Chapter 22: Knives and Whiskey
The knife hit the table with a final, vibrating thud, its silver handle still humming. It stood between Marcus Flint’s splayed fingers, the point driven deep into the polished wood.
The chatter in their corner of the Three Broomsticks died instantly.
Flint stared at the blade, then at his own hand, as if unsure they were connected. The firewhisky haze in his eyes cleared, replaced by a slow-dawning shock. He withdrew his hand, flexing his fingers.
Hermione didn’t jump. A strange calm had settled over her the moment she’d seen the familiar silver flash. She turned her head slowly, following the trajectory.
Draco leaned against the worn post beside their alcove, looking as if he’d been there for hours. He picked a piece of lint from his black sweater, his expression one of mild boredom. Only his eyes, mercury-sharp in the flickering candlelight, held a lethal kind of focus.
“Malfoy,” Flint spat, the word sour with booze and embarrassment.
“Flint.” Draco pushed off the post and strolled over, the crowd parting for him without a sound. He plucked the knife from the table with a smooth, practiced twist. “You’re dripping on the lady’s notes.” He didn’t look at Hermione. His attention was a physical weight pressing Flint into his seat.
Flint’s tankard had sloshed cheap wine across the parchment. The purple stain bled into her carefully drawn star charts.
“I was just offering–” Flint began, his voice too loud.
“She prefers,” Draco cut in, his voice a low, conversational drawl that somehow carried over the resumed murmurs of the pub, “men who don’t reek of desperation. And stale hops.” He finally glanced at Hermione, a flicker of assessment. “Or are my notes outdated?”
Hermione met his gaze. The coat he’d given her on the tower was hanging in her room, but she could still feel its weight, his scent on the collar. She carefully blotted the wine from her parchment with a clean napkin. “No,” she said, her voice clear. “Your notes are accurate.”
Flint looked between them, the dynamic dawning on him—the private current that hummed in the space between their locked eyes. He sneered, a weak, ugly thing. “Figures. Intellectuals sticking together. Should’ve known you’d need a… tutor.”
Draco’s smile was a thin, cold slash. He leaned down, planting his hands on the table, caging Flint in. “Run along, Marcus. Your IQ is dropping the temperature in here.”
Flint shoved back his chair, the legs screeching against the floorboards. He shot Hermione a last, venomous look, then vanished into the smoky crowd, his broad shoulders hunched in defeat.
Draco watched him go, then slid into the vacant seat opposite her. He placed the cleaned knife on the table between them, handle pointing toward her. An offering. A question.
The alcove felt smaller with him in it. The velvet of the bench seemed to absorb all other sound, leaving only the crackle of the nearby fire and the rapid beat of her own heart. The scent of him—petrichor and clean wool—cut through the smells of ale and damp parchment.
“You carry a knife,” she stated, nodding at the blade.
“For opening letters,” Draco said, his thumb tracing the engraved handle. “And for discouraging poor conversationalists.” He pushed it an inch closer to her. “It’s cleaner than a hex in a public place.”
Hermione didn’t touch it. She studied the intricate scrolling, the unmistakable crest worn smooth. “It looks old.”
“It was my grandfather’s.” He leaned back, watching her examine it. The firelight caught the platinum in his hair and the flat grey of his eyes. “He believed in beautiful, functional things. Tools shouldn’t be crude just because their purpose is.”
The statement hung there, loaded. A log shifted in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the flue. She finally reached out, her fingers brushing the cold metal. It was heavier than it looked.
“You’re not shocked?” he asked. His voice was quieter now, meant only for her.
“Should I be?” She turned the knife, watching the light slide along the blade. “After the Astronomy Tower, a blade seems almost mundane.”
A slow smile touched his lips, approval flickering in his gaze. “That’s my point.” He took a deliberate sip from the untouched tumbler of firewhisky Flint had left behind. He didn’t flinch at the taste. “Flint sees a thing and thinks only of possession. You see a thing and wonder about its history, its weight, its use.”
He was right. She was already cataloging the balance in her hand, the craftsmanship. It was a beautiful, functional thing. Her eyes lifted to his. “And what do you see?”
“Potential.” The word was immediate. He held her look, the noise of the pub fading to a distant rumble. “Unrecognized, certainly. But immense.” He nodded toward the knife. “Keep it.”
Her fingers tightened around the handle. “I can’t.”
“You can.” He finished the drink, set the glass down with a soft click. “Consider it a study aid. Next time some drunken ox lumbers over, you won’t need to wait for me to materialize.” He said it lightly, but the undercurrent was serious. “I don’t always want to share your attention.”
The possessive note in his voice should have bristled her. Instead, a warm, secret thrill traveled down her spine. She slid the knife into her own bag, the weight a strange comfort. “Afraid I’ll find a better tutor?”
Draco’s laugh was short, genuine. “There is no better tutor.” He said it as a simple fact, devoid of arrogance. “Because I’m the only one who knows what you’re actually studying.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. The memory of the tower, of her knees on the cold stone and the taste of him, was a living thing between them. “And what’s that?”
“Power.” He leaned forward again, his arms crossing on the table. The space between them charged, squeezing the air from the alcove. “Not over others. Over yourself. Your own reactions, your desires, your limits.” His eyes dropped to her mouth for a heartbeat. “You started with theory. Now you’re in the lab. The experiments are… hands-on.”
Hermione’s breath shallowed. The academic metaphor was a thin veil, and they both knew it. “What’s the next experiment?”
He watched her for a long moment, reading the bold curiosity in her eyes. He stood up, the motion smooth, and extended a hand. “A change of venue. This place is full of prying eyes and spilled drinks.”
She looked at his hand, then placed hers in it. His fingers closed around hers, warm and firm. He pulled her to her feet, closer than necessary. The scent of him, now mixed with the smoky peat of the firewhisky, was intoxicating.
“Where?” she asked, her voice barely above the pub’s din.
“Somewhere you can make noise,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He didn’t wait for an answer, just led her through the press of bodies, his grip on her hand an unbreakable tether into the dark.