate place.
All this and no one has had you yet.
He blew lightly over the sodden exposed core, causing Hermione
to flinch. She tried to inject some levity
into the heavy moment, even though her mind was a swirling
mess of worries about tomorrow, the next week, the next month,
her future. Who has the time or the bother?
If you were mine, I'd be bothered to make the time.
He said, and then he gave her a little kitten lick.
The glass against Hermione's back wasn't so pleasant anymore.
It was cold and hard. Anxiety began to sour her
arousal. Hermione wanted to put her legs
back together again. She wanted his warm, secure hold
from before. Wait, it was times like this
when it was helpful to know a person's name.
Can we not do it here? In front of the window, in full
view of the street and anyone who happened to be looking from
an opposite building? Why not here?
I want all Paris to see how beautiful you are.
He looked up at her, a smirk on his lips, but it was immediately
replaced with a frown when he saw her face.
God help her, if he asked her if she was all right, she might
actually cry. For a moment it seemed like he
was going to continue, but then he stood and, as per his
annoying habit, picked her up again.
Hermione found she didn't mind so much at the moment.
What are you doing? She protested weakly, swatting
at his shoulder. We only have.
He set her down on the table and covered her mouth, dropping his
forehead against hers. Please don't tell me how much
time we have left. I feel like I'm being billed in
six minute increments. This almost wrung a laugh out of
her. That number seemed oddly
specific. He slipped off his shoes and
hopped on the table, sat cross legged in the middle of it, and
patted his lap. Climb up.
She gave him a look. I'm not sitting on the floor
with you. Climb up and we can at least
enjoy the view from the window. Hermione hesitated for a moment,
but then crawled up onto the table and settled in his lap,
her arms wrapped around her knees, tight and tense.
She noticed he wasn't embracing her yet and thought he might be
providing her with some space for the moment while still
affording her the security of his lap.
Comfortable. He asked.
She nodded. You didn't want me to touch you
just now. He played with the ends of her
hair, tugging at the spring gear curls.
Hermione almost apologised before she remembered she had
nothing to be sorry about. It was a bad habit she tried to
stamp out among her female employees.
I was. I was all overwhelmed.
It hasn't been a good day. Why, What happened?
She turned to look at him, which was a mistake, because his mouth
was right there, and the soft way he was looking at her made
her feel warm and as a consequence, wary.
Do you actually care to know? A shrug.
You're right, I don't care because I don't know you well
enough to care. But I'm interested, of course.
What he meant to say was that he was interested in her bad day,
not interested in her. The man was blunt to a fault.
She liked that something I've been working towards for a very
long time was taken away from me unfairly.
Her smile was small and sharp. Does it matter, given what we
do? Not really, but a bit of
righteous indignation can be an effective motivating factor.
His right hand rested on her kneecap, warm fingers stroking
for a minute or so, and when she didn't protest, he slipped them
between her closed knees and gently tipped her legs open.
Motivating factor, too. Hermione's breath caught as she
felt his hand on her inner thigh, fingers making light,
wispy passes against her skin. To do what?
To take it back. He pushed the heavy curtain of
her hair aside to expose her neck, which he kissed, and then
pressed his lips into the dip under her ear.
A chill ran through Hermione, A prickling that started at her
scalp and rushed down to her toes.
You're the second person to tell me that today.
He was sucking on her neck now, her poor dress back up around
her waist. Hermione suspected it was
wrecked beyond salvaging. No amount of expert dry cleaning
was going to be enough. It probably needed a museum
grade restoration. Sounds like good advice to me.
His hand was inside her knickers.
There wasn't time for teasing. Light barely their touches
anymore, He went straight for her clit, as if invisible
strings were cut. Hermione gasped and flopped back
against him. Oh.
She was already so worked up that when he slipped a long
finger inside her, she squirmed in protest, grabbed his hand and
placed it back where she needed him to touch her.
He smiled against her cheek. Please, I know I'll take care of
you. Oh God, you only let me inside
for a second, brat, but bloody hell, you are so hot, so tight.
The sound of his fingers as he rubbed her was lewd, so wet.
He varied his strokes, but once he learned what she liked, he
didn't deviate. It was precise, unrelenting, and
so beautifully consistent, but Hermione could probably count
down to her inevitable orgasm. Oh fuck.
She groaned out, head lolling. He peppered kisses all over her
cheek and temple. Oh, I love to fuck you,
Princess. He was hard again, she could
feel him. You're a PrettyLittleThing, but
you look even more beautiful crying on my cock.
Every syllable he uttered felt like it was working in tandem
with his fingers. You have no idea how close I am
to throwing you over this table, flipping up that cock, teasing
dress, and fucking you so well you won't be walking back to
that party tonight. He sucked on her earlobe for a
bit and then said into her ear. You know what the best part
would be? I'd be doing it Roar.
Because I don't have a condom on me.
Hadn't a clue I'd run into Someone Like You.
Almost didn't come to this damn party.
Hermione was shaking, her thighs were quivering.
She didn't think she had ever quivered in her life.
This was something that only happened to jellies and
excitable bodice Ripper heroines.
Her feet were trying to bend into impossible 90° arches on
either side of his lap. Is the drop insight?
He whispered. Are you nearly there?
She was going to die. Even his phrasing was sexy.
She gasped out, running headlong into total loss of control.
This whole time she thought she wanted to inflict this feeling
on someone else. When all along, what she really
wanted was to feel it for herself.
Then take it. Take what you need.
The sincere urgency in his voice raised her intimacy hackles
again. No shame, no guilt, no regrets.
That's what you came here to do, isn't it?
That's why you picked me, To make you come so hard you forgot
everything else. He called it a drop, and it was
exactly that. When she was 9, Hermione rode a
roller coaster at Tokyo Disneyland.
The memory seemed somewhat relevant now because Cormac had
been with her that summer when they shared the same nanny.
Although they were the same age, he was shorter than Hermione and
almost too little for the ride. She told him to stand on her
foot in order to add a couple of extra inches.
It worked. There was a photo from that day
in an album in a box somewhere in either Grainger or the
Mclagan household. It showed Hermione staring
directly at the station camera with a challenging, gleeful
expression as the ride tipped over a peak.
Cormac, meanwhile, was screaming, crying and clutching
at her. Hermione had her arms wrapped
tightly around him. The day was proof that it was
possible for the two of them to get along, if only in the most
extreme of circumstances. An article Hermione once read
said that the most thrilling part of a roller coaster ride,
according to a study, was not the drop or the loop de loops as
most people assumed. It was actually the moment you
sat down, strapped in, and started the ride.
It was the ascent, the build up and anticipation.
Her brief time with this man was the most thrilling ascent of her
life, so it followed that when the drop came, it wrecked her.
Her orgasm was shattering, rippling through her body,
doubling back to repeat in waves until she was a floppy,
unintelligible mess. She wanted to tell him he could
stop touching her because his hand was still moving, albeit
very gently. She'd inadvertently trapped him
against her when her legs clamped shut.
Even as her breathing slowed, the pace and pressure of his
stroking fingers increased. No, OK, stop, she mumbled,
demonstrating her masterful command of the English language.
One more Was he mad? Was he trying to kill her?
Was he the world's most unorthodox assassin?
I can't. Yes, you can.
Come on, Princess. He kissed her sweaty forehead,
where baby curls curled flat under her hairline.
Give me another. It might have been a clue to his
gentle, relentless touching, but Hermione felt like her first
climax wasn't actually over, that another peak could be
coaxed from the current through too much.
It was too much, too scary. His hand tightened around her.
Feel this, I'm here, I'll catch you.
Her mining tasted salt. Her eyes were burning, her
throat was raw, her fingernails were digging into his forearms.
Promise, she sobbed. I promise, he whispered against
her cheek. This time the drop was at
terminal velocity, but that was OK because he said he'd catch
her and she believed him. Hermione was so anxious about
the fall when what she really needed to worry about was the
fucking landing. She didn't just shed a few
pretty tears, she bawled. After a few mortifying minutes
of this, during which she kept her wet red face buried in his
chest as you gently stroked her back, Hermione felt human again.
Truth be told, she was starting to feel a little sorry for
bullet proof. He'd probably expected a hassle
free romp, but ended up with an emotional basket case.
In the commotion, one of his bangs had dislodged from the
rest of his hair. Too wobbly to suppress her
instincts, Hermione reached up to took it back in place and was
startled when he flinched. In fact, he looked angry.
She blinked up at him. What?
She asked in a hoarse voice. What the hell are you doing
wandering around the hotel by yourself looking for someone to
fuck? His reprimanding tone confused
her. That was kind of the point.
You could have fallen into the wrong hands.
But I fell into the right hands, didn't I?
Bullet proof did not appreciate her attempt at humour.
Hermione climbed off his lap before any further awkwardness
occurred. I'm making a mess of your
trousers. She muttered.
It was true, he'd have to clean up before returning to the staff
party. The image of him crouching under
a hair dryer in the restroom to dry the front of his trousers
was very amusing. He'd be out of luck if it was
one of those Dyson air blades. They were silent as they did
their best to clean up and put their clothing back to rights
again. It was unpleasant when she
slipped her knickers back on and she'd have to endure it or try
and slip away to her sweet to fetch a fresh pair.
She didn't bother trying to scour the carpet for her
hairpins. When he was done with his
sleeves and tie, he put his shoes on, but not his jacket.
Hermione sat in a chair trying to tie her shoe ribbons around
her ankles. Her fingers were clumsier than
usual. The silk was slippery and the
black colour melted into the darkness, making it hard to see
what she was doing. After three unsuccessful
attempts, Bulletproof crouched down beside her.
Let me. Every swipe of his fingers
against her skin sparked little tingles of awareness.
It was another odd, unnecessarily intimate moment.
Or perhaps it was just her skewed perception of what
constituted intimacy. In any case, he worked quickly
and when he was done, produced 2 perfect plump bows.
Well, those look even better than when I tied them.
Hermione praised. It occurred to her that she felt
OK, better, good. Even the shite heavy, bitter
feeling she had carried there was gone.
There was a hollowness, but it wasn't as all consuming as it
had been at the start of the night, and it looked like the
night wasn't done with its surprises yet.
At some point, between tying ribbons and overthinking, she
was pretty sure Bulletproof had decided he was going to kiss
her. He was taking forever, though,
and every second their mouths weren't touching was torture.
Of course, Hermione could take the initiative and bridge the
gap between them first, but if he wanted to break his no
kissing policy, he'd have to do it himself.
Despite the anticipation, the kiss ended up being surprisingly
tender. This might have been because
they were post nut, or maybe because he actually kissed like
this now. Mine didn't know which
explanation she preferred at first.
It was delicate. Plucking kisses over her lips,
he mapped her mouth first before attempting more creative
approaches. One of his hands held her cheek
while the other hand grasped the armrest of her chair.
His tongue systemically explored every Ridge edge, bump, and
corner, tasting as he went and humming his appreciation when he
found something he liked. She grabbed his face with both
hands, feeling the slight stubble along his cheek and jaw.
The kiss progressed with intensity, becoming more and
more heated and desperate before it plateaued at wet and filthy.
Hermione was shaking, her hands clawing at the material of his
shirt over his chest and biceps. She whimpered into his mouth.
He groaned in response. The sound seemed to jar him and
he pulled away first, panting. He stared at her, his lips red
and shiny, his expression unreadable.
Don't do this any more, he growled.
Don't walk around propositioning men.
She was equally out of breath, her hands still gripping his
shirt like she was worried one of them might float away if she
didn't hold on, but this didn't stop her from raising an
eyebrow. I think you'll find that I'll do
what I want, when I want. His eyes narrowed.
Oops, that was actually the GG executive speaking, not some
anonymous party guest. He'd eventually find out who she
was, but she found herself wishing she could postpone the
inevitable. His hands covered hers over
where she held his shirt, and then he detached her from him.
Hermione swallowed, hating that this simple movement made
something cold and heavy settle at the bottom of her stomach.
Bulletproof was on his feet, somehow managing to look every
bit as aloof and businesslike as she was just trying her best to
be. Come on, brat, let's get you
back. OOC by Rizzle Rights Part 7.
Mischief managed. He held her hand as they left
the meeting room. He kept on holding it in the
elevator until Hermione used her security tag to take them to
level 6. After that, he released her and
they stood together in silence. They were like a couple of
teenagers sneaking home after curfew, trying not to get
busted. The mirror in the elevator told
Hermione that she looked in absolute shambles, but it was
good to know that Bulletproof had not escaped and scathed
either. His colour was up, probably
owing to their speedy departure from Level 7.
She didn't think he was the sort to blush easily, but the thought
did provide some amusement. Besides the wrinkles on his
jacket and trousers, the front of his shirt looked like it had
been pulled and twisted, which was 100% accurate.
There was a faint red mark on his neck, nearly obscured by his
shirt collar, which wouldn't be visible at all if he wore his
jacket. Hermione had no memory of
putting the mark on him, but she was uncharitably pleased to see
it. She was pretty sure that there
were hickeys on her inner thighs, so it felt fair to leave
him with one or two tangible souvenirs as well.
Actually, there was another memento, the dark patch on the
front of his trousers from where she was in his lap.
Hermione felt her ears heat up when she understood why he
hadn't elected to wear his jacket, opting to hold it in
front of him instead. Stop staring at him.
Easier than done. His eyes were downcast, but then
he returned her glance, and Hermione wondered if he'd been
tangled in his own thoughts too, in that fraction of a moment.
Before his stare iced over, his gorgeous eyes were big.
Grey and contemplative, he looked a little vulnerable and a
lot younger. Her own gaze dropped lower to
his mouth, which was a little swollen and kiss stung.
Oh, how had she not noticed his freckles before?
He had far fewer than she did, but they were definitely there,
across the bridge of his nose, probably also on his shoulders,
and Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to try and snap
herself out of it. The pain helped.
She wanted to make a quick pit stop at her suite to freshen up
and fix her hair, but there was no way she could do that while
Bulletproof insisted on escorting her directly back to
the ballroom. Bing.
He took a step away from her as the elevator doors opened.
Hermione was grateful for his direction, because it saved her
the awkwardness of telling him to do it.
They seemed pretty In Sync when it came to that sort of thing,
though she wouldn't put it past him to push boundaries.
He was probably the sort of person to test if a fence was
genuinely electrified rather than take the sign at face
value. Sometimes a person got all silly
after you showed them your tits. Bulletproof hadn't even seen
hers yet, though he did get a close up tour of all her other
bits. So far, no clinginess detected
and no dreaded conversation about exchanging socials or
anything. It probably helped that he was a
little older than Hermione and probably had some experience
with this sort of thing. But then why did Hermione feel a
little sorry for herself? The sorry feeling was similar to
the flutter in her stomach when he smiled, when he really smiled
enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes.
And thaw the sub zero chill that was his stare du jour.
It was a look that said he was amused and pleased in her
company, and that he might like a bit more of the same, thank
you. Only the current fluttery
feeling wasn't the excited, nervous, bubbly kind.
It was all bent out of shape and jerky.
The opening of the elevator doors worked like a kind of
reset button. This was where Hermione and
Bulletproof would go their separate ways.
The door would close behind her. Providing a handy, non
sentimental goodbye, Hermione raised her chin and applied her
well honed fuck with me and find out attitude that had served her
well since preschool. She stepped out into a mostly
deserted foyer, save for the security personnel at the
ballroom doors. And a few guests using the foyer
lounges for a quiet space to talk.
A woman was passed out drunk on one of the sofas.
And Hermione immediately beckoned one of the guards to
take her to what was referred to as the recovery room.
But then Bulletproof was surprised by her getting out of
the elevator as well. Instead of proceeding down to
Level 3, which he was supposed to do.
Brat. Hermione turned around slowly,
fully prepared to disembowel him with just her eyes.
Fortunately for him, he maintained a professional
demeanour. Onlookers might assume they'd
just met in the elevator and were now exchanging names.
Here's my card. Bulletproof held out a dense
matte black business card. If the need ever arises, don't
hesitate to get in touch. It would be unkind of Hermione
to tell him that the likelihood of such a need occurring was
lower than Lotto odds, but she had no reason to reject the
card. Not with eyes on.
Them. So she snatched it from his
fingers and slipped it directly into her clutch without looking
at it. Thank you.
The smile she gave him was straight from the catalog of
facial expressions for busy executives.
It was a pleasure to meet you. He held out his hand for her to
shake. Now there was a definite dip in
his voice, and Hermione had half expected him to try something
cheeky while he shook her hand, but he released it after the
appropriate duration. Enjoy the rest of your evening.
Hermione said, the implied subtext being you can go now.
Oh, I doubt it can get any better from here, Miss.
Yelled a familiar voice. Hermione spun around just in
time to see her bodyguards practically flying at her.
Cockshaw looked livid. The unexpected flurry of
movements startled not just Hermione, but the nearby
security staff settled down. She hissed, but didn't put too
much heat in her scolding because of how guilty she felt
about making them worry. Headstrong immediately got on
the radio to relay news of Hermione's return while Cockshaw
attempted to fill her in. Miss your Fay later?
Hermione interrupted, turning back to Bulletproof, who was no
longer there. She scanned the foyer and when
she couldn't spot him, concluded that he must have taken the
elevator back down. She felt exhausted, much lighter
than she did before, but in need of a quiet moment to herself to
process all that had happened and how she felt about it.
Is everything still running to schedule?
She needed to get back to the party before her continued
absence caused tongs to wag. Yeah, the event team says
there's been no issues. Cockshaw said.
Who was the man you were speaking with just now?
Headstrong asked, lifting his sunglasses to look around the
foyer. I don't think I've seen him
before. That'd be the bloke she was
with, idiot. Cockshaw muttered under his
breath. They both looked like they had
opinions on the matter but were holding their tongues.
Hermione was pleased she still had enough energy to blush.
Give me 20 minutes to powder my nose and then you can tell me
off. The events team were ecstatic to
see her. Contrary to what her guards
reported, there were a few mishaps, though nothing they
weren't able to resolve on their own.
Delegation and distributed leadership were things Hermione
needed to work on in terms of her management style, but she
was getting much better at learning what to let go of and
what needed her detailed attention.
The growing number of staff under her care provided lots of
practice. It was difficult trying to move
through the ballroom without being stopped by guests for a
tipsy chatter or an introduction, but eventually
Hermione and her guards made our way to the front of the
ballroom. There was a pause in the music
as the MC announced what was possibly the highlight of the
evening. The lights dimmed, the drummer
delivered a shimmering drum roll, and then a warm spotlight
illuminated Anthony Granger on stage.
The fedora was a nice touch, Hermione mused.
The band began playing Lee Morgan's The Sidewinder,
featuring Anthony Granger on trumpet.
All this was met with loud whistles and cheers from the
audience. At this point in the night,
people were full drunk and free with their opinions.
Hermione could hear snippets of conversation.
That silver fox has still got it.
You mean he can still get it? I swear the man must have found
the Holy Grail or philosopher's stone or something.
He doesn't fucking age. It's the Granger genes.
They bless anything they touch. Animal, vegetable, mineral.
Have you seen Tony's kid? Can't remember the name Cormac.
No, not Cormac. That's Mclagan's cousin I'm
talking about. What's her name?
You mean Hermione? That's the one pretty girl.
Not much of a rack though. Mind like steel and a
conversation with Irk and kill the hardest of ardons.
Well, both those kids have got Grainger looks.
Curly hair, big eyes, great legs, great skin, very fuckable.
Headstrong materialised beside Hermione and whispered in her
ear. Miss, permission to distribute
special party favours? Hermione was familiar with
Headstrong's euphemisms. She gave him a beady eyed look.
What kind of party favours concussions?
Her lips twitched. Permission denied.
Resume your post. Cockshaw tapped her on the
shoulder, pointing to where the MC was waving at them.
Looks like they're asking you to go backstage.
Hermione told her men to stay put.
She opened a door that led to a sunken sub level behind the
stage. There was no sign of Cormac yet.
Instead, Hermione found Narsissa Black pacing backstage, speaking
on her phone in rapid Japanese. The older woman waved at
Hermione just as the call concluded.
You'd think I'd remember it's 4:00 AM in Tokyo right now.
I just woke up one of my office managers.
Narcissa said, shaking her head. Hermione was used to taking
calls at all hours of the day, but tried not to make a habit of
subjecting others to the same standard.
Your Japanese sounds fluent. It would have to be given I've.
Lived there for. 15 years. She gave Hermione a knowing
look. Please tell me that that at
least is in my file. Otherwise, I recommend you
demand a refund. The candidness of Black Ink's
CEO was really quite remarkable. Hermione was a little in awe,
but was not so far gone that she wasn't cautious.
That fact's definitely in there. I'm more interested in all the
details that aren't. Give it time, my dear.
Give it time. Narcissa flashed Hermione with a
conspiratorial grin and linked arms as they walked toward the
black velvet stage curtains. She peeked through the gap to
look at Anthony. Playing with the band.
Your father is very good. He is.
Hermione agreed. A lot of people don't know he
can play as well as he does. I suppose his musical skills
don't come up much on the negotiation table.
Narcissa mused. I play nothing at all.
Horses are more my speed. Draco played the violin for a
bit when he was a little, but he was always skipping out on
lessons. Drove his instructor mad, Draco.
Hermione repeated, guessing that Narcissa was referring to her
son. You named him after the
Constellation. I did, yes.
Now. Sister looked pleased that
Hermione recognised the reference.
The night sky over Wiltshire is quite something.
I star gazed a lot while I was pregnant with him,
metaphorically and literally. She looked a little less wistful
now and more sad. Can't say it was time well
spent. Another cryptic statement.
Though Narcissa didn't elaborate, Hermione thought that
she might be starting to develop a better understanding of the
other woman. The dragon was another matter
altogether. Hermione had seen a dragon less
than an hour ago, A very beautiful 1 trapped in ink.
A representation of the real dragon who wore his
two-dimensional likeness on his own skin.
Her mind was reeling. She really was the biggest
idiot, which was something, considering the world also
contained Cormac Mclagan. Where is your son this evening?
Hermione asked as casually as possible.
He's supposed to be here, but I haven't seen him all night.
That's rather rude to tell you he's coming and then not show.
Narcissa shrugged a delicate shoulder.
Ah, Draco never makes any promises.
And if you lie to me again, I promise you we'll be finished
here. Do you understand?
That wasn't always true, Hermione mused.
After all the trouble of not wanting to know a single thing
about the man she referred to as bulletproof, it was hilarious
that Hermione was now speaking to the man's mother about him.
Where did he study? Was he in Japan with you when
you lived there? Narcisa nodded.
He completed half his undergrad at Tohuko and then finished up
at the University of Geneva. Good schools?
Hermione commented. I assume he's going into
management at Black Ink. Not quite.
Draco will be our chief legal counsel.
We've been surviving with a small team of junior legal
associates and they're all firecrackers, but we need.
Quite a bit more gunpower now we're part of the order.
So Bulletproof was a lawyer, No, a lot of that banter made more
sense. Permission to withdraw that
question then. I feel like I'm being billed in
six minute increments. The tattoos on the other hand
made no sense, especially for someone in the legal fraternity.
Am I only wanted to look up his LinkedIn profile to know what
firms he worked at prior to making the move back to the UK.
She could ask now, Sissa, but she suspected any further
questions would look suspicious now Sissa had moved on to other
topics anyway. I like your hair like this.
She touched Hermione's hair, which remained down because
there was no time to put it back up.
It's lovely. Bulletproof's voice sounded in
her head, speaking that same simple word.
Lovely. Hermione could almost kick
herself for being so foolish, but she wouldn't, because there
was already plenty of other people itching to do that for
her, whether she deserved it or not.
Now that she wasn't so caught up in her own personal dramas, she
wondered how she had missed spotting the physical
resemblance between Narcissa and Bulletproof.
Of all people in the staff party she could have approached.
What the hell was Draco Malfoy even doing there?
Did he plan to avoid attending Anthony's party all night, or
would he have joined his mother if he hadn't crossed paths with
Hermione? Whatever his reason for putting
his temporary anonymity to good use, Bulletproof wasn't the only
one who could step in a different persona when needed in
that ballroom. Hermione wasn't Princess or brat
or whatever else he called her. She wasn't the girl who cried in
his lap, clutching the front of his shirt like he was a life boy
in churning waters. She was the chief operating
officer of the Gryffindor Group, which itself was a member of the
Order, a centuries old International Criminal syndicate
with assets in 102 countries. Yes, her status was going to
change soon, but not at the minute.
The music stopped. Hermione couldn't recall when
that happened, but the gap in the curtains widened suddenly
and Cormacs took his head through.
There you are, it's time for the speeches.
Hermione was stood between Narcisa and Cormac further back
on the stage while her father took the podium and addressed
his guests. Wait staff snaked through the
crowd to make sure everyone was provided with a freshly filled
glass of champagne for toasting. Thank you for coming this
evening and helping me celebrate my birthday.
Anthony Granger said regarding the sea of faces before him.
He looked down at his left hand where he still wore his wedding
band. My Catherine would have loved to
be here tonight. She didn't think I'd live to 40,
let alone 60. If I make it to 80, many of us
will be watching the next slide show from our wheelchairs while
eating applesauce. There was ruckus laughter from
the audience, the hissing of oxygen tank valves turning on to
assist. Said laughter served as a kind
of macabre applause. I've had a good long run at GG,
and keeping busy probably kept me going after cats.
Passing the family is important. You can't take the shiny things
with you when your time comes. But wherever we go, I like to
think we hang on to the memories, the things that gave
our lives meaning. And if our memories are all we
have, then you don't want those memories to consist mainly of
regrets. My own father used to give me
this piece of advice. Make good friends, good enemies,
good memories, and good decisions.
Didn't make a lick of sense to me until I was much older, when
I learned that sometimes all those things can be 1 and the
same. He paused there, almost for too
long. For a moment, Hermione was
worried Anthony might have lost his train of thought, but then
he appeared to regroup. Tonight, I'd like to announce
what I believe to be a good decision.
I've had a hell of a time serving this company, working
with our dedicated staff and collaborating.
With many of you. There are still members of the
old guard here who remember the early days when it was just me
and Kat sitting on the hangar floor drawing factory plans.
There are a few good-natured jeers from the crowd.
More like Kat did all the work. Someone shouted.
Hermione was pleased to hear it. Catherine Granger was a trained
architect. Her mother's contributions to
Gigi were well worth mentioning in any recounting of the
company's history. Yes, thank you for reminding me
that I possess no useful talents.
Anthony said, chuckling. As Co founder, Cat's legacy is
woven into the very foundations of this enterprise.
From our buildings to our products and services, to our
policies and practices, she's there in our culture.
And of course, the most precious thing she left me is our
daughter, Hermione. Anthony looked behind him on the
stage and smiled at Hermione. But there comes a time when you
need to add to the foundations of something good and make it
better. He let his statement hang in the
air for a moment. Which is why I plan to wind down
my involvement as the head of Gryffindor group.
I'm retiring. The audience predictably
exploded into chatter, booze, and shouted questions.
Anthony held up his hands in a placating gesture.
Now, now, hear me out. My office is ready to receive
all your questions and concerns, but the decision is a personal
one. The company is a handful, a
beast not unlike the great mythical creature it was named
for. I'm not retiring right away.
It will be a gradual exit. Stage left and as you know, we
at GG don't do anything half assed.
I will be leaving this company in good hands.
Hermione tried to relax her grip on the stem of her champagne
glass. The future of the Gryffindor
group is not reliant on my outdated vision.
It is up to new blood now. They are changing so fast, my
friends. The next few decades are going
to bring challenges that US relics cannot even begin to
comprehend. We need foresight, imagination
and courage. Those were the very traits that
created the Order in the 1st place, and I aim to maintain
those standards as we enter a new era.
And so I'd like to introduce my replacement.
Anthony asked Cormac to step forward and provided what
sounded like a bullet point version of Cormac's extremely
limited CV. From where she stood, Hermione
could only see her cousin's profile, but that was enough to
raise concerns. Cormac looked serious, a kind of
serious Hermione had never seen on him before.
In fact, he looked scared. His blue eyes darted about the
ballroom, looking increasingly nervous.
He kept staring at the enormous double doors at the other end.
Hermione's anger took an immediate back seat, replaced
with a prickling sensation running up her spine.
Something strange was going on. The applause wasn't a downpour,
it was a drizzle. Many people in the room only
knew Cormac as Anthony's delinquent Playboy nephew.
Hermione, on the other hand, was a proven source of reliable,
profitable partnerships with the Gryffindor Group.
They had seen her grow up and flourish under the Gryffindor
Group umbrella. She was just as much a products
of the company as she was part of its leadership, and it seemed
like the only time she was mentioned in her father's
statement was as Catherine Granger's child.
The applause petered out when Anthony resumed speaking.
Of course, we will have a proper handover celebration when I
officially stepped down, but in the meantime, you'll be seeing a
lot more of this young man. Anthony clapped A Peaky looking
Cormac on his back and then Cormac returned to Hermione's
side. Hermione had half a mind to drag
her cousin into the wings and slap some answers out of him.
Discreet questioning was not possible at the moment given the
curious expression on Narcissa's face, given the woman was not
blind and had also noticed Cormac's strange behaviour.
What's the matter? Hermione whispered.
Cormac didn't reply, not taking his attention away from the
doors. Now, next order of business is
to officially welcome the newest conditional member to the order.
Anthony said. There was a healthy round of
applause as all eyes turned to Nasus and Malfoy.
It was 13 years ago when I stood on a stage much like this one.
Then it was the Gryffindor group that received a similar welcome.
Tonight, that honour goes to the CEO of Black Ink, Narcissa
Black. Narcissa glided across the stage
like it was her personal catwalk.
After kissing her once on each cheek, Anthony relinquished his
spot behind the podium. If Cormac looked like a nervous
high schooler broadcasting announcements at the morning
assembly, Nasasa Black looked like the school valedictorian
accepting the well deserved fruits of her labour.
Thank you Tony to the crowd. She smiled and said.
I won't take up too much of your time this evening because this
is a party after all and we all have somewhere to be on Monday
morning and depending on which time zone you're returning to,
that's potentially just a few hours away.
There was laughter and a few commiserating boos from the
audience. As you all know, Black Ink is
the newest candidate vying for permanent membership in this
syndicate of like minded organisations.
Over the next 12 months, we'll prove to you that Black Ink will
be a valuable asset to the Order.
Hermione had to admire how Narcissa managed to make it
sound like it was the Order that ought to be grateful for having
black ink join. It was probably due to the
current low level of noise in the ballroom that the sound of
the doors opening was especially audible.
Heads swiveled to look. The doors opened just a
fraction, swishing across thick carpet before closing.
Moments later, Cormac was sweating bullets.
Even Narcissa stopped speaking, but judging by the wide smile on
her face, it wasn't an unwelcome interruption.
From her elevated vantage point, Hermione could now see the
source of said interruption. Making his way through the crowd
towards the stage, Hermione wanted to laugh.
She could have sat on the stage, put her head in her hands, and
laughed until her sides hurt. Not that anything about this was
remotely funny, at least. Cormac seemed to nearly deflate
from relief. Whatever he'd been dreading
could not come to pass. Unfortunately, this just meant
that he was once again watching the doors.
Great companies don't run on their own inertia.
Narcissa continued. I think Tony would be the first
to agree with me on that. We need talent and passion at
the helm. I already have an exceptional
team, but it will now be complemented by a new addition
to our panel of directors. I'd like to introduce you to my
son, Draco Malfoy, Black Ink's newly appointed chief legal
counsel. The room exploded into whispers.
People were openly shocked. In their community, accurate
information was more valuable than uncut diamonds, and clearly
their information on Narcissa Black had been woefully
incomplete. Draco Malfoy didn't use the
steps like a normal person. He simply vaulted up onto the
stage next to his mother and stole her glass of champagne.
Bulletproof has somehow managed to find himself a new pair of
trousers. How resourceful of him.
The new trousers didn't quite match his suit jacket, which he
was now wearing, but they were dark and most people were too
drunk to notice or care at this point.
Every white blonde strand of hair was back in place, and not
a single inch of his tattoos were visible.
He still didn't look entirely respectable, though.
Hermione admitted there was a contained wildness about him.
Malfoy wasn't invited to say anything, but that didn't stop
him. The podium microphone was
perched on a thin, flexible strand.
It was too low for him, so he reached down and bent it
upwards. His amplified voice was just as
ammonia remembered from earlier in the evening, only it was a
little breathier over the audio system.
You have your questions, I'm sure.
He drawled. A sea of annoyed, shocked faces
stared back at him. I apologise for my tardiness,
Mother. He turned his head to smile at
Narcissa, who rolled her eyes. Due to an unexpected last minute
engagement, I'm afraid I have missed what looks to be 1A hell
of a party. He kissed his mother on the
cheek. Neceshe shooed him away and
pulled the microphone back down to its previous position.
There was laughter from the audience, this playful bickering
between mother and son. On that note, on behalf of Black
Ink, my son and I would like to thank you for having us here
tonight and we wish Anthony Granger many happy returns.
Nessus her raised her glass to lead the first host of the
evening. Do New Blood.
Hermione wished she had something far stronger than
champagne in her glass. After the speeches came the
schmoozing and given the fresh revelations.
This mainly consisted of guests asking each other what they knew
and who they'd heard it from. When no reliable data was
available, gossip and speculation bloomed.
Hermione caught up with several colleagues, shrugging off well
meaning questions about her future at GG, stating that it
was too soon to comment. And indeed it was.
Her bodyguards remained at the periphery of the party floor,
joining the other security staff.
Hermione wondered where Malfoy's guards were, or if he had any.
Had she already met them at the staff party?
Anthony and Narcissa, meanwhile, were whisked away to speak with
various VIPs. You should go with them.
Hermione said. I'm happy where I am, Malfoy
replied. Hermione gave Malfoy a look of
contempt. I was talking to my cousin.
I'm happy to stay here too. Cormac said, looking bloodless.
She frowned at him. What on earth is the matter with
you? Are you I'll?
Before he could answer, a small contingent from Badger Holdings
walked over to speak to him, which unfortunately left
Hermione alone with Draco Malfoy.
Her expression remained serene. So, did you know who I was all
along? Malfoy had one hand shoved in
his trouser pocket while the other hand held his glass of
champagne. Let's just say I had my
suspicions, but I wasn't sure until we got to know each other
a little better. Someone from GG called out and
waved at Hermione. She waved back, taking a sip
from her glass. That's funny, given we don't
know each other at all. You know what I taste like when
I come? I'd say that counts for quite a
bit of knowing. She nearly choked on her
champagne. Any further outrageous behaviour
was thwarted when a senior partner from Raven and Claw came
over to talk to Malfoy. After introductions, the
conversation moved to transnational subsidiaries.
And foreign investment screening.
Hermione listened to Malfoy's thoughts and replies to the
questions posed by the RNC partner and acknowledged
grudgingly that he was not an idiot.
Oh, she knew he was clever, but in the way that con men were
clever, she couldn't be blamed for being suspicious about his
alleged qualifications, giving that Hermione had no formal
qualifications of her own and yet occupied a similar position.
But as she said to her father earlier that day, nepotism,
privilege, and some level of temporary necessity placed
Hermione in her current role. However, the fact that she was
successful at that role was due to her own merits.
Cormac would go through a similar trial, and for him it
was going to be very public and very brutal.
For the first time since hearing about her father's plans,
Hermione wondered if Anthony had given any thought to how
difficult this was going to be for Cormac.
It wasn't just that Anthony had thrown Cormac into the deep end,
it was that Cormac didn't even know how to swim.
After the R&C attorney left, Hermione tried to draw her
cousin into a conversation, but he was too preoccupied with
being damp and jittery. In the end, Malfoy took the
initiative. Congratulations on your
appointment, Mclagan. Yeah, you too.
Neither man sounded sincere in the slightest, though in
Cormac's defence, he was distracted by the ballroom doors
opening again. This second entrance was less
noticeable than Malfoy's, given the amount of noise in the room,
but Cormac noticed because he'd been expecting it.
Shuite. He said he appeared to be
undecided on whether to fight, fly or freeze.
What's wrong? Hermione asked.
All conversation within earshot abruptly stopped.
It was like someone had hit the mute button.
Upon noticing the trajectory of the newcomer's path, Headstrong
and Cockshaw broke off from the edge of the room to join
Hermione and Cormac. This can't be good.
Cockshaw said. He only comes out of his den
during hunting season. Headstrong whistled low.
Oh boy, he looks pissed. He always looks like that.
The man's got resting bitch face mates, I dare you to call Theo
not a bitch to his face, resting or otherwise.
Hermione didn't think that they could possibly be any more big
surprises that evening. And yet one was walking up to
their group right now. The newcomer was a tall, slim,
dark haired man in his late 20s. He was walking towards them.
Theodore not. There was only one logical
explanation for why an Order enforcer was at her father's
birthday party. Cormac, what did you do?
He shook his head. I nothing, I swear.
Hermione turned to Cockshaw. I don't see my father anywhere.
Can you please locate him and let him know Theodore not is
here? Malfoy was still and quiet as he
observed what was happening. Ironically, this did nothing to
calm Hermione's nerves because it felt like she was standing
next to a gas main while the open flame was on approach.
She shoved Cormac back. Shut up and let me do the
talking. No one would mistake Theodore
not for a party guest. The man didn't even look like he
was dressed for work. He might have resembled a
tourist if it wasn't for his grim expression and the thin
scar that cut across his face diagonally from the corner of
his left temple to the right side of his chin.
In sharp contrast to the extremely well dressed crowd, he
wore dark faded jeans, scuffed boots and a long sleeve black
cotton Henley. The fact that he was carrying a
worn leather knapsack was a minor miracle.
Given the security checks outside the ballroom.
Knot must have pulled rank with the guards to be allowed to keep
his bag on him. And if he did that, there was
probably an active investigation happening.
And if that was true, it meant that currently not outranked
every other guest at the party, including Anthony Granger.
Hermione saw no reason to hide her agitation.
Mr. Knott, what are you doing here?
He stared at her, and she knew he was trying to put a name to
her face. Granted, they'd only been
formally introduced once, but Hermione was getting heartily
sick of Hermione Granger. He said with a microscopic nod
of acknowledgement. Hermione realised she was
dealing with the same brand of impassiveness favoured by Draco
Malfoy. I'm here on.
Order business you must be, she said.
Because I don't recall sending you an invitation, not was used
to a hostile reception. The Enforcers were the orders
version of judge, jury and executioner combined.
They were harbingers of someone's doom, preferably
someone else. Gumming here in person was not
my preference, but Mclagan has ignored our attempts to contact
him via the usual means. The Enforcer's light gold eyes
bore into Cormac as he spoke. My instructions are to take him
back to Central with me. I have a plane waiting, You want
to take Cormac to the Order HQ in Zurich?
Hermione said frowning. Why?
He may have information we need. So you crushed Anthony Granger's
birthday party to ask a man some questions about information he
may or may not have? Draco summarised.
Have you heard of e-mail knots? Feline like eyes flickered to
Malfoy as if he only just noticed him standing there.
Hermione found this hard to believe.
Draco Malfoy blended in like a disco ball at a funeral.
I don't believe we've met, not said.
I'm Theodore, not director of the Order Enforcement Unit.
Malfoy gave him a sceptical look.
Are you sure? You seem a little young to be
running the orders, Gahaim Polizzai.
Hermione groaned internally, but not was unruffled.
Headstrong was less subtle. He gasped.
It's a team effort, not said. And now there was a shimmer of
something other than ambivalence in his eyes.
Hermione felt her skin prickle again.
It got like this sometimes, when meetings or exchanges
degenerated into stand offs, shirt fronting, and on rare
occasions, explosive violence. Difficult and dangerous men, Her
father had warned. They were nothing new, but
definitely not the highlight of her work.
Nice to meet you, Theodore, not I'm Draco Malfoy, Mr. Mclagan's
solicitor. Cormac and Hermione stared at
Draco in surprise. Malfoy not said, and Hermione
got the sense that he had just made a mental note, but his
expression gave nothing away. Mr. Mclagan doesn't need a
solicitor. Malfoy sucked in air through his
teeth. Ah, but that's precisely when
you know you need a lawyer when the other party says you don't.
Are you aware of how enforcers operate, Mr. Malfoy?
How much I know or don't know doesn't change the fact that
Cormac's not going anywhere with you, Kid, kid.
Hermione wanted to throttle Malfoy.
If Gigi wasn't issued 100 demerits before the night's end,
it would be a miracle. Cormac finally located his
voice. You heard my lawyer.
You have no authority to detain me.
That wasn't entirely true. Enforcers could detain witnesses
for questioning in the event of a formal investigation.
I'm not detaining you, Mr. Mclagan.
I'm asking you to come with me. Enlighten me as to the
difference. Between the two?
Malfoy asked. Detention results in a lot of
paperwork. Not said.
And then he actually smiled. It was incredibly creepy, and
Hermione wished he would stop. I hate paperwork.
Oh, mate, same. Draco agreed, nodding.
But given that even enforcers have rules, I believe you're
meant to exchange a writ token with Mr. Mclagan's family to
indicate that he is in your custody.
If you don't return him, his family gets to keep the token,
and if enough tokens are accrued by order members, they can be
exchanged for penalties applied against your unit writ token.
Oh, mine had never heard of such a thing.
Now not was showing the first signs of actual irritation.
The writ token system hasn't been used for 300 years.
Draco shrugged. Call me a traditionalist.
OK, so maybe Malvoy had done his homework on the Order.
Hermione was about to launch into another tempt at diplomacy
when she blatantly realised that Malfoy was deliberately stalling
not to give Cockshaw more time to find her father.
Possibly not knew this too, because it looked like he'd run
out of patience. Mclagan, come along.
I'm not asking again. Cormac didn't move from his spot
behind Hermione, not reached around her to grab Cormac's arm,
causing Hegstrong to hold Cormac's other arm.
Hermione tried to pry Nott's hands off her cousin, but not
deflected her grab using the side of his hand.
It was the world's most tense game of Patty cake.
Hermione winced. Though not barely made contact
with her wrist, the swipe still stung.
There wasn't much space between Hermione and not, but Malfoy
remedied this by stepping in between them.
The two men were nearly the same height, not might have been a
couple of centimetres shorter. Hermione was only able to
discern Malfoy's whispered threat because she was right up
against his back. It made the hairs on the back of
her neck stand on end. If you want your hands to remain
attached to the end of your arms, I suggest you keep them to
yourself. Behind her, she could
practically feel headstrong about to launch into something
that was going to be the exact opposite of the escalation.
But then, to her immense relief, she saw her father standing
behind. Not with Cockshaw and no less
than a dozen men. Anthony Granger looked like he
was about to murder someone. Are you all right, sweetheart?
I'm fine. Hermione said.
Theo, I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you personally.
If only I'd have known to expect you.
It was a not so subtle reprimand from Anthony.
How may I be of assistance? Not restated the purpose of his
visit, leaving out the fact that Draco Malfoy was representing a
member of the Granger family. Is there some other way we can
do this? I'm not keen to end the night
with one nephew short. He was an odd duck.
Theodore, not blunt like Malfoy, but without the charm.
He didn't have the best people skills either, but then Hermione
supposed his role wasn't exactly designed to win hearts and
minds. Not sighed, Hermione thought the
man looked in dire need of a cup of tea and a nap.
Mclagan. Yes.
You have 48 hours to report to Central.
And since you would be doing so voluntarily, I trust that
removes the need for a writ token exchange.
The second sentence was directed at Malfoy.
Malfoy beamed. I believe it does.
When Cormac continued to remain silent, Anthony replied on his
behalf. My nephew thanks you for the
reasonable compromise. Oh, and by the way, Mclagan,
your accounts are frozen and I have your passport now.
This managed to go to Cormac into opening his mouth, but
whatever he was about to say was waylaid by Hermione.
Stepping on his foot, Anthony gave his daughter a grateful
look. Well then, it looks like it's
all sorted for the moment. I shall leave you young people
to enjoy what's left of the evening.
Well, I have a quick chat with Mr. Knott.
He held his arm out to the enforcer.
Shall we? Knott was escorted from the
ballroom by Anthony, Granger, Cockshaw and the rest of
Anthony's men. Hermione hoped her father had
better luck in determining the reason for Nott's interest in
Cormac. Half the guests had already left
and willing to be caught in the crossfire of a dispute with the
enforcers. Those that remained were staring
at Cormac and by extension, Hermione.
She was used to this, but Cormac bristled under the attention.
I'm going to my room, he mumbled.
You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on.
Look, can it wait? I need I'm not.
And to Hermione's astonishment, he began to tear up, roughly
swiping in his eyes with the back of his hand.
He looked awful, actually. She took his hand and said more
gently. Fine, go rest.
But you're staying in my suite, got it?
I'll have someone move all your things from your room.
It was an indication of how out of sorts Cormac was that he
simply nodded. Hermione instructed Headstrong
to take Cormac up to Hermione's top floor suite and to remain
with him until. She got there.
Though there was technically still an hour and a half left,
the party was not going to regain it's earlier momentum.
At least the music had restarted and people were talking again,
probably about what just happened.
Hermione wondered where Nasisa had gone during Knott's breeze
visit, because she wasn't in the ballroom and hadn't returned
with Antony. Hermione knew she could always
ask Malfoy, but she wasn't going to.
Your cousin needs his own guards, and you need to have
yours with you at all times. It was remarkable how quickly
Malfoy shed the slippery lawyer skin he'd been wearing earlier.
He seemed so serious now, so cold and sharp.
There was no hint of the smirking arrogance he'd used to
deal with. Not that's in the works,
Hermione said. He only turned up yesterday.
In the meantime, he doesn't go anywhere alone.
Hermione placed a hand over her eyes, shutting them for a
moment. Her head was killing her.
She was thirsty and irritable. A bath had originally been on
the cards, but that felt like too much effort now.
More like a hot shower, some room service, strangle Cormack,
and then sleep for 10 hours. When was the last time you had
something to eat? I can't remember.
She moved her hand from her face to the back of her neck.
Breakfast early this morning, probably.
Hermione was startled when she felt Malfoy's hand cover hers
under her hair. She pulled her hand away, but
his remained. He began massaging the back of
her neck, fingers pressing into sore muscles and tendons.
Whatever retort Hermione was about to make died in her
throat. It felt so unexpectedly good
that her eyes fell shut again and she made a soft, happy
sound. The other unexpected side effect
was the burning heat behind her eyes and the lump in her throat.
Maybe whatever Cormac was suffering from was contagious.
She knew she had to step away now.
Now, was she really so pathetically touch starved that
she was willing to receive a neck rub from this man in front
of the very people whose respect she'd been trying to earn for
the last dozen years? Stop, she whispered, Please.
And he did immediately looked damn apologetic too.
Sorry, your threat do not about losing his hands applies to you
as well. If you touch me again without my
consent, fair enough. I will only touch you again when
you ask me to. Good, she thought, but then
realised what he'd just said when her voice was shrill.
There will be no when does not even an if consider it an
indefinite no. She wanted to throw her drink in
his face. Hermione seldom lost her temper
or raised her voice, but if anyone had the capacity to push
her buttons, it was bulletproof. With a growl of frustration, she
stormed off, intending to find the events team and begin the
process of wrapping up the party early.
Hermione, God damn it. She stopped and turned around
against her better judgement, and not at all because he'd said
her name for the first time. I'm leaving Paris early tomorrow
morning, I'll be travelling for the next few months.
How nice for you. She said because he left a
lengthy pause and Hermione didn't have the patience or
energy right now to win that old game.
The card I gave you has my direct number on it.
I meant what I said about calling me if you need to.
Will you promise me that? The fuck?
Who did he think he was to ask her for anything, let alone a
promise? She remembered what Narsissa
said about Malfoy not being a fan of promises, and here he was
asking for one. He looked unsettled, bothered,
and Hermione didn't think it had anything to do with their
hookup, nor did she think it was a regular occurrence for him to
reveal. What he was.
Currently revealing to merely anyone.
Was this trust, then? If Malfoy trusted her so easily,
he was a fool. She'd sell him out for a pair of
Manolo's in a spa weekend. What's wrong?
Hermione asked. Damn it.
His unease was contagious, and she detested her natural
instinct to cajole the worry out of him.
She already had her hands full of trying to drag information
out of her stupid cousin. Malfoy appeared to be choosing
his words wisely. I'm not sure yet.
It's a feeling I get sometimes. His gaze unfocused and for a
moment he was looking through her, not at her.
And I really wish I was wrong more often than I'm right.
He seemed to be as intrigued by his own behaviour as she was.
Just do me a favour and. Watch your back.
Hermione had to laugh. It was a.
Genuine, full throated laugh, fuelled by the absurd events of
the past 12 hours. Darling, this is the mafia.
Anyone who doesn't already do that isn't alive to tell you
what happened to them. And then she walked away,
putting Draco Malfoy out of her mind.
Even without him in the picture, it was going to be a very
interesting year. You have been listening to OOC
by Rizzle writes narrated by Briar and Turns.
If you enjoyed this piece of work, please don't forget to
give the author a big fat wet kudos over on AO3 and I'll see
you next time.