PROLOGUE

Sam had found him – yet again – sprawled across his favorite table situated in the center of his bar and restaurant, The Haven. He was facing the grand piano, which glistened from the afternoon sunlight. Two empty bottles rested on the wine-stained tablecloth, and the scarlet ashtray was filled to the brim. A game of solitaire lay unfinished.

"Mister Malfoy?" Sam said, cautiously. The figure, tightly holding a black wooden stick, did not move.

He tried once more and gently gave him a nudge. An incoherent murmur escaped his lips.

"Best you settle back in your bed, Mister Malfoy, before the night starts again," Sam suggested as he dragged the almost lifeless body to his feet and towards the marble staircase, leading them to the owner's private chambers.

Had he been sober, Mister Malfoy would not have permitted their proximity. His employer's arm was slung over his shoulder as he gripped his waistband to support both of them all the way to the top of the stairs. 'Never touch another Muggle in my life' Sam had heard him say during one of his more violent drinking sprees.

He had been working for Draco Malfoy long enough to know what Muggle meant, but sometimes he still found it hard to believe – his employer's past had been rather curious. Even with Sam's humble education, he initially thought this man, who seemed to be made of ice – cold, pale and rigid – was mad. It wasn't until one night in Paris, not too long ago, after a bottle of wine and losing some inhibition did he show to Sam the things that he could conjure with a flick of his stick – no, his wand.

The drinking worsened when they left Paris. With the amount of alcohol and frequency of having to care for his boss the morning after, Sam concluded that he had reason to believe his master was trying to kill himself, slowly.

"Thank you, Sam," Draco managed to say as he was laid on his bed.

"No problem, Mister Malfoy," he replied as he pulled out the shoes and socks from his master's feet. "It's a good thing I came in early to help clean up the bar."

The band's call time was six o' clock in the evening, but coming in earlier just because he knew Draco would be drunk and passed out in the bar had become a habit, which Draco eventually understood. Sam had wanted to return his raise when the paycheck came, but his boss had only said: "Either you take it, Sam, or I break your fingers and you won't be able to play a single instrument in your life again." He had taken his employer's word as kindness.

He was already by the door when Draco spoke. "Close the curtains. The sun is hurting my eyes."

He often wondered how Draco Malfoy found comfort in the dark. "Yes, sir."

PART 1

No one expected the Second Wizarding War to last this long – it has been six years since the Battle of Hogwarts, six years since he had begun to take flight. To Draco Malfoy, it didn't matter whose side one fought for, nobody was winning.

He sometimes wondered how different his life would have been if Harry Potter had not become Master of Death, as people put it. Voldemort would have won, but would he have let him or his family live? Would he ever find out that it was Severus Snape who finished his task, and not him?

Hogwarts would have gone to ruins no doubt, and he didn't care any less. He'd never given much regard to his classmates and professors before, at least, at that time.

Had Voldemort won, the Malfoys would have stayed in England – possibly tortured, though, for his father's insolence and his own failure – but at least Paris would never have happened.

Draco adjusted the sleeves of his black suit and checked his reflection in the mirror one last time. People were always surprised to find out he was only a man of twenty-three. His platinum blond hair, which used to fall down to his collar, was now cut nice and clean. He kept his velvet beard unshaven, keeping a five o' clock shadow that served as a last disguise – a mask – of his true self. It seemed that only his pale gray eyes stayed the same. He looked head to toe as Muggle as one could be, except for a secret breast pocket where his wand lay hidden, obscured to the rest of the world. Wars had a tendency to change people.

He pat the wand out of habit before locking the door to his chambers and proceeded down the marble staircase. He could already hear the music from Sam's piano.

Six years ago, when Voldemort had disappeared just before Potter could have defeated him at Hogwarts, his Death Eaters had followed suit and Apparated back to the Forbidden Forest. However, Lucius Malfoy had other things in mind. "Home," he had whispered urgently in Draco's ear. In an instant Draco's surroundings transformed from the pile of rubble that was once Hogwarts to the dark, drawing room of the Malfoy Manor. What happened afterwards was a blur of movement and heartbeats and spells casted all around in frenzy as his mother and father packed their belongings in their luggage.

Draco had been frozen the whole time. His face was covered in dirt and he smelled of burned hair and cloth, from the fire that took Goyle's life. "Where are we going? What about our money? What are you doing?"

"Keeping my family alive, boy!" his father had yelled. "The Order might have won the battle tonight but as long as the Dark Lord is alive, the war is not over yet. They will be searching for us soon, both of them! The Order andthe Death Eaters!"

"Incendio," Narcissa Malfoy trembled as she said the incantation. The bright orange fire contrasted against the heavy drapes of their home.

"Mother!" Draco shouted, running towards her. "What's going on?"

His mother cupped his face and looked at him straight in the eye. Her violet eyes were dancing with the fire. Her voice shook, but she looked determined. "It's all for the best, Draco. Your father and I talked about this. It's all for the best."

"Why don't we… " Draco stammered. "We could go to the Order. Dumbledore offered-"

"The dead can't hear us, son!" More and more bags emerged as his mother shouted frantic orders to the house-elves.

"But we can't just leave! Father has a position in the Ministry! If we leave that means we've given up!"

Draco hadn't seen it coming, but the pain of Lucius' backhand had suddenly stung the left side of his face. A thin trail of blood appeared from where his father's wedding ring had struck his cheekbone. His vision had become blurry until he realized it was because of the tears that had started to form.

"Lucius!" his mother gasped. For a moment, the Malfoy Mansion was on a standstill except for the crackling of the flames and the busy footsteps of the house-elves.

"Listen to me boy, and listen to me good," his father shouted through gritted teeth. "Don't you ever, ever tell yourself or anybody else that we have given up! Malfoys never surrender! The real enemy is Death, and that's exactly who we are trying to defeat! Prove to me that I no longer have a child to take care of!" he had said, grabbing his son by the arms and shaking him. "Show us the man your mother and I have raised!"

Draco slammed his palms against his father's chest. Lucius had staggered back in surprise. "I am no longer a child!" he shouted. "I was ready to kill a man for MY FAMILY!" Draco rolled up his sleeve to reveal the snake that had been burning in his arm all night long. "I took the Dark Mark IN YOUR PLACE! Are you telling me that it's still not enough?"

Narcissa's shriek suddenly filled the mansion's hall. "The Death Eaters! They've gotten past the gates!"

"Why do you hide from me, Lucius?"

The Dark Lord was still a few feet away from the Malfoy Mansion's front door but they could already hear the malice in his voice ringing in their ears. They heard it in their bones and in their heads. There was no escape. Draco's knees gave in; the Mark on Draco's arm started burning and sending jolts of pain to his brain. He looked over at his father who balled his fists and had bitten his lips to keep from crying out. Not answering their Lord's summons was unbearable.

"LUCIUS!" Voldemort had screamed this time. Draco heard their window panes being broken one by one. It would be moments before the Death Eaters would march up and invade their own home.

"There's no time," his father breathed. "Narcissa! Hand me the Portkey!"

"No!" Draco shouted, finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together. "No! I'll stay with you!"

"The odds are against us, son." His father had knelt on the floor and given him a little chest box that opened to his mother's favorite emerald earrings. The jewelry was bigger than Galleons. "We have to keep the Malfoy line alive," he said, gripping his son hard by the arms. "You will go on, Draco."

"Cissy, you big fat LIAR!" screamed his Aunt Bellatrix, her high-pitched laughter getting closer. "Wait till we cast the Killing Curse on your son! Maybe this time you'll get it right!"

"Please, Father, don't!" Draco had shaken his head furiously. He didn't know if it was sweat or tears that stung his eyes. "Let me stay! I want to be with you! We have to protect mother! This is suicide!"

Narcissa knelt down with the two most important men of her life, and for a while, her voice was calm. "No darling," she whispered, and pulled her son up. She had stood on her toes to give her only son a lingering kiss on the forehead. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling. "This is sacrifice. Don't ever be scared. We love you, Draco."

He saw it, then. Amidst the flames that seemed to engulf the only home he knew, before the Death Eaters blew the heavy oak door of the Malfoy Mansion to a thousand pieces, before he left his life behind, his father had approved of him. A moment later, he saw the familiar lights of the River Seine.

PART 2

"Come now, Bruce, you must tell Monsieur Malfoy to join us for a round of drinks," Madame Mandino called out to the floor manager of The Haven.

The table was filled with government officials and their wives, and they were already on their third bottle of Moet. The company roared with laughter at private jokes about the Prime Minister, but once in a while took hesitant glances around the room. The Haven was known to have loyal customers in high positions from both the public and private sectors of the country. Casablanca had eyes and ears everywhere.

"Madame, I am very sorry to say, but Monsieur Malfoy sends his regards. He never drinks with his customers, he never does," Bruce smiled apologetically. He was a small man with a round face and a protruding belly, with an eternal hint of kindness in his eyes. His graying hair matched his white tuxedo which he often made sure was in place.

"Well, that's such a pity then," Madame Mandino replied. "I have always wanted to ask him myself of his origins, what did he do before Casablanca, what his name means."

"Oh I assure you, Madame, Draco Malfoy does not talk much about his past," Bruce laughed. "All I know is that he comes from England. But if you'd like, I have plenty more stories about clients that come and go here, each one as juicy as the next."

"Then have a glass with us instead, Bruce, and start your stories!" Monsieur Riviera hiccupped, and raised his glass to his eventual intoxication.

Bruce has accepted all kinds of visitors for The Haven, from young couples who like to sit in private corners and whisper words of love in the candlelight, to expatriates and highbred citizens and foreigners curious about the reputation of the new saloon that has taken over Casablanca. The food was exquisite and out of this world. The liquor collection was impressive, massive and some were even unheard of. The Haven never seemed to run out of anything; as if it was built by magic, one client had said, but Bruce merely took it as a compliment for Monsieur Malfoy and dismissed it immediately.

And then, there were the others. Tired and weary, they seem to go to The Haven just to quench their thirst and never for revelry. They dressed in an odd fashion, but Bruce never questioned anyone's sense of style. Oddly enough, these were the people Monsieur Malfoy lingered with the most. There were times when he shook hands with them; sometimes they talked in low voices that Bruce wondered how they could hear each other through Sam's piano and the band's music. Other times when people like them looked for him, Monsieur Malfoy would ask Bruce to lie and tell them he was elsewhere.

"I thought I made myself clear – I'm not part of your War anymore."

Draco looked at the Galleon nestled in the cushion of the black box before closing it and giving it back to Bugati, a small man with wide eyes and a greasy face sitting in front of him. They were inside a private room in the casino at the back of The Haven. Bugati had found Mister Malfoy sitting by himself in the corner, the perfect spot to watch over his establishment. Bugati had walked over to him with a glass of whiskey in his hand and the box in the other. Since Draco had come to the Casablanca in French Morocco, he had known Bugati to be an underground entrepreneur. He sold Portkeys as legal, exit visa for refugees stuck in Casablanca at a ridiculous price. There were never any complaints; freedom was indeed worth a fortune.

Until very recently, more wizards have wanted to escape the Second Wizarding War that has spread to most parts of Europe now. Alliances were forged and the perils of war have only escalated. The death toll was by the hundreds of thousands, and prisoners in concentration camps were of the same. The promise land was America, where the Ministry of Magic there had expressed allegiance neither to the Order nor to the Death Eaters; instead it offered civilians a new home and a fresh new start.

The Great Wizarding Diaspora went on foot, as the corrupted British Ministry would track down any incident of unauthorized magic. They traveled from Britain to Paris then to Marseilles, pretending to look and act like Muggles with their heads bowed wherever they go. Wands were packed away for they would not be needed for a long time. From Marseilles they then traveled by sea, to Oran across the Mediterranean. Afterwards, their last stop was in Casablanca, a place that had not been covered by the Wizarding International Laws, and therefore not subject to the current war. It is here where the Wizarding refugees – or survivors – would sit around and wait until they come across someone who sells an undetectable Portkey or exit visa that can take them straight to America and start anew.

"Oh you were very clear the last time, Malfoy," Bugati started. "But I have no other friends here in Casablanca. I know you despise my work and my means, but just think of how hopeless the refugees would be if I were not around."

Draco took a long drag from his cigarette while Bugati continued. Over to the left, a table had burst into applause and congratulations as the winner took home the pot. People don't survive in Casablanca. In his place, they only win or lose.

"…An hour or two at most, that's all I ask," continued Bugati as Draco returned his attention to him. "I've sold this Portkey for a price you and I could never imagine, and this is my last gig. Afterwards, I'm going to America myself."

"And never see you again?" Draco smirked. "Your favor's quite a bargain." The owner of the pub looked down in his empty glass. He glanced at the bar and raised his glass to one of his waiters. "What the hell," Draco shrugged as his employee refilled his glass of Firewhisky. "I just don't want this thing overnight."

Bugati's lips stretched to what looked like a smile. "Oh, thank you, Malfoy, a couple of hours is all I need. You don't have to worry about anything." He spun his head around and shot his hand in the air. "Uh waiter?" he asked to the gentleman in white. "I will be expecting guests tonight, so if anyone will be looking for me, please tell them I am right here. "

Draco nodded to the waiter and sent him away. "Just remember, Bugati, I look after no one but myself."

-*-
"Good evening, monsieur, mademoiselle, and welcome to The Haven."

Harry Potter smiled uncomfortably to the doorman. "Thank you," he said as he pushed his glasses and cautiously stepped inside. The laughter and the music took over his senses and for a while he forgot about the war. He noticed that he was waiting for the song to stop and for the customers to turn around and stare at him, but he forgot he was in Muggle territory. No one knew who he was, save for maybe a couple pairs of eyes that looked at him with mouths agape. Harry instantly knew there were Wizarding folk inside, but under the guise of Muggle clothing. Still, he knew they were not hostile. He gave them a slight nod and went on his way.

It had been a while since he had freely walked around a city, but he still had to be careful. No matter what part of the world he was in, Voldemort's eyes followed him everywhere.

He cleared his throat when he approached the receptionist. "I reserved a table for two. Potter, Harry Potter."

The stranger gave a friendly smile. "Ah yes, right this way, please," she said as she handed them the menu and led them to their seats. It seemed that his name was not familiar to her. Harry smiled at his fiancé beside him and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Sam looked distraught as the couple passed by the piano and made their way to their table.

"Two glasses of your best wine, please," Harry said to their waiter when they finally settled down.

"Excuse me, Monsieur Potter, but the gentlemen over there would like to offer you and your lady friend these two shots of Firewhisky, 'hot as a Phoenix in flames', they told me to say exactly."

Harry looked at the waiter and then back at the two gentlemen in purple robes seated over at the other side of the room, much too warm for the weather in Casablanca.

"You serve Firewhisky here, sir?" Harry's fiancé questioned the waiter.

"Oui, mademoiselle," the server bowed. "Ogden's Old. You know of it, too? The owner of the establishment has told us that only a few people know about the drink, and we shouldn't serve it unless someone asks for it. I'm assuming you lovely couple have had a sip already?"

Harry faced the gentlemen in purple and lifted his glass to give a toast, and they bowed to him, before he downed the liquor in one gulp.
"Darling, I thought I told you to never accept drinks from strangers." His fiancé looked at him sternly.

"Forgive me, love, it's been a while since I tasted the sweet flame down my stomach." Harry chuckled softy. He leaned in and whispered to her ear. "See, I'm still alive."

Hermione Granger glared at her fiancé before smiling briefly at the wizards in disguise. Slowly, she put the glass to her lips. She could already feel the burning sensation, but she knew better than to defy political practices. She opened her mouth and drank the glass clean. The gentlemen bowed to her too.

"Very good, Hermione," Harry smiled. "We'd like the house specialty along with our wine, please," he said to the waiter. He nodded and went back to the kitchen.

"You do realize they serve Wizard drinks in a Mugglebar," Hermione said slowly as soon as the waiter left. "Even with a bunch of Muggles surrounding us, Harry, I'm having a bad feeling about this place."

"Some refugees might have enjoyed Casablanca, who knows?" Harry replied. "We'll just get what we came here for and I promise, we can leave immediately. "He scanned the crowd inside The Haven. They looked mostly like upper class Muggles by the looks of their suits and dresses, but The Haven had a diverse clientele. There were older ones who reminded him of his aunt and uncle back in Little Whinging, who talked about nothing but politics, the weather or history. And then there were the young crowd, those who looked like they inherited their parent's business, or were famous athletes or musicians, or knew someone of royalty.

But Harry wasn't interested in any of them. What he was looking for was a small wizard with bulging eyes on a greasy face by the name of Bugati.

"Monsieur Zabini, what a pleasant surprise!" Bruce exclaimed as he greeted the VIP clad in pitch-black apparel. "It's been a long time, would you like your usual place?"

His good nature was not met by the dark, brooding man who towered over him. Everything about him was the complete opposite of his employer, yet he was told to treat the man of few words as Draco Malfoy's brother. Bruce did not want to meddle with his boss' affairs, but he understood that when Blaise Zabini was here, they shared a strong bond; from the way they shook hands to the way they were almost always on each other's throats.

Blaise held up his hand and kept walking as Bruce attempted to keep up. Already, patrons were beginning to stare.

"I'm here for business tonight, Bruce," the man growled. "And so is Bugati, they say. Where is he?"

"Oh, of course," Bruce said, almost too courteously. "He did say he was expecting somebody. Come right this way, please."

Some time later, both Harry and Hermione had nearly finished their course and were each on their third glass of wine and yet there was no sign of their dealer.

"Are you sure this Bugati is a man of his word?" Hermione asked, distractedly. In between the more popular blues and jazz tunes the pianist was playing, he would play melodies so familiar, so haunting that Hermione found herself taking deep breaths just to calm herself down, but she couldn't quite understand why. The notes seemed to pull back memories she had chosen to forget.

"I promised I'd be carrying five hundred thousand Galleons," replied Harry, his eyes scanning the room. "Anyone would come if they knew they'd be getting that kind of money."

"Liberty used to be free," said Hermione to herself.

"Maybe those wizards across from us would know where he is," Harry decided, standing up. "The man practically runs a monopoly, I'm sure they've seen him around."

Hermione grabbed his hand and looked up at him. It was hard to imagine how much things could change in six years' time. Harry had grown to become her best friend, her lover, and now, the leader of the Order of the Phoenix and the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with.

If only Ron and Ginny had survived…

If only…

"Hey, are you feeling all right?" Harry had sat back down to wrap his arms around Hermione. She was trembling. "Maybe we can try another time. Let's go back to the hotel-"

Hermione smiled weakly. "No, I'm sorry," she began. "It's just that every time you walk away, there's a danger that you may never come back." She looked up at him. "Please, be careful."

Harry leaned closer and planted a kiss on Hermione's auburn hair. "Don't worry," he said, looking into her eyes. "I'm never leaving your sight again."

Hermione watched Harry's back as he made his way across the room. She watched as the Muggles around them wasted the night away, laughing and shouting and sinning like the sun would never rise again. A part of her wanted everyone to acknowledge Harry Potter's presence in the room – if it weren't for him they wouldn't be able to abuse their freedom like this. As leader of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry defended both wizards and the Muggle world with his life, and twice the Death Eaters have almost taken it…

"More wine, mademoiselle?" A waiter passed by their table.

"Oh, no, thank you," Hermione answered, keeping her stare on Harry.

She saw the wizards rise from their chairs when Harry approached them, and they shook hands. When they were finally seated Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, knowing now that Harry was safe.

That was when the music began to creep in her senses. Single notes that progressed to one solid harmony that spoke of love won, or lost, or maybe something else, Hermione wasn't certain. She directed her eyes to the heart of The Haven, a polished black grand piano that stood in the center where men and women surrounded it with a glass of wine in their hands.

In one moment, the crowd parted and Hermione saw the pianist smiling and bowing to the guests that stood before him. His smile was one of the biggest and friendliest she'll always remember, and the pain came crashing back to her in a bittersweet symphony of memories.

"Sam." Hermione gasped, and stood up.

PART 3

"So the rumors are true, Harry Potter has escaped." The wizard who introduced himself as Grendel beamed at Harry while shaking his hand. "My friend, Pyp over here and I are supporters of the Order of the Phoenix."

"We may be in Casablanca but any service we can extend to you will be such an honor to us." Pyp bowed.

"No, please, let's have none of that," Harry insisted and gestured them to their seats. The wizards in front of him seemed to look like brothers, and they had a rather curious accent when they spoke. But it was best to hold back information at a time of war – what you know could mean the difference between life and death. He pushed back his glasses and glanced awkwardly at the people around them. "Tell me, Grendel, whatisthe word on the street these days?"

Grendel cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "Well, the Daily Prophet doesn't reach Casablanca, but somehow some refugees have managed to get Potter Watch on their radio. Some of us were a bit restless because you had been missing in action for quite a long time."

"We thought you were dead, Mister Potter," Pyp added, taking off his hat to reveal a tousle of brown hair. "They managed to get George Weasley on the show one time. That was when he announced that you've been taken to one of the Death Eaters concentration camps in Surrey. He said the Order would not give up until You-Know-Who has been defeated. With you gone, more and more wizards arrive in Casablanca every day, yet only a few managed to go on and see America, away from the War."

"Come to think of it, George Weasley did say that we might have help from brothers across the ocean," Grendel said slowly as Harry took another sip of wine. There was a tone of hope as he spoke. "Is that why you're here, Mister Potter?"

The music stopped abruptly as soon as Sam heard her voice. The band continued to play, and it sounded empty without the harmony of the keys his hands had memorized by heart. But it didn't matter, not for that moment. She was standing by the piano, smiling down at him wearing a modest lavender dress.

"Play it one time, Sam, for old time's sake," she said, and he turned around to look at her. He was speechless with surprise as Hermione laughed softly and gave him a soft peck on his cheek. "It's been too long, my friend."

"Miss Hermione, you grace The Haven with your beauty," Sam's voice cracked. "I didn't know you're staying in Casablanca."

"You're too kind," replied Hermione as she sat beside him on the wide piano seat. "And I'm only here for a while, if the gods are good." She looked down as she swirled the wine around the glass. "Is he… Are you with… Does Draco own this place? Is he here?" she asked, not looking up.

Sam gulped nervously. "Mister Malfoy? Oh, well no. He's not around. I haven't seen him tonight. Or last night. He hardly comes to this place, you know."

Hermione smiled and settled her wine on a flat surface of the piano. "You used to be a better liar than that, Sam." She reached out for his calloused, heavy hands and placed them on the black and white keys. "Well, go on. No one could ever play 'As Time Goes By' as good as you do."

"I-I'm afraid I've forgotten, miss," Sam stammered. "How about something else? New songs don't have painful memories, so I've been told."

"But the older ones are more beautiful," Hermione smiled. "Come on, Sam, I'll help you. You must remember this… A kiss is still a kiss…"

Sam had heard her sing before, in Paris. She was always shy and laughed at herself when she sang, but the boss had always looked enchanted as soon the first few notes escaped her lips. Hearing her voice again reminded Sam of happier days. With a heavy sigh, he pressed the keys and played the one song he swore he'd never play again.

"I thought my eyes were playing tricks," Blaise laughed as he handed Bugati over to his two escorts. "And make sure you don't cause a ruckus," he told them. "I don't give a damn about these French Mudbloods but the Minister will have my ass if they witness any magic from me." He sent them away with a wave of his hand and turned around to look at Harry, who returned his stare with a nonchalant grin. "And as for you, Harry Potter, well. I'm very glad to see you alive."

"Oh, are you, now?" Harry stood slowly and managed to get a glimpse of Bugati being carried away to the door. They had caught each other's attention for a slight moment. Bugati. They've taken Bugati. Harry remained still as he saw his only hope of escape about to disappear in front of him. "What business does the Ministry of Magic's ambassador have in Casablanca? Where are you taking that man?"

"Dante Bugati is a prime suspect for two murders and several counts of stealing documents from the Ministry. We've been tracking him for months. We showed him his warrant and he has agreed to come with us for a couple of questions." Blaise grabbed a glass of brandy and downed it in one gulp. He let out a guttural sound before slamming the glass on the table. Grendel and Pyp, who had suddenly become quiet, jumped at the sound. "Doesn't quite give you the same effect as Firewhisky, does it?"

"Your laws are useless here, Zabini," said Harry as he balled his fists.

"War laws, my friend," Blaise corrected him as he stepped closer. "Stealing and killing are universal. Unless you know something I don't. Bugati does seem like a man who would commit war crimes. Aid enemies of war, for instance?"

"Your words don't matter, you can't touch me, Zabini. Not while I'm here in Casablanca," Harry spat.

"Precisely. Which is why the Minister made sure you're staying right here."

"Don't you mean yourDark Lord?"

"Well our side doeshave the Ministry. You know it's complicated," Blaise sniggered.

The sound of laughter from rich greedy men and innocent hopefuls who have become lucky that night faded out as soon as Draco Malfoy closed the big wooden doors that led to the secret casino of The Haven. He patted the guard on the shoulder and whispered in his ear that no one was to come in the casino after midnight. The guard nodded and Draco made his way towards the bar and restaurant, pushing away fresh memories of Bugati being taken away by his friend, the ambassador of the British Ministry.

He was a murderer, Draco thought. You look after no one but yourself.

He wondered what to do now with the Portkey that was hiding in his office. He took out his pack of cigarettes and lighted one with his brass pocket lighter. He exhaled a thick whiff of smoke, and then he heard it.

And when two lovers woo
They still say I love you
On that you can rely

Faintly, at first. He thought it was just coming from his head, like an unwanted memory. But the more he walked to the center of The Haven, the more it got louder and louder.

Every note seemed to cut like a knife, and he was being stabbed in the heart over and over again. He couldn't get it away from his head, and soon he was seeing visions of sunlight and Paris. Driving around the streets with one hand on the steering wheel, and the other around her shoulders. Taking the ferry to enjoy the River Seine hand in hand under the afternoon sun.

The fundamental things apply
As time goes by

No one could ever play this song as good as Sam did. He knew it. La Belle Aurore in Paris was packed every weekend, but they had always been there, dancing to this song again and again until it was time to go home. They'd make love even as the sun rose and her body glistened like a gift from the gods.

There was no difference between a thousand years ago and yesterday.

"Sam, I thought I told you to never play that song again!" Draco hissed as he reached the piano.

"I'm sorry, boss-" Sam began.

"It was me," Hermione said softly, standing up to face Draco. "I asked him to play it for me."

Draco stood motionless. She's here, she's real, he thought. He wanted to look at something else or say anything that would make her walk away, but he just stood there and stared at her eyes that seemed to hold back tears. He was not prepared to see her again. He couldn't even close the distance and wrap his arms around her if he had wanted to.

But it hurt so much to even look at her. "I thought I left you in Paris?"

"Draco," she whispered, as if his name was the end of a long journey. As if his name meant anything.

"Why are you here?" he managed to say, almost harshly as Sam excused himself.

"I didn't know you ran this place. How long has it been?" Hermione tried to smile. Goddamn it, he was still beautiful even at her weakest.

"Long enough," he replied. Two years. Two years of trying to forget you.

Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her lavender dress when Draco noticed the diamond on her finger. He wondered if being hit by a Crucio would feel better than this.

"Lovely ring," he said, coldly. "Did you hide that from me too?"

Hermione stared at him in disbelief and was about to say something when an arm snaked around her waist and gripped it tightly.

"I think it's time to leave, darling, it's getting late," said Harry Potter, realizing too late that his fiancé was in the middle of a conversation. "Malfoy?" he said, shocked. "What are you doing here?"

He stared at the ring then at Harry's grip and it all hit him in the face, hard. Ironically, to himself, Draco laughed. "Fancy seeing you too, Potter. I happen to own The Haven," he said as a waiter came to present Harry with their bill.

"Let me get that, Emil, and call for a cab," Draco said and took the bill in his pocket. "The future Mr. and Mrs. Potter should enjoy their first stay in The Haven on the house."

"Oh, Draco, there's no need for that," Hermione started.

"I insist," Draco dismissed her as he lit another cigarette.

"Malfoy being generous...the years have been good to you. This is quite a shocker," said Harry as he handed his fiancé her coat.

"Tonight has been full of surprises, I can tell you that," Draco quickly glanced at Hermione. "To be honest, I kind of expected you'd each end up with a Weasley."

"Ron and Ginny died in battle," Hermione said softly.

What a waste."Well I'm sorry to hear that," Draco replied. "Any other news from home?"

"Nothing remotely brilliant," Harry shook his head. "There's little progress for both sides, but I have a feeling all this will be over soon. Speaking of which, listen," he said carefully. "What your parents did at your home, all those years ago, that was very brave of them. A lot of Death Eaters died in the fire that night-"

"Yeah, and both of them have turned to ashes and I've been living in exile since," Draco replied smugly. "They didn't do it for the Order, Potter. It's not my war anymore."

"Dumbledore's offer still stands, Draco," Hermione spoke. "If you choose to accept it."

He looked at her straight in her eyes. "There's nothing left for me to fight for," he answered, and Harry Potter caught it.

"Excuse me, Monsieur Malfoy, but the cab is already waiting outside," said Emil the waiter.

"Very good, Emil, please escort them on their way out," Draco said. "Good night, Hermione," he gave a slight bow. "Potter," he acknowledged.

Harry nodded. "Thanks, Malfoy. Come on, love," he said as he touched the small of Hermione's back. Draco watched as they made their way to the door. He waited and waited and waited until finally, just before they went outside, Hermione looked back at him.

Just like he knew she would.

PART 4

"Who are you, really? Where were you before Paris, and what exactly is it that you do now?"

Hermione laughed and poured the rich, red wine on their glasses. "Come now, Draco, we said no questions."

"You know what, you're right, I already know the answers anyways – You are Hermione Granger, you went to Hogwarts before coming here." He held his wine glass and touched hers with a clink. "And you are currently enjoying the finest wine La Belle Aurore has to offer, in the comfort of my arms. Here's looking at you, kid," he said as he lifted her chin and kissed her.

He heard her sigh as their kiss deepened, and he held her tightly, never letting go. They stayed like that with nothing but the sound of Sam's piano filling the void. "We weren't able to hold off the Death Eaters," she finally whispered, gripping his arm. "They're marching in tomorrow. You have to leave Paris before they claim the price on your head."

Draco shook his head. "No, we have to leave Paris. Forget the Order," he took her hands and looked deeply in her eyes. "Run away with me," he said, like a simple solution to all their problems.

Hermione blinked back the tears that were starting to form. "The world is crumbling around us and we chose this time to fall in love." Her voice quivered.

"It's bad timing I don't mind at all," Draco smirked. "You came to me when I had no one else. I must've done something good to deserve you." He cupped her face with his two hands. "The train leaves for Marseilles at five o'clock. Sam will pick you up four-thirty." It wasn't a question.

"No," Hermione bit her lip. "I-I have things to do in the city before I leave," she looked at his hair, his chin, anywhere but his eyes. "I'll meet you in the station a quarter before five."

"So you'll come with me?" Draco asked.

Hermione nodded and reached out to kiss him again. "Draco," she whispered as she planted urgent kisses on his lips. "I-I want you to know, that whatever happens, wherever this war may take us, just know that I love you so much. And I hate this war so much."

She wrapped her arms around Draco's neck in a tight embrace that he was almost caught off guard. "Kiss me, Draco. Kiss me like it's our last."

Draco Malfoy threw the glass on the floor and it shattered to a hundred pieces. The Haven had closed for the night an hour ago. At first he thought alcohol could help forget things, but the more he had it, the more his memories became clearer.

"Boss?" Sam approached slowly. "Hey boss, why don't you go to sleep?"

"I'm waiting for a lady," he replied. "I know she's coming back."

"Let's take the car and drive the night away, Mister Malfoy. Ain't nothing but trouble for you here. You don't have to see her again."

Draco took out another glass and filled it to the brim. "Go home, Sam," he moaned, before gulping the glass clean. He filled it again.

The pianist took a look at the mess on the floor and the mess his boss was becoming. "No sir, I'm staying right here." He opened the wooden cover and started playing with the keys.

Draco rubbed his eyes and ran a hand across his chin. He lit another cigarette and let the smoke engulf him. "I knew something was wrong. Why didn't I see it before?"

Sam glanced at his hands for a while and knew better not to answer.

"They grabbed Bugati and she walks in," Draco continued, inhaling deeply. "Well, that's the way it goes – one in, one out. Sam?"

"Yes, boss?"

"It's December 2004 in Casablanca. What time is it in Paris?"

Sam frowned. "I don't know Mister Malfoy, my watch stopped," he replied as he kept playing a nameless tune.

"I bet they're asleep in Paris," Draco mumbled. "I bet they're all over France." He slammed his fist on the table and ran a hand through his hair. His hand was throbbing but he only growled in frustration. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world," he said before taking another gulp. "She had to walk into mine."

Sam continued to play and for a while Draco sat quietly drinking his bottle of Ogden's Old. The past and present kept playing in his head. One moment, she was in his arms; the next, Potter – Harry Potter of all the people – had his arm around her waist. The prick was handed the world on a silver platter.

"What's that you're playing?" asked Draco to his companion.

"Oh it's just a little something I wrote," Sam replied.

"Stop it. You know what I want to hear."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"You played it for her, you can play it for me," said Draco.

"Well, I don't think I can remember," Sam started.

"If she can stand it, I can!" Draco shouted. "Play it."

Sam sighed in defeat. "Yes, boss," he said as the familiar painful tune filled the empty dark hall of The Haven.

You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss

He had barely started when she walked into The Haven, wearing a dark brown trench coat and a hat to cover her face. For a brief moment Draco wondered if he was more inebriated than he thought he was. He stared at her by the door, as she slowly took one step at a time until she was finally in front of him.

"Draco, I need to talk to you," Hermione began as she took off her hat. "In private, if you please, Sam?"

The pianist stood up and closed the wooden cover. "If you say so, Miss Hermione," he bowed and went to the kitchen.

"As predicted," Draco managed to say. "I saved my first drink to have with you." He pushed the bottle towards her with the little sober strength he had left. "Here," he said.

"No, Draco, not tonight," Hermione said as she sat down. "Please-"

"Especially tonight," Draco spat. "Why did you have to come to Casablanca? There are other places."

"I didn't know you were here," she replied slowly. "I wouldn't have come, believe me-"

"Funny thing about your voice, it hasn't changed," Draco said as he took the bottle and filled his glass again. "I can still hear it. 'Draco, darling, I'll go with you anywhere. We'll get on a train together and never stop'-"

"Draco, please," Hermione pleaded. She looked tired and hurt. He wondered if she could see the dark circles around his eyes. "I can understand how you feel…"

"You understand how I feel?" Draco repeated, scornfully. "How long was it we had, love?"

Hermione hesitated. "I didn't count the days."

"Well I did," Draco glared at her. "Every one of them. Most of all I remember the last. The guy standing on a station platform in the rain with a comical look on his face because his insides have been kicked out," he said and drowned his glass.

"Tell me," he continued, lighting another cigarette. "Was it the great Harry Potter you left me for, or Ron Weasley before he died, or were there others in between? How many men did you spread your legs for to comfort you during this war?"

She stood up and slapped him right across his face, and knocked any amount of alcohol out of his system. He realized she had already been crying but she slapped him once more, maybe to help him know that she was in pain too. She had no words to say, only hurt, and she was about to slap him again for the third time had he not turned over the table out of the way. The bottle shattered and the Firewhisky spilled like blood on the floor. She gasped, momentarily frozen, but that was all the time he needed to step over the broken glass, grab her shoulders, and bring his lips to hers.

She smelled of lavender and jasmine and he smelled of vice, but he didn't care. Hermione Granger knew the real Draco, she felt him and had made love to him before and he wanted to make her remember; make her feel that she made the wrong choice, sensation after sensation. She tried to shake away but his grip was tight and she whimpered and cried until finally she lost her strength and succumbed to her heart.

She stood on her toes and flung her arms around his neck. Draco smirked as their kiss deepened and he held her tightly around her small waist, until not even light could pass through their two bodies.

Hermione broke free to gasp for air. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and her lips were swollen from their kiss. She cupped her face with both her hands. "I don't know what's right anymore," she finally said.

The emerald ring on her left hand shimmered even in the darkness. Draco's reality came crashing back to him. "Were you engaged with Potter, back in Paris?" He didn't know if he was shaking because of rage or jealousy.

Hermione looked at him before slowly nodding her head. Draco gripped his lighter tightly. She took a deep breath as she started to pace around the floor. "It had to be secret. If the enemy found out Harry Potter was engaged, I would have been in danger too, and the people who work closely with us," she began to explain. "We were leaving Surrey to go to Paris, but there was an attack… They had taken Harry along with a few members of the Order. I was frightened, Draco. For months I tried to get any news until finally they said he was dead. Got caught trying to escape," she paused for a moment. "I was lost in Paris, hopeless… Until I saw you in La Belle Aurore.

Draco took a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling a path of thick smoke. "Well. I know what happened after that. When did you find out he was still alive?"

She glanced up at his eyes. "The day we were supposed to leave for Marseilles. A member of the Order found me and told me he was alive, but sick, hiding in the outskirts of Paris… If I told you, you wouldn't have left Paris too and the Death Eaters might have caught you…"

Draco slammed his fist on the bar. Well, they were both men in hiding. But Harry Potter hid because he tried to recover so he could fight again. Draco on the other hand was hiding just so he could survive.

"Please Draco, listen to me," Hermione pleaded, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Harry and I, we're all we have left – each other. I supposed it was love and I believed in it, until I saw you, and knew the real you. I love Harry," she said as Draco turned around to look at her. "But not as much as I loved you. Still, love you."

Draco wanted nothing more than to kiss her again, but he tried to control himself. "It's still a story without an ending. What about Potter?"

Hermione looked down on the wine-stained floor. "We were supposed to have negotiations with the American Ministry of Magic. We could end the War with their help. A man called Bugati had made arrangements, but Zabini arrested him in your bar before he could give us the Portkey," she explained.

Draco suddenly remembered the gold Galleon lying inside his drawer of his quarters. "And what makes you think I can help here?"

"Harry said they didn't find the Portkey when they searched him," said Hermione. "Youmust have it with you. I'm never running away from you, Draco," she said as she brushed her hand along the side of his face. "It nearly destroyed me the first time. I need you. And the world needs Harry Potter. Say you'll help him, please," she begged.

"But Harry Potter needs you, Hermione," Draco said, holding her hand. "Must I always think for the both of us?"

Hermione sighed and wrapped her arms around him once more. "I hate that I love you so much."

Draco lifted up her chin. "Here's looking at you, kid," he whispered and they kissed, again, as if it was their last.

EPILOGUE

It's still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die

Draco sat on his favorite table with a bottle of Ogden's Old and a fresh pack of cigarettes for the night. Sam had accompanied him again, and he asked for him to play the song one last time. He slowly lifted the glass to his mouth and savored the fiery bitter taste. The memory was still fresh in his mind. They were in their hotel when Draco had arrived; carrying the Galleon nestled in the black box. Hermione had been crying when Harry wasn't looking.

"Why are you doing this, Draco? We're supposed to help Harry. Last night-" she had sobbed.

"Last night we said a great many things," he had told her. "And I said I was to do the thinking for us both. Well I've done a lot of thinking since then, and it all adds up to you taking that Portkey with Harry Potter, where you belong."

"But Draco, I-"

"No, you listen to me, Hermione." Draco grabbed her firmly by the arm. "There is nothing to look forward to if you stay with me in Casablanca. Nine chances out of ten we'd both be in concentration camps run by Death Eaters."

"No, you're just saying that to make me go," Hermione had defended.

"I'm saying it because it's true," Draco had insisted. "Inside of us, you know you belong with Potter. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If you don't go with him you're going to regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life. You can end the War, Hermione, together. All you need to do is go with him."

She had looked up to him with red-rimmed eyes. "But what about us?" she had whispered.

"We'll always have Paris." Draco tried to smile. "For a while we lost it, until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night."

Hermione slowly nodded her head, finally understanding."When I said I'd never leave you," she had said softly.

"And you never will," replied Draco. He had wondered how long he could keep this strong disguise. His insides were hurting again. "Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. Hermione, I'm no good at being noble but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that."

She had lowered her head and started to cry.

"Now, now, love," Draco had said as he placed his hand under her chin and raised it so their eyes met. "Here's looking at you, kid."

"Hey Boss?" he heard Sam, and he was suddenly back in the dark hall of The Haven. "Mister Malfoy, how's about retiring early for the night? Tomorrow's a new day."

He remembered Paris, and he remembered Casablanca. He remembered how she spoke her name, how she laughed, and how she cried.
"Maybe I will, Sam," Draco replied as he released a puff of smoke that disappeared in the poor light. He'll always remember her. "Maybe I will."

The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by

END.

Much love and respect to jenl3227 who went through this in record time, taught me a lot and did her own magic to help me out here. The title is from the theme song by Frank Sinatra. This is one of my most favorite movies of all time, so thank you also to the mods for creating an opportunity to put my favorite couples together. The plot is based on the film Casablanca which was set during World War II. I've simply translated how it plays out in the Wizarding World. There are some dialogues I've remained true to the film script, because I want to highlight how universal (and beautiful) the words are for any kind of war, and for any kind of love.