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The Malfoys had been in the business of smuggling artefacts since the beginnings of organised crime. Then along came the upstart who ruined everything.
They called her La Petite Mort in his circle. But Draco knew there wasn't anything French about her. And the version of her he'd known once upon a time had been so uptight, he doubted very much she was an expert in executing actual deaths.
Admittedly, she was extremely attractive now which is probably what had earned her the moniker. That and the fact she was a devious vixen. A fact that Draco knew all too well after the previous week.
It had started last Thursday…
Thursday
"Draco, if you fuck this up I will personally see to it that your favourite broomstick is permanently relocated somewhere you won't enjoy."
Draco recoiled. "You mean…" He gestured to his nethers with a tilt of his head.
Lucius frowned. "No, moron! I'll give it to Hogwarts to use as a practice broom."
Draco shuddered.
So he'd begrudgingly made his way to Rome and posed as a tourist, pretending to be enraptured by all of the sights and riches the Vatican had to offer. He'd used his decoy wand to gain entrance into the magical enclave, which was monitored by a convent of angry looking nuns— and one notably attractive nun.
He winked at her as he pretended to look at a magical portrait of Julius Caesar, wishing he could get a peek under her habit. Only the threat of his father touching his broomstick made him regain focus.
As planned, at precisely noon an enormous dragon came hurtling through the large glass window. He nodded to himself, pleased with the punctuality.
Cleverly, Draco was wearing dragon-hide leather under his Hawaiian shirt and was impervious to all the smoke and bother.
While everyone was distracted— ducking and screaming or clawing at their boiling skin— he strolled up to the display case where he would find what he had come for: The Veil of Saint Verena.
But it was already missing, the glass case open— still swinging on its hinges.
Alarmed, he spun around.
The attractive nun winked at him from across the gallery floor, and disappeared through the ruined window, her habit trailing behind her.
Friday
Draco was in a bad mood. His Father had confiscated his prized broom. That, and the elves had used robusta instead of arabica for his coffee. Despicable.
When he managed to sneak into the Kremlin disguised as a member of the Presidential Regiment, he was in no mood to be trifled with.
It was supposed to be a quick in and out. Steal the diamond, replace it with a fake, and be on his merry way.
This time he hadn't even hired any dragons, which was a shame…
Imagine his surprise when he managed to lose the rest of his regiment and sneak into the Presidential Quarters undiscovered only to find a familiar witch already there. She was standing over a lightly snoring man, holding a large diamond in her hand.
"La Petite Mort!" he accused and then felt ashamed of himself for perpetuating the legend.
She turned, flicking her long brown hair out of her face and giving him a clear view of exactly who he was looking at. Cinnamon coloured eyes met his own.
"Hello Malfoy."
"No!"
Hermione. Fucking. Granger.
And then there was a flash of light and she was gone. So was the diamond.
It was just him and the man who was notably drunk, almost completely nude and strangely buff for an old guy.
Disgusted he turned on his heel and left. Pondering all the while what his father would do to him this time.
Saturday
On Saturday, his father threatened to pour scorpions on him while he slept, so he figured he better do his duty and keep the family business afloat.
The next item on the Malfoy agenda was The Brazen Head of Roger Bacon. His sources had located it as part of a private collection, owned by an old-money wizard who lived just outside Oxford.
Aiming to keep things simple this time, he arrived and promptly lit the large house on fire, making liberal use of his dragon-hide suit again. It had the added benefit of making him look very roguish, which the ladies enjoyed— so he tried to factor it into his heists as often as possible.
As the inhabitants of the building poured outwards with billows of smoke, he calmly walked through the front door. His sources had told him that the artefact would be on the top floor, in a small study at the end of the hall.
By the time he got there, the house was already filled with smoke but, being a renowned genius, he'd cast a bubble-head charm and was unaffected.
When he entered the room, La Petite Mort was crouched, trying desperately to get a window open as she coughed and spluttered in a very undignified way.
"Are you a witch or not, Granger?" he asked, waltzing right up to her and yanking the small bronze artefact from beneath her arm.
She turned and looked at him— her eyes wide with shock.
And probably amazement, let's be honest.
He smirked. Then he turned on his heel and disapparated.
Sunday
On Sunday, she appeared to be waiting for him.
His previous good mood— on account of the fact that his father gave him an almost approving nod— vanished immediately.
"No," he barked. "Get lost."
She pouted. He noted with alarm that she had very full lips which looked quite soft and kissable.
"Malfoy, I thought we had a good thing going?"
"We do not!" he informed her, "You've annoyed me greatly. Even more than back in school and you were very annoying in school."
"Oh come on now, surely we can come to some kind of arrangement?"
He crossed his arms and stared at her, "Is this your first time being a criminal? We don't share turf and you're very firmly stomping all over mine. Father is most displeased!"
"Oh well, if Daddy Lucius is upset— we can't have that, can we?"
"What happened Granger? I thought you were a law abiding ministry drone. Did Potter get sick of you, or did you just grow bored with your mediocre life?"
She laughed and shrugged, "The latter, mostly. I was sitting at my desk one day, thinking about all the adventures I'd had when I was young and it occurred to me that I'd peaked in school. Can you imagine?"
He could not— having publicly troughed in school.
"So you're stealing things for fun, are you?"
She smiled at him. It was vicious.
"That and money."
He sighed, "Listen, if you interfere with any more of my jobs, I'm going to have to do something about it. Do you understand who I am? The kinds of people I associate with?" he eyed her. "A little thing like you— it wouldn't take much. We'd make it look like an accident, of course."
She lifted a single, arched brow but otherwise said nothing.
"Scram!"
"And what if I do?"
"Do what?"
"Interfere in your next job?"
"Don't you dare!"
"Oops, too late," she blew him a kiss and waggled her ring finger at him. On it was an ornate ruby ring— the cursed ring of Mary Queen of Scots. In other words: his current job.
And then she disapparated with a loud pop.
Bitch.
Monday
He had it on good authority that she didn't work mondays and had let his guard down. He'd taken the day off to play gobstones with Goyle.
The next day, the papers were all reporting she had stolen The Sword of Charlemagne right out of the Louvre.
Diabolical.
Wednesday
He'd felt a small pang of guilt when he'd hired the assassins to murder Hermione Granger. Not enough to put him off his breakfast but still, it was a bit of a waste. She was very conniving and quite pretty.
He put down his hard-boiled egg in concern. He wasn’t developing a conscience, was he?
All the same, when his father dispatched him to liberate the Voynich Manuscript from Yale University, he had done so with a light heart and a skip in his step— knowing that La Petite Mort was now, in fact, La Vraie Mort.
When he finally arrived at Beinecke's Rare Books and Manuscripts Library he barely spared a thought for the sleek glass building and its countless treasures. It was encased in an almost transparent, and very strange, marble cocoon— all the glass and marble would make setting it on fire rather difficult.
And he didn't have any dragons on hand so he was probably going to have to invest some of his own blood and sweat into this one, which he hated to do.
Fully disillusioned, he made his way to the vaults.
Granger waited for him by the entrance again. Very much not dead.
He scowled at her and walked right past, ignoring her as her heavy footsteps echoed after his own.
"Why are you walking around like a club-footed cave troll? This is a heist!"
"Why are you walking around like your trousers are too tight?"
They were rather tight. Particularly in the crotch area but he did it for the ladies…
He opened his mouth to retort but just ahead he caught sight of shadowy movement.
"Did you know they had a guard dog?"
"No!"
"I hate dogs!" he whined (but it was dignified).
"Well, this one has three heads— triple the heads to hate."
One of the heads came out of the shadows and lunged at them. He accidentally pushed Granger to the ground when he dodged— regrettably his reflexes were superior.
"I've got a trick for this one," she told him, nodding at the Cerberus, and then she conjured a small ocarina and began to play a lilting melody which was… confusing.
And then the dog slumped to the ground and began to snore, in a dead sleep.
He stared at it for a moment, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened .
"I told you," she said banishing the tiny instrument, "I have professional experience as Harry Potter's best friend— it uniquely qualifies me for this line of work."
The manuscript sat on a plinth just behind the sleeping dog. He eyed her and then, using his ample brain power — had the genius idea of sweeping her legs out from under her so she plummeted back down to the floor .
"Hey!"
Tucking the manuscript into his jacket, he was already running for the door.
She followed and she was faster than he expected. Just as he was about to make it through the door and out of the vaults, she tackled him to the ground.
They wrestled. He pinned her and gave her a vicious Chinese burn that had her hissing and him riding high on victory. And then she kneed him in the solar plexus.
He wasn't really sure how it happened. One minute they were fighting, scrabbling at each other, the next his dragon-hide trousers were around his ankles and she was riding him like a broomstick.
"What is happening?" he asked the room at large.
"You're getting fucked," Hermione Granger answered.
Evidently. He couldn't say he was mad about it.
She came. And then he came in a confusing explosion of semen and affectionate thoughts.
Then she leaned down and gave him the most thorough and punishing kiss of his life.
"It's just business, Draco," she whispered after. Then she patted him on the cheek, pulled on her clothes and disappeared.
It wasn't until later that he realised the manuscript was missing from his coat-pocket.
There were only two options that he could see: he either had to kill her or marry her into the family business.
And since he'd already failed miserably at the former, he supposed he'd try for the latter.