The Owl and the Pussycat

The Owl and the Pussycat.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
They took some honey and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

(First verse) by Edward Lear From: http://www.davidpbrown.co.uk/poetry/edward-lear.html


Any characters you recognise are property of JKR, I’m making no money from this fic.

I’ll (grudgingly) return Draco and Hermione afterwards, but I’d be happier to hold them hostage in return for the ransom of Lucius Malfoy (preferably starkers.)

Beata Work by the usual suspect (ie. My housemate, Sarah, who I bribe with ice-cream to do this for me; she’d like to hold Hermione and Draco hostage for Blaise Zambini, we are both open to negotiations…)


Two Years after the Final Battle

Hermione found peace to be a most unusual situation; and one of the most un-stimulating positions she had been in for a long time. She wasn’t researching obscure (and rather illegal) dark curses; she wasn’t trying to keep Harry, Ron and herself alive long enough to vanquish the darkest wizard in magical history; she wasn’t living for the moment, aware now that it was highly unlikely to be her last. For the first time in her magical life, she was using mostly ‘mundane’ spells that she performed automatically without any thought process going into the action.

She was currently, quite calmly and methodically conducting some unmentionable research for the department of mysteries; everything was perfectly organised, regular, logical – and that was the problem.

Routines just weren’t exciting.

Her alarm clock performed its cockerel impression at seven o’clock, she actually had the motivation to get out from between the sheets at ten minutes past, usually because Crookshanks was sat on her chest mewing at her because of his empty stomach. She had fed the cat, eaten her own breakfast, showered and dressed by half past eight; before apparating to the ministry at quarter to nine. Her lunch hour was always 1:15 until 2:15, and she
apparated home at five minutes past five.

Day in, day out dullness.

The department of mysteries had its moments – usually when the team found something utterly extraordinary. However, often those finds were so dangerous that the six employees were the only people to know anything of it; their six-way celebrations were predictable in their occurrence: six ice cold butterbears and a plate of chocolate biscuits, and then back to work. Extraordinary became quite boring when it was all you found.

Even their huge department library and its incredibly rare contents had lost their appeal to her – it wasn’t proving much use, most of what the unspeakables found had never been recorded in enough detail for the books to be of any help to the silent researchers. Not to mention that many of the volumes had to be translated manually before they could be read – they hadn’t managed to invent translation spells for the obscure languages. Translating an entire tome from Ancient Centaurian into English, all for the sake of one sentence wasn’t her (or anyone else in the department) idea of fun.

It was this monotonous plateau in her young life that had driven her to fill in the pale green parchment requesting two weeks of holiday; impulsively spend over a thousand galleons on travel and hotel arrangements; then take hold of the international portkey to wizarding Venice.

Wizarding Venice still had its fair share of magical tourists, the same famous landmarks (with some incredibly famous magical architecture mixed in) and its own version of the carnival.

Un-booked hotel rooms in wizarding Venice were as easy to get hold of as gold-plated rocking horse manure, Hermione had barely managed to reserve a home-from-home for ten days, wanting two days either side of this wondrous trip (two before to find her outfit for the Hotel’s ball, two after to recover from the holiday).

Her room at Castello del Fiume was opulent to say the least, the hotel was one of the few in the magical world with seven stars, the castle hovering above the water of one of the lagoons, so it never flooded. Its outer walls were encased in ivory marble, shot through with aquamarine veins - their appearance giving the impressions of little rivers. The windows were all filled with stained glass, the frames and shutters etched in gold.

The portkey placed her down on the drawbridge leading to the stunning reception area and Grand staircase, her luggage vanished immediately at the touch of three uniformed Hotel Elves (they were often offended at being to referred to as House Elves, pointing out politely that it wasn’t a house). Collecting her key, she followed the incredibly handsome wizard from behind the desk to the lift and then on to her room.

The room was actually the cheapest they had, and it was the size of her flat (next door to George Weasley’s above the extended joke shop) on its own! She dreaded to think what the Premier Suite (stanza della prima classe,) at a thousand galleons a night looked like. She removed her shoes and walked across to the wardrobe, her feet sinking into the thick ivory carpet; the Hotel Elves had already unpacked her bags and opened the windows, giving her a beautiful view of the carnival preparations over the lagoon.

Deciding to relax, she stepped into the bathroom; proceeding to spend quite a bit of the afternoon indulging in the hot tub and the selection of perfumed oils provided. Tomorrow, she’d go sightseeing and enjoy in the festivities.

***
The Night of the Castello del Fiume Masquerade Ball
(Five Days Later)

Hermione had based her outfit for the festivities upon Hedwig; Harry still had a few of his beloved messenger's feathers on his mantelpiece. Hermione decided that copying Hedwig wouldn't be right, and decided upon the barn owl. the main ball gown dress was ivory crepe over layers of netting, the bodice was incredibly figure hugging, the corseted top accenting her curvaceous form. Long, medieval style sleeves, made of the same fabric, but were a rich dark honey shade, embroidered to look like feathers; the cape trailing down her back was of the same colour and design. The waistline had old quills tacked to it, creating an intricate belt of fine feathers.

The Heart-shaped mask covered her forehead, eyes, and nose – leaving her cheeks and lips free to view. She had spent the better part of the day pouring potion after potion onto her hair, in an attempt to tame the unruly locks into some form of order. Miraculously, she managed to create a shimmering bronze waterfall of perfect ringlets; twisting and pinning as she went, she dragged it into an elegant style, spare owl feathers hanging down from the back to impersonate the tail in flight.

Nobody would recognise her, most likely because she didn’t actually know anybody whom had come; this type of party were most definitely not the style of either Harry or Ron, and getting Ginny into such a floaty dress would require her to be stunned first. Ginny preferred more trouble-free styles, her wedding dress (much to Molly’s immense disappointment) had been basic, elegant in its simplicity and didn’t have a single bow, ribbon or scrap of lace upon it. Molly had wanted her only daughter to wear the dress she had worn, that had been warn by her Mother before her, and her Mother’s Mother before that; Ginny took one look at the lacy concoction, its nine layers of underskirts, the huge bow at the back, and promptly decided to break the tradition. Hermione, as maid of honour, had disarmed the future Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Weasley before the argument over the dress got heated… but that was another story and had little relevance to Hermione as she pulled the mask over her eyes and stared at her reflection in the huge mirror.

Hermione was alone in a hotel of seven hundred people, and completely anonymous to them all. She had charmed her eyes to glow like those of an eagle owl, though not strictly true to her costume as a barn owl, the orange orbs gave her an air of mystery and drew attention to her face.

‘Perfect’, she thought ‘An opportunity to actually be myself, not the mind behind Voldemort’s defeat, not the bookworm, just Hermione, just me.’

Slipping into the brown ballet shoes (so she could comfortably dance all night), she gathered the volumous dress, left her room, locked and warded the door and descended the grand staircase to the ballroom.

She was a night owl, a silent graceful creature, and tonight – she was nameless.


***
Simultaneously, in the stanza della prima classe.

Draco Malfoy stood before the gilded mirror in the room, fastening the pearl buttons on his blue-grey waistcoat. Reaching for his wand, he fixed the inanimate, four foot sausage of fabric to his trousers in the area of the base of his spine; a quick flick of his wand and the material became alive, swishing and twitching in the same manor that his Mother’s pet Kneazle did when she was watching the koi in one of the garden’s ponds. Felina had never actually managed to catch one of the fish, her utter hatred of water kept her paws out, but she spent hours staring at the white and orange creatures as they swam about the water lilies and reeds.

A charm to his hands gave him pads and transformed his manicured nails to blunt claws; another incantation produced long, black whiskers from his nose; touching one revealed that they were incredivly sensitive, little shocking ripples travelling up his nose and making him sneeze. Transforming his short hair from platinum blonde to shimmering platinum completed his disguise, nobody would recognise the trademark Malfoy hair tonight – his anonymity safe.

His Mother had insisted he go to the carnival, more importantly go to this hotel’s infamous ball. Neither of them had escaped the war unscaved, and they both found meeting new people and making friends to be an immense hardship, Lucius’s reputation preceding them both, frightening acquaintances before they got to know the real Narcissa or Draco.

Draco had trained to be a healer, sick of causing pain because he was ordered to. The families and friends of patients were (at the least) sceptical about him healing their loved ones, many were just plain rude to him – but most patients couldn’t care less whom treated them, as long as the treatment occurred and was performed correctly. His little office at Saint Mungo’s had many thank-you cards pinned next to his extensive range of healing qualifications; they were what kept him going when someone said they didn’t want a DeathEater treating their relative.

Draco had thrown himself into his work, his wages being ‘anonymously’ donated straight back to the hospital itself – he didn’t need the money, but the hospital did. He often took the shifts that nobody else wanted, was willing to heal the most contagious of diseases without a thought for his own health and put in double the hours that the other staff did. He’d been training hard and had achieved the first level of the Master of healing qualification – sometimes people would look at his qualifications, rather than his name.

Working was doing some good for the magical community, he saw the rubbish shifts as his penance for his crimes as a child. Rushing around like a headless chicken kept his mind away from his own meagre existence, and stopped him trying to end it. He always had a strong elastic band around his left wrist, twanging it against the marked flesh gave just enough pain to subdue his self-harming tendency enough that he didn’t do any real damage.*

Nobody noticed his health had taken a turn for the negative, until he was found unconscious in his office. A good friend, and colleague, had pronounced him underweight and suffering with severe depression – politely demanding he take some time off; and then forcing him to take a month’s leave of absence before threatening to pour the healing potions down his throat if Draco didn’t voluntarily drink them himself.

So, here he was, in front of a mirror in the most expensive hotel suite in magical tourism, dressed to impersonate his Mother’s pedigree Moon-Blue Kneasle, (the tail swishing in annoyance) and hoping that his hidden appearance would give the illusion of someone else. He was willing to be anyone else, just for one night.

One night to give his own influence to a room, not Lucius’s.
One night to have companionship that wasn’t nervous around him.

“Just one night.” Was all he asked, pulling the grey mask over his eyes, and charming the huge tufty ears to stick to the top of his head, they flicked as he prodded at them.

Squaring his shoulders he left the room, he was a Malfoy, and a Malfoy did not show weakness in public – even if the public, for once, had no idea of whom he was or what he had done in the past.

***
The Ballroom, 23:15 pm

Hermione delicately sipped from the champagne flute, the bubbles bursting over her tongue. She had lost count of the number of people whom she had danced with, many men had politely asked for the next dance; young, old, middle aged – all politely waltzing the owl around the room, bowing and going back to either their true partners or the drinks table. She was immensely glad of her ballet shoes, she’d have never managed four hours of dancing in heels!

“Milady, may I have this dance?” whispered the Italian accent next to her ear, she spun around to find the Receptionist at her back, dressed in an outfit to impersonate a Roman emperor. She had spoken with him a little over the past few days, learning he was the son of the owner and how he was bored to tears with his job and future role as manager. He was tall, dark, handsome and oozed blatant sensuality – Hermione felt a girly bubble of pride as he asked her to dance, a tango being played by the orchestra.

“Of course, kind sir. I would be honoured.” She replied, taking his offered elbow and walking briskly to the dance floor.

The dance was sensual, sexy and set her heart pounding to the corporeal beat, ‘Julius Caesar’ dipped the ‘Barn Owl’ into a backwards arch, showing her flexibility and heaving, flushed cleavage to the room; most males watching wanted to be him; the women wanted the owl to simply vanish – and for their husbands to put their eyes back in their sockets.

“She is a rather… remarkable young lady.” Commented one gentleman, outfitted as King Arthur, complete with mock Excalibur, and his wife dressed as Genevieve.

“Oh yes, very… polite, yes, a polite young woman.” Replied ‘Robin Hood’, his ‘Maid Marrion’ shooting a warning look at him. He really didn’t have the figure for the Nottingham outlaw, too many glasses of red wine and high calorie foods over the years had seen to that, ‘King Arthur’ thought he’d look better as Friar Tuck.

“Well, there’s certainly many a charm on her hair! I suspect it may even be a wig! Nobody has such perfect ringlets.” Commented an older woman, standing next to ‘Maid Marrion’.

“Hmm, but you are dressed as Repunzal, darling, you don’t naturally have twelve feet of golden-blonde hair!” commented ‘Genevieve’ smarmily.

“Ladies, the tango has ended, will you grace us with your presence for the next waltz?” asked a man impersonating (what was presumed to be) a dragon, diffusing a potentially explosive situation quickly.

“Of course, kind sir, I shall be honoured to” they chorused simultaneously, taking the offered arms of their husbands and gliding to the polished dance floor.

The ‘Kneazle’ watched as the ‘Owl’ was escorted out of the ballroom by ‘Julius Ceasar’, just as he had found the courage to ask for the next dance, too! Draco didn’t like the look in the Italian’s eye, it was the look that Blaise used to get when he had his eye on another bedpost notch.

Draco’s long suppressed chivalrous nature kicked in, he followed from a distance.

“You are beautiful, il mio gufo, this dress looks stupore upon your wonderful figure…”

“Oh, thank-you very much!” ‘The Owl’ replied, blushing at the comment.

“I think your hair is like that of the Dee Romane, I think it would look bella spread across my pillow as I love you.” He whispered, staring into her eyes, one hand moving to untie the ribbons at the back of her corset.”

“Erm… pardon me?” Hermione said, his honeyed words sinking in slowly.

“I wish to take you to my rooms, drop this dress to my bedroom floor, and avere sesso with you until the dawn. I ache for you!”

Hermione was shocked; nobody had ever been so bold. “Antonio! Wish and ache all you want! I did not come here for… for… intimate relations! I came to relax and to have fun!” she said, gently moving his had from the ribbons, reaching behind her to re-tie the bow, this time in a double knot.

“It would be, how you say, fun. You would be finding pleasure with me, screaming my name as you reach punto culminante beneath me… you know it is your desire…” he purred, moving to kiss her, his hand boldly moving to cup a corset-bound breast.

His cheek met with a very angry witch’s palm as Hermione slapped him across the face. “I think you need to acquaint yourself with your hand this evening – you will most certainly NOT be gaining ANY form of pleasure from me! You’d do well to forget this conversation happened and not pursue me again!”

“There will be other nights when you are lonely and long for my bed…” his mouth edged closer to her ear as he whispered: “Quello intelligente di trio dorato.” His smug grin returning as she blushed.

“And your Father might be a little cross when I either sue your company for sexual harassment or hex your male anatomy into the next millennium.”

“I do believe the lady wants you to leave her alone. How about you do just that.” Said a calm voice from behind ‘Julius Caesar’, a wand pressing into the Italian’s throat.

“Sì, I shall attend the other guests.” He muttered, shrugging and going back into the ballroom; perhaps there would be other opportunities to bed the woman over the week, none had resisted him on a second asking.

Hermione looked into the silver eyes, took in the shimmering hair, his cat mask hiding most of his features.
“Thank-you, Mr…?”

“For tonight, I’m a Kneazle.” Draco replied, looking into the glowing orange orbs.

“And tonight, I’m a Barn Owl.” Hermione whispered, taking his offered arm and letting him lead her back to the dancing.

…
Next to the Empty Buffet Table: 05:30am

“Its half past five, the sun is about to rise – its no longer tonight, Mr. Kneazle.” Said the ‘Owl’, sipping at another glass of water, Hermione had stopped drinking alcohol after the incident with ‘Julius’, she wanted her wits about her; ‘Kneazle’ had followed her lead.

“No, it is morning.” Draco replied, sipping the cooling cup of Earl Grey, watching as the Hotel Elves set up the dining room for breakfast through the window that separated the dining room from the ballroom.

“So, last night, you were just a mysterious Kneazle – who are you, really?” she asked shyly.

“You do not want to know who I am, I am not worth knowing.” Draco replied, his shoulders dropping as his confidence waned.

“I would not have asked if I didn’t want to know. Please? I’ll take my mask off, if you’ll remove yours? Together?” she whispered, hoping this charming, softly-spoken wizard didn’t recognise her. His accent was without doubt English, and the Queen’s English at that; the chances of him not recognising her were slim, there were still stories being written in the Daily Prophet about the ‘Golden Trio’. If only she could remain anonymous and not be chased around by the press!

“And the ears and tail, also? And my hair?” Draco asked, knowing that the other Brit would see the platinum blonde, make a feeble excuse and run. Shame, she was nice to talk to, intelligent, calm, but with a joyous glint in her eyes that made him happy.

Not to mention she hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend and there was no sign of a chaperone, engagement ring or wedding ring… what pureblood noble (whom else could she be? The money, manners, posture and attitude screamed wizarding gentry!), would let their daughter out into society without someone to watch over her? ‘Juluius’ had proved that some men were literally just after one thing! Perhaps she had been hidden during the war, pureblood and rich families who wanted to remain neutral had fled the country at the first inkling of… he who will not be named.

Draco wasn’t a typical redblooded male, the chastity charm placed upon all Malfoy children at birth meant instant death if there was sex before marriage or infidelity. The third Malfoi’s wife was an incredibly powerful witch, and incredibly angry at her husband’s adulterous ways. Hell hath no fury; and the third Malfoi found himself ‘coming and going’ at the same time when he visited a brothel. No descendent of the only Malfoi to not be buried in the family crypt, had ever been as stupid to test the curse’s limits. Draco was relieved to meet a young woman who was willing to just have a normal conversation, that didn’t revolve around robes, cosmetic charms or gossip, what a novelty!

The Slytherins had laughed at the magical brand around his navel, most chastity charms were voluntary, and rarely undertaken, the charm only broken by marriage – Draco had the last laugh when several magical STDs swept through the sexually active Slytherin (and surprisingly Ravenclaw) population. He charged a hefty fee for the potion that cleared it up, gaining the best part of two hundred galleons within the space of six days. Nobody wanted to go to Pomphey, especially as sexual intercourse between witches and wizards under the age of seventeen was illegal and grounds for expulsion.

‘The Owl’s’ voice brought him out of the amusing thoughts, wiping the slight smirk from his face. “Turn our backs? Reveal on the count of ten?” she said.

‘What if he recognised her and thought she was too smart for him?’ Hermione panicked, too late now…

The Owl and the Kneazle turned their backs upon each other, muttering charms to right their appearance to what nature intended it to be. On nine their masks were lifted.

“Ten” they counted simultaneously, turning to look at one another.

“M…Malfoy?”

“Granger?”

“What are you doing in Venice!” they chorused.

“I needed to get away, live a little, life was getting boring.” Hermione shrugged.

“A healer demanded I take an extended leave of absence from work, Mother recommended the ball.”

“Nobody knew who we were.” They said together.

There was a pregnant moment of silence as they took in the other’s appearance, blushes punctuating both their cheeks.

“I’ve enjoyed talking to you this evening, well this morning, actually.” Hermione said, noting the tail was still twitching in Malfoy’s hand, his ears still flicking on his head – he’d forgotten to take them off.

“Yes, I enjoyed your company too. I haven’t had a decent conversation with someone other than Mother and a few trusted others for two years! It was refreshing.”

Hermione ignored the little voice in her mind reminding her he was a former Death Eater and had made her education at Hogwarts a hardship, “We can talk a bit more if you like, but I’d like to take the corset off first, all I want to do is slouch, and the boning doesn’t accommodate that.” Hermione chuckled.

Draco was momentarily stunned, having expected her to come up with a reason to hex him. “You could come to my room, no funny business, just a soft cotton sleep shirt and pleasant conversation?” Draco offered, meaning every word with sincerity, especially the non-sex part.

“I’d like that, the no ‘funny business’ bit. I’ve enjoyed talking to you! Where is your room, Malfoy?” He wanted her to go to his room to just talk? And he wasn’t expecting sex? Why couldn’t they all be like that? Antonio hadn’t been the first to try and get into her knickers, just the most cock-sure about being capable of doing it.

“It is around the other side of the castle, you need to sail to it.” He shrugged.

“The premier suite!” Hermione gasped.

“Yes, its really nice, one of the best rooms I have ever stayed in, actually.” He replied as they walked to a waiting gondola that propelled itself to wherever the passengers told it.

Nobody paid much attention to the owl and the kneazle, gliding toward the private entrance to the serie stanza della prima classe of the Castello del Fiume, in a beautiful, Slytherin-green gondola†.


……. …… …… …… ……

A/N:

* The technique of the elastic band is real and used frequently by psychologists, another method is holding ice cubes until the chill causes pain.

† I am a HUGE fan of Venice, recommending to EVERYONE to visit at some point in their lives (Just don’t stop for coffee in Saint Mark’s square, the service charge is ridiculous and costs a heck of a lot more than the coffee!). Gondolas are traditionally always black, but this is wizarding Venice, so I let them paint them different colours.

Italian Translations: (these are direct translations)
℅ http://dictionary.reference.com/translate/index.html internet translator.

Castello del Fiume - Castle of the River

stanza della prima classe – room of the first class (what I referred to as Premier suite)

il mio gufo – my owl

stupore – astonishment (I was aiming for astonishing).

Dee Romane - Goddesses Roman ≈ Roman Goddess

bella - beautiful

avere sesso – to have sex

punto culminante - culminating point ≈ climax

Quello intelligente di trio dorato – that intelligent of trio golden ≈ the intelligent one of the golden trio

Sì – yes