Creature Fear

Author’s Note: This fic is probably a little bit different from what you’re used to, but I like it this way. Rated a Strong M for language, violence and sexual content. Thanks so much to the lovely beta, Evenstar 101!

Chapter 1

It began innocently, as all great and fantastic stories do. Hermione was working late, holed up in Cho’s office, pasting tiny cartoon figures onto an elaborate seating chart. The room was like an aftermath of an apocalypse, papers strewn every which way, dirty teacups and tissues covering every solid surface, an overturned inkpot producing a brilliant scarlet puddle on the plush carpet. Hermione groaned, knowing that the place would have to be positively spotless before she could go home and snuggle in her warm, fluffy bed.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t like working as Cho’s assistant: Indeed, most of the time Hermione could do as she pleased during the workday, as long as she informed the newly elected Minister of her appointments every half hour. Even the coffee runs and emergency shopping trips were doable, because Hermione got to play the role of the high-maintenance heiress, demanding that her latte be exactly the right temperature and special ordering snakeskin sandals from Tokyo, in exchange for a salary that kept her living in a comfortable flat in downtown London.
While Harry chased crazy wizards and Ginny dealt with a tyrannical Quidditch coach, Hermione had access to the Ministry’s infinite research mediums, working on her book about the history of Wizarding Cooperation in Britain. It really was quite interesting; spending her weekdays wrapped in a tome on the 13th century while her fellow employees shuffled around the office like the world was coming to an end.
It was true; Hermione nearly had the perfect job. The brunette frowned as she almost beheaded the cartoon Kingsley Shackelbolt, who would be sitting to the left of Dedulus Diggle. “Damn Roger,” Hermione muttered, applying a thick coat of Elliot’s Attaching Elixir to the back of a pissed-off Kingsley. Today had been a downright nightmare, as Cho and her on-again, off-again fiancé Roger Davies called it quits for the fourth time since Hermione had started working for Minister Chang. Hermione rolled her eyes as she began to craft the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, her eyelids quite droopy.
That was the problem with Cho, Hermione thought to herself. It was no surprise that the charmingly beautiful, intelligent, and considerate Cho was chosen to succeed Rufus Scrimgeour. After all, Cho had been in Ravenclaw, and enjoyed a lofty position in Magical Law Enforcement before being promoted. However, despite her long list of virtues, Cho had one enormous vice: sensitivity. One of Hermione’s chief tasks was to hide the Daily Prophet, for her boss would burst into tears at any Ministry report that cast her in a less-than-favorable light. When it came to romance, the waterworks certainly hadn’t stopped with Harry, for Hermione would have to console a distraught Cho fortnightly about the long-dead Cedric Diggory, and now that stupid ponce, Roger Davies.
Perhaps it was all the estrogen that pushed her into socializing with Harry and Ron nearly every weekend. After all, she and Ron had been casually dating for years, and Harry preferred to have Hermione’s quiet sensibility around to neutralize Ginny’s fiery temper. Despite the fact that she hated dancing, she allowed Ron and Ginny to drag her to Wizarding clubs every now and then, although Hermione thought that their persistence would diminish, considering that she’d drunkenly snogged Seamus Finnegan two weeks before. Needless to say, Ron was not happy.
Hermione stopped and surveyed her handiwork, the seating chart nearly halfway completed. Cho was absolute rubbish with names, and since she’d spent the entirety of the day sobbing, had asked Hermione to replicate the seating chart for tomorrow’s important Ministry-wide social. Hermione would be there as well, collecting calling cards and writing down any new appointments that Cho might promise to various Ministry employees. The brunette had picked up a black cocktail dress for the occasion, knowing that no one would notice her next to the stunning Cho, who would be wearing emerald green.
How Hermione longed to get back to her research… She was just beginning to approach an exciting part in Magical history, when the Triwizard Tournament was established, when the three European schools were finally united in magical peace! Hermione was horribly excited to get her book published within the next few years, considering it her greatest contribution to Wizarding Britain. In the meantime, she had to do silly grunt work so that Cho Chang wouldn’t embarrass the piss out of herself.
Hermione sighed, setting down the bottle of paste to check the time on the ornate Louis V clock. “Eight o’clock!” Hermione swore, slamming her head down on the desk. “Bloody Hell! The things I do for that woman…” Her head found a comfortable spot resting on her arms, and she let out a deep, contented breath. I suppose I could take a nap since I’m going to be here all bloody night, she thought irritably, I’ve already finished three hundred of those damnable things, deserve a break.
Hermione had been sleeping deeply for a few hours, when someone attempting to open the door to Cho’s office, quite earnestly, interrupted her peaceful slumber. The brunette sprang up in her seat, curls alive with static electricity, and glared at the jiggling doorknob. She strode over to the offensive door; ready to give whomever it was a piece of her mind for scaring her so late at night! Honestly! Her honey-brown eyes became wide at the shocking scene that met her on the other side of the solid piece of walnut.
Draco Malfoy was standing in the corridor, all two meters of his pale, delicately muscular body put on display before her. He was wearing nothing but an embarrassingly small pair of knickers, the garment certainly causing Hermione to fixate on his rather large… region. What struck her most was the deep scarlet flush that settled on his high cheekbones, and his beautiful hands that began to run worriedly through his platinum hair. The fact that the blond had a silvery chain encircling his wrists, handcuff-style, slipped Hermione’s attention in her perusal of his perfectly formed bone structure.
“Oh gods, this is so humiliating,” Draco croaked out, his deep baritone unknowingly causing Hermione to wet her knickers. “I…I…just, don’t tell anyone about this, okay?” The blond wrapped himself in a trench coat and was out of sight before Hermione could even respond, her face permanently frozen in a shocked expression.
It was several minutes before Hermione could process what she’d just seen, and not until she was sitting back down in a chair and certain that she hadn’t had any Firewhisky in the last twenty-four hours. “What…the…fuck?!?!” she shrieked, rubbing her temples in confusion, shifting uncomfortably at the wetness between her legs. “Why would Draco Malfoy, of all possible people, be at the Minister of Magic’s office at eleven o’clock in the evening?!” she reasoned, getting up to pace a bit.
She hadn’t seen Draco since she’d left Hogwarts, nearly five years before. Like the other families of Death Eaters, he and his mother had been placed in a special Witness Protection Program, most of which were outside Britain altogether. He’d turned himself in soon after Dumbledore’s death, claiming he was completely neutral and never wanted to harm another person for the rest of his life. Then the Malfoys vanished, Lucius serving his life sentence in Azkaban. To see Draco again, in such a vulnerable position, was nothing less than unfathomable. His demeanor was so unlike the air of superiority he exuded back in their Hogwarts days. Why would he be walking around at night, where a crazy wizard would certainly attack him, revengeful over the atrocities committed by his father Lucius during the Great War?
Hermione distractedly stared at Cho’s mahogany bookcase, a million questions going through her head that no book could ever answer, a very first for the petite witch. What would the Minister of Magic need from Draco Malfoy, dressed in such an inappropriate outfit? And for the life of her, why could Hermione not get his delectable body out of her head?

Hermione nearly hit the ceiling when her wand began to vibrate the next morning, signaling that it was indeed time to get up for yet another torturous workday. The brunette frowned at the dancing object, which was emitting red sparks and whistling loudly, and ceased its motion by firmly grasping the wooden object. After drunkenly stumbling into the bathroom and loading up with several cups of coffee, Hermione headed towards the office, Cho’s planner in one hand, and the morning news in the other. The sky outside was still dark as she commuted to the Ministry, using the handy entrance that was located in a run-down Muggle playground not so far from her flat. It was so early that Ernie Munch hadn’t arrived yet to harass visitors over the suspiciousness of their wands, but Hermione had a little bit of information she wanted to look up before her busy day with Cho officially began.
Seeing as her position allowed her certain liberties, Hermione took a visit to the first floor, where the Ministry registry was housed. Why it was placed in an obscure office was beyond her understanding… The book was thousands upon thousands of pages long, and had information on every witch and wizard in Britain! Hermione was allowed unrestricted access to the book, for Cho hated the thing and made her assistant look up any information she may need about her constituents, such as the marital status of a potential paramour, or whatnot. Hermione hoped the book had the answer to the Malfoys’ current living situation, purely for research purposes, of course.
Hermione had tossed and turned all night, unable to get Draco’s horrified face out of her logical mind. His presence at the Ministry had shocked her to the core, suggesting a duplicity that she hadn’t thought Cho capable of. The young woman had done nothing but whine all week about the faults of the male gender, while she was cheating on Roger with the mysteriously handsome Draco Malfoy. Hermione frowned as her heels clacked against the stone floor, mad at her traitorous mind for adding such adjectives to the spineless git that had made her life at Hogwarts pure hell. She didn’t know which of them to be angrier with: Cho for her scandalous double life, or Draco, for his… sexiness? No! Hermione shook her head angrily, turning into the small “office” that housed the registry, her slim frame fitting into the space that was no larger than a broom cupboard. No, Draco Malfoy was no better than a male prostitute, showing up to the Minister of Magic’s office in such an offensive manner. Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if he actually were a male prostitute! To think what would have happened were she not there, and Cho had been the one to answer the door… Hermione shuddered, turning the immense book’s pages towards the “M” section.
To Hermione’s dismay, The Malfoys were indeed still in London, living in Brixton of all places! Their flat was located close to Loughborough Junction, which alarmed her, for no sane wizard would live in such a dangerous place. Brixton may have been a pleasant place to live before the Second World War, but even after living in relative bliss for the twenty-three years that comprised her life, Hermione knew that Loughborough was the place to score some serious drugs, both Magical and Muggle. This worried Hermione, for the last time she had saw Narcissa Malfoy in passing was at St. Mungo’s, when Ginny dislocated both shoulders for the fifth time. The once-stately woman had looked shrunken and sad, and the healer’s warnings about her nutrition were spoken loud enough for Hermione to absorb, standing halfway down the hall.
Hermione’s humanitarian heart swelled, thinking of the poor woman suffering. Her son the gigolo could writhe in agony for all Hermione cared, but Narcissa Malfoy, who had provided vital information to the Order during the Great Battle, didn’t deserve to live in such squalor. Suddenly, Hermione knew what her after-work plans were.

Hermione chuckled to herself as she signed the little blue memo, the parchment flying quickly out of her little cubicle. Harry had asked her for the fourth time which tie color went best with slate grey, judging it an important enough issue to use Inter-departmental memo. Why he couldn’t ask his fellow Aurors (“You’ve seen them, they’re a bunch of wankers! Creevey doesn’t even wear matching socks half the time!”) or Ginny (“She’s away in Romania at a game, I can’t very well send her an owl and hope it doesn’t fly right onto the pitch!”) for fashion advice, Hermione honestly didn’t know. It had been a hectic day, and Harry’s constant badgering hadn’t made her workload any easier. Cho was in an absolute tizzy, seeing as she had gained enough weight to the point that her niece called her plump, and had an important bill she’d authored fail, both in the same exact day! Hermione had shut her up in her office with a box of tissues and Darjeeling, telling her boss to focus on the speech that she was to give that evening.
Hermione had been on her feet nearly all day, and was glad to be going home early, eager to exchange her heels for something more comfortable. Then it was off to the Malfoys’ for a visit, and if Hermione had any luck, Draco would be nowhere within a three-kilometer radius. Around six in the evening she would have to be at Cho’s penthouse in Chelsea to help her superior put on her gown, go over her speech, and solve any last-minute disasters. Then she could go home and stumble into bed, thanking the gods that tomorrow was indeed Friday.
Hermione Flooed home, trailing a spectacular cloud of dust, knowing that she had no time to take the usual stroll back to her apartment, opting instead for Wizarding transportation. Once inside the comfort of her bedroom, Hermione shed her clothing, walking around completely nude save for her stockings. She may be a straight-laced, no-nonsense woman in public, but there was something seductively empowering to Hermione about being naked within the confines of her own home, as if she had a sexy secret that no one knew about. Such an exciting kick was quickly halted, however, as Hermione slipped on the necessary undergarments and pulled her cocktail dress out of the closet. It was relatively modest, made of a black silky material that fell to just above her calves. Black lace lined the v-neckline, and the fluttery sleeves were made of the same lacey pattern. A thick black sash defined her waist, but Hermione knew that no one would pay her the slightest attention, due to years of forgetting how to apply glamour charms and enchantments that would help tame her bushy mane. She tied her hair up in a bun, grabbed a pair of ballet flats and a jacket, and joined the other walkers milling about on the busy London streets.
After taking the tube and nearly being beheaded by a pair of housepainters, Hermione arrived at the Malfoy residence, a shabby little flat squeezed in between a butcher and an abandoned optometrist’s office. The brunette stood nervously on the sidewalk, debating whether she should actually knock on the door, or go surprise Harry with tea like a sane witch would. Summoning all her Gryffindor courage, Hermione delicately pressed the buzzer, taking a step back in case the Ferret came barreling through the entrance. A few moments later, the door creaked open just a fraction, one bright blue eye staring out inquisitively.
“Hermione Granger?” came a reedy feminine voice, the door opening slightly more.
“Narcissa Malfoy?” Hermione replied cheerfully, a shy smile gracing her lips, “I saw that that your family was still living in London, and just thought I would stop by a visit?”
Her reasoning sounded weak when spoken, making Hermione cringe at her own stupidity. She barely knew the Malfoys, what was she doing meddling in their lives? Surprisingly, her friendly manner seemed to win over Mrs. Malfoy, who opened the front door to reveal a pleasant smile on her pale face. She was just as sickly and spindly as when Hermione saw her at St. Mungo’s, her blond hair lank and dull. Luckily, Narcissa’s overall appearance was saved by her bright countenance, making her look as considerate as Molly Weasley.
“Oh, do come in!” Narcissa responded in a motherly tone, ushering Hermione into the very small, and very dark hallway. “We don’t have much, I’m afraid… it’s a good thing we never have visitors, it’d be simply embarrassing to entertain. Actually, I think you’re the first to come see us!”
Hermione’s eyebrows rose, viewing the portrait of a rose garden while Narcissa shut the door, blocking the busy bustle from the street. “I’m your first visitor?” Hermione inquired. “How sad! I hope I’m not interrupting anything…”
“Oh, not at all!” Narcissa exclaimed, leading Hermione the few feet to the sitting room/kitchen, which was the size of Hermione’s room back at her parents’ home. “Draco’s sleeping, of course, and I was just about to make some tea… I’m afraid we don’t have any biscuits…”
“Oh, tea is just fine,” Hermione responded softly, sinking into a worn armchair next to the little fireplace. Her big brown eyes took in the interior of the room, a few small chairs and a shaggy carpet matching the slate color of the walls. Narcissa sighed as she brought the tea set in, noticing Hermione’s speculative gaze. Hermione’s eyes fell upon a silvery chain that linked Narcissa’s wrists, surprised that it limited none of the blonde’s motion.
“Oh yes, the place is bloody depressing, but what can we do?” Narcissa replied glumly, shaking Hermione from her thoughts. The older woman settled across from the brunette, gently stirring in her teacup.
Hermione responded with a small smile, it slightly faltering with the taste of the tepid, flavorless tea that she was served. Narcissa seemed nothing short of ecstatic that Hermione had come to call, eyeing the brunette excitedly.
“So, Miss Granger, what do you do?” Narcissa asked inquisitively, “Are you still working for the Ministry?”
Hermione’s smile grew, despite the fact that she felt so overdressed in the tiny, shabby flat. She balanced her saucer on one knee, determined not to drink one more drop of the disgusting concoction. “Why yes, I do. I’m working as Minister Chang’s personal assistant.”
Narcissa choked at Hermione’s last words, quickly recovering before Hermione could come to her aid. “Thank you, my dear,” Narcissa coughed out, dabbing at her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “So, Cho Chang’s assistant? That must be a very… interesting job!”
“It certainly is,” Hermione responded slowly, eyes still large from the unexpected interruption and the bizarre situation she found herself in. “Does Draco work at a Ministry office? I daresay I haven’t see him in quite some time…”
Narcissa’s eyebrows shot up into her colorless hairline, mouth parting slightly. “Oh no, no, Draco doesn’t work for the Ministry, he’s—“
“—working at a bloody Muggle diner!” interrupted Draco, who had stumbled down the stairs and into the parlor, hair mussed and irritation painted across his face. “Granger, what the fuck are you doing here?”
Narcissa sucked in a copious amount of air as Hermione stood up, face flushing a deep scarlet shade. “Mal-Malfoy! I thought you were sleeping!”
“I was sleeping,” the blond snarled, shooting the brunette a dirty look. “But Mother had another one of her coughing fits, and I could hear it through the fucking floorboards! Mother, when are you going to see a bloody physician?!”
Narcissa squeaked, joining the couple on her feet. “It was nothing, Draco, don’t worry. And give our guest more respect! Such horrible language in front of a young woman, you should be ashamed! Is my darling Draco still twelve, or a grown man?”
The fire evident in Draco’s smoky grey eyes dampened, and he turned to his mother apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t blame it on sleep… but it’s been a long time.”
“It has been a long time,” Hermione responded quietly, causing Draco’s intense gaze to settle on her face once again. The brunette was careful to avoid his eyes, not wanting to soil another pair of knickers on his behalf.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” Narcissa chirped, snapping the duo back to reality. Draco looked around the sitting room and sighed.
“Mother, we don’t have enough chairs. You and Miss Granger can sit, I’ll simply stand.”
Hermione got a bit of a thrill from hearing her name on Draco’s lips, his sharp accent making it seem musical, seductive, like a call to a most beloved lover. While Narcissa began to prattle on about events in The Daily Prophet, Hermione watched Draco busy himself in the kitchen, one sinewy forearm reaching for the tea. He was even more beautiful than she had remembered, milky skin striking against the white button-down and black work slacks. And that silvery-blond hair that fell into his eyes and curled around his shirt collar… Hermione tried her best not to drool, which was made easy by another Narcissa coughing fit.
“Mother!” Draco exclaimed, by her side in a flash, “Breathe slowly, breathe slowly. Does it feel like there’s something in your lungs?”
Hermione was on Narcissa’s other side, gently rubbing the frail woman’s back, eyes transfixed on Draco’s face, the young man looking positively magnificent in his fear. He gently pressed a handkerchief to his mother’s mouth, brow relaxing as Narcissa’s coughs lessened.
“It feels like there’s…fluid,” Narcissa choked out, as Draco heaved her childlike body up and into his arms like a ragdoll. Hermione gasped softly, placing a hand over her mouth as Draco walked his mother up the stairs, presumably putting her to bed to get some rest
“Mum, you’ve most likely got pneumonia…We need to see someone…” Draco’s baritone drifted softly down the stairs, while Hermione stood in the parlor, feeling as if she’d opened up a can of worms. She swiftly collected her handbag, and was out the front door in a manner of moments. The brunette was about to turn the corner when she heard a familiar voice cry out, the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Granger! Granger, wait!” Draco called, as Hermione spun around to see the blond heading in her direction, hair tousled about by the wind. The young man stopped before her, setting a hand upon her shoulder in an affectionate gesture.
“Listen, Granger…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude, I’ve really just forgotten how to socialize,” he apologized awkwardly, a sheepish grin on his face. “And I about shit myself when you caught me last night, and I was worried you’d told mother about my sheer stupidity.”
Hermione felt a shy grin creep onto her features, although the tightness in her chest from witnessing the previous scene did not disappear. “It’s okay, Malfoy. I had no right to barge in your house in such a manner, and it seems like you’ve got enough problems to deal with…”
Hermione could see sympathy in the tempest of his silvery gaze, and Draco approached closer, a long finger brushing her face. “You’re crying, Granger,” he whispered, and Hermione suddenly noticed the wetness that had lined her eyes since leaving the Malfoy residence. Draco’s skillful, calloused fingers brushed her tears away, and the blond gave her a half-smile, holding out his arm.
“Shall we?” Malfoy asked nicely, “I know this nice little park a few blocks from here. I feel like we should come to an understanding.” The chain linking his wrists together was somewhat menacing, but Hermione guessed it would cause her no harm.
She nodded gently while taking hold of his bicep, letting herself be lead down the street to their destination. She had no idea what the fuck was going on, and had certainly not expected going on a walk through Brixton with Draco Malfoy, of all people, in a black cocktail dress and flats. He was looking down at her wistfully, obviously not as affected as she was by his scalding touch, his feet leading a confident path down the street.
“She likes you, you know,” Draco replied quietly, clutching her arm the slightest bit closer.
“You mean, your mother?” Hermione responded confusedly, her brown eyes meeting his grey ones.
“Yes. Mother usually hides from strangers, the fact that she let you in was extraordinary. I daresay she’ll want you to visit again, once she is feeling less under the weather.”
Hermione smiled softly at the ground, a few people staring at the couple while passing on the street, for they seemed like such a perfect pair, the brilliant blond and the vivacious brunette.
“Might I ask,” Draco continued, his voice taking on a slightly suspicious tone, “Why you came by my apartment the night after seeing me in only my underthings?”
Hermione’s face flushed bright red at the memory, her mouth falling open in ungraceful embarrassment. She tried to organize her thoughts, but found that she could only babble incoherently in response.
“Well… you see, I wasn’t being a stalker, exactly…”
Draco let out a booming laugh, an absolutely adorable grin lighting up his entire face. “Ah, I see… So you were just hoping you could see another glimpse of this delicious body!”
Hermione blushed again, noticing that pathetically, his observation was partially correct. “You’re making fun of me, you twat! No, I just noticed that you were still in London, and I thought that was somewhat unusual…”
The blond had been smiling up until her words, where a gloomy cast fell over his face, thin lips forming themselves in a frown. “Oh yes… we still live in London, unfortunately.”
“But why?” Hermione questioned, brow furrowed, “The Witness Protection Program for Death Eater families was specially designed to keep you safe and far from harm!”
Draco laughed harshly. “I don’t know about ‘safe and far from harm’, but it is true that through the program, most of the witches and wizards are placed abroad. Ours… is a special case.”
Hermione’s eyebrows raised, following Draco as he rounded the corner, the park just a few paces away. “But why? Seeing as your father was one of Voldemort’s most trusted associates, wouldn’t it be best for you to leave the country?”
Malfoy sighed bitterly as the two of them passed through the archway, his thin frame detaching from Hermione’s and settling into a swing. “The problem with the Witness Protection Program is,” Draco began, as Hermione sat in a swing by his side, “Is that Pureblood families are relocated, then virtually ignored. As you can see by our charmed bracelets—“ Draco gestured to the thin silver handcuffs, “—we are unable to do any sort of magic, verbal and non-verbal, and are barred from working for any sort of Magical Institution— such is our penance. The only medical care we are able to receive is Muggle, which frightens my mother, further worsening her condition. Blaise always complains that being in the program is worse than death, and sometimes, I have to agree with him.”
His reverie finished, the blond dreamily looked to the distance, the creases in his forehead belonging to someone three times his age. Hermione was horrified by his words, but tried to give him some comfort, ever so gently setting a hand on his arm.
“But you’ve got a job, so you can support your mother! What’s wrong with that? There are many unemployed in such times…”
“Believe me, I know,” Draco responded with a soft chuckle, “It feels like all I do is work anymore… eight hour shifts at the diner, spending the wee hours at—“
At this point, Draco stopped talking, looking back at Hermione nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing anxiously. “Never mind me,” he said, a smile slipping onto his features, “Things aren’t so bad.”
It had always been Hermione’s job to be perceptive, not only as a member of the female gender, but as a daughter, friend, and employee. Despite her anxiety concerning the big meeting in just a few short hours, in which she’d have to fake a smile and follow Cho around like a lapdog, the brunette could tell that something very, very fishy was occurring inside the Malfoy household, something that would require Draco to retreat into himself.
“Malfoy,” Hermione asked softly, leaning in his direction, “What is it? You can tell me… Are you selling illegal cauldrons?”
Draco looked back at her with incredulity, and then shook his head with a small laugh. “Cauldrons? Merlin, Granger, what the fuck do you take me for, a Creevey? No, I don’t deal in cauldrons… But if I tell you this, mum’s the word, okay? Especially to your boss!”
Hermione raised an eyebrow at the mention of Cho, but nodded, holding up her hand in an oath. “I swear, Malfoy. You’ve got enough bloody misfortune in your life.”
Draco’s gaze drifted to her own, the steel gray orbs deeming her unable to move in their brilliance. His large hands reached over to cover her smaller ones, Hermione clutching the swing chain in nervousness.
“Hermione,” he spoke softly, just above a whisper, “It’s insane, it’s twisted and wrong and I hate it… but I’m Cho Chang’s Pureblood Pet.”

To be continued…