The Postcards, Vol 1

Dramione Recommendations by omgreylo

I Think I May Need You by everythursday

Judas Iscariot by zarah joyce

Three Steps Forward, One Step Back by ldymusyc

A Place Called Home by everythursday

Swing Time by Bambu

Room Serviced by pir8fancier

The Lions of December by Gravidy

Vista dal Cielo by streetscribbles

Stone Dragons by Gravidy

The Beggar-Thief by Gravidy

Bus Stop by Marmalade Fever

My Life As a House Elf by clannoire

The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man by ianthewaiting

Parade of the Sun by everythursday

Across Enemy Lines by Gypsy Silverleaf

“I Think I May Need You”, everythursday

Rating: R

Published: December 18, 2005 for dmhgficexchange’s Celebrate the Season event

Link: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/85349.html

Summary: “I’m afraid of what you make me feel, Malfoy.” “That’s okay.” “Is it?” Her eyes...they looked so vulnerable. She did. So breakable.

CHAPTER 1

Hermione Granger took a sip from the coffee, the container the only thing keeping her hands warm on such a cold day. A last puff of air vapor escaped her chapped lips before she stepped into the building, snowflakes decorating her still untamable hair.

Brushing the white melting flecks off her shoulders, she glanced outside from the sidewalk she had just vacated. A thin layer of ice covered the sidewalk, dusted with the dirty snow and footprints of everyone else risking the frigid cold. Small snow tornadoes blew up around the street and buildings, twirling in the strong wind and gusting into the faces of last minute shoppers. A string of white lights hung across the top of businesses all down the street. Wreaths and other bits of holiday decorations hung from each lamppost while store windows blinked red and green to celebrate the season.

Hermione scrunched up her face in a poor attempt to warm her reddened nose, taking another sip of her coffee as she headed up the floors. Scattered bits of more decorations hung about her building, a large Christmas tree set up in the lobby. Co-workers that passed her in the hall were either smiling happily with cheer towards the month or with grim faced determination to ignore it all around them.

Finally making it to her floor, she shifted her tote bag onto the other shoulder, her body already tired with the heavy weight of research books and folders.

Following graduation four years ago, Hermione had been ready to attend Uni. However, amidst all the letters of job offers that were owled in up to two months before her leave of Hogwarts, there had been an opportunity she couldn’t see herself passing up.

For a young woman who loved work, discovering new things, research, and books, the job seemed perfect. She worked at the Ministry, in her own office, researching and developing new hexes, curses, and spells. Occasionally she would venture from the building and on to crime scenes to try and help determine things about the rare or new spell that someone else had used at the scene. She also researched any new spells the Ministry had somehow become aware of, and perhaps tediously of all, she worked to create the counter spells to the curses used. It was rarely an exciting job, but she loved it all the same, and that was the only thing that really mattered.

Turning into the corridor that led to her office, she smiled convincingly at her loopy secretary.

“No messages so far today, Miss Granger.”

Well, of course not, she felt like telling Frida. It was only 5:56 in the morning.

“Thanks for letting me know, Frida.”

“No problem, Miss Granger!”

Her voice was suddenly high and shrilly and Hermione couldn’t help but wince at it. “Is something exciting happening today?”

“No. Why?” Frida cocked her head. Hermione figured it was the way all airheaded women cocked their heads; like it was designed in their DNA when they were still in the womb.

Frida was your classic, stereotypical female secretary hired in a mostly male building. Tall, beautiful, blonde, perfect. Hermione always grew slightly rumpled when she saw another walk into the lobby. It wasn’t a matter of jealousy, just…aggravation, that a woman who looked like Frida could get hired in an instant with a flash of her leg. Yet the women who looked more like Hermione, who could do the job twice as good, were not as quick to be hired — and never hired over Frida-people.

That wasn’t to say Hermione thought herself ugly. Not at all. She just knew that she stood at a mere 5’6; her legs were long but certainly didn’t “go for days.” Her bum was fine but not anything amazing, and her stomach had a small pouch where all that perfect flatness was supposed to be. Her breasts were ample enough, her face pleasant enough, but her reflection didn’t scream anything close to perfection. Her hair didn’t fall straight and shiny, but rather curled and static. Hermione put herself in that category of woman who were pretty—possibly even a classic sort of beautiful—when she put up her hair and brushed on some makeup. But, gorgeous? Perfect? No. Those were Frida-type people.

Before she could continue her line of thought, or even before she could recognize the slightly confused and curious gaze of Frida on her, a slow drawl disrupted her morning.

“Pay her no mind, Frida. She’s a bit strange, is she not?”

Ah, the reason for that sudden shrill note in her secretary’s voice.

Ferret boy.

Hermione’s eyebrows knitted together and she wondered why she was always so horrible with remarks and comebacks in the morning.

Frida, (traitor to woman sisterhood) merely laughed a little nervously. In response, the blond mop of bedhead (perfectly sculpted bedhead, Hermione thought. Probably spent hours on it this morning. Vain arse) now turned to show its owner. An all too familiar smirk, a twinkle of amusement in a cloudy sky of gray, made her give a dirty look to said owner.

“You look positively…well, I take it you’re not a morning person, eh Granger?”

“And they call you observant, Malfoy. I bet you haven’t even seen your bed since yesterday morning, far too busy whoring yourself around the city.”

“How touching, Granger. Nosing about in my affairs. I hadn’t realized you had the desire to know so much about the events of my love life.”

Not necessarily. All the secretaries had been congregated at Frida’s desk at lunch yesterday, gossiping about the date Malfoy had that night. She couldn’t help but hear Malfoy was supposedly going out with two women, both of whom had asked him.

“Oh, of course, Malfoy. Haven’t you realized how desperate—” She threw her head back at this before looking at him again, “—I have been for you since your arrogant and manipulative, annoying self sauntered in here just three years ago?”

“Carrying a torch, are we? How very…cute,” His smirk widened as his head jerked towards the door to her office. “I’m surprised the blokes aren’t lined up to bring your insufferable, know-it-all, frigid self out on a date.”

“Oh, they find it all for naught. See, they don’t just have to smile to get me into bed.”

“Yes, well, it is always harder to claim a prudish old virgin. Th—”

“Malfoy?”

It was Williams, an Auror, who had just turned down the corridor.

In a flash, the playfulness was gone from Malfoy, replaced with something empty and blank. “The meeting has been canceled this morning.”

“I woke up at five in the morning, came all the way here, and it’s canceled?”

“Obviously, Williams. It’s rescheduled for 10 a.m. today.”

Williams paused for a moment before turning and heading out of the corridor. Hermione hoisted her bag on her shoulder, chancing a glance as Malfoy turned back to Frida. Heading towards her office, Malfoy continued in his dead drawl.

“Frida, tell any other Aurors heading for the ACR that it has been rescheduled for ten this morning.”

“No problem, Mister Malfoy.”

Hermione closed her door and headed for her desk, setting her bag down on it and sighing loudly.

She had seen Draco Malfoy a bit more often then she ever thought she would. He had disappeared from Hogwarts, never showing up in the start of their sixth year. At the end of seventh year it became public knowledge that Lucius Malfoy was dead and Narcissa had now disappeared as well.

The blond had suddenly appeared in the middle of the war just three years ago, six years after his disappearing act, walking straight into this very building. He had looked much like the same arrogant person, but he was now an arrogant man rather than a boy. His hair brushed the tips of his ears, his eyes were more emotionless, his face less pointed. He had grown to a few inches above six feet with broad shoulders and slim hips. His chest was built, his arms muscular, his walk ever confident, and his presence more demanding. The walls and offices had become completely silent, people pausing mid-step just to watch the appearance of a once invisible man. Hermione liked to think it was just the right amount of attention he had hoped for in his arrival.

He had claimed to the desk that he had no wand, and upon further investigation of his body, they let him check in and walk himself directly to Fudge’s office. Rumor had it that Malfoy had declared to the Minister of Magic that he wanted a position as an Auror. Mister Fudge had calmly informed him that an Auror would be fighting against, you know…Deatheaters, Voldemort and the like. After the rumble of yelling had silenced in the halls, Malfoy had emerged and stormed from the building. He returned the next day, explaining that he didn’t want to be treated as a child, knew exactly what he was there for, apologized…in a round about sort of way, and then asked for the job again.

He had returned from training just three months later and had been working as an Auror ever after. Draco Malfoy never did things halfway and it hadn’t been long before he was one of the top Aurors. Constantly on a mission, constantly planning a mission, constantly celebrating a mission, constantly in Hermione Granger’s face.

If she didn’t see him in the building where he usually decided to argue with her in the halls, then she saw him out at pubs with fellow Aurors (including her two best friends—hence, why she was there at all) drinking. Either that, or she saw him on her floor where just down from her was the meeting room where they spoke of old missions, figured out new ones, and planned out future missions.

The only thing that kept her from hexing the gray eyed prat was that he was ‘fighting the good fight’ (those last words belonging to Ron, of all people). He hadn’t called her a Mudblood in the past three years, no matter how heated they became over politics, history, coffee, or whatever they were arguing about that day. He also, though never treating her nicely, never treated her that badly. It was a mutual ground of something that didn’t have a name; that wasn’t supposed to have a name. It wasn’t friendship but they weren’t enemies. They were…people with strong intellects and good points that held a sort of respect for one another.

He still remained a mystery. That was something that had never changed with Draco Malfoy. Once you thought you figured him out, you were found completely wrong. He never spoke of where he had gone during those three years away, nor of what he did during that time. He never explained to anyone, at least anyone that would say, why he had decided to switch sides.

Hermione had been all in for trying to figure it out for the first six months he had shown up. She hadn’t trusted him, which not much of anyone did then, and she wanted nothing more then to see him crawl back to his little dark circle. After six months of pointless research, observing, digging, and paranoia, she had been about to storm into the Auror meeting down the hall and just demand the answers from him. That was when Mathena, a secretary for the Ministry for forty years before she died last spring, had sat her down.

Mathena had basically told her to get her head back on. To see how when Harry had been the team leader just a few days before, he had picked Malfoy for the mission right after Ron. To see how Malfoy stayed later then almost everyone but Hermione herself. To see how hard he worked, how much trust he was earning. She asked Hermione to give him a second chance when it was obvious that was all the boy was trying to achieve from everyone. To set himself right. Mathena had gone on for nearly an hour before muttering something about haunted gray eyes and the way personal daemons can take the hope from a man.

She said he was beautiful in a tragic sort of way. Hermione had tried hard not to laugh and walked away, continuing research for another two weeks. But then she had passed the open door to the ACR (Auror Conference Room) and had peeked in to look at him. Boards of different strategies, tactics, positionings had surrounded the table. Half the long table was scattered with papers, on what subjects she had no idea, and Malfoy had sat in the middle of it all. He had looked up from a bit of parchment to the corner of the room, staring at one of the boards with green and blue dots. His eyes had been a light and dull gray in the florescent like lights of the room. They looked tired in a weary and old sort of way, sad in a lonely sort of way. Wisps of his platinum hair fell down across his forehead and into those breath hitching eyes, and the look on his face was melancholy yet determined.

Hermione had thought he had looked beautiful, in a tragic sort of way.

And she had stopped searching for something against him since that night.

Harry and Ron with Malfoy were…well, that was hard to explain as well. They didn’t owl one another unless it was for missions or meetings, and they certainly never visited one another’s flats (though Hermione still found it weird that Malfoy actually rented a flat in London). However, any time any one of them was a team leader they always picked one another. They also all sat together during those celebrations in the pub, and Malfoy was present at Ron and Harry’s birthday parties. It was a slow, reluctant sorts of friendship. He and Ron still bashed heads at least once a day, and Harry sometimes lost his cool and he and Malfoy ended up screaming at one another for a good five minutes. Harry had also been the one to separate Malfoy and Ron just last week in a rather nasty fist fight, and when Ron had turned to walk away and Malfoy had kicked his leg out, it was Harry that turned around and broke Malfoy’s nose. Malfoy might have been some sort of friend, but Harry and Ron were best mates. That would never change.

Hermione plopped down in her seat, the wheels sending her sliding backward a bit. Stretching out as much as she could, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The new counter curse she had been working on had seriously drained her sleep time. She had left her office just five hours ago, returning home for three hours of sleep before waking to get ready for her day. The Ministry was pressing heavily on her for the counter spell, the original seriously injuring a Ministry worker just outside of the building. It was the very same reason the Aurors currently had a meeting at six in the morning.

Gripping the armrests of her chair, she inhaled deeply before a quick knock came at her door. Opening her eyes, she watched the door open and a very familiar figure step in without her permission.

“What. Do you want?”

“I have four hours to burn, Granger. Entertain me.”

“Get out.” She bit, straightening herself in the chair to glare fully at him.

He paid her no mind and sat down in one of the two chairs opposite her desk. Stretching out his long legs, he folded his arms and looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments.

“Are you hearing impaired Malfoy?”

“No, but it is rather easy to pretend that I am.”

“Why are you bothering me?”

“I told you—”

“You don’t even like me, Malfoy. Wouldn’t you prefer entertaining yourself by having a quick shag with Frida?”

His mouth dropped open a moment, his expression incredulous. “Did Hermione Granger just say shag?”

“Oh, bugger off.” She rolled her eyes and wheeled her chair up to her desk.

“Tsk. One should treat a guest a bit more cordially, wouldn’t you think? Honestly, Granger, have you no manners?”

“For you? No.”

“Do you honestly dislike me that much?”

Intense gray met fierce brown across four feet of distance and ten years of racism, hate, and volatile emotions. The air seemed to thicken in that moment, the pause between them pregnant and heavy. Neither seemed to move, or hardly seemed to breathe.

“You’re an enigma.” Tense.

“I’m aware.” Hard.

“If I were to know the things you did when you were gone, just how much would my dislike of you increase or subside?” Nearly accusing.

“I suppose we’ll never find out.” Cold.

The silence fell again. She observed the twitch in his clenched jaw, the way his slightly narrowed eyes seemed to burn into hers. She felt like he could see right through her — no, right into her. She supposed that was part of what made him so damn intimidating, but Hermione didn’t back down to just anyone.

“I’m going with increasing it. If it wasn’t bad, you wouldn’t be trying so hard to hide it.”

“I’m beginning to think you may care for me a bit, Granger. Why else would you try so hard to find it?”

“I care for the people whom you would affect if you just decided to wait until they stupidly trusted you enough before aiming your wand at their back.”

His whole body suddenly seemed to tighten, like a rubberband stretched nearly to breaking point. She wondered if he broke, who he would hurt more. Her or himself. All too late, she realized she may have just gone a tad too far.

“You know nothing about me, Granger. Don’t pretend you do. You had a firm grasp on an ignorant boy. You know nothing of who I’ve become. Stop assuming that you do.” A voice like knives, cold steel, something cold and biting and angry.

He stood to leave and she stood as well, speaking once he had turned.

“Draco. Malfoy,” She corrected. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You’re…I don’t know you well enough to assume those things. That was horrible of me. I’m sorry.”

“You know, Granger, if you would stop for a moment and look outside of this little perfect bubble—”

“Perfect?!”

“—you have created for yourself, you may be able to see that people change. Perhaps you could find that the past is the past. That not all people are open books. That maybe people grow up, maybe they learn, maybe they’re fucking sorry.”

He walked from the office then, never even looking back at her, and closing the door far more lightly then she expected for someone so angry. Wide eyes stared at the closed door, her mind quickly stumbling over the words he said.

Was that…

Her eyebrows furrowed as she sat down in her chair again, her eyes drifting to the oak of her desk. Her fingers reached up to absentmindedly run over the strap of her tote bag, her mind off and wandering miles away.

Had that been one of Malfoy’s infamous ‘roundabout apologies’? Had he honestly just apologized? For everything? The past?

Her eyes traveled back up to the door, brow still wrinkled in thought.

CHAPTER 2

Draco Malfoy glanced into the room more out of habit then anything else. He couldn’t come close to counting the amount of times he had walked out of the ACR in the middle of the night, passing by her office only to see her bent over her desk and working furiously. He was fairly certain from the amount of times he had to work even later then he already did, that she only left in the time of an hour after him. However, the bags under her eyes, the way her skin seemed stretched over her bones, the paleness of her skin, and the way she seemed to live on caffeine made it seem like she never slept at all. She left the office after him and would return just hours later, setting to work again for another eighteen or so hours. The bookworm was obviously over working herself and Draco heard as much from Potter and Weasely every time her name came up in conversation.

Halting in his tracks when he saw her frizzy head resting atop a book, he paused to see if she was sleeping. After a few moments he reached forward, pressing a slightly weathered and pale hand against the wood of her door and pushing it forcefully. He began to walk again, the bang of the door impacting on the wall resonating through the empty corridors and rooms. The last thing overworked Granger needed was to fall asleep on top of her research only to wake up just in time to start working again. He sped up his pace when he heard her shuffling about, knowing she would be peeking out of her office any moment to see what had woken her. Making a left out of the corridor, he was fairly certain she hadn’t seen him.

It had been a week since their argument in her office. Not a word had been exchanged between the two and it felt weird. Arguing with her was a part of his everyday life. If a day went by when that didn’t happen—when she wasn’t trying to prove him wrong, demanding him to leave her office, him yelling at her for drinking the rest of the coffee—then he just felt strange and a bit out of sorts. Off kilter. Now, this wasn’t to say he felt any sort of real affection for the bushy haired bint. No. He just saw Hermione Granger as a constant in his life…in a really weird, warped sort of way.

He still wasn’t sure what had made him enter into her personal domain anyway. He and Granger never got along. There had been a few moments in the past three years where they had found themselves exchanging a smile, only to look away awkwardly from one another. More times then that where they had tried to begin a debate with one another only to find that they actually agreed on the same point. There had also been a handful of times where he had gotten pissed (and her a bit tipsy) at the pub and had ended up conversing and actually…enjoying one anothers company. Those times were never spoken about and always caused her to scurry to her office when he walked by her in the halls.

One night, just five months ago, she had fallen asleep in her office much like she had just now. He had been down the hall in ACR when he had heard the screaming. Running to her office he had found her asleep, face scrunched up in fear and pain. He had stood silently for a good thirty seconds before she started to scream again. Walking around her desk, he had shaken her awake. As soon as she opened her eyes, tears had begun to fall, and she had turned to him and buried her face into his stomach. He had patted her shoulder as she had wrapped her arms about his hips, and he had found himself muttering things he had seen other men mutter when comforting a sobbing woman. It’s over now, it’s okay, you’re alright, everything is fine, shh, it’s okay. When she had finally calmed herself, she had inhaled deeply and froze at the scent of him. Pulling back slowly, as if quickly would get her killed, her glistening eyes looked up at him. Her face had been flushed with her bit of exertion, her cheeks stained with trails of tears, her eyes shiny and beautiful and sad. It had taken all of three seconds for her to jerk from him like he was fire, her expression aghast and embarrassed. Draco felt something shift in the air, something weird filling his bones where marrow usually lied. A little above his navel was a spot of wetness from her tears and it caused the fabric to stick to his skin. She had looked away, red with her embarrassment, and he had turned and left the office without a word.

Since that strange night, that time in her office last week was the first time they had really argued. Draco wasn’t sure if it was because of that event or because she had just grown to tired to bother that much with him. Secretly, he couldn’t help but enjoy the fire that rose up in her eyes when she was angry with him.

No one spoke that much about the War, but everyone saw the haunted expression in each other’s eyes when the subject ever came up. The most interaction Draco had with the same people was Potter, Weasley, and Granger. Potter seemed to be dealing with his personal daemons by himself and with the occasional help of his best mate, but he seemed better in the past year then he had during the initial six months after the war. There was still a bit of horror that entered his eyes when they walked past certain places; when certain names were mentioned; when people used or spoke of certain spells, but all together he was coming along quite alright. Weasley seemed to be in hell the first three months after the Final Battle. He had lost two of his brothers and the entire Weasely family seemed to move like zombies. They never mentioned just how much of a stick up the arse Percy was, and Fred was still a ruined mess with the loss of his twin. But Ron had found some joy at the bottom of a bottle and with several faceless women in his bed. After showing up drunk to a mission, Potter himself had screamed at the redhead until his voice was hoarse. They both had disappeared for a week before Weasley came back and didn’t touch a drink for another two months.

Granger had been a different story. After the Final Battle, she had gone to St. Mungos with Potter, staying at his bedside for the four days it took him to recover. She had attended a mere fifteen minutes of the celebration party where they celebrated those fateful moments where Potter had brought Voldemort to his demise, and then read off a list of casualties that had taken nearly an hour and a half to finish. When she had left the party, no one saw her for three weeks. When she had come back, walking in for work like she had never left, she had lost weight, along with something that was trademark Granger. Her spark, her light. It still filled her on occasion, still sometimes spread out into a room like warmth when she entered, but it wasn’t there all the time. It wasn’t there often enough. Her eyes looked like they had been drained of their color, and that twinkle that was fiercely and remarkably Hermione Granger had all but disappeared. Her laugh was more hollow, her movement slower, her fight more dull. She never spoke of the War and she continued on as if it had never happened.

And Draco loved to bring her back. He enjoyed the way he made her angry. The way he argued with her about things that made her eyes light up with fire, made her look determined, that showed the passion she felt for her argument. Because if bright, hopeful, innocent, happy Granger could live through all of it and still continue to be all, or at least most, of the things she was before the War, then there was hope for the rest of them too. Because Granger had a way of affecting others; of touching them, of spreading what she felt, of handing out hope like it was the most common thing a person could have. So if all it took was a mere ten to twenty minutes out of his day to rile her up and make her so full of life again, he would give away that time in a heartbeat. And he did.

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t find the bint to be annoying and an utter pain in his arse—that feeling was mutual on both sides. He just enjoyed certain things about her for good reason, not that he would ever admit it to anyone, and that was all right.

Hermione strode into the Ministry looking a lot more alive then she felt. She had rushed home last night in tired paranoia that someone was following her. She knew she had woken to a loud noise last night in her office, but the building had been empty; this had all led her to believe that someone was stalking her.

In morning’s light, it all looked rather stupid and pointless, but she hadn’t figured on that until she had already tossed and turned in her bed anxiety-ridden for a good two hours.

Glancing over at the Christmas tree in the lobby, she made a small note to go Christmas shopping soon before it was too late. She paused in her thoughts as she realized something strange was going on around her. Looking up at the people seated in the plush chairs and couches around the tree, she noticed how all of them were looking at her. She felt her ears twitch as she became aware of the silence surrounding her. Hermione mentally groaned, wondering why she had skipped the perfunctory glance in the mirror this morning. Just as she was about to trot off quickly to the nearest loo, she heard her name.

“Hermione. ‘Mione. Help me. Please.”

She turned quickly towards the desperate voice and froze, all thought gone from her brain. She didn’t think she had even twitched a muscle in the stiff few moments as her gaze rested on something she never thought would ever greet her on a cold Wednesday morning.

“Stop staring! Just help me!” He pleaded, whispering though there was no reason for it.

“R—R…Ronald!” She really did try to make it sound stern, but she could feel the corners of her lips twitching as she spoke.

“Bloody Parvati,” he whimpered, blue eyes glancing quickly around before looking back to her. “I’m never going to live this down. Merlin.”

Ron Weasely stood just a short distance away from her, his red mop in complete disarray and his face and ears more red then she had seen them in a very long time. Her eyes followed down his chest and slightly rounded stomach (all that alcohol, she mentally clicked her tongue at him) to where his hands were held over a very private area.

Yes, standing in front of her was one Ronald Weasley, completely and utterly stark naked.

Her hand rose up to cover the smile that was beaming on her face, her chest looking like it was having spasms from the laughter she was trying to keep inside of her. She didn’t know if she should laugh or yell at him.

“What in the bloody…” A voice trailed off from the entrance doors to her side, the sentence picked up by another male voice.

“…hell.”

Hermione controlled herself as best she could, sucking in her laughter and beating down her grin.

“Ron—,” She sucked in, trying her best to be stern and hard.

“Oh, bloody fuck. I can’t see this shit at seven in the morning. The rest of my day is ruined now, and I’m never going to be able to get this out of my head.” A female voice spoke up from the direction of the loo.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying yet again.

“Now, what…Ronald. Why are you…” She lost it, a slow laughter building up over the next words and exploding once she had finished her sentence, “…standing naked in the lobby?”

Her laughter, full of joy, merriment, and disbelief, rang out in the silent air. It seemed to break the dam and laughter began to fill the room from all around her. Ron looked at her traitorously and began walking towards the doors.

Hermione turned to look at him, the white globes of his backside out for the entire world to see. She laughed harder, her bag falling off her shoulder and her arm reaching up to grip her side.

The males Ron was heading towards all took a unified step backwards, watching the redhead wearily.

“Harry, mate…help me out. I don’t have clothes,”

“Obviously,” Malfoy pointed out, his chuckle growing louder as he looked at the naked man incredulously.

“—And my wand is gone too!”

“What, were you robbed?” Harry asked, trying to be supportive instead of joining all the laughter like he was so close to doing.

“No! It was,” Ron looked around himself before leaning closer to Harry, lowering his voice to an angry whisper. “Parvati. You remember…remember last week? When I ended up snogging that girl while I was completely pissed at Horntails Fire? That pub down by—”

“I know, Ron. And Parvati broke up with you. Again.”

“Yes, well. She comes to me last night while I’m leaving from my meeting with Fudge. Tells me she’s sorry and all this other rubbish. That she’s all hot and bothered, missing me and such, right?”

Harry nodded, not being able to think much past the thought Ron was letting him in on some story while he stood completely naked in the middle of the Ministry of Magic.

“Right.”

“So we end up snogging madly and then going off into that storage room on the third floor…down the hall from—”

“Yeah.”

“So, we end up shagging for hours…hours, mate. It was incredible. I mean, blimey, she—”

“Ron, can you tell me about this later?”

“No, Harry—I wake up this morning, completely naked. My clothes are gone, my wand is gone, Parvati is gone. That bloody…bitch. I can not wait until I see he—”

“Whoo! Hello!” A man who worked on the fourth floor, who had never clarified but held a certain sexual preference, was smiling at Ron’s arse pleasantly.

The laughter grew louder and Harry couldn’t help but let it out for a few moments. Harry ushered his friend towards the mens bathroom, pulling his wand from the pocket.

“Let’s see if I can transfigure something for you, mate.”

They headed towards the loo, Ron giving Hermione a mutinous glare as she struggled to control her breathing. She allowed herself a few more seconds of laughter as she watched her two boys disappear into the bathroom. Her eyes scanned the room of hysterical people, a brilliant smile playing on her lips. Her eyes landed on those of Draco Malfoy’s, his features seemingly different with the lopsided grin on his face. His eyes seemed brighter, lighter somehow, and there were a few moments of shared comedy before they realized who it was they were looking at. Her smile faded, voices of memories of just a week past skirted the edges of her mind. Draco bit his lips together, staring at her a moment before lifting his eyebrows. That was when she realized she had been staring and, turning on her heel, she headed up towards her floor.

Hermione glanced up at the clock, pinching at the bridge of her nose to try and keep away the impending headache. Her teeth worried her bottom lip before she blew a few strands of hair from her face. It was going on one already and she was nowhere near where she had hoped to be before she grew too tired to think right.

She looked away from the clock, seeing a movement out of the corner of her eye. Malfoy was in her doorway, his arms crossed, one leg over the other, leaning against the doorframe as he studied her.

“Hi.” Her voice sounded cracked and foreign to her ears.

His eyebrows rose high as he shifted his shoulder against the wood. “Hi? Shouldn’t you be glaring and threatening to cut off major appendages if I don’t leave your office immediately?”

“I don’t know,” She looked down at her desk for a moment. “Should I be?”

He shrugged a shoulder, bringing himself up to his full height. “That’s what I was expecting.”

“Wasn’t it you who said never to expect anything?” He looked at her questioningly and she paused. “About a year ago…in some pub. We were talking about something or the other…”

She let her voice trail off at the blank look on his face. He cautiously took a step inside her office, past enemy lines (she had thrown an inkwell at him not a month ago for the very same thing), giving her a curious look.

“You remember that?” He cocked his head to the right, his arms falling to his sides.

“I, uh…I retain information fairly well.”

He made a small sound of agreement, looking down and studying the pattern on the fabric of her chairs. He walked over to the far left wall, eyes searching the hundreds of books shelved against it. He ran a long finger over the titles while Hermione squirmed in her seat.

“Did you need something?”

She wasn’t at all comfortable with the weird feeling in the air and the sooner he left, the sooner she got rid of it and got back to her work.

“Anxious for me to leave?” He smirked at her over his shoulder.

“I have a lot of work…”

“You always have a lot of work, Granger. Perhaps too much.”

“You’re spending too much time with Harry and Ron, Malfoy.”

He turned towards her and gave a small nod. “Granger, I have to fully agree with that.”

Silence reigned now and Hermione busied herself with arranging and stacking papers, wondering what he wanted. Malfoy always showed up for one of two reasons: he needed something, or he felt like arguing. There was no friendly visit, no warm chit-chat.

“In the Muggle world, who would you think is more like Voldemort—Saddam or Hitler? Personally, I—”

“Is this what you came in here for?”

It was one in the morning…couldn’t this man see that she wasn’t up for some debate right now?

“Where’s Potter?” The tone in his voice changed, all business and nothing at all.

“I don’t know. Hopefully in his flat, sleeping.”

“He hasn’t owled me back about this mission tom—today.”

“Harry doesn’t usually owl back, Malfoy.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Well, that’s your own problem to figure out with him, Granger. But he always owls me back, unless something happens where he can’t.”

The hairs at the nape of her neck rose and stood on end, sending goosebumps down her arms and along her body. “Always?”

He paused, looking her over for a moment. “You don’t know where he is?”

“Well if he hasn’t owled you back yet, and he always does, he’s probably out drinking or something of that sort.”

But not the day before a mission, she thought. This has been in the plans for two weeks now.

Harry had told her as much when he had stopped by this afternoon to drag her out to a small cafe for lunch. He wouldn’t drink this late when he had a mission the next day. He would never.

Hermione jumped up, pieces of parchment fluttering to the ground. Her seat rolled back and hit the wall as she grabbed her wand from the first drawer in her desk.

“There’s no need to get panicked, Granger. I’m sure he’s fine. I just wanted to know if you knew where he was.”

But she was already walking out the door, heading down the corridor. She paused half way down, turning back to look at him standing just outside her door.

“Well? Are you going to help me find him or not, Malfoy?”

Surprise flashed across his expression before he stretched out those long legs and caught up to her in a few strides.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

“I’m checking the pub across the street. Then we’ll apparate from there to Ron’s flat and see if he’s there.”

Draco almost felt bad for asking her, observing the way she was nearly running down the hall, the way her eyes shot frantically about as if Harry was hiding in the walls. Her panic had spread though, and he found himself walking quicker then his normal pace.

They reached the front doors quickly, Draco taking his cloak off and putting it around her shoulders before he even thought twice about it. Hermione hardly recognized the gesture, subconsciously taking in the scent of evergreen, cleanness, and something completely and uniquely Malfoy. It did cause her to look up at him once she had stepped into the small blizzard outside, shoving her arms into the cloak and putting it on properly. It was oversized and probably dragging on the ground after her but he didn’t seem to care, grabbing her by the elbow to help her step from the ice on the sidewalk to the ice on the street.

They hadn’t stepped into the pub more then ten seconds before she felt Malfoy’s hand wrap around her arm and they disappeared.

“I wasn’t done looking!” she exclaimed.

“I was. He wasn’t there.”

“Are you sure? W—”

“I’m positive, Granger. Now hush.”

“Hush? D—”

“Shut the bloody hell up, does that work better for you?” He turned towards her in the dimness of the room, giving her a hard glare.

Her head pulled back on her neck a bit and she turned to look around the room he had brought her to, something like fear reaching up to tickle her nerves. “Where are we?”

He looked at her again, eyebrow arched. “You really need to visit your friends more, Granger.”

Her eyebrows knitted together as she surveyed the place more. “Rons kitchen? How did you know where his flat was? I thou—”

“Because I’ve been here, Granger. Bloody hell, stop with the questions.” He was walking out of the room, into the living room.

She followed him as he walked through the room and into the hall, turning towards the left to grab the door handle to Rons room. Her fear for Harry was momentarily gone as she wondered just how many times Malfoy had been here.

“You wake him.” He whispered, opening the door.

She gave him a curious look and slid past him in the doorway, looking up at his shadowed face as something strange shot through her when her body slid against his. She blamed it on lack of romance in her life rather then her reaction to him. Her heart rate off a few beats, she made her way to Ron’s bed.

“Ron. Ronald,” she whispered, reaching down to shake him awake.

Ron muttered something in his sleep, trying to turn away from her. She shook him harder, aware of Malfoy’s presence closing in around her. Her heart made a weird jumping sensation in her chest, feeling the cloth of his pant leg brush up against her.

“Ron!” She exclaimed, yet still in a whisper, because that was how you spoke when waking someone up in the dark.

She thought she saw his eyes open in the dark, guessing correctly when he suddenly jumped and yanked his duvet up. “Hermione!”

“Where’s Harry?”

“Harry? What?” He reached up to try and wipe the sleep from his eyes.

“Harry, where is he?”

Ron looked over at his bedside clock and groaned, laying back down. “Probably at home sleeping, Hermione. Why in the hell did you wake me up for that?”

“Do you know if he was going anywhere tonight?”

Ron groaned again, pressing his face into the pillow for a moment. Something muffled came out from the fabric.

“What?” Hermione bit, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him back over.

“Head. Something head. Hogs Head? Head…something head.”

“Head? Head? Oh, that’s helpful, Ronald.” Hermione threw her arms up, letting them smack off her sides (Cloak. Malfoy’s cloak.) as she rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

“Well, that’s all I can—why? Why? Is something wrong with Harry? Di—”

She was gone before she could answer, opening her eyes to another dimly lit room, but this one cluttered with people. She realized Malfoy had his hand on her arm again and she gave him a sharp look, knowing Ron was probably in a panic now.

“Where are we?” Hermione snapped, taking in the dive of a place he had brought her too.

“Where Harry is,” Draco responded, walking briskly towards the bar.

Hermione watched him in confusion for a moment before following after him. Draco turned toward the stools, reaching down and grabbing a body she didn’t recognize at first. Harry’s face came into view, red with his eyes still closed. Draco drug him back a few feet.

“No, mate. You made a very bad choice in your selection tonight.” He grunted, setting Harry down a few stools away from his now vacant seat next to a brunette witch.

“Malfoy! Geroff me!”

“Hey! Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” The brunette stood from her seat and Hermione noted something strange in her voice.

“Potter,” Draco grabbed his face, aiming the dazed green eyes at the angry witch. “That is not a woman. His name is Hielda, a drag queen who happens to be a regular here.”

“What?” Harry scrunched up his face like a child, shaking his head and looking up at his blond coworker.

Hermione’s nose wrinkled, looking back at the brunette she had seen Harry snogging quite thoroughly when they had apparated in. Her eyes darted down to the brunettes neck, spotting the telltale adams apple.

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione shook her head and let out a short bark of laughter.

Her hand darted up to cover her mouth, finding herself now under the drag queen’s scrutiny. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the man in front of her.

“Look here, Helga, or whatever your name is! I have no problem with you deciding to dress up in woman garb! Do whatever you want! But you should not be seducing straight drunk men who have no idea you are a man yourself!” Hermione spat out, her finger pointing and poking the air towards him.

“He knew, so don’t try to—”

“Oh, bollocks he knew! Don’t lie to me!”

“Psh. Whatever.” He rolled his eyes and turned back towards the bar, a sour expression on his pretty face.

When Hermione turned back to Harry, she realized two things. Draco had taken a seat next to her drunken friend, and Harry was now crying. She rushed forward, nearly tripping over the extra length of Malfoy’s cloak.

“Oh, Harry. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” She ran her hand over his bent head, looking towards Malfoy’s hand as it squeezed his shoulder.

“I forgot. I had…complete! Completely! Forgotten.” He breathed in quick gasps of air, trying to stop the oncoming tears.

“That’s okay, love. That’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” His eyes rose to meet hers, full of sadness and anger. “Two years ago a woman gave her life for me, and I forget? I just forget?”

He look disgusted with himself and Hermione tried to think as quickly as she could to who the female in question was. It struck her tired mind right before he began to speak again.

“I was walking down the street, doing some Christmas shopping. This girl…this little girl, she was talking about how she was so happy to be on holiday from Hogwarts. Hogwarts. And I remembered. I remember now.” He nodded sadly, quickly wiping the tears from his cheeks.

Hermione gulped hard against the knot in her throat, blinking away the film of tears that covered her eyes. Minerva McGonagall…had it already been two years since their beloved Head of House had jumped in front of that flash of green light aimed for Harry?

“Granger. Granger. Hermione.” She looked up at him at that, meeting the cool gray. “Why don’t you go home and get to bed? I’ll take care of this. I—”

“I’m not leaving him!” She looked indignant and he nodded, knowing better then to argue with her now.

“I don’t need you all here you know! Go to sleep! Go home! Go…go…sod off!”

Draco turned and ushered over the barkeep, ordering himself a glass of Fireball Rum and looking towards Hermione. “Water?”

“That’s fine.” She nodded, taking a seat and pulling Harry’s head towards her to cradle against her chest.

He wrapped an arm around her, almost falling off his stool had Malfoy not grabbed at his shirt and pulled him back up. Their eyes met over the black head of hair and Malfoy pushed her water towards her, the back of his thumb brushing along her arm. He held her eyes and she knew it wasn’t an accident, that it was some sort of comforting brush of skin against skin.

It’s okay.

She heard it in her head, the way he had said it a few months ago in her office when she was crying into his shirt.

She smiled sadly at him, bending down to kiss the top of Harry’s head.

CHAPTER 3

Hermione yawned and stretched her arms above her head, sleepy eyes staring at the doors to the lift. She hadn’t been sure about leaving work so early when she had gotten in so late this morning.

After another hour or so of comforting Harry last night, Malfoy had helped her bring him back to his flat. After making sure that her upset friend had fallen asleep, she had gotten ready to leave for the Ministry again. Before she could apparate back, Malfoy had started ranting on about how he was surprised she wasn’t staying in case Harry woke up during the night. He had continued on for a good quarter of an hour, asking her if she valued her work more so than her troubled friends, until she threw a candle at him and crawled into bed next to Harry. Hermione thought she probably would have slept for days with no alarm to wake her up, but Malfoy had taken care of that as well. Around ten he had came into the room, followed closely by Ron and a hangover potion. She had apparated to her flat to get ready for the day and was a bit frantic with being nearly five hours late for work. However, on some sort of level, she had to mentally thank Malfoy for being such a wanker and giving her a guilt trip the night before — seven hours of sleep could do wonders for a person. On some deeper level, she wondered if that was what made him do it in the first place.

After a short day, three irritating owls, and Ron finally showing up to personally drag her from her work, she was off to some pub or another to help celebrate the mission accomplished. She had no idea what the mission entailed, one of those top secret sorts, and the boys wouldn’t tell her, but she was being forced into celebrating anyway.

“I really should be working, Ronald.”

“Would you stop calling me Ronald? You know I hate that.” He rolled his eyes, stepping out of the lift once it reached the lobby.

“After all these years, I’m not going to stop now. Besides, it works better then just Ron when I’m annoyed with you.”

“Which is usually.”

“Which is not my fault. You’re constantly—”

“Alright, do you want to walk or should we Apparate?”

She pursed her lips at him for cutting her off but gave him a smile when he dramatically opened the front door and bowed to her, his hand making big gestures in the air.

“Talked to Parvati?”

“Planning.”

“On talking to her?”

“On revenge.” He narrowed his eyes at the cold London air as Hermione skidded sideways on a patch of ice.

“Ronald, some help?” She flashed an annoyed glance at him, unable to get proper footing as she slid about the sidewalk.

“I can hardly walk either, how am I supposed to help you?” He wrinkled his nose at her and rolled his eyes again.

Hermione reached out and grabbed a hold of a lamppost, pulling herself to it across the ice. Despite his reluctance, Ron slowly made his way towards her.

“Right. I guess we’re Apparating then.” He answered himself from earlier, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Closing her eyes on instinct, she opened them again to the sight of a lively party. Music rang out through the air, people stumbled their way across the room, and chatter rose loud through the room.

She followed Ron through the crowd, muttering apologies as she brushed and pushed through people, eyes trained on the messy head of red. The crowd thinned gradually until she hit the tables, shifting her work tote as she squeezed through the small areas between seats.

“I’ve brought her.” Ron announced to people she had yet to see, her view blocked by her towering friend.

“Hermione! I’m so glad you came.” This squeal of a greeting she smiled at, recognizing the sound of her friends voice.

Sidestepping Ron, she grinned largely at the small and fiery redhead. “Gin!”

“She wouldn’t have, had I not threatened to burn every bit of work related parchment the next time she fell asleep.” Ron complained, taking a seat at the round table.

“I have a lot of work.” Hermione sighed, hugging Ginny before she took the seat next to her.

“What else is new?” Harry spoke up, throwing back a shot of something strong and hard.

Hermione gave a small smile, placing her tote next to her feet and removing her cloak. The room was packed with people and body heat, and already her cheeks were flushed with warmth. She looked across the table and was met with a smirk and a dazed gaze. Reaching into her tote bag, she pulled out his cloak and offered it to him.

“Thanks.” She muttered, and he smiled as he took it, ignoring the curious glances from around the table.

“Did you just thank me, Granger?”

“It’s not like I never have.”

“Not that I recall, and I believe that to be something I would remember.”

“Ah, you were probably drunk.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m drunk often?”

“Often enough.”

“Well, we all can’t be a prim, prissy, and proper stick up the arse like yourself.”

“I am not that straight laced, Malfoy.”

“Really?” He smirked at her.

“Yes, really. Perhaps you could make better assumptions if you actually knew me.”

“Like you would let me?”

“Let you what?” she sighed, looking around to see if there was anyone to get her a drink.

“Know you.”

She looked back at him, only slightly aware that Ginny had stopped in the loud cheering on of Doitz, a fellow Auror, as he chugged down his drink. Malfoys eyes had seemed to clear from their fogginess, because even through a slight drunken haze, you can realize when something important happens. Even if you’re not sure, even if you don’t really know what it is or what it means, you know it just means something, and you need to approach it with as much of a clear mind as you can.

“You could—” Her voice was low, unsure, rough.

“What?” His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he leaned forward, his eyes still burning into hers.

She cleared her throat, glancing down at the table because it felt like too much. Inhaling, she let him capture her gaze again.

“You could. If you wanted to. I mean…”

She had trailed off but they still stared at one another. Because she wasn’t sure if he could, or just how much she would let him. Because she didn’t think he would even bother, that he would care enough, that they would even get along no matter how much they knew one another. Because there had always been something that separated the two of them, and she didn’t know if it mattered how far they dug into the layers of what made them who they were — some people just didn’t get along.

Because she didn’t see it as much more then a complete waste of time.

“I could say the same for you,” she told him.

“I’ve never stopped you.”

“You’ve never stopped me?” she questioned him incredulously.

His eyes turned a little harder. “Some things people don’t talk about, Granger. You should know that as well as anyone else.”

She knew what he meant. The War. The War, because she wouldn’t talk to anyone about that. Not her parents, not Harry, not Ron, not even to the gravestones of all her friends who never got the chance to not want to talk about it.

He leaned further across the table, and though his voice sounded like a whisper, it reached her ears. “I know you a lot better then you think, Granger. I may not know your favorite color or food, or other bollocks like that. But I know things.”

“Like what?”

He leaned back and turned towards Harry as he passed him a pint. Hermione shook her head at him, told herself that he didn’t know anything, and stood to make her way towards the bar. Weaving through the warmth and mass of bodies, she breathed out a heavy breath when she finally reached her destination.

She wasn’t waiting for long to order when she felt a gust of air on her ear. Before she could turn her head, she jumped and nearly cried out when a voice started speaking by her ear.

“I know you won’t talk about the War. Ever. To anyone. I know it’s still affecting you more so than most, and that you bury yourself in work to try and keep your mind off it. I know you can’t escape it in dreams, and it haunts you there, and that’s why you don’t mind so much that you don’t get much sleep at night.

“I know you’re passionate about everything you set your mind to. That you’re intelligent, quick, clever. I know loads of things that you believe in, and your points and opinions on everything from the ends of the wizarding world to the ends of the Muggle world. I know that you have anger issues, get annoyed at just about everything, and are agitated at the world around you. I know the way you like your coffee, the way you touch the texture of things when you’re unsure or worried. I know you bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking, and that you yank on your hair whenever you’re about to cry.

“I know the way you look when you’re angry, passionate, sad, happy, alive, tired. I know that every night you get up to get your last cup of coffee at about one, and every time you stop and look at me inside the ACR. I know you smell like strawberry and roses. I know I hardly see you without ink stains on your fingers and hands. I know you like to be the best, not just for bragging rights and satisfaction of being above people, but for the knowledge that others know you’re worth something. Shit, Granger. I can go on forever.”

Hermione slowly turned to face him, finding that he was way too close for comfort. A mere inch or two gap between their bodies, his left hand pressed against the wood of the bar counter at her side. His head was still bent from talking in her ear, but his eyes were raised to meet hers.

“And—” She cleared her throat from its tremble. “And what does that prove, Malfoy?”

Too close. He was too close.

“I don’t know what that proves, or if it proves anything. I just know that I know that. You were top of our class, Granger. You tell me what it means.”

“I don’t know what it means.”

“Then I suppose we’re on the same level.” He shrugged a shoulder, his eyes lingering on the freckles dusted across her nose before he met her eyes again. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable, Malfoy.”

“I didn’t say me. I asked you if this,” He gestured between them with his free hand, and she felt his fingers brush the fabric of her shirt. “Made you uncomfortable?”

“A bit, yes.” She admitted.

“Why is that?”

“You’re very close.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, nodding his head once. “Would you like for me to step away?”

“I don’t know.”

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the heat rise up in her face. She swore she didn’t know where that came from. Merlin, let her somehow be able to take those words back.

“You and I — we don’t know a lot, do we, Granger?”

She opened her eyes at that, noticing that the small upward curve of his lips was now gone. She thought he may have moved just a fraction closer as well, and she could see flecks of blue in that world of gray.

“You’re drunk.”

“A little. You’re not.”

“How does that ma—”

“Can I help you?” Malfoy looked over her head at the voice, and her eyes darted down to his neck.

“A glass of water.” He ordered, still looking above her head for a moment before looking back down.

“Who’s to say I wanted water?” She looked back up at him as he rose an eyebrow at her. “Perhaps I wanted something else.”

“Alcohol?” He looked bemused.

“Perhaps.”

“Well, Granger. Perhaps the water isn’t for you.”

“You’re going to drink water?” She nearly rolled her eyes at him, his eyes narrowing in response to the tone in her voice.

“No, Granger, I’m just going to pay for something I don’t want.”

A soft thud was heard to her side and she turned her head towards the sound. Malfoy picked up the glass of water and she heard him take a sip from it.

“Anything for you, Miss?” The older man behind the counter asked.

“Um…I’ll have a water, please.” When she turned back, Malfoy was smirking at her. “Bugger off.”

“I’m not that drunk, Granger.”

“All right,” she told him, cocking her head to the side in confusion.

“I’m not drunk enough to say things I don’t mean.”

“Oh.”

Her water was placed next to her but she still didn’t look away from him. He looked at her curiously for a moment, tilting his head.

“Would you like to dance, Granger?”

Hermione gave him a shocked look, wondering just how much he had to drink. Had he actually just asked her to dance with him?

“N-no. No. I uh…no. But thank you…Malfoy, anyway.”

He stared at her intensely for a few moments. “Why not?”

Because my head is foggy and all I smell is evergreen and…and just you all over me, and you’re making me dizzy and I don’t know why. Because I’ve had nothing to drink but I feel tipsy and I don’t trust myself around you. Which is so…strange, and weird, and…messed up, because I’m Hermione Granger and you’re Draco Malfoy and I should be not trusting you not myself. Because…because it must all be because you’re drunk and I’m tired, and we need space. Yes, space between our bodies when it’s so suffocating and hot in here.

“Because I’m tired and I’m going to go talk with everyone for another twenty minutes and then go home and sleep.”

“I don’t take rejection well.” He told her, setting his water on the counter.

He smirked at her indignant look. “Well you’re just going to ha—”

He was pulling on her arm, dragging her into the mass of people. Hermione tried to dig her heels in, yanking back on his grip to try and free herself. Malfoy had other plans however, and kept his grip firm.

“It’s a fast song and it’s half over, Granger. You don’t even have to dance with me…it’s a whole bloody crowd of dancing people.”

He stopped pulling her somewhere in the middle of the crowd, and as she sucked in a breath and began to yell at him, she realized the music had turned her words into a low undertone of rumbling sound. Malfoy grinned at her with this, and it didn’t leave his face when a drunken mid-aged witch came up to them and gripped both their hands. Her head was thrown back, her eyes closing, as she jumped about to the music.

“Malfoy!” Hermione yelled, and he only smiled, grabbing her other hand.

Tilting his head and widening his eyes, he gave her an innocent look before starting to jump on the balls of his feet.

You have got to be kidding me.

She watched him for a moment before a laugh escaped her at the sight. What was this? Draco grinned at her before yanking his hand from the grasp of the witch, grabbing Hermione’s arm and yanking it away as well. Gripping her other hand, he continued to jump around the floor, bobbing his head.

“You are so drunk!” She tried to tell him over the music and through her laughter. “And I’m not jumping like a jackass!”

He raised their hands up in the air and she feared, if he raised them anymore, he would be lifting her up with him. Seeing that he wasn’t about to stop, she gave a few jumps and stopped.

“There!”

He nodded encouragingly, gesturing with their linked hands to continue. He gestured at himself and then shrugged, as if asking, who the hell cares, I’m doing it. Hermione laughed and shook her head again but started jumping all the same. She bobbed her head in turn with the beats and Draco laughed, nodding at her to continue.

She had never seen him so out of character, and she wondered if it was just the large quantity of alcohol running through his system or if she really didn’t know that much about one Draco Malfoy.

“I could do it with Frida. I’ll bed her tonight, shag her once or twice in the morning, get what I need, and leave a note that tells her I had a meeting but that I’ll be back in a few hours. Simple. Little effort.”

Draco, Harry, and Ron were currently in the otherwise empty ACR, trying to figure out the details for this next mission. In the past week, three female Ministry employees had fallen into comas. They were found already in such a state while at work, the first two during the morning and the third in the afternoon. All three were still in a coma while healers at St. Mungo’s and other researchers (such as Hermione) at the Ministry were working on finding the counter curse.

The Minister had approached Harry that morning with the case. The boys had been quick to agree on using Polyjuice for one of them to become a female employee, while the other two would monitor activities surrounding that office and the building; setting up wards, surveillance, and other things. After picking names out of Ron’s Chudley Cannons hat to see who got stuck with becoming a female, they listened to Draco complain for nearly half an hour. After that, they had been stuck on what female and how.

Harry and Ron paused, looking humored while they gazed at the blond.

“As much as we appreciate your desire to get laid, Malfoy, we believe we have something a bit easier.” Ron let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

He rose an eyebrow, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Which is?”

“Hermione,” Harry answered. “We convince her to take a day off by badgering her all day today with worry of how much she works. We’ll make her promise not to work tomorrow, which she wont if she promises, and then when she’s sleeping we’ll take some clothes and a strand of her hair.”

“And if she finds out?”

“She won’t.” Harry shook his head.

“What if Weasel-Bee gets pissed and ends up telling her, because he thinks since one day has passed, something which would make her angry would now be seen as funny?”

“What? When have I ever—” He cut himself off with the looks he received from both. “I will not say a word. I swear.”

Draco looked at Ron, then at Harry, before nodding his head. “Fine. Granger it is.”

The confirmation owl didn’t reach Draco’s flat until nearly midnight. Even the late time had seemed early to Draco, surprised that Potter had not only gotten Granger to agree on a day off tomorrow, but to also leave the office so early. He figured she must have been quite knackered after staying out so late the night before — a night he personally tried not to think too hard about.

He hadn’t been lying when he told her he wasn’t drunk enough to say things he didn’t mean. However, that didn’t mean he wished he hadn’t said them or that he even knew half of what he was talking about. Yes, he knew a lot about Granger. Never mind the time spent in classes and halls at Hogwarts; but these past few years at the Ministry, on a daily basis, and with his observation skills? Indeed he knew a lot of those things she showed or spoke of freely. He just didn’t know why it had felt so important last night to let her know that he knew.

As for the attraction, that shock of static in the air when they encountered one another, that too seemed to be something he only admitted with alcohol. Not that he hadn’t noticed it on so many other occasions, but it was during those nights at the pub he could be seen looking at her, with his eyes dark and his mind thoughtful. Sober, in the past few years, he could count on one hand how many times he had really and seriously thought of such a pairing. Attraction was one thing, but bringing that into something real was a complete other.

Draco had always brushed it off when that chemistry whirled around his head. Sometimes they had been fighting heavily and soon found themselves inches away, red-faced and passionate. Other times it was a certain look, an accidental brush of skin on skin, or she had decided to hike up that skirt a bit or unbutton one or two top buttons on her blouse. Whether it was any of these things that suddenly had him glancing at her lips or wondering what made her moan, he always chalked it up to normal female-male attraction. Something that was bound to happen and something that didn’t mean anything. Because it couldn’t. Not with them. It just wouldn’t make sense for him to have any sort of relationship, any sort of an experience, with Granger.

This morning he had got up and stumbled his way to the bathroom thinking of the events of last night. When he had remembered his embarrassing and corny dance moves he had physically dragged her to see and laugh at, he had to resist the urge to bang his head off the wall while repeating “wanker, wanker, wanker.” But there had been a strange feeling in his chest when he remembered how she eventually participated, and the joy and free spirited mirth that had filled her eyes as she laughed.

He also recalled her response to him asking her if she wanted him to step away from her. I don’t know, she had said. And that had been the first time Draco ever thought she might be feeling that static in the air just as much as he was. The first time he thought maybe she considered him as well. There was possibility in her response, and that possibility had him thinking of her long after he woke up this morning. In fact, that possibility had caused the thought of Granger to inch into his mind a highly annoying amount of times that day.

And here he was now, going to sleep early, for in another five hours he was to become her.

It was only ten in the morning when Draco had officially declared Hermione’s job to be a complete bore. By eleven, he was sure they had been stupid to take the easy route and pick Hermione rather then someone a bit more popular with her co-workers. When Draco had wandered out to Frida’s desk to ‘girl talk’ with several other females, they all had stared at him awkwardly. It then dawned on him that Hermione wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, and the only time she ever gave these women was when she was giving them dirty looks or eye rolls on her way to get coffee. It took Draco nearly fifteen minutes to get them to chat normally. By twelve, he realized they had no useful information for him and so saw an opportunity to stroke his own ego. After boasting about his own good looks, he grinned his head off when the other women filled in on their delicious thoughts of him. That was until one of the woman decided to go on and on about his less attractive traits, and filing her under a Granger type person, he glared at her and changed the subject.

On lunch, he wandered about the building, trying to walk and look as seductively as possible. He promised to make it up to himself by punching something later and bringing back some wonderful male testosterone. He could practically hear Weasley and Potter cackling. At least the gits hadn’t brought him some tall heel things to wear, or else he knew they would have been laughing at him all through the horrible time it would have taken him to learn how to walk in such things.

By half past one, he knew someone was following him. He could hear them at times, could sense them in the otherwise deserted corridors. However, he didn’t see anyone and that was something that startled him. He had remained quick and dodgy, random in the directions he was going. He turned quickly, never walking straight for more then a few seconds. After twenty minutes of this game, Draco found himself in an empty corridor that came to a dead end. He turned then, feeling the switch in the air, and prepared himself to face an invisible enemy. He was questioning his sanity until he heard a mutter and then the sound of footsteps walking away. Draco had then spoken up, asked where it was they thought they were going. His question was greeted by a halt of steps and a breath of a laugh, and in the moment where the hairs raised on the back of his neck and he prepared himself for anything, someone walked out of their office. The presence had left.

By a quarter to three, he had informed Harry and Ron, both of whom started to leave to go check on their surveillance for a multiple amount of things that could give them suspects. While Harry was questioning why the man had started to leave instead of doing anything, as well as what he was using to hide himself, Ron took the opportunity to tell Draco he presented himself well as a female. When Ron asked him if there was anything he felt he needed to come out and tell them, Draco had whacked his hand into the side of Ron’s head, which led to it whacking off the wall. As Ron went to go after him, Draco danced out of his reach, exclaiming, “Hermione’s body! Hermione’s body!”

Coming to the conclusion that they weren’t going to get any further today, Draco sauntered back to Hermione’s office, catching a few glances for his manly posturing. He wondered if they could get Hermione to take off another day, seeing as now the mystery man who had followed him may now have a personal vendetta against her.

By four he was bored out of his mind, waiting impatiently for the potion to wear off. He sat behind her desk, staring at the bit of thigh now exposed from a shorter skirt. Hermione’s face was contorted into a typical Malfoy expression as he wondered if he had low enough respect to peek at a few other places. Deciding that he didn’t, he ran a finger over the exposed bit of her left thigh.

“Soft.” He murmured, and flinched at the sound of her voice for his words.

He looked up at a knock in the door, arching an eyebrow as he picked his wand off her desk. Before he could tell the knocker to come in, the door swung open to reveal his two favorite arses.

“Thought we would entertain you for a bit,” Harry grinned, shutting the door behind him.

“Of course you did. That and you want to make sure I get my hands in deep with all that surveillance that needs to be looked over, and I’m sure you don’t want to get too far without me to do a third of the work.”

“We can’t always cover your arse, Malfoy.” Ron shrugged, plopping down in one of the seats across from Draco.

“Speaking of, I presume you brought me my clothes?”

Harry held up a bag and placed it by his feet as he sat down. “Right here.”

Draco waited a moment. “Well, can I have them? I would prefer to change into them before I turn back.”

The two just grinned at him in reply, neither moving to offer up the bag. Draco cocked his head, looking at them both intensely.

“You bloody fucks. You came to try and get your kicks out of me in women’s clothes! You’re n—” Draco cut his own self off, feeling the familiar feeling that came with changing back. “Shit.”

Draco closed his eyes and groaned, the weird sensation overtaking him but not beating out his sureness of the embarrassment to come. Pressure wrapped around him, against his skin, and it grew almost overwhelming before a ripping sound filled the air. Following directly after was the sound of uproarious laughter. Draco slowly opened his eyes, fixing a cold stare on his two ‘mates’, the strange sensation leaving his body.

He waited it out, unable to suppress the two streaks of red across his cheekbones. He really should have expected this from them. He aimed his glare at Weasley, figuring him to be the one who thought up the idea in the first place.

“You both forget that I am a Slytherin, and revenge happens to be a wonderful specialty of mine.”

But they both just continued to laugh, slapping at their knees and clutching at their sides. Harry was smacking his hand off Ron’s shoulder, both their faces red, eyes tightly shut only to open and look at him every few seconds. Draco hoped they choked on air.

Draco grunted, pushing himself out of the seat as the laughter of the two boys slowly began to die down.

“Weasley, you of all people should not be laughing. It was just a short while ago when everyone saw that white arse of yours trotting around the lobby.”

Draco emphasized his angry remark with a harsh glare but ruined the whole effect when he tripped over himself. The skirt was tight against his legs, nearly cutting off circulation, and the way it squeezed his legs together had certain parts of his anatomy begging for relief in a completely different way then they usually did. He growled low in his throat as the fading laughter started up again and he reached down, tearing along the tears already at each side.

Ron let out a loud whistle and Harry leaned down in his seat, head tilted up, spitting out words through his laughter.

“Oh, yes, pet. Show us those hairy legs of yours.”

Draco sneered at the two, finally walking a little more freely. “Oh, do continue. Payback is quite the bitch.”

“Harry, Harry,” Ron barked out with his laughter, smacking his friend against the shoulder. “He’s not that kind of woman!”

Hermione Granger made her appearance at that moment, stopping short at the chest even with her eyesight. She slowly trailed her eyes up the pale white, the Adam’s apple, the clenched jaw, the aristocratic nose, up until she met the smoldering gray.

Her mouth worked like that of a fish out of water. Closing, opening, at a complete loss of words. The laughter behind Draco stopped as the boys realized they were busted, looking around for any other possible exit. Draco reached down to make sure nothing was hanging out the now short skirt. Hermione’s eyes were calculating, narrowed with distrust as her clever mind worked quickly.

Draco thought his heart must have stopped beating when it launched itself into his throat as Hermione suddenly gripped the back of his neck and pulled his face down to hers. Male instinct shouted in his head that her lips were just an inch away from his own before she released his neck. Her small hands landed on his skin and shoved him back a step and he ignored the imprint of heat that they left behind.

“Polyjuice?” She glared at him, then turned toward the two men behind him. “Tell me that you did not do this to me.”

“‘Mione—”

“Don’t ‘Mione’ me, Ronald.” Draco slowly bent to recover his bag of clothes, eyes not leaving the angry woman in front of him.

“It was for a mission, Hermione. We had to have inside access that the suspect wouldn’t be aware was new or out of the ordinary. That meant a normal person working here. We had to have a female, the sex he seemed to be targeting, and we had to have it easy enough to Polyjuice into in one day. That meant you.” Harry explained, giving her that innocent look of his while he plead guilty.

“You couldn’t ask?”

All three men had the decency to look guilty, and it was Ron who answered. “We thought you would say no. We figured if we just didn’t ask, at least we wouldn’t have asked and had you say no and then had to do it anyway.”

“Enough information, Weasley. ‘Thought you would say no’ was sufficient enough,” Draco hissed.

“I can’t believe you guys. You…manipulated me.”

“Hermione—” Harry started, stepping towards her.

“‘Mione—” Ron began to try, shamed at her dejected look.

“I’m your best friend. I would have understood if you needed me. Haven’t I always been there every time before?”

“Hermione, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think—” Ron was about to say anything at this point to get cleared.

“No, you didn’t think. Just,” Hermione sighed and gave a shake of her head. “Just…I’m going to go home and get my work. When I come back, I expect to be alone.”

“Hermione, don’t be like that. We said we were sorry, and I honestly thought—” Harry tried.

“And Malfoy? Of all people to wear my clothes and—,” She swung her head towards him and he rose his eyebrows with the look he got from her. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Look.”

His forehead creased in thought for a moment before it hit him. He figured if he was any less of a prat, he might have just looked impishly at her. Instead, the smirk formed on his full lips and she seethed.

“You—you…prick!” She yelled.

“I didn’t!” He laughed, holding up his hands and dodging as she sent a glass vase his way.

Luckily, he was well practiced at avoiding things she threw at him.

“Liar!” she spat, her hands curled in tight fists, her body rigid with anger.

“Honestly,” he laughed and shook his head at her, hands still raised in surrender. “I didn’t, I swear. I’m not that pervy, Granger. I admit, I did witness what you would look like if you ever hiked up that skirt a few more inches. But naked? No.”

She stared intensely at him for nearly a minute, Harry and Ron sneaking out around the sides, knowing that what she needed most was some time to cool down. As the door shut behind them (Ron snickering, “Man down! Man down!”) Hermione finally looked over the man standing in front of her.

The skirt was ripped at both sides, ending a few inches up from his knee. The waist was ripped at the left side and a little down the front, still looking horribly tight. The rip in the front distracted her as it showed past his navel and the trail of light blond hair; Hermione figured on another centimeter before she got a peek at a vast patch of blond curls which inevitably led to his…

Gulping and flushing crimson she looked away. She followed up his chest, the white blouse ripped completely down the middle and in the sleeves. It was so tight against his sides and shoulders that the fabric looked painted on to his skin. Pushing down her newly raging hormones, she looked up at his face. He was smirking, an eyebrow arched, a certain glitter in the depths of his eyes. This all pointed to the fact that he knew her thoughts weren’t exactly innocent, and she covered the way her cheeks were coloring an even deeper shade of red by talking.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Do I?” There was a high level of pride a man felt when he could still interest a woman while dressed in a bloody skirt.

“You’re going to replace those.”

“You have another three pairs that look exactly the same.”

“Your point?”

“You look good like that, Granger.”

If you were to ask him where that came from, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Nor would he have been able to tell you why he was telling a woman she looked good while he was in his current attire. He blamed it on the tight clothes — cutting off circulation to his brain and all that rot.

Hermione was even more taken aback by the sudden comment. She looked the same as she always did when out of work. Hair down, no makeup, jeans, T-shirt or tanktop. Her fashion sense hadn’t changed at all in the past five years and she wondered what made him see this now.

Draco noticed how she seemed a bit flustered at his comment and lost some of the nervousness that enveloped him after he made it. Her eyes were intrigued with the floor, her index and thumb of her right hand flicking across the fabric of her pocket.

Draco took the few steps towards her, squatting down so his face was under hers and their eyes locked. Bringing himself back up to his full height, she held his eyes and he gave her a small smile.

“The replacements will be on your desk tomorrow morning,” He walked past her, making sure his arm brushed hers. “I’ll see you later, Granger.”

CHAPTER 4

Draco ran his fingers through his hair, getting the fringe from his eyes and attempting to smooth down the disheveled locks. He gave a curt nod of acknowledgement to Frida as she stared him down, turning and giving a quick knock to Granger’s office. Before waiting for a reply, he opened the door and stepped up to hover in the doorway. His eyebrows were just drawing together in realization that she wasn’t there when he heard Frida clear her throat.

“Mister Malfoy?” He turned to look at her, hand still on the knob. “Miss Granger couldn’t be here today.”

The news shot a feeling up his spine, and it radiated out through his body to dance on his nerve endings. It was a feeling that something was inexplicitly wrong here. It was nearing eleven in the morning, she had missed most of yesterday, and she wasn’t here?

“Where is she?” He slowly closed the door behind him.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re not at liberty to say? Frida, no matter the right to or not, you always ‘say’.”

“Well, I’m not allowed to—” Her eyebrows were raised, her eyes diverted in some aloof and cold demeanor.

“I’ll find out one way or the other, so I suggest you tell me now, for your best benefit, before I start to get angry.”

She stared at him for a moment before sighing. “She’s at St. Mungo’s.”

Draco paused, his eyes darkening and the hairs on his arms coming to stand on end. “St. Mungo’s?”

“Yes. Scares the whole lot of us, it does. Most of us won’t even come in to work now anymore. I didn’t even want to, but I didn’t find out until this morning! I would have left as soon as I heard too, but—”

“Shut up. Is this dealing with the coma incidents?”

She pursed her lips, not liking to be told to shut up from anyone.

“Is it?”

“You told me to shut up, and now when it’s good for you, I can—”

“Just fucking tell me!” He screamed suddenly, and Frida took two quick steps back.

If this had been any other person, she would have tore into them for speaking to her like this. She would have really let them have a piece of her mind. But it wasn’t. This was Draco Malfoy, and she had heard enough about his temper to know when she wasn’t up for the task.

“Yes. They found her this morning, around four. She was in her office. Perhaps if the Aurors had caught this person by now, she would still be working.”

Draco resisted the urge to slap the sneer off her face, instead choosing to tighten the grip on the bag in his hand and walk briskly back down the corridor.

Draco didn’t want to think about the feelings that the news provoked in him. Not only were there far too many, but a good portion of which he wasn’t sure he should even feel for Granger. But the one that he knew was there, that would not stifle down, was guilt.

It almost made him dizzy, the amount that pumped through his head. It was a guilt, a blame, that lay on three pairs of shoulders, but he supposed that he received the most from it. He had been the one to try and draw in the suspect, had been the one to try and bring them back when they were walking away. Had been the one to get them angry enough to want to come back and finish the job. He had also known. Had spotted the personal vendetta, had thought about it before he ever left her office. He had also mentioned it to Potter on the way out, who had thought for a brief moment before shaking his head and saying that there were all sorts of detectors and surveillance charms around her office and they would know the moment anyone walked there.

Draco had beat down the desire to place the blame on Potter for that very reason. It seemed logical for him to do so, but he couldn’t. In times such as these, people always looked for that person to point the finger to. Draco had done it most his life, but not any longer. It was the boy he had been, but not the type of man he wished to be, and sometimes you just had to be grown enough to admit when that finger pointed right back at you.

He had sent an owl to Harry, taking a few extra moments to try not to sound too concerned, and had been waiting for a reply for over an hour now. He was in the ACR, trying to bury himself in work though it wasn’t helping. He found he was continuously walking to the door, looking down the hallway at a door to an empty office.

It was on one of these such trips that he spotted Frida making her way towards him, annoyance on her face and attitude in every sway of her hips. She stopped a good two feet away, reaching out a hand which held a rolled up parchment.

“This came for you.” His fingers had just touched it when she let go, turning and walking away.

Draco shook his head at the retreating back, unrolled the letter, and looked down to read the sloppy writing.

Draco,

Ron and I are both at St. Mungo’s. Hermione is fine, despite the coma. Everything seems to be as it were in every other case. All we need now is the counter spell, and hopefully we can get more information from the victims. Ron and I will be dragging ourselves out of here shortly to try and see if we can find anything on all the surveillance spells, wards, etc. We also want to try and find out why the detectors didn’t go off.

Hermione didn’t seem to know what was coming. Her wand was still in the top drawer when we looked through her office, the last spell on it being a Scourgify. A guard found her this morning at her desk.

She’s on the third floor, room 2934 if you want to see her…

I’ll be there in another twenty minutes or so.

-Harry

Draco bit his lips together as he slowly walked down the hall, watching the healers walking quickly down the hall and the stray family members and friends mope about. He looked up at the signs above entrances to other halls, waiting until he saw the black print against tan that read ‘2900-3000’. Taking a left, he headed down, glancing at the doors for 2934.

It had taken him thirty minutes to decide whether or not to come. Finally he just decided that he shouldn’t think about it and should just go with what it was he wanted to do. Hospitals had always made him feel so uneasy, especially after the war. They were somewhere he had learned was a place you only said goodbye. He knew that wasn’t the case now, but the memories of the past caused his palms to grow warm and his face to grow cold with determination and preparation.

Spotting her door, he paused outside before turning the knob and walking in. He knew it sounded horrible, even inside his own head, but what made this easier than it would have been was that she was in a coma. She didn’t have to know he came, she didn’t have to sit there while they both tried to find something to say in such a different situation. However, this didn’t mean Draco knew what to say.

She looked peaceful, he figured. A tad pale in the face, but she just looked like she was sleeping. Stark white sheets were pulled up to her shoulders, her head turned an inch to the left, curls fanned out along the pillow. Three small balls of light hovered a foot or two over her head. A blue one monitored her heartbeat while a green one monitored her body for any changes. The third one, a dull red now which would turn a vibrant shade and shriek when activated, alerted the healers to any problems.

Draco couldn’t help but think she looked beautiful in a…sad sort of way, he supposed. People weren’t supposed to look beautiful while lying in hospital beds, but ignoring how pale she was, she did.

“I feel like an idiot,” he declared, walking over to take a seat on the rigid and hard chair they always put in these rooms.

He watched her slow breathing, biting his lips again as he contemplated when they would find the counter spell and get her to wake up. He also wondered just how royally pissed she was going to be at him, and he nearly groaned at the thought of all those hard objects he would have to dodge.

“They say people can hear you when they’re in a coma. Sounds like a load of rubbish to me, but just in case, and perhaps I am only saying this because I don’t think you can hear me, but…I am terribly sorry. Not only did we disrespect your privacy, misuse your trust while invading your…well, body, but we also landed you here.

“I suppose when you wake you’ll be a bit sore with Harry and Ron, but I believe you’ll be a bit worse with me. Then again, I suppose you suspect this sort of behavior from me. And I guess I never gave you much room not to doubt I would ever really care if I put you in this sort of predicament. But I do…and I’m rambling, aren’t I? To myself, nonetheless.”

Draco sighed and leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes roll up towards the ceiling for a few seconds. Just what was he doing? He shifted on the hard chair and the crinkling sound brought his attention back to the woman in front of him.

“I brought you something. Your replacement clothes, so at least you wont be all hotheaded with me about that.” He made to put the bag on the small table next to her bed but stopped.

If he left the bag here and she saw it, asking her two friends if they had brought it for him, when they said no then she would know he was there. He thought about it for a moment, his right index finger making small loopy patterns on the arm of the chair. He went with the strongest urge, and placed the bag down on the table.

He didn’t know why it felt so important somehow to leave that bag, to let her know he was there. He thought that perhaps it was to show her he cared about what happened, that in some way he must be sorry for his actions. But Draco felt it was something more than that. That maybe he just wanted her to know that he cared at all, despite anything, to come here and see her today. And he wondered if that was such a bad thing. However, he knew that later, when he didn’t have her in front of him or so completely in his thoughts, he would deny it to himself. He would convince himself that no, he didn’t care even just a bit about what was going on in her mind when those brown eyes looked upon him.

Draco let out a cross between a sigh and a groan, standing up from the chair. Looking up at her sleeping face, the fingers of his right hand grazed the sheet in farewell. Deciding that he had spent far too long in this room, with these thoughts, he turned and left.

Three days. Three long fucking days.

The first had gone by with him trying to ignore what it was that felt so off. That night had him yearning to leave much earlier then normal, the silence so noticeable and so deafening now. When he had gone back to his flat for the night, he tried to keep everything out of his thoughts. Tried not to think about the way her hair might look against the black of his pillows instead of the white of a hospital’s.

The second day found him irritated and tired, and he found himself snapping at a secretary in the break room about the coffee. But she only gave him a strange look and walked away, leaving him standing there and glaring at the coffee mug. He tried different arguments with different people about all different sorts of things, but none of them rose to it like her, and he wondered if the fire in her eyes could ever be found in someone elses. When Potter dropped by to inform him that there really was nothing to be seen of the person behind the comas, he had nearly pitched a fit. The rest of the day he sauntered about, as temperamental as a five year old. That night he had placed a wrinkled forehead on an icy window in his living room, and as his fingers traced lines through the fog, he wondered how he had never noticed — never noticed how often he saw her, how much they spoke, how very much a part of his everyday life she was. And he wondered why her — the girl he used to hate, a rival in his intellect, with bushy hair and proper attire, who did not melt to a puddle when he smiled. Why was it that he was standing here, wondering if she was okay? Why was it that he couldn’t get her out of his head, and that he couldn’t help but think he actually cared for the girl? When, along this path, in this story, had it happened that he would one day be standing there and actually missing her?

By the third, he hadn’t even bothered. He grudgingly admitted that it was her absence of presence that felt off. That he missed her, that he wanted her there just so she could throw something at him. He hadn’t realized just how many people ignored him, gave him nervous glances, whispered when he walked past. He hadn’t known just how exiled he was from these people, even after all this time. Hadn’t realized how empty it would make him feel. Not a word would pass someone’s lips towards him unless it was an Auror talking business, or Potter and Weasley speaking mundane bollocks about things he didn’t care about. He bided his time, he listened to the sound of his fingers drumming on wood, he counted the cracks in the wall, and he wondered how she ever got under his skin this deep without him ever realizing it. He was almost angry at her for invoking such feelings in him. Who was she to make him feel empty? Who was she to bring out such an emotion that he had never felt over a person? And it wasn’t just at work; it was at home. It was all day and night. It followed him, lingered on him like a foul taste in his mouth.

That night he was tossing in his bed, something scratching at the back of his mind. He had put it down to her at first and tried to ignore it, but an hour had gone by already and he still wasn’t asleep. Rolling out of the bed, a string of obscenities flew out his mouth as his feet got tangled in the comforter and he tripped all over himself. His bare feet slapped off the cold wood of the floor and he shivered, the flat nearly freezing with him clad only in boxers. He had just turned on the tap to get himself some water, tiredly scratching at his stomach, when he caught a glance out of the corner of his eye. The paper on the counter was from a few days ago, the one Potter had sent him in reply about her. His eyes skipped over it as he shut off the tap, turning with his glass of water before he paused. His bit his lips, an eyebrow arching in thought as he turned back around.

…being a Scourgify. A guard found her this morning at her desk… He read the words, his toes tapping once, twice on the floor.

This morning at her desk…a guard.

He mulled it over for a second, the light bulb bright and burning above his head. He rolled his eyes at himself, nearly hoping he was wrong just because he hoped he hadn’t been that stupid.

A few seconds later, the glass was forgotten on the counter and he had pulled a cloak over himself and apparated away.

Harry had not been all that pleased to see an anxious and manly face hovering over his when he woke up. Let alone being forced out of bed, apparated away wearing only his pajamas, and having to walk through the near blizzard to the Ministry building. After that had been a frantic search through documents and records, only to come up with something that was so glaringly obvious that it was embarrassing.

Once the platinum haired wizard and himself had personally tracked down their suspect, Harry had been more than a little surprised as he held back Malfoy from getting himself fired. He could understand some anger, as Harry felt much of that himself, but not to the point where you forget you have a wand and are about to go all out fist-fighting.

It was a whirlwind of a late night and morning, being woken at two and force feeding Veritaserum by four. At seven, Ron and himself were on the way to St. Mungo’s to see the reawakening of their best friend. When Harry had asked Malfoy, in passing and just because it was the polite thing to do, if he wished to join them, he had been slightly surprised again at the pregnant pause. Finally, he had shook his head and stalked down to the ACR, not even bothering to look back.

Harry had been confused later, when Hermione had pulled a bag into her lap and asked them if they had brought it. Upon answering in the negative, she had sniffed at the bag and smiled, whispering the word “evergreen.”

“You know, we are really sorry, ‘Mione. We never thought it would happen like this. If we did then—”

“Don’t worry about it, Ron. I personally blame Malfoy.”

Ron narrowed his eyes in contemplation, wondering if he should really place this on the man in question. It was the quickest route to get out of trouble, and if she was willing to go for it…

“Blame Malfoy all you want, Hermione, but we deserve the same amount. In fact, it was Ron and I who decided to go with you and it had been Malfoy who was unsure.”

Ron glared over at Harry, Harry watched Hermione look at the unmarked bag again, and Hermione sighed deeply. “You all owe me. Big time. You realize this, right?”

The two men nodded in agreement, thankful she wasn’t getting as angry as she had the right to be. A comfortable silence enveloped the room, and Harry felt his fingers twitch to look inside the bag she was still looking at.

“So, a guard? That’s what you said?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Avelins, his name was. Usually worked the graveyard shift. The first thing we got out of him was the counter spell. After that, the two of us came here right away to wake you up. As far as the why and how, I suppose we’ll find out when we get back to the Ministry.”

“We’re going to have to make some changes. He may have been a Ministry worker, therefor an insider, but being able to get away with it with all the spells and wards set about the building?” Ron shook his head.

“It really is unacceptable. We’re going to have to reconstruct the entire system.” Harry added.

“A stray supporter for the dark side, perhaps?” Hermione asked, shifting herself for comfort.

“Mm. I don’t believe so. Out of all the attacks, you were the only muggle-born,” Harry paused, wondering if he should tell her how Avelins had turned to leave in the corridor with Malfoy. “…and one half-blood.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the ceiling. “Wait until I get a hold of the wanker. Just sneaking up on people like that. Bloody little coward.”

Ron patted her hand reassuringly. “He’s spending his time in Guildford Corrections for quite awhile now.”

She made a sound in the back of her throat before turning her eyes to blue and green. “So, when is it that I’m getting out of here? I have a lot of work that needs to be done…”

The two boys exchanged a look as she continued to rattle on, neither bothering to interrupt, knowing the least they could do was grit through it.

Draco strode down the hall, one destination in mind. Granger had been reawakened two days ago, but he hadn’t a reason to come to the Ministry building until today. The meeting was scheduled in little under an hour, which gave him a fair amount of time to pester the witch.

However, any plans he might have had were blown out of the water once he neared her office. He still wasn’t close enough to see who was in there with her, but the door was open and he could hear the other female voice.

“… so exciting. Ireland is beautiful, it really is. I just can’t believe you’re leaving, let alone in a week.”

“I know. It’s just a change of pace. I’ll still be doing the same job there, and it’s only an apparition to visit my friends. I just thought it would be interesting to live there for a while. The researcher position opened two weeks ago, but I didn’t think the Ministry would let me transfer. But after the incident, I think they thought they owed me something. Besides, I promised to come back here in a year.”

“It’s great. I’m excited for you! I wonder if they’re looking for a secretary over there…” The other female trailed off, Hermione quickly jumping in.

“Oh, no. Not that I heard of anyway.”

“Hmm.”

Draco’s hand was resting on the wall, his head bent, lips bit together. He muttered a few choice words and wondered what it was he was going to do about this. Let it go? Say something? He wasn’t sure, but he let his head hit the wall when he thought about how in the hell he had gotten himself into this. He should be happy that she was planning on leaving, not reflecting back on a miserable week and multiplying it by fifty-two.

This was too much. Honestly. It was one thing on top of another and it was starting to make him pretty damn angry.

Walking up the remaining meter of hall, he paused inside the doorway to survey the two females. Granger was the first to notice him, and then Frida realized she was no longer paying attention and she turned towards him.

“Ladies.” He greeted, a small nod of his head.

“Malfoy.” Granger returned.

Frida pursed her lips, moving past him to exit the office. “I’ll come back once he has left.”

She watched her secretary take her leave and he watched her, the office falling into silence.

“Slept with her and disappeared before morning, Malfoy?”

“Must you always do that?”

“What?” She turned her eyes back to him.

“Think the worst of me.” He put one foot into the office, paused and observed, before stepping in fully.

Her eyes studied her desk for a moment. “I don’t always think the worst of you.”

“So what do you think of me, Granger?”

She looked up at him, eyes widened in surprise from his question. He held her gaze until she broke it, her mind wheels turning for something.

“I think you still owe me replacement clothes, Malfoy.”

He tilted his head, nearly smirking in remembrance, but the twitch in his lips was suppressed. “That wasn’t the questi—”

“Honestly, that skirt is so short you must have gotten it in the children section. And the shirt? What was that? It couldn’t be named a shirt, I’m sure. Practically see through it, and the neck dipped do—”

“You can talk all you want…”

“…really, Malfoy. When I said replacements…”

“…my question. You’re going to have to answer eventually. Even you have to pause for air at some point. There’s only so much you…”

“…just going to have to bring them back. Give them to someone else. Whatever it is you want to do with them. But you still need to properly replace them with the correct attire. You should…” The two just continued to try and talk over one another.

“…minute now. Is it possible for you to shut your mouth? I really do not want to know how long you can ramble on about rubbish things that I don’t want…”

“…in my office anyway? And you know, it truly annoys me that you never knock. You would think—”

“Shut up! Bloody hell, Granger!”

Her head drew back on her neck, and her features pulled into an expression of agitation. “If you don’t want to hear me talk, perhaps you should leave my office. I—”

“You’re going to Ireland?”

She stopped and looked at him as he stood before her desk, having moved up as he asked the question. His tone was practically accusatory, his eyes searching hers for something she didn’t know was there.

“How did you know?”

“I heard you and the wench speaking when I was walking by. Do Potter and Weasley know?” She nodded in answer, still unsure of where this was going or why he was acting like this. “What did they say?”

She shrugged. “They don’t mind. They think it’ll be good for me. Change of scenery and all, meet a few different people. I don’t know. I’m just a pop away, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“It does matter,” he muttered, collapsing back into one of the chairs.

“Excuse me?” She furrowed her eyebrows and leaned over her desk a bit.

He sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the oncoming headache. If only he had some liquid courage right now; that always made it far easier then having to find it yourself.

“Granger,” he inhaled heavily. “I don’t want you to leave.”

The air suddenly grew heavy, and he didn’t berate himself too badly for not being able to look her in the eyes. It took enough for him to speak, and he should be content with himself for that much. After a long pause, she released a breath of a laugh.

“Oh, ha ha, Malfoy. Shouldn’t you be offering to help me pack?” She shook her head, but the smile on her face was fake, and she was angry at herself for that.

“This isn’t a joke. I’m not messing with you. I honestly do not want you to leave.” He grounded the words out, and they sounded biting and harsh with his tone.

Silver eyes stared holes through her desk and the air was heavy again. She was silent, too silent, and his body was rigid with tight muscles.

“Malfoy, what are you talking about?” It was soft, so soft, and it made him look up at her.

“I said it twice already, Granger. Are you that dense as to not get the point already? Here, for the third time. I. Do not. Want you. To. Leave.” He paused. “Did you get it that time?”

They stared at one another, and it was her this time who was searching him for something. But this he knew was there. Honesty. He meant it, damn it, and how far could they ever go if she didn’t even believe this?

This was a mistake. Telling her this, being here. Maybe he was wrong when he thought she felt the things that he did when they were near one another. He had said what he wanted to, perhaps not all of it, but some, and he really should be gone by now. He stood to take his leave, body still tight, fighting down his embarrassment. It felt so wrong to walk away from this, like he was giving up too easily. He wanted to stay, to only leave if she made him. As soon as a word rang out into that loaded silence, he paused in his step, forehead wrinkled.

“Wait.”

She had said it softly but firm, and she knew this was something important. That it was a now or never type moment, and to just sit and watch him walk out might be her watching a last chance float out right behind him. He was embarrassed, he was confused, and she knew this. And she knew that no matter what she said next, she had just bought herself five seconds with one word. She stood from her desk and made her way around it, just a few meters behind him.

“You confuse me, Malfoy,” she whispered, and it was like the softest knife, ripping through the all the tension in the room.

It was true. He did confuse her. Draco was a whole whirlwind of emotions invoked inside her, and she wished she could just let go of the past so she could handle the right now. Maybe she could let herself believe that this man actually meant the things he said. That he might actually care for her, despite their fights and arguments. Despite the past he tried so hard to ignore and she tried so hard to forget. He had been right, that time in her office. People do change, just as he had. And maybe, maybe, this could work, whatever this was. Whatever sexual tension, well fitting personalities, and a smudge of caring could ever lead to, could grow into. Because it would feel so right if she could forget the past and just think of these past few years. If it were just a girl, just a boy, just these feelings.

“Welcome aboard the ship, Granger,” he said, turning back towards her.

“What is this, Malfoy? Is this friends or…” She thought of a week ago, in the pub, how close his body had been. “Or something else?”

He studied her for a moment but didn’t say anything, wanting to see the conclusion she reached herself. He knew what he wanted, but this was something that had happened quickly, spurred into action by her decision to leave (him) and go to some other building. Without that, this would have been something slow. Something flirtatious and charming, gradual in its process until he was sure that she wanted what he did. But if friendship was what she wanted now, he could take that. He could work with that.

“No matter what it is, I still am the same ‘prat’ I have been the past three years. I haven’t been hiding some Potter wannabe locked beneath this wanker facade, or some bollocks like that. Who I am doesn’t change because of this.”

“I don’t expect it to.” And she didn’t want it to, because damn it, there was just something about that prat that had her feeling all these things.

“Good.”

There was something in the air, a form of uncertainty. Neither knew where it was they were to go from here. Draco waited for her to decide what it was that she wanted out of this, while Hermione wondered why he hadn’t answered her question about that very same thing. Neither was sure on what to say or do about it. Emotions were falling like dead stars around the room, blinding and confusing them while they overloaded their senses.

Hermione resisted the urge to turn back to her desk and start to shuffle her papers, because looking busy with something else might make him leave. She wondered why she didn’t want him to, especially now, when she needed time to think over everything. Maybe because it felt too undone, too unbalanced yet.

“Good,” he tried again, and it felt like he was hovering on the edge of something, and he thought this probably wasn’t the right time, but fuck it, he jumped. “Because I think I may need you.”

Hermione looked completely startled, her body frozen in a breath, and Draco realized this probably made her realize what it was he wanted from this. However, although everything was all piled on now, he didn’t think he would have dug up enough Gryffindor in him to ever say those words again.

Hermione found her eyes on the floor, her hand clutching at the bottom of her blouse. If she was an outside observer she may have noticed how the other at her side was starting to tremble a little. She may have noticed he hadn’t taken a breath since the whispered confession. She may have noticed this was such a bad idea. She might have noticed a lot of things.

“You need me?” It was whispered back.

“I’m not repeating it,” He paused, eyes skimming across her face before meeting hers again. “And I’ll deny it if anyone ever asks.”

She inhaled deeply, blinking her gaze to the wall. “What is this all supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“How could we ever make this work?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is this? How did this happen? I—”

“You’re not going to stop are you?”

“What?” Her eyes flashed back to his, spotted the amusement and exasperation.

“This. Asking questions. Needing the answers. Thinking. Don’t you ever just jump, Granger? Just…go blind.”

“This is all very…overloading.”

“I know.”

“You scare me.”

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” His eyebrows knitted together, some passing emotion flashing across his face.

“I’m afraid of what you make me feel, Malfoy.”

“That’s okay.”

“Is it?” Her eyes…they looked so vulnerable. She did. So breakable.

Draco sighed loudly, his head rolling back to stare up at the ceiling. He dropped it after a few seconds, strands of white falling across his eyes. “What do you want?”

She didn’t know what to say. What was it that she wanted? If she were to forget everything; the consequences, the past, the obstacles, the reasons why she shouldn’t…in the end, what did she want? Oh, Merlin, why couldn’t he give her time for all this?

“Do you love me?”

She had to know, because if she was willing to do this, she had to know what exactly for.

“No.” It was automatic, no second thoughts.

“Oh.”

“But,” His tongue darted out to lick his lips, his eyes flashing around as if someone could possibly be there.

“But what?”

He looked up at her, staring intently at her for a few moments before sighing heavily. “I never have. Loved, I mean. A woman, outside of family. And…with you—Granger…”

She gave a frustrated breath, rolling her eyes. “Just say what you mean!”

“I already did!”

“I need something more! I need to know that you mean this! I—”

“And I need you! I al—”

“What does that mean? What, exactly, do you—”

His hand was suddenly tangled in the hair at the back of her head, pulling back to tilt her face upwards. His lips crashed on hers, something desperate and needy, stealing her words and her breath. Wrapping his hand around her waist, he pulled at her and caused her body to bump into his. His tongue gained entrance into her mouth due to her shock, caressing the inside of her mouth, his thumb on her hip mimicking the motions. Hermione’s hands were on his shoulders, her eyes slowly closing, her heart hammering inside her chest. Oh, this was all too much, but Merlin, it just felt right. The kiss, him touching her, the way her stomach kept flipping. She slowly began to respond to his possessive strokes. His heart started beating harder, and triumph roared up among all those other dizzying emotions — because he would have sworn she would have pushed him away, slapped him, something, but she wasn’t. She was kissing him, and her nails were digging into his skin through his shirt, but he didn’t care. His tongue plundered in and out, thrusting inside the wet cavern like later promises. She followed him back into his mouth, exploring him, tongues sliding against each other and inflating emotion, making the room heady and stifling. Her mouth was so welcoming, his lips were so soft, and this was so real.

Suddenly pulling away from her, she looked at eyes now dark like an incoming storm. She swallowed hard as he untangled his fingers from her hair, releasing a soft breath on her moist lips before taking a step back. Hermione let her hands slip from his shoulders, panting for a breath.

“You tell me what it means, Granger. I don’t know. I don’t have any of the answers to your questions or any of the answers to my own. I just know that I’m not sleeping right, and I can’t go through a whole hour without you gnawing into my brain. I know that for some reason, I like you. That I can’t function normally without you. I know that I need you. And I’m willing to go with that. And I say to hell with everything else because, perhaps, this could be worth it. That is all I know, and that is good enough for me.” He shrugged, inhaling sharply before looking away.

He looked embarrassed and she couldn’t help how the corners of her lips turned up at the faint pink coloring of his cheeks.

“This is a lot to think about.”

“I know.” He nodded. “I’ll go. Let you think.”

Hermione worried her bottom lip, looking over his shoulder at the door. “Right now?”

She looked up at him to see the smirk and she flushed, looking down at the floor and biting on her lip again. “Would you like me to stay and help you think about it?”

She could kill butterflies. They started in her stomach, but they affected her mind. She felt dizzy, confused…

“I would still take the job in Ireland.”

“Mm.” He hummed, looking at her, knowing he didn’t have any right to ask her to stay yet.

“We would be one of the worst fighting couples anyone had ever seen.”

“Just as long as you don’t run away at every one, Granger.”

“Shouldn’t you call me Hermione? Don’t you think that would make more sense now?”

He glanced to the side before looking back at her, shrugging his shoulders. “I suppose once we start shagging we’ll exchange first names.”

She rose her eyebrows at him. “You’re jumping ahead of yourself.”

He reached out a hand, long fingers skimming down her arm, and whispered. “Not by much.”

Draco could see the shift in her eyes, the color that started to seep into her cheeks as she pursed her lips. Before she could snap something at him, he chuckled softly and gave a shake of his head. Silence reigned for a few moments, this one not as heavy and far less taxing. He watched her hand hesitantly come up to finger the collar of his robes, her lips twitch up at the corners, because she could do this now…if she wanted to. He reached up and wrapped his fingers around hers, giving her a light tug that had her stepping towards him.

“We’ll have amazing, angry sex.”

“Honestly, Malfoy. Is that all you think about?”

“One among many.” He shrugged, twisting their hands so their fingers entwined, noticing the scant space between them as he looked down at her. “We’ll have horrid fights, and I’ll be in St. Mungo’s weekly for injuries sustained. We’ll bitch at one another for both of us working too much, and for all those other little things that start to bother you about a person. The Prophet will surely print a story, people will be far too curious, and I’ll constantly annoy you at work. However, when it’s okay between us, it’ll feel like this.”

His free hand rose from his side, the pads of his middle and ring fingers slowly trailing over her temple and cheekbone. He slid it back along her cheek, finding the warmth radiating off the back of her head as he burrowed his fingers in to her hair. His thumb brushed across the soft skin of her cheek, and he wondered if he found her pulse, if her heart would be beating just a little quicker now as well.

“Yeah?” Her voice was softly strained, and he smiled when he noticed how her body kept swaying towards him.

“Yes. More often okay then bad, I’m sure. And when it’s good, really good…well, I suppose we would just have to find that out.” His pupils dilated, the gray darkening a shade or two. “How much time do you need?”

Her hand had traveled up to his shoulder, running along the fine material of his robes. Her fingers reached out to softly touch the side of his neck, and he felt the goosebumps rise up on his back. She muttered something and he bent his head, trying to get her to look away from his neck and up at him.

“What was that?”

She glanced up at him and cleared her throat. “Bugger it.”

He paused. “As in…”

“I think you should kiss me again and we’ll find out.”

He laughed and grinned wickedly at her, feeling a bit lost, because this was happening with this girl.

“You know—”

“No. You can spit out a lot of pretty words, Malfoy, but in the end it only matters what you make me feel. And so I suggest you kiss me again, before I end up having to—”

It was slow this time, more tender. He took time to caress her lips more before coaxing them apart. Their tongues moved more languidly, lazily playing with each other within the hot confines of their mouths. It was a slow build up of heat and pressure, and the kiss grew a bit more of a fight for dominance as their bodies became hotter. He pulled away, both panting, and gave a light nip to her bottom lip. He kissed her again, soft and chaste, before brushing feather like kisses to her ear.

“I have just discovered an excellent tactic to get you to shut up.”

“I believe I have as well.”

It took him a moment to know what she meant, realizing what the kiss had done to him and the evidence she felt at her navel. He glared at her ear for a moment, before the hand that had dropped hers to wrap about her waist, pulled her even tighter against him.

“Oh, see Granger, now that I would definitely not use to shut you up. Quite the opposite, ac—” He broke himself off with a laugh as she smacked his shoulder, pulling her head back to look up at him, and he spotted the blush on her cheeks.

Surreal.

“Merry Christmas, Hermione.”

She paused, at the use of her first name he figured, before she laughed. “Draco, Christmas isn’t for another five days.”

He shrugged. “It felt right.”

She laughed again and shook her head, and he grinned at the way her eyes were lit up and he didn’t have to yell at her about the coffee for it.

He bent down to kiss her again, his arm wrapping tighter around her. Her hands were clutching at the fabric of his robes, and she had just started to kiss him back when he pulled away.

His mouth hovered just an inch from hers, his eyes looking down at her swollen and reddened lips before meeting her eyes. “This could work.”

She smiled and leaned in to kiss him, knowing she must be insane, knowing she didn’t give a damn at the moment. “It could.”

FIN.

“Judas Iscariot”, zarahjoyce

Rating: PG-13

Published: February 4, 2007 for dmhgficexchange’s Love Potions event

Link: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/181044.html

Summary: Shall I tell you the story of Judas Iscariot?

“Shall I tell you the story of Judas Iscariot?”

Draco stood still, knowing that if he was silent like this he could hear her voice, clear and crystal as though she was beside him.

Then he caught himself and cursed his wayward thoughts.

There was nothing he could do now. Pathetic wishes would not bring him anywhere, and besides, wasn’t he the one who left her to her–

Fuck this, no, not again.

For a moment, the curious feeling of guilt that engulfed him enraged him further, because he had nothing to feel guilty for. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“An eye for an eye, luv,” he said. “You of all people should understand that.”

“Shall I tell you the story of the ugly duckling? Once a mother duck had many eggs on her nest. One by one the eggs hatched, and all of them were perfect ducklings, until the last one came out of his shell. ‘How ugly,’ the mother duck thought, and so did the others that saw him. Time passed and the ugly duckling grew, but still he was despised for being so hideous. One day, he decided to run away, to a place where no one could hurt him and call him ugly. Weeks passed, and he was by himself, when a group of swans passed by him. They were all so lovely, a contrast to what he was. He thought of hiding, but too late; they had already spotted him. ‘Oh, how beautiful you are!’ one of the swans exclaimed. The ugly duckling could not believe it at first. ‘But I am so ugly.’ ‘No, you are the fairest swan we have ever seen.’ ‘But I’m not a–’ Then he chanced upon a reflection of himself in the water, and saw that indeed, he was a swan, and no longer ugly. He had changed, and no one would ever call him ugly again.”

“You came,” he said softly, as she appeared in the room they shared.

“You called,” she replied simply.

Draco immediately stood when he spotted her face; she was tired and it worried him. “Are you all right, luv?”

Hermione smiled weakly. “I’m just...” Then she looked at him through hooded eyes and shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

Draco guided her towards the bed. “Then lie down and sleep.”

She gratefully squeezed his hands.

“I have something for you, though, to help you rest better,” he said, and went to the kitchen. A minute later, he came out with a steaming cup of tea.

“Thank you,” she said, pushing herself up until she was sitting. Hermione took the cup from him and greedily sipped. “This is wonderful. Just what I needed.”

“Well.” Draco modestly shrugged. “I am great at this kind of things.”

She chuckled. “Humble, too. I do wonder, though.” Hermione looked up at him and said, “Are you acting like this because you want something from me?”

For a moment, he was taken aback. Recovering quickly, he dragged a finger down her smooth cheek and said, in mock seriousness, “I always want something from you. But not now. You’re tired. Get some rest.”

“Mmm. Maybe tomorrow, then. You know...” She adjusted her pillow and said, “Harry’s been asking me where I was when I’m not with them. I told him, short of sticking his he-knows-what-he-knows-where, that what I do with my time is my business.”

“Then why don’t you tell them you’re with me?”

Her eyes rounded. “Are you mad? If I do that, they’ll know where I’m hiding you. They’ll catch you and put you in Azkaban and—” She shook her head. “I can’t do that. I know you’re good, Malfoy. I know it.”

Draco smirked. “Perhaps ‘good’ is too much a term to describe me.”

“Maybe,” Hermione acquiesced with a smile. “Maybe.” And soon her eyes were closed and she was asleep.

He sat on the chair beside the bed, and for a few minutes Draco watched her. She looked sweet and vulnerable, so much different from the know-it-all he thought her to be. He tucked an errant hair away from her face, then bent to kiss her lips. He felt them move slightly beneath his, and he pulled away.

She was susceptible now. She would give all the information he wanted, without the memory of doing so in the morning.

Draco gripped the handles of the chair, unable to ask the first question. Ask her! Fuck it, get this over with!

He opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

This was supposed to be easy. It was easy before, with the likes of Abbott and Bones. He could do it without a second thought. He could do it without his fucking conscience bothering him. But now...

He could do this. He would do this.

“Tell me the location of the order,” he said, and how he abhorred the shaking of his voice as he did. “Tell me where Potter is right now.”

She rolled to one side and murmured her answers.

Draco took off, armed with the information she gave him. But still he was bothered, and for a moment he thought of telling the others that he never got anything out of her this time.

But if he did, his mother...

Fuck. Granger was supposed to be just another source. Another subject that, when the right time came, would be disposed of.

Not if I can help it.

The thought made him pause, and caused a bitter laugh to escape from his lips.

Being with Hermione made him hate himself for earning her trust and abusing her as he had done.

But not her.

Not anymore.

“Shall I tell you the story of the boy who cried wolf? Once there was a lazy boy who was tasked to watch over several sheep. ‘If you ever spot a wolf, call us and we’ll come to aid you,’ they told him. Being naturally mischievous, he thought of amusing himself. ‘Wolf, wolf!’ he cried. And the men came running, bearing axes and swords. But they saw no wolf; only the laughing boy. Enraged, they said, ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ and they left. A few hours passed. ‘Wolf, wolf!’ cried the boy again. And the men came rushing towards him. Again, there was no wolf. They shook their heads and left. Then, when the sun was about to set, the boy started to head for home, when he spotted a huge shadow lurking in the depths. Then he spotted two hungry eyes. ‘Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!’ he cried terribly afraid. But no longer was he heeded by the men. ‘He is jesting again,’ they thought. And soon, all the sheep were devoured by the hungry wolf, while the boy watched in terror.”

The manor doors flew open and in stepped a group of Death Eaters, headed by an enraged Bellatrix Lestrange.

“You!” Her finger shook as it settled in front of Draco’s face. “Useless information is what you’ve fed us. ‘The Order resides in an abandoned house at Diagon Alley,’ you say. What lies! What absolute lies!”

Draco glanced at his mother, before responding, “I have given you what the Mudblood told me,” he stated clearly. “Dear Aunt Bella. If there’s anything useless, perhaps you should consider the potion you’ve provided me.”

For a moment, the woman could not utter a sound. “Such grave insolence,” she muttered, voice shaking. “How dare you!”

“But quite possible, don’t you agree?” asked Narcissa, smiling fondly at her son.

Bellatrix threw a dark look at her sister. “What I think is also possible is that your son is lying to us,” she said, raising her chin and glaring at Draco. Then her expression changed and she smiled at him. “Fallen in love with your subject, have you my boy? Is that why you don’t want us to kill her friends?”

Draco looked at her through hooded eyes. “Believe what you want, I don’t care. I am doing my orders, something that can’t be said about you. I wonder though... how many members of the Order have you killed today, dear aunt?”

Bellatrix nearly drew her wand out, but with great effort she regained her composure and said, “Mind your mouth, boy, or I shall shut it for you.” She deposited herself in front of Narcissa. “My dear, how can you stomach such a vile task given to your son? Imagine, him cavorting with a Mudblood. How do you sleep at night?”

Draco gritted his teeth and looked away.

Narcissa gave the faintest of shrugs. “I do not doubt the Dark Lord, or his methods. I am proud that he deemed my son worthy of the task, as much as Lucius is.” She reached for Draco’s hand and squeezed. “The Dark Lord knows my son’s potential very well.”

“Even if it meant taking away your freedom to ensure his success?”

Narcissa said nothing, a gracious smile fixed on her face.

“I thought so.” Bellatrix snorted. “This task is, to me, a waste of valuable time. What I don’t understand is that, given the fact that Draco is already in contact with this woman, why can’t we just grab her and dangle her in front of the Potter boy? That way, he will come to us.” Bellatrix gritted her teeth. “And the Dark Lord can finally do away with him, with all of them.”

“How crude of you, Bella,” Narcissa murmured softly, the very picture of sobriety and cool elegance. “I’m sure we can have more use for the girl than that.”

Bellatrix stood. “Use. Ha! For a Mudblood?” She nearly shook with revulsion. “Crude though my plan be, it is still effective. I shall give you only a few days more, boy.” She shook her fingers in front of Draco again. “A few days and no more than that. If your information is still useless then I will proceed with my ‘crude’ plans.” Bellatrix waited several terse seconds for Narcissa to stop her, but when the latter didn’t she sent a triumphant smile at Draco. “I guess I’ll have my pleasure soon, then.”

“Perhaps,” Draco told her. “We’ll never know for now, dear Aunt Bella. Perhaps I will kill her before you do.”

Bellatrix approached him slowly, laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and brutally squeezed. “I pray you will, nephew. For your mother’s sake.” To the other Death Eaters she ordered, “Lock her up and don’t let her go until I tell you to.”

“Shall I tell you the story of the bamboo? Once there was a tall and beautiful bamboo standing proudly in a park. The gardener who owned him came up to him and said, ‘My friend, I need you.’ ‘Then sir, use me as you wish.’ ‘But I have to split you in half for me to use you.’ The bamboo was horrified, but then he bowed his head. ‘Do as you wish,’ he said softly. ‘My friend, I will also cut off your branches and leaves.’ ‘Please, spare me my beauty! Anything but that,’ the bamboo cried. ‘But I cannot use you if I don’t,’ said the gardener. Once more, the bamboo said, ‘Do as you wish.’ ‘My dear bamboo, I also need to take your heart and insides. If I don’t, I will have no use of you.’ The bamboo bent all the way to the ground and said, ‘Sir, do as you wish.’ So the gardener cut down the bamboo, removed the leaves and branches, split him in half and removed the insides. He then used him to bring water from springs to parched lands. It was then, when the bamboo had died, that he had been a great blessing to the others.”

Draco was hastily summoned late one night. He rolled out of bed, kissed Hermione on the cheek, and left.

He was bothered, because there was something Pansy wasn’t telling him when he received her summon. It was rare for the girl to be quiet, and at the moment she made contact she couldn’t quite look at him in the eye.

“Go to your house, Draco. Right this instant. There’s something... I... just go, now.”

And when he arrived, he knew.

The impeccable manor was in shambles, with overturned furniture and bloodstained walls. A fierce battle had ensued earlier that day, when the Order attacked the house without preamble. The entire left wing had burned down, with only embers as its remnants. The right wing was filled with bodies of both ally and enemy.

At one corner, he spotted a Weasley. Good. The other, he saw a Nott. He didn’t care. For too long he was told of the possibility of death; this was after all a bloody war, and–

He stopped cold at the sight of one body sprawled in the master’s bedroom.

His mother, bound, gagged...

Dead.

And Draco saw no more.

“Shall I tell you the story of Judas Iscariot? Once there was a prophet who had twelve disciples with him. They went anywhere with him, and preached His good news. This prophet made many enemies all around, because His teachings were contrary to what they themselves taught. They came up with a plan to finally get rid of him, so they approached one of the disciples and offered him thirty pieces of silver to betray his master. Taken by temptation, Judas did betray him, with a kiss on his cheek. After this, the master was killed in front of many. Then Judas, overcome with guilt, hanged himself. To this day, they said that in hell’s core resides this disciple, for no greater sin was there than to betray another being.”

Draco silently sat on the chair beside the bed. He waited for her to come back, because he wanted to see her. He needed to see her.

A sound alerted him to her presence, but he didn’t move.

“Draco...” she said softly, coming to stand beside him. Hermione placed a hand over his arm. “Draco, I’m sorry.”

Of course she knew what had happened. But he had to maintain his cover, and it was a struggle. “What happened?”

And she told him.

Dully, he asked, “Were you there?”

She bid her time in answering. “Yes,” she carefully, finally said.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “How did... did my mother die quickly?”

Hermione glanced away. “Ron said she did.”

Lies! They took their time in killing her!

At that, he looked at her, saw guilt burning bright in her eyes. “You’re safe,” Draco muttered. He placed one hand on her cheek. “You’re here. That’s what’s important.”

Hermione smiled at him, her lips trembling.

“Immobulus.”

Draco stood, his wand still pointed at her. He yanked his arm off her hold. “Sorry? Will that bring back my mother?” Draco placed his hands on her neck. Knowing she could still hear him, he murmured, “I could have forgiven you if you weren’t there. I could’ve forgiven you if you’d saved my mother. But no, you let her die. You let your friends kill her. For that... every one of you will pay. Starting with you.” He squeezed her neck. “We have grand plans for you, luv. Such grand plans.” He heard popping sounds from behind him, and knew that the other Death Eaters had arrived. Draco was about to leave her to his dear Aunt Bella, when a thought crossed his mind.

“How did your story go, Granger? The one with the betrayer? Ah, yes. Judas betrayed the prophet with a kiss on the cheek.”

And he gave her one.

“Shall I tell you the story of Judas Iscariot?”

There it was, her voice clear and crystal as the wind.

“But I already know the story, luv,” Draco murmured. “I’ve lived it.”

And he left the cemetery.

- end -

“Three Steps Forward, One Step Back”, ldymusyc

Rating: NC-17

Published: December 3, 2007 for dmhgficexchange’s Divine the Future event

Link: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/243249.html

01.

Three weeks after the war was over, an owl arrived at her home, startling her with a knock on her window. Orange eyes and tufted ears made it a species she didn’t recognize immediately, an owl that wasn’t from her friends. It clutched a small packet in one set of talons, balanced on her windowsill with the other, and tapped insistently at the glass with its beak, staring in at her. She stood watching it for a moment, the collar of her shirt clutched in her fingers, material wrinkled up in her grasp. With a deep breath, she shook her head, called herself silly for being frightened of it, then opened the window and held a treat out to it before she took the package. The owl ate with surprising daintiness for its sizable bulk and flew off with a deep hoot that somehow managed to carry dignity.

She opened the packet on her kitchen table and stared at the contents, her breath caught in her throat. An elegantly-scripted note rested on top of a emerald green bottle, sealed with black wax. She knew the handwriting immediately, and wished she didn’t. Wondered how she did.

Granger.

I couldn’t stop her. I wouldn’t have been allowed. I didn’t want to watch, and I regret that I did. No one deserves that. If you’re still experiencing any pain because of my aunt’s playtime, this should help. My own brew.

I’m sorry.

—DLM

02.

The cobblestones outside the Menagerie were slick and wet with rain, the same rain that darkened the stones of the wall around her garden, the same rain that puddled around the small, rounded stone at the foot of that wall, soaking into the carved name and the dirt over a well-beloved Kneazle far better than any tears had done. She skidded on the cobblestones, caught herself on the door frame, then wiped water from her cheek and stepped inside, a bell jangling as she pushed her hood back. The call and caw of birds and toads, the squeak of bats and rats, the warm scent of breath and breakfasts, all of it rose and surrounded her as she moved down one aisle, her fingers trailing over thin, sturdy bars and latches. The shopkeeper’s voice floated to her, “Be with you when I’m done with this gentleman,” and she nodded silently, her eyes focused on a large and open-topped box full of kittens. They mewed and mewled, pawing at the glass with tiny, furry feet, smudging it with tiny, pink tongues and noses. Her hand slipped into the box, her nails scratching behind ears and along spines.

Tiger-stripes butted against her thumb, calico wrapped paws around her wrist. Tuxedo black and white stretched to crawl over ginger and white, little claws stretched out and up towards her. A bump against her back knocked her into the side of the box with a grunt and chorus of disgruntled mews. She looked over her shoulder, view obscured by strands of dark hair curled even worse by the rain. Until she heard the tiny feline growl that followed, she thought she’d made the almost silent hiss at seeing the grey eyes and pointed face of a memory she’d tried to forget. He stepped up beside her, eyes focused on hers. “New pet?” She nodded after several long seconds, then looked and reached back into the small mound of fur and tails. A fluffy white kitten with a yellow ear purred and licked at the tips of her fingers, and she felt the corners of her mouth quirk not even a millimeter in the bare ghost of a smile.

He reached into the box, stroking along the spine of the smallest kitten before picking it up and turning it over in his hands. “Boy,” he noted, then held the tiny ball of black fluff to his chest. It almost blended in to the dark fabric of his cloak, gold eyes the only visible color in the cradle of his fingers until a yawn displayed white fangs and pink tongue. Hermione turned away from watching long fingers rubbing a furry forehead, from hearing the almost inaudible rumble of a purr mixed with the far deeper murmur of his voice as he talked to the kitten he held.

She watched the white kitten ignore her attempts at regaining its attention, watched it choose instead to leap across the box and land with all four feet in the water bowl, splashing another kitten in the face and making it sneeze. The look of surprise on its face was almost as comical as the indignant yowl of the now-damp kitten, and to her own surprise, he laughed, his arm pressing against hers as he shifted position. He held the black kitten out to her and she took it, eyebrows raising in question. “Take him,” he said, fingers brushing the back of her hand as he pulled away. “Don’t trust the pale ones. They’re always the meanest, even if they don’t intend to be. They just don’t know any better.”

With an incline of his head, he stepped backwards and away. His boots clicked across the floor, the doorbell jangled, and as the shopkeeper hurried to her side, she glanced up, her ghost of a smile becoming fully visible. “This one, Miss?” the man asked, reaching for the black kitten.

“Yes,” she said, then looked down into the box for a moment before snatching up the white kitten, stopping its pounce on a sleeping calico. “And this one. They can be friends.”

03.

The first time they fucked was after some mutually acquaintanced, greetings in the lift, oh him yes him, Ministry employee’s garden party. She worked in the same department, he worked with the man’s wife. He spent the entire night nursing one glass of a rather inferior Cabernet. She downed half a bottle after finding her as soon as I get him alone for five minutes tomorrow morning he’s going to be an ex-boyfriend in a pile of coats in the bedroom with a blonde in his dingy y-fronts. She shut the door very slowly, shut her eyes very tightly, and said “bugger” very quietly.

When she opened her eyes, he was holding the bottle out to her, and she took it in one hand and his loosened tie in the other. Her fingers crawled up the length of the silk, hooked in the knot, and ripped it free from his collar to crumple on the floor. The only movement he made was a slight flutter of his pale lashes, and his eyes stayed focused on hers. She licked a drop of wine off the bottle’s neck, then stretched up on her toes and licked the curve of his bottom lip.

By the time they were in the taxi, her knickers were wet, his shirt was untucked, and she’d discovered that his throat had three separate spots that made him hiss. By the time they were at his flat, the bottle and her knickers were in the taxi and she’d found a fourth spot on his neck that made him writhe. He dropped his keys on the floor as soon as they were inside, wrapped her hair around his hands to tip her head back for a kiss, and muttered a curse under his breath when she pinned him to the door and dragged her fingers down his zip.

He didn’t wear dingy y-fronts with the worn-out elastic that she’d begged him to change in case someone saw them in an accident. Or, as it turned out, on purpose in a nest of coats and dark-brown roots. He didn’t wear y-fronts at all. Or boxers or boxer-briefs or even briefs. Beneath the flap of his trousers, when she undid his belt and slid her fingers under the waistband, was the warm skin of his hip, a vee of hair almost as soft as on his head, and nothing else at all blocking her from pressing her palm against his cock.

She’d drunk enough wine that she couldn’t get off, but his amused offer to hold back and make it fair had her digging her nails into the small of his back with a growl. His response was a groan, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, and she stroked one hand up his spine as he stiffened, turned over to lick his throat again when he rolled off her and panted for breath with one hand flung out to the edge of the bed. As she dressed and smoothed her hair into an elastic, the hunt for her right shoe vexing and awkward by moonlight, he exhaled a thin stream of smoke from a Sobranie Black, and spoke to the ceiling. “Next time, you’ll get two.”

She stayed until morning.

She had four.

04.

He asked her out via memo.

RE: Dinner.

Friday. 8:00. Wear the red dress you wore to the Christmas party and I won’t say one word about Weasley the whole night. Wear it without knickers and I won’t say one word about Potter.

There was a note at the bottom, from his secretary.

If you say no, let us know. There’s a queue to try and get him out, and my number’s next.

She didn’t wear knickers.

05.

She waited outside the cafe for their usual Tuesday lunch, alternating between wondering how and when it had become ‘usual’ and tapping her toe as she checked her watch. She thought that maybe she should have asked, should have verified that he’d be available, but she’d assumed he’d just be there. He always was. Chilled to her fingertips and cold in her chest, she went inside to wait and warm up. There, she finished a pot of tea and seven biscuits before someone sat at her table and she looked up from her book with a smile that faded immediately. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Nice greeting.” Harry pulled his glasses off and wiped the lenses on his shirt.

“I was waiting for Dra-someone.” She focused on her book, one hand holding it open, one hand fisted in her lap under the table.

Harry drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then he snagged a biscuit and spoke with a spray of crumbs. The Boy Who Lived Without Table Manners. “Yeah, Malfoy. I know. We all know. Whole sodding Ministry knows.” He swallowed, sighed, shifted in his chair. “He’s not coming.”

She bent over her book further, her hair falling around her face and blocking her eyes. Despite the warmth of the tea she’d drunk, her chest still felt cold. She laughed, ignoring the thick and sticky feel of it in her throat, and turned a page. “Don’t tell me he sent you, of all people, to break it off for him.”

Harry snorted. “I wish.” Holding up a hand before she could protest, he sighed again. “I volunteered. He’s not coming because he went to hospital. Got in a fight. Impressive, really, he’s a skinny little shit, but it took three of us to pull him off Zabini. Didn’t think he had it in him without Goyle around.”

She snapped her head up at ‘hospital’, gasped at ‘fight’, and stared blankly at ‘Zabini’. With a shake of her head that sent her hair flying around her shoulders, she snatched up her book and purse, chair shoved back with a screech. “What what what what happened?” she sputtered, heading for the Floo. “Blaise is his best friend, why did they get in a fight, why is he in hospital, what happened? Harry!” Harry pushed her into the Floo and followed, and with a nauseating spin and halt, they were at Mungos and he was walking towards them. Arm in a cast and sling, a split lip, a black eye.

He fumbled for his cigarettes awkwardly and she smacked his hand. “This is a hospital!” A thump to his chest with her palm. “What were you thinking?” Another thump, this time with her book. “Are you some sort of idiot?”

He flicked two fingers at Harry, who seemed to be hysterically amused by something, then fixed his eyes on her so sharply that she froze, silent. “I’m fine, thanks. Though it’s a good thing they gave me plenty of potions.” He glared at her. “I’m going to need them for the pain in my arse.” Even wounded, he managed an arrogant strut out the door, and she whipped around to spear Harry with her own glare.

“Well?”

Harry straightened up and made the third glare in two minutes. “He got in a fight. With Zabini. Over you. Surprised the hell out of pretty much everyone in the office, but there you go.” Gesturing at the door, he shrugged. “Follow the man, for god’s sake. If he’ll take down his best friend for calling you a Mudblood, he’s obviously got some human emotions in him. Catch up with him before he loses them again.”

After a moment of stunned and silent gaping, she ran faster than she ever had in her life, and by the time she was finished kissing him, their mouths were coated in blood from his torn lip. His painkillers came in very handy the next morning.

For both of them.

06.

The telly’s remote fascinated him. He’d spend ten minutes pushing the buttons, changing channels, playing with the settings, and he always, always left the volume high enough to make her jump when she turned the set back on. No matter how often she scolded him, no matter how many times she stomped her foot and threatened to sell the set just so he’d learn to stop messing with the fucking contrast it’s fine where it is don’t fucking touch it again!, he still would. And she’d just scold him again. She couldn’t get rid of the set. He played with it every time he came over to visit, like a beloved toy.

She watched him one afternoon from the kitchen, watched him sitting on the edge of the sofa with channel after channel flipping across the screen, and managed to restrain herself to a smile until she realized each change of the channel was made with the remote going through the air, swish and flick. She laughed so hard she spit tea down her shirt and he was too distracted with ‘helping’ her get it and her bra off to ask what had been so funny.

07.

His flat was neat and tidy, almost obsessively clean. His shirts were hung up by color, his boots each had a clear box with a label. Every photo on the wall was exactly straight, every book on the shelf lined up flush with the edge. When he wasn’t looking, she’d push one book back, just a fingertip’s length. It never took him more than three minutes to notice, she timed him on it, and he’d be over at the shelf, carefully aligning the spines again.

He alphabetized his teas.

Every handle on every mug pointed the same direction, every potion bottle was arranged by size and shape. He made the bed as soon as they got up, and every hair she shed on his pillows, sofa, or carpet was an attack on justice, cleanliness, and decency.

For their fourth date, they stayed in, and he cooked, ignoring her pointed comments about knowing how to operate an oven and her marveling at the manly way he wielded a lemon zester. She kept every last crumb over her plate, and she straightened a photo on the way to the loo. When she joined him in the kitchen to do the washing up, her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, not one strand loose to fall into the water.

He made it to the last dish before he flung the sponge across the room, shoved her onto the table, and fucked her until her braid came undone, his shirt lost a button under the fridge, and they both stained the tablecloth. After that night, she pushed back his books, tilted his pictures, and reorganized all his shirts by pretentiousness. He left things as she placed them because it made her laugh.

The teas stayed alphabetized.

By “T”.

08.

Her sleep was even and calm, her dream about a house made of books, with curtain-pages over the windows and an index-staircase up to the second chapter. The scream woke her, and she sat bolt upright, one hand clamped to her chest, the other falling onto his thigh. The muscle was tense beneath her palm and she was sure the sound had woken him as well, but when she turned to look at him, his eyes were closed. Closed tight, closed far too tight, and just as she leaned over to examine his face, he tipped his head back and screamed again, a long and drawn-out cry that rang in her ears and made her heart pound.

She called his name, cupped his cheeks in her hands, frantically patted his face in a desperate effort to wake him, and his eyes snapped open but he didn’t see her. He saw something else, he saw something that made him scream once more, then his hand snapped up and wrapped around her throat. She choked, she grabbed his wrist with both hands and tugged at his arm, but he was as solid as the pale marble his skin resembled in moonlight, and his eyes were wild and dark. He squeezed down, pressing the breath out of her throat, and she pried at his fingers, her mouth opening without sound.

He sat up, shoved her down, and loomed over her, his face twisted with hate and his voice falling out of his mouth in a low, chanting rumble. I’ll kill you, I hate you, I hate what you’ve done to me, you did this, you bastard, you ruined my life, you ruined my family, and I’ll kill you, I want to kill you, I want your blood on my hands, I want to swim in it, drown in it, I want you to pay and damn you to hell for letting Potter get to you first.

She stilled.

She looked up at him, looked up at the sneering grimace on her lover’s face and saw a sixteen year old boy, sent to die for his father’s mistakes, sent to torture and kill in the hope of saving a family ruled by fear. He squeezed down tighter, still chanting his nightmare, his litany for his Lord. Her vision went grey around the edges, as grey as his eyes, and she slowly reached up, stroking the backs of her knuckles across his cheek and collecting teardrops on her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, and as his head tilted in a brief moment of confusion, she used the last of her air and the last of her strength to snap one knee up.

He collapsed, gasping and choking, and she shoved him over, shoved him off her, bolted out of the bed and grabbed her wand, wheeling around to hit him with a Stunning spell in the middle of his launch off the bed and after her. He collapsed again, sprawled onto the floor at her feet, one hand outstretched and his face finally calm. She dropped her wand, dropped to her knees, eyes streaming with tears from the pain of her ravaged throat and his ravaged youth. Drawing him into her arms, she cradled him against her chest and rocked, rocked gently, weeping into his hair until the sun rose.

09.

They were a couple for six months before he finally admitted that she was complete and utter rubbish at blow jobs and he’d rather she didn’t do them at all if she was going to continue being that bad at them. After she threw him out of her house and sulked for a day, she did what was only right and proper and the best way to handle every situation.

She got a book.

Four books, actually. She read and studied and underlined paragraphs and made notes in the margins and when she finally let him back in the door and back in her bed, she made him gasp and made him growl and made him beg. A lick up the thick vein under the shaft, fluttering kisses across the head. She dropped her jaw and hollowed her cheeks and the only time she used her teeth, she meant to. By the time he locked his hands in her hair and came with a shout and an arch to his spine that lifted his hips off the mattress, she determined that she didn’t even mind swallowing for him. Less mess, certainly.

Around gasps for air and panting for breath, his chest rising and falling so fast that she couldn’t even rest her head on him, he sputtered out praise and awed swearing. She lifted up to smirk at him and tapped the point of his nose with one finger. “Outstanding. Say it.”

“Fuck me, woman, you get a NEWT in oral. Outstanding plus honors and a sodding blue ribbon.”

“Good boy.”

10.

The process was gradual, slow enough that she barely noticed. A shirt left one night, files from the office on another. She kept a box of the fruit rings and marshmallows cereal that he liked best in the cupboard, bought a bottle of brandy in addition to her beer. Condoms lived in the drawers of the tables on both sides of the bed, not just hers. He had a side of the bed. He had a key. He had his own toothpaste because she left hers open and always squeezed from the middle. He turned the junk room into an extra office and disposed of all the junk, which she was secretly glad about because she didn’t have to do it, and (she didn’t even try to be) secretly amused by because he’d done it without a single house-elf.

Before she even realized it, the bureau drawers were exactly divided down the center, an extra bookshelf was in the bedroom and was stuffed full of potions texts and Quidditch strategy guides. On the mantle over the Floo, between Harry waving wildly with a hippogriff feather and Ron mugging for the camera with Fredandgeorge, a blond couple gazed down at a blond boy who leapt into the air, caught a Snitch, and released it, over and over and over again. She picked up the photo, and the boy and the woman smiled at her. After a few moments, even Lucius smiled and nodded his head in a short gesture of greeting before turning away and placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.

11.

She had a long day at the office, her mother found a lump that “was nothing, dear, don’t worry”, and he left the newspaper where the cats could get to it and by the time she came home the only readable bits left were the stock quotes from MKS to TSCO. She called him a puerile pureblood prat, he called her an alliterative bitch, and when he stormed out without his coat, he slammed the door hard enough to knock their photo off the wall and shatter the glass in the frame.

He wasn’t worth crying over, she told herself as she pushed Serpent and Gryff away from the dustpan and broken glass for the seventh time. Never had been. He was what he was, and there was no point in tears, and the reason she used up a box of Kleenex by the following night was an onset of allergies, nothing more, and she didn’t miss him and wouldn’t. Two days and another box later, she shoved up the window to shout at whoever was playing their music far too loudly, and stared slack-jawed at the blond man standing on the pavement in front of a car with all four doors wide open. “Couldn’t find a stereo,” he shouted up to her, “so I hope this will do.”

Without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the inside, and she was on the pavement facing him with her bare feet cold and her hair unbrushed. “What in god’s name are you doing?” she shrieked, arms flung wide in a gesture that encompassed the insanity of causing a spectacle where Gemma Hawkins next door and Faiza Srivastava across the street could watch and stare and start the rounds of ringing all the other women in the gossip chain.

He blinked at her, three steady blinks, then took a step back to lean against the car, his head bowed. “I couldn’t find a stereo that was the right sort,” he said again, voice loud to carry over I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive. “Don’t know where to buy those. Took me long enough to find this song.” His cheeks puffed out on a exhale and he studied his nails closely before rubbing his palm across the light stubble on his jaw. “Thought that was your favorite moving. You’ve only made me watch it six dozen times.”

“Movie. Yes. It is.” She glared at him for almost a full minute, then rubbed the center of her forehead and sighed. He really did try. And really was trying, sometimes. “Shut that off and come inside. Prat.” He hadn’t shaved, he was still wearing the same trousers as when he’d left, and he still hadn’t found a coat. The man was going to freeze to death, and god help him if he ever had to do laundry on his own. She had to take him back after that little display. He needed her. He obviously couldn’t survive in the wild.

Absolutely not because she needed him too.

12.

When she was a week late, she didn’t tell him. She didn’t at two weeks, either. At three, she didn’t have to. She should have known. He was punctual, organized, almost rigidly scheduled. Two days beforehand, he brought home chocolate and a brand-new novel. The day of, even in summer, her rattiest and favorite flannel nightie, the one that he hated so much he threatened to burn it at least once a week, appeared on the bed and the kettle never had time to cool. A back rub, a warm towel, and two entire hours where only Mr Darcy was allowed to talk. He knew. He was never off, not even by a day.

She didn’t have to tell him. He came home, kissed her forehead, and disappeared into his office. Fifteen minutes later, he left with the scent of brandy on his breath and the collar of his coat turned up. She went in, and in the bin was a crumpled, half-finished form from human resources. Single was checked off. So was married. Name of beneficiary was “ask me in six months”, and his shaky handwriting had left ink spots on the form. She silently replaced it in the bin and went to the sofa to sit with her head in her hands and Serpent and Gryff twining around her ankles. He was back within the hour, with a half-eaten curry and a small bag from Boots. She pissed on the stick, ate the curry, and leaned her head against his chest when the lines came up. They agreed to keep quiet, agreed to wait, and he quit smoking.

For two months.

Until the Friday she woke up with a headache, went to work with a stomachache, and came home Sunday with a heartache. The cot was already dismantled, the name books were binned. He didn’t speak, just took her coat, then took her hands, then took her into the bedroom and sat against the headboard to pat her hair for an hour while she wept onto his thigh. She fell asleep in the middle of a sob, her hand locked so tight around his that her nails cut into his palm. He waited, patting her hair still, waited until her breathing smoothed into quiet, even snores, before he brought his hand up, pinched the bridge of his nose, and put so much effort into staying silent that by morning his throat felt as red and swollen as his eyes looked. Allergies, he explained to questions at the office, those damn cats.

13.

She knew his morning routine better than her own. He’d wake, stretch, grab his wand. Go to the mirror and put concealing charms across his face, blending the small and faded scars into his skin. First the one above his left eyebrow, second the vertical one on his cheek. Third was the one that bisected his lips and fourth the one under his chin. Last, the biggest one that cut almost diagonally across his torso. One scar was all he ever left unconcealed, and that morning, she asked him why. After a minute of silence while he stared into the mirror, his unblemished and reflected face turned slightly towards her, he licked his lips and shrugged.

“This,” he said, running his fingers across his left forearm, tracing the nearly invisible snake and skull as easily as if it had still been black and looming from his skin. “This one, everyone already knows about, knows to look for. And they do look. No point in hiding it.” He touched his face, stroking across the hidden marks. His hand then went to his chest to trail over the line he hadn’t concealed yet, stroking down from his collarbone, over a pale and pink nipple, wrapping around the curve of his ribs. “These, they bother people. When someone talks to me, I can see them staring at the scars. They don’t see me, they just see some disfigurement. Rather avoid that, since I can.”

She smiled, then, and stepped behind him. Both arms slid around his waist, both hands dragged up his stomach and plastered over his chest. Her eyes could just peep over his shoulder from this position, her hair trapped between his back and her breasts. She watched herself as one hand laid over his heart, one drifted up to his collarbone. Slowly, with just the point of a fingernail, she trailed down the scar, careful to cover each inch of it as she moved. Her eyes flicked to his in the mirror, seeing them closed as tight as his lips. Under her palm, his heart beat stronger and she felt him take a deep breath. “Relax,” she murmured, rising up on her toes to set her lips against the base of his neck, the rounded knob of the top of his spine.

His next deep breath was audible, his entire chest moving with it, and his hand came up to cover hers on his heart. She flipped her hand, turned her palm up, and wrapped her fingers around his, stroking the pad of her thumb across his skin. Under her touch, tendons tightened as he clutched her, and his eyes opened to meet hers in the mirror. “Granger,” he murmured, voice soft, and she shook her head, shushing him with a breath that stirred the tips of his hair. Dropping back to her heels, she pulled her hands free and spun him around, her grip at his waist insistent and answered. Looking up into his eyes, she gave another smile, one that brought his head down to hers and lips to lips, as if just the movement of her mouth could pull a kiss from him.

When she drew him back to the bed, she knelt between his thighs and her mouth followed the path her hand had taken, lingering over each inch of the roughened, silvery line down his chest. At the end of it, at his ribs, she opened her lips wide and sucked gently, leaving a red mark on the point of the scar. She moved her head, moved her mouth to his arm, and traced the other unconcealed scar with the point of her tongue, outlining the skull and snake with peppered kisses, smiling when she heard his breath catch in his throat. He shifted under her, chest rising beneath her hand, erection rising between her breasts, and when he reached down to pull her up to him, she trailed her fingers over the planes of his cheeks and the hidden marks on his face, whispering his name as he slid into her, his fingers locked on her hips. “None of these bother me, I’ve told you that,” she murmured to him, licking the point of his chin. “They’re part of you. I see you, not them, and my opinion is the one that counts.”

The next morning, he woke, stretched, and grabbed his wand. She sat up to watch him shift to the edge of the bed, sheet falling into her lap. His shoulders tensed for a moment, and his head bowed as if he were staring at his chest. A handful of silent seconds passed before he twisted around, picked up her hand, and pressed her fingers to the scar on his cheek, then tossed his wand into her lap and went to shower.

14.

When she came home from a weekend with her parents, taking her mother shopping around Notting Hill and listening to her father rant about his handicap and how Bill Kelly refused to use anything but a nine-iron even when it was clear that a four-wood was appropriate, she hung her coat on the back of the door, laid her hand against the thick material of his cloak, then tipped her head into the fabric and took a deep breath. Cinnamon and a touch of vanilla. His cologne made him smell vaguely like a sweet, and when she’d asked him about it, he’d given a boyish grin and said, “Makes you want to lick me, right?”

Oh god, did it ever.

15.

He dropped a ring box on her book and held her coat out to her. “Put that on, and let’s get going. We’re late for dinner.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and opened the box. Rubies and emeralds surrounded a diamond in a band that looked like silver but knowing him was pure platinum, and she held it up to him, still in the box. “First, do you call this a proposal, and second, do you not remember how I feel about diamonds?”

He shook her coat. “That ring is two hundred years old, my great-great-grandfather picked that diamond up on holiday in Africa. Not one tribesman, miner, child, or house-elf was involved or bloodied to get it, and it’s got ‘Will you marry me?’ engraved on the band. Now put it on, and stop complaining. It’s not like you were planning to say no.” He reared back suddenly, eyes wide. “You weren’t, were you?”

She wasn’t.

“A Place Called Home”, everythursday

Rating: NC-17

Published: June 11, 2006 for dmhgficexchange’s Hot Summer Nights event

Link: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/137354.html

Summary: She hates it; breathing here with him in the same hollow rooms, leading jagged lives in a forgotten corner of the world.

He doesn’t talk a lot, just stares and watches and tries to accept. His hands are always toying with something, or his fingers are tracing patterns and plans and memories on tabletops and empty spaces.

He likes to stand at the window and look out at the world, and it makes him look trapped and locked away. Like a little boy who wants to play outside, but it’s raining and he might catch a cold.

For two months he didn’t speak at all, and when he began to make one word comments or short sentences, she pretended that it didn’t surprise her. She catches him in his room sometimes, through the crack at the bottom of the door. She can hear him reading poetry and philosophy. She knows it’s because he didn’t like the sound of his voice when he spoke to her; cracked, thin, hollow, faint. She doesn’t like it either, so she makes sure he doesn’t see or hear her listening to him. But they are alone in the small house, and the silence gets to her sometimes and she has to hear another voice but her own. Perhaps that’s half the reason he doesn’t talk.

Sometimes it breaks her. She needs both hands to count the number of times she screamed at him, and only one to count how many times she went on a rampage. Just three weeks ago she had thrown her cooling cup of tea on the table in front of him. He had jumped up as the liquid and shards of glass had hit his shirt and hand, yelling out how she had gone mad and that he was better off facing Voldemort then to have to live in the same house with her.

She had been happy for the lapse of silence, for the reaction. She knew she pushed him too far sometimes, but it got what she wanted it to get. One day she hoped he would just crumble, destroy everything in the house, while screaming at the top of his lungs about how he never wanted any of this. Because madness and anger was a lot better then a zombie.

He watched her for a week after that, peering up through his platinum fringe with intense gray eyes and apprehension in his bones. She didn’t blame him. Sometimes she scared herself too.

Sometimes she touches him. His hair, his shoulder, his back. He flinched away the first few times and so she had stopped. But when she tried again, he just stared out at the air and let her. Now he looks at her and it’s the only acknowledgment that she gets from him that he’s aware of her doing it. But she doesn’t meet his eyes.

It’s not like she’s really aware she’s doing it either. It was just that she sees a shell sometimes, or a little lost boy. It was some instinct inside of her that had her brushing her fingers through his hair, or rubbing her hand in soothing circles on the back of his shoulder blade when he stood at the window.

Draco Malfoy owed her one, she figured. Perhaps schoolyard bullying should be left behind there — at school. But the end of school was only a year ago, and she wasn’t ready to leave it behind. Sometimes she would forget for just a moment, when she saw him standing at the counter wearing clothes too big and his whole attention set on trying to remember how to make coffee. But then he would spot her watching him struggle and he would sneer, and it brought her right back. Right back to when she dealt with hatred every day, and Mudblood, and feeling like she didn’t belong in a place she excelled. All because of one boy. One stupid, albino-looking boy. And it wasn’t fair. But nothing really ever was.

Harry got it. Hermione didn’t know how, but he did. Harry didn’t talk about Malfoy, or why he had taken a stand that day to try and keep him out of Azkaban. But he had, and that was what counted. Something shifted in Harry’s head, and Malfoy had done or shown something that made Harry do it. Hermione just didn’t know what.

She could still remember Malfoy’s face that day, staring at Harry in shock and disbelief. At Snape taking his place, shackles locked in place, as Malfoy was led out of the room.

People gave a lot for him. Even Snape gave up his freedom just to make sure Malfoy kept his. Hermione didn’t know what they saw in him that made them do these things. She tried to find it, but all she saw was a shadow. And she thought he had no right. No right to be silent and depressed and the living dead when Snape was rotting in prison for him. No right when people were dying outside in a war he was pardoned from.

“Granger.” Hermione turns, eyeing the disheveled appearance of her housemate. “Owl.”

He nods his head down the hall and shifts his shoulder off the doorframe to her bedroom.

“Oh. Are you hungry?” He shrugs his reply as she follows him towards the kitchen.

Spotting the large owl preening itself on the windowsill, she offers it a treat and takes the rolled up parchment. She unrolls the letter, hardly aware of the owl taking off out the window. Her nerves were always mangled when they received mail. One never knew what bad news it could bring with it.

Her brow furrows as she scans it quickly and then reads it fully. Glancing up, she is slightly startled to find Draco eyeing her. He arches an eyebrow in question and she glances back down at the parchment.

“Yo—” She cut herself off.

Offering him the letter, she pulls her hand back and pauses. She shifts with uncertainty and then thrusts her hand out again. He watches her for a moment, as if to make sure she wasn’t going to take it back again, and then takes the letter from her.

Hermione watches his eyes roam the words, his hand holding on to the back of the chair as he bites his lips. He stares over the edge of the parchment before folding it slowly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He gives her a quick glare, setting the letter down on the table. “My mother is missing. That’s all there is to say.” He shrugs.

“Yes, but she can be in dan—”

“I’m well aware.” He looks up at her, and she was sure it was the ‘end-of-discussion’ look that he gave people.

But that didn’t work on Hermione. It never had, even through this whole damned year.

“It’s okay to be scared or worried, Mal—”

“Enough.”

Hermione has a brief thought that she really shouldn’t push this. But some other part of her — some dark, evil little corner — knows that it is an opportunity.

“I mean, it’s your mum. Who knows where she is, or what they’re doing to he—”

“I know”—his voice has a dangerous twinge playing over the words as he sets his palms on the table and leans forward, looking up at her in anger—“exactly what it is you’re trying to do, Granger.”

“Trying to be there for you?”

“Stop. Don’t insult my intelligence, nor the small amount of dysfunctional brain cells you own.”

“It’s not normal, Malfoy,” she glares, “to be so damn composed when your mother may be dead.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do?” He yells, throwing out his hands. “And it’s none of your fucking business anyway, Granger. So. Piss. Off.”

She watches his retreating back for three, four seconds. “You don’t deserve it, you know.”

He turns and looks at her, eyebrows arched and head cocked slightly to the right. Hermione rolls her eyes, realizing that he was abandoning speaking again.

“You don’t deserve to be here…to be safe. Voldemort should be having his way with you right now. You’re half-dead anyway.”

She watches his jaw tighten and twitch, his whole facial expression becoming that of stone or marble. Something cold, hard, unforgiving. But he still doesn’t say a word, just turns back around and walks further into the living room.

Hermione growls in frustration, grabbing his coffee spoon off the counter and chucking it at him as he rounded the corner. Staring down in anger at her feet, she hears the tile in the doorway squeak. She looks up just as something hits her shoulder and then the floor with a clank.

“Stop. Throwing. Shit at me.” He hisses.

“No, Malfoy. Not until you start acting like a human being. Or, wait...have you ever known how to act like a human being? You’re either a monster or a zombie, huh? Is that it?” she yells.

“You have no idea who I am—”

“I don’t even want to know! All I need to know is that you’re a shitty person, Malfoy! You’re a—”

“Then shut up! Stop trying to make conversation, stop listening to me outside my door, stop touching me, and stop staring at me!” She feels the heat creep up from her neck, finding it hard to keep eye contact as he closes in on her. “We’re not friends here, Granger. I knew that coming in. I feel no need to fucking talk to you, and I don’t know why you keep trying to make me!”

“Because!” She screams back.

“Oh, intelligent answer. Bloody hell, Granger — did you cheat all throughout school? Because I’m not really seeing the connection between you and brilliant. Not by half.”

“Sod off, Malfoy. It’s because I don’t see what everyone else somehow does when they look at you. I was trying to see if there was any ‘good’ in you, or—”

“There’s nothing—”

“I know! There’s nothing! You. Are. Nothing. That’s all you are and that’s all you’ve ever been, Malfoy!”

“Then why do you keep trying,” he screams, and his face is red and a vein is popping out blue against the ivory of his neck.

She pauses, staring up at him and the anger and bewilderment in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

It’s weak, and she knows it. She shrugs to emphasize her statement, glancing down at the flush and the vein on his neck. She reaches up nearly absentmindedly, sliding her fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He stares down at her, but she ignores his gaze just as she always has. With a strange thoughtless feeling, she tugs on the back of his neck, scraping her nails a bit too roughly across his skin. She looks at his nose as she moves to the tip of her toes, kissing the side of his lips softly. She brushes hers lightly against his, but he keeps them firmly shut and unmoving.

“God.” She whispers, coming back down to the flat of her feet.

She releases his neck and sighs, staring at the floor as she places her hands over her face and rubs in slight mortification. Her face flushes again in embarrassment, feeling the weight of silence in the room as she wonders just what in the hell it was she was doing.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been secretly in love with me si—”

“No! No. Absolutely not.” And she didn’t, and she never would.

Hermione mutters a few oaths under her breath, turns and feels her side brush against his chest as she tries to navigate herself with her hands still over her face.

Her journey comes to a halt when she feels a tug at her shirt, and she slowly lets her hands drop back to her sides. Looking over her shoulder, her eyes follow the path of the hand, to the arm, to the shoulder, neck, and face. She stares at his forehead before she works up the nerve to meet his eyes.

Once she does, he tugs again and pulls her back in front of him. His hand leaves her shirt, brushing over the curves of her back and up to her hair. He unclips it from its confines and tosses the clip onto the counter, wrapping his fingers up in the curls and tangles of her hair.

Leaning forward, his lips hover just over hers when she speaks. “I hate you.”

“Oh,” he whispers with a slight nod. “It’s obvious.”

She rolls her eyes at the sarcasm in his voice, but doesn’t have time to snap back at him.

It’s a power play between the two of them, which is fitting because it always has been. His mouth is rough against hers, tongue demanding entrance and his hand pulling her head by her hair in whichever way he wants to position it.

Hermione tries to forget, because she’s been so lonely and this isn’t just conversation. It’s human contact, and it burns her, and makes her feel more alive then she has felt in eight months.

She squeezes her eyes shut, lets her palm feel the shape of his shoulder and the tender flesh of his neck. Lets her other palm feel the scratchy material of his shirt, the curve of his side. She tries to make it happen — to get lost in a moment, and all tangled up, because things like that just don’t happen anymore. Not here, not in war, not with him. He helps her by cupping her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple, tracing her lips with his tongue.

She explores his mouth until he forces her out, raging a war within hers. His hand slips under her shirt and moves across the expanse of her stomach, and it’s so soft it nearly feels feminine. Hermione doesn’t even know if her own hands feel that soft to him, as she yanks his shirt over his head and smoothes her hands over his chest.

There’s a desperation to it now. Something that burns around her ribcage, a sort of need that hadn’t been so adamant before. It trails a path down, like his hand, that works at the button of her jeans before yanking them, with her knickers, over her hips and down to her ankles. He steps on them as she pulls her feet free, and he kicks them to the side and flicks his tongue down her throat.

Draco moves to her shoulder, sucking and nipping, and Hermione looks down and tries to steady her fingers. She just managed to work his trousers and boxers off when she notices the protruding of his pelvic bones, the slight showing of his ribs, but then suddenly he’s there. Pushing a finger into her, pulling it out, running it up and up and flicking across her clit. She moans, deep and throaty, and his fingernails dig into the back of her thighs as he hoists her up.

He leans her back against the refrigerator to help support her weight as she wraps her legs around him. Draco pushes her tank top and bra up over her breasts, and doesn’t bother removing them as he bends his head. She can feel him pressing against her as he swirls his tongue around her nipple, biting down, pulling and rolling the other between his fingers. She scrapes her nails over his before reaching up and holding his head to her, arching herself into his mouth.

“God,” she moans, letting her head fall back for a moment. “Now. Now.”

Hermione pulls on his hair, forcing him up. His lips are swollen, his face red, his eyes dark. She bends her head to kiss him, reaching between them and guiding him into her. He bites her bottom lip as he slides to hilt, clutching her hips and breathing harshly through his teeth.

He trips lightly over the pants still around his ankles, one hand leaving her hip to find purchase against the fridge. Grabbing his shoulders, she holds her breath as she raises up and sinks back down on him.

“God,” She hisses as he leans forward to kiss her again.

“Draco.” He breathes against her mouth. “Draco.”

He starts a fast rhythm, pounding into her so hard she can barely breathe. It takes her a few moments to match and meet him, digging her heels into his ass and her fingernails into his shoulders.

Their tongues are mimicking the thrust and withdraw, playing a game of chase between their mouths. But it becomes too much too take, too much to breathe, and Hermione lets her head fall back. Every bit of fiber, molecule, nerves, DNA has moved to the middle of her body and begs to explode. Every time he buries himself within her, she grinds back down on him, a desperate groan escaping her mouth.

His hips snap against hers and he grunts a chorus of ‘ngh, ngh, ngh’ in her neck. He moves his head and lets his bottom lip collect the sweat from her skin, moving up to suck the spot beneath her ear.

“Draco,” she moans, her legs shaking around him. “Please, Draco.”

His hand leaves the spot above her shoulder and he trails his fingers down the heat of her skin. He runs the pad of his thumb in a circle around her clit, and every two times he brushes across it.

Her head smacks against the fridge as she cries her release, muscles locked in place as the world spins out of focus. She can feel the muscles in his neck and shoulder tighten, and he bites her earlobe and yanks, groaning long and low and his hips jerking erratically as he comes.

Both of them heave for breath, slick and wet skin against skin. He waits until their breathing is calm and her tired legs are sliding down his hips before he moves. She bites her lips as he slides out of her and she can feel the fluid running down onto her thighs.

Bending, he pulls his pants up and buttons them, looking over his shoulder for his shirt. Hermione pulls her tank top and bra back down, a flush on her face that wasn’t just from recent exertion. Just as she pulls her knickers on, she hears the tile by the doorway again.

Hermione looks up at his bare back. “You’re not going to say anything?”

He stops mid-step and slowly turns around, his hands busy turning his shirt right side out.

He raises a shoulder, and she spots the marks from her fingernails. “What is there to say?”

“I don’t know. Something.”

He studies her with narrowed eyes, momentarily stopping the fixing of his shirt. “This doesn’t change anything, Granger.”

She can think of the why later. When she was freshly showered and laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and dealing with the guilt and regret of this whole situation.

“So you’re still just going to pretend that I don’t exist? You’re—”

“Do you really think this meant something? We shagged, Granger. It’s not a big deal. Things got out of control, it’s been awhile,” He shrugs. “Whatever.”

She places her hands in front of her girl bits and grabs her wrist, as if it would help hide the fact that she was standing in blue underwear in front of a boy she hates.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“I am. And yet, Snape gave up everything, Potter got me out, and you fucked me.”

“I hate you.” Hermione growls, grabbing her jeans off the floor.

“So we’ve established.”

“You know what? I am so, so, so sick of living in this house with you! I am so sick of it!”

“You’re breaking my heart, Granger.”

Hermione huffs, swallows hard, and stares in anger as he pulls his shirt over his head.

“I don’t like being here either. I don’t like having to deal with you screaming or throwing shit at me all the time. I don’t enjoy the hell my life has become. I don’t like being stuck here, because all it does is make me replay the past and every single thing I’ve fucked up. I’m a fucked up person, Granger. And it’s really best for both of us that you remember that.”

“Oh, I do. I—”

“So, piss off. Go hate me, go regret this, go lock yourself in your room for three days. Go scream, go kick, go apologize to yourself for me. Do whatever you have to do. But piss off.”

Studying him, she sees something different in his eyes and the set of his jaw, and can’t help but wonder if he’s afraid. Afraid she might keep trying and he’ll end up breaking, things will happen, and he’ll no longer be able to hold on to the last thread of normalcy in his life. That he still hates Hermione Granger.

Or she is just looking into this too much, just like she usually does. However, that’s only because she is who she is, and she just doesn’t do something that doesn’t mean anything.

But this time she thinks she might have, and that was what she wanted. A moment, a bit of torn time that can’t be mended but can be covered up. Something impulsive and different. A break from the monotonous spiral of seconds and silence and dead memories.

She has nothing to say and he knows this, so he turns and walks away.

She listens to the sound as he walks up the stairs, closing the door to his room shut behind him. There’s nothing now, but silence sweeping, overflowing, filling it all up and leaving everything empty.

She hates it; breathing here with him in the same hollow rooms, leading jagged lives in a forgotten corner of the world. Both trying to understand things they never thought they would have to, and treading lines neither even knew were there.

She hates it like she hates him. But somewhere along the line, that stopped being good enough, and now all she had was him. Life was ironic and fate was cruel, in a way she couldn’t really understand.

Then again, Hermione doesn’t understand much of anything anymore. Just wishes, and waits, and tries to accept. Just watches the back of a boy as he stares out the window, as if he’s waiting for something to come. And she watches, because perhaps she’s waiting for the same thing.

Maybe they always have been.

fin.

“Swing Time”, Bambu

Rating: NC-17

Published: June 19, 2006 for dmhgficexchange’s Hot Summer Nights event

Link: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/138572.html

Summary: A disowned and dishonored Draco Malfoy has been given refuge by the Order of the Phoenix at the Burrow. The only time of the day in which he’s granted any privacy is during the swing shift, tea time to midnight, which he spends, appropriately enough, in the Weasleys’ garden.

“He hates it here.”

“Of course he hates it here.”

“You’d think he’d be grateful he’s still alive and not in prison.”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione turned away from the Burrow’s kitchen window and the sight of the dejected young man straddling the Weasley family’s old swing. Slightly exasperated, she narrowed her eyes at her messy-haired friend. Periodically, they had this same discussion, and she was growing tired of his inflexibility. “Malfoy is grateful. That’s half the problem. Think of his…”

Harry interrupted her in a mocking, sing-song voice. “…side of things. He has nowhere else to go. He’s alone with a group of people he was raised to hate, and everything he ever believed in has been proved false. He’s alone, he’s been disowned, and he’s confused.”

Her exasperation abruptly matured into irritation, and Hermione tapped her foot and glared at him.

Impatiently running his hand through his hair, Harry snapped at her, “Malfoy’s been here for bloody weeks! He’s practically useless. He deserves to be in Azkaban with his father!”

“Harry James Potter! That’s a terrible thing to say. You heard his story – he took Veritaserum, Harry – you know what he said was true.” When Harry said nothing, she knew she’d made her point. “He’s lost almost everything.”

“Don’t,” Harry warned.

“Don’t what?” she asked, a bewildered look crossing her face.

“I know you, Hermione Jane Granger. Don’t start a SPEW campaign for Malfoy because you feel sorry for him.”

She turned her head from him, color staining her cheeks. In a smaller voice she said, “That’s S. P. E. W.”

Still, it was difficult for Hermione not to feel some compassion for the blond’s plight, even if he’d been a horrid little rodent to her for most of their acquaintance. His treatment of her since she’d arrived at the Burrow a week ago had been nothing but icy civility.

Harry took a step in her direction.

She forestalled his next comment. “Malfoy wouldn’t welcome my help, you know. That’s why I should be the one to tell him. He has to get along with you… you’re the Chosen One.” She poked him in the ribs as she used the Daily Prophet’s moniker for her friend. “And Ron’s family has offered him refuge, so he has to be nice to Ron. Ginny’s just returned to school, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are his hosts. None of the other Order members would be tactful, and you know some of them would enjoy delivering this news to him.” When Harry snorted, Hermione glared. “That’s not very nice.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. He’s a vicious little bastard.” Harry’s arms were crossed and the dishes they’d been supposed to be doing continued their endless cycle of washing themselves, despite the fact they’d been clean for at least three rinses.

Hermione sighed. “He has been. But he still deserves some sympathy. I’m the best solution. He doesn’t have to be nice to me. It’s still safe for him to hate me.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know, but I’m still the best choice.” Her chin tilted in that ever-so-determined mannerism her friends knew and sometimes admired.

“Don’t let what he says get to you.” Green eyes shone with his concern. Harry was fiercely protective of his closest friends, especially in the wake of Dumbledore’s death and the Death Eater attack on Hogwarts.

Hermione avoided his eyes and swallowed hard. “I have to tell him now, before the rest of the family comes home.”

Harry growled her name while she stepped past him, patting his arm affectionately as if it conveyed her agreement. When she opened the kitchen door, light from the cozy room spilled onto the uneven flagstones which cut a path through the kitchen garden, and Hermione evaluated her quarry.

The light cut through the forefront of an encroaching fogbank, and cast her slim shadow upon the patchy lawn. It drew the blond’s attention almost immediately. He might appear completely self-absorbed, but his defensive instincts had been finely honed over the months he’d been in hiding.

Draco Malfoy turned his head in her direction, his longish hair whipping in an arc, and gleaming as it caught the light. Fine white-gold strands wrapped around the thick rope supporting the swing upon which he sat. The swing hung from an old oak tree with a massive trunk and sturdy branches which testified its great age. Hermione almost fancied that the tree was curving protectively over the young wizard, so gracefully did its branches bend.

The sight was picturesque.

It was a fallacy.

Stormy grey eyes met hers as she carefully picked her way toward him over the rough ground. The moisture-heavy air carried the smell of rain, and Hermione thought there’d be a storm before daybreak. It seemed an appropriate natural metaphor for her upcoming encounter.

“What do you want?”

“I have some news to tell you. I’m afraid it… it isn’t very good.” Hermione would’ve hexed herself if she could have for stumbling over her words.

Draco stiffened, his grip on the ropes tightening until his knuckles were bloodless. “Spit it out then. I’m sure you pushed your way past everyone else to deliver the news. Couldn’t wait to get a little of your own back, could you?”

“No!” Appalled he would think such a thing of her, Hermione’s words tumbled from her mouth. “That’s not it at all. I just… well… I thought it would be easier if it came from someone you already knew. Someone you were familiar with. You know…”

“Spare me your rationalization, Granger, and just tell me the bad news.” He eyed her coldly.

She hesitated. How did one tell someone else their mother had been killed in a Death Eater raid? How had her dad broken the news to her? She swallowed hard, and forgot Harry’s warning. A tendril of compassion twined about her heart.

“Well?” he snapped. “What is it?”

So much for civility, she thought. But the news she had to tell compensated for his attitude. “Your mother was discovered this morning by Aurors…”

“She’s been arrested?”

His swift question derailed her for a moment. “Er… no, that’s not it.”

“She’s been taken to Azkaban, then?” He stood up, one hand clinging like Devils Snare to the rope.

Hermione hadn’t noticed how tall he’d grown until he seemed to tower over her. He wasn’t menacing, but she thought he easily could be. Just his sheer physical presence was intimidating. At her back, Hermione could feel Harry’s presence bristling with desire to snatch her beyond Malfoy’s reach, but there was silence coming from the house.

“No, Malfoy.” She looked into his eyes, into the foreknowledge which swam in their depths, and knew he’d been delaying the truth of her message. Why did I agree to do this? This is so cruel. She bit her lip, and then, so softly it was almost a wisp of fog, she said, “I’m sorry to say, your mum’s been killed.”

If it hadn’t been for his hand holding onto the rope, Hermione thought he might have fallen. Indeed, he swayed with the impact of her words. When she offered a tentative hand to help him, he pulled away from her as if she’d been an incendiary hex.

His voice was harsh. “Where?”

And she’d thought breaking the news was difficult. This was worse. “She was… her body was found…” her throat grew tight. She didn’t even like the arrogant prat and she was about to cry for his loss. “…in the rubbish bins at St. Mungo’s.”

A strangled sort of sound escaped his mouth, and Draco’s legs gave way.

Hermione lurched forward, but the swing’s wooden seat halted his disjointed folding, and he jolted to a stop, his body slumped in loose-limbed misery. She stepped closer, hovering over him. He didn’t respond, and Hermione cast a nervous glance over her shoulder toward the house. There followed a long, awkward silence which became even more unpleasant as it stretched beyond the point of discomfort.

The fog crept in, enveloping them as if they were the only two humans in existence.

Time snapped.

“Why did you tell me?”

“You already hate me. I thought it might be easier for you.”

His face was a mask of incomprehension.

“I can’t tell you how very….”

And then the dam broke, and all his grief, and confusion spilled forth in the easiest emotion… anger.

“Get the fuck away from me…”

Even though she’d expected it, Hermione felt as if he’d hit her. She’d forgotten how volatile he… they… could be. Her eyes never left his face, and she saw the second he made the decision.

“…Mudblood!”

Stumbling back to the house, her own eyes filled with tears, she decided she hated being a know-it-all.

“He hates it here.”

“Of course, he does. He hasn’t left the house or garden in eight months. It’s like a prison.”

Once again, Harry and Hermione were doing dishes at the Weasleys’ sink. It was the first day they’d been at the Burrow in three weeks, and they’d enjoyed a home-cooked meal. There had only been Harry, Hermione and Draco for tea, but Mrs. Weasley had left a full spread in case any of the others might arrive. The smell of toasted scones and lemon curd lingered in the kitchen.

Once again, unpleasant news was about to befall Draco Malfoy.

“He swings until Ron and the twins return… “

“I know he does.”

“Yes, you do, don’t you, Hermione.” Harry crossed his arms in the maddening way he’d developed over the past three or four months. He’d changed since they’d elected not to return to Hogwarts when the school had re-opened.

While Draco had consistent tutorials with various Order members on a daily basis, Hermione, Harry, and Ron crammed their lessons into condensed blocks of time. The hunt for Horcruxes was secret, sporadic and intense, but it had been fruitful. They’d managed to find and destroy Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, and Godric Gryffindor’s wand. When they were in residence at the Burrow, Harry had extra lessons with Mad-Eye Moody. Evidence of the paranoid Auror’s tutelage was increasingly apparent as Harry became more engaged in the wizarding world’s rising conflict.

Half-accusingly, the young savior said, “You watch him every night we’re here. Why?”

“I... I just…”

How could she possibly explain? Since the night she’d told Draco about his mum things had changed between them. For the first three weeks he’d refused to acknowledge her existence. After that, there was a period of time when he’d flicked his eyes in her direction when either of them entered a room. Every time she returned from a field trip, as Harry called their Horcrux hunting, Draco seemed to know unerringly where she was at all times. At first, it had frightened her. But then one night, she’d heard Mr. Weasley telling Draco that it was true Hermione had recently lost her mother to a Death Eater attack. In the days and weeks following that conversation he still marked her presence, but occasionally he’d give her a nod of acknowledgment, and when they had to work together he was scrupulously polite.

He’d never again called her a Mudblood.

“Oh, Christ! You’ve started to feel sorry for him, haven’t you?”

“That’s not it! I understand how he feels.” She didn’t understand her own feelings about Draco Malfoy, how could she possibly explain them to the least sympathetic – well, besides Ron – person she could imagine? She fingered the sleeve cuff of her pink jersey. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent to the Death Eaters.”

“So do I.” Harry’s reaction was predictable.

“No, Harry. You don’t.”

His anger rose so swiftly and so inextricably linked with his magic, it almost knocked her off her feet. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that, Hermione? My parents are dead because of Voldemort! Sirius is dead because of a Death Eater! Dumbledore…”

Hermione stopped his rising diatribe with a hand to his mouth. He wrenched away from her touch, ironically in much the same manner as Draco had the night she’d told him about his mother. Harry glared at her, his hands in tight fists at his side. He was as angry as she’d ever seen him, but she talked over his spluttering fury. “You know what it’s like to have grown up without your parents, and having been told lies about them. You know what it’s like to be an orphan. But, Harry, you don’t know what it’s like to have lived for eighteen years with a loving mother… having her dry your tears when you fall off your bicycle that first time, or read you a book before you go to sleep, or have her help you buy your first bra…er…”

Her inadvertent faux pas worked in a way she hadn’t planned, but was extremely effective nonetheless.

Harry blushed and choked with laughter, his anger dampening in an instant. “Too much information, Hermione.”

“Sorry,” she said, unrepentant, while they returned to their interrupted tasks.

“It’s all right. I get your point.”

“Good. Now get the rest of the point. I don’t feel sorry for Draco Malfoy. I empathize with him.” She waited for his grudging nod. “I’ve also noticed that he’s changing. He’s becoming more involved in what’s happening around here. Do you know he de-gnomed the garden yesterday?”

Harry’s wand halted in the process of sending plates to their proper places. As he turned to look at his friend, a trail of mix-matched porcelain hung suspended mid-air, a dotted line between sink and cupboard. “Malfoy would never soil his hands over something so mundane.”

“Mrs. Weasley watched him. She had to show him what to do the first time. She said he was very enthusiastic about the rest. Apparently he had to bathe a second time.”

“What’s he up to?” Harry muttered.

“Honestly, Harry! He’s not up to anything. His entire existence has changed and he’s finally beginning to adapt.” Her annoyance with her friend’s stubbornness suddenly evaporated like Amortentia when left in an open cauldron for too long. “And now I’m going to change it even further. I’m not so sure I’m the right person to tell him this time.”

“You know you are. Your earlier reasons are still valid, though he might not hate you so much anymore. You do work together fairly often.”

Her shoulders sagged. She remembered the expression on his face when he’d called her Mudblood, and his reaction to her news the last time, when she’d pulled his emotional feet out from under him. She didn’t want to see either of those looks on Draco’s face again.

And Hermione really didn’t want to examine why that was.

Harry flicked his wand, and the plates noiselessly slated themselves in their proper positions. No matter what anyone said about the Boy-Who-Lived, he was a dab hand at household chores, and he never shirked his share… unlike every single one of the Weasley offspring when they were at home.

“Would you rather I told him?”

Hermione shook her head, negating the disastrous possibility, and nibbled on her lower lip. She tore some of the skin, but the tiny pain reminded her of the uncomfortable knot of anxiety sitting heavily in her stomach. It had formed the moment Mrs. Weasley had Floo’d in from Headquarters to deliver the news of Lucius Malfoy’s death. Harry and Hermione had just begun to clean up after their meal when the family matriarch had stepped through the green flames. She hadn’t wasted more than the time it took to deliver her message, ascertain that one of her putative children would break the news, before stepping back into the fireplace, calling out, “Headquarters.”

With a sigh, Hermione opened the back door and stepped into the chilly autumn evening. The sun was about to set, and a glorious array of color splashed across the darkening night sky.

In the kitchen, Hermione heard Harry activate the Floo. He, too, was leaving for Grimmauld Place. When she’d delivered the news of Narcissa Malfoy’s death the Weasleys’ had been coincidentally occupied, but tonight the entire family — save Ginny at Hogwarts and Percy, who remained firmly stuffed up the Minister’s arse — was attending an emergency meeting of the Order of the Phoenix.

This time, Hermione’s hands were sweaty and her knees felt a bit like jelly.

Draco stopped swinging as she crossed the patchy green lawn. Sometimes he just sat on the hard wooden seat, staring into the oak’s branches, and at other times, he swung with all the pent-up fury in his heart, his feet hitting the leaves and small limbs of the great sheltering tree. Now, as he watched her, his expression rapidly shuttered.

Hermione’s heart raced; for a moment his expression had been so open… so vulnerable. She avoided looking at him directly.

Why does it have to be me this time?

She already knew the answer to the cyclical question. But this time was different.

Before the last few months, it had been easy to despise him. Even though she’d spent years in the same school, in the same classes, she’d never really known him very well. He’d been some amorphous stereotypical pure-blood who stood out from the crowd because of his animosity for Harry and Ron. That dislike had combined with his childhood prejudice and spilled onto her. But now – after everything that had happened in the last year — she understood him better, and that made all the difference. They weren’t friends, but as far as Hermione was concerned, they weren’t enemies and she no longer disliked him.

“Is it Severus?” Draco’s hoarse question greeted her.

“No. He’s still undiscovered as far as I know.”

Finally looking at him directly, Hermione saw the patrician mask he’d kept firmly in place during the early months of his residence at the Burrow. It pierced her heart.

“My father then.” His voice was leeched of all emotion.

Their eyes met, and held.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Hermione almost whispered.

“Afraid? Why would you be afraid he’s dead? He hated you, Granger. He tried to kill you. He thought you were nothing but a…”

Even as she knew he deserved whatever solace rage could bring him, she interrupted, “It’s a figure of speech, Malfoy. I’m sorry your father is dead. I’m not sorry the Death Eater who would have cheerfully eviscerated me is dead. I’m quite capable of separating those two things.”

“Are you?”

She nodded her head, still caught by his pale eyes and the depths of anguish she could see so easily reflected in them.

Then, shutting her out, Draco closed his eyes and turned his back to her.

It was a clear dismissal.

It was also an indication of their changing dynamics that he hadn’t shouted or insulted her.

Involuntarily, her hand reached out to touch the bloodless fist curled around the thick rope holding the swing in place. Before she could make the physical connection, she jerked her hand back and withdrew her sympathetic touch.

Abruptly, she left, but not before she heard him whisper, as if to himself, “Then why can’t I separate those two things?”

Before she reached the kitchen door, Hermione heard the creak of ropes as Draco began to pump his legs, swinging as hard and as high as the arc of rope and canopy of oak would allow.

“I don’t think he hates it here any more.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” she answered, and turned toward her friend, absently noting the way his messy hair glistened from the few raindrops which had landed on him before he’d entered the house.

It was rare these days for the two of them to be at the Burrow at the same time. The war was building to its climax, and there had been open fighting in the magical villages of Britain for several weeks. They owl’d one another daily, exchanging news and refining strategy, but their roles in the war had been redefined after finding the final Horcrux. The three friends, accompanied by Remus Lupin and Tonks, had acted upon information from Snape, killing and destroying the final piece of soul Voldemort had secreted in his pet, Nagini.

As a result, Hermione was no longer fighting on the front lines. It had infuriated her at first, until Harry had told her how much he relied on her to be his touchstone behind-the-scenes, especially when he couldn’t be there. Since he’d never treated her like a ‘girl,’ before, she knew it had nothing to do with her abilities and everything to do with trust. Now her time was spent in research and abstract presentations of obscure magical tracts for the Order of the Phoenix’s strategists.

Harry hadn’t been to the Burrow for a fortnight, and Hermione gave him a once-over, making sure he was unscathed. He was lean and hardened in a way she’d never expected to see. Still, there was a gentle quality to his expression which she knew was reserved for his closest friends and those he loved.

He tugged her into a fierce hug, and she let go of the teacup she’d been washing. It didn’t matter that her hands were dripping wet. It was good to see him, and she hugged him back with equal strength.

She’d taken to washing up the Muggle way if there were fewer than four at a meal. There was no explanation, but it grounded her. The daily chore also gave her a perfect view of Draco during his swing shift as Fred and George Weasley had called it.

Fred would call out, “Oh, look it’s gone four!”

“Malfoy, it’s time for your swing shift!” George would finish.

For all the mocking, however, there had been an underlying note of understanding which wouldn’t have existed the year before.

With a final squeeze, Harry let go of her and snapped his wand from the quick-release brace on his forearm. With a quickly swished charm, he dried his hair and the back of his shirt. “Thanks, ‘Mione, I needed a second bath!”

“It’s good to see you, too.” She smiled at him.

When he didn’t respond to either her comment or her smile, instead glancing toward the window which neatly framed Draco’s rather indolent slouch on the Weasley swing, Hermione’s banter died on her tongue. Dread flooded her with a dementor-like chill. “What’s happened now?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. Instead he swished and flicked the dishes in the sink clean and shelved, all the while looking out at his childhood nemesis. “I like what Malfoy’s done to the garden.”

She ignored the comment – Draco had indeed taken over the Burrow’s garden with dramatic results – for she recognized a delaying tactic when she heard one. “It’s lovely, but what is it, Harry?”

“I have something for you to deliver to Malfoy.”

Without conscious thought, Hermione backed away from her friend. “No,” she whispered. “It’s not …”

“It’s not Snape, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Despite the continuing espionage and valuable information their ex-professor provided the Order, Harry would never like the wizard. He always seemed to spit Snape’s name as if something foul was in his mouth. Meetings attended by the two wizards were inclined to be highly volatile, although each restrained themselves because they had the same goal: destruction of Voldemort.

Marginally relieved, Hermione ventured a question. “Then why are you reluctant to tell me?”

“Because I don’t know what it means.”

“Harry, you’ll have to be more specific.” Never the most patient of people to begin with, the horrifying news which arrived on a daily basis had worn Hermione’s patience to nil. These days, Mrs. Weasley practically lived at Grimmauld Place providing meals and healing round-the-clock. The Burrow was used for private meetings and recuperation for the family and a select few.

“I have a gift of sorts for Malfoy.” Harry turned toward the front room. “Accio wand!”

Gooseflesh prickled Hermione’s arms as a serpent-headed, ebony stick flew into Harry’s gloved hand. She’d seen that cane on several occasions, none of them pleasant.

There was no question in her statement. “Lucius Malfoy’s cane.”

“Yes. Snape delivered it from the Malfoy family solicitor today. Draco Malfoy has apparently been reinstated as his family’s heir, and this is part of his inheritance.”

“All right, then. Why don’t you give it to him?” Hermione ignored his outstretched arm offering the cane.

Instead of answering her directly, he said, “I can’t touch it. It burns me, even through gloves.” When she still didn’t take the family heirloom, he placed it on the kitchen table. “You’re used to giving Malfoy news.”

“But this isn’t like that.” She did not want to deliver this legacy. She worried what she’d see in Draco’s face: joy, anticipation… perhaps evidence that the entire past fifteen months had been a ploy. That he hadn’t changed as she’d believed.

Harry’s eyes glittered like their gemstone namesake, and Hermione knew she had no choice. “The final confrontation is weeks… days away, I can feel it. But I have to know if I’m putting my faith into a plan that’s a trap.”

Her heart sank.

He had a valid point. Given all the history between Draco and Harry, Snape and Harry and the Malfoys and the Weasleys, unhesitating trust was almost too much to ask.

Expelling a heavy sigh, she acquiesced. “All right, Harry.”

“I know you’re friendly with him, and I understand.” Suddenly he made a sound that was half-cough and half-laughter. “I never thought I’d see the day when I understood anyone’s friendship with a Malfoy, let alone yours. But he’s been a useful bastard.”

“Harry! That’s rude.”

Instead of being angry, he gave her a fond look. “Sorry.” Then his expression turned entirely serious. “I have to know, Hermione.”

She reached for the cane, and dropped it the second her fingers touched its ebony staff. “Ah! It… it shocked me!”

Nursing a blistered finger, she watched Harry non-verbally levitate Lucius’ cane to the table’s surface.

“Interesting spell, that,” he mused. “Security Jinx or Anti-Muggle Charm.”

“You’ve made your point,” she huffed. “I’m going.”

He held out a small piece of parchment, folded intricately and sealed with magical sealing wax. The indentation in the golden blob of melted wax was a crest of the scales of justice.

That’s curious, she thought as she took the missive with Draco’s name written on the unfolded surface.

Pushing through the kitchen door, Hermione wrapped her Molly-made green jumper tighter, and stepped into the rainy night. Her heart raced as she hurried across the garden, walking quickly on the recently added paving stones leading to the massive oak.

Over the course of the past several months, Draco had taken to spending part of his swing shift tending the Weasley garden. Without the continuing incursions of the garden gnomes, the ground no longer rippled and caved as a result of their burrowing. The lawn’s surface was uniform, and the shrubs and flowers flourished under his daily care. After routing an infestation of Knarls, the roses had bloomed in a heady array of color.

That summer, when Mrs. Weasley had enjoyed the rare luxury of being home, she took her tea in the garden. It had been Draco’s presentation of a beautifully transfigured table and chairs for her comfort which had finally won over the younger Weasleys. They didn’t necessarily like Draco… he still had that aristocratic reserve, but they appreciated his intelligence and his gallant gesture toward their mum, and tolerated him more amicably than before.

Hermione’s heart clenched when she saw his welcoming expression fade into one she was all too familiar with. Cold rain splashed on her face; it matched the chill in her heart.

Not waiting for him to ask, she said, “It’s not Professor Snape.”

She was unable to break the habit of calling the spy by his former title. Snape was too disrespectful and Mr. Snape too strange. Calling him Severus would take the downfall of Voldemort.

“For Merlin’s sake, Granger. There’s no one left!”

“No one’s dead. At least no one I’m aware of.”

“Then what’s wrong?” His tone softened slightly.

Brushing her wild hair out of her eyes, she stepped next to him, and was peripherally relieved that the oak’s canopy functioned like an umbrella. No rain slipped through its branches.

Holding out her hand, she offered him the letter. Reluctantly, he accepted it, grunting his appreciation when she cast a small, waterproof Bluebell Flame above his head so he could read.

When Draco unfolded the parchment it was blank. But, as if the touch of his skin verified his identity, letters began to appear on the vellum. When complete the command glowed, a luminous silver.

Family first.

The words seemed to lift off the parchment, to hover mid-air. Then, after a moment, they evaporated. Another set of words appeared on the parchment. They were an incandescent green-toned signature.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy

Enraged, Draco dropped the parchment as if it had scalded him, and rose from the seat of the swing. He ground the parchment into the dirt and grass with his well-worn boot-heel.

“For fucks sake! Now he sends me that message… he learned it on his bloody death bed! Bollocks!”

Hermione turned to leave, accommodating his previous demand and request. Before she’d taken two steps, he asked her a question.

“What was it?”

“Sorry?”

“What came with it? What trinket does he think will remind me of my glorious family first?” Bitterness didn’t enhance his voice, and Hermione glanced in his direction. He was looking directly at her.

“His cane.”

In two strides Draco was at her side, the bluebell flames following him. “Did you touch it? Let me see your hand.”

“Just for a second.” The patter of rain was drowned out by the thudding of her heart in her ears.

Draco inspected her hands in the bluish light of her waterproof flames. He dropped her left hand when he found the blistered fingers on her right. “The damned thing has a jinx on it.”

“Really,” she asked dryly, except it came out rather breathlessly.

He looked up, and their eyes met again. “It’s keyed to the family. Only a Malfoy or its possessions can touch it without coming to harm.”

“I see.”

“Put some of Mrs. Weasley’s burn-healing paste on this.” Then suddenly realizing he was, in effect, holding her hand, Draco dropped it as if she was as jinxed as his father’s cane.

Hermione flushed. “I will. Thank you.”

When she reached the boundary of the oak’s protection his voice arrested her departure once more.

“You know, Granger, you’re the only one who brings bad news.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Hermione thought, and braced herself for a scathing comment. “Sorry.”

“It’s easier when it comes from you.”

Whirling on her heels – did he mean he still hated her or something else – brown eyes darted to grey. He was much closer than she’d realized, and she was completely taken aback by the expression on his face. She’d certainly never before seen it when he looked at her. It was almost… affectionate.

“I can’t say it’s a pleasure to tell you these things, but I don’t want you to hear them from anyone else. They wouldn’t…” She broke off and looked down at her wet shoes. She’d almost said, “They wouldn’t care if it hurt you. In fact, some of them would count on it.”

An admission of that nature would have been entirely too revealing.

But it didn’t matter if she’d said the words, he’d heard them anyway. One long, slightly-calloused finger tilted her chin upward. Draco’s expression was unreadable. “I know they wouldn’t.”

Hermione stood there, held captive by his intense grey regard and the point of his finger. Then, he dropped his hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like some time alone.”

“Of… of course,” she stuttered. Then almost like a hunted Snidget, she bolted for the house, Draco’s final words ringing in her ears. Thank you, Hermione.

“He’ll hate to leave here.”

“Of course he will.” Hermione turned to meet her friend’s all-too-knowing expression. “What are you doing here, Harry? I expected you to be at Grimmauld Place, celebrating with everyone else… with Ginny.”

The Man Who Triumphed blushed when reminded of his recent reunion with his newly be-ringed fiancée. The two had been practically inseparable since Voldemort’s defeat three weeks earlier. Ginny had been in Harry’s heavily guarded room at St. Mungo’s before the Senior Healers had finished evaluating his injuries.

“I was. But I came to give Malfoy the good news. I don’t think Scrimgeour’s going to owl him until tomorrow.”

“Typical,” Hermione muttered.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “The Ministry is going to miss the revenue from the interest of Malfoy’s frozen assets. Kingsley told me the galleon amount. It’s… rather staggering.”

“I don’t think it’s the money he’ll care about Harry. I think he’ll just be happy to have his home back.” Hermione glanced out the window, where she watched the summer breeze play with Draco’s long hair. He was swinging idly, his shirt-sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms, showing the world that he had not been branded before his sixth year, despite rumors to the contrary.

This time there were no dishes to keep Hermione’s hands occupied, and they gripped the rough soapstone of the Weasley’s kitchen sink. One strap of her copper-colored sundress slipped off her shoulder. Annoyed, she tugged it back into place.

Harry shifted his position. “The Unspeakables and Aurors released the Manor today. There’s no reason he can’t go back tonight. That’s part of the reason I came. I wanted him to know he could go home.” He paused for a moment. “I think he’ll miss the garden though.”

Hermione’s heart was in her throat, and she just nodded in answer. The garden had been Draco’s refuge for almost two years. Before Ron had moved in with Luna Lovegood, he’d begun to refer to the area around the oak tree as Malfoy’s room. The twins had thought it so funny they’d made a signpost with that label.

“I’m sure he’ll miss it. It’s the only thing that’s made these two years bearable for him.” She refused to look at Harry. He’d become entirely too good at reading people.

“It’s not the only thing he’ll miss, Hermione.” He crossed the room, a residual limp the only physical remnants of a battle which had left hundreds maimed, or dead, but none unchanged.

She refused to look at him, and practically jumped when he put one arm around her shoulder, inadvertently shoving the thin strap down her arm.

“Do you want to tell him he’s been given his freedom? It’s your job, you know. You gave it to yourself.”

Unable to trust her voice, Hermione simply nodded again. Warily she glanced in Harry’s direction. She was relieved not to find condemnation in his expression. His green eyes shone in the glow of the kitchen lantern, and his face was filled with understanding.

Startling her with the sudden move, Harry turned and cupped her face between his hands, then leaning forward slightly, he kissed her brow. “If you need to talk, I’ll be around tomorrow. Right now, I’m going back to the party to find Ginny. If I don’t return in another three minutes, she’ll do a Four-point Spell and come looking for me.”

Hermione laughed at his entirely accurate understanding of the youngest Weasley. “She would at that, Harry. Your life will no longer be your own.”

He smiled rather happily at the prospect, then, with a loud CRACK, he Disapparated from the house. Hermione went back to looking through the kitchen window at the Burrow’s only other resident.

Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless.

How could she have ever let herself care for the blond? She knew it was a feeling born of time and isolation and heightened tensions. While he might have learned to tolerate her presence, and perhaps harbor some miniscule affection for her, once he learned that his family’s estate had been released, he would be gone from her life faster than a Snitch in flight. Sighing for the pang in her heart, Hermione gathered her resolve, and opened the back door.

It was a sultry evening. Wind-whipped leaves skittered across the sandstone path, and she was thankful her hair was braided. A few strands escaped their bonds to blow across her nose and eyes. They clung as a spider’s web to skin, and she impatiently brushed it from her face.

Draco didn’t hear her approach. He kicked his feet every other downward swoop of the swing. She’d never seen him look so… at peace. It was a good look on him. It was an image she’d hold close to her heart in the years to come, she thought, long after he’d moved on from his wartime experience.

As if drawn by her melancholy, Draco turned his head. Something in her expression must have alerted him as he muttered a word and the swing halted its forward momentum. He jumped lightly to the ground, as gracefully as if he’d practiced the maneuver a hundred times, as indeed he had.

“What’s wrong?”

Cursing herself, Hermione quickly pasted a smile on her face. “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong this time. I actually come bearing good news.”

“Are you going to tell me that Severus is getting married? I already know that. He owled me this afternoon.” Draco began to laugh. It was a rich and deep sound. “Well, I can tell you didn’t know! You should see the look on your face, Granger!”

She blushed. “I’m just surprised. I’ve never thought of him like that… I mean, who is he marrying?”

“Brace yourself. It’s Penelope Clearwater.”

“The Ravenclaw?” she asked, remembering that Penny Clearwater had once been Percy Weasley’s girlfriend.

“The same. What a perv! Dating one of his former students.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have much choice would he? Most of the younger British witches he’d meet would have been his students.”

“Still sticking up for him, I see.”

“He’s entitled to find happiness after all he’s gone through. I wish them the best.”

Draco stepped closer to Hermione, and she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

He smiled. “I’ll be sure to tell him you said that. Granger’s specialty… compassion and understanding for the Slytherin outcast.”

Abruptly, Hermione wanted to be finished delivering his freedom. She wanted to nurse her stupidly unrequited feelings in private. “The Ministry is unfreezing your family’s funds and they’ve released your home in your name. You’re free to leave here any time you like.”

The expression on his face changed the moment she started to speak. From rather congenial good humor, he now stared at her with an unreadable look. The intensity of his regard made Hermione uncomfortable and she shifted nervously from foot-to-foot, focusing her attention on the third button of his white shirt.

“When?” was his only question.

“Today… now. I don’t know about the funds. Harry thinks you’ll get the owl tomorrow, but he was here just now to deliver the news about your home.”

“Did you come with him?”

Confused, she looked up. His eyes were very dark, and framed by thick lashes.

“Er, no. I was already here.”

“Why?’

“Sorry?”

“Why were you already here, Granger?”

“You weren’t at the party and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

He smirked and crossed his arms. “Is that right?”

She blushed and wished for the cover of dark. “Yes.”

“Liar.” He stepped closer to her. “What did you really come to say?”

She stepped back, suddenly angry that he was toying with her… suddenly aware that he must already know what she felt for him. Her eyelids prickled with impending tears. “I came to tell you good-bye. You won’t ever have to see me again after tomorrow… er… tonight. You can leave here anytime.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl!

“I can leave here any time? I know. I got the owl this afternoon.”

Startled, she met his eyes again. “You did?”

“I did. Now, brave little Gryffindor, tell me why I’m still here.” He began to circle her, and she matched his move until she was facing the house and he was facing the swing.

Her temper, never quiescent, erupted. “I don’t know, Malfoy! Why are you still here?”

“That is the question, Granger… Hermione. Why am I still here… hours after receiving notice that I’ve been pardoned… that I’m free to resume my life, or what’s left of it?” He stepped closer.

Hermione backed up, her anger vanishing like a Boggart when laughed at. Draco and she maneuvered like they were executing the steps of some intricate dance until the back of her knees hit the seat of the swing and she abruptly sat. Somewhere in her mind she noted that he’d charmed the wooden seat to remain stable. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Such a clever witch and you don’t know me better after working together all this time. No educated guess?” His tall figure loomed over her, and Hermione bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t know, Malfoy.”

“Let’s table that for a moment, then, shall we? Why don’t you tell me again why you’re here when you should be celebrating with the other Order members at Grimmauld Place?”

She was trembling so much that she gripped the rope to ground herself. “I… I came to say goodbye. After tonight… well our lives will be different.”

“I fervently hope so, Granger.” The look in his eyes held something she didn’t quite recognize.

Abruptly, Draco stepped back and held out his hand. She accepted it, unprepared for the jolt of awareness which coruscated up her spine when he wrapped his fingers around hers. He helped her stand, but didn’t relinquish his hold on her. Instead, he pulled their joined hands to his chest, and she followed her hand, stepping next to him.

“Does this mean I’m going to get a farewell kiss?”

Hermione sucked in her breath. “I… I… Malmmmph”

While she dithered, Draco had bent to touch his lips to hers.

Spontaneous combustion was an apt description.

They’d always been a volatile combination. If Harry had always been able to incite Draco’s anger, then Hermione had always sparked his passion.

She moaned into his mouth, eagerly welcoming his explorations. Inspired by her encouragement, Draco pulled her roughly into his arms, one arm wrapped around her waist, his hand spread along her lower back and the crest of her bum, fingering the thin fabric of her dress. His other hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threading into her tightly braided, thick hair.

Hermione relished the taste of him… something she’d fantasized about only very late at night and then felt guilty over the next day. He tasted of Molly Weasley’s apple tart and Arthur Weasley’s Muggle brandy. Delicious.

This wasn’t an opportunity she would ignore. It would most likely be her only chance. At least she would have one memory to hold.

She flicked the tip of her tongue along his soft palette, mapping the center ridge. Draco shuddered in an altogether enticing manner, and Hermione wrapped her right leg around his left thigh. When he bucked into her, her nipples tightened and a freshet of damp moistened her knickers. Gods, she’d wanted this for a long time.

As if mimicking her thoughts, he broke the kiss, and groaned into her ear, “I’m here because I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Good,” she said, her hands smoothing down from his shoulders, across the hard planes of his chest.

He pulled back a little. “Good?”

“Yes,” she hissed, attention focused almost entirely on her trembling fingers as they worked on the buttons of his shirt.

“What are you doing, Granger?”

She’d gotten the first three buttons undone. “What…,” enough to reveal his suprasternal notch, “…do…,” she began to suckle his skin, “…you…,” inhaling his distinctive musky scent, “…think…,” making a memory, “…I’m doing?”

He muttered something she ignored while her mouth followed her fingers. Kissing and licking her way down the opening placket of his shirt until she discovered his flat male nipple. It pebbled under her tongue, and he bucked into her again, this time accompanied by a groan.

Instantly galvanized, Draco grasped her bum in both hands, lifting her off the ground. She could feel his slightly calloused skin as his maneuver hiked her dress above his hands, and her wand rolled in its thigh holster. Hermione’s skin tingled under his touch.

He turned and sank onto the seat of the swing with her firmly placed on his lap, her legs folded to either side of his hips. She was almost kneeling, but her mind wasn’t paying any attention to how this was possible, only that it was happening.

Draco nipped at her pulse point, then laved the tender skin before exploring her throat further.

Tugging his shirt free of his trousers, Hermione’s greedy hands snaked along his smooth skin. Once more, her mouth fastened on one of his nipples, and her tongue teased its budded peak.

Suddenly one of his hands was caressing the skin of her back, he’d slipped his hand up, under her dress, and she felt the breeze through her knickers. It was almost as hot as she was, but it was liberating.

With a little cry, Hermione abandoned Draco’s chest to meet his waiting mouth. Their tongues twined and tasted. Then it seemed his hands were everywhere: her back, her breasts, dipping under the lace of her knickers, to her bum.

His erection was hot and hard between her legs, and Hermione writhed against him. She needed to feel him… just… ah… there.

He grunted, and broke the kiss.

They were both panting.

“Are we really doing this, Granger?”

“Merlin, yes!”

“Do you want to go….” His arm gestured toward the house.

She rolled her hips, and he made a sound like he’d been sucker-punched. “No, Mal… Draco. It’s too far. There’s no one here but us.”

“Right.”

He leaned backward a bit, and the swing shifted. Hermione’s weight slid her forward and her pelvic girdle impacted with his trouser-sheathed erection. The jolt of arousal was so intense an explosive whimper escaped her mouth.

The strap of her dress had dipped low on her bicep, and Draco pushed it further, revealing that she hadn’t worn a bra. Her body was exactly the right angle for him to mouth her breast, and when he tongued her tightly furled nipple, she felt it in her womb.

Panting, she said, “Besides, this is your room.”

He nodded his head, the movement adding to the pleasure of his attentions… but she wanted him naked.

“Have you ever done it on a swing?” he mumbled, the sensations of his voice on her tender skin sending shockwaves to her hooded bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. She ground down on his rigid arousal.

She moaned, and answered him rather breathlessly, “Is it possible?”

He let go of her breast with a little pop, and said, “We’re resourceful; we’ll make it possible.”

His grin was wicked and captivating, and Hermione knew exactly why the Malfoys had always been so powerful. They had charisma in spades. Coupled with their intelligence and their ambition, it was no wonder they’d excelled in the magical world. And it was no wonder a wizard like Tom Riddle would have wanted them in his stable.

When he bit her neck, all thoughts of the external world or shifting dynamics of the wizarding world dissipated.

“Yes.” She ripped her wand from its holster and with a swish and a non-verbal, Divestio, they were both naked, their clothes folded neatly in a pile on the ground, and his erection nestled in the damp curls of her pubis.

She pointed her wand at her abdomen and closed her eyes, steadying herself. She’d never before been quite so wanton, always casting the contraceptive charm before she’d met her first lover for a tryst.

“Have you done this before?” Draco asked.

Brown eyes flew to his face. His eyes were so dilated as to look as dark as the night had become. She nodded. “Twice. I was remembering the correct wand movement for the contraception charm.”

“May I?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and very slowly she offered him her wand. He brushed her lips with a quick kiss of thanks. They both recognized the importance of the moment.

Then, with a fillip, a jab, and a glow of purple light, Hermione felt the none-too-familiar tingle of the contraceptive charm engage. Another wand movement and the seat of the swing altered shape, just enough for comfort. Grinning wickedly, Draco threaded the whippy vinewood through her braid. “Just in case we need it.”

Hermione took advantage of the simmering stage of the moment, and traced his features with her fingers. It was something she’d imagined doing once or twice. His skin was smooth around his eyes and high on his cheekbones, but lower on his face stubble prickled against her fingertips. When she grazed his lips, his lips opened and he caught her fingers. He sucked them into his mouth, laving her finger tips and then pulling back until they popped out of his mouth.

Hermione ground her hips against his satin-skinned erection and felt the jerk of his muscles as he reacted. Their eyes met. In mutual accord they ceased their play. She rose on her knees, her hand snaking between their bodies to guide him exactly where she wanted him to be. Slowly, ever so slowly, she sheathed him within her throbbing core.

“Unh! Granger, you’re so hot and tight…”

Involuntarily she clenched her inner muscles and he groaned. Suddenly exhaling, Hermione realized she’d been holding her breath.

He rolled one rigid nipple between his teeth and flicked its tip with his tongue.

“Malfoy!” She exclaimed, and grabbed onto the rope for balance. The movement arched her back, thrusting her breast into his mouth.

He groaned and shifted his attention to her other breast, and the wind which had begun to pick up chilled her wet nipple, tightening its peak even further.

With her free hand, Hermione began to explore his nude torso. His smooth skin was beautiful, alabaster in the ambient light from the Burrow’s windows, and when she pinched one of his nipples, his hips thrust and he jerked inside her.

So she did it again.

“Gods, woman! Just like that.”

She kissed him instead, and it was hot and hungry.

Their movements began to rock the swing, slightly at first, and then more energetically as Draco leaned toward her to explore her neck and shoulders and then away to reach her breasts again. Hermione’s body shifted with him. They created a fluid rhythm… forward and backward.

She accommodated his exploration and sampled his taste, nuzzling his suprasternal notch before licking the slight indentation between his collar bones. She loved the faint salty flavor on his skin. He’d obviously been working in the garden earlier.

The movement of the swing propelled their coupling. When the first tummy-tingling swoop happened, a gasp and an, “Ahhh!” burst from her mouth.

“Like that, do you, Granger?” His look was too knowing for her to think the feeling accidental. She felt him kick his legs, the muscles of his thighs bunching beneath her, and the movement seated him more deeply within her.

She dropped her head to his breastbone. “Unh… Malfoy…”

“Yes, Granger?” His voice was husky and deep, and she shuddered, clenching her vaginal walls.

He grunted in response.

Hermione hadn’t been in an elevator in years, but the sensation was a bit like descending an express from the thirtieth floor to the first.

When the swing dropped once more to the perigee of its arc, the pressure in Hermione’s pelvis was… indescribable. Frantically, she clutched Malfoy’s arm with one hand and the swing’s rope with the other. “Oh. My… What… what…”

“Speechless, little one?” He nuzzled the pulse point beneath her earlobe, and she felt him withdraw her wand from her braid. “Ready?’

The swing descended, causing her already tingling nerve endings to fire and spark with excitement. Hermione gasped again. “Yes!”

He chuckled, the swing rose upward toward the great oak’s canopy, and Draco waved her wand. “Perpetuo momentum!”

The swing rapidly slipped downward, at the full extension of the swing’s arc, and Hermione cried out, “Aaaah! Draco!”

When the swing passed close enough to the ground that they could touch grass if they chose, he was thrust deeper, her mons hit his pubic bone and jolts of pre-orgasmic pleasure shuddered through her.

“Gods!” she exclaimed.

He freed his hand bracing her back, and threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling her to him. His mouth devoured hers in a kiss so encompassing, she wanted to crawl into him.

The swing crested its pendulous arc, leaves on the lowest branch of the sheltering tree broke free to nest in their hair, and then the swing dropped. Hermione’s tummy fluttered, and the pressure on her pulsing bundle of nerves was enormous. When they reached perigee, flickering lights danced behind her closed eyelids, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh.

She made a sound that was a cross between a whimper and a whine, and he answered with a growl deep in this throat. The vibration she felt through his tongue only heightened her pleasure.

Her chest was pressed against his, her nipples aching and in need of the friction his sparse chest hair gave them.

They crested the forward momentum of the swing, and she gasped for breath, just before the swing plummeted. There was no need for Draco to thrust his hips or for her to lift and lower herself onto him… the swing did all the work, and did it with unbelievable results.

It was the most intense sexual experience of Hermione’s life.

They stared at one another, communicating wordlessly, as they swung toward the ground, gravity pulling them together and down. His eyes glittered with lust and something far more profound, and Hermione was certain her heart was his to read.

She would never forget this moment.

The swing swooped through the pendulum and began its ascent once more. Like the inevitable tide, Hermione knew her orgasm was close.

As they reached the top of the arc, she nibbled on his ear, and whispered, “Draco.”

He hadn’t moved the hand in her hair and Hermione felt his fingers tighten against her scalp as he came, in great shuddering spasms.

He shouted, something unintelligible.

The swing dropped.

At the bottom of the pendulum’s trajectory, her world exploded in a glorious burst of sensation, and then nothing at all.

The next thing Hermione knew, she was lying on a soft coverlet, and a voice was calling her name.

“Hermione… Hermione! Come on, Granger, don’t make me Ennervate you again. Wake up!”

It was Draco, and he sounded frantic. This she had to see. Aware of a great languor which had spread throughout her body, all she really wanted to do was sleep, but she managed to open her eyes.

Wide grey eyes were peering down at her, and relief flooded his features.

She lifted a hand to cup his cheek. “That was amazing!”

His laughter sounded more like a bark than an expression of amusement, and he said sternly, “We’re never doing it on a swing again.”

It was then that Hermione realized she was in Percy Weasley’s bedroom. Well, it had been Percy’s bedroom, but it had been Draco’s room for the past two years. It was tidy, and Draco’s transfiguration skills were evident in the décor. He’d wrought the same sort of transformation on the room as he had on the garden. The colors were cool and subtle, and the furniture altered just enough to give it lines of distinction.

When she finished her perusal of the room, for she’d never been in the room since he’d come to the Burrow, she looked at Draco. His hair was mussed, and he was still naked. Her breath seemed to escape her lungs. He was beautiful, all sinewy muscle and balanced proportions.

Then the implication of his statement filtered through her foggy brain, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. She tried to make it light. “Where… where else are we doing it then?”

“Next time, it’ll be in a proper bed,” Draco pronounced.

“This bed?” she asked, a slight smile curving her mouth.

She had no idea where this relationship, if that’s what it could be called, was going, but she was going along for the ride.

He smirked. “And others. I have an entire houseful of beds for us to try.”

Hermione’s smile could’ve rivaled the sun, and she pulled back the covers to reveal her own nude body. “Then we should get started.”

He slid between the sheets, his body cool next to hers. She shivered a little in anticipation as he reached for his wand on the nightstand. Hers was lying right next to it. Clothes might not have mattered to him, but he’d made certain to bring both their wands from the garden.

“Nox,” he said, pointing his wand at the candles before replacing it next to hers. Then, turning toward her and hitching one leg over one of her thighs, he insinuated one arm under her neck and angled above her. Moonlight streamed through the opened window and shone off his pale hair. “To answer your earlier question…”

“Which question?”

“Why I stayed when the manor has been mine since midday.”

“Oh,” she said, her heart pounding in her ears.

“It’s your job to deliver my life-altering news.”

“I see.” She nuzzled his ear.

His swift intake of air was a reward, but his next words were even better. “I was waiting for you.”

She kissed him.

[end]

“Room Serviced”, pir8fancier

Rating: NC-17

Published: September 9, 2004

Link: http://pir8fancier.nfshost.com/harrypotter/hp_room.html

Summary: Hermione is learning that any port in a storm comes at a high price.

Her jumper and jeans lay in a heap on the floor just near the doorway. She shivered, her fingers thick and clumsy from the cold. After three tries, she finally got her jeans buttoned. Pulling her jumper over her head, she snatched her bra and underwear off of the floor, balled them up, and shoved them into her back pocket. She'd throw everything out when she got home. Fuck, where were her shoes?

"Under the bed," he drawled, took another drag from his cigarette, and went back to blowing smoke rings into smoke rings.

She sat on the bed, tied her shoes, and made for the door.

"Great fuck, Granger."

She turned around, blinked twice to focus, and then realized she couldn't see him properly because of the smoke and shadow. Small, dark, with the bed shoved into one corner, the lone lamp screwed into the nightstand, it was the kind of room where people stayed who had no choice or were desperate for sex. "Rent by the Day or Hour" glowed the neon sign just outside the window.

He lay against the headboard, his body partly hiding the "FUCK" someone had carved into the headboard, his shoulder blades resting between the "F" and the "K." With his eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head, cigarette perched on the corner of his mouth, he looked strangely perfect lounging in threadbare sheets in a Muggle hotel room that stank of mould and sex and cigarette smoke. She didn't want to think too closely that she, too, might be playing her role perfectly; the woman, still flushed from her orgasm, who can't get her clothes on too fast or take a shower soon enough.

"A one-off, Malfoy." Not waiting for a reply, she left the room.

Three feet from the door, she heard the click of the locks.

Two weeks later they didn't even make it into the room. As she fumbled with the room key, he snaked his hand under her skirt, his gasp of surprise hot against her neck when he realized she wasn't wearing underwear. She leaned her head against the door, and spreading her legs as far apart as she could, she began moving her hips back and forth, fucking his hand as his hand fucked her. The second she came, he pried the key from her clenched fist, muttering "Fuckfuckfuck" under his breath. When the door swung open, she more or less fell inside the room, him right behind her. He slammed the door shut with his heel and took her right there.

As he lay on top of her, his hands still clutching her hips, the worn carpet scratching her cheek, she noticed that someone had added an exclamation mark to the "FUCK"!

One week later:

"Get your clothes off," she barked, not caring how rude it sounded. She'd been lying in that ratty bed for over an hour, bunching and unbunching handfuls of sheet.

She'd requested a different room, a better room. This room was identical to the previous one except that this headboard had a big "SHIT" carved into it. She supposed in a place like this, a slightly less offensive swear word constituted an upgrade.

He'd just smoked a cigarette; she could smell it on him from across the room. He slid off a polished loafer and then stopped. "Why, Granger?"

Splaying her hands on the blanket to wipe them free of sweat, she tried to bluff it out. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head at her and smiled as if to say, you're not that stupid and we both know it.

"What do you care? You get off. Right? I get off. End of story."

"Call me curious," he said mildly and slid his foot back into the loafer.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He shook a cigarette free from the pack, the motion smooth, graceful, easy, just like his fucking. He put it in his mouth.

Before he could light it, she stated flatly, ""When you and I fuck, I come. Then I can get a decent night's sleep. Satisfied?"

He put the cigarettes and lighter back into his shirt pocket. "You don't get off with Weasley?"

She shook her head. "It just doesn't work," she admitted.

"And you thought I'd work?" he mused.

Two hours later, his semen pooling in the crotch of her panties, she nodded at him in a terse farewell.

"Sleep tight, Granger," he called to her through the cigarette smoke.

Three days later:

"Doesn't he know?"

"Know what?"

"That you don't get off."

"I moan. Arch my back. Moan again. I mutter a few 'oh Ron's.'"

"He falls for that? Always knew Weasley was as thick as two planks. But that dense?"

"Shut up. He's good in bed. It's this war."

"So why don't you just jerk off?"

"Mmmm, I do. Sometimes. Doesn't seem to do the trick though. Not like you."

"Next time I want you to show me."

"Show you what?"

"Show me how you jerk off."

She waited for him to betray her.

Be a Slytherin.

But he didn't. He wasn't any different to her except for the odd hand on her shoulder. The cup of tea that appeared when she was so tired that even her eyelashes ached. Sometimes when Tonks would trip or Moody would bark out "Constant vigilance," he'd raised one eyebrow if he'd caught her eye, a mute invitation to share in his amusement.

One day, when several of them were standing around in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place gulping down a quick cup of coffee before flooing for Scotland, he tucked the manufacturer's tag inside the collar of her Muggle-made tee shirt. She turned away from everyone to put her cup in the sink so that they wouldn't see that her nipples were hard.

Five weeks later:

She had requested an even better room on a different floor. One farther away from the neon sign.

When she arrived, he was already there. Smoking. His back resting against the headboard, his shoulders bracketing a "C" and a "T."

"When did you get back?" she asked, as she removed her clothes in six swift movements. She hadn't bothered wearing a bra or underwear. He stubbed out the cigarette on the headboard and threw the butt in the direction of the nightstand. It was that kind of place.

"Three hours ago."

Crawling up the middle of the bed, she snuggled in the vee between his legs and was about to put his cock in her mouth when he stopped her with a palm to her shoulder.

"Sit up," he ordered. He fingered her ribs, ran a finger none too gently along her collarbone. "You've lost more weight. You look like hell."

"I know I look like hell," she snapped back at him. "While you were away, Blaise was killed getting off a train in Milan."

"I know about Blaise, thank you very much. Whom do you think had to tell his family?" he snarled. He began to pinch her breasts. Close to her period, they were tender and swollen, the way he liked them. "Nice, Granger. You have such nice tits," he cooed. Rolling a wet tongue in her ear, biting her lobe until she moaned, he stopped for just a second and whispered, "Don't bring that shit in here. Don't."

He went back to laving his tongue along her ear and neck, and pinched her nipples harder. Arching into him, she cursed and blessed her body as it walked that thin line between pain and pleasure.

"Do you want me to jerk off for you? Like you asked?"

"Oh, baby."

Two weeks later:

They were back in the cunt room again.

"I hate this room most of all."

"What does it matter? All we're here to do is fuck. Think of the poor bastard who goes from room to room venting his frustration on these headboards."

"I'd hate to meet him. He must be a lonely, bitter man."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

On a cold spring night they attacked Malfoy Manor. Wands in one tight motion cast Silencing charms for miles so that the only evidence of their presence was the scent of crushed daffodils that followed in their wake as they marched across the fields behind Draco's home.

At three thirty that morning, Draco held Harry as he sobbed over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The light from the fire eating Malfoy Manor room by room shadowed their figures as they knelt in the rose garden, Harry begging for forgiveness as Narcissa Malfoy's white roses turned black from ash.

The next afternoon, Hermione knocked on the door to Draco's room. He hadn't bothered changing from his soot-blackened clothes. His ashtray was filled to overflowing; butts had spilled onto the floor in haphazard piles on the floor near his bed. He must have been lighting one off the other for hours.

He didn't bother looking up when she came in, locked the door, and then opened a window. He didn't acknowledge her when she took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out on the sole of her shoe. He didn't say anything as she lay down beside him and gathered him in a tight embrace. His hair smelled like old smoke.

"Sleep," she said.

"I'm just glad it wasn't me who killed him." His voice was hoarse and raw from the cigarettes.

"Sleep."

"Ron thinks I look like a dyke. He says it's weird having a girlfriend with hair shorter than him."

"I like it. Why'd you cut it?" He scratched his fingertips back and forth across her scalp.

"An act of self-destruction, I suspect."

"As if you've needed any more proof that Weasley's a moron. It's very sexy, Granger. Now you can see your mouth. That hair was a fucking distraction. And you have a lovely mouth. Now put that lovely mouth around myYeahJust like that."

"Did you bribe the manager or magic the headboard?"

"Something like that. Don't think he knows quite what to write anymore."

"Why can't you get off with him? I put my tongue on your clit and you're screaming." He was splayed on top of her, his torso pressed against the length of her back, his hands covering her hands, his arms on her arms, his legs on her legs; his cock just beginning to soften, almost falling out of her. "Never more surprised to discover the sex kitten lurking under that prim, bookworm exterior. It's a total fucking turn on, let me tell you."

She laughed. It felt odd. "Ever heard of the Muggle expression, 'still waters run deep?'" and she wriggled her arse a little to push him out.

He hoisted himself up on one elbow and gave her a light smack on the arse. "No you don't, my naughty Gryffindor. That was just round one," and he snuggled his cock back inside of her. "So, spill. And don't tell me you haven't given this any thought. You're always thinking."

She pushed back into him, feeling him beginning to harden again.

"I don't know. I think it's because I'm afraid he's not going to come back one of these days. Or worse. That I'm going actually see someone curse him and not be able to stop it in time."

He shivered, pulled out and then peeled himself off of her, the bedsprings wheezing as he got off the bed. By the time she'd turned around, he'd pulled on his pants and shirt and bundled everything else under his arm. "You're cheating on your boyfriend with someone that if he knew, would probably have him throwing up frogs for a month straight." And with that he Apparated.

Somewhere.

For the next three weeks, he was excessively polite; he discussed battle strategies with her, which charms were more effective in battle than others, which potions were worth spending the time and energy on; he praised her when he thought her ideas were good, and told her she was full of shit when he thought her ideas were bad. He did not touch her. He did not return to the hotel. He did not ask her to return to the hotel. He was a perfect gentleman; her grandmother would have approved.

She slept no more than three hours every night.

She organized a successful raid on McNair's house; she accompanied Ron on a mission that turned the giants against Voldemort; she drank an entire bottle of wine one night and threw up for three days.

On day twenty-two, she sat in the Friday morning war room meeting. Conversation swirled around her. She reached for her teacup, and in slow motion she watched her hands shake with the effort. Tea slopped over the rim, soaking her lap. Before she knew it, the cup had crashed to the table and all she could say over and over again was, "I'm so tired, I'm so tired."

An arm closed around her and hauled her to her feet, "Carry on, Ron, I'll take her upstairs. Think she needs a good nap."

He tightened his arm around her, guiding her up the stairs to her room. To her frantic mantra of, "Please, Draco, please. Please," he kept whispering back, "Shhh."

"Which bed is yours?" he asked as he shut the door.

She didn't answer but brought up her hand, still wet from the spilled tea, and cupped his crotch.

"Fuck, Hermione," he whispered and cast a Silencing charm. They stood there, hands down each other's pants, bringing each other off to Hermione's incoherent sobs of relief.

On the once-pristine headboard carved in deep, angry grooves was the word DESPAIR.

He bit her shoulder.

Hard.

"Don't say a fucking word," and he waited for her to protest. She said nothing but shoved her shoulder back against his mouth. He sucked and bit his way all over her body, every mark accompanied by a word: beautiful, mine, fuck, bitch, lovely, cunt. Some words he repeated over and over, some he only said once. Then he turned her over and with the flat of his tongue, he swiped the cleft of her arse, demanding if Ron had ever done this to her. When she panted out a "No," he sighed a "Yes," and began to tongue her arse, opening her up, circling at her clit with his thumb, playing out the orgasm until she thought she'd go crazy.

As she reached for her underwear, he charmed away all the marks.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded.

"It was the principle of the thing."

They were supposed to have returned over two hours ago. Hermione and Remus had flown in just about the time Bill and Charlie were putting their brooms away. A three-pronged attack devised to divert the real mission, getting Harry to a healer at the new hidden location of St. Mungo's without the Death Eaters noticing. In the last battle, Harry had been badly hurt, and the treatment he needed was far beyond what Hermione and Ginny could provide. Ron and Draco had planned it so that it was nearly full proof, but that meant nothing. Just ask Blaise's family. Everyone was back except Ron, Draco, and Neville. Molly had made hot chocolate for everyone. Because despite the fact that the night was rather warm, everyone's hands were freezing. With fear.

After setting off the portraits in the hallway for the fourth time with her pacing, Remus quietly begged Hermione to move into the lounge. She could pace just as well in there.

Picking up her mug for the hundredth time, she clutched it in her hands for no earthly reason. The cocoa had gone cold, but it gave her an excuse to stop her frenetic pacing.

She was about to put the mug down for the one hundredth and one time when the front door slammed shut and the shrieks of the portraits began. Ron's voice boomed through the open door of the lounge. "Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!"

Hermione heard the thumping of many feet and several people struggling to cover up the portraits. She didn't move or breathe, her feet rooted to the fireplace hearth, her lungs frozen. Ron walked in the room alone.

"What happened? Where have you been? We've been mad with worry," she yelled, knowing even as words came spilling out of her mouth that she had no right to be so angry; but she also knew he'd understand.

He collapsed on the sofa. He was missing one boot.

"Did Harry make it okay?" he demanded. At Hermione's terse nod, he stared into the unlit fireplace, unable to meet her eyes anymore. "We were outnumbered. Not sure whether they knew we were coming or not. Maybe they didn't know. We miscalculated," he explained in a monotone.

Remus came in the room, his fists clutching two tumblers filled to the brim with Firewhiskey. He sat down next to Ron and motioned one in Ron's direction. "Here, Ron. Drink up," he ordered. "I am sure you need something more than the cocoa your mother's got heating up on the cooker."

Ron grabbed the tumbler but didn't move to drink it. Remus didn't drink his either. Tears began sliding down Ron's cheeks.

"I tried Hermione, I really tried," Ron mumbled in his I-mustn't-cry voice, I-must-be-strong voice.

Hermione started to die inside. Die. There was no other word for it. Her heart and lungs began to atrophy, to shrivel, too shrunken and brittle to move.

"It's just us to mourn him, I mean with h-h-h-his family..." and Ron's voice trailed off unable to even finish his sentence.

Three things happened at once. Ron began quietly sobbing in Remus' arms, Hermione shattered the mug in her hands from the sheer force of her grip, and Draco entered the room, a nasty burn marring a stark, white cheek. "He's told you about Neville, then?"

Hermione waited until she was sure everyone was asleep. She'd given Ron a sleeping draught so that she could leave his bed without waking him. He'd fallen asleep in her arms, clutching her like he was afraid he wouldn't ever wake up.

The butt of Draco's cigarette burned bright in the shadow and dark. He'd stubbed it out in the time it took for her to lock the door with her wand, put up a silencing charm, and make her way over to his bed. The other bed was still empty, a jumbled mess of tired sheets, a silent tribute to Blaise, who hadn't bothered to make his bed on the last day of his life. But no one, not even Molly, could bear to strip it and erase the only thing left of him in the house.

"Not here, Hermione," Draco whispered, even as his hand caressed her cheek. "Not now."

"Yes, here. Yes, now," she whispered back and began to trail her fingers tentatively over his nipples.

With both hands, he grabbed the hem of her nightgown.

"No," she shook her head and brought both his hands up to her mouth and kissed them. They smelled and tasted of tired magic. "Let me tonight."

When she had memorized every part of his body with her tongue and her lips, brought him to orgasm again and again with her mouth and sex, she finally let herself come while straddling him, one hand cupping a breast, two fingers caressing her clit, his hips snapping in time with her rhythm.

"What's this?" He wiped away the tears on one cheek and then the other.

"I thought it was you."

"The headboard is new again. Must be costing the management a fortune to keep replacing these headboards."

"Perhaps."

"I am curious what he's going to write next, aren't you?"

"I think he's written everything he's going to write."

"Fall's coming on early this year, isn't it?" she shivered. "Want to help me go over some ancient texts in the restricted section of the British Museum? Dumbledore finagled two passes. I'm doing some research on tattooing, trying to figure out if we can unmark the Death Eaters. I'd imagine there are a few Death Eaters who really regret getting those blasted marks. If we can break Voldemort's hold over them, we could bring them over to our side."

Draco shrugged, "Sure, I'll go with you. But let's Apparate back home first. I need a shower. I have no intention of using that sorry excuse for what passes as plumbing in this place." He wrinkled his nose. "We smell like fuck."

Hermione blushed. "I like the smell of your come on me," she mumbled.

Draco stiffened as if in pain, his eyes blackened. With his impossibly elegant hands, he reached for both shoulders and pulled her to him. "Hermione, Hermione," he sing-songed over and over again in between kisses and began to undo the buttons of her coat.

"I don't think the war has anything to do with your not getting off with Weasley," Draco panted.

"Oh really," Hermione said in as sarcastic a voice she could muster, considering she was tonguing his balls.

He pulled up and away from her mouth, and then flipped her over so that he covered her. He rubbed his erection against the soft mound of her stomach, wetting it with his pre-come and her left-over saliva.

"No, I don't. I think it's him. I think he bores you. You may hate me, you may despise me, but I do not bore you. Do you like that, Hermione? Tell me yes," he demanded as he wiped a thumb in the wet on her stomach and began to tease her nipple with it.

"What do you know; what do you know?" she demanded, the last coherent words either of them got out as they bit and laved and thrust and screamed each other's name in the most brutal sex they'd ever had.

Hermione lay under him in a post-coital haze, savoring the glow and tingle of her orgasm.

"I know when I look at you like this," he said quietly. "So beautiful." She moved into his kiss as he caught the edge of her mouth.

"I do not hate you. I do not despise you," she mumbled through his kisses.

"Sometimes I can smell him on you, Hermione. It makes me want to hit you."

"I'm sorry."

"You do know that you're too good for him, don't you? He'll end up resenting you, despising you in a fashion."

It was three weeks before Christmas. A series of especially brutal attacks had left the Order weakened, but in much better shape than the Death Eaters. Dumbledore was making tentative noises that if they didn't suffer too many more losses, they would launch their final offensive in spring.

She scrambled out of bed and began to dress. "I do not want to talk about this. And I'll have you know that he tells me every day how lucky he is to have me."

"Of course he appreciates your brilliance now," he sneered. "We all do. Without you, we'd all have been cursed and buried years ago. But when this war is over, he'll resent it. It's bad enough being in your best friend's shadow," he mocked. "But to be in your wife's shadow as wellI can see him cringing internally every time someone says to him, 'So you're the lucky chap married to the brilliant Hermione Granger.' And he'll smile and say 'Yeah,' in that goofy way of his, but it will eat at him. And knowing you, you'll push him to his potential. And he's essentially lazy, so he'll resent that, too. He'll have affairs with women who are a little dense, who will listen to his war stories and ooh and aah at him, not correct him as you do when he embellishes them. You will fake orgasms for the next fifty years. Can you do that?"

Her knees began to shake uncontrollably. She sat down on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, her head in her hands.

"I don't know," she sobbed.

He made no move to comfort her.

"I am not saying he doesn't love you. I am not even saying that you don't love him. I'm just asking. Is it enough?"

She sobbed harder.

"Draco, look at this. There's some interesting notation here about tattoos and how in some rituals, the ancient Egyptians actually believed that certain types of marks conferred evil."

"Sorry. Busy."

Hermione gripped her quill a little tighter and didn't bother to look up. "You are not busy. You're smoking a cigarette, and do not flick ash in my direction. If you mark these parchments, the British Museum will have my arse."

"Smoking is an activity, Granger. Therefore. I. Am. Busy."

She shifted her body to the side and kicked him. Hard. "Look at this, will you, please?"

"Ow, that hurt! Bitch."

"You're lucky I didn't break your ankle. Put down that cigarette and look at this."

With his usual languor, he didn't so much as put out his cigarette as caress his ashtray with the butt. Then placing a hand on the dining room table to steady himself, he glanced in the direction of the hallway and then leaned forward, pretending to study the manuscript. His lips were just a hand's width away from her mouth, and the tips of his hair grazed her shoulders. She stiffened. Had he gone mad? He couldn't, wouldn't kiss her here.

All he did was smell her. The gentle hiss, hiss of his breath tickled her collarbone.

"You smell like mint, Granger," he whispered. "It's making me hard."

"Toothpaste, you pervert," she whispered back.

"So why does your cunt taste like mint, too?"

"Don't," she mouthed.

He sat back down and pulled the parchment toward him and studied it for a couple of minutes.

"Worthless, Granger. Mudblood shit."

Hermione threw her quill in his face. "How do you know?" she demanded. In a much lower voice, she added, "I'll remind your prejudiced arse of this the next time you want me to do 'Mudblood' shit on your dick."

"This has nothing to do with being prejudiced," he snapped. "Look. Here and here." He stabbed the parchment with his index finger. "Stop grasping at straws. We still might find something, but this shit is useless."

Reluctantly, she saw that he was right, that there wasn't anything in the parchment that was worthwhile. Christ, will this never end? Her hands began to shake from exhaustion and, god, was that fear? Even her hands felt old.

"So, what does my prejudiced arse taste like?"

She laughed.

As the war became more brutal, the number of missions escalating, Hermione began sleeping less and less. Sleeping potions didn't work; alcohol only made her sick. Not even fucking Draco made any difference. She would drop from exhaustion at 1:00 a.m., but then wake at 4:00 a.m.

She would pad down to the kitchen and make herself a cup of tea. And think. Think about ways to defeat Voldemort: plans, stratagems, potions, charms, anything that would end this once and for all. Before they all died.

After a week of this, Draco appeared in the doorway, his black silk robe wrapped loosely around his waist, not hiding the fact that he was losing weight, too. They were all being whittled away, ounce by ounce. A package of cigarettes bulged out the front of his breast pocket. He was in for the long haul.

"Want some company?"

She nodded, grateful that he didn't berate her for being up, for not sleeping, for looking like death warmed over because sometimes she felt like she was slowly dying. And the only thing keeping her alive was shagging Draco Malfoy.

"Water's still hot," she told him.

He brewed up his own cup and sat across from her. Lighting up a cigarette, he smoked in silence. When the cigarette was finished, he reached across the table and curled his hand over hers. Interlocking their fingers together, he raised his wand and murmured, "Nox."

"How did you know I was down here?"

"Magic."

She could hear his smile in the dark.

This continued night after night. No matter how quietly she made her way down to the kitchen, not five minutes would pass before he'd show up. Sometimes he'd ask her what she was thinking about or she'd ask him or they wouldn't say a word. Sometimes they'd just sit there holding hands in the dark until he'd know inexplicably that she was sleepy enough to go back to bed. He'd ask, "Okay now?" She'd scrape back her chair. He'd walk her back to her room with Ron in her bed, his parting gesture a gentle hand to her brow.

On the nights that no amount of hand-holding would keep the demons at bay, they'd watch the sun come up. Hermione would stand at the kitchen window, Draco flat up against her back, his arms around her, their fingers intertwined together. When the pink lip of the dawn would finally sneak a peek over the horizon, he'd hug her tight and kiss her hair. "Good morning, Hermione Granger," he would whisper and she'd think, "Perhaps I can face this day."

For Christmas, he gave her an inlaid silver comb that had belonged to his mother. It was the only thing he had managed to save from Malfoy Manor.

She gave him a plain locket with a piece of her hair in it.

"You didn't engrave it,' he chided her gently, as he combed her hair front to back. They knelt on the bed, torso to back, the cool silver of the locket hanging around his neck resting between them, the smell of mould and cigarettes in abeyance for once. Draco had covered the walls and ceiling of the room with enormous boughs of fir. Hermione had magiked lights and berries in the pine needles. It was like they'd been swallowed by a Christmas tree.

"I don't know what to say."

"I've rented the room for six months."

"Good."

They always put intruder charms on the stairs, so that if anyone came downstairs for an early morning cuppa, they'd find Hermione and Draco already drinking their tea, a freshly lit cigarette in Draco's hand.

That morning was no different. It had been a morning for standing there and watching the sunrise. Not because Hermione couldn't get back to sleep, but because she wanted to feel Draco's arms around her.

Remus shuffled into the kitchen, his ancient bathrobe cobbled together with safety pins.

"Let me put on the kettle, Remus," Hermione made to get up.

"Don't bother, Hermione, perfectly capable of doing it myself. Shall I make a pot?"

At their nods, he lit the stove, filled the kettle, and sat down at the table. Draco moved the pack of cigarettes in his direction.

"Thanks, Draco." With the practiced ease of a lifelong smoker, he shook one free from the pack, brought it to his mouth, and fished his wand out of the sleeve of his robe to light it. "Ahh," he intoned as he inhaled. "This is lovely tobacco. I must get up at the crack of dawn more often. Or would that be intruding?" he added with a touch of sarcasm.

"Not at all, Remus. What do you mean?" asked Hermione, confused.

"Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean," Remus said quietly.

Draco shifted in his chair so that their knees were touching.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence, waiting for the water to boil, Draco and Remus smoking, Hermione finishing the dregs of her cold tea.

The whistle of the kettle only added to the tension building in the room. Remus banged around the kitchen, smacking the tea tin down on the kitchen counter with a sharp twang. Brought the teapot to the table with such force that a few drops spilled out of the spout. Same thing with his cup. Hermione half expected it to shatter. Remus refilled their cups and poured himself a fresh cup, but he shook his head when Draco tentatively offered him another cigarette.

"Can't get used to those, my boy. I'm afraid my budget won't handle that expense. The dole for werewolves is shockingly low." He paused, and then continued, his voice sharp with an uncharacteristic edge to it. "However, being a werewolf does have its perks, mind you. Of course, it's wasted on me because I'm not a gossip, but do you know that I can smell who's fucking whom? Smell one person's pheromones on another. Another odd little bit of werewolf trivia for you. Every man's semen smells differently. I can actually tell them apart. Say, Ron's from Draco's."

Hermione couldn't look at Remus; she couldn't look at Draco.

"Don't think it's any of your fucking business, Remus," Draco snarled in a tone reminiscent of a fifteen-year old Draco Malfoy.

Despite a sense of shame so deep that even her toes were blushing, she reached across the table in Draco's direction with a "Don't." under her breath. His hand met hers.

Now it was clear that Remus had been restraining himself, because he whipped out his wand and barked out a Silencing charm. Then he began yelling.

"You're damn straight it's my business. Do you think I want more casualties because you can't keep your dick in your pants? Do you think I want Ron anything but one hundred percent? Which he bloody well won't be if he discovers his girlfriend is shagging you. I've waited for months for this to run its course, but as you two are seemingly bent on continuing this insane affair, I have to put a stop it."

Hermione had never seen Remus so angry. He'd pushed off from the table with such force that his chair clattered to the floor. He began pacing back and forth in front of them, the hand not holding the cigarette punctuating every sentence with a gesture of rage.

"Are both of you out of your minds? Frankly, Hermione, I'd have expected you of all people to have more sense. This stupid little fuck could jeopardize all of us. No, kill all of us. In case the two of you have been blind and dumb for the last three years, Ron is our best tactician. If he's not at the top of his game, we all might as well invite Voldemort over for tea. I know this is wartime, people do things they normally wouldn't do, but I am surprised, shocked, Hermione, that for some quick and dirty sex with DracoSo I am asking you, no, I am telling both of you to stop this little shag, for whatever reason--"

"It's not a shag. It's not a stupid little fuck. It's not quick and dirty sex," she shouted.

Tearing herself away from the shock on Remus' face, she turned toward Draco and repeated much more gently, "It's not a shag. It's not a stupid little fuck. It's not quick and dirty sex. Is it?"

He blushed, the flesh pulled tight over a too-defined cheek, and his eyes blackened completely, eclipsing that translucent gray. She couldn't help but reach over and cup his chin. He leaned down to kiss her hand, rubbed his chin against the curve of her palm, and murmured, "No."

"It's like that, is it?"

At the sound of Remus' voice she turned back to him.

Hermione nodded.

"Draco, may I speak to Hermione alone?"

Draco stood up, then hesitated, but at her "Please, go back to bed," he shoved back his chair, kissed the top of her head, and dropped the cigarettes in front of Remus before he left the room.

"Fuck," Remus muttered as he righted his chair and folded himself into it, and then lit another cigarette. "You know, Hermione," Remus began in between deep drags on his cigarette, "that Draco and Sirius were cousins. I used to think that Draco was more Malfoy than Black, but I changed my mind on that score some time ago. He's the spitting image of his father, but inside a Black. You also know that Sirius and I were lovers?"

"We guessed."

"Hard to put anything over on you three. Sirius was a study in opposites. He was possibly the most arrogant, insufferable bastard I've ever met. Unfortunately, he was also utterly charming; he invented the word. He'd enter a room and three minutes later have everyone in the palm of his hand. Even if you disliked him, you wanted him to like you. You met him after twelve years of hell. You can't imagine how captivating he was when he was young. So completely alive. He never did anything by halves. And physically beautiful? Sometimes I'd find myself unable to breathe just looking at him. Generous to a fault, he was also the most selfish person on God's earth because he truly couldn't understand anyone who wasn't as generous as he was. Could hold a grudge for years. Once on his bad side, you were never pardoned. But if he decided you were a bit of all right, there was no one more loyal. Intellectually, he had few peers, but he could be maddeningly obtuse about people. Look at the business with Peter and the Secretkeeper. The worse of it was that he often asked impossible things of people because if you'd ask him to do the impossible, he'd do it. No questions asked." He took a drag on his cigarette. "Does this sound like anyone else we know?"

He didn't bother to wait for an answer.

"Yes, a Black through and through our Draco Malfoy. Sometimes when I hear Draco toss off some witty bon mot, or explode with some commentary on how so and so is a 'complete fucking moron', I have to pinch myself. He sounds just like Sirius. They even slouch the same. Always for effect, because no two men ever had more correct posture. It's that, 'I know I am as sexy as all hell, what are you going to do about it,' slouch.'"

"Remus, why are you telling me this?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Because, my dear," and he reached across the table and took her hand in his, "I understand, and I am possibly the only person who will."

"I love Ron," she insisted.

"Yes, I don't doubt that you do."

"Some days Draco is the only thing keeping me sane."

"I understand, I told you that. I do not condone it. But I understand."

"So," and here she untangled her hand from his and spread them both out flat on the table, "I cannot tell him."

She never knew what his reply was going to be because Ron came staggering into the kitchen, complaining between yawns, "What are you two doing up at the crack of dawn? Bloody hell, Hermione. It's 5:30 a.m. Come back to bed."

"I agree with him, Hermione. It's hellishly early. Try to get a couple more hours sleep, you two. We have another fun day ahead of us plotting ingenious ways to kill and maim people." He stubbed out his cigarette.

Hermione arrived at the hotel room an hour early. She took off all her clothes and summoned a Warming charm against the chill of the early spring air. Armed with her wand, she began to write. She wrote everywhere. On the walls, the floors, the windowpane. In big capitals:

PASSION

FRUSTRATION

FEAR

LUST

DESIRE

GRIEF

ANGER

COMPASSION

DREAD

HAPPINESS

DESPAIR

GUILT

PATIENCE

RESPECT

ADMIRATION

JOY

She was just etching the final "E" of her final word into the headboard when Draco Apparated into the room.

Fin

“The Lions of December”, Gravidy

Rating: M

Published: December 14, 2004

Link: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2171971/1/The_Lions_of_December [INACTIVE]

Summary: She calls me Goliath and I wear the David mask. I'd like to believe we could reconcile the past. Resurrect those bridges with an ancient glance. But my old stone face can't seem to break her down. She remembers bridges and burns them to the ground. -Excerpts from 7Mary3 "Cumbersome"

I like to think some things in life are meant to be. It's like the saying: 'All Roads Lead to Rome'–no matter which paths you choose, or what inexplicable obstacles fall in your way, you end up there eventually. Almost magically.

I saved Ginny Weasley's life twice. I saved her miraculously, during a moment of absolutely no hope, when by all rights and all laws of physics and nature, she should have died. Somehow I did it.

It was just meant to be. How else can you explain it?

The catch is that you can never tell what those 'meant to be' things are. Like by the time I had reached my fifth year and was made a prefect, I was pretty damn certain that I was meant to be Head Girl. But that never happened.

Yeah, Hermione Granger never became Head Girl. Shocking, I know.

It's always a surprise to see where life takes you. For instance, if you would've told me during my sixth year at Hogwarts that another seven years down the road would find me rooming with Blaise Zabini, in a fancy apartment overlooking a small Wizarding town outside Harlow, I'd have said that you had obviously been smoking your boomslang.

"I'm hoooome!"

I don't know why I do that. He never answers, not even when I happen to open the door, and he's standing right there in front of me, open milk carton held damningly in his hand, staring at me with his deer-in-headlights look, like I'm going to shoot him for drinking out the container.

I fumble inside, keys lodged in the lock, refusing to budge, purse crammed in my armpit, while I hop up and down on one foot, trying to peel off my black pumps. They hurt like hell. Inevitably, my purse tips and everything spills out. I crouch down, cursing under my breath, and stuff my hairbrush, wallet, two lipsticks, and a couple of Knuts back into my purse. Then I forget the keys are jammed and nearly yank my arm off when I try to pull them out.

I dump my shoes by the front door, a habit my housemate loathes, and pad stocking-footed into the kitchen, tossing my bag onto the counter. I can see Blaise, or rather the top of the back of his head, peaking over the armchair in the living room. He doesn't acknowledge me, but that's normal. We're both pretty private people. We can go days without any sort of interaction at all.

That's not to say he isn't a good friend of mine.

We'd both been out of Hogwarts for five years when we met up here, both looking at apartments, both looking for roommates. He suggested that we room together and save ourselves a lot of hassle, and I was so surprised that I said okay without thinking. I'm still not sure he didn't have ulterior motives at the time. I think he wanted to get in my pants, but when I didn't put the moves on him after the first couple of days, he let the notion pass with the attention span of a goldfish.

He's that laid back.

I've lived with him for two years now, while interning at the Ministry and being privately tutored by a specialist in Experimental Magicks. Blaise works for a private Wizarding association that studies forgotten spells, relics and practices. It's like archaeology for wizards. So we're well matched on the whole quiet, bookish thing.

I fumble a spoon from the cupboard drawer and duck into the fridge, grabbing a cup of yogurt. I have a business dinner to go to in about an hour, but I doubt I'll have much of an appetite while I'm there. Just the thought of it pretty much has my stomach locked up in a tight queasy knot. I'm half afraid I'll get there and just throw up, and dry heaves hurt worse, so I might as well eat something.

Blaise is a good housemate. He's quiet . . . he doesn't leave his sweaty shirts or dirty underwear lying over the furniture . . . he does housework on occasion, though if he had his way I'd do all his laundry . . . he eats my cooking without complaint but never steals my food . . . and he pays rent on time.

We do have separate bathrooms. I think we both knew from the word go that we'd need separate bathroom spaces to maintain harmony. We're both unrepentant bathroom hogs and tend to greedily use up the hot water whenever we can. I use his razors, and he hates my bath gels and aroma therapy candles, and likes to scatter my makeup all over the place in a passive aggressive frenzy when it gets in his way. I swear, it's like reverse menopause for guys or something; he gets these surges of testosterone in irregular, overwhelming bursts and has to go tearing around the apartment beating his chest. Then it wears off and he goes back to quiet, unassuming Blaise.

Maybe it's living with a girl that does it to him.

Or maybe it's being an archaeologist.

He's a bit of neat freak about the apartment, which is weird because I've seen his room, and there are clothes and magazines and crumpled pieces of paper strewn all over the floor, over his music equipment, his dresser, and his weight bench. He likes going out to see his friends but hates having company at the apartment. He's about as sentimental as a flobberworm, and so doesn't contribute much to the interior décor by way of photographs or knickknacks. I don't think I have ever seen a picture of his family.

He's also one of those people who likes lists. It doesn't matter what kind of list: grocery lists, lists of telephone numbers, to-do lists. And if there's no reason to make a list, he finds a reason.

I straighten up, spoonful of yogurt stuck in my mouth, and shut the refrigerator door to view the latest list where it flutters, pinned to the fridge by a lobster magnet.

-Jobs that Neville Longbottom wouldn't survive through the first day- is scrawled in his slanted, but neat, writing.

I pick up the marker and squiggle "Bomb disarmer" under Blaise's last entry of, "Lion/large animal trainer". He'll alphabetize it later, the freak.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask him curiously, wandering over to his side, popping another spoonful of yogurt in my mouth. Yum. Peachy. "Want to know something weird? Harry and Ron both owled me last night. Harry's saying he's going to be working over Christmas, and Ron's saying he's taking Luna to some kinda love-nest. They're not coming down to see me. Neither one of them. The ingrates."

I'm actually pretty surprised and hurt, even a little worried that maybe they don't want to see me, or something. They know I hate being alone on Christmas. Blaise will probably take off to visit family soon, and I don't want to stay here by myself. I know if I'm that desperate, I can always go to the Burrow. I'm always welcome, but I just can't bring myself to intrude on the family. Mrs. Weasley never did like me as much as she liked Harry and I'd feel too guilty anyway.

I glance a bit despondently around our apartment. It's only sparsely decorated for Christmas, a few sprigs of holly, a couple pine needle sashes along the shelves and draped over the T.V., and a snow-globe that continuously swirls tiny snowflakes sitting on the stand near the wall. I used to have a foot-tall Santa Claus doll that danced to "Holly Jolly Christmas" when you pushed his button, but he got spectacularly melted a few days ago.

Pretty pathetic.

I don't think I've gone all out for Christmas since Ginny and I were roommates. She always spent Christmas with her family, but we glutted our living space with decorations every year, and then we'd be trying to get tinsel out of the carpet and out of our hair until late February.

It would be nice to put up a few more things, not much more. I don't want to choke Blaise out of his natural habitat. I know him. He'll get all nervous and claustrophobic and stop coming home. But we should at least get a tree, just a small one, but that will have to wait until the weekend.

I lean my hip against the armchair and am about to run the idea by him when I finally notice what he's wearing and end up choking on my yogurt instead. That's why he was so quiet, he was waiting for me to notice. I cough and sputter and stare and he looks right back at me, daring me to comment.

It's a full-on, bright, red fur suit with white fur trim, black buttons down the front, a large black belt with a gold buckle holding up red fur pants, black gloves, and shiny black boots.

It's a Santa suit. It's about two sizes too big for him. The hat is in his lap.

My first stunned thought is that he doesn't really make a good Santa. He looks more like a pissed off elf. It's his ears. I've never had the heart to tell him, but they are kind of pointy.

"What happened?" I cough out, because there is no way he's in that thing voluntarily, "Why aren't you dressed for dinner?"

He nods his head towards the coffee table.

I follow his gaze, frowning when I spot the rectangular box. A present. It's about the size of a shoebox, a bit longer than it is tall, wrapped in dark red velvet with a crinkled gold tie cutting it in quarters, and tied in a bow up top.

Ah yes, my current problem.

The box appeared about four days ago, apparently out of thin air, along with a Christmas card that read "Merry Christmas, Frizz Head. Enjoy your present. Love, DM . . . P.S. I'll know if you don't open it." Cheery and solicitous, except for that last part, that was definitely a threat.

There was no way in hell that I was going to open it.

I wasn't even going to touch it, not after I found that if I stared at it long enough, my feet would start walking me towards it, which meant there was an Enticement on it. When Blaise got home and discovered me plastered against the far wall, staying as far away from it as I could, while still keeping an eye on it, he muttered something about Yule-tide terrorization from our favorite psycho and tried to destroy it. That's how my Santa got melted. Blaise's spell bounced right off the gift, ricocheted off the walls, smashed up a few things, then killed Santa. The present wasn't even singed.

"You touched it, didn't you?" I accuse, pissed because I told him a hundred times to just leave it the hell alone, but he's male so he's driven to 'fix' it.

He nods, unrepentant. "It blasted me across the room. Knocked me out cold. I woke up in the suit." He tugs at the outfit a little, and I almost smile at the pout on his face. "I think my hands are burned, they hurt pretty bad, but I can't get the gloves off."

And my smile disappears, unease stirring in my belly.

That's characteristic Draco Malfoy: like Halloween candy with needles inside, sweetly poisonous. The Santa suit is cute, even funny, but you don't see what's underneath, you can't tell that Blaise's hands are burned, probably red and blistered and weeping. It's insidious.

I set my yogurt down on a side cabinet and pull my wand out. "Want me to try to get you out of the suit?"

"No!" He's holding up his hands before I even complete the sentence, looking just slightly panicked. "No, thank you. I've been informed that he's spelled it to burst into flames if I try to get it off. I'm just going to wait a little while, thank you."

"He wouldn't!" That bastard's going to get a piece of my mind!

"He hates my guts. You bet he would."

"That stupid, son of a bitch. . ." I let out a string of curses and stomp my feet like a two-year-old, and Draco isn't here to yell at, so I yell at Blaise. "Did you have to touch it tonight? You can't wear that to dinner! You can't go with burnt hands!"

Blaise is my date. He puffed up and got all protective and demanded to go with me when he found out that I'd been delegated to go to a business meeting with Draco Malfoy. Harry and Ron can't stand Malfoy. I mean literally cannot be in the same room with him without seriously entertaining homicidal urges. But Harry needs Draco's political backing on a War-Crimes issue that's floating through the Ministry and Draco suggested a business dinner to hash over the details. I offered to go in place of one of them, to stave off what would most likely be a night of bloodshed.

It may yet be a night of bloodshed.

I stalk down the hallway to my room, disgusted. "You'll have to see a healer. Do you need to floo over to St. Mungo's?" I can't miss this meeting, the War-Crimes issue is vital. But that means I can't do anything for Blaise right away.

He scrambles after me and hovers in my doorway. "I don't want you to go alone!"

Blaise doesn't know exactly why I get the letters, the gifts, the flowers. He has never asked and I've never volunteered the information, but he picks up that it upsets me, and that angers him. I know that there have been times when he has gotten rid of the things Draco sent before I ever saw them. That's probably what happened here. Blaise tried to dump the box before I got home and the box fought back.

Blaise thinks Draco has an obsession for me—some kind of twisted stalker thing. It's not like that. It's all very cold-blooded. An old grudge. He won't let go of it, or maybe I'm not supposed to, so he sends me subtle digs and needling reminders wrapped up in pretty boxes, or phrased in lyrical prose, and sent with flowers every few months. Just to let me know he hasn't forgotten. Keeps me on my toes, so to speak.

I grab my evening gown from where I left it hanging over my computer chair and stalk into the bathroom. Blaise can't see in, so I leave the door open. "I won't be alone," I snap, grabbing my hairbrush to viciously attack my curls. "Dean will be there, and he'll most likely bring Lavender." Dean is my backup, just in case something exactly like this were to happen. When Draco's involved, the chances of things like this happening seem to rise exponentially.

"I'm going with you," he snaps back. Stubborn. It's kind of sweet. Usually he's a complete doormat.

"But there's a dress code." I toss my skirt and sweater out the door. They land crumpled on my bed.

"So I'll put on robes over it."

"You'll roast. Just forget it. We'll think of something." I shimmy into the dress and scowl at my reflection, annoyed that I don't have time for a shower. I feel gross, all sweaty makeup and scraggly hair. "Come here and lace me up."

He does so docilely. And I'm hard pressed not to tease him about it.

An hour later, we arrive at Le Fosse aux SerpentsTrust Draco to choose a place like this. It's an over-the-top classy joint, impossible to get a reservation unless you're rich or famous. I've even heard that they won't take reservations if your family is rumored to have too much Muggle blood.

It's a huge building, lots of windows that show whatever type of scenery or time of day you want. There are marble floors, fountains with live silverbell vines growing around them, little fairies floating around, and live music playing softly in the background. The maitre d' greets me like he has been waiting his whole life to meet me.

"Miss Granger!" he gushes. He takes my hand and gives a little bow as another young man takes my cloak. The kid turns to Blaise and looks at a complete loss. Blaise scowls at him, as the Maitre d' continues prattling on. "You look lovely this evening. We are so honored to have you here. Please, please, right this way!"

Now, I'm pretty famous in my own right, but not this famous. I just smile politely and follow. Someone has told the staff to treat me extra nice, apparently.

Draco has reserved a whole section of the restaurant for the dinner. It's a large, gorgeous room decorated mostly in dark emerald and subtle hints of glittering silver. He's such a prick.

Draco, himself, is already there, seated at the head of a moderately long table set with pale silver linen table cloth, dainty china, silverware that is actual silver, and rolled linen napkins. Draco is dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. His emerald robes are laid over the back of his chair. His pale hair is cut to the middle of his ears, shorter than the last time I saw him over a year ago.

He doesn't like it too long, says it reminds him of Lucius.

Dean and Lavender are there and seated as well. Dean in dark blue dress robes, Lavender in a cherry and pink oriental-style dress, her blond hair pinned up neatly with an artless style I never could quite emulate.

I go still in surprise when I see who else is there.

Dean is seated to Draco's right. To Draco's left are two Ministry officials. I recognize Larry Kroger and Joel Prosper, both older men. Kroger has salt-and-pepper hair and sagging jowls. Prosper's a bit younger with dark hair, graying temples and large glasses. Both Kroger and Prosper are pushing the War-Crimes issue that Harry opposes. I had no idea they were going to be here.

The two men give me strained, polite non-expressions, carefully masking their distaste, and I realize I'm staring at them, practically gaping.

This doesn't make sense. Why would they be here? Are they making a last minute bid for Draco's support? But why would he invite them to come tonight? I mean, I knew Draco had decided, in his mercurial derangement, to play hardball with us, but I honestly came here expecting to cut him some sort of deal. I had figured there was something he wanted. It never occurred to me that he might actually be seriously considering supporting the bill.

My mouth does this little twitchy thing that could be interpreted as a smile at the two officials and I tear my gaze from them, unable to help casting a disbelieving look at my host.

Draco's watching my reactions intently, eyes burning into me. It's a playfully mischievous, conspiratorial look. There's no malice in it at all, but there doesn't need to be. Anyone who knows him, knows that when Draco Malfoy says 'I know something you don't know', you'd better try like hell to figure out what 'something' is before it pops out and eats you alive.

My twitchy smile falters completely in the face of a sudden wash of paranoia. Because I'm perfectly aware, maybe more than anyone else, as to what kind of demented extremes Draco's sense of humor runs to.

And tonight, it's all for me. Oh joy.

The maitre d' clears his throat and talk abruptly halts as Blaise and I come to a stop near the table. The maitre d' bows and announces, "Miss Hermione Granger and . . . uh . . . her escort."

"The name's Santy Claus," Blaise snarls. I give him a subtle elbow in the ribs, and he gives a not so subtle, "Ow!" and gives me wounded eyes while rubbing his side. He's got a blue pillowcase thrown over his shoulder with Draco's gift inside. We had decided that it was safe to move it, but were careful not to touch it. We're just going to give the damn thing back to him.

I murmur warm hellos to Dean and Lavender and greet the two Ministry officials with sufficient amounts of aristocratic aloofness, ignoring Draco completely.

He apparently gets miffed when I don't pay any attention to him, because the first testy words out of his mouth are, "I chose this place specifically because they have a dress code," he drawls, eyes on his glass of wine as the waiter refills it, but his scorn all for Blaise.

My expression remains polite as I mentally remind myself that outright name-calling won't help my cause, so I take Blaise's arm and chirp. "I'm sure no one minds. Blaise just came from a charity function for children. He's so sweet."

"I'm so sweet. Come sit on Santa's lap, 'Mione." Blaise whispers in my ear, just to be mouthy, and I instantly bite my lip on a strained giggle, because Blaise is evil and will be delighted if I lose my composure. He once made me laugh so hard during a church sermon that I squirted soda out my nose. Don't ask.

"Hmm." Draco knows I'm lying, of course, but he only returns my smile with amusement and something calculating beneath. "In that case, I suppose we can overlook it. 'Tis the season." He toasts Blaise, who gives him a light scowl.

I push Blaise towards his seat while the maitre d' pulls my chair out for me. Blaise sits on my left next to Lavender. I sit at the other end of the table opposite Draco, trying not to watch him watch me.

"Now Mr. Malfoy," Kroger starts. "About the issue at hand . . ."

Ah, Kroger was already preaching before I arrived. I'm not worried, Dean is quite up to the task of fending the man off in my absence.

I don't understand why Draco is sitting on the fence with this one, even if it is only part of some convoluted ploy to get to some other goal. The measure will affect him if it passes. . . Unless he thinks he's got enough money to buy himself off the hook while the rest of us crash and burn.

Merlin, I hope that's not the case. I'll take him down with me. I swear I will.

To my surprise, Draco waves Kroger off disinterestedly without even looking at him. "Let's all enjoy dinner first, Miss Granger looks hungry."

Blaise looks at me suspiciously.

My eyes dart to Draco and the he smiles, pleased that he's finally got my attention. I stop trying to avoid his gaze and stare back. "I assure you, I'm perfectly well." I tell him tartly. "We can proceed with the discussion if everyone wishes."

I want it out in the open. Whatever it is, whatever game he's playing, whatever point he's trying to make or whatever he expects me to figure out, I want it out in the open. It's entirely possible that he's doing this on principle—pissing in Harry's pond because he's bored or because he can.

It's also entirely possible that he means us real harm.

Kroger opens his mouth, looking like he's about to agree but Draco cuts him off. "Let's save the unpleasantness for later and just enjoy each other's company for the moment, shall we?" And it's not a request or a suggestion.

He's neatly tied my hands with that one. He's obviously not ready to reveal himself and I can't really afford to piss him off yet. It's his show, and we'll all dance like his little puppets.

Kroger and Prosper look slightly putout but both mumble an agreement as the waiters, signaled by Malfoy, bring out the appetizers. There's quite a selection and I notice some of my favorites among them: French chocolate truffles, Gorgonzola stuffed dates and caviar and creme fraiche. I can't prove it yet, its subtle enough that I actually wonder for a moment if its my own paranoia kicking in, but I'm betting this is yet another nasty little dig.

I'm starting to get nervous.

Draco, instead of helping himself to the delicacies, blandly looks at Blaise and produces a candy cane, leisurely popping it into his mouth. My eyes narrow. Blaise makes a choked noise, and I quickly put my hand on his fur-suited arm and give him a sweet smile while my eyes warn him to keep silent.

"So, Mr. Prosper," Draco begins, sucking on his sweet and pointedly ignoring us. "How's your wife?"

Prosper balks, caviar covered round halfway to his mouth.

Joel Prosper is not married. I'd bet my last dime Draco knows this. I'd even bet that Prosper knows that Draco knows this, but Draco's only smiling at the man prettily, chin resting lightly on his knuckles, fingers interlaced loosely. Kroger has gone still as well, and I can almost hear him silently begging Prosper not to embarrass anyone.

"Er . . ." Prosper must have heard Kroger's telepathic squeal of warning because he clears his throat and answers gravely. "Fine. Very well, actually, thank you for asking."

Draco looks pleased.

I concentrate on the chocolate truffles, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands and groan.

"That is so nice," Draco says, positively beaming. "I'm glad. What about your sister, Edaberth? I heard she got that promotion she wanted."

Prosper's face lights up, happy to have actual information to work with. "Yes, yes, thank you. Head of her department. The family's very proud of her."

"Hmm." I could swear he just winked at me. "Congratulations. And speaking of congratulations," he rounds on Dean, "I hear congratulations are in order for you too, my friend."

Dean quickly swallows whatever was in his mouth, "Huh? Er, I'm sorry?"

Draco does a great impression of innocence—wide eyes, candid gaze. "For your wife's pregnancy, I mean. It was heartening to hear such wonderful news."

Blaise chokes on his dates and starts coughing. I've stopped chewing.

Dean looks thoroughly confused. "I'm afraid I'm not sure what you're talking about," he says slowly.

"Hmm?" Draco only smiles because Lavender's hand is clasped to her lips, eyes wide as dinner plates.

"Lavender and I haven't . . ." Dean freezes when he sees her expression. "Lavender?"

"Dean . . . um . . ." she begins weakly, scrunching her linen napkin in her hands. "I was going to tell you after dinner. I'm pregnant."

"Oops!" Draco puts a hand to his mouth. "Did I let the cat out of the bag?" He's not even trying to sound sincere anymore, and if that 'cat out of the bag' thing is a Gryffindor joke, I think I'm going to kill him.

"Lavender . . ." Dean looks stunned. "When . . . how. . . ?"

"Yes, how?" Draco echoes wickedly, face a study of polite interest.

I have to hand it to him, he's in rare form, really hamming it up tonight. It's a mixture of playfulness, of showing off for me, and outright viciousness. He's like a really fucked-up peacock.

Lavender wrings her hands. "I only found out this morning. I don't know how he found out!"

Draco cocks his head. "It was brought to my attention that you'd seen a Medi-witch, Lavender dear. I was worried that you weren't well. Imagine my surprise when I was informed what kind of medical attention you were requiring."

Lavender ignores him. "Dean? DEAN!"

Dean's apparently gone into shock. There's a 'vacant' sign flashing behind his eyes.

"Maybe he should lie down," Draco suggests tactfully.

Lavender starts shaking him. "Dean! Oh, Dean, say something!" She slaps him.

"That's a hate crime," Draco chirps.

Dean comes alive with a start. He blinks and stutters incoherently. "Me . . . I . . . uh . . . baby . . . I'm . . . daddy? Me?"

"Congratulations!" Prosper cries jovially, just glad that the heat is off him.

"Yes, it is wonderful news." Kroger toasts Dean with his wine flute.

"Way to go, Dean!" Blaise leans over behind Lavender to slap him on the back.

"I have cigars for the gentlemen but I think it would be best to wait until the young mother is not around to be bothered by the smoke." Draco gives her the most genteel smile he can manage while silently rejoicing at the trouble he's caused.

I know Lavender has to be freaked. Not only did Draco just spill the beans, but he made it pointedly clear that he's watching her, that he has access to her private information. And he's made it pointedly clear to me that Blaise isn't his only hostage.

Son of a bitch! He's boxing me in. That's why he hasn't cut to the chase yet, he's not done showing me his fangs. But why? Why hold their safety over my head like this? Why threaten me with Ministry workers? What in the world is he after?

My eyes flick down to the pillowcase at Blaise's feet containing Draco's velvet present. It can't be that simple, or that inane, can it? Or if it is, what in Merlin's name is in that box that is so important that he'll try and force me to open it?

Draco has never pushed me before. He's needled, he's harassed, he's tricked, but he's never pushed. He's never tried to corner me. That he would do so now, and that he would act so smug and pleased about it, is extremely alarming.

It means he's sure of his victory.

Dean finally gets a hold of himself. "Lavender!" He embraces her tightly, and she starts to cry. Kroger and Prosper applaud. Jolly time had by all. "Baby, are you okay? Do you need to rest? Is everything all right with the baby?" He's trying to feel her forehead, hug her, and feel her belly, all at the same time. "Come on, we should probably take you home."

"Dean, I'm pregnant, not stricken with the plague, nothing's going to happen for a good seven or eight months!" Lavender glances at me and back to Dean pointedly, her eyes trying to silently convey a message. "This is why I wanted to wait until after dinner to tell you," she says quietly.

"But baby, I just found out we're gonna have a baby! I gotta call my parents. I gotta call your parents. I gotta . . . come on. . . ." He pulls her to her feet, peppering her face with kisses. She giggles and gives in, leaning into him with a happy sigh. "I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Kroger, Mr. Prosper, Hermione." He looks at me, asking me silently to understand, and the bitch of it is, I do.

"Congratulations Dean-Lavender," I say, smiling and meaning it. I can't begrudge them this.

"Ohhh. . . ." Lavender, teary-eyed, flounces over to give me a perfume-scented hug and a kiss on the cheek. She gives Blaise a quick squeeze, startling him. And then she and Dean are walking hand-and-hand for the door.

"Goodnight! Thank you for coming," Draco calls, waving after them. He grins and crunches once on his candy cane before switching it to the other side of his mouth. Casting me a sly wink, he shows me four fingers and drops two.

And that right there is the name of the game. He has just relieved me of two of my supporters in one blow. I'm still not sure why. Did I slip up? Or did Dean do something wrong? Or did Draco simply get bored with waiting for me to do something and decide to take a shot at me?

Stupid fucker.

I take a shot back.

"What is it with you and young mothers, Malfoy?" I ask him lightly and that gleeful expression is instantly shocked from his face.

I'm viciously pleased.

I watch him struggle with himself for all of two seconds and then the corners of his mouth bend painfully upward and it's like watching a rusted iron gate creeeeeak open. The two-faced wretch then proceeds to ignore me and sits back with a happy sigh. "Well that was fun."

"Yes, you should definitely be more careful with that omniscience thing," Blaise says with veiled sarcasm. "Us mere mortals can't keep up."

Draco spears Blaise with a look and crunches on his candy cane once again, flashing teeth for an instant. "If you can't keep up, my dear mere mortal, why are you even here?"

"To look after 'Mione." Blaise shoots back casually. "Some sick asshole has been pushing their unwanted attention on her so I kind of stick around and make sure no one gives her trouble."

Draco's lips curl up, slow and insidious. "Sounds like you two are very good friends." His eyes catch mine, full of dark mirth. "Bosom companions. But certainly she can take care of herself. She was the brightest witch in our year. Why would she need you?" He started out politely inquiring and ended with a snarl.

Blaise's answering smile is positively dripping with smug, male egoism and I know I can't let him say whatever he's about to say because there is a ninety percent chance it's going to deal with the virtues of specific portions of his own anatomy.

"So rude, Malfoy, I'm surprised at you!" I cut in with feigned dignified shock, tone scolding as I flutter a hand to my heart. "Don't take it personally, Blaise, I'm sure Malfoy's just bitter because those on the receiving end of his help often wind up wishing they'd never been born." I turn innocently to the nervous Ministry workers, who have been sitting by silently, not daring to interrupt. "You see, there's this sweet little baby girl who. . ."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Hermione Granger." Draco's voice is deadly soft. "If you wish any of them to leave here alive, don't you dare speak another word." The warning is nastily intimate and I wonder, with brazen disregard for his threat, if he means it.

Everyone else has gone still, the Ministry officials looking rather pale, but my smile is twisted as I say lightly. "Oh, you're going to help us some more?"

His eyes are silver pools of rage. "That's why you're here, isn't it?" He raps out with the cold triumph of someone who knows they have the upper hand. "Did you forget that you came to me? Did you forget that you need my support, dear sweet girl?"

My smile disappears like it was shot clean off my face.

I did forget. I forgot and I deliberately provoked him. I'm suddenly cursing myself, horrified that I could be so careless.

He chuckles. "What a stupid thing for such a smart girl to do."

Kroger, deciding he has an advantage, and feeling woefully left out, appeals for the spotlight. "What else can you expect from a Muggle born, Mr. Malfoy? They aren't known for their common sense." And dreadfully miscalculates.

The dangerous, almost alien look of pure predatory malice Draco turns on him has him backtracking so fast, he can't make a coherent sentence.

"I . . . that is to say. . . I just meant. . . I, I, I . . ." He flushes red and stammers.

"Shut up, Kroger." Blaise mutters, taking a drink from his wine glass.

"No, Mr. Zabini." Draco says gently, face somewhat composed but eyes still feral. "Let the man speak. The only person who has no actual business here, is you."

The room goes silent. All attention quiet suddenly settled on Blaise. He's not in the least bothered. He ignores us all and makes a show of taking a long, slow swallow of wine, drawing it out for as long as possible. Then he makes a face, taps the half-full glass and sets it down, "Bleh. Shoddy stuff, Malfoy." And pulls a small tin bottle of whisky from his Santa outfit, pouring some into his drink.

I don't know whether to be mortified or utterly proud.

"Miss Granger," Mr. Kroger says quickly, apparently having had enough of the shocking display. "I'm afraid I'm not acquainted with your . . . ah . . . friend. Please tell us a little more about him."

I smile back just as saccharinely. "This is Blaise Zabini, a very good friend of mine." I rest my hand on Blaise's and smile like a besotted idiot at him, playing the part of the adoring girlfriend. Blaise laces his fingers with mine and smiles in a way that makes me kick him under the table for overdoing it. He snickers softly and my smile relaxes a little as I realize he did it just to make me feel better. "He's an AMWAY rep." AMWAY stands for Ancient Magical Wizardry Analysis in Yeovil, which is the area. "Veeeery intellectual," I add. "His work is sooo fascinating, especially when considering my own cutting-edge research. It's so amazing to see how our modern day breakthroughs sometimes mirror ancient magical ways. Whenever Blaise tells me about magic they've discovered that is ancient but somehow beyond anything we, as a modern society, have been able to accomplish, I wonder at how much of our magical heritage has been lost over the years."

I'm hoping my enthusiastic little speech will put them off the subject. If not, I can keep talking until it does.

Draco has calmed down enough to revert back to spoiled-little-rich-boy mode. He looks thoroughly bored and seems to be playing with his truffles. If he had a plastic spoon, he'd be flicking them at people. Kroger and Prosper are looking at me with polite expressions of pained interest.

"The two of you live together, or so I've heard," Kroger says, changing tactics slightly.

Uh huh, and I can already see where this is going.

"Dirty Muggle custom, don't you think, living together outside of wedlock? I suppose the Zabini family isn't pureblooded?" Prosper puts in his own two-cents, tone all apologetic curiosity, as if he's really very sorry that he's being a racist jackass but just can't seem to stop himself.

I know I should just ignore the shallow, half-assed jab. But I'm already on edge and spoiling for a fight and I start to bristle but Blaise sets a hand on mine calmly, not even batting an eyelash. It's true that his family doesn't exactly have pure lines. He's only three generations pure, which isn't much considering some of the other lines, but he could give half a damn either way.

"Nothing near as spotless and pristine as the Malfoy clan." He says coolly, sitting back. "But I don't much aspire to be like them." His tone is neither too casual nor too uptight, just an even, unconcerned drawl. It helps me calm down a little. "I like Muggle customs."

That at least is true. He loves Muggle television. More than one of Blaise's friends has been body-slammed in the living room and asked if they 'smelled what the Rock was cooking'. He loves Spongebob Squarepants and was terribly disappointed when he found out that Star Trek isn't real. He has also recently discovered computer technology and, much to my dismay, has an enthusiastic, and completely shameless, taste for internet porn.

"You are not concerned with preserving our way of life? I thought that is what you studied." Kroger looks affronted.

Draco takes a gulp of wine, watching but not intervening. I don't like that he's removed himself from the conversation and, therefore, our attention. I can't tell if he wants this to play out or if he's collecting his self-control and planning his next move. Knowing him, he's going to want to punish me for pissing him off.

"I'm concerned with living my life in the way that I choose as best for myself, and for Hermione."

That is apparently exactly what Kroger was waiting for. He snaps his trap closed, now not just twisting words but manipulating the conversation to go exactly where he wants it. "And is that why you are unconcerned with War criminals who have gone unpunished since-"

I open my mouth, probably to say something disastrously rude, but Draco beats me too it.

"Hold that thought gentlemen, it looks like dinner is about to be served." He cuts it in smoothly, as unruffled as if he didn't just threaten to kill us all moments ago, and the waiters enter with the main course. I didn't see him do anything, but I'm certain Malfoy must have signaled them somehow.

Lobster tail, baked salmon roulade, and lamb loin chops. I've had fancy dinners before but this seems a bit wasteful. There's no way five people will be able to finish it all, and the leftovers will probably be thrown out.

"This looks lovely," Prosper says appreciatively as Kroger clenches his jaw in the disappointment of being cut off again.

Yes, why is Draco avoiding the War Crimes issue? Why isn't he holding it over my head to get what he wants like he did a minute ago? It's his trump card. He should be using it to its fullest extent. I can only guess that he has something else planned.

"Should I tell him I'm a vegetarian?" Blaise whispers in my ear, distracting me, and I giggle despite myself. "Or maybe I should ask if they have roast ferret on the menu."

I cover my choked laughter with a hand and belatedly notice Draco's eyes on us, his lip curled. "Something amusing?" he asks softly. The tone is Quiet Menace à la Snape. He has pulled it off masterfully. Our Potions professor would be so proud.

"Private joke," I respond blandly. As in, none of your damn business.

"Of course."

Beside me, Blaise jerks and lets out a low hiss. I glance at him but he shakes his head. He's tense—really tense.

Draco sets his napkin in his lap, smoothing it out before slowly looking up with knowing eyes. "Something the matter, Mr. Zabini?"

Blaise's face is suddenly pale and tight. He doesn't answer. He hunches over on himself slightly.

"Blaise, what's wrong?" I whisper, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"My hands," he grits out between clenched teeth. "They really really hurt." He's shaking, sweat beading his forehead. He shudders and closes his eyes.

"Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, Blaise!" I don't know what to do.

"What's wrong?" Draco asks sharply.

I barely keep from screaming 'you know exactly what's wrong!' but instead, find myself babbling. "He hurt his hands earlier today, burned them. I think it's getting worse!" Blaise makes a small sound, holding his gloved hands out in front of him, curling around himself. My voice rises in panic. "He needs help. He needs medical help right now!"

Draco nods curtly and makes a gesture to the waiters standing at the edge of the room, "There's a healer on duty in the office next door. They can take him there."

I lurch to my feet, nearly upsetting my chair and cup Blaise's elbow to help him stand. He's breathing in deep, pained gasps. Two waiters are at our side, leading us away.

I start to follow Blaise but a thought strikes me, and I turn back to the table. Kroger and Prosper look positively gleeful. Draco looks back at me, unsmiling but serene, still seated, unconcerned.

I can leave now if I want. He's not trying to stop me.

Or is he simply certain that I'll choose to stay?

I realize as soon as I think it, that I won't leave. I can't. Not while Kroger and Prosper are here to steal Draco's support. If I choose to leave, he might give them what they want just to spite me.

I set my jaw, furious.

It takes talent to force someone to do what you want without having to say a word.

I hurry and catch up to Blaise. "Blaise, I have to stay."

"No!" he gasps. "Don't stay here alone with him."

"He won't do anything to me, Blaise. He doesn't have the power, or the balls, to pick a fight with me. You'll be fine. I'll catch up with you later."

"Hermione!"

I feel so terrible for deserting him after he stuck by my side for so long. I'll have to make it up to him, but this is more important right now. Lives are at stake. "Go on." To the waiters I say, "Take care of him, please."

The door shuts, and there is only silence behind me. I turn without looking at any of them and calmly walk back to my chair. The blue pillowcase is still under Blaise's chair, I make a note to remember it, to make sure I throw the contents in Draco's face before I leave.

I stop at my chair, not sitting. "You've overstepped the bounds tonight, Malfoy." I say, low and fierce, my hands clenching so hard my nails are digging into my palms because my fingers are just itching to go for my wand. I'm disgusted with myself for leaving Blaise, for not doing more to protect him, for putting him in this position in the first place. "I want you to know that no matter what you decide tonight, we will survive. We want your support but not at any cost. You're already on shaky ground with us and if you push the envelope, I swear to Merlin, I'll. . ."

"He's going to be fine." Draco interrupts impatiently.

"He'd better." I say, clipped and cold, my eyes promising vengeance. I sit down, ready to get a few things out in the open. "I know you did this to him."

A small smile, eyes demurely on the salmon he's cutting. "He shouldn't have gotten in my way."

"You mean like she did?" I hiss, words dripping with malice. "Be very careful, Malfoy."

His knife and fork falter, his smile freezing on his face and I can almost hear him kicking himself for walking right into that one. "It's petty of you to keep bringing up the same old tired history over and over again." He drawls, not looking at me. "You cheapen it."

"I cheapen it?" Now I'm pissed. "I cheapen it? You think a day goes by that I don't think of it, you think an hour goes by that I don't agonize over it, you think I don't see her face every time I look at you, and you have the gall, you detestable little parasite, to call it cheap?" my voice is shaking, my lips peeled back in a snarl of absolute hatred. "We all know what you do to people who get in your way, Mr. Malfoy, but really, you already owe us enough. . ."

"I don't owe a damn thing!" he shouts, surprising me into silence. "He got what he wanted in return! He got, piece for piece, an even exchange."

"Bullshit."

"Then what do you call it, Miss Granger?"

"Less than what you deserve." I rap out brutally. "Less then what you owe. Give me what I want out of your obligation to do so."

He stares at me in shock and then throws his head back and howls with laughter. "Now you are cheapening it, using that to get what you want out of this situation." He chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm so proud." He sobers, eyes still laughing and puts his chin in his hand as he says snidely. "But I'm afraid I'm a business man and not much prone to flights of emotional diarrhea so you can forget any pretty little notions you have in your head of using such tactics to change my mind."

"Of course not, having a sense of shame would make you human." I dismiss.

Kroger is pleased. This looks to him like a turn of events in his favor. "Perhaps now is a good time to discuss the War-Crimes issue?"

"Yes, a good time," Draco agrees. He sets his fork down with a heavy clink and looks at me. "Hermione dear, you haven't touched your wine."

Nor will I if you insist on a debate, you prick. I pick up the glass and pretend to take a sip, the amused glitter in his eyes says that he isn't fooled.

"Yes." Kroger seems a bit confused by that bit of byplay but lets it go. "You see, Mr. Malfoy, during the war there were criminals other than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers. There was a group of dangerous vigilantes who took advantage of the state of chaos our world was in to plunder and steal. They wreaked havoc on the Ministry and killed Aurors. They terrorized Hogwarts and the general public. But when the war ended, they were not punished or even brought to trial. We would like to look into the cases of these vigilantes, and we even believe that we know the names of some of them."

"You do?" Draco asks.

"One of them is Harry Potter," Prosper whispers the name with all the terror of a wizard saying 'Voldemort'.

The Old Guard in the Ministry has hated Harry for years. They know how popular he is with the public. They know that if the public had their way, he would already be Minister. And that scares the hell out of them. This War Crimes bill is the Ministry's best chance of legally purging the wizard government of Harry and his supporters. Harry they'll kill if they can manage it,. while Malfoy they'll keep around for his monetary support. They hope to use the bill to paint us all as war criminals, to turn the public against us and sentence us all to jail time in Azkaban. With those marks against us, it is unlikely that those of us who make it out with our minds intact will be able to retain our status in the Ministry.

"You are not fond of Mr. Potter, are you, Mr. Malfoy?" Kroger asks with a greasy smile.

"No, I can't say I am. But I am not surprised that he is a War criminal. Are you, Hermione?"

I can only stare at him in horror. Is that what this is, Draco's revenge on Harry?

"You must excuse Miss Granger." Draco laughs when I don't answer. "She is very very loyal to Mr. Potter. She'd do absolutely anything he asked of her without a second thought. Even throw away everything she's worked for her whole life and live as a dumpy little intern with no future."

My face goes alternately hot and cold, and I already know that I'm not going to be able to hold my temper. I don't even think I'll try. "You. . . you nasty little pissant, you-"

Prosper interrupts my rage, suddenly convulsed by a violent fit of coughing.

He doesn't stop.

"Joel?" Kroger's patting him on the back.

Prosper just starts hacking harder, his whole body wracked. His face crimson and strained, wrinkled up like a prune, eyes tearing. He flutters his napkin to his mouth, and it comes away flecked with frothy red.

"What's going on?" I ask, alarmed.

"It must be something he ate," Draco murmurs softly. "Perhaps he was allergic to something in the fish."

Prosper is choking now, unable to breathe.

"Do something!" Kroger demands.

Two more waiters are suddenly at Prosper's side and helping him up. They half-carry, half-drag him away with Kroger following behind asking frightened questions. Kroger stops at the door and looks back at me but Draco snarls. "Leave."

Kroger's mouth trembles. "But Mr. Malfoy-"

"Go!"

And another waiter is dragging him away. The door slams shut and then the room is empty except for the two of us. I go rigid in my chair as the reality of my situation hits me right in the gut. My eyes fly to Draco. He smiles a little, chin resting on his knuckles again.

I can't believe this.

I start to jerk to my feet only to find that I can't. I'm stuck to my chair. Draco's eyes gleam.

"What the hell. . . ?" I struggle, and I can still feel the lower half of my body, but I can't get my legs to obey me. "Malfoy!" My heart is slamming in my chest and I fight to calm my breathing, to calm the quickly rising panic. I hate being helpless. I hate it.

I grab my wand out, but he was waiting for that. "Accio wand!" Just like that, it's gone, like grasping at the wind.

"You bastard! Let me go!" My voice cracks a bit at the end. I'm ashamed of showing my fear like that, especially since we both know that its not him that I'm afraid of.

"Calm down," he soothes. "Relax."

The doors open, and several waiters burst into the room in a flurry of activity, clearing away the other plates, taking the wine away and replacing it with a different corked bottle, dimming the lights, setting candles on the table along with several vases of roses, setting another plate in front of me, dessert it looks like, a slice of chocolate cake with, I kid you not, gold leafing on the icing, and a small scoop of chocolate ice-cream sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with caramel.

Then we are alone again, and I'm gawking at him.

"That," he pronounces, picking up the new bottle and popping the cork in a splash of bubbles, "was much easier than I ever thought it would be. I'm very disappointed in you, Hermione. Champagne?"

I stare at him. "You insane son of a bitch. What are you doing?"

"I'm having a romantic candle-lit dinner with you." He stands and strolls over to me and pours champagne into my glass.

"What about the war bill-" I start but cut off when I realize just how dense I've been. "You were against it the whole time. You just put up a fight to get me here."

"Yep." He looks deeply satisfied with himself.

"Because I didn't open your gift. . . ." He must have known from the start that Harry would send me. Harry would have had to send me.

"That's right." He leans his hip against the table. "See, in the beginning, I had this large, convoluted plot to trap you at Moody's place until you opened my gift. That place is practically impenetrable." He glances down to where Blaise abandoned the blue pillowcase on the floor. "But then I realized if I was going to trap you somewhere, it would be nice to be there with you, have some good food, a nice atmosphere. . ."

"So this whole set-up is just a big waste of my time?" I spit out, furious and increasingly desperate. I need to get out of here. I need to get out!

"Hermione," he sing-songs. "You only have yourself to blame, if you had just opened my gift, I never would have had to go to all this trouble." He sits with a flourish in the heretofore unclaimed third chair on my right and selects a long-stemmed rose from the nearest vase. "Of course I never imagined you would make it this simple. Either you're getting sloppy in your old age or," he brushes the soft petals of the rose over my cheek, "you wanted to be caught."

"I came here tonight for the bill! Because it affects us all!"

He ignores me. "Two years ago, I never would have been able to pull this off so easily. You would have come here tonight knowing more about my plans then I did. What the hell happened to you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I grit out and his expression shutters, darkening. He opens his sneering mouth to retort, and I yell, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

He freezes, as if sensing he should tread carefully, the rose's dark dusky petals pausing against my jaw-line, my face twisted in fury and more then a little pain, and he relents, "Then forget I said anything," he says very gently, setting the rose down. "Eat your dessert and give me your proposal on the bill."

My throat is oddly choked and for a wild, irrational moment I wonder if he's poisoned me like he did Prosper, but I breathe until the knot loosens and I start talking, start rattling off my speech on the measure and what it means for all of us and all the fine, logical reasons I wrote out a week ago as to why he should support Harry. My brain is running blank and my mouth is running on auto and my fingers are icy where they're clenched at my thighs, squeezing and rubbing as if to return the strength to my legs.

I'm such a coward.

He just watches me calmly the whole time as if fascinated, as if he's interested in what I'm saying when we both know he's not. When I finish, when I've completed my speech, summarized my points, repeated a few things to stall for time and then simply run out of things to say, he asks quietly, "Do you feel better now?"

I give him my best calm, in-control face. "Harry would like an answer on where you stand on the measure as soon as humanly possible."

He takes my cold hand, unclenches it from my dress and kisses my knuckles lightly. "I'll tell you my stance after we've finished dessert and you've danced with me."

I snarl, wrenching my hand from his grasp, wiping it on my dress as if I've touched something nasty. "So you're going to hold your support for Harry hostage against my good behavior?"

Anger flashes across his face, tightly controlled. "If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, then yes. I'm a bad, bad, evil man, and I'm going to feed you chocolate and get you drunk on champagne. I'm going to steal a dance and a few kisses and you're going to sit back and enjoy it but only because I forced you and then tomorrow you're going to swear up and down to Potter that you hate me."

I laugh, bitter, sharp. "I don't hate you, Malfoy. You're not that important. I feel nothing for you. Absolutely nothing." And I'm pleased when he flinches.

His mouth tightens into a thin line and he rasps, "Then tonight you're going to pretend that you do. You're going to pretend that you've loved me for years and you're going to do it in exchange for my support against the War Crimes bill."

I glare at him in outrage and utter black hatred, but can't find any words to answer with that won't make this situation worse. Eyes challenging, he picks up my fork and daintily cuts a piece of spongy chocolate cake, bringing it to my lips. I regard him with contempt for a long moment but finally open my mouth.

It's not fair. It's really not fair. He knows I'll go along with his sick demands in exchange for his support against the War Crimes bill. Worse, he knows I'll do it even though we both know he won't side against Harry even if I say no and walk out right now. He knows I'll do it and hate myself later. He knows I won't be able to forgive him or myself.

Merlin, is that what he wants?

The cake is absolutely the most delicious thing I've ever tasted, thick and rich. The creamy icing sticks to the roof of my mouth. Draco watches me, brooding silently and brings another small bite of cake to my mouth. I accept it, and he scoops up another piece for himself, sucking the last bit of thick frosting off my fork before getting another fork-full for me. I know it's my imagination that I can taste him on that next bite.

He's not talking, and I wish he would say something because the feeling of being trapped is suffocating. It's sense memory. It's in my bones, crawling along my skin, waking up instincts and memories of things I haven't voluntarily thought of in years. I half wonder if that is part of his intentions. He never does anything halfway and he also never does anything without two or three purposes behind it.

He continues feeding me, occasionally taking a bite for himself and a drink of champagne from my glass. Then he holds the champagne flute to my lips, and I take a sip, feeling the bubbles fizz across my tongue, mixing with the taste of chocolate and Draco and I wonder if he wants to get me drunk. I'm half tempted to let it happen. Then none of it will be my fault. He gently swipes a bit of frosting off my lips with his thumb then dips into my mouth so I can suck the chocolate off. He brushes his wet thumb over my lower lip and when he leans in to kiss me, I let him.

It's only a light kiss, very soft and chaste. It lessens the drag of panic, quiets the voice of memory. It always has. When he pulls back, his eyes have darkened, and his face is almost harsh. I focus on that instead, on the color of his eyes and the many shades of gold and cream and silver and white gleaming off his hair in the candlelight. He switches to a spoon for the ice-cream and shares it with me, but, by now, I'm more focused on him than the frozen dessert. More champagne, and I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. When he kisses me again, his lips are cold and taste like cinnamon.

He sets the silver spoon down. "Dance with me now."

There is light music filtering in from somewhere in the background. I don't remember when it started, but now that I'm listening, the notes are distantly familiar though I can't place the song. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet. Whatever spell had held me down falls away easily.

He wraps my arms around his neck until I'm flush against him and runs his hands up and down my sides before settling them low on my back. I don't resist, and I half expect him to gloat about it or something, but he doesn't, proving that he has grown smarter with age. We just kind of sway to the music, silent but not lost in thought. Thought is dangerous right now. Thought is what will come later, along with guilt, recriminations and hatred and rage. I close my eyes and stop thinking. Eventually my head rests against his breast, tucked under his chin. He hums to the music softly. I can feel his breath in my hair.

It's safe here. And quiet.

I tilt my face up and let him kiss me, this time not so nice or sweet, just hard and hungry, just a little bit of everything that had been denied. Another kiss, the brush of his tongue against mine, the press of memories, taste and scent and touch but they drown under another kiss, softer now but deeper. Time seems to skip out on me and the next thing I know, I'm backed up against the wall, Draco's mouth dragging hot, wet kisses up the line of my throat, my head spinning in a drugged haze. I'm not drunk, not even a little, but that's what it feels like.

"Stay with me, Hermione," he begs thickly in my ear. "Please, stay with me tonight."

And just like that, my pretty little illusion is shattered. He knows it too. I feel him go rigid even before I do. The instant the words left his mouth in that impassioned plea, he knew he'd botched it.

I shove him away hard, suddenly cold, my eyes like hard glass and everything I've buried so deep rampaging through my brain. It's like the veil has been dropped from before my eyes, like a switch in my brain has been flipped. I'm suddenly thinking clearly, seeing everything I've done over the past week in a new light. I'm seeing every mistake I made, every single stupid thing I did wrong.

I should have had the apartment warded against Apparation and teleportation. It's illegal to do it in an apartment complex, but I could have done it in such a way that no one would have ever known. It was stupid to leave my home wide open to anyone who wished to enter or send things. It could very easily have been a Ministry official and not Draco who took advantage of my laxity.

I should have put up a ward around the gift box the moment it appeared. I should have dissected the outer layer of spells. I should have made damn sure it could, in no way, touch, enchant, or harm Blaise. If it had been from someone else, that little bit of carelessness could have killed us both. I should have destroyed it, plain and simple. If I had wanted to, I could have, Draco's powerful protection spells notwithstanding. It would have taken powerful dark magic, but I could have done it.

Worst of all, I never should have come here so blindly. Draco owns this place, I'd bet anything on it. I should have prepared Dean, Blaise and Lavender with suitable defenses. I should have checked all of Draco's movements over the past month. I should have known who was coming, who he had talked to. And I should definitely have swept the room for enchantments before sitting down.

Just because the war was over, didn't mean I was safe.

"Hermione!" Draco's voice is calling me. I realize I'm clutching at my head.

I hear the swish of cloth as he moves, and I counter instinctively, driving my shoulder into his sternum hard. The next instant, he's on the floor and I have both our wands in my hand. "Touch me again, you die." My voice is soft, glacial.

He laughs, coughing slightly, grinning and breathless, clutching at his chest. "There's my girl," he says with relish. "I was beginning to fear that bullshit act of yours was real."

"Shut up. Just shut up! You've had your fun. Now tell me where you stand on the War Crimes issue." I have to hear him say it before I leave. I have to bind him to his answer. A good soldier always completes the mission. The mission comes first, even over one's own life.

I back away as he sits up, hand still rubbing his chest. "No, not yet. You haven't opened your gift."

"I'm not playing, Malfoy." All allies are potential enemies. Enemies are dealt with swiftly.

He shakes his head, smiling with self-deprecation. "I can tell. You look like you're done pretending to be a brainless little fop."

"Shut the fuck up," and I should have stopped there but I can't help blurting, "I don't like this person." She's cold, and she's ruthless, and she hates so passionately and she wants him.

He looks at me calmly. "I know, but I like her and she likes me. I think you should give her a chance."

"Listen you son of a bitch. . . ."

"Speaking of which, you know, my mother asks about you, sometimes. She wonders why you never come see her. I don't have the heart to tell her you'd rather pretend she was dead."

"Fuck you."

The grin turns feral. "You seemed happy enough about the idea a few minutes ago. If I hadn't pissed you off, I could have had your panties down around your ankles and been fucking you from behind, in short order. You'd have loved it."

I tilt my head slightly, no expression on my face. "You're being obvious, Malfoy. Stop trying to make me angry and-"

"You're just mad because that's what you wanted. You wanted me to fuck you while you could pretend it was coerced. We can still do it, you know. Potter will never know. No one will ever know." He says fiercely, then spits. "Hell, it shouldn't matter if they do! Why do you insist on this misplaced loyalty? Why do you have to punish yourself just to please the Golden Boy? You fawn on him like a dog."

"Maligio!" I'm screaming the word before I even realize I've pointed my wand at him.

I've completely snapped.

Draco is catapulted off the floor and slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He's lucky his ribs didn't crack. He sticks there, unable to move. I'm pissed, and I'm doing things I never wanted to do again. "Invalesco!" My wand flares red and begins humming. "Iuguolo!"

I can feel the painful buzz, the bitter taste of copper in the back of my throat, the dull roar in my bones as I unleash a wave of extreme Dark Magic. It's a familiar pain, and it's almost sweet.

The pillowcase and velvet present inside explodes with a screaming squeal and melts into an oozing black, bubbling puddle like toxic waste. The table catches the tail end of the spell and half of it collapses, folding in like a crumpled soda can.

Draco has gone very still, his expression calm but his eyes excited. He's even still smiling a little. I stride over, grab him and Apparate, smashing right through the Apparation shield around the restaurant.

It's oddly windy outside Ottery St. Catchpole.

I shove Draco to the ground in the middle of a grassy field, clumps of snow scattered in some places, under the only tree-a white asphodel-in the vicinity. I'm still shaking with fury and hurt, bleeding a little inside that he would tear open so many old wounds just to get a rise out of me. He knew what he was saying.

He laughs a little from his position on hands and knees, on the ground. "I haven't seen you like this since the Cantarain mission. It's invigorating!"

"I told you to shut up! You want to talk about loyalty, asshole? This is where my loyalty lies. Not with Harry, not with Ron, not with you. Here, with Ginny!"

He sits up on his knees. "Then kill me, if it will make you feel better. I can lie here with her. Poetic justice." He makes an expansive gesture, and I flinch hard, raising my wand.

"Don't you dare touch her grave." My voice is thick, and I say it again like I still can't believe it. "You killed her."

Draco's sneer suddenly melts. That cruel, mocking grin fades into tired, even bitter, lines. He stands slowly, and I let him because he's not looking at me. He's looking down at the headstone. "I never meant for it to happen. If I could have . . . if there was another way, Hermione, I would have done something, anything, I swear."

I have to scrunch my eyes shut tight and look away from him. "I know." A pause and then the truth, something he's deserved to know for a long time. "I never blamed you. When Harry told me, I believed you did it, and I hated you for it, but I also knew. . .with every fiber of my being. . .that if you could have taken her place, you would have. I knew it was unavoidable however it happened. I never doubted you."

There's a strange expression on his face as he absorbs that and I refuse to look too closely. "But Harry did. And Ron. And you thought she did too." He whispers mutely.

"And that was enough for me," I finish without a single ounce of remorse, but oceans of regret. "I was loyal to her."

We've never talked about this. We've never. . . not once. I've never even thought about how it must be for him but I find myself wondering now what he must think, what me must believe that I think. I'm half tempted to ask him, but only half tempted. It's still too painful.

"You were loyal to me, too." His eyes on me, softer now. "There was never anyone but me, was there?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Denial is my best weapon. My rage has worn off to exhaustion, and I can feel the raw sting of all my old scars like fresh wounds. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"See, there it is again, right there. Malfoy. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy. Not Draco, not anymore. So determined to pretend you're two different people, that you lived two different lives. It doesn't work like that, Hermione. It won't change who you are, and it certainly won't erase the past." He reaches for his wand and I let him take it. "Advenio." And a box appears in his hands, a gift box identical to the one I blasted into black goo at the restaurant. "Good thing I have a spare, huh? Merry Christmas."

I take it from him hesitantly with a frown, feeling the soft velvet under my fingers.

"Bury it here, baby. I think she'll understand." He turns and walks away, Apparating out a few feet away, leaving me alone with the silver moon and a million uncaring stars.

I stare at the box, wondering whether or not I want to open it, wondering whether I can go back to pretending. I can feel my safe, solid world trembling, ready to come crashing down anyway. Maybe it's inevitable now.

I sit down on the cold earth, under the tree next to Ginny Weasley's gravestone, with my legs tucked under me. I could give half a damn about the dress. I take the loose ends of the bow between my fingers and pull, watching the knot slip apart like it never was, aware of the symbolism in doing so. I untie the gold thread and slip my fingers over the velvet to find the seams, carefully prying the corners loose and unfolding it. The box underneath is glossy white and unmarked.

Carefully, I lift the lid.

Inside, on top of artistically folded white tissue paper, is a large clear crystal, diamond shaped. It's a communication recorder for relaying messages.

Cautiously, I set it on its little stand, moving the wrappings out of the way and tapping the top of it with my wand.

The crystal immediately flares, the edges glittering prism-like. And an image of Harry appears. I go still, so horrified I'm nauseous, because that means Harry knows.

"Oh Hermione," the Harry image says so heavily that I want to shrink in on myself and disappear. He must hate me. He's got to hate me. I hate myself so much. . .

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I had no idea."

What?

I blink and look up at the image.

"When Malfoy came to me, I didn't believe him. I mean, I never believe Malfoy. It's just a rule somewhere, you know, I . . . and you . . . I didn't know Hermione. You never told me. You never seemed interested in anyone, not anyone. I never realized there was someone that you . . . loved. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize what I was doing. You have to understand, Ginny's death . . . it nearly killed me. There were nights when I just didn't want to wake up in the morning. I was just too selfish to realize that there were nights like that for you too. Hermione, if I'm completely honest with myself, and you, I never blamed Malfoy for Ginny's death. He was a scapegoat, a convenient target. He was someone to hate for what had happened. There was no way in hell he could have predicted the mission going wrong and even if he had, he probably would have died trying to save her, and I'm glad he didn't. I'm so glad because I never want you to feel what I felt when they told me Ginny was gone. Hermione, I'm not coming down to see you this Christmas. I want you to go out and do whatever it is you need to do, and I want you to know that you have my blessing . . . and I love you." his voice cracks and it spears through my heart.

Harry's image fades and Ron appears. He smiles a little shakily.

"You absolute nutter, Hermione, falling for a Malfoy. I thought I taught you better. Well, I'm not like Harry. I do blame Malfoy, I blame him for a lot of things, and I think I'll hate him for the rest of my life. But I also know it could have been anyone else, any one of us, in charge of that mission. I know he did what he thought was best. I know he didn't do it on purpose. I know he didn't, and I'm sorry I said those things. I don't care that he took it to heart, but I'm sorry you did too. Hermione, he told us about . . . about you two . . . during the war, and I realized. . . I realized how it must have been for you. And then I realized why you came out of it okay. That's what. . .that's what he was to you, what he did for you, and none of us knew. I didn't know. Look, I know Ginny doesn't blame Malfoy. I know she loves you. I know she will always love you. I know she wants you to be happy, and I want you to be happy too. Merlin, Hermione, more than anything I want you to be happy. Please . . . be happy." He takes a shuddering breath, " I'm taking Luna up for a little retreat this Christmas. I want you to get this whole mess straightened out while I'm gone. And I love you."

The crystal flickers, and the light dies, and it's like all the strength just drains from my body. I literally collapse onto the ground and curl up on my side, for a long time not making a sound. I'm numb, shaking and just. . .numb.

The War was a bad time for all of us, for Harry and our friends, especially once we realized that we could not count on the adults. That we couldn't count on anyone but ourselves. Towards the end, we weren't just Voldemort's enemy. We were seen as vigilantes by the Ministry, and as dangerous loose cannons by the public.

We had to go into hiding in the first few months of our seventh year. We would have been kicked out or arrested or assassinated in our beds if we had stayed.

Half of the kids had either been pulled out of Hogwarts or left of their own accord by then anyway. Many of them came to Harry to fight. I ended up in charge of furthering their education. I taught them everything I could. I taught them the Dark Arts. I taught them how to fight, how to kill, how to survive.

That's who I really am, not the bumbling Ministry intern who studies experimental magick and goes home everyday to her dingy apartment in a college neighborhood. I'm a war veteran, a master of the Dark Arts, and I sold out on all of my ideals and dreams a long time ago. And it's so hard to just pretend to be normal, to pretend I don't still have nightmares, to pretend I haven't killed people, to pretend I've never cast Dark Magic, to pretend I don't wake up in the middle of the night aching for the man who killed my best friend.

Back then, I lived every day expecting to die. There was no thought of what life in the future would be like. There was no thought of a 'better tomorrow.' There was only 'today' and finding enough food, staying warm, finding clothes and shelter, providing for those under our care and burying the ones who had died. I never believed that I'd live through the war. I never once dared to imagine that my life now, living in a comfy home with a steady job, was possible. I never believed there was more in store for me then blood and death and darkness.

That was my lot in life and I accepted it. I had to.

We had all dealt with the stress and horror in our own ways. Harry became a chain-smoker. Ginny got pregnant early on. She had the baby, Lillian Jean, who is now five-and-a-half, before she died, making Harry a single father. Ron fought or fucked anything that moved. I'm fairly certain he even slept with Blaise once. Blaise was never a part of the war. He was a civilian, but he hinted once that he might have slept with Ron. I think he wanted to know if I felt weird about that. I flat out told him that I don't.

The boys did their thing. They just never knew that I was doing my own. I was fucking Draco Malfoy.

It wasn't a relationship, or, to call it a relationship would be greatly misleading. We hardly ever even spoke to each other really, except for that first time, afterwards when he'd held me pinned up against the wall, face hidden against my throat, pants around his ankles, still inside me, my body throbbing and I still wasn't sure what the hell had just happened. He had said, "Sorry. I'm sorry."

But I didn't care, and he never apologized again.

After missions, always after missions, other times I'd just go walking until I met him. We never had an appointed time or place. Hard, fast, somewhere no one would ever catch us, sometimes up against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist, teeth clenched, head back while he took mouthfuls of my throat, sometimes shoved face-down on the floor with him on top of me, his breath harsh in his throat, sweat dripping down on my back, his fingers biting into my hips, pounding me into the ground. A few times, memorably, like lovers in my bed, completely naked and slower than usual but still no words, no feelings, nothing but release before we both got up and walked away.

That makes it sound cold and meaningless. That makes it sound like it was all about sex.

It wasn't.

It was ours.

It was something good that was just ours, something that we could count on and look forward to, something that wasn't about hate or pain. Best of all, it was something that made us both feel needed, that let us feel important to someone else, while at the same time giving us someone to need, to cling to when things became unbearable. It wasn't a relationship, it wasn't anything, it defied categorization, but it was more meaningful to me then most of the relationships I've had in my entire life.

I said there were no words, but there were no words because none were needed, he comforted me with his body, there were no feelings because we both knew we were going to die and I didn't want to cry for him anymore than I wanted him to cry for me, there was nothing but release because we were both so young, I don't think either of us knew how to deal with it beyond that.

But we needed it. Merlin, we needed it.

Ron and Harry never knew, not because I was trying to hide it—I wasn't—it just wasn't important enough to be mentioned.

Then the war had ended, and so had we. I had no idea what to do with myself those first few months of peace. I think we were all a little lost. And he and I just never looked back. I don't think I wanted to. It was like it had never happened, and I think in this reality, this place where I'm just a fresh-faced intern, it didn't.

We didn't see each other until two years later, and that was an accident. A lunch date. I had been there to see Mandy Brocklehurst, now Mandy Corner, and Michael Corner. Draco showed up with Millicent and Terry Boot. Neither of us had acknowledged the other. It had really been as though nothing had ever happened, as if we were complete strangers meeting for the first time. I enjoyed the lunch date, had a good time talking with everyone and when I rose to leave early for an appointment, bidding them all goodbye. He had slipped me a folded napkin with a note written in blue ink.

I want to see you again.

Somehow, I knew he didn't mean for a quick fuck up against a wall.

We met the next day at the same park bench and we just . . . we just spent the day together and did things like hold hands as we walked. And we talked about things no one else understood, and I sat wrapped in his arms when the sun set, and then we dressed up for no reason, and went to an expensive restaurant for dinner, and had salmon and truffles and Gorgonzola stuffed dates and when he dropped me off at my apartment afterwards . . . he kissed me goodbye, chastely. The kind of sweet, first-date kiss I'd never had from him, and it was better than perfect, sweet and warm and chocolaty from the dessert we shared at the restaurant. And I swear, my legs turned to jello and my heart did a little flip. He tried to flash me his most devastating smile as he left but it deteriorated into a ridiculous lop-sided grin, and I floated up the stairs with his promise to see me again the next day still ringing in my ears.

I was so high up there on Cloud Nine that when Harry called, I told him that I'd spent the day with Draco and giggled about it like a stupid smitten schoolgirl.

Harry had been pissed. Beyond pissed. He'd said things to me that I'm not sure I'll ever forgive him for, even knowing they came out of grief. And then he told me the truth about Ginny, something only Ron, Harry, and Draco knew and had kept to themselves to avoid dissension in the ranks. He told me how Ginny had died because of Malfoy, how it was his fault. He hadn't done his job as Squad Leader, and she'd paid the price. He even implied that if I had been around at the time, it might not have happened.

"If he's a traitor, Harry, why isn't he dead?" I had cried.

"We needed him." Was the simple, clipped reply.

"Do you want me to kill him?" I asked, completely serious. It didn't matter that I thought I was completely in love with him already. It didn't matter that I wanted to see him again so bad I ached.

"No, he's holding an important office."

"I won't ever see him again, Harry. I promise."

If that wasn't bad enough, only fifteen minutes later, Ron floo'd to my place in full battle mode, screaming at me for my stupidity. I ended up begging his forgiveness, begging Ginny's forgiveness. Ron ended by saying that if he ever caught me with Malfoy, then I was the traitor.

And that was it.

I never told them about my time with Draco during the war, and I never told them that he'd kept me sane, that he'd held me on the worst nights. I was ashamed of that. I knew they'd hate me if they ever found out, but that wasn't what stopped me. It was the thought that Ginny would hate me, that I was betraying Ginny-that stopped me.

I think that was the worst moment. The moment when I realized I still loved him. He'd murdered Ginny and I still loved him. I haven't been able to look Mrs. Weasley in the face since. On bad days, I can't even look myself in the face.

The next day, when Draco arrived with a dozen roses in hand and a smile on his face, I calmly told him that it was his fault that Ginny was dead and that I'd gladly fuck him up and kill him if Harry or Ron ever gave the word.

Draco hadn't taken it well, but at least he hadn't screamed at me. He just never let me forget, which was really all I wanted to do. I wanted to forget it all.

It was so ironic. I had saved Ginny's life twice. I had fought for her, cheated death to keep her alive and won. Afterwards she laughed and called me her guardian angel. Then two months later she was dead at the hands of one of our own. Why had I been able to save her if she was only meant to die? Was that meant to be? Was that fate saving her because she was destined to be killed by Draco?

My best friend and my lover both ripped from me in a single, nasty trick of fate.

And now to have it all forgiven. . . .

I don't think I can face Draco. I can't. Not after everything I did to him, how I treated him. That was a betrayal in and of itself. I'm not sure I can live with it, but I know I can't forget.

Maybe Draco is right. Maybe it is time to bury it.

Hollow-eyed, I slowly and meticulously pack the crystal back into the box, fold the velvet back around it and tie it closed. My fingers are cold but steady. I use my bare hands to dig a hole in the hard grave soil, tearing my fingernails and caking my skin with grave dirt. And I bury the box there. I bury my past. I bury all my stupid pretenses and the coward I seem to have become. I bury it all, and I say a prayer for Ginny. Afterwards, I clean myself off with a flick of my wand and Apparate home. A part of me is just kind of quietly glad that the whole ordeal is over.

It's over. It's finally over.

I appear in the entryway of my apartment and instantly take a jerky step backwards in wide-eyed surprise. For a moment, I think I've misjudged and ended up somewhere other than my apartment.

But no, it's my place.

It's been transformed. Blinking, glittering, stuffed with Christmas decorations. The walls are hung with Christmas tapestries and wreaths. Poinsettias plants and little Christmas place mats sit on the counter. Candles and snowflake dishtowels decorated my kitchen. Christmas figurines and snowmen and reindeer cover every flat surface in the living room. There is a huge Christmas tree in the far corner of the living room, decorated with a myriad array of ornaments and gold and silver tinsel, a bright star on top and blinking lights, stacks of presents beneath it. The house smells of pine and cinnamon. A little miniature train chugs along a set of tiny tracks that loop around the room, and a fire burns cheerily in the hearth.

I take it all in wonderingly, circling the room slowly to examine every last detail until I realize I'm not alone.

I just about jump right out of my skin, giving an undignified squeal.

Draco is sitting in the armchair. I really should have expected him to be here, but I didn't, so I only stare at him, probably looking like a complete idiot. He just cocks an eyebrow at me coolly, lounging in the chair, completely relaxed, even in a place he's never been before, wearing dark cotton slacks, a green knit sweater, that looks a hell of a lot like a Weasley sweater, with a Christmas tree on the front, a new candy cane poking out of his mouth, and wire-rim glasses perched on his nose.

What in the hell?

"Hey sweetie," he says, really gently, probably because I look like I'm about to fall apart. My insides have just crumbled into weepy bits. "Home for the day?"

For a minute, I think I'm dreaming. I think I'm seeing what life would have been like if the war had never happened. Because this . . . this was never in the cards for me. I was supposed to die in the war. I was supposed to be a bookish intern and grow old alone. I was never supposed to get to keep Draco Malfoy.

But this is real.

I feel myself wobble as the blood drains from my face, and he rises in alarm to grab hold of me before I collapse.

"Whoa! Hey, Hermione, baby, are you okay?"

I haven't cried in years, not since Ginny's death, which is funny because I was such a crybaby as a little girl, but I just can't help it now. I curl into him and hold on for dear life and just sob. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," into his shoulder.

The only words I manage to choke out and they're meaningless. They don't come anywhere close to expressing what I really want to say, what I really feel. My throat is clogged with confessions, so many that they fill my chest and squeeze around my heart till I can't breath, and the same stupid words just keep pouring out of my mouth.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I am sorry. I'm sorry for trying to forget him. I'm sorry for telling him he was nothing to me. I'm sorry for abandoning him, for making him depend on me and then deserting him. I'm sorry for taking him in when we needed him and then kicking him out when we were through using him. I'm sorry he couldn't trust me enough to tell me about Ginny. I'm sorry that he was right not to tell me.

He's not the traitor. I am.

There's so much there and so much more and I want to tell him so badly but I'm crying to hard.

He holds me, sitting down in the armchair with me in his arms, and for the longest time, just strokes my hair, murmuring that everything is fine, everything is going to be okay. And it's so good because he feels and smells and sounds exactly the same and I never imagined I would ever have this again.

When I can control myself and not act like a stupid, hysterical female, I take several deep breaths and raise my head. He's looking at me so tenderly with those blue-gray eyes, dips forward to kiss the tip of my nose, my forehead. You wouldn't know that bully, braggart, egotistical fucked-up peacock Malfoy could be so gentle.

It's been two years since he's looked at me like that. I nearly break down again, force my shaking shoulders steady on a deep breath and touch his face. "I thought you wouldn't want me anymore. I . . . what I did . . . I'm sorry. You didn't deserve any of it."

But I had to. I want to add, but don't because that's a lie. I didn't have to do it. I did it because I was afraid.

I'm absolutely ashamed of the way I treated him. For two years I acted like he was some kind of sick, stalker freak. I flaunted my relationship with Blaise in his face, led him to believe Blaise and I were lovers. I cursed him and myself and wished I'd never met him and, worst of all, I forgot him. I did it because I would have gone crazy otherwise. Looking at him, wanting him, it would have driven me mad. So I hated him instead.

He smirks a little. "You wouldn't be my 'Mione if you weren't incurably stubborn. I mean, look what I had to go through today just to get you to open a little box."

I laugh, watery, weak, and then my smile fades as the reality of what he had to do to get those crystals sinks in and if I wasn't already sitting, I think I would have fallen.

"You went and saw Harry and Ron!" I gasp softly, my eyes huge with wonder and shaken with fear. "You told them everything."

He nods, face sober.

He went to Harry and Ron. He went, literally and figuratively, into the lion's den and told two men who would much rather murder him then speak to him that he'd been fucking me during the war, before and after he'd killed Ginny, and that he wanted to fuck me again.

I can't even begin to comprehend the courage it must have taken for him to do that. I certainly didn't have that courage. I lied to everyone, including myself, saying I wasn't hiding our relationship when all I did was treat him like a dirty secret, like our relationship wasn't as important to me as Harry and Ron's.

And this is the second time. This is the second time he's gone to them with a confession and put his life in their hands.

What had that first time been like for him? Coming back from the mission and having to tell Harry that he'd killed Ginny. Ginny who was Ron's sister, the mother of Harry's child and his own lover's best friend. And yet, that's exactly what he did. He didn't mince words. He'd gone in there and taken full responsibility.

He was lucky to come out alive that first time, and yet he'd gone back again. . .for me.

"They could have killed you! Merlin, Draco, how. . . how did you convince them to let you go? How did you convince them to let us. . ." I trail off, tracing his features with my fingers, savoring it because I could have very well lost him to their rage.

How did he convince them? I can imagine him tricking them into promising not to kill him beforehand, I can imagine him spinning fairy tales—telling elaborate lies. But I don't think he did. Not with this.

He rests his forehead against mine. "I just convinced them that if they killed me, you'd never forgive them."

I shudder because it's true and it's something I don't like to look at too closely, that in losing one I could have lost them all. I pull back slightly. "How can you forgive me so easily?"

He sighs softly. "I understand, Hermione. I understand why you did it. I even agreed with you a little. Didn't like it, but I agreed." And there's another flash of deep remorse. He regrets what happened to Ginny so badly but he had no one to help him or comfort him or forgive him. He fought beside us for years. But he was never really one of us, we never let him in. And then when we didn't need him anymore, we ditched him.

"I missed you." I hug him so tightly, just greedy for the feel of him.

"Yeah, I missed you too, real bad." He hugs me back. "Did you bury it?"

I rub my face against his shoulder. "I buried it all."

"Good . . . good."

I lean up to kiss him but pause because he pops the candy cane back in his mouth and smirks at me wickedly from behind his glasses, like the little piece of candy is going to deter me. I love that sweater-and-glasses look on him. It's boyish and harmless and perfectly at odds with the bastard he truly is.

I steal the candy cane from him, slipping it wetly from his lips to slide it between my own. It's warm from his mouth. It's one of the really sweet candy canes, not the regular flavor. I like these best, and I wonder if he knows that. I take a last lick and toss it onto the coffee table, not wanting to get candy cane in my carpet, and when I turn back around he wrenches me forward.

His lips are sticky, and his mouth is sweet. I suck the flavoring away, wanting to taste what's underneath, and it's better than chocolate, better than candy cane. He touches my face, undoes the tie in my hair so that it falls down around my shoulders, tangles his fingers in it. He has a thing for my hair. It's so bad it could be termed a fetish. I always thought he picked on my hair because he knew I was self-conscious about it. It took me a long time to realize he was just a sicko who liked running his hands through my hair while we did it.

He kisses me hard and aggressively and holds me tight, but his hands aren't moving, just clenching and unclenching in my dress and I know him-he's holding back. He's not going to push me any further than I want to go. It's sweet but I don't want him to be careful right now.

I turn in his arms, sliding my knee over his legs so that I'm straddling him, making my dress ride up. I'm probably wrinkling the hell out of it, but I don't care. He growls against my mouth and tightens his grip on me. His hands go to my hips, and he pulls me down on him harder.

I wiggle a little, and he makes a choked sound against my mouth and groans, "Slow it down."

"Shut up." He's such a blabbermouth. Likes to hear himself speak.

I'm shaking now at the feel of him, heat coiling in my belly, the ache that wakes me in the middle of the night from dreams of him. He slides a hand up and down over my back, over my bottom to tug my dress up. Then his hands slide over my panty-clad bottom. I have a brief flash of panic wondering what kind of underwear I had put on that morning, but his tongue in my mouth drives the thought away. Likes to be in control too, the bastard.

I bite his bottom lip, wrapping my arms around his neck, nipping kisses down his throat. I remember this taste, salty and sweet, and that warm scent that's pure Draco. He smells like expensive cologne and pine needles. I collapse against him with a whimper and suck on his pulse point.

I remember he stayed with me the whole night the day Ginny died. At the time I didn't know he was responsible for her death. We didn't talk about it. I cried a little. He didn't hold me or try to comfort me in any way, but he laid in my bed, lost in himself, his eyes far away seeing things that I'm glad I never saw, and I didn't comfort him even though it registered with me that he felt something. Whether it was grief, or responsibility, or sorrow, or just horror at what he'd done. He felt something for Ginny Weasley's passing.

My hands find their way up his shirt, and I giggle when I feel the button-down collar-shirt underneath the sweater, completing the 'harmless' look. I'd even bet that it's pastel. His skin is warm, winter-warm, the warm of body-heat trapped under a sweater, and I trace over his skin slowly, reverently, as I've done a million times before. I know every dip and curve and every place that makes the muscles underneath jump and twitch. I rake my fingernails over his nipples while leaving a bruising mark on his throat with my teeth, and he smacks my ass in retaliation.

I don't think I will ever know the details of Ginny's death. We don't really have details. All we have is Draco's perspective on what happened. A perception. One flawed perception. And he, more than anyone else, will always wonder at what point he went wrong, just when the mistake that sealed Ginny's fate was made. He'll wonder if it could have been avoided. If maybe if he'd slowed down or sped up if he could have missed fate's head-on collision. He'll wonder if she suffered, and if she hated him in her last moments.

And he'll always think 'It happened so fast'.

I've got to get his shirt off now or I'm going to go crazy. He lifts his arms and lets me peel the sweater off. The button-down is pale blue and sort of starchy. I glare at him because I know he'll want me to undo every single button and let him wear the shirt open. He thinks he looks sexy like that, pastel or no, but there's no way I have the patience right now. I simply grab it and muscle it up over his head, managing to get it off of him with a muffled yowl and minimal struggle, though the glasses are gone now, tangled up in the shirt on the floor

Draco Malfoy by firelight is a beautiful thing, that heavy-lidded smug look on his face says he knows it too. He's not a big, broad-shouldered He-man, but he's not one of those really skinny guys either. He's perfectly proportioned; his skin is soft at the surface, hard underneath, muscles clearly defined. I run my hands over his chest and he just sits there, still being passive, letting me play a little, kissing the top of my head as I lick the flesh over his heart. I trace his collarbone with my tongue, liking the purr that rises in his throat, and kiss my way down to scrape my teeth over his nipples, there are reddening scratch marks from my nails. I soothe them with kisses.

I remember the day his father died. How he fucked me in the shower with the water running down his face so I couldn't tell if there were tears. How he drove into me so hard that I couldn't tell whether he was breathing hard from exertion or emotion, whether the agonized look on his face was pain or pleasure. I remember I had kissed his face and tasted salt.

His hands have moved up to my waist, smoothing up under my dress. I start to casually twist out of his grasp, but he's having none of that. He pulls me upright and jerks my dress over my head. And that's it. He's done letting me have my way. My parking meter has officially expired. He kisses me again, distracting me, while he unclasps my bra. Most guys never figure that out, but Draco has it down to an art. Two flicks of his finger and he's pulling it off my shoulders, down my arms, tossing it across the room. I can't even do it that easily.

I expect him to touch my breasts, but his hands brush over my ribs, over my belly, and further down. He touches me and the muscles in my thighs quiver. His fingers trail wildfires, and I cry out, his name falling from my lips.

"Good girl." He murmurs against my lips. Damn, mother fucking conceited bastard. He peppers my face, my neck, with kisses, and I slump against him trembling. "Shh, it's okay."

He's lifting me up, still kissing me, carrying me in his arms to lay me down in front of the fire. There's something soft beneath me-a furry blanket, or rug, or something.

"This is kind of a cliché isn't it?" I ask, rubbing at the fur. It's white.

"Shut up." He kisses me. "I could have taken you to the dungeons in the Mansion, you know. This is nicer."

"Spoiled brat." I clench one hand in his hair. It's so silky. I envy him that. "I'd like to . . . ah . . . seeeeee you in . . . in chains." I groan when he bites my neck, leaving a mark only to soothe it with his tongue an instant later.

He raises his head to give me an impatient look, candy cane back between his lips. "My mansion. My dungeon. I say who gets . . . AHH!"

I snicker. He didn't see my hands moving south. I watch the play of expressions over his face. He's so beautiful when his face softens like this.

"Can I have you?" I whisper, not sure where that came from. "Can I keep you?"

His eyes open to give me a piercing look, "The world, baby. It's all yours if you want it, but you gotta come live with me. No more of this shacking up with that asshole Zabini. He's lucky I don't kill him."

I snort. "Oh please, Blaise is-"

He mashes his mouth over mine, cutting off my sentence, candy cane between our lips. I can taste it. "I don't want to hear about Blaise!" he growls and then there are no more words, no more memories, nothing and no one else exists. The world has narrowed down to here and now and this sweet rhythmic urgency and I love the look on his face, the fierce concentration, the way his brow crinkles or softens as he shudders with pleasure. I love the sounds he makes, the soft gasps, the heavy grunts, the whispers, feather-light against my skin, endearments, encouragements or dirty promises.

I hold him in the aftermath, caressing his sweat-slicked body, running my fingers through his soft hair, feeling his breath against my skin from where his head is cradled against my chest. I cry a little, just a few, silent tears.

I remember the last time, the very last time before the last battle, how tight he held me, face buried in my hair, a Latin hymn of protection whispered there. It was fierce and it was almost tender. He pulled back and looked at me, looked at my face so intensely, fingers tracing over my cheeks. It took me a moment to realize he was saying goodbye.

But maybe it wasn't a forever goodbye.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this was one of those meant to be things after all. Maybe all my roads lead to Draco. I chuckle a little at the thought, and he stirs finally to press his lips to my cheek and whispers in my ear, "You'll move in with me?"

"Yes." Though it is unfair of him to ask me that while I'm basking in the afterglow. That could be called manipulation.

A moment of thoughtful silence, another kiss before he rests his cheek against my forehead. "Are you going to fight with me about the House-Elves?"

I'm startled into laughter. "I'll pick my battles, I promise."

"Hmm." Suddenly serious, looking down at me, stroking my face, he says, "I think . . . I think we need to talk about a few things. About the war. About some of the things we did. About some of the things that happened. I think we have some issues we need to work out, and maybe you'll feel better if we talk about it, all of us, Harry and Ron too. Maybe. . .maybe then it'll stop eating away at you inside. And. . ." He trails off quietly and I know, with a hushed sort of calm, what he's going to say next. "And I want to tell you about Ginny." He says softly, almost hoarsely and those blue-gray eyes have an expression of bleak desolation in them that I've never seen before.

I nod slowly but put my fingers to his lips, smiling a little. "Not yet." I whisper and draw him back down to me. "Not yet."

He clings to me, and I know he's more afraid of telling me then he ever was of telling Ron and Harry. But he can't run anymore. And neither can I.

I rock him in my arms, taking comfort as much as giving it. I'm terrified of what tomorrow will bring. Terrified of everything we will have to face. Our friends, our mistakes, our guilt, our past, our ghosts, ourselves. What if I can't forgive him when he tells me about that day?

What if I can't love him like I love him right now?

I lift his face with my fingertips and kiss him desperately, imprinting the feel of his soft, sweet mouth on mine firmly in my brain.

I don't know what's going to happen next. I don't know what's meant to be. I don't know what tomorrow will bring or where I'll be next week or next month or a year from now.

All I know is that, until then, until fate comes for me, until destiny drags me bodily away, until 'meant to be' is meant for someone else, I mean to be right here, with him.

-finis-

“Vista dal Cielo”, streetscribbles

Rating: PG-13

Published: July 3, 2006 for dmhgficexchange’s Hot Summer Nights event

Link: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/158666.html

Summary: After seven years of no contact, Draco and Hermione find themselves on the same train going to the same place on the same day.

Number 6: Try the Neopolitan ice-cream sandwich they sell at the train station. Notes: Ron says this is the food they’d serve in Heaven.

The wake up call shatters the still existence of your life, changing everything.

Like hopes that maybe you could prolong that inevitable hangover from way too many shots of Firewhiskey in that seedy little bar at the edge of Broomstick Drive. Maybe it was that strangely pleasant dream about kissing a dreamy, golden haired mermaid underwater. Or nerve wracking thoughts in your unconscious state where checklists and nail biting nerves floated around – exactly how many clients needed to be called when you get to work?

Sometimes, it’s even bigger than that.

But it always wakes you up – even if you had never been sleeping to begin with. It doesn’t matter, because you weren’t awake, either.

They say insomnia is worse than not getting any rest for days on end. Hermione Granger remembered her school days when she would stretch out her nights in the Gryffindor common room. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley would be asleep at her feet, like comfortable puppies, while she continued studying, chewing and swallowing up every magical term that needed to be known, focusing to understand every famous Wizard’s concept. She fought hard during those long nights, even with the warm blazing fire, the soft cushiony chairs and the slightly sweetened, lightly herb scented tea that cleared up her sinuses as she took small, slow sips. The taste absorbing on her tongue and flowing down her throat brought comfort, and made her feel comfortably drowsy. While the rhythmic snores of Harry and Ron only added to the soundtrack of a long, welcoming sleep. Despite all that was in her way, she managed to stay up those nights that required her to.

Her record at Hogwarts remained perfect for those seven years.

Now, seven years later and this would be the seventh week, and possibly the seventh time that week that she laid in bed, her body drained of all vitality. Her sandpapered eyelids fell heavily down every so often, but even with eyes wide shut, she could see the darkness so clearly. She could feel her mind churning away . . . at absolutely nothing.

She turned again, flipping her pillow over so that the cooler side rubbed against her cheek comfortably. Her muscles stretched as she yawned loudly and persistently, hinting blatantly at her body to shut down so she could sleep.

And her head remained full. Her senses remained intact and despite her eyes having been closed for two hours and her ten hour work day with overtime and no sitting breaks, she stayed awake.

This was insomnia.

This was a waking nightmare that had been eating away at her for almost a month now.

She never did fall asleep that night, and in the morning as the pained, yellow sunlight beat through her windowsill as she bent down to grab her bag, she looked down at her train ticket.

One way. Florence, Italy. Departure 9am; arrival 4pm.

She hoped Italy would be her wake up call.

Saying goodbye to Ron and Harry before the trip was numbing. The hot, balmy weather that made the light fabric of her blouse stick to her skin was uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough for her to care. And the ice cream sandwich she bought from the passing cart on the platform of the train station tasted like it was all one flavor of plain.

It was Neapolitan, too.

It was after she licked the tips of her sticky right hand fingers and balled up the foiled wrapped of the remaining cookie layer that her senses felt shaken up. Her bones felt weary but something was happening. She looked up at the cart that had lost control and was bolting at her in a quick, aluminum flavored flash and shielded her eyes from the bright white light.

This was it. She was going to die and she didn’t care.

She cried out, all of a sudden, as her body made hard contact with the afternoon baked ground, the warm gravel scratching through her blouse and tearing through her skin, inflicting a hot, burning friction of pain and felt a strong pair of arms – the same arms that had pushed her down squeeze her sides as they pulled her up.

The cart had crashed somewhere behind her, but it hadn’t touched her. She was still alive.

Before she even had time to ask the name of her lifesaver, she found she had to pause to breathe harshly, fighting against the intense will of her heart in all its uncontrollable beats.

It had been seven years, but she was looking straight into the grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione Granger woke up that day with a jolt.

“Draco, wake up.”

Two weeks earlier, Draco Malfoy was nestled uncomfortably in his lush, king-sized bed with no intention of saving Hermione Granger’s life. Actually, it was on the contrary – Draco had been having the same recurring dream for months now. It involved Hermione, and though it would always begin differently, the sliver of time pressed up against the waking world right before he returned to conscious would be the same.

He always ended up killing her.

It was strangely disturbing. Draco had despised Hermione Granger for a long time during his school days. She was dirty blooded, annoying, self righteous in the most obnoxious ways possible and he would imagine that kicking her in the face would have been a heavenly feeling. But slaughtering her? It was not exactly compassion or sympathy, but raw, wounded humanity – in all its ugly truth that told his conscious there was no way he would ever be able to take away another person’s life. He wondered if this was normal in others, he wondered if this would change how he felt about his father. If it would humanize Lucius Malfoy.

Before Hermione came into the dreams, it had been his father that occupied them. Draco lived through a numbing sequence of nine to five work days and then had the pleasure of living out the same, repetitive nightmare in. It was a similar dream, night in and night out, in which Draco killed Lucius every night in his sleep. This was before he demanded to be moved out of the Malfoy Manor. Those nightmares stopped when Draco moved out, but that’s exactly when the dreams of Granger began.

“Draco.”

“Mum?” Draco was so relieved to see his mother standing before him. A nursed habit embedded in Draco since he was young was the nurturing relief that his mother had all the answers. He hadn’t seen her in weeks since he moved into his new flat, paid for by his father’s funds, and he was glad she was here. He would ask her about these dreams, and everything would be okay.

Draco allowed the moment to seep into his vision and the view cleared away the bits of leftover dream and sleep that had clouded his eyes. Narcissa Malfoy was crying.

“Something’s happened.”

“Mum?” Draco jerked through his tangled sheets and lunged out of bed, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and slowly setting her to sit down on his bed with him.

The nightmares of Granger fizzled out beneath the warm grasp and salted tears and the throaty cries of his mother.

Lucius had finally passed away.

Number 12: Be daring, skip work for a day. Notes: Change that to an hour – you shouldn’t betray your patients for too long, they need you.

“Italy?” Draco inquired outloud.

“It was your father’s last wish,” Narcissa’s voice was thick, laced with the heavy trace of crying.

He hesitated in going forth with such a sensitive question when his mother seemed so fragile, but he felt like if he didn’t ask, it might kill him dead himself.

“Mum,” Draco said quietly, taking the thick envelope Narcissa was handing to him. “I have sort of a . . . disturbing question. I’ve been having dreams and forgetting a lot lately, and I was wondering if . . . some sort of repercussion from the war could be responsible for that?”

She didn’t answer. So he kept talking.

“Do you think I killed him?”

Narcissa cried harder, then, the wetness webbed between the black lace of the veil that shadowed her eyes. Draco stayed mute as he held her, clutching the envelope in the other hand.

“I’ll go to Italy,” he promised.

The dream was different that night - Draco killed both Hermione and his father.

Everything happens for a reason.

Harry Potter always believed in this theory. It took Hermione a little longer to catch on, but as time brewed on, and a War erupted upon their lives, shattering the norm and tearing all the safe sutures out, exposing the open wound and tearing away the cloudy, grey haze that was marring their real vision, she started to see things so much more clearly. Bits and pieces of her childhood would come back to her in flashes during those battles, and she remembered so vividly a time in her life when no magic existed.

She was born with non magic parents for a reason, she was fighting in that war for a reason, and now, she was going to Italy for a reason.

That reason would be veiled from Draco Malfoy for now, as he warily stepped onboard the platform, his ticket clutched into his hand.

Roundtrip. Florence, Italy. Departure 9am; arrival 4pm.

The heavy reminder that change was a constant inevitable seductress in his life bored heavily into his brain at that very moment. Change was doing a slow, teasing striptease in front of him. Change was putting her hands all over him.

And he hated to be touched.

He looked around, well aware that everyone crossing his path, rushing to move past him -- onto their respective trains -- or booths or carts -- or families, were Muggles.

His mother’s idea of taking a Muggle train would have astounded him, had he still been eighteen. He was fresh from the War, then, and bitter about the loss of his father’s side. But now, he was too numb to care. Too numb to maliciously criticize each and every person that crossed his path.

Draco Malfoy needed his own jolt.

It finally came, then.

It was in the form of Hermione Granger. She was standing at the far end of the platform, looking a little hazy through the balmy air. Today’s weather was in its high, and when the morning was already feeling sharply hot, it was only an unfortunate reminder that the rest of the day would be hell.

Literally, for some people, Draco thought bitterly, thoughts of Lucius crossing his mind again.

But that passed, and now all he could think about was Hermione Granger. How he had been killing her dead every night for the past three weeks. How he had had the same dreams of his father.

How his father was now dead.

No, this wasn’t happening.

He shifted his eyes and discreetly lowered his head down to check the time on his expensive watch. Five more minutes. He should start boarding now, anyway.

“Somebody push that girl out of the way!” A loud chorus of erupted gasps and shuffling feet interrupted his thoughts. He looked up curiously, then, and saw a food cart, going out of control directly toward Hermione, who was slowly balling up the wrapper of her ice cream sandwich.

It was going to hit her.

“This isn’t fucking happening,” Draco swore, and in a flash, dropped his suitcase down on the floor with a loud clang and lunged in Hermione’s direction, reaching to grab her arm and then propelled his body aggressively against hers so that they both tumbled down violently, with his arms around her.

She looked at him, then, not even seeming to notice the moments before she hit the ground. And it was in that precise moment that they met eyes that she seemed aware. Alert.

Alive.

He’d never forget how her eyes looked, then.

“I’m so sorry! It just slid too far, I couldn’t control it! I’m so sorry!” The lumpy little cart owner finally reached the two and promptly joined them down on the ground on his knees. He studied Hermione carefully, and then looked at Draco. “I’m sorry!” he stammered again.

“You should be! You could have killed her!” Draco cried out vehemently, while Hermione looked up at him, baffled.

“Are you okay, love?” The man looked at Hermione, concern gelled in his eyes. She smiled a little, but before she had a chance to even open her mouth to respond, she found that a cry of protest was escaping her lips, instead, as Draco tightened his grip around her arm, digging his fingers through the thin fabric of her blouse and into her skin. He jerked her up violently and continued pulling her with him.

“Let go of me, Draco!” she cried.

With one hand still wrapped tightly around her arm, he yanked her close to him, causing her to cry out in dismay. “You’re not supposed to call me that,” he hissed, his breath slithering across her face.

“I’m not supposed to do a lot of things,” she snapped back, and jerked her arm away.

He paused then, and flinched. They both stood in the middle of the busy platform and blatantly stared. She felt short of breath and the quick beats of her heart thrusting against her ribcage, and despite the lack of sleep the past few weeks, never felt more awake. She was finally awoken, she was finally alive. Draco continued staring down at her, and they locked eyes in the dead standstill of the moment, as hard as it was with the morning sun beating down painfully into Draco’s eyes, making her look a little ethereal, the thin wafts of bright light highlighting the spaces between her hair.

You can’t be here to die, please, please don’t die. I don’t know how I can live with myself knowing I killed two people.

Don’t die, please.

“Where are you going?” he finally spoke, cutting through the rough edges of the moment, rubbing his eyes and shifting a little to the left, feeling the cool slivers of the shadow casted from the panel next to him soothe his temples and adjust his eyes.

“Italy. I’m boarding this train.”

He panicked. So was he. This was a sign.

“Why are you going to Italy?” he demanded rudely.

“Why are you?” she shot back, avoiding his question.

He paused again before he answered. “How did you know I was going to Italy, Mudblood?”

“Your words don’t hurt me anymore, Draco,” she said softly, pulling the ticket out from her back pocket. “And, I didn’t know,” she said over her shoulder as she swung her purse over one shoulder and made her way to board the train.

Draco jogged after her, grabbing her arm again. “We can’t be on the same train, Granger, take the next one. I’ll take this one.”

She looked up at him with an incredulous look etched across her face. “Glad to see chivalry is indeed dead and rotting away. And pray tell, why should I take the next one? Competition still in your blood, Draco? Is there some insatiable complex to beat me to everything still in you?”

“It’s got nothing to do with that, although even had we been on the same train, I would have gotten off first,” Draco snapped. “Just take the next one.”

“Not until you tell me why.”

“If you get on this one, you’re going to die.”

She froze for a split second while rummaging through her purse to find something, and looked up to meet eyes with him once again. His eyes, she noticed, looked the same, but his skin was less soft, and he had grown a lot taller since Hogwarts. She only noticed this because before, it didn’t nearly take this much effort to look into those eyes. And she had liked to do that a lot.

He looked back at her and almost swore she had stopped to consider what he was saying.

“I think I’ll get on it anyway.” And then that moment ended.

The conductor’s deep, throaty call for the last boarding passengers sent a panic through Draco’s veins. He had no idea how a Muggle train functioned, and he couldn’t afford to miss this one. It was important to his mother that he went to Italy.

“Fine!” Draco barked. “But you’re sitting with me.”

Hermione shot him a look, but she didn’t protest.

There were bigger things to worry about, anyway.

Number 8: Make contact with Draco again.

They rode for a whole twenty minutes without speaking to each other. Every minute stretched out against the fast moving tracks of the train as it sped along the countryside, and Draco never kept his eyes off her. She looked healthy enough - there was no reason for her to die. And she wouldn’t, not if he stayed with her and watched her until she got to Italy. If she died anytime after that, it wouldn’t be his problem.

He sighed, checking his watch. Another six hours to go. He picked up the newspaper that had been placed on the seats for the passenger’s convenience and wrinkled his nose as his fingers made contact. The parchment the news was printed on wasn’t like The Daily Prophet, which was thick and tapped with a magic powder that made the paper feel like velum – crisp and new. This Muggle newspaper felt thin between his fingers, and the inky lines felt dusty as he set it down, looking at it distastefully.

Hermione smiled at him a bit and looked down at her arm. There were five indented fleshy pink marks in her hands in the shape of little crescent moons from when Draco had grabbed her earlier. She ignored them and looked up at him.

“So let’s just skip all that small talk, Draco, like why on Earth you’re riding a Muggle train or have decided to style your hair that and just go straight to the real questions, like why it’s been seven years and why you’re going to Italy and you can tell me how you have the nerve to come back after seven years, seven years after all that.”

He looked up at her, genuinely alarmed. “After what?”

She looked down at the marks and rubbed them with her index and middle finger.

“You don’t remember,” she noted quietly.

“Remember what?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, just looked outside the window, pressing her fingertips lightly against the cool glass, the blurry fast tracking images of the scenery outside flashing colorfully through her eyes, like a broken slideshow – set to fast forward. No sound.

“Granger, you know something, don’t you!” Draco finally exclaimed.

“So, why are you going to Italy?”

“Tell me what you know!” Draco cried out, astonished at the fact that almost a year of tremulous nightmares and unsettling thoughts and just so many days of not living might have all been for a reason. Might not have been because he was actually slowly going insane.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” she said simply.

“Do you know what kind of hell I’ve been through these past few years?” he demanded.

“I studied the aftereffects of the war on my patients at St. Mungo’s for seven years straight, Draco, I can assure you that you’re not the only one.”

He hesitated for a second.

“Were nightmares common?”

“Of course.” She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs.

“Were nightmares that actually foretold the future common?” He sneered.

She didn’t answer, instead she reached into her bag and retrieved a crinkled piece of yellow notepad paper and made a line through it with a pen. He raised his eyes nosily, attempting to read what she had written on it.

“Have you tried the ice-cream sandwiches they serve here at the station?”

“No,” he said shortly with a snort.

“Oh, of course,” she said. “This is a Muggle train station. Well, Ron came here once with Harry, and he hasn’t stopped raving about them since. I finally tried one today and I’m just crossing it off my list.”

“You have a list,” Draco stated. He then laughed bitterly. “That’s so fucking typical of you. I’ll bet you’ve had that list since you were like twelve.”

“Eleven.” She grinned a little. “I’ve stopped adding things to it a few years ago, though. I’m closing up that chapter of my life after I finish conquering everything on this list.”

“What’s number one on your list?” he demanded.

“I didn’t really like the ice-cream,” she remarked, ignoring his question. “The first thing I do when I get to Italy is to get some gelato.”

“What’s number one?” Draco pressed again.

“Have you had gelato before?” She turned to look at him.

“Granger---”

“Ice cream has too much air in it,” Hermione said. “Too fluffy,”

“I guess,” Draco muttered.

“Too much filler. Life shouldn’t be so much filler.”

Those were the last words Hermione spoke before a shrill cry erupted from her lips as she was lurched forward into Draco’s arms, the train coming to a stilted crash, the loud collision of two trains violently tearing through the walls.

It was Draco and Hermione’s section of the train, their compartment that the other train had hit.

Number 4: Make a book of all your favorite photographs. Notes: You don’t want to forget the best times of your life, do you?

“Try to keep her still, talk to her and keep her conscious, keep her thoughts flowing so her mind doesn’t blank out. More paramedics are on their way.”

“More what?” Draco demanded, squinting through the dirty grey smoke. All the passengers in the car that had been hit had been pulled out and were being rolled onto strange, long white beds on wheels. He assumed they were being taken to the hospital.

“Are you hurt, sir? Any parts of you feel pain?”

“I’ve just been hit by a train and you’re asking me if I feel any pain?” Draco growled. “What do you think, you stupid fucking Mudblood?!”

But by then, the paramedic assistant had moved on to the next passenger. Draco looked around at all the other passengers that were plopped around him on the side of the tracks.

He then looked down at Hermione, who was still resting in his arms. And he wasn’t sure if it was the heavy weighted effect of not having gotten any sleep for the past few days, or the fact that his father – who had been the bedrock of his existence, had passed just a week before, or maybe the fact that he could have been responsible for killing his father, or it could have been just that Hermione Granger, another human being, was dying in his arms.

But he was sure of one thing; it was a feeling inexplicable to his existence. And it all gathered in blown, dusted bits and particles in his chest. The feeling of anxiety, stress, frustration, sadness – all at an exponent to the point of a dangerous collision and explosion. And it was then in his very moment, that he felt it, his head was spinning and his lip was bleeding and his chest hurt, and there was a lukewarm, heavy body in his arms of a girl he never thought to care for so much.

All his sensations exhaled in one, deeply rooted breath as he cried out, sore tears forming slowly in his eyes.

“Draco?”

He blinked hard and, breathing hard, looked down at Hermione, whose eyes were now open. She saw his tears.

“It’s okay,” Hermione uttered faintly. “It was meant to be.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “No!” he cried out as he shook her in his arms.

She knows about the dreams, he thought, and wondered what else she knew before he turned to look at her.

“Granger, wake up! Don’t die on me. You’re not dying!”

She looked up at him. “I’m not?” she whispered, pain etched in her voice. He pulled her closer and felt the wet stickiness of blood rubbing against his palms. The thick smell of iron and sweat and summer heat and rusted train tracked permeated the air and Draco coughed violently.

“You’re not,” he said desperately, struggling through his lungs to talk. He had hit the wall hard against his chest and it hurt to say anything. “Listen . . . Hermione.”

She finally looked at him, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked.

“I’m listening,” she said softly.

“You don’t know this yet, but I do, okay? You’re going to live. And listen to me. Just stay with me, and . . . you’ll be okay. You still have that list to go through, I mean, Granger, you didn’t even get to number one yet. What kind of life would that be?” he asked weakly. “You’re going to overcome this. You’re going to make it.”

“I’m going to overcome death?” she asked.

“Yes.” He closed his eyes and let all his thoughts run. Please, please, let her live. I can’t go on through life like this.

“I’ll remember you said that,” she said and moved up, pressing her lips softly to his.

Stay with me.

And as he closed his eyes, so did she, as Draco forgot about the past twenty five years of his life to kiss her back.

Number 2: Get away from England, go anywhere. But find peace. Notes: see Number 1.

They didn’t speak of the kiss. Not during the stay at the Muggle hospital. Not during the first few hours of being on the alternately assigned train to continue their trip to Italy.

He sat across from her, and felt his lips dry.

“You knew about my dreams, didn’t you?” He finally asked.

She looked up. “No, I didn’t. I don't.” she said.

“Don’t lie to me, Granger,” he hissed. “You have no idea how patient I’ve been with you these past few days.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re not telling the truth, and you owe me that much at least!” The volume of his voice grew.

“What do I owe you?” she demanded.

“An explanation! I see it in your eyes, you know what’s happening to me. You have an explanation of why I’ve been like this for so long.”

“It was all meant to be.”

“Stop saying that!” he cried out. “Why do you keep saying that? None of this is meant to be! You’re someone I couldn’t stand at school! And now I’m paranoid that I’m going to kill you in a train compartment and, oh wait, did we both almost just fucking die?!”

“Draco, shut up. Just shut up, okay? For a whole minute or two, just be quiet.”

“But!” he cried out angrily in cut out frustrations.

“Look at your ticket, look at it!” she finally cried out. He pulled it out of his wallet and shot her a look.

“Look, we’re both going to Florence. Same train, same day, same time. It’s been seven years and you don’t even remember what happened during the war. You don’t even really know why you’re going to Italy. None of this is a coincidence; it’s all going to make sense soon.”

“I can’t wait,” he rasped. “I can’t wait anymore. It’s been seven years, seven years I’ve been sleepwalking. It’s fucking torture, not in your normal pained sort of way, but in this bent over mind fucking way that I can’t stand. I feel like my mind is leaving me. You have to explain it to me.”

“Italy will make sense. And if you don’t understand it when you reach Italy, then it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Where will you be going? And why are you going?”

She didn’t respond. He knew she wouldn’t, so he dove at another question. One that had been burning up his conscious since it happened.

“Do you know why that kiss felt so familiar?”

His voice was barely audible. He was scared to look at her and found that to his surprise, when he finally did that she had closed her eyes. There was a thin trace of wetness at the edge of her closed eyes from attempting to keep the tears in.

“Please, please tell me.”

A Malfoy is never to beg, his father’s voice bled through his thoughts.

“The Effluoserum. That’s what your father suggested you take at the beginning of the War.”

His heart was pounding. He grabbed the armrest of a seat to calm his tapping feet and nervous twitch.

“It’s a strong serum that erases any specific part of your memory that you desire with strong aftereffects.”

“I know what the Effluoserum does!” Draco snapped weakly, still holding on to the arm rest.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

She looked down at her hands.

“. . . we were, romantically involved, weren’t we? And that’s why I don’t remember any of it.”

She nodded, her eyes still closed.

“No!” Draco snarled, letting go of the armrest and getting up onto his feet to. “You’re lying. You’re lying so fucking much, right now! I’d have just walked away from you! I didn’t need a stupid potion to help me. Why would I agree to do such a pathetic thing?”

“Your father made you.”

“Why did my father make me?” Draco breathed heavily, grabbing the sleeve of her shirt, scrunching it up into a tight ball under his grip, forcing her to face him. She looked at him and never loosened her gaze on him.

“Because you were weak.”

His grip on her shirt tightened. She continued speaking.

“You wanted to forget that you ever had such feelings for me, you were ashamed. You were weak, Draco. You didn’t know how to function as your own person because your parents smothered your childhood.”

She was saying all the things he didn’t want to hear, but he had this undeniable need, and urge to know what else she had to say.

“So when you came to Hogwarts, you functioned on what your father taught you. And you started hating yourself for it when you realized we had so much in common and I was someone you could love. But it was too late for a happy ending for us, by then, because you were sixteen and too much of your father’s philosophies had bled into yours. It became one single thing. You hated being a Malfoy but you knew your priorities laid with your family.”

He was breathing hard now.

“And then what happened, oh brilliant one?”

“And then we fell in love. And you became the coward everyone expected you to be when you walked away from me by taking that potion.”

“You wanted to take it also!” Draco finally cried out, letting his grip onto her fall away as he shrank back and angrily balled his hands up into a fist, promptly punching the wall with so much fierceness that the paint chips crackled when he let go. And then he blew another fuse and threw another punch at it. And he became this vicious animal, punching until his fists bled.

Hermione exhaled slowly. The silence shook their thoughts violently and she finally spoke.

“You remember.”

“Bits and pieces,” he finally answered gruffly. “They come back to me in the dreams I have of you.

“I didn’t want to search for the rest of my life for a love that I already knew I’d experienced. For something so grand, so spectacular when I already know it existed. When I already knew I’d seen it all. I didn’t want to forget it. And it hurts; you have no idea how much it hurts. But I wanted to take the pain. And I did. And I don’t regret it.”

He felt numb all over again and for the next few minutes, the stillness of the silence saturated through the walls, through their thoughts as the only sound to be heard was the soft rumbling of the train, moving forward toward Italy.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No,” he rasped back automatically. “I should be thanking you for telling me. Thank you for being my wake up call. This changes everything. This explains those fucking dreams. My father controlled so much of my life, and apparently you were a big part of it. And I was scared to lose you both. But now both are gone.”

She bit her lower lip. “Life moves on, Draco. And you may not believe it, but I think I’ve found the meaning behind it all. We’re all apart of the cosmic joke, and it’s up to us to just play along, poke fun at it, live it to the best of our abilities as we can, being the insignificant little specks we are in this universe. Make checklists and try to finish them.” She smiled a little.

“I don’t see how you can be happy after all that has happened.”

“I’m not ecstatic . . . I’ve just, I’ve found peace. I found true friendship in Harry and Ron. I found love.” She looked straight at him and he didn’t break the gaze. “I’ve lived life. And it’s because I hurt so much through it that I realize how good it can be at times. It feels so good when the knife stops twisting, you know? And you’ve been living under so many rules and regulations your whole life, and that’s why we were so close, Draco, because I had been living under my own strict rules. But I just . . . broke all of that when I made the decision not to take the potion with you. I decided I wanted to change. I decided I wanted to remember you. I didn’t want to hide anything. I just wanted truth.”

The wake up call shatters the still existence of your life, changing everything.

“We’re almost there, Draco. Thank you for telling me that I was meant to live when we crashed, that meant a lot. And if I never see you again, I just want you to know, that yeah, while it did hurt, it was worth it to open my eyes. Because when you do, you come to find that the view in front of you is totally worth it.”

There were a lot of comfortable pauses in their conversations, Draco realized.

“My father died two weeks ago.”

She inhaled slowly. “So is that why you’re going to Italy? To spread his ashes?”

He nodded. “He and my mother met and fell in love there.”

She was about to speak but then they both felt the train come to a slow stilted stop as their arrival loomed before them through the clear window.

“The weather in Florence looks nice,” she said, looking outside the window. Draco looked over her shoulder and had to agree, and as she turned around to grab her bag, Draco pulled her in gently by her shoulders and kissed her softly, letting her taste linger in his mouth before he pulled away.

She didn’t say anything, she just looked at him, a little surprised as she stood up.

“Hermione,” he said.

She looked at him as she pulled her bag over her shoulder.

“Why are you here?”

She smiled.

“I came here to see the Vista dal Cielo.”

And then she stepped off as the door to their compartment closed with a soft click.

Draco wondered if he’d ever see her again. He didn’t know this, but this was the same thing he wondered the last time they were together, as well.

Number 1: See the Vista dal Cielo. Notes: For love, for life, for you.

Draco wandered the city for a few days, feeling restless and his head filled with thoughts. His body ached from the train wreck and his feet were sore from walking so much, but he felt newborn after learning so much in two days. It was finding out the truth that woken him up loudly.

“Caffè?” the pretty Italian waitress inquired, a pot of rich aromatic coffee in her hands. “Oh, you have gelato. Do you like?”

He nodded. “Much better than ice cream. That has . . . ” he trailed off, his gaze not really focused on her, “too much filler,” he finally said softly.

“Caffè?” she asked again.

Draco looked up at her and shook his head no as he looked past her at the cobbled streets. The trees smelled of summer – a little sweet, a little heavy, and the strong hint of warmth and spice all around him. The air felt balmy and didn’t do his skin well as particles of dust and reckless summer air clung to his skin, making him feel really dirty at the end of the way.

He was surprised at how much he didn’t mind this, he noted as he took a small sip of his coffee, which was a little too strong for his tastes. He put the cup down gently on the wicker table under the yellow umbrella as he sat at the outdoor café. He opened the book in his hands and began to read.

Effluoserum:

A strong serum derived from the toxins of a California poppy, a pinch of . . .

He scanned on.

An Effluoserum must be taken by all parties of the memory. In the event in which it is to erase a certain day, all persons present in the day with you must agree to take the serum.

Draco expertly raised a blond eyebrow. Hermione hadn’t taken any with him, but the serum still worked?

He read on.

Those who do not mutually engage in the spell will remember all the events embedded into the spell for erasing. Other effects will include as follows:

He flipped the page quickly.

A slow but timed deterioration of the heart and mind. The date of decease will be known not upon the decision not to take the potion, but when other parties involved should choose to disengage themselves from the victim of the spell.

He slammed the book shut with a loud clap and looked around with wild eyes. If Hermione hadn’t decided to take the serum with him, this meant that she wouldn’t forget anything. This also meant that she would die alongside as a consequence of not having taken the serum.

Hermione was dying.

She was dying because of Draco.

And she knew this.

He had to stop her.

Draco bolted out of his seat and darted toward the nearest exit and to find someone to help get him directions. And all the while his mind wracked with the panicky thoughts in light of this newly discovered fact, he could only wonder the hardest if Hermione really thought all of this would be worth it.

“Oh! Si, si! Vista dal Cielo? E' una salita ripida, ma, una volta raggiunta la vetta, vi renderete conto che ne è valsa la pena.”

“Yes! Vista dal Cielo,” Draco said. This was the ninth Italian local he had asked and the first to finally know where he was talking about. “Where is it?”

“Bellissima, molto affascinante!”

English, you Italian bastard!

“That’s nice!” Draco snapped. “Where? Where?” he pressed, speaking slowly and forcefully.

The man stared at him blankly.

“Italian,” Draco muttered under his break as he rubbed his wand gently in his pants pocket. “Ah, that’s better!” he said, feeling a tingly sensation roll across his tongue. “Dov'è la Vista dal Cielo??”

“Oh, si!” The man grabbed a parchment from under his desk and proceeded to write down directions while Draco scrambled to think of an Italian to English translation spell in his head.

“Grazie!” Draco said breathlessly as he grabbed the paper and bolted out of the lobby.

“We have to go soon, are you ready?” Draco asked quietly. It was winter, and the first battle of the war would be fought soon.

Hermione looked up at him, the cold whipping of the wind stinging the wetness against her cheeks. She was freezing.

“It’ll be okay,” Draco promised, handing her the vial. She took it away from his leather gloved hands and looked down at it.

“Are you scared?” she asked.

“To death,” he cracked a grin.

“Remember when you used to wish I was dead?” She laughed a little.

He looked at her seriously, no trace of smile on his face. “That’s not funny,” he said, his voice thick.

“Okay. I’m ready,” Hermione said, uncorking the vial. “Just so you know, Draco, this will work without any fault, you know why?”

“Because you brewed it?” He smiled at her.

She nodded, her eyes watery. The faint sound of explosions in the distance growled lowly. He looked past her and saw the Forbidden Forest.

The next time he’d be in the Forbidden Forest, he realized, he wouldn’t know anything – not how they had shared their first kiss there, not how they had escaped there to be together on so many days and nights.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked her.

“We said we would, right? It’ll be better this way,” she said. “Besides, it’s a test. It’ll be a big test. You remember, right, Draco? After we take this, we won’t be together until we meet again.”

“Right. In Italy, at the Vista dal Cielo.”

“That’s when we’ll meet again. Did you write it down?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t need to, I’ll remember.”

“. . . promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay, let’s not delay this,” she raised the vial up to her eyesight and tried to keep her hand from shaking as she waited for Draco, who was uncorking his own vile.

“Hermione,” Draco said. “Before I take this, just in case, I mean, we’ll definitely be meeting in Italy, but just in case I do forget, I just want you to know . . . that it’s not your fault.”

“Okay,” she said tearfully.”

“And, I’m sorry for all the times I called you Mudblood.”

“Okay,” she said again.

“Okay, and one more thing.”

“Okay.” She was shivering, her teeth clamping together in uncomfortable clicks and crisps.

He pulled her face close to his, so that his forehead angled down against hers. She looked up and fought back the urge to cry. His voice was low, and quiet as he spoke, so she had to listen carefully as he spoke, his voice conquered almost completely by the howling wind.

“I’ll never love anyone like this again, and no potion can help me forget that.”

Draco closed his eyes let go of her, and downed the vile tasting serum. He felt his lungs clenching painfully and his throat burning as the toxic liquid went down like toxic acid.

“Wait, Draco.” Hermione fumbled and purposely dropped the vile. “Draco! Wait. I changed my mind. I can’t do this. I . . . I don’t want to forget you.”

Draco was already writhing on the floor, clenching onto his stomach.

She bent down, crying hard and kissed his shuddering lips. They felt cold and hard.

“Don’t forget about our promise.”

Vista dal Cielo is tucked away in the protective arms of Italy, buried deeply in her embrace. It’s located in the small town of Fiesole, tucked away in the hills and propelled far, far away from the cities – from the majesties of the shopping wonders of Milan, from the overcrowded tourist polluted chatter of Rome’s historic air and floats far and beyond the romantic little canals and wading boats in the water town of Venice.

Vista dal Cielo is the highest point in Fiesole, a small Italian town with a heavy tourism virginity and rustic beauty not yet to be disenchanted by the common touch of the overcrowding of outside visitors that most of Italy in these days seemed to welcome.

The man at the restaurant lobby had said it was a steep climb, and he wasn’t kidding. But because it was a steep climb, it cast away even more open armed welcomes to the human civilization. And contrary to popular belief, Draco was physically strong. He had practiced Quidditch fervently during his school years, and there were few people who knew how to ride a broom with as much ease as he did. It was why he hated Harry Potter so much, but anyway.

But the climb was still difficult, and Draco had on thick leather soled shoes that, ironically, he had picked up in Milan. He pushed up against the rocky trail and rested his hands against his knees as he bent down and squinted to his left, finally reaching the peak. The weather’s hospitality was gracious, with the pleasant temperature of warm air and cool breeze brewing close to him, randomly scattered puffs of white cloud shot across the sky.

He had never seen a sky so vividly blue before.

A small inn rested atop the vista and Draco cautiously made his way toward it, pushing the door open as a tingling bell rung softly above his head as the door swung open. There was a worn down wooden platform that stretched about before him, a teenage girl with caramel colored skin and dark hair and eyes looked up at him expectantly.

“Can I help you?” she asked, a thick Italian accent weaving through her words.

Draco sigh with relief upon hearing English words. “I’m looking for someone. She’s about your height--”

“Ah, crazy hair?”

He cracked a grin. “Yes.”

“Very, very sorry.”

“What?” His throat felt dry.

“My father had to take her to the hospital last night.”

He balled up his hands into tight fists. He was too late. He was always too late. He was--

“This is for you.” She placed a brown paper package on the table and he took it slowly, unwrapping its strings as he stepped outside, the hot air cupping his face, the high pitched chiming of the bell ringing through the thickness of the wooden door.

It was a photo album with a rich leather cover. As he opened it, a folded up note on yellow notepad paper fell out.

Draco,

This is for you. Something I made last year while I was putting together all the memoirs of our relationship.

I wish I could say I’m sorry about your father passing, but I’m not. He’s in a better place now and I couldn’t be happier for you. I waited a long time for you to reach this point, this is your one shot, your beginning. You can live in the fullest sense of that word.

Thank you for our last kiss. Thank you for remembering us, maybe not in the way it should be remembered, and not in the most accurate way, but in the best way possible.

Thank you for changing my life.

Draco, I may have forgotten to tell you this, but I never stopped loving you.

Signed,

Hermione Granger.

PS. I knew you’d make it.

His chest hurt, and his head was pounding hard, beating through intense wave after wave of an inexplicable kind of pain. One that overtook your senses, your thoughts, your physical being. He let out a shuddering breath and felt his lungs clamping tightly together, making it hard to breathe.

It hurt so bad.

He closed his eyes.

“I miss you, Dad.”

He looked up and stepped back quickly, finally noticing how close he was standing to the edge.

Before him laid out the most incredible sight he had ever seen. It was a view overlooking Florence and the Tuscan valley – acres and acres of green valley spread out down below and before him. To the right was the far off view of a couple of old roman baths, to the left and all around him was the spread of sensual greens, soft forested aromatic fields and the slow crawl of thickly woven vines. Past that was the eternal stretch of a breathtaking, faraway city that seemed to be resting gently. The view exhaled slowly before him in all its richness, and Draco finally let out a low sigh, remembering Hermione’s words.

When you open your eyes, the view will be worth it.

He folded up the letter and placed it in between two pages of the photo album. He looked up and felt the warm summer breeze brush his face lightly, and for the first time, saw the worn down sign that was a few feet away from him.

Benvenuto alla Vista dal Cielo – welcome to the View from Heaven.

So have you been to a place like this?

To see your breath as it paints against the sky

Feeling so right and things will run

The fever is near,

I wish you were here.

End.

“Stone Dragons”, Gravidy

Rating: R

Published: November 3, 2008 for dmhgficexchange’s Shine a Light event

Link 1: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/306299.html

Summary: Sometimes there are no right decisions. There are only actions and consequences. Hermione's only choice now is who to betray.

CHAPTER 1

The Ice Age is over now,

Why is there still ice everywhere?

The Cape of Good Hope has been discovered,

Why do a thousand sails contest the Dead Sea?

The sound of voices, muffled but unmistakably raised in anger, startled her awake. The hot, unpleasantly muzzy feeling she always got when she fell asleep during the day curled in her stomach and she rolled out of bed, the day’s makeup still on her face now feeling crusted and dirty. She still forgot sometimes that she could simply spell it away.

The voices became clearer as she padded down the darkening hallway in stocking feet: Ron’s bellowing voice—furious, confused and hurt; Harry screaming back at him, wild, irate, not giving an inch; Ginny’s tearful pleading.

Hermione’s feet sped up at the same tempo as her heart, wondering what was happening. She emerged into the den to see one of the lamps knocked over and broken. Harry stood facing Ron, his back to her; she could see his shoulders shaking. Ron’s face was red and mottled with rage but also creased with helplessness and a bit of fear.

“Harry! Harry, what’s going on?” Hermione called, stepping forward to touch his sweatered arm.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Harry’s arm swung unsteadily, a heavy weight slamming across her chest, the back of his hand connecting with her cheek sending her staggering back. She looked up, more shocked than pained, and reeled back further at the pure, demonic hatred in his eyes.

With a tiny, stifled gasp, Hermione jerked fully awake and then she groaned, the tense motion having sent all her stiff muscles knotting. She slowly leaned forward on the uncomfortable chair and stretched out, head pounding, and took a moment to get her bearings. There was soft light coming in through the windows and her book was on the floor. She’d been here all night. Again.

A soft rasping sound had her sitting up and she beamed down at Harry Potter where he lay wasting away in his hospital bed.

“Good morning, Harry.” She whispered, pleased when his glazed green eyes found her face. He smiled weakly and tried to speak again, only the soft rasping sound issuing forth from his cracked lips.

She took his trembling hand and kissed the palm, laying it against her face, relieved, as she was every morning that he had made it through another night. His hair was nearly all white now and his skin was sunken. Pale lines of pain creased around his mouth and eyes.

She ran her wand over him and saw that the Junior Healers had already been in to tend to him. He was clean and fed and stuffed full of painkillers and spells and drugs and potions to keep him breathing and his heart beating and his organs from failing. She had learned all of the spells and procedures they used on him over the last six months.

“I’m so proud of you, Harry.” She whispered, low and soothing, beginning what had become something of her morning chant, “For being so strong and holding on for so long. We need you here so badly. Can you picture us without you? We’d just be lost. I want you to know that we love you very much and I’m begging you Harry. I’m begging you as a personal favor, to hold on a little longer. I know it’s hard, but me and a whole lot of other people are working to help cure you and we’re going to. Just see if we don’t.”

Harry’s fingers curled the tiniest bit to cup her cheek. His pain-filled eyes were solemn.

The door creaked open and Percy Weasley stepped in, a vase of red and gold flowers in the crook of one arm and a suitcase full of paperwork in his hand.

“Good morning, Hermione, sorry I’m late.”

“Good morning, Percy. I didn’t notice.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Well, you’d best hurry or you’ll be late for work.” Percy said.

Hermione whispered a goodbye to Harry and kissed his forehead. Percy sat down in the chair she’d abandoned and she heard him murmuring soft greetings to Harry as the door shut behind her.

Hermione flooed home but found the house dark and empty. Ron was already at work and her children had long since grown up and moved away. Rose was twenty-five and on an overseas trip with her Muggle boyfriend. Hugo was attending Cambridge. It always threw her for a loop how her brilliant daughter had carelessly dismissed the opportunity for higher learning and turned her nose up at every scholarship she was offered, while her younger son had worked himself to the brink of exhaustion over and over to attend his school of choice.

But then Rose had never really been interested in anything other than the here and now.

Hermione showered and changed into fresh clothes, not feeling particularly rested but not willing to waste any time. She had a small breakfast and ate it leisurely even though the clock on the wall declared her ‘late’.

There was a box of old textbooks that she kept in the closet of Rose’s old bedroom. It was the last place Ron would ever look for anything and so it was the perfect hiding place for her book bag and the folder of notes she was working on. She walked out the door without even considering going to work. She hadn’t gone in over a month and no one had contacted her. She didn’t know if she’d been fired or not and she didn’t particularly care.

She Apparated to Malfoy Manor just before seven a.m. and walked up the lush, manicured property as if she owned the place, scattering peacocks in her wake. It had once occurred to her that she should probably associate this place with pain and terror. She’d been tortured under this very roof while some of its occupants were present. But it had happened so fast and at night and so long ago that, to her, it didn’t even seem the same place.

The House-Elves let her in, scowls of disapproval on their ugly little faces. She’d long since stopped caring, and that made her feel guilty when she thought about it too long. Lucius encountered her in the foyer. Predictably, greetings were not exchanged.

The eldest Malfoy was nearing ninety, which was only just out of Wizarding middle age. Aside from a few new lines on his face, the partial goatee he now wore and the non-receding hairline, he looked exactly like Draco. The full head of hair had surprised her until she remembered that hair loss was allegedly inherited from the mother’s side.

The Malfoy patriarch openly glared at her in loathing, the curl of his lips telling her that his mouth was just brimming with vitriol that he longed to let fly. It was sort of satisfying. The fall of Voldemort had not destroyed the Malfoys as it had the other Death Eaters but Lucius had spent close to eight years in Azkaban because of her and Harry’s testimonies against him. He could hate her now all he wanted; at least he was hating her because of something she did and not how she was born.

Despite this, Lucius didn’t say anything or try to stop her. She had never bothered to ask what Draco had said that stopped his parents from murdering her for daring to taint their abode with her presence.

The library in the south wing was exactly as she’d left it. The House-Elves weren’t bothering to clean up after her and she wasn’t sure if it was courtesy or implied insult. One of the Malfoy Elves would be in later to bring her another load of books from the Black Library or the Potter vault. The books would remain here when she finished with them—one of the prices she was paying for free access to the Malfoy’s records.

Hermione laid her impeccably organized notes out and picked up where she’d left off the day before. She spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon pouring through texts and journals and tomes. An Elf popped in with food sometime when she wasn’t paying attention. the tea grew cold but the sandwiches were still good, though slightly dry, by the time she got to them.

It was dark when she finally left the Manor. She saw no one on the way out and helped herself to the floo to return to St. Mungo’s. Percy was reading the Quidditch scores to Harry when she walked in. Harry was awake but his eyes were swollen and half-lidded. He struggled to pull in pain-filled, shallow breaths.

Hermione frowned, “How long since the Junior Healer was in?”

Percy glanced at his watch, “Several hours.”

Shaking with fury, Hermione cast several spells on Harry to ease his breathing and went to the cupboard for his painkillers. Percy helped hold Harry’s head while Hermione gently fed him the potions. He gulped them greedily, a testament to the agony he’d been in.

Shaking, Harry fell into an exhausted sleep.

“When is your relief due?” Hermione asked.

“Not for another hour. Did you find anything?”

She hated it when they asked her that.

“No.”

Hermione marched down the hall to find the Junior Healer on duty and tore into the girl, screaming at her and cursing her, not caring that people were watching, not caring that there had been a small outbreak of Dragon Pox and that the hospital was understaffed at the moment or that those on staff who had been exposed to the disease were not allowed near Harry and his collapsing immune system or that there were other patients in worse condition.

Harry was what was most important, no one else. And she let them know this, loudly, hatefully, knocking a tray of equipment to the floor, threatening the Junior Healer’s job and to send a letter to the Daily Prophet about the hospital staff neglecting Harry Potter. The poor girl was in tears before she was through and Hermione barely stopped herself from slapping the little bitch. Part of her knew her own behavior was reprehensible, but she was long past caring.

Afterwards, she found one of the Head Healer’s working on Harry’s case, Eleanor, in her office and tiredly handed the woman her notes for the day. Eleanor, in turn, supplied Hermione with a summary of their current treatment regimen and Harry’s responses to it.

Hermione flooed home to a dark and cold house and stupidly realized that it was Ron’s night to sit with Harry. She ate a cold dinner and collapsed into bed.

Hermione had worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for nearly sixteen years, reviewing, rewriting and revoking laws that were unfair to Muggleborns and Squibs. She spent years working towards equal rights for Muggleborns and representation for Muggle families with Wizard relatives and special laws to protect Muggles themselves. She had been very satisfied with her work. She had done a wonderful job. She had made a difference.

In theory.

Wanting to see her laws in action, she began working in more hands-on areas of the Department as a ‘translator’ for Aurors and Obliviators who didn’t understand the Muggle world.

She didn’t like a lot of what she saw.

They were small things, most of them, but they were troubling.

The Obliviators took things while they worked. Constantly. Anything that struck their fancy, stuffing their pockets with things from Muggle homes or stores or even off of Muggles themselves. The Aurors caused damage to Muggle homes, cars and businesses during stakeouts and shoot-outs and they rarely bothered fixing the damage as long as everyone was Obliviated.

They were completely callous towards the Muggles themselves; Confuding them, enchanting them, body-binding them, forcing them with spells to talk, going through their possessions, all in the name of getting their job done as swiftly and easily as possible. They didn’t have time to explain themselves to every single Muggle they met. And it was all okay because no one was getting hurt and it wasn’t like the Muggles would even remember.

She couldn’t even call it prejudice really. It was simply that there was no balance of power. Despite the laws, Wizards seemed to hold no accountability for their actions in the Muggle world.

None of her coworkers even bothered to hide what they were doing. Some of them were friends of hers and Ron’s and they took things and toyed with the Muggles and broke things right in front of her. And it wasn’t even all Purebloods who were doing it. It was everyone, as if simply because they had the power to do it, they were entitled.

She knew that if she asked these same people if they would ever steal from her, they would be horrified and offended. Of course they wouldn’t steal from her. Stealing was wrong.

So why was this different? How could they possibly feel that stealing from and generally taking advantage of non-Magical people was somehow okay?

The laws she had spent so many years on were bent or skirted or twisted to find loopholes and the behavior was either not being reported or not being enforced or had somewhere along the lines become socially acceptable.

Or had always been socially acceptable.

It was seeing her Minister, Kingsley’s successor, David Gonerby, in action that really chilled her. She had attended a meeting with Gonerby and his cabinet to see the Prime Minister of Muggle Britain, Chester Mayfield.

There had been no violence, there had been no raised voices or threats but it had been obvious that Gonerby was in charge and expected to be obeyed without question and equally obvious that Mayfield was helpless and fearful and enraged, trapped in an office with six people who could kill him with two words. Mayfield had silently signed several documents that ensured the ‘safety of the Muggle people’ by ensuring that properties that were bought or inherited by mixed-blood Wizards never reverted to Muggle land if the Wizard owner died and had only Muggle family left.

When the group returned to the Wizarding Ministry, Hermione hung back in the Minister’s office after the others left.

Gonerby smiled at her disarmingly, “Is there something else Miss. . . .”

“Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione corrected him tartly.

“Oh yes! Auror Weasley’s wife. He’s a fine man. What can I do for you?”

“Minister Gonerby, I am quite frankly appalled by what I just witnessed.” Hermione stated baldly, “You showed that man, the Minister of Muggle Britain, not an ounce of decency or respect. Is that an example of how you think Wizards are meant to treat Muggles?”

Gonerby was taken aback but only for a moment “I heard you were Muggleborn.”

“Damn right I am, Minister.”

“Mrs. Weasley, forgive me. Please don’t misunderstand the situation.” He stepped forward and took her hand in his, “I hold nothing but respect for Muggles. It is greedy politicians for whom I hold contempt.” He patted her hand and walked back to his desk, “Chester Mayfield, my current brother in this calling, so to speak, is infamous for his desire to turn Wizarding Britain from an autonomous nation to a tax-paying country under his rule. Last year, he wanted a census. A census! They want to find and number us, Mrs. Weasley, and for what reason, I can only guess. When we refused to give him a census of our people, he asked for one of only the Muggleborns.” He sat down at his desk, “Once again, we refused. You see, technically things become a bit hazy when we look closely at how the laws, both Wizard and Muggle laws, affect Muggleborns and their families. Chester means to exploit this. These things start out small, you see. He begins by exerting his control on the Muggle families of Muggleborns, then on Muggleborns themselves, then on the magical families of Muggleborns. It spreads and thus I’ve nipped it in the bud. I am looking out for our people the best way I can, by keeping greedy governments out of Wizarding business.”

The laws became hazy? The man had no idea who he was talking to.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, “Your reasons do not interest me, Minister. I believe we are a people who can accomplish our goals without stooping to bullying tactics.”

Gonerby steepled his fingers and told her sincerely, “I know it isn’t pretty, Mrs. Weasley, but sometimes a small nation MUST show their power in so blatant a manner in order that larger countries do not see them as weak and easily taken over. The Muggle government has been nipping at our heels for years, trying to find a wedge in. They want to sell their products, they want the corner market on ours, they want our resources, they want our potions— they want our power. Most governments are not run by just, fair-minded men but by power-hungry individuals who will take anything and everything they can get their hands on if it is not adequately defended.”

“Does your definition apply to yourself?” Hermione asked coldly.

Gonerby wet his lips, “For our people. Yes, when necessary.”

And for that, at least, she wasn’t sure she could blame him.

Hermione couldn’t pinpoint when Harry’s illness began. He had hidden it too well.

Maybe it started the night Voldemort died, maybe it had started the night his parents were murdered when he was only fifteen months old and cheated death for the first time. Death must have kept count. Kept track of every meeting between them that Harry skipped out on.

The Killing Curse, Quirrel, the Basilisk, falling from his broom from a hundred and fifty feet, the Dementors and on and on. And Death had been content to wait.

Hermione could not understand what the hurry was now.

Harry was only fifty-two. By Wizarding standards that was only around twenty-five. He had only looked twenty-five until a year ago and then he’d slowly started to look gray and haggard. Hermione knew that he had probably looked this bad for some time and that they had only begun to see it when he was no longer able to keep his glamour up.

It infuriated her.

If she’d known earlier she could have done something! Researched, experimented, something! And she hated herself that she hadn’t noticed!

Oh, she’d noticed something. She’d seen him get tired quickly, sit down more often, gasp for breath after laughing only a little bit. He stopped playing Quidditch, he walked slower, his appetite diminished. And he’d never said a word.

No, they finally realized something was horribly wrong when he became mentally unstable.

It started out as strange little quirks in his speech and habits, lapses of memory, sudden bouts of rage that had grown more frequent and more violent until one day Hermione stared into his hate-filled face and didn’t know who he was.

She didn’t know what was more painful: the slow decline of his mental state or the painful, crippling degradation of his health or the Healers, Muggles and Wizards, telling her over and over that they couldn’t figure out what was wrong. That there was no hope.

Hermione wasn’t a Healer but she had started studying the first time Harry was in the hospital for over a month. She left the clinical work to the Healers at St. Mungo’s but every day she studied the results of their tests and drew conclusions about which direction his treatment should take. She knew she wasn’t the only one either, she was only one of many people focused on healing the savior of the Wizarding world. At times it made her feel better to know there were others, brilliant experts and professionals from all over the world fighting the same battle as she was, but she never stopped believing that she was the only one who could save him.

Hermione woke when Ron crawled into bed with her. He didn’t wake her up, which meant Harry had survived the night once more. It was still dark out but must have been near dawn for him to have come home. She waited, feigning sleep, until Ron’s breathing was soft and even and then crawled out of bed. A hand caught her arm before she could stand and, turning her head slightly, she saw Ron’s brown eyes open and wide-awake.

“Where do you go?” He whispered, “Where do you go everyday?”

She looked away, unable to face him, “I go to research Harry’s cure.”

“I know but . . . where do you go?”

She hesitated, “Do you love, Harry, Ron?”

He started to sit up, agitated, “What kind of question is that, of course I love Harry!”

She tugged her arm away, “Then don’t ask questions.”

Ron stared after her as she quietly shut the bedroom door.

She found his dirty clothes in the hamper and did a load of laundry, setting out and ironing another set of clothes for when he woke up. She washed the dishes in the sink and made sure dinner was sitting in the fridge, ready to be put in the oven tonight.

Her and Ron weren’t doing so well. They hadn’t been since Harry started declining. It was sort of odd that it would affect their relationship so aversely. It made Hermione wonder if Harry really was the glue between her and Ron, something she hadn’t speculated since Hogwarts.

They weren’t even arguing. They were just never around. He was at work and she was doing her research or one of them was sitting with Harry or one of them was visiting Ginny and sometimes they came home but then they had no emotion to spare for each other, not anger, not comfort, not grief. It was like living with a stranger.

They hadn’t made love in five months.

Hermione felt awkwardly detached from the Weasley collective and Ron wouldn’t talk to her about Harry. Every time she brought up the subject he dissembled until he could slip away and it left her boiling mad and ashamed and deathly afraid that he blamed her for not finding a cure straight away.

And she was keeping secrets from him.

It was an added mental strain to know that her husband was good and strong and honest and that she was lying to him everyday. She ached with guilt but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the things she now knew. Telling him would simply compound her guilt.

If he knew what he had done, what he had condemned himself to by marrying her. . . . She didn’t want to know how he’d react. She didn’t think she could handle it.

‘Late’, the clock on the wall read and she frowned at it before flooing to St. Mungo’s to say good morning to Harry.

Ginny was with him today. Ginny who was nearly as pale and sunken as her husband. Harry was sleeping, lungs rattling in a way that frightened Hermione. For Ginny’s sake, she didn’t react to it outwardly. Ginny was holding Harry’s limp hand, begging him softly to get better.

Hermione urged her to take a break and let Hermione sit with him a moment. Ginny agreed in something of a daze and left the room. Hermione quickly scanned Harry and found that the Junior Healers were doing their duty; this decline in his health was not due to negligence. The potion she’d secretly fed him was already losing its effectiveness.

She was going to have to dose him again already—after only half the time of the original dose.

“Harry, sweetheart, just hold on a little longer. We need you. We need you so badly. Ginny’s a wreck and your kids are so afraid they’re going to lose their dad. Please Harry, you don’t want your kids to lose their father. You know what it’s like to lose your parents. You don’t want that for your kids. Think how Lily will cry.”

She offered up a prayer to whatever deity might be listening and kissed his face.

Moving quickly—she didn’t dare lock the door—she surreptitiously pulled a small vial from her robes. The liquid inside was dark and sweet smelling and poured easily down Harry’s throat. His eyes immediately snapped open and she grabbed his hands as they clenched. He began to gurgle, frightened sounds of pain, and thrash frantically. Hermione held him through the worst of it. Talking to him soothingly until the seizing eased and she wiped the sweat from his brow and the froth from his lips and he sank back on the cot, breathing easily, the horrible rattling and wheezing gone. Harry blinked at her, surprised and more aware than he had been before.

She smiled and kissed his face again and vowed to never tell him what she’d had to do to make that potion.

She didn’t bump into anyone at Malfoy Manor that morning when she slipped in once again but a new stack of books—she’d forgotten that she ordered those—and several books she hadn’t ordered were sitting at her table. She assumed the new books were ones Draco had borrowed for her benefit from one the other pureblood families.

Draco himself paid her a visit in late afternoon, skulking into the library with a cold expression on his face and a tea tray floating behind him. Despite the hairline, his face was still smooth and strong and it made her feel that much older, knowing that she and Ron and Harry were all so exhausted and haggard. It had occurred to her when she’d first seen the hairline that it was something easily fixed. She had yet to find reference to a receding hairline being high fashion in Pureblood society but she refused to ask.

“Are the new books helpful?” Draco—she couldn’t think of him as Malfoy, not with Lucius, Scorpius and their wives running about—asked her in the deep Malfoy timber he’d finally acquired. There was no hint of sneer in his tone but the cold, predatory gaze more than made up for it.

“Yes, thank you.” She murmured. “They’re not yours?”

“They are from Zabini’s library.” Draco murmured as he eased neatly into the seat across from her, the silver tray laying itself on the table with hardly a clink of china, “They’ve quite the collection. There will be more in the coming days.” He took a sip of steaming tea, “You are keeping your side of the bargain.”

Her mouth trembled, “Yes.”

“Hmph. Do take care of yourself, Granger, or you’ll expire before Potter does.”

Her head snapped up and she hissed, “You shut your mouth. . . .”

His cold gaze went positively glacial, “Are you back-talking me in my own home, Mudblood? After all I’ve done for you?”

She blinked rapidly and looked down at her book, “No, Lord Malfoy, please forgive me.”

He smiled patronizingly, “Have something to drink, Granger, perhaps a shot of something stronger than tea.”

He flicked his wand and a teacup settled in front of her, a bottle of scotch appearing and pouring generously into the tea.

She didn’t turn it down. She took it and drank it gratefully, hoping it would numb her at least for awhile.

Baseness is the password of the base,

Honor is the epitaph of the honorable.

Look how the gilded sky is covered

With the drifting, crooked shadows of the dead

Ron was at the house when she returned and it surprised her, maybe even pleasantly, until she realized he wasn’t sleeping, he was passed out and he reeked of Firewhiskey.

She had no right to be annoyed with him.

She spelled his shoes and cloak off and moved him into a more comfortable position on the couch, getting a blanket from the cupboard to cover him with.

She ate a cold dinner in the kitchen without tasting it and wondered: when Harry got better, if she would have the guts to tell him what she knew. She desperately wanted to tell him, if just so she could avoid having to make a decision.

Let him choose. Let the consequences be on his head. She would follow him blindly just so she didn’t have to think about it.

Harry would save them, like he always did.

It had been three years since she discovered the truth. She’d spent that first year pretending she didn’t know it and the second year trying frantically to disprove it. She didn’t accept it until after Harry became deathly ill. As if, as Harry became weaker, so did her faith and any goodness that remained in the world.

How could she believe such a bitter, horrible truth? It was so unfair. So awfully unfair.

And now it was something that never left her thoughts. It haunted every waking moment of her life. It was always there at the back of her mind and she couldn’t face it because when she did, she froze.

She was a woman of action. She analyzed a situation and chose the path that was just and good even if it was the most difficult path to walk.

But there was no ‘good’ or ‘right’ path before her. Not anymore

She finally understood the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’ when she realized she would have gladly gone her entire life happily not knowing.

Hermione broke into the Muggle Prime Minister’s office several days after her meeting with Gonerby.

It was late and Chester Mayfield was alone and preparing to leave for the day. He stood as she Apparated in, just as he had for Gonerby, his face tight and angry. “What is it now?”

“I’m very sorry for intruding, Minister Mayfield.” Hermione apologized. “I know it is late but I wanted to come here while I wouldn’t be missed. My name is Hermione Weasley. I was here with the Minister of Magic a week ago.”

The Minister remained silent, gaze challenging and slightly fearful

“Sir, I . . . I’m afraid I had been under the impression that our two governments were in accordance. I was shocked and very upset by Minister Gonerby’s behavior last week and I would like to know, sir, if this is something personal between the two of you, or if what I witnessed was indeed a representation of how Wizards treat non-Magical people.”

Mayfield’s mouth tightened, beady eyes judging her sincerity, and then he let out an angry sigh, rubbing at his eyes.

“I think you’ve answered your own question.”

She blinked, “Sir?”

“You simply popped in here unannounced like they all do. It never occurs to any of you to make an appointment. The rules of common courtesy do not apply to you.”

Hermione flushed bright red, “Oh dear. Oh, sir, I am so sorry. You’re correct. I didn’t even think . . . I’ll come back later. I’ll make an appointment and do this properly.”

“No. No, it’s quite alright.” Mayfield sat down, still rubbing tiredly at his eyes, “Have a seat Miss. . . .”

“Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione took the offered seat in front of his desk.

“Are you a Muggleborn, Mrs. Weasley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you plan to take some sort of action against Gonerby?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. I’ve been working for years on reforming laws in Muggle-Wizard relations and . . .”

“I would advise against it.” The man interrupted crisply.

Hermione’s mouth worked in surprise, “Sir?”

“It has always been this way, Mrs. Weasley. In the old days Wizards were revered and honored. They were looked upon by non-Magical people as more than human and they have never let us forget it. What could illiterate peasants or even a learned King do against what was seen as otherworldly might? Our leaders bowed their heads and swore to do as we were told because to do otherwise meant certain death for us and our people. I am well aware, Mrs. Weasley, of how easily I could be disposed of and replaced should it suit Gonerby’s needs and no one would ever even remember me.” He shook his head, “Our peoples do not have an alliance, or an accord. We never have.”

“Sir, I. . . . It is one of my goals to see a united Wizarding and non-Magical world. I know you’ve never heard of me, but I do have power among my people and if need be, I can have Gonerby replaced and run a campaign to ensure that the laws that aren’t being followed are more strictly enforced.”

Mayfield closed his eyes, “Mrs. Weasley, I do not know how long you’ve worked within the Ministry but you must realize that most of the positions are held by Purebloods. Most Purebloods are related. Do you expect them to arrest their own family members? Do you expect them to do anything but turn a blind eye?”

And Hermione hated that she’d never made that connection before.

No wonder her laws weren’t being enforced. No one was going to rat out their own family and if they did, chances were they were ratting out family to other family members.

Mayfield allowed her to digest that before continuing, “You know, our people weren’t always separate. There was no need to be. A single Wizard was more powerful than a mob of normal people. They openly ruled us. They were the Gods of Norse and Greek Mythology.”

Hermione had known that, sort of. It was mentioned in more than one history text that Muggles explained magical occurrences as the work of Gods but she’d never seen a mention of Muggles worshiping Wizards. And she wouldn’t, not until much later when she dug deep into the Malfoy library.

“Why do you think Wizards went into hiding, Mrs. Weasley?”

“According to my history texts it was because of persecution by the church and witch burnings.” Hermione said slowly.

“Hmm. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Why would the people feel such hatred towards Wizards?”

“Um, I suppose because it was part of their religious beliefs.” She replied carefully, diplomatically.

“But why was it part of their religion? Do you believe they just pulled such a prejudice from thin air?”

Hermione could see where he was going with this but demurred, “It could happen.”

“It could.” Mayfield admitted, “It has in the past. But no, Mrs. Weasley. This particular prejudice is a relic of the first rebellion of non-Magical people against those who held our yolks. We were enslaved, Mrs. Weasley, we still are today. It is simply that most of us don’t know it.”

“Isn’t that going a little far?” Hermione stammered, shocked by the turn this conversation had taken.

“Wizards did not segregate from us because of ‘persecution’. A small village of Wizards was more than enough to take out an entire army of normal people after all. I’m not saying normal folk are blameless, doubtless atrocities were committed on both sides, but you cannot deny which side would ultimately lose in such an encounter. Wizards did in fact separate from us because of the growing violence. They remembered a time when they outnumbered us, but our numbers were growing so large that Wizards began to fear they would have a hard time controlling us. They pulled out from our population . . . and then attempted to trim our numbers down.”

Hermione kept silent, heart in her throat.

“The Black Plague, Mrs. Weasley.”

She opened her mouth, shut it. There was a long moment of silence.

“This must be uncomfortable for you.” Mayfield reached over to a bottle of brandy and poured them both drinks, “I’m well aware that your history books tell a completely different story.” He watched her take a long drink, “We should have more talks Mrs. Weasley. If you really do desire to aid non-Magical people, perhaps there’s something we can do for each other.”

Healers and Junior Healers were flocking in and out of Harry’s room in a panic when Hermione arrived at St. Mungo’s. She fought not to run into the thick of them.

They were the experts here, there was nothing she could do but wait.

It didn’t make sense! The dose she gave him should have lasted longer than this!

Young James Potter was standing outside in the hallway a little down from Harry’s door. He was staring at the activity helplessly, agitatedly running his hand through his bird’s nest hair. His resemblance to Harry wasn’t as stark as Albus Severus’ but from the back . . . from the back it was pretty close and Hermione had to stop and swallow the aching knot in her throat and get a hold of herself before she came up behind him and put an arm around him.

“Do you know what’s happening?” she asked, trying to keep the quaver from her voice.

James looked stricken, “We were . . . we were talking and . . . he started making this awful screaming noise and went into convulsions.”

Hermione’s mouth twisted. She could never tell if knowing was worse than not knowing.

Hermione sat in the waiting room with James. She offered to wait in his place but he just shook his head. This had to be harder on James than on her and Ron. His wife had just had their second baby—little Anthony Michael had yet to see his grandfather—and he had his own grief plus his mother’s and siblings’ to bear. He was being looked to as the acting head of the Potter family and it left him confused and frightened.

Hermione noticed a man conspicuously rubbernecking around at the activity and pegged him as a reporter.

She wouldn’t hex him until he attempted to go down the hallway.

The Wizarding world had gone absolutely mad over the news of Harry’s illness. Visitors, get-well cards and flowers flooded St. Mungo’s. The Daily Prophet reacted with its typical apocalyptic optimism. According to them, Harry was going to die after which the Wizarding World would spontaneously implode from lack of his presence. When Harry didn’t immediately drop dead as per their reporting, they began giving daily updates and sending the public into jubilation or hysteria by reporting a great recovery or a dire drop in Harry’s health.

People held candlelight vigils outside St. Mungo’s and sang and cried and wailed. Specialists and Healers from all over the world were called in to see him. Nothing had helped and the madness just kept building. Part of her thought she should be touched by the public’s love for Harry. But they weren’t Harry’s best friends and they didn’t know what he really meant to the world.

George showed up an hour later and he sat with them, hugging James to his chest until nearly ten at night when Harry was finally stabilized. The panic died down and George and James were allowed to go in and see him. Hermione saw one of the Junior Healers collapse, exhausted into a chair to cry silently and felt a momentary pang of sympathy.

Eleanor spotted Hermione and pulled her aside. The woman’s face was pouring sweat, her graying dark curls sticking to her wrinkled forehead.

“The spells keeping him together almost aren’t working anymore, Hermione. We had to get five people to do a simultaneous cast and we had to repeat it twice before it took.” She shook her head, “We’ve upped his Muggle drug dosage again. And. . . .” she took a deep breath, “We think his magic is going. It has been steady but weak to this point. Today there was a large drop, we think that’s what sent him into convulsions. We’re hoping it was just a fluctuation and that he’ll replenish it naturally but it isn’t a good sign either way.”

Hermione nodded, taking that in. “How much time do I have?”

“A month at most, a few days at worst. He’s a strong one. Got a powerful will. He’s really hanging in there as best he can. But this can’t go on indefinitely. If he gets any worse we’ll need to attempt to put him in stasis.”

“Draught of Living Death?”

Eleanor shook her head, “We’re looking at Hypnos’ Somnus. We think it will be easier on his body. The only reason we haven’t done it yet is because we need him to keep generating magic. But we’ll have to use it soon or there won’t be enough magic to restart his body when we bring him out of it.”

Hermione gave Eleanor her day’s work and went to visit Harry.

He was out of the woods at the moment but obviously not doing well. George was sitting with him, talking to him soothingly but Harry’s eyes were unfocused and blood-shot. He was trembling and making little pained noises in his throat. He flinched whenever George moved and knew he wasn’t really seeing them.

She did a surreptitious scan and noted the results.

Her latest dose of potion had failed nearly completely.

CHAPTER 2

Ron was hunched over on the sofa, waiting anxiously. He stood as she flooed in.

“Is Harry okay? I heard he had an episode.” He moved as if to reach for her, as if to hug her but she was already walking away.

“They’ve stabilized him. You can go see him if you want.” She hung her cloak up and headed to the kitchen.

Ron followed, “There’s dinner in the ‘fridge. . . . I cooked.”

“Oh . . . thanks.” She opened the refrigerator and eyed the steaks and mashed potatoes next to the casserole that had never gotten cooked. “I’m not very hungry.”

She moved to the bar and poured herself a shot of Firewhiskey instead and downed it while Ron hovered in the doorway, watching her.

“Hermione… are you avoiding me?”

“No, Ron.” She said irritably, “I’m working on Harry’s cure. I’m sorry I’m not at home to cook your dinner like a good little house-wife.”

“…Have you found anything?”

“NO!” she slammed the empty shot glass down. “When I find something, you’ll know! Everyone will know!”

“I’m not questioning your abilities…” he started.

“Ron…” she cut him off, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“I’M TRYING NOT TO FIGHT WITH YOU!” he shouted finally, “I know you’re stressed out but he’s my best friend too and at least you’re doing something helpful! All I can do is sit around and wait!” he slammed out of the kitchen and Hermione heard the floo a moment later.

She took another shot of Firewhiskey and collapsed on the couch.

‘Too late’ the clock on the wall read.

Hermione hexed it with a bludgeoning curse and it shattered.

***

The first time she’d heard that Harry was in the hospital, Hermione had rushed to St. Mungo’s in time to see him being released. He had brushed off her concern, laughingly telling them he was okay. He was fine.

A few months later he was back in the hospital and a few months after that and again after that and each time it took him longer to recover.

And each time he gave her some excuse.

“The Healers have it under control.” He’d lied, “They know what it is and I’m going in to get my treatments regularly.”

But he wouldn’t give her any details and he got angry when she asked. She’d even gone behind his back but the Healers wouldn’t tell her anything. She wouldn’t forgive that. Fuck patient confidentiality.

The mental decline had been a living nightmare. At first she didn’t understand that he was mentally sick. He was just angry and irrational and wouldn’t tell her why. He became increasingly hateful and violent and then so very sad and depressed. She remembered one time holding him while he sobbed like a child and how frantic she was with worry, wondering what had happened to hurt him so badly, all her instincts raging inside her with the need to find and destroy the cause of his agony.

Harry was miserable and nothing eased his torment. He was unable to concentrate at work. He was picking fights with her and Ron. He was drinking excessively just to stop hurting. She remembered giggling one day when Ron came out of the floo with torn robes looking like a whirlwind had hit him. It wasn’t so funny when he told her that Harry had attacked him.

The worse Harry became, the more unpredictable and violent, the more they worried. She lay awake at night more and more wondering if everything was okay. They began to worry that he’d hurt himself or someone else. Every floo call had her jumping in fear, terrified that something had happened. But before it came to that, Harry collapsed for the final time.

He’d been in the hospital for over six months now. It was in those first few days, while he was insensible that Hermione learned the truth about his sickness.

The Healers had no idea was wrong with him or how to stop it. He’d been getting worse but he had simply refused to take any of their advice and he hadn’t been treated at all.

Hermione had been frantic.

She’d wanted to know everything about everything. What the Healers knew, what they didn’t know, what was standard procedure, what they were looking for. She began reading every book on healing she could get her hands on. She studied rare illnesses, magical depletion, the side effects of rituals.

She became more and more certain that his illness had something to do with Voldemort. The Horcruxes. Harry hadn’t just had a piece of Voldemort’s soul in him, he had been connected to that piece of soul, had used some of its powers as though they were his own. He’d spent his developmental years with that soul piece inside him. Like a tree can grow to encompass a foreign object, so Harry’s soul had enveloped Voldemort’s soul . . . until the Killing Curse blew a hole straight through Harry’s soul to reach Voldemort’s.

Harry had died. His soul had been damaged.

And neither his body nor soul had ever recovered.

Soul Magic.

Hermione needed books on Soul Magic. But there were none to be found. Only the darkest families owned such ancient works and they weren’t about to let on that such things were in their possession.

Her resources were exhausted, Harry became less coherent every day and wracked with pain and suffering. Hermione turned to a last resort solution.

Dark magic. She’d keep Harry alive with dark magic. She didn’t care what it would take. She remembered Harry’s description of the ritual Voldemort used to gain a body and thought she would gladly provide her own flesh and blood and if they needed blood of the enemy, she’d kidnap Malfoy.

She started in the Black library at Grimmauld place and wanted to scream in misery when she saw that most of the books had been picked through and the Dark ones disposed of. She tried Knockturn Alley next but everyone knew who she was and no self-respecting thug would admit to her that they had Dark and illegal merchandise. When she realized that people knew what sort of things she was looking for, she didn’t dare turn to the Black Market lest someone try to poison Harry.

Her only recourse was the Purebloods. Asking nicely availed her nothing and she couldn’t go around breaking into their homes.

What would she do to save Harry? What would she give up? More importantly, what choices were open to her and which one would lead to Harry being saved?

“I’m hearing voices.” Harry was sobbing, his eyes wild and frightened as they darted around the room, “I hear you and Ron and James!”

Hermione stepped forward very slowly, tried to hug him, to soothe him but he jerked away from her, eyeing her with suspicion and distrust.

“Harry, Harry, please listen.” She crooned gently, “Ron and I love you, if you ever heard our voices, we’d be saying how much we care about you.”

“I’m crazy aren’t I? YOU THINK I’M CRAZY!” he screamed at her, clenching his fists, and she was not Snape, she could not read his mind but she could almost see the violent thoughts as he stared at her, considered, weighed and dismissed them. “You think this is my fault! You think I deserve it!”

“Harry, its okay. Everything’s going to be okay!”

“Don’t tell me everything’s okay! ‘Cause it’s not!” he shrieked, he staggered towards her, made a grab for her.

Hermione backed quickly away, “Ron!” she called, frightened, “RON!”

Why were her only memories the bad ones anymore?

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open. She was in her bed, still fully clothed and with a mild hangover. She rolled over but Ron was not there. His side wasn’t even mussed. She wondered where he’d spent the night and if she had the right to even question it.

She picked his clothes up off the floor and straightened the room before making herself a pot of coffee in the kitchen. She floo called Ron’s office. He didn’t answer.

Feeling old and broken, she went straight to Malfoy Manor and sat desolately among her books, staring into thin air for nearly an hour before she shook herself and tried to get to work. Three hours later she slammed a huge volume down with a furious scream and buried her face in her hands, sobbing. Then she laughed until she cried some more.

Draco stood in the doorway, watching her, bemused, but she brushed past him without a glance and proved to herself that all Wizards and Witches were rotten and dishonest by breaking into a Muggle hospital and taking a human heart, condemning whoever had been waiting for a transplant to death and probably getting whoever had been transporting the organ fired or arrested.

She spent the rest of the day brewing a heinously dark potion and knew that, at the rate her conscious was degrading, she’d be scouring the streets of Knockturn alley for a throat to slit in no time at all.

The potion took several days to brew, nearly a week. She knew she should be brewing it slower, taking breaks to rest her body from the effects of the fumes and the toxic ingredients but she didn’t have time. She didn’t go home once during the brewing process. She was irrationally afraid that Ron would know what she was doing, that he would look at her and somehow sense the Dark Magic all around her. Maybe he could. He was an Auror; it was his job.

She visited St. Mungo’s faithfully every day and knew that Harry was fading faster with each passing moment. She fed him double the dark potion she had been giving him and but it only helped a little. She hoped the new brew would buy her some time.

She couldn’t allow Eleanor to put Harry in stasis. The Healers didn’t know Harry was only doing as well as he was because of the dark potions she’d been feeding him. He didn’t have the strength to make it on his own.

Albus Severus was sitting at St. Mungo’s and, damnit, she couldn’t even look at him. Green eyes, Harry’s eyes, pierced her and when she kept her head turned away, his face shuttered and he sighed and looked away. He was a sharp boy, and it wasn’t fair but she doubted very many people were able to look him in the face at the moment. His only saving grace was that he wasn’t wearing glasses.

“I’m sorry.” She murmured but he didn’t seem to know exactly what she was apologizing for. She supposed she didn’t blame him, there were a lot of things she wanted to apologize for. She wanted to sit beside him and put an arm around him and offer him comfort.

She couldn’t.

Especially now. Touch Harry Potter’s child with hands blackened by the Dark Arts? Never.

Eleanor emerged from Harry’s room after several hours. The Healer took Hermione’s notes from her but looked tired and solemn.

“There isn’t much left we can do for him. Nothing is working anymore.”

“Hermione?” Albus Severus had come up beside her.

“Go on home.” She advised, “It’s my night to stay with him.”

“But what about. . . .”

“They won’t put him in stasis until morning.” Hermione brushed her hair out of her face, “Once he’s in stasis he’ll sleep until we can cure him.”

The boy—man—studied her face and she tried not to flush with guilt.

“You’ll floo-call if his condition changes?” he asked.

Hermione nodded.

“I’m bringing mom over in the morning.”

Harry lay in the bed looking ashen and old. His limbs were stick thin, like they had been when he was a kid and the Dursleys were starving him. His eyes were open and staring at the ceiling, watery and so very tired. The torment in them was almost more than she could bear. But then he saw her and his lips quirked up in a tiny smile and that was somehow worse.

She shut the door behind her and sat beside his bed, taking his frail hand in hers and kissing it. “I’m so happy to see you. I know you’re tired, Harry, but I want you to take a potion for me.”

His gaze was sober. Knowing. She couldn’t meet his eyes..

She pulled the small vial from her robes and slid into the bed beside him to lift him up a bit. He made a pathetic whimpering sound of pain when she lifted him up and it almost made her stop because she hated that she was hurting him, but she had to do it. It was for his own good. To make him better.

She fed the potion to him very slowly and he drank without protest, wheezing a bit. She eased him back down and settled into her chair, holding her breath.

The low keening sound he made caught her by surprise and then his back arched violently and he screamed. An alarm sounded and Hermione gasped as Harry’s shrunken hand gripped hers with surprising strength. He jerked spasmodically, his jaw clenched, every tendon in his neck straining and his eyes found hers and they were wide with pain and fear and pleading with her. Begging her.

Hermione held tight to his hand as the Healers burst in, shouting. They tried to push her out of the way but Harry held on, thrashing and screaming his thin, hoarse screams of agony. Hermione could barely hear what was going on around her, she knelt on the floor, gripping Harry’s hand, their eyes locked and for some reason Hermione felt like begging for forgiveness.

Harry’s heart stopped.

He went utterly still, foam and blood dripping from his mouth. The Healer on duty, Tyre Livermore, ripped her out of the way and practically threw her out of the room, all the while screaming for Yvonne.

Hermione found herself stumbling out the door and into the arms of Draco Malfoy. He pulled her to the side but didn’t immediately move away. He stood and watched, a curious expression on his face as the Healers fought to restart Harry’s heart. Hermione staggered back a few feet and crumpled to the floor, feeling faint and sick.

A moment later a yell went up from one of the Healers and Harry took a high, weak-sounding breath and then another. His heart was beating. He was breathing.

Malfoy stood watching for some time longer, until Harry was stabilized and sleeping and the panic had left the room and no one was running about anymore. Then he walked inside.

“N-no.” Hermione managed to rasp, getting shakily to her feet, “Get away from him.”

She grabbed Malfoy’s arm but he shook her off and stood over the bed, staring down at Harry for a long moment. He reached down as if to touch Harry’s face and Hermione snagged a scalpel off a side table and jammed it up against the soft underside of Malfoy’s throat. He went utterly still.

“Don’t. Touch.” She hissed, all the of the day’s emotions welling up gladly into a killing hatred. She’d slit his throat right now and be happy.

He stayed unmoving but his eyes flicked to the side and met hers, “You really are a cold, cruel bitch.”

She pulled him slowly out of the room, scalpel to his throat.

“What the. . . .Mrs. Wealsey what are you doing!” Yvonne yelled, seeing Hermione lead the man out of the room. Two security men came jogging towards them but stayed a few feet back.

“Protecting Harry.” Hermione growled without remorse.

“Are you?” Draco mocked, “Because. . . .”

“Don’t.” She cut him off angrily and shoved him away. Malfoy rubbed his neck, glaring at her, his hand coming away with a bead of blood. Hermione handed the scalpel to Yvonne who was bristling with disapproval and followed Malfoy down the hall.

“Where have you been?” Draco asked coldly. “You haven’t been to the Manor in days.”

“Sweet of you to come looking.” She sneered.

He grabbed her by the collar of her robes and swung her around, “We made a deal!” He snarled, “You’d best uphold your end.” He twisted his hand until the collar cinched tight around her neck.

“I plan to!” she spat back, grabbing his hand and digging her nails in until he let go, “But I made the deal so I could help Harry and that’s what I’ve been doing this week.”

Draco stared at her in disbelief, “Helping? You’re helping that poor, wretched creature in there?”

“Shut UP! Don’t talk about him like that!”

“If this is what you call helping, then I am glad to have never called you friend.”

“You don’t call anyone friend. If that was your ‘friend’ in there, you’d have already murdered him and sold his organs.”

“And a more noble death it would have been than what you’re subjecting your ‘friend’ to.” He mocked.

“You know what? It is none of your business. Your business is with me and it is on schedule and proceeding as planned. Thank you. Goodbye.” She turned around and marched back towards Harry’s room.

“Do tell him I paid my respects,” was Malfoy’s parting shot.

Hermione sat beside Harry’s bed the rest of the night. His heart stopped twice more and each time she held his hand in the painful convulsions before it happened.

By morning she was exhausted, openly weeping and certain that the potion had not worked. She sat on the ground beside his bed, holding his hand to her breast and spoke to him continuously until her voice was raw and nearly gone. Begging.

“Harry, please don’t leave. I’m so scared Harry. You’re the hero. You’re the strong one. You’re the only one who can protect us and get us through this. I can’t do this by myself. Ginny can’t live by herself and Ron can’t live without his best friend. Please, Harry, please don’t go. Please! You don’t understand. After all this time, you’re the one that stayed good and pure. You’re the one who always knows the right path to take. You’re the only one I trust to lead us. I can’t do it, Harry. I can’t. I can’t. So please don’t leave. I need you here. We all need you here.”

Harry shuddered hard and for a moment she feared he was going into convulsions again but then she felt a burst of magic and he let out a shaky breath and relaxed. She lifted her head and saw the tension in his face had drained away. He was resting peacefully, a faint glow of health in his cheeks.

The potion had worked.

She had bought Harry some time.

Two weeks at most and then she’d need another heart, perhaps an animal sacrifice and a prayer that he could once again ride out the side effects.

Sobbing hysterically, Hermione buried her face in the bedding.

She wasn’t aware of the door opening and she was still babbling to Harry when Ron lifted her up off the floor and gave her several little shakes until she focused on him. Ron’s face was suffused with panic.

“He’s okay. Dad’s alive.” Albus Severus’ voice, high with fright.

Ron looked only a little relieved; his face was still harsh with barely suppressed fear. “She’s just exhausted. I’m taking her home.”

Hermione didn’t know what she was saying, only that she moaned and sobbed and raved as Ron carried her to the floo center. The trip disoriented her further and she wasn’t really aware of anything until Ron set her on the bed and then came back with a potion and helped her drink it.

“You have to sleep, Hermione.” Ron’s voice was tight with strain, “You can’t go on like this. You’ve driven yourself to exhaustion.”

She was already asleep and unaware of how long he sat beside her, his face in his hands.

I come into this world

Bringing only paper, rope, a shadow,

To proclaim before the judgment

The voices of the judged:

Hermione’s pet project for a number of years had been the structure and dynamic of Wizarding society. Its origins, its culture, its ebb and flow.

Of course, she paid special attention to the Muggleborns throughout the history of Hogwarts and what became of them. The patterns she began to see didn’t make any sort of sense to her at first. She started comparing the historic patterns to modern day Muggleborn populations within Hogwarts and seemed to find no correlation.

For two years she managed to deny the picture that was unfolding before her eyes.

Until Harry grew ill, until she made a deal with Draco Malfoy, until she found every horrible conjecture she hadn’t dared draw written plainly in the annals of the Pureblood families of Britain. It fit. Everything that had been left out or skirted around or hadn’t quite meshed. It all finally fit together. Seamlessly. And she couldn’t live in denial anymore.

All she could think was that it was unfair. So unfair.

She’d gone to Hogwarts, stormed McGonagall’s office, barely held it together as she politely asked her old Headmistress to please give her a moment to speak with the portraits. Permission was granted, of course, and Hermione whirled on the man the moment the door was shut and a Silencing spell thrown up.

“YOU! You knew!” she screamed, completely unable to control herself.

“I knew what, Miss Granger?” Severus Snape’s portrait drawled snidely.

She didn’t bother correcting him, too worked up, too hurt inside, “You didn’t join Voldemort in some misguided moment of teen angst or because James Potter picked on you or because you didn’t like your dad! You joined him because you knew the truth! You KNEW, and you never told!”

Snape’s expression didn’t change but she saw something flicker there, “So you’ve said. Just what is it, that I am supposed to know?” He already suspected what she knew, she could tell.

Her face crumpled and she forced back a sob, “Muggleborns. . . . Half-bloods . . . those of us with Muggle blood . . . . We are . . . we . . . we were born to destroy magic.”

Gasps and shouts went up from the watching Headmasters, an uproar that quickly gained volume.

“QUIET, all of you!” Snape boomed, and Hermione, impatiently silenced them all.

Snape considered her a long time, his face as hard to read as ever.

“Slytherin was right.” Hermione rasped out tearfully. “A Muggleborn marries into a Pureblood family and eventually that line dwindles into Squibs and then obscurity. I’ve traced a hundred family lines and it happens over and over and over again. The Muggleborn infects that family with their blood and her offspring grow up and reproduce with other Wizaring families, infecting them with Muggle blood. It takes generations to happen but eventually the Muggle blood takes hold and the magic begins to disappear. A single Muggleborn can take out entire chunks of the Wizarding population. That’s why there are no other Potters but Harry and his kids. That’s why there are no other Longbottoms. Neville’s family was the only line that remained pure,” She gave a hysterical laugh, “That’s why there are no more Malfoy’s believe it or not. No wonder they hate us!”

Snape was silent, letting her rant.

“There are no Squibs until a Muggleborn or Muggle marries into the family, did you know that, Professor? The Purebloods knew, and they kept careful records but many families married Muggleborns and when their children and their grandchildren and even their great-grand children turned out Magical they called it superstition and prejudice! And a few more generations down the line when a Pureblood woman married into that family that had thus far produced Wizarding children and suddenly a Squib was born, the Pureblood woman was blamed!

“We’ve been fighting the Purebloods, calling them horrible things, and they are horrible people, but they are what have kept the Wizarding world alive! The ones that refused to mingle their blood are the only reason there is still magic today. And they’re unpopular, and their beliefs are unpopular. But they’re TRUE! Aren’t they Professor! I knew you knew when I realized you must have had access to the same books in the Malfoy library! And then I compared the Malfoy records to the public record and Hogwarts records and it all fits!” She knew she was rambling, babbling but she couldn’t stop.

“Miss Granger, you are in desperate need of a calming draught.” Snape cut her off, putting cruel emphasis on each word.

Hermione took several gasping breaths and sat down, tears leaking unabashedly down her face.

“Tell me it isn’t true, Professor.” She begged, “Tell me . . . what do I do if it is true?”

Snape pursed his mouth and grudgingly spoke, “Many people will tell you that Wizards are a more advanced form of human life, that they are the future of human kind. We had beautiful cities and languages and cultures, after all, long before Muggles were building anything more then mud huts as their dwellings.”

“But what does that. . . . .”

“Kindly shut your know-it-all mouth, Miss Granger.”

“It’s Mrs. Weasley.”

“Even worse.” He glared her into submission, “As I was saying, for thousands of years, Wizards were the peak of human civilization. But that time is in the past, which is entirely the point. They say Wizards are more advanced than Muggles. What if I were to tell you the opposite? What if I were to tell you that Wizards are the primitive race, and that they were never meant to survive this long?”

Hermione caught her breath, “Sir, what are you saying?”

“Muggles are hardy creatures, but they cannot conjure food or cure illness with magical potions. So first there were Wizards: longer-lived but of a more fragile constitution, not nearly as logical or creative as Muggles. But Wizards could survive for years in places a Muggle would not last five minutes in. Wizards were the forerunners of mankind. They kept the human race alive long enough for Muggles to learn to develop the land and build homes of bricks and mortar, and hunt and farm. Magic is a tool, Miss, excuse me, Mrs. Weasley. It is not a toy for the privileged. The purpose of magic was always to simply ensure the continued existence of the human race.”

“Are you trying to say there’s a reason. . . .”

“Do cease to interrupt!” He snarled furiously, “This is not easy, despite what you believe, Mrs. Weasley. I do not enjoy telling you these things.”

Hermione bit her lip hard and nodded.

“Have you ever wondered why Wizard families are consistent, with few exceptions, in their average of one to two children? It is in their genetic programming, a form of population control. Wizards use up and create a great deal more energy than a Muggle does. The planet could not handle a world full of Wizards. The planet’s resources would be sucked dry as Wizards consumed energy to create magic and that much Magic would simply overwhelm the planet.

“You see, Mrs. Weasley, Wizards were indeed the dominant species for quite some time but the moment Muggles surpassed them, their usefulness in the scheme of nature was over. When the population of Muggles was small and died off young, Muggleborns were few and far between and died as quickly as their Muggle kin. The minute Muggles created a world in which they could survive longer and multiply faster, the number of Muggleborns increased with the population size. It is a natural occurrence that was always meant to happen. Muggleborns are the antithesis of Wizards and they are meant to slowly and surely overwhelm the Wizards and breed them out of existence.”

Hermione shut her eyes and tried to get a grip on her spinning thoughts, “But you . . . you joined Voldemort.”

He bared his yellow teeth. “Just because I knew it was nature’s plan, did not mean I approved or that I meant to allow it to happen without a fight. Magic is not something I wished to see disappear from the world.”

“What do I do, Professor? I …I love the magical world, but . . . my children. I can’t tell them who to love or tell them not to have children or go around telling people to kick everyone with Muggle blood out of the Wizarding world.”

“Mrs. Weasley, you may not have to worry…It may already be too late.”

The sun was warm and the grass was soggy beneath her feet. Hermione squealed as Harry landed in the pond behind the Burrow and sent a wave of cold water splashing over her. Harry surfaced with a yelp of delight. Laughing, Ron caught the broom Harry had leapt off of and took his turn, zipping over the water only to roll off the broom and land in the pond with another huge splash.

Hermione caught the broom as Harry swam to the edge of the pond and slogged out, quickly hiking up the sopping black swim trunks that were a size too big for him.

The boys teased her and egged her on until she finally mustered her courage, mounted the broom and the boys cheered as she rose into the air, zipped over the pond and let go of the broom, landing in icy cold water with flailing limbs.

She came up sputtering and pushed the hair out of her eyes, grinning at the sight of Harry, young and skinny and sun bronzed, laughing at her.

Older Harry stood off the to the side looking weak and haggard and smiled at her, warm and wistful and full of love.

Hermione rolled over in bed and burrowed her face into Ron’s back, shaking with silent tears.

She wasn’t strong enough. She wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t smart enough.

Harry was dying and the Wizarding world was dying and the Muggle world wasn’t much better off and she was betraying them all.

She had made a deal with Malfoy for free access to his library. She would give him any book she used from the Black library and the Potter vaults, any book she bought for references was also forfeit to him, and she would write a report for him. A report on all her findings on the effects Muggleborns had on the Wizarding world. She would fully endorse it, condemning her own kind just for being born, and have it published as widely as their combined influences would allow it to go.

In return, Draco would supply her with all of the research material he could get his hands on. She’d been a fool Gryffindor too, desperate, and he’d made her swear that she would go through with her end of things even if she found no cure.

She fully intended to keep their bargain. She loved the Wizarding world, and the Muggle world and she would betray them both in the same breath.

“The advancements began after the turn of the twentieth century, with King George VI and the rapid improvement of technology. Though at that time, it was only an idea.” Chester Mayfield lectured her on one of her many visits, a glass of scotch in both their hands.

“George VI put together a secret research team. There were many scientists and engineers working to build better, smarter weapons during the World War II. It was a small thing to set aside a group to study magic. The real advancements came much later when several Muggleborns and Squibs were recruited. We now have an actual arsenal of anti-magica weapons, Mrs. Weasley. It still is one of our greatest secrets.”

She kept silent, turning the cold, wet glass in her hands.

“The Ministry of Magic never dealt fairly with us.” He told her, “They would call upon us to do some favor for them but ignore our calls for aid. They did the same thing during the rise of your Lord Voldemort. Twice, actually. They would have all of our people out scouring the cities for an escaped convict but when Voldemort was murdering entire families and blowing up bridges, the Ministry of Magic callously informed us of the situation but offered no aid, no protection, no reparation, not even a few Healers to help the wounded. They told us that they couldn’t afford to offer magical assistance because then we would expect magical solutions to all of our problems.

“When Voldemort’s attacks increased to nearly every day, the Ministry of Magic stopped even informing us of what was happening. The Minister of Magic refused to even see us. A fifth of our population was walking around with gaping holes in their memories.”

He sighed and refilled her glass.

“I understand that you wish to see our people united but, Mrs. Wealsey, you are not introducing a brand new and blameless society that we’ve never had dealings with. You’re attempting to merge two peoples that hate each other and for whom a slow resentment has been boiling for years. You think of them as a separate world but they’re not. More and more we cross and it never ends well.

“We’ve had a right to be afraid. They have power over non-Magical people and they use it completely unthinkingly, with no moral qualms because it is their power and it is normal and natural to them. Wizards say it’s unfair that they are blamed for every bad thing that happens and yet how much of it is them? When a normal person goes crazy, they may go to their school or work with a gun and kill people at random. What happens when a Wizard goes mad? Bridges collapse, entire blocks of city burn to the ground, landslides, car wrecks. And we could never prove it.”

He paused, savoring his next revelation, “At least we could not prove it before. You’ve told me that you’ve seen for yourself how they spite us just because they can. But we’re not a helpless people anymore. We’ve been advancing faster and faster for years. One of our latest creations actually detects that memory spell your people are so fond of.”

Hermione sat up in alarm.

Mayfield nodded his head in satisfaction at her expression, “Did you know that it is now standard procedure for our police force to test for Memory spells? They don’t know what they are testing for, of course, it is a side note on another test they do but it is 99% accurate. Mrs. Weasley,” and his voice shook with anger, “Do you have any idea how many innocent people have gone to prison because they could not remember the specific events of a magical occurrence and were blamed for the incident? Some of them were even set up as scapegoats using that controlling spell, the Imperius, because the Ministry of Magic did not want to take responsibility.”

He took a long drink.

“And here’s another one for you. Do you have any idea how many of your Muggleborns are actually half-bloods?”

“What?” Hermione asked sharply.

Mayfield downed the last of his scotch, “Your Pureblood neighbors very much dislike us but they hate Muggleborns even more. They’ve been supplying us with the names of Muggleborns and paying us to talk the families out of attending Hogwarts. It’s not that hard. Your school isn’t exactly welcoming. I mean really, parents are supposed to send their children to a place they’ve never heard of where they will have no rights as parents? To a place whose culture they do not understand? They insist Muggleborns ‘owl’ them with their acceptance reply? They expect a Muggleborn to somehow know where to get their school supplies and how to get on that infernal platform? It’s amazing any of you attend at all.”

“Please, Minister, stop stringing me along! Halfboods?”

“Oh yes,” he cleared his throat, and she realized he was slightly drunk, “We’ve been testing the families we meet for memory charms among other things. Nearly half of all of your supposed Muggleborns are the product of a Wizard having a bit of fun with a woman who won’t remember it.” He picked up a stack of notes, “What year did you graduate from Hogwarts?”

“Um, 1999.”

Mayfield scanned his notes, “Did you a know a Mr. Dean Thomas?”

“Yes …he was a Muggleborn.”

Mayfield shook his head slowly, “No, my dear, Mr. Thomas is a half-blood.”

“You’re certain?” she asked faintly.

Mayfield nodded. “As I said, you think of them as a wholly separate world but they are everywhere. Wars have been started among normal people because Wizards used their controlling curse or impersonated someone in order to set the political playing field the way they wanted it. But we are catching up, slowly but surely. We cannot detect magical people yet, but we can detect the usage of magic. We can nullify spells on inanimate objects, such as portkeys, which has greatly decreased injuries from cursed objects. The study of magic itself is teaching us how to harness energies other than those we’ve been using. We’ve even developed several weapons that mimic magical energy and others that can block some forms of magic.

“There are still many things we cannot do, such as reverse memory spells. But we are working in conjunction with several other nations and together we are no longer helpless. Wizards will no longer be able to do with us as they please. The next time they begin murdering us and destroying our homes, we won’t allow it to go unanswered.”

Let me tell you, world,

I — do — not — believe!

If a thousand challengers lie beneath your feet,

Count me as number one thousand and one.

Hermione saw it building before her eyes: a war that had been brewing for thousands of years. The end of Muggle helplessness against Magic. The end of the Wizarding world’s thin veneer of tolerance towards Muggles.

She had fought the Pureblood prejudice against Muggleborns when she was young and, after the war, heady with victory, she had foolishly believed that the old views would slowly die out. She had even hoped that her children would only ever hear of such prejudices in history textbooks.

When Rose at fifteen-years-old came home from Hogwarts for the summer crying because the other girls were making fun of her for having a Muggleborn mother, Hermione had felt it like a blow to the stomach. Hermione had always been willing to proudly shoulder the burden of that prejudice, but it wasn’t fair that her child should suffer because of what her mother was.

She still told herself that it was only a matter of time. The prejudice might still be around but it was unpopular among the common people. It would die out in its own due time.

Except now she knew that if it did, it would mean the end of the Wizarding world. The end of magic.

Hermione loved magic. She loved this life and she loved magic, so she would write her research paper for Draco and she would publish it and she would accept the consequences of revealing such terrible truths.

But it would be the only warning the Wizards received from her.

Penance for her betrayal of her mother’s world. Revenge for all Voldemort had done to her and her people.

Telling the Wizarding world the truth about Muggleborns, that their prejudices were and always had been correct was just asking for violence towards Muggles. The tradition of murdering Muggleborns would be reborn overnight.

So Hermione would never tell them about the building resistance in the Muggle world. She knew nothing she said would dissuade the Purebloods from their violent methods, so she would not help them by allowing them to prepare for the Muggle counterattack.

She would never tell that the Muggles had agents who had mapped out the entire Wizarding world. Most Wizards had never bothered to learn the ins and outs of Muggle culture, but the Muggles were ready. Silently and stealthily, they were building their defenses and planning for when the Wizards attacked them. The Wizards had thousands of years of arrogance behind them, they would march into a Muggle city and expect to do as they pleased and leave without ever being detected. But now the Muggles were waiting and the Wizards would never know what hit them.

It was over. The two worlds could never unite peacefully.

And she was caught in the middle. A traitor to both worlds.

She was running out of time. She knew eventually she was going to have to pick a side. Really pick a side. But she was so afraid and she didn’t know what to do or where to turn except to Harry. Only he couldn’t help her now.

There were no right answers before her. No correct choices. Just terrible actions and terrible consequences.

CHAPTER 3

Hermione kissed her sleeping husband’s shoulder; he was warm and smelled faintly of soap and cologne. It was late afternoon and she was bone weary. She could have easily slept longer but the ache in her soul goaded her up. She rolled out of bed and headed for the shower, staying under the spray for a long, long time. She spent the rest of the afternoon puttering around the house in something of a daze, watering houseplants she hadn’t watered in four months and rearranging the photographs of her children that were sitting on top of the fireplace.

She made dinner and dished up two plates even though Ron was still asleep and then she didn’t even eat her own portion either but just sat there and watched the food steam. She poured herself a very large glass of Firewhiskey.

When she finally heard Ron stirring in the bedroom, shame made her flee the house and floo to Malfoy Manor.

Her heart was pounding in her throat, her palms were sweating, her whole body shaking and cold but she somehow managed to make it to the beautifully engraved front door and into the front hallway. She stood there and she waited. She knew she wouldn’t have to wait long; the House Elves would begin to fret when she didn’t head to the library and they would summon Draco.

Her assumption proved correct and not a few minutes later, Draco came down the main staircase, watching her with curiosity and suspicion.

“What is it?” he asked, eyes sweeping over her and lip curling at her worn appearance. She wondered dizzily if she had remembered to brush her hair before leaving the house.

“I need you to cast a spell on me.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, “What spell?”

“Induratio.”

Draco stilled, giving away his surprise, and she almost laughed. Of course it was Dark magic. Why would she be asking him to cast a spell on her if she could have someone else, someone she trusted, do it? She could see him trying to work out what she was up to.

“Are you going to do something stupid?” he asked slowly.

“I’m not Ron or Harry. Please, do it now. Before I lose my nerve.” She clenched her fists, holding tightly to that nerve.

He sniffed, “You are not being very reassuring. I will not go to prison because you…”

“No one will know. It will not affect our deal. My paper is finished. I will give it to you tonight. If you want it, you had better cast the spell.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking for? The withdrawals alone could kill you. And, despite what you believe, there are people who know where you go every day. They will know my part in this.”

“I’m not stupid, Malfoy. I know exactly what the spell does.”

“Yes, you know what it does! But knowing and experiencing are two entirely separate things.”

“I KNOW!” she yelled and sucked in a hitched breath. She planted her feet, willed her legs to turn to stone even while her mind screamed at her to turn around and leave.

Draco hesitated, raising his wand, lowering it, trying his hardest to grasp her plan and then he shook himself and she saw him decide that he didn’t care. “Induratio.”

The sparking gray light felt like the stab of hot metal right through her chest but so quickly that she couldn’t scream and then the feeling melted into a warm, spreading numbness, like Novocain throughout her whole body. She swayed slightly, blinked, and feeling returned in a prickling wave to her limbs.

Draco was watching her carefully. “Did it work?”

“I don’t know.” She heard herself say.

Draco studied her face, stepped forward and took her chin in his hand. He bent his head and kissed her solidly on the mouth, then released her and stepped back, waiting for her reaction.

Hermione knew intellectually that she should be angry or horrified or disgusted but none of those feelings rose in her. She wasn’t even mildly curious as to his reasons for doing such a thing. It wasn’t exactly apathy; it was simply that the kiss was of no consequence and therefore not something she needed to react to immediately.

“I’d say it worked.” Draco drawled. “The spell will last seventy-two hours. I hope you have something prepared to ride out the withdrawals because anything you haven’t felt in those three days will hit you at ten times the strength when the spell wears off.”

Hermione nodded and left without saying goodbye, having completely dismissed him from her mind the moment he was no longer useful.

She Apparated to St. Mungos and walked briskly through the waiting room. James Potter was leaning, slumped against the hallway wall. Hermione didn’t greet him but entered Harry’s room and found Ginny hunched over her husband, crying weakly and begging him to get better. She sat up when Hermione entered and Hermione greeted her and even hugged the woman because she knew logically that she should be giving comfort, that the woman would need it.

“Ginny, do you mind if I sit with Harry a moment?” her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Hollow.

Ginny nodded, gave her another hug and left the room looking limp and wilted.

Hermione waited for her to shut the door and flicked her wand, shutting down the alarm wards. She settled herself in the chair by Harry’s bed. Harry was awake. His feverish eyes found her face and his lips immediately turned up in a weak smile, determined to comfort her. She smiled back at him because she knew that she loved him and should be showing that to him through her actions. She took his hand and kissed it, held it to her breast.

“Harry,” she spoke soft and calm, “I need you to try very hard to concentrate on what I’m going to say. It is very important.” She kissed his hand again, “I love you so much. We all do. You are a bright light in our life, the example of what we should all strive to be. You and Ron were my first friends ever. My family through all these years and I would not trade a moment of it for anything. And…and it is very hard to let that go.”

His eyes stayed on hers and she smiled again, unable to feel any sort of gladness but something inside her …satisfied…that she had his attention.

“We haven’t been fair to you, Harry. And you, like you always do, have gone above and beyond and broken all natural laws in order to protect us and love us. But Harry…you don’t have to anymore.” She stroked a hand through his hair, “Your fight is over and we were wrong to keep you from your rest.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, he tried to speak, that faint rasping sound.

She smiled because he needed to see her smile and spoke soothingly, “Everything is going to be alright now. Yes, we’re going to miss you terribly but everyone will be okay. Your children are grown and have families of their own now and your wife is surrounded by her family. Ron and I have each other and Ron’s family too and someday we’ll all be together again. You know that. You’re not even scared. You’ve been there before and you know your mom and dad and Sirius are waiting just beyond the veil, standing there waiting for you and they, like us, don’t want you to be in pain any more. We were so selfish to keep you this long, Harry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Harry’s eyes were over bright with tears but he was smiling and there was something else burning in his face. Relief. Stark, naked relief.

“There are no more great battles to fight, Harry Potter.” Hermione told him, lied to him, “The Wizarding world is at peace and can take care of its own problems from now on. There are no more calls for legendary heroes. There’s no more need to fight. So you can rest now, Harry. You’ve earned it. Your body is telling you it is time to sleep and I know the only reason you’re still here is because you are stronger and more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever known.”

She did worse than lie to him then, she surreptitiously flicked her wand and she showed him an image of Ginny standing over her shoulder, smiling and nodding with no tears on her face, only love and acceptance.

Harry’s face lit up with sweet joy and Hermione knew that without the spell numbing her she would have been screaming and wailing and telling Harry she didn’t mean it and not to go. Without her emotions clouding her judgment, she knew that this was what she should have done months ago. It was obvious that Harry had known what his illness was, he had known there was no cure and he had hoped to simply slip away before they realized it. He had known they would drive themselves to insanity and tear each other apart trying to cure him, trying selfishly to keep him with them and he had loved them so much that he’d been unable to deny them. He’d stayed with them because he didn’t want to hurt them with his death.

He would have stayed with them until the last of strength was gone and then he would have died tormented by their pain and by the irrational belief he held that they had drilled into him as a child: that the Wizarding world needed him to protect them.

Hermione put his hand to her cheek, “Its alright now. Everything’s alright.” She showed him Ron coming in and putting a hand on Ginny’s shoulder, also smiling peacefully with acceptance.

Harry rasped at them, trying to speak, a tremulous grin on his face, tears leaking from the corners eyes.

“Go to your parents, Harry, and wait for us. We’ll be together again.” She brushed his hair out of his face, stroked his brow with her thumb, gently encouraged him to close his eyes. He tilted his head and brushed a faint kiss across her palm.

“Do you remember what it was like to fly, Harry?” she asked him, “You were so amazing up in the sky on your broom. Do you remember the feel of the wind in your hair? Do you remember how free you felt, like it was you flying and not just the broom? Do you remember trying to teach me how to fly? We were at the Burrow and it was warm and sunny, and you decided if I was afraid I was going to fall then we’d practice by flying over the pond. But it was more fun to jump off the broom into the pond than actually fly. And then the twins came out and they conjured a spongy Bludger and soaked it in water and we flew around the pond with the wet Bludger chasing us.”

Harry lay there with his eyes closed, a smile on his face. She saw him slowly relaxing, fading, right before her eyes. She kept talking when his head fell limply against her palm and she counted his shallow breaths until she no longer felt the air tickling her palm. Later she could have sworn that she knew the moment his shriveled body released him from torment, something, some vital light, maybe his magic, simply winked out. Hermione paused for a breath and then continued her narrative.

She knew that when the spell she was under finally faded, that some part of her would be broken. She knew she would hate herself and that Harry would probably hate her for lying to him. She had told him that they were at peace, that there were no battles to fight. She had told him that, knowing that soon the Wizarding World would be fighting for its very existence.

And she knew that she would be glad, so very, very fiercely glad that he wouldn’t be around to see it. That he would not have to decide between his mother’s world and his father’s world. That he would not feel compelled, as she knew he would, to save them all. He would have set himself an impossible task and it would have destroyed him. He loved the Wizarding world more than any of them and it would utterly tear him apart to know what his mother’s blood was doing to his people.

She also knew that she had damned herself.

She was alone now to bear the burden of this knowledge and what she decided now could very well lead to the genocide of an entire race. She would have to choose: the death of six billion non-magical people or thirty-six million magical people.

Hermione sat there with Harry’s hand in hers. She kissed his fingers once more and set his hand down. Flicking her wand, she reactivated the wards. The alarm blared shrilly and the Healers poured frantically into the room. Hermione walked out, knowing it was way too late. The Healers knew it immediately too, they began screaming at each other, screaming for Eleanor, one of them backed away and began crying, wailing for the death of the Savior of the Wizarding World.

Ginny and James came rushing past her, hearing the cries of the Healers and already knowing that their worst fears had finally come to pass.

Ginny screamed and fell to her knees beside the bed. The Healers let her; there was nothing they could do. James stood, white-faced, shell-shocked.

“D-dad?” he whimpered.

Hermione stood there and knew logically that she would probably be feeling a great deal of sympathy for them or going hysterical like Ginny and perhaps she should act the part to avoid suspicion. But none of it seemed very useful or worthwhile. She supposed she could call the others but James needed something to do.

“Go get your brother and sister.” She ordered him, “Call Molly and Arthur. Make sure they call Ron.”

James’ mouth worked, he nodded dazedly, staggered down the hall. The hallway was full of crying Healers. The news had reached the waiting room and cries were going up there as well, Hermione guessed there would be full-fledged hysteria very shortly.

Hermione stood there, not certain what to do with herself. There was no comfort to be had for Ginny or her children. Nothing Hermione said or did would help them.

A few minutes later, Albus Severus and Ron were tearing up the hall, the rest of the family beside them. Ron’s face was lined with panic and Hermione knew he had not accepted what he’d been told. He stopped in the crowded doorway and shook his head at the sight of his best friend’s body before he shoved the Healers out of the way and collapsed beside an inconsolable Ginny. James, Albus Severus and Lily were holding each other.

Molly and Arthur came up the hallway slowly: Arthur with his arms around a quietly crying Molly. They had done this many times, after all. They knew, unlike the others, that there was no rush, no use in hysteria. There was a flash of light and Hermione saw a reporter taking a picture of Molly and Arthur. Hermione’s wand came up and she hit him with a bludgeoning hex. Full power.

He slammed against the wall and crumpled to the ground in a bloody heap. That got some of the Healers moving and Hermione realized in vague surprise that she was going to have to watch her reactions. It was hard to, when she didn’t care about the consequences of anything she did or said but just because she couldn’t feel anything didn’t mean she was without logic. And she knew, logically, that it would be bad and land her in a lot more trouble if she killed anyone else tonight.

“I wasn’t there. I was-sn’t there.” Ginny was sobbing, being led from the room by a crying Ron. Ginny spotted her and pushed out of Ron’s grasp to hurry over, “What happened?” the woman begged. “Why now? He was d-doing b-better!”

Hermione knew she shouldn’t tell the truth, but she couldn’t bring herself to care enough to censor her words, “I told him it was okay for him to go now.”

Ginny’s mouth dropped open, “Y-you…you what?”

“I told him he didn’t need to fight anymore. That it was okay for him to rest and that we’d be okay.”

“Y-you didn’t…You told him it was okay? You told him IT WAS OKAY!” Ginny shrieked, “HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU!” she lunged at Hermione and started slapping and scratching at her, screaming hysterically, “That’s not your decision to make! I’m his WIFE! I need him! His children need him! We need Harry! How dare you tell him we don’t need him!”

Hermione disliked being hit and scratched and so she shoved Ginny away, harder than she meant to. Ginny fell back into Ron, who was standing there dumbly, staring at her as if he had no idea who she was.

“Mom! Mom, what’s wrong!” James was rushing over. “What’s happening?”

Ginny jabbed a finger at Hermione, “She killed him! She killed your dad!”

“Ginny stop it!” Ron shook Ginny hard. Ginny wailed and buried her face in her hands.

James looked back and forth between Ginny and Ron and Hermione, uncertain and confused.

“James, take your mother.” Ron ordered gruffly and the boy tried to take his mother’s arm but she slapped his hand away.

“Y-you…” she glared at Hermione, “This isn’t over. You heartless bitch!” she staggered back into Harry’s room and into her mother’s embrace. James followed her.

“Hermione,” Ron breathed, moping his face with a shaky hand, “What did you do?”

“I did right by Harry.” She told him emotionlessly.

He stared at her empty, tear-free face, “And …and I don’t understand. You told Harry to just … give up?”

“No, I told him that we were selfish to keep him trapped in agony inside a dying body just because we didn’t want to let him go.”

Ron let out a shaky breath, “But we didn’t…we didn’t do this to him.” His voice rose angrily, “We were trying to help him! Don’t you care? You’re best friend is dead! Don’t you care at all?”

“Of course I care.” She lied so openly that she could tell that he saw it was a lie.

His voice shook, “T-then what? A-are you in shock or something? Is there a reason you’re standing here looking like you’re attending a boring Quidditch match?”

“Crying isn’t going to help.”

“I… I just really don’t know, Hermione. I don’t know who you are right now. I …I don’t think I can be around you right now.”

“You’ll have to go to the Burrow then,” she told him callously, “I’ve nowhere to stay but our house and I’m not staying at a hotel.”

He stared at her, dumbstruck.

Hermione turned around and walked away.

I don't believe the sky is blue;

I don't believe in the sound of thunder;

I don't believe that dreams are false;

I don't believe that death has no revenge.

She flooed to Malfoy Manor and spent the evening reorganizing the notes on her research paper because there was nothing else to do. The rest of the books, all of the dark magic and the healing books were now utterly useless.

She had just reedited her final paper for the second time when Draco came and stood at the door to the library.

He had a glass of champagne in his hand.

They were celebrating, Hermione realized, aware that this would have made her homicidally angry if she could feel anything.

Draco knew it too, he took a sip of his champagne but he watched her wand hand.

“I once used that spell when I was a teenager to try and get Pansy to sleep with me.” He told her, waltzing in, “I thought it would make her not care enough to refuse. Instead she didn’t care about how badly she injured me in her refusal. My father barely pulled her off of me before she killed me.”

Hermione frowned, “How odd that you would know that and still attempt to provoke me. Pansy must have had some underlying care for your continued existence. I do not.”

“Shouldn’t you be at home, consoling your husband?”

“He’s not there.” She replied carelessly.

He sat down across from her, “People are saying that you killed Harry Potter.”

Hermione looked up from her paper, “I suppose people can say whatever they like.”

He studied her intently, apparently fascinated by the effects of the spell. “What did you do?”

“I told him he didn’t need to hold on any longer.”

“And that was it?” Draco made a sound of consternation, “I suppose he was a tough bastard, surviving on nothing but willpower like that.” He took a sip from his drink, “Would you like some champagne?”

Her frown deepened, coolly aware that he was mocking Harry, “Killing you is a very attractive course of action at the moment. Don’t tempt me.”

He folded his arms on the table, amused, “Killing me is, is it? Why?”

“It would solve a number of my problems and generally make me feel better. Well, it would when I could feel again.”

He smiled, slowly, darkly, “Did you know that I’ve never been more attracted to a woman than I was when you were tied to a chair and screaming and bleeding while my Aunt tortured you.”

She considered that. “Are you attempting to test the spell or are you merely saying those things now that you can get away with it?” She handed over her finished report.

He gave a vague shrug and flipped through the pages of her report idly.

“The spell doesn’t really work the way I thought it would.” She commented.

“How so?” he murmured distractedly.

“I thought it would allow me to think more clearly and more logically. Instead, although I clearly see the outcome of each course of action, I can’t bring myself to care which action I choose.”

Instead of answering, he sat back to read. She was silent. Waiting. She could tell by the gleam of satisfaction in his eye or the tightening of his jaw which parts he liked and which parts did not sit well with him.

“What is this?” he asked angrily, pointing to a paragraph.

She leaned over to read it. It was the section where she outlined natural selection and how nature had selected Wizards for eventual extinction.

“It’s the truth.” She told him simply. “The whole truth. Not just the bits you like. It’s ugly and it is painful. But it is the truth.”

He glared at her for a long moment but grudgingly went back to his reading.

She had started with the rise of Wizarding civilization and how they had, at one point, outnumbered Muggles twenty-to-one. That number had held steady for years as both the Muggle birth and death rates remained very high. Any Muggleborns back then would have little chance to reach adulthood and no chance at all to ever discover magic. The Wizards had had large, clean and beautiful cities while Muggles were filthy, uneducated bringers of disease. But slowly, over time, Muggles began to organize and grow civilized and then the first connections were made between peoples, the first mixing of their races. The first discovered Muggleborns were probably thought to be Wizarding indiscretions and not Magical beings born solely from non-Magical parents.

It would be some time before Wizards realized that Muggleborns weren’t coming from magical lines. It would be even longer until Salazar Slytherin finally realized why entire branches of his people had started to vanish into the Muggle population. But Slytherin was not a good or well-like individual, he was a Dark Lord, and, once defeated, his work was destroyed or covered up because many people were offended by it and refused to believe it.

Hermione had traced extinct family lines back as far as she could, showing where the Muggle blood had entered and how many generations it took before Squibs started showing up until eventually the family was entirely Muggle. The problem was exacerbated by Pureblood inbreeding. They weakened their own lines and then, when Muggle blood was finally introduced, it took even fewer generations for Squibs to appear.

Hermione had calculated the current rate at which magic was disappearing. Her official number was slightly less than six hundred years. In reality, she believed it would happen much sooner, especially if the Muggles became involved.

Hermione figured the report had done its job when she saw that Draco himself looked slightly alarmed by her findings.

“This is good.” He murmured when he finally finished, excitement burning in his eyes “Very good. Gonerby will love it.”

Hermione wondered how the confirmation of Gonerby’s allegiances would have made her feel, “Found a nice little home in your father’s pocket, has he?”

Draco had the nerve to grin.

Typical. A single uncorrupt Minister and then they were back to Fudge-wannabes.

Draco sniffed elegantly, folding her report and asked seriously, “What are you going to do now?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He waved the report at her, “You know what’s happening. What will you do now?”

Hermione thought about that and realized she still didn’t know. She had hoped that, with her emotions suppressed, logic would see her through, instead everything looked gray and filled with uncertainty. “I don’t know yet.”

Hermione wasn’t surprised or disappointed or upset when she returned home to find the place dark and empty. Some of Ron’s clothes were lying on the bed. He’d packed his overnight bags and left. She sat up the rest of the night and she was still awake in the morning when the Aurors came for her.

She was being brought in for questioning in the death of Harry Potter, they told her angrily.

It wasn’t as if she could care at the moment.

They secured her hands behind her back and took her to the Ministry. She didn’t register the reporters snapping pictures like mad or the people who stopped and muttered angrily at the sight of her. She spent most of the day in a holding cell where the guards called her horrible names, one actually spit on her. She knew she would later be very glad that she couldn’t feel anything.

They brought her to an interrogation room in early afternoon. Gonerby was waiting for them with Kingsley, the heads of the Auror department, several Wizengamot members and several Healers, including Eleanor. The Weasleys were there and although Ginny and James glared at her, Ron just looked lost.

Hermione tried to calculate the odds of them charging her with murder. Technically, she had not done anything, Harry had been sick for over half a year. But that wouldn’t stop mobs of hysterical Wizards from wanting a scapegoat.

They questioned her about Harry’s death and she answered calmly and truthfully. She had told Harry to rest. No, she had not given him anything to eat or drink. No, she had at no point physically assaulted him. No, she hadn’t wanted Harry to die. Yes, she had planned his death in a way. She had gone there with the intent of telling him that no one would blame him for letting go. She was tired of watching him suffer from an incurable disease.

Ginny was given a chance to speak and she raged shrilly that Harry had been doing better and that Hermione had caused his death by not encouraging him to hold on. Ginny was his wife, it was not Hermione’s place to tell Ginny’s husband that he should die.

Eleanor also spoke, tartly informing those assembled that the only reason Harry had lasted six months was because of Hermione’s tireless efforts. She had worked every day to keep him healthy. No, Hermione had not been in charge of administering any of Harry’s treatments, nor had she, at any point, decided which treatment they would use. That had been the job of the Healers.

It quickly became apparent that they had nothing to charge her with. Although she was aware that she was lucky that they had not discovered that she had briefly turned off Harry’s wards. The only people who wanted to press charges were Ginny, James and Gonerby, who just wanted to appease the public.

They released her that evening.

Hermione was smart enough to realize that even though she had been released, the newspapers weren’t going to let her innocence stand in their way. She was going to be very unpopular for some time . . . and even more so when Draco published her paper.

Molly, Arthur and Albus Severus were there to meet her upon her release. In spite of all Hermione’s expectations, Molly gave her a big hug.

“You did the right thing,” Molly whispered to her, holding her tight, “It wasn’t your fault. Arthur and I had been seriously discussing telling Ginny to let him go. We knew he was only holding on for us.”

Hermione knew she would very much appreciate Molly’s support later.

Albus Severus gave her a hug as well, “I don’t blame you. I’m grateful that you had the courage to do it. I…seeing dad like that was killing me, but I didn’t want to let him go either. Mom and James are just too hurt right now to understand. They’ll thank you later. Maybe.”

Hermione just nodded and looked around but Ron wasn’t with them.

Molly touched Hermione’s face, “Dear, are you going to be okay? We didn’t see you at the Burrow last night. You’re welcome, dear. You’re always welcome.”

Hermione thanked her and made some excuses to leave.

Hermione spent the next forty-eight hours alone in her home, only vaguely remembering to do things like shower and eat. Molly and Arthur floo-called her several times but she didn’t answer. She had a lot of time to think. She thought about what side she would choose in the coming war, whether or not to tell the Weasleys what was happening, and what the psychological effects of being unable to grieve for her dearest friend were.

She thought about Harry a lot. She hoped he was happy and that he wasn’t giving this world a second thought. It occurred to her at some point that they would be having a funeral for Harry, but she didn’t care enough to check when.

Nearing the seventy-two hour mark of the spell, Hermione took a concentrated dose of dreamless sleep and laid down, intending to be unconscious through the withdrawals.

She had seriously underestimated the dark spell.

The onset came as it had before, like a fierce stab in the heart and she jerked awake on the bed, doubly disoriented because of the potion she had taken. Feeling returned in a blistering wave and it was like she relieved the last three days at high speed and felt every emotion she hadn’t felt the first time along the way, except magnified ten-fold. Harry dying right before her eyes, her family’s raw pain, Ginny’s cries and violent strikes, Ron’s lost expression and disbelief, being called names and spat on.

She couldn’t even scream. Her body thrashed on the bed, her eyes rolling up. Her heart sped fast enough to burst and she gurgled, certain she was going to have a stroke or a heart attack. The potion she had taken fought with the spell and Hermione rolled and fell out of bed. She crawled, the world lurching and dipping and rolling around her, down the hall and to the fireplace. Her hands were number, her mind and body still half asleep. It took her several tries and several bruises to the get to the floo powder and then she wasn’t sure her voice would work.

“Muh-muh-Malfohy M-manor.” She choked out and the green flames took her.

She landed on the foyer floor, cracking her head and jarring her brain. The pain was a sharp distraction and she gulped a surprised breath, making the connection. With a howl, she started clawing at herself, welcoming the burning of her own nails tearing her flesh.

“Damnit, you stupid little fool! I thought you said you had the withdrawals covered!”

Hermione focused enough to turn towards the voice. Draco marched hurriedly towards her, looking absolutely livid.

“Do you have any idea what will happen if you’re found here like this? I should dump you in Forbidden Forest!”

Something in her brain clicked and she remembered the numbness, he had given her the numbness, “C-cast it! The s-s-spell! CAST IT AGAIN!” she shrieked at him. “I NEED IT!”

His mouth curled into a snarl and he raised his wand, “Crucio!”

The spell hit her like her body going into a nerve-frying cheese grater and she shrieked and shrieked, lurching and convulsing on the ground. Merlin, she had thought nothing was worse than the emotional pain of the dark spell fading. This was so much better and so much worse. The spell let up and she could only lie there shaking, her lips turning blue.

“Breathe!” Draco barked at her harshly.

She coughed and rolled over onto her belly, gasping for air. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her up onto her knees. It was good; it distracted her. The pain kept her focused on her body and the real world, it stopped the spell from consuming her, the memories from destroying her.

“Remember that you came to me,” Draco hissed at her with dark promise, “We’re going to do this my way. I hope you do not find the cure worse than the disease.”

He drew her up by her hair, twisted her arm behind her back and forced her down one of the many side hallways. He shoved her into an empty, sparsely furnished room and sealed the door behind them. Another spell and she was on her feet, her arms locked above her head, tied painfully together with wire.

She was so far gone that she couldn’t even wonder what was happening. Her mind was wracked with the pain of the withdrawals, screaming for her attention. Harry was dying before her eyes again and the dreamless sleep potion was trying to put her back to sleep and had completely warped her sense of reality.

“This.” She heard Draco assure her with quiet satisfaction, “Is going to hurt.”

And then she could do nothing but scream in agony as a hot lash ripped across her back.

The rest of it was a blur. She never even knew if it was a spell or a real whip, only that he didn’t stop until he’d shredded the robes off her back and blood dripped down her shaking legs in rivulets. He crucio’d her at several points during the whipping. She cried and screamed and she was grateful, grateful for it because she knew she would not have otherwise survived.

She remembered him pouring potions down her throat, blowing smoke into her mouth for her to inhale. She remembered him using several more dark spells, torture or hallucinogenic spells mostly. She saw him use a few of them on himself, as well as take a few of the potions he had given her. He was doping them both up and later it would occur to her that as rich as he was, she’d probably sampled some of the finest narcotic potions known to Wizard kind.

She no longer knew what was real, what was pain and what was pleasure. She hallucinated rather vividly, the colors danced around and she could swear they were making music. They ended up on the bed together, on the white bedspread that quickly became red, or maybe that was another hallucination. Faces melted out of the folds of the silk sheets and spoke to her. She didn’t really have the attentiveness to hear what they said because Malfoy’s white head was buried between her legs and she was enjoying that rather a lot.

Another spell sent maddening, painful, prickly shocks racing across her skin and he used it on her mercilessly so that she would buck and thrash on top of him. She forgot who she was and who he was and the emotional pain was just another stimulus and she could feel it but could make no connection with it. Her last memory of the night was of laying face down on the bed with his body, hot and damp, moving on top of her while he gulped for breath near her ear.

Coming awake was like being pulled from a thousand year sleep. Her breath puffed out from her lips and she became aware of someone holding her hand, squeezing it lightly, a deep voice as if from far away, coaxing her to listen.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open and she blinked until the blurry images cleared into Ron’s face wracked with hope and fear.

“Hermione.” He whispered.

She could feel again. And all she could feel was devastation.

“Harry!” her voice cracked, “Merlin, Harry! Harry! No! Nononono!”

Ron grabbed her and gathered her up and she held onto him as hard as she could, howling her misery into his chest, babbling for Harry over and over. Ron held her and stroked her hair until she was too weak to cry anymore.

“You’re in St. Mungo’s.” he told her softly when she finally lifted her head, “Malfoy brought you in. He told me you were under a Dark spell. He told me he . . . he told me he took care of it. Merlin, Hermione, you were so torn up. I should have known. I should have known something was wrong. I couldn’t figure out why you were so calm about H-Harry. You didn’t even cry. I should have known. But I was an idiot and I let you walk away. And then they dragged you into that awful trial. I tried to stop them, I swear to you I did. Merlin, Hermione, I’m so sorry.”

Ron told her the kids had come home. He called them in and Hermione was desperately glad to have Hugo and Rose in her arms again. After everything that had happened, and every decision she had weighed and discarded and agonized over, somehow seeing her children simplified it all. Finally she could grieve. Finally she could acknowledge what was really important.

Finally she knew what side of the war she was on.

She stayed in the hospital another night and then went home with her family. She set them all down and she gave them each a copy of her report. Hugo and Rose were adults and she should have trusted Ron a long time ago.

They would decide what to do as a family.

If the sea is destined to breach the dikes,

Let the brackish water pour into my heart;

If the land is destined to rise,

Let humanity choose anew a peak for our existence.

Malfoy published her paper and it was released to the public a little over a month and a half later. The newspapers went mad. It was all they talked about on the radio. Hermione Weasley, the epitome of Muggleborn was supporting Pureblood propaganda.

The public outcry was immediate and enormous. People called her a traitor and a liar and a murderess and said that Harry Potter would be ashamed. The Purebloods sang her praises, claiming that if a Muggleborn admitted it, then it must be true.

The reactions of family friends varied. Some of them cursed at her to her face, others were uncomfortable and unsure. Ginny came over specifically to slap her across the face and tell her that she had dishonored Harry’s memory. Hermione knew that this was the last straw and her redheaded friend would never forgive her. Albus Severus’ reaction broke Hermione’s heart. He believed her, and he grieved. Kingsley was deeply disapproving of both her research and the method of delivery.

In hindsight, Hermione agreed with him. She could have planned and delivered the news better, but at the time she hadn’t been thinking straight, and she hadn’t had much of a choice in it.

Hermione made herself available to the public. She gave speeches and interviews and urged the public to find peaceful solutions to the problem she had presented, knowing they would not. Muggles and Wizards—neither was a peaceful race. She bore their disapproval and hatred as best she could. And Ron stood with her throughout it all.

Rose had relinquished her wand and gone to live with her Muggle boyfriend in the Muggle world. She told her mother that she’d been dreading telling her boyfriend what she was and she was glad she didn’t have to now. Hugo had quietly dedicated himself to finding a way to solve the problem.

When Hermione had tearfully asked Ron if he was sorry that he had married a Muggleborn, a destroyer of magic, he had just hugged her as hard as he could and said, “Never. Never ever. If I had to choose between magic and you, I choose you and our kids.”

A month after the publication, Hermione was surprised to receive an invitation to Malfoy Manor.

She entered the Manor without waiting for someone to let her in, just as she had during her period of research. She hoped Draco would see the brazen act as the insult it was intended to be.

He was waiting for her in the library with a tray of tea from which he’d already helped himself.

“Lord Malfoy.”

“Mrs. Weasley, it’s been awhile since we had a chat. I thought we should catch up. Please, have a seat.”

She sat in her old chair across from him. “Are we exchanging pleasantries?” she asked him, “Am I supposed to tell you that you’re looking well?”

“Hmph. I was being kind since you’ve done us all such a great favor. I know this must be hard for you. The public has been rather unforgiving.”

Hermione shrugged, “Harry put up with them for years. I figure I can handle it.”

“Allow me.” He said, lifting the teakettle and pouring her a cup, “We have some unfinished business, you and I.”

“We do? I had thought our bargain was complete and you took rather more than what was offered.”

“Well yes,” the cup floated over to settle before her along with a pot of sugar and another of milk, “And I am very pleased with the results. But I would like to know, Mrs. Weasley, if you have chosen a side.”

Hermione stilled.

“I know you love magic. I find it hard to believe that you would actually support the destruction of Hogwarts.” He held her gaze intensely. “Having a Muggleborn on our side would do a lot for the cause.”

“Ri—ight,” she drawled, “And you think I’ll endorse what? A mass slaughter of Muggleborns.”

“Of course not, nothing so crude.” He actually reached across the table to pat her hand. “Education. Segregation from Muggles. The Purebloods have always been separate to some extent. The Muggleborns and mixed-bloods will still be allowed in the Wizarding world and they will still have the same rights and be allowed to marry whomever they like. The restrictions will actually rest upon the Purebloods. Every Pureblood will have to produce pure offspring before marriage to a Muggleborn or mixedblood. Really it is nothing new.”

He was right.

It wasn’t anything new.

Humanity had been down that path before. Numerous times. It would start out with the best intentions. Separate but equal. But Purebloods would slowly gain more rights as the ‘protected’ species and soon it would be difficult for Muggleborns and mixedbloods to even find stores that would sell merchandise to them, or employers that would hire them. They would eventually be reduced to servants in Pureblood households.

And this was Draco Malfoy she was speaking to. He and the other Purebloods would never be satisfied with ‘segregation’ from the Muggles. They wanted what they had always wanted: to rule. Perhaps it wouldn’t happen right away, but eventually they would move to take over the Muggle world. Even after she had explained to them that they were the primitive species, they saw themselves as superior. She supposed they could have skipped over that section of her report.

She spooned sugar into her tea and stirred, “I’ve heard those pretty lines before, Lord Malfoy. I’m not joining your ‘cause’.”

His face tightened, just slightly, in anger, as if he were trying to hide it, “Then what? You support our destruction.”

“Of course not, nothing so crude.” She mocked, “Don’t take me for a fool, Lord Malfoy. I know what you’re capable of and I know you and the others will never be satisfied with anything other than total domination of both worlds.”

“So be it.” He spat angrily and his eyes flickered to her teacup.

Hermione froze, the cup halfway to her lips.

“There is something else I’ve been meaning to speak to you about.” She said finally, holding the cup steadily. “I’m pregnant.”

His face went absolutely still as stone.

Eyes locked with his, she slowly brought the cup the rest of the way up to her lips. She tipped the cup to sip and he lunged across the table, ripping the delicate china from her hands and throwing it furiously against the wall. It shattered and the dark tea ran down the wall. Hermione stared at the wet stain as greenish smoke filtered up into the air.

Draco continued cursing angrily. He wiped at his mouth agitatedly and cursed some more, slamming back down in his chair with none of his usual grace.

“I do hope you had chosen something painless.” She murmured numbly.

He had warned her. There was no way he would have given himself away on accident.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He snarled, “You know I like you best in pain.”

All right, so maybe it had been an accident.

“You’re pregnant.” He repeated angrily.

“I was out of my mind and I wasn’t exactly expecting you to fuck me back to health.”

He stood so quickly that she stood too, “Get out of here. Get out now.”

She backed away from him, towards the door, “But I thought you were within your rights, Lord Malfoy.” She mocked, heart pounding, “Didn’t you just say such things wouldn’t be controlled, especially as you already have a healthy Pureblood son?”

“Get out! If they catch you, I won’t help you.”

She left.

EPILOGUE:

It happened as Hermione predicted.

A few years of increasing scorn and prejudice and violence and new laws to ‘protect’ Purebloods and then, in sheer arrogance, they attacked a major Muggle city.

Muggle retaliation was swift and brutal.

Hermione’s baby was born a little boy with beautiful blond curls. She knew that Ron understood that she had not willingly gone out and cheated on him. She also knew that his shame that he had not been there for her was the only thing that kept him from murdering Draco Malfoy, but she had still been afraid that Ron would resent her baby.

But Ron never said a word. He loved and treasured their little Harry.

Rose never returned to the Wizarding world and lived out her days as a Muggle. Rose’s grandchildren never knew that Magic existed. Hugo never married but spent his life helping to gather and hide Wizarding knowledge and artifacts. Harry grew up and joined his birth father, Draco Malfoy, in trying to save the Wizarding world. He was killed in a battle at the age of thirty-seven and Hermione never forgave Draco for it.

Ron and the rest of the Weasleys helped Hermione organize a group that specialized in the escape and concealment of Wizards and their families. She remembered what it was like during the last war when Muggleborns were on the run from Voldemort and how difficult it was for them to hide, so she created a network that could quickly and efficiently evacuate those who came to them. Muggleborns would have no problem hiding in the Muggle world but Hermione wanted to be prepared to relocate Wizarding families into the Muggle world and teach them how to live as Muggles.

Ron lived to be one hundred and five before he was killed in the crossfire of a battle.

Hermione worked for both sides at different points in the war. At one time she openly joined the Muggles, knowing she could not save the Wizarding race but determined to cut down the number of Wizard casualties. She was not a silly Pureblood Wizard, she worked the system, outsmarted the geniuses, and viciously enlisted the help of the Imperius curse to force several key officials to take up her policy of relocating and integrating Wizard citizens into Muggle society.

At another time Draco lured her into a trap. She spent almost ten years as Draco Malfoy’s ‘prisoner’ though she used the term lightly. Draco wanted her to help him make a Philosopher’s stone, three of them actually, in hopes of keeping the Wizarding race alive.

She agreed to help, seeing no reason not to.

She bore Draco two more sons during that time and when the youngest turned eight, Hermione took her two children and a Philosopher’s stone and fled.

She was one hundred and fifty when the Muggles finally found Hogwarts and sacked it. It was one of the worst days of her life. Hogwarts had not been a school for a long time but it was still an epicenter of their culture and by the end of the day, it was a pile of rubble. So she mourned with what was left of her people.

At that point, Hermione felt she’d done all she could do and that there was no reason to go on, but Hugo came to visit and told her what he had discovered. The news was balm to her soul and she finally stopped tormenting herself over whether or not she’d done the right thing.

Her children grew up in the Muggle world and Hermione returned to the Wizarding world once they’d grown, to help Hugo and the last of the Wizards seal up the lowest portions of the old Ministry of Magic building. It was so far below the ground that they were able to shield it from detection with natural stone. The Wizards hid the last of their treasures there and all of their records that they had been able to salvage.

Hugo refused the Elixir of Life and passed away at the age of one hundred and eighty two.

At the age of five hundred and twelve, all of Hermione’s children were gone. She searched the world over several times in her last years but found no trace of magic left. The Wizarding world was gone. There was no one left who believed in magic. There were no more magical creatures or unplottable locations. Owls did not carry letters, the Goblins had gone deep into the Earth and never come out and all the dragons had gone to sleep and turned to stone.

Hermione stopped taking her Elixir.

She was a very old woman now and she lived in a tiny house near some of Rose’s descendants. She had put her affairs in order and she was ready now to be with her family once more.

She had just made herself a small dinner and a spot of tea when there was a knock at her door. Surprised, for she rarely had visitors, she hobbled over to answer the door.

A very old man stood stooped on her porch. He was wearing a very nice suit and holding a silver-headed cane. His eyes were a faded blue and he was perfectly bald on top but had fine white hair on the sides of his head.

“Oh dear, a gentleman caller.” Hermione tsked, dotty in her old age and stood aside to let him in.

The little old man ‘hmphed’ disapproving of her tiny habitation and her manners and sat down at her table, joints creaking and Hermione dished him up a plate of dinner. She was pleased to have him there and she smiled brightly.

“You stopped taking your Elixir.” He accused.

“So did you.” She shot back, snapping out her napkin and laying it primly in her lap.

He grimaced, “No reason to take it anymore. We’re all that’s left. No reason to be here once you’re gone. Most of my descendants have gone up into the sky in those ridiculous Muggle crafts. Blasphemy.”

She giggled, “Malfoys in space. It sounds like a bad science fiction movie.”

He gave her a baffled glance and then seemed to dismiss her as batty and began to eat his dinner.

His expression grew wistful. “Do you have anything from the old days? Photos and such?”

Hermione shook her head, dabbing at her mouth with the napkin, “I’m afraid not.”

“I don’t remember what my children looked like. Come to think of it, I don’t remember what I looked like as a young man.” He stared at her, “I think I remember that you were quite beautiful though. Glorious red hair…”

“That was Ginny Weasley.” Hermione snapped tartly, using Ginny’s maiden name because there had actually been several Ginny Potters over the years and at least two Jenny Potters.

“Oh yeah.” Draco muttered. “Then which one were you?”

She glared at him furiously.

“We can still try to revive the Wizarding race, you know. The two of us.” He informed her seriously.

Hermione pursed her wrinkled old lips, “I’m five hundred and twelve, Draco, I’m not having another baby.”

He gave her an unpleasant leer, leaned forward and confided, “You look every one of your years.”

“Oh!” she flapped her napkin at him angrily.

They sat together in the living room, reminiscing about old times and catching up on things they’d missed and telling secrets that they would have never told when they were younger. It was so odd that he was the one with her in the end.

They watched the sunset together and then put out the lights and climbed together into Hermione’s little bed.

“I suppose you won.” He told her quietly, “Are you happy with the way things turned out?”

Hermione gave a sad little smile, “I wasn’t, until my boy Hugo told me something wonderful.” She took one of his wrinkled old hands and squeezed it, “Magic doesn’t just go away or disappear. It can’t. It is still there within our descendants, Draco. It’s only dormant.”

“What are you saying, woman?”

“Why do you think I spent those many years helping hide our Magical knowledge? What use was it if magic was gone? I was wrong, Draco. Muggles weren’t meant to breed with Wizards until magic disappeared. We were meant to be together, one people. Our children are not Squibs or Muggles, their magic has simply gone dormant. It’s changing, evolving, developing within the bodies of our descendants and one day it will reemerge as something new and special and so much stronger than what it was before.”

Draco stared at her, hope in his old, rheumy eyes.

“One day our children will rediscover magic and all of our knowledge will be waiting for them in the hidden places where we left it. I’ve left them keepsakes that will guide them when the time comes. They’ll find their way and the Wizarding World will be born again.”

He nodded slowly, something reverent in his gaze. She kissed his hand like she had once upon a time for Harry and the two of them settled down to sleep.

Neither of them would wake.

A new juncture and glimmering stars

Adorn the unobstructed sky,

They are five thousand year old pictographs,

The staring eyes of future generations.

“The Beggar-Thief”, Gravidy

Rating: NC-17

Published: January 1, 2008 for dmhgficexchange’s Divine the Future event

Link: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/258504.html

CHAPTER 1

She’s taking her time making up the reasons

To justify all the hurt inside

Guess she knows from the smiles

And the look in their eyes

Everyone’s got a theory about the Bitter one

~ Savage Garden “To the Moon and Back”

Can one person really change the world?

Even with Harry Potter as her best friend, there were days Hermione didn’t believe it.

How can you change a world that doesn’t want to change?

“Hermione.” Her name was strangled out in a poor attempt at calm and reasonable tones. “I need you to tone it down.”

Broderick Falconer, Chief Ambassador for the British Ministry of Magic, was a stately and solidly built man with a heavy jaw and fine black hair trimmed in an alarming bowl-cut. He held the treaty Hermione had penned up by two fingers as if afraid he might be contaminated. She couldn’t be sure if the slight towards her bloodline was intended; he might have just been royally pissed off at the liberties she’d taken with her latest assignment, but her current philosophy was to always assume the insult was deliberate.

“I can’t even tell what you wrote that set them off.” The man’s voice was just this side of a screech and if he weren’t a pompous Pureblood, he’d have been pulling his hair. “But I do know that whatever it is, it’s blatantly and deliberately insulting.”

It was, but she wasn’t going to admit that, especially since she was so very disappointed that they had caught on to her little word games. She was really going to have to work on that subtly thing.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest nonchalantly and stared Broderick down. He hated that. You couldn’t loom over someone who was just as tall as you.

“Hermione.” He tried again in a stern warning voice, as if he didn’t realize that trying to channel her father was only going to make her angrier. “You can’t keep doing this. It reflects badly upon us all. It reflects badly upon our people and our country.”

Her chin rose another inch. Across the room, Meredith Mayfield snorted into her coffee, a nasty little sneer on her face. Camden and Alice, the two skinny little interns with jangling jewelry and four-hundred Galleon purses, quickly hushed giggles behind their clipboards.

Broderick turned his glare up another notch, chest puffed out under his expensive robes—he looked a bit like a very swollen robin in Hermione’s opinion—and then he abruptly gave up. He wrenched his spectacles off and kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Tim, you talk to her.”

Timothy Kent, the only person in the room Hermione could remotely stand, led her to the other side of the room. He coaxed her folded arms to loosen and grasped both her hands in his, giving her big, pleading brown eyes, their heads huddled close together. “Please, Hermione,” he whispered. “Please please please help us get this treaty through. I want to go home. One of my cousins went missing three days ago. She’s five. Please, I need to go see my aunt and uncle.”

Against her will, Hermione felt herself softening towards the little executive-wannabe, but then firmly reminded herself of what had taken place the night before and clenched her teeth, drawing herself up. “The terms they’ve set are ridiculous!” she argued, “and we’re just giving in. Why are we the only ones compromising? If we let this happen then we’re condoning this behavior.”

“I’m sure the Ministry will work on it later,” he waffled.

“We both know that’s bullshit.”

“Look, I don’t like it any better than you do, but we’re not in any position at the moment to do anything about it.”

“Damnit, Tim, I’m so sick of this.” She ripped her hands out of his and glared. “These people can act however they want but I’m not about to take part in this disgusting behavior!”

“That’s fine! That’s fine!” Tim soothed. “You don’t have to interact with them, but you know that Meredith and Broderick need you there. They don’t know the local laws like you do, they can’t navigate the culture like you can. And the sooner we get this through, the sooner we can go home.”

Hermione growled. “What are we even doing here? What do we hope to accomplish?”

“Oh now you’re just being ridiculous!” Tim huffed, fussily folding the trim of her over-long sleeves up so they didn’t hang over her hands. “You’re the one who told me that there can be no change without cooperation.”

“I know. I know.” She groaned and raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Alright, fine. Take the treaty back to them. Have them mark the parts they don’t like.” She wasn’t about to incriminate herself any further then she had to if they had, by chance, missed one of her more ingenious insertions.

A collective sigh of relief went through the room.

“Finally,” Camden muttered.

“Stuck-up Mudblood bitch,” Alice tittered, not quietly enough behind her clipboard.

Hermione immediately whirled on them and the two girls quailed back. A house-elf popping in with food, and Timothy’s subsequent shout of delight, cut off whatever Hermione might have said. Tim and the girls quickly sat down to eat, but Broderick stormed out of the room, scroll in hand. The girls at the table cringed.

“You keep up this behavior and you’ll be out of a job.” Meredith had not moved at all the entire time. She flashed amused dark eyes at Hermione and took another sip of her coffee, turning her nose up at the house-elf that brought her a steaming bowl of soup on a tray. “You knew when you took this job that you’d have to have the ability to be tolerant of other people’s cultures,” she drawled.

Hermione’s already frayed temper came very close to snapping completely. “Tolerant?” she barked. “Of human slavery?”

“They’re not human,” Meredith pointed out calmly. “They’re humanoid creatures.”

“Like Muggleborns?” Hermione asked sweetly. Alice giggled nervously and Tim sank in his seat.

Meredith scoffed. “There you go, making it all about you again.”

Hermione stared hard at her and Meredith’s calm façade broke for just an instant, flashing hatred. The woman set her cup down with a hard clack.

“You know, Hermione, I don’t think you’re going to be around much longer. You’re brilliant. But you’re not that brilliant. And you’re not the most talented magically.” She gestured toward the younger girls. “Camden scored higher than you on the K.A.A.P.A.s and Alice’s magical analysis was off the charts. If I were you, I wouldn’t be making waves. Don’t be too surprised if once their internship is finished, one of them is offered your job.”

The two girls preened under Meredith’s indulgent gaze.

Hermione fought for composure, inexplicably hurt. “I suppose a complete lack of morals and super-duper ass-kissing abilities are just what you’re looking for.”

“Says the girl who wouldn’t have this job if she weren’t riding on Harry Potter’s celebrity,” Alice whispered to Camden.

Hermione ignored them. “Heaven forbid someone should be looking out for the best interest of the common people.”

Meredith actually looked frustrated. “We’re here to get the job done. That’s all we should be worried about.”

“And who cares who we trample over to do it?”

Meredith spooned at her soup elegantly. “That’s the way the world works Hermione. Sacrifices now for the betterment of the future. I thought you’d learnt that a long time ago.”

“Oh Merlin, none of this philosophical shit at the table, please,” Camden moaned. “This is just a job. If you want to help people, Granger, go . . . I don’t know, take up a charity.”

And there was the Pureblood “Me First” attitude that seemed to be an almost global affliction. Hermione had even seen it written down somewhere once: “Seize all and leave naught in thy wake, lest thy enemy find strength.” No wonder Purebloods couldn’t stand Muggleborns—they couldn’t even stand each other.

“At least she’s not trying to free our house-elves,” Meredith drawled.

Timothy snickered too when Alice burst into giggles. That was fine, Hermione told herself fiercely. He was fitting in, he wasn’t making waves. Probably better for his career that way. He was a half-blood, not as bad off as her, but still lacking the edge he’d need to get a very high ranking job in the Ministry. She wouldn’t begrudge him taking their side.

When Hermione had first heard of the open position as under-secretary to the Chief Ambassador, she’d seen a glimmering opportunity to get her foot in the door of the British Ministry after several years of drifting like flotsam and jetsam, directionless between departments. It would be slow, but she could work her way up the ladder and in the meantime she would be traveling all over the world learning foreign customs and histories and seeing first-hand everyday life outside of Britain.

Nearly seven years later and she was still the girl who made the dinner reservations and travel arrangements, only now she was expected to write Broderick’s speeches and translate local laws and customs for him with no raise and no promotion in sight.

Worse, she was acquiring, or perhaps not acquiring, perhaps she ‘had’ a reputation as an upstart Muggleborn and troublemaker. Especially after she’d spat in the face of a foreign Minister of Magic who’d kicked a stick-thin, starving werewolf child begging for Knuts on a snowy street corner. She’d then been arrested and detained for kidnapping the next day when she’d taken the child to a small diner for a meal. It seemed that even though the literally starving boy would most likely die before the winter was out, his werewolf family would not give him up.

The British papers had gleefully reported the scandal and later callously reported it when the boy finally succumbed to cold and hunger.

A few months later, someone had anonymously set up a fund for werewolves in the area. Hermione suspected Harry, but was unable to prove it.

“So what did you buy? What did you buy?” Camden was gushing eagerly and squealed when Alice pulled a jade and gold necklace from a velvet box.

“I know, I know I have too much jewelry,” Alice sighed. “But I just had to get it.”

Hermione had always dreamed of having other people of equal intelligence to cohort with. She’d imagined great friendships and great discoveries and shared burdens. Strange that she had studied for four years, graduated at the top of her class, been recruited with the cream of the intellectual crop and still found herself with the equivalent of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil.

During her Hogwarts years, she had never shared with the boys her feminine trials. It didn’t seem like the type of thing to discuss with boys. She’d never talked to them about being shunned and picked on by the popular girls and how it was as if all of the other girls as a strange collective had some sort of secret understanding that she couldn’t begin to fathom. They had made her feel ugly and strange and awkward.

She had always—egotistically, she realized now—put it down to her being more mature and intellectual than they.

What a blow to her self-esteem to find, when she was finally introduced to the cleverest witches and wizards in her generation, that many of them were younger than her, more powerful than her, smarter than her and just as spiteful, shallow and petty as the silly teenage girls of Hogwarts.

Many of them were actually more spiteful as, like her, they had based all their self-worth on their intelligence and so had to prove that they were smarter than any of the others. And of the ones who wanted to use their talents to better the world, none gave a spit for Mudblood rights. She had tried to spear-head a movement at one point but no one saw any reason to follow her, or take her ideas seriously. In the great pool of genius and talent, Hermione tested almost dead center. Average. An average genius.

Had she not been tempered by her trials during her Hogwarts years, her sense of ‘self’ might have completely shattered.

She couldn’t remember now why she’d thought this job would be so great.

She supposed she had refused to consider that even the most glamorous places had their ugly sides. You were supposed to respect other people’s cultures after all. Even when you didn’t understand them and didn’t agree. She hadn’t realized that doing so would mean going to places where Muggleborns had to surrender their wands and keep silent unless a pureblood directly asked them a question. Or places where very young part-Veelas were bought and sold as sex slaves and it was perfectly legal because they were just creatures and she had to just stand by and not DO anything about it because it ‘wasn’t her place to call them wrong’.

Or she had realized it, but she’d thought it would be easier than it really was to be silent and demure and work to change things from behind the scenes. Certainly it was smarter to do so. She knew that it was impossible and even wrong to force change on people. You couldn’t change people. They had to want to change and that change was slow and gradual, generations and generations of slow and gradual.

Lately though, she just couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

The last straw had been Meredith Mayfield.

Muggleborns like Meredith Mayfield.

Hermione couldn’t stand it. It was worse than the purebloods looking down on her, excluding her, tripping her up. Those were things she expected. She had never imagined receiving the same treatment from her own kind.

Hermione and Meredith should have been on the same side. They should have had a kinship, faced the same obstacles, shared the same dreams.

Hermione still wasn’t sure how it had happened, or who had done it, but Meredith had somehow convinced the Ministry that she was pureblooded and she had the documents to prove it. Hermione suspected it had happened sometime during the Muggleborn round-ups before Voldemort’s end. Meredith or someone Meredith knew had paid a lot of money to falsify pureblood-line records.

On one hand, Hermione wondered if she shouldn’t be proud of Meredith’s success, and if not, shouldn’t she just acknowledge that this was a clever way for Muggleborns to enter high positions in the Ministry? Instead, she resented Meredith, both her success and her behavior. Meredith wasn’t doing a single thing to better things for Muggleborns. She was only doing it for herself. Meredith loved playing pureblood princess. And she didn’t seem to mind at all that part of the job was sneering down at her fellow Muggleborns from her perch and treating them like filth.

She was a sell-out.

One who seemed to take pleasure in taking all her frustrations out on Hermione. Because Hermione refused to be anything other than what she was and made damn sure that everyone else knew what she was. Maybe things would have been better between them if Hermione took a graceful step back and didn’t take such pains to allow her bloodline and her opinions to be known so blatantly; perhaps her way of doing things was unnecessarily combative.

But the worse Meredith got, the more outrageously Hermione found herself behaving. Eventually, it was probably going to cost Hermione her job. The way Meredith was talking, Hermione wondered if it hadn’t already.

While the weather was cooling down in Britain, things were just warming up in Wollongong, Australia. Hermione navigated the little cobbled path to the bungalow, a brown shopping bag in one arm and a bouquet of flowers in the other. She could see her mother watering her plants near the veranda, a wide floppy straw hat covering the woman’s graying hair.

Her father looked up from under the hood of his blue pickup truck and grinned. He whistled loudly to get his wife’s attention. “Monica! We’ve got company.”

Hermione’s mother straightened and beamed when she saw Hermione, hurrying over to greet Hermione with a kiss on the cheek and take the bouquet from her.

“Oh Harmony, they’re beautiful!”

“It’s Hermione,” she told her mother gently.

For a moment her mother’s eyes went glassy, but then she nodded and tapped herself on the head. “I don’t know why I have such a problem remembering. It’s such a lovely name.”

“Hey there, Hannah.” Her father wiped his greased hands off on an oily rag and Hermione shook the proffered hand, not correcting him. He looked surprised but then pleased when she kissed him on the cheek.

“I brought souvenirs,” Hermione told them as she stepped inside, setting her bag down on the counter.

Her mother poured them all iced tea and Hermione told them about Bangladesh and Nepal and even some about the bass-ackwards splinter groups from old Dark Empires that Britain was furiously trying to take under their wing, while her mother ‘ooh’d and ‘aww’d over the pretty things Hermione had brought her.

The gifts were added to the already cluttered shelves where Hermione’s other souvenirs were stored. Her mother took her time arranging them and then gave a wistful sigh.

“It must be wonderful to see so many exotic places. Wendell and I have lived in Australia our whole lives,” she confided.

Hermione smiled a bit tightly. “You have plenty of time to travel if you want.”

“Hmm. Maybe we will.” She chortled and her eyes went glassy once more. “You know, every time I see you I’m surprised by what a beautiful grown up lady you are. I feel like I should be looking at a little girl.”

Hermione made a face. “Well I don’t feel that grown up.”

She chuckled and patted Hermione’s cheek, starting back towards the kitchen. “Will you be staying a few days?”

“Not this time. I thought we’d have a late lunch and then I have to get back to England. I’m the Russian Minister for Magic’s British liaison at the Samhain ball the day after tomorrow.”

“Liaison?” her father asked gruffly. “Is that like a date?”

Hermione giggled. “No, I’m basically there to make sure he knows who is who, what is what and to steer him clear of trouble and Firewhisky.”

“Goodness, won’t you be exhausted?” Her mother glanced at the clock. “There’s a huge time difference.”

“No worries. I’m Portkeying home.”

Her parents looked vaguely uncomfortable, their eyes glazing slightly, and Hermione quickly changed the subject.

Later, as evening fell, Hermione washed the dishes and listened to her mother singing to herself while she gardened. Her father was in his study, going over appointments and paperwork, glasses perched on his nose and a frown of concentration on his face. Hermione wondered if they had already forgotten she was in the house. It was hard to tell sometimes.

At least they were remembering her as a person, even if they didn’t remember her name or remember that she was their daughter.

She hadn’t realized at the time the magnitude of what she had done. She hadn’t been able to figure out what had gone wrong when she tried to lift the Obliviate and nothing had happened.

McGonagall had been the one to gently explain her grave error. The Memory Charm had been designed so that Muggles never remembered the memories that were taken from them. Otherwise the magical world were courting disaster, leaving an opportunity for Obliviated Muggles to one day remember the magic they had witnessed. The Memory Charm could be used on wizards and was still very potent, but could usually be reversed on a magical person.

Her parents were not magical. They would never remember their daughter. It would have been possible for Hermione to convince them of who she was and start over . . .only she had tried to lift the Obliviate by herself several times. She had intensified the damage.

Horrified and devastated, Hermione had gone into research mode and had visited some of the wizarding world’s leading experts on Memory Charms. With their help she’d been able to ease her parent’s symptoms; they could now vaguely remember the girl who came to visit them so often, but they didn’t remember ever living in Britain, ever being anyone but Monica and Wendell, or ever having a child.

Hermione could show them pictures, could prove to them that she was their daughter, but the moment she was out of sight, they would forget again.

There were other side-effects as well. Small memory lapses about everyday things, about their lives, about their jobs. And even more surprising was an aversion to magic.

The Memory Charm experts told her it was not an uncommon symptom and that it became stronger with repeated Obliviates. They theorized that the aversion had been deliberately programmed into the original spell formation in some misguided attempt to keep Muggles away from the wizarding world.

But surely, programming Muggles to hate magic wasn’t helpful!

Thinking of the Salem witch trials and people like the Dursleys, Hermione wondered if the wizarding world wasn’t the root of all its own problems.

Hermione left without saying goodbye.

Her parents were happy and that was all that mattered.

The little apartment Hermione kept in London was becoming dusty. She opened the windows to air it out, banishing the dust, and flopped down on the couch to flip through the piles of old owl post on her counter. She almost tossed out the piles of newspapers but paused when she saw the Daily Prophet’s headline from nearly a week ago—More Pureblood Children Missing.

Only vaguely curious at first, she quickly grew uneasy as she organized the papers and scanned one headline after another. A Rash of Disappearances. . . . Four Children Missing—Pureblood . . . Parent’s Obliviated . . . Horsestaff Family Missing! . . . . No Pureblood Safe! . . . .32 Purebloods Missing And Counting. . . .

She scanned the list but didn’t recognize any of the names, though she assumed one of them was Timothy’s cousin. Why hadn’t she heard about this? Yes, she’d been out of the country for over a month, but news like this should have been everywhere.

Uneasy, Hermione set the papers aside and fire-called the boys. Neither Harry nor Ron were home but Mrs. Weasley answered at the Burrow and the two had a quick chat, Molly assuring her that everyone was fine except that Charlie was deeply upset over the deaths of several dragons at his preserve. Mrs. Weasley sent a basket of muffins through at the end of the call and Hermione settled down on the sofa with a sticky double-chocolate muffin.

Nibbling thoughtfully, she set aside the Prophet in favor of the Quibbler. The Quibbler was also reporting the disappearances as well as bizarre theories on what had happened to each person. But unlike the Prophet, the Quibbler was also reporting missing herds of magical creatures and, more alarmingly, mass deaths of magical creatures and not just dragons.

“Prophet wouldn’t care about that,” Hermione muttered sardonically, wiping her chocolaty fingers on a napkin.

The last section of the Quibbler was a story linking the start of the disappearances to the Magical Awakening of several well-known magical sites including Stonehenge, The Avebury Complex, and the Calanais and Machrie Moor Stone Circles, all of which were said to have started emitting a strange but low-grade magical pulse since the new moon two months ago. Theories ranged from lunar phenomena to secret underground cults.

Hermione doubted there was an actual relationship even if the ‘magical pulse’ thing was really true.

The Muggle papers reported absolutely nothing unusual. And that was good news. The last thing the Muggle world needed was wizarding problems spilling over once more.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard book that Dumbledore had given her so many years ago lay on the side table where she’d forgotten it before her trip to Bangladesh. She opened it and flipped through the pages, but there was nothing new. She hadn’t had time to learn any new stories during the trip.

“Hermione!”

The voice startled her awake and she realized she’d been dozing on her couch.

“Hermione, are you there?”

“I’m here,” she called back sleepily, stumbling off the couch even before she’d registered that she was getting a Floo call from Alice.

“You look awful!” the girl tittered.

Hermione groaned. “What do you want, Alice?”

There was a small flash as Alice sent through a letter and package. “There’s been a change in plans for security reasons.” Hermione noted the slightly nervous edge to the girl’s voice as she scooped up the letter. The package was a Portkey, a Muggle stapler, oddly enough. “The Samhain ball isn’t being held at the Ministry.”

“No?” Hermione asked and, eyes widening in disbelief, read the words on the card at the same time as Alice replied.

“It’s being held at Malfoy Manor.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me!” She sat down hard on the couch.

“Oh it’s not that bad,” Alice cajoled mockingly. “Your robes might be a little . . . plebian, but I doubt anyone will be looking at you.” She tossed her hair. “I’d let you borrow some of my robes, they’re designer you know, if you weren’t such a giant. And your feet are way too big for my heels so don’t ask.”

“Fuck off, Alice. It’s not clothes I’m worried about.”

Alice gave a knowing little sneer. “C’mon, what’s the worst he can do?”

“Flesh-eating albino peacocks,” Hermione returned dryly. “Go away, Alice.”

She was dead meat.

Fydor and Gennady Alekseev were a young and handsome couple and Hermione was taller than both of them by a good four inches—closer to six when she wore heels. Their first meeting left Hermione feeling very self-conscious as the couple had remained stiff and aloof no matter how at ease Hermione had tried to make them. To her surprise, they had requested Hermione to escort them at nearly every British function since then, so she figured they must like her okay.

“You seem very nervous tonight,” was the first thing Fydor said when Herimone greeted them at the Floo Network, the translation charms leaving him with almost no accent. He was younger than her by at least five years and the robes he’d chosen for the night made him look even more boyish. Hermione thought he and Gennady looked ready for the wizarding version of a prom.

Hermione greeted their bodyguards before replying, and was, as usual, ignored. She shrugged lightly at Fydor’s observation, nerves jangling. “I don’t know if you were informed, but the ball is being held at Malfoy Manor.”

Fydor’s eyes widened slightly and he exchanged looks with Gennady. They had been there the night Hermione had slapped Draco Malfoy’s lovely wife across the face as hard as she could and shoved a tray of gelato into Draco’s chest.

Fydor wet his lips and cracked, “Perhaps time has dulled their memories?”

Hermione snorted. “More like they’ve been plotting my demise since that night.” She gave them a weak smile. “I’ll understand if you request another escort for the night.”

Fydor waved her off immediately. “No need. Lead on, dear lady.”

Malfoy Manor was spectacular at night, lit with fairy lamps and glittering chandeliers, filled with beautifully dressed couples dancing elegantly and heady with the scent of incense and thrumming with music.

Hermione sighed very quietly; her feminine fancy swayed by the absolute gorgeousness of it all, and was immediately brought down to earth and her moderately priced dress when a passing house-elf sneered at her.

“Goodness, even the house-elves are snobs,” Gennady whispered.

“He’s trained them to do that just for me,” Hermione muttered back.

“Minister Alekseev.” Hermione positively whirled around at the rich sound of Lucius Malfoy’s voice.

The elder Malfoy looked particularly stunning in gold-trimmed black robes. Hermione had been shocked the last time she’d seen Lucius Malfoy a few years ago and found him oddly changed. He seemed younger and mellower, his oily voice gentler, gray eyes softer and, the hard lines around his eyes and mouth faded.

She’d been completely baffled and a little freaked out until someone had explained to her that Lucius had stepped down as Head of the family and Draco had taken his place. With the family Lord-ship came both power and responsibility, gift and burden. The Lord of a family was often changed in profound ways, ways distinct for each family and defined by their values.

Seeing Lucius’ relaxed and gentle countenance now, Hermione wondered if he wasn’t glad to be rid of the Lordship.

“My Lady.” Lucius dipped his head toward Gennady. “Miss Granger.” And that was definitely a drawl though there was nothing malicious in it. “I’m afraid my son, Lord Malfoy, is attending to other matters dealing with our community’s recent troubles at the moment. He begs your forgiveness for not greeting you personally and hopes to see you later tonight. Please make yourselves at home. Dinner will be served in two hours and there will be a small ceremony at midnight in honor of Saimhain. Welcome.” He gave a deep bow, which Fydor stiffly returned.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. We are honored to be in your lovely home.”

When Hermione felt the bowing was getting out of hand she gently began to steer the young man towards the French Minister and the next round of greetings.

“Miss Granger.” Lucius’ amused voice caught her and she turned back slightly, wary. “I do hope this night will not end with my son wearing his dessert.”

Hermione flushed as several people nearby stopped to listen. She wracked her brain for something intelligent to say that wouldn’t get her immediately fired or her face slapped on some tawdry gossip column. The others were staring at her hungrily, waiting for the brash and opinionated Hermione Granger to shock them by saying something common and insulting and Mugglish.

She wasn’t there to entertain them, for Merlin’s sake, and her ideals weren’t something for them to joke about later.

Lucius raised his eyebrows at her continued silence and smirked. “Just . . . accost him well away from the foodstuffs, my dear,” he said finally and made a little shooing motion.

Face burning, Hermione turned on her heel and strode as gracefully as she could on cheap Muggle heels back to where Fydor and Gennady were waiting.

The rest of the party was a whirl of vivid colors, polite small talk and remembering names. Hermione noted with amusement that a frazzled Meredith was trying desperately to keep one of the more infamous Lords of Spain from chasing after other people’s wives while his own wife, who was already deep in her cups, kept trying to sneak off with a handsome member of the Italian Ministry.

Fydor and Gennady were rather low maintenance and after the rounds and rounds of greetings and introductions and Hermione whispering to a confused Fydor that the man he was greeting was the Egyptian Prince’s uncle who had come in his nephew’s stead, the young couple spent much of their time dancing.

Hermione spent her time consulting with several of the foreign ambassadors she had not seen since the last international event. Well, that and avoiding Synnove Malfoy—which was harder than it should have been.

Hermione was beginning to wonder if the other woman wasn’t stalking her. Synnove was every bit as tall as Hermione and several years older. She was looking stunning and regal, her true-gold hair plaited and twined and wrapped around her head and pinned with jewels, showing off a face that did not need shinning tresses to be lovely. Her robes were a contrast of cobalt blue and velvet red, making her a bright spot of heat in the otherwise pale and wintery Malfoy family.

She didn’t hold a candle to Narcissa.

Narcissa floated through the room, a witch in her prime, silvery-blonde hair loose and swaying down robes gleaming like the darkest abalone shell, her pale face glowing coldly with strength, blue eyes hard as granite. It was that more than anything that convinced Hermione that Narcissa had yet to pass on the title of Lady Malfoy the way Lucius had done with his title of Lord. Why she had not was anybody’s guess, though the longer she waited, the more an insult it became and the more people would speculate that Narcissa did not approve of Synnove.

Hermione gloated silently.

It was Narcissa who finally pounced on Hermione, much to her surprise. She hadn’t expected the woman to deign to acknowledge her existence, let alone speak to her. Narcissa cornered her as she was returning from speaking to Broderick. The Lady Malfoy was escorted by a sneering pack of ladies of good breeding. Hermione noted Mrs. Avery and Mrs. Goyle among them, hard-faced women who had successfully taken over their husbands estates with the help of the Malfoys, several loopholes in their marriage contracts and a few outright violations of common law.

“Miss Granger, how . . . lovely . . . to have one such as yourself back in our manor.”

The women behind her were too lady-like to giggle but Hermione saw the wave of silent amusement in the rustling of skirts and waving of painted fans.

“Lady Malfoy,” Hermione answered stiffly. “You look lovely. I hope you are in good health.”

“Why thank you, my dear.” Narcissa’s bland smile became just the tiniest bit wicked. “And you are looking,” her eyes swept over Hermione, “quite lively.”

I can fix that for you.

Hermione gulped.

The other women whispered to each other coquettishly behind their fans and Hermione caught the expected words of ‘Mudblood’, ‘disgrace’, and ‘outrage’.

Narcissa followed Hermione’s gaze. “Oh don’t mind them.” She stepped forward and Hermione tensed, just barely keeping herself from flinching when the shorter woman put a delicate hand on her arm and turned her to lead her away from the others. “I hear you’ve had quite the time in Bangladesh.”

Speechless, Hermione could only stare at her.

“My husband is a bit of an aficionado, you know,” Narcissa confided fondly.

“A fan? A fan of what?” Hermione choked out. “Bangladesh?”

Narcissa gave an elegant laugh. “No, darling. Of you. He enjoys keeping up with your little misadventures among the less civilized wizarding nations. I think it reminds him of his own youthful days of mischief and flaunting authority.”

Mischief? Death Eater activity was ‘mischief’?

“Uh, I was fairly certain Mr. Malfoy preferred er, good manners and, uh, preserving the status quo and. . . .” And fucking piles of money.

Narcissa gave a soft sigh, as if despairing, “Perhaps, but he never could turn down a spot of violence.”

Lucius Malfoy was a fan of anarchy and chaos. As usual.

Quite sure she had just been horribly insulted, Hermione flashed a beaming little smile. “Well, at least I don’t have to wear a dreadful cloak and mask.”

A pinching hex caught her right on the tender underside of her upper arm and she yelped. Loudly.

Several people turned to look at her and Narcissa only looked severely disapproving.

“I apologize, Lady Malfoy.” Hermione whispered.

Narcissa smiled brightly. “There’s a girl.” She patted Hermione’s arm and turned to be on her way. “Oh, and Miss Granger, if you find the opportunity, you may wish to speak with Draco.”

Not a chance in hell.

The Lord of the manor did eventually put in an appearance. He stormed in with none of Lucius’ suave grace, the power around him fairly crackling. His robes were shimmering black with silver runes etched down the front, back, and along the rolled and tied sleeves, preparation for his role as Master of Ceremonies at the Samhain ritual at midnight. It might have been her imagination that his hair was paler, his eyes harder. There were new lines around his mouth and eyes.

Lord Draco Malfoy made a cold and abrupt speech before dinner, but Hermione kept to the back of the room and ignored whatever he was droning on about. He left the room when dinner was served, though Hermione supposed he’d be back to conduct the Samhain rite. She could only hope his appearance would be brief.

It was nearing midnight when Hermione spotted the small boy skirting the edges of the crowd, ducking behind statues and tables. He was wearing dark blue pajamas with cat paw mittens over his hands and feet and a hood with cat ears covering his silvery-blonde hair. In his arms was clutched a well-loved but indistinguishable ball of fluff. Blue eyes scanned the crowd sharply, round baby jaw set in an imperious pout.

Draco, Hermione decided, had never been that cute.

Hermione watched the child for several minutes but no one else seemed to notice him. She nearly ignored him herself but no one came to collect him and finally, feeling much put-upon, she stepped between the tables and behind one of the marble statues. The boy looked up at her with a fair imitation of the bland Malfoy public face, but she could see the trepidation in his eyes and crouched down a few feet from him next to the curtains.

“Hi, whatcha doing back here? Are you looking for your mum?”

The boy—Scorpius if she was right and this was the Malfoy scion—looked her over very carefully with an oddly unfocused gaze before seeming to decide that she was trustworthy.

“I came to see the pah-ty,” he told her, each word slow and carefully enunciated on child lips.

“Well, sorry, sweetheart.” She glanced at the partygoers. “It’s just a regular boring grown-up party. Nothing fun going on here.”

He slowly blinked baby-blue eyes, processing that. “The lights are lovely,” he commented finally. It was odd to hear such a small child speak so properly.

“They certainly are.” Hermione had to agree. “Didn’t you get to see them earlier when everything was being set up?”

“No. Sam-han is an important cer-mony. I stayed in my room where I would not be underfeet,” he told her gravely.

Hermione frowned. “I can’t blame you for sneaking up, then. But I’m sure you’ll have lots of boring Malfoy parties to attend when you get older. You are Scorpius Malfoy, aren’t you?”

As if the words were a trigger, the boy’s spine went even straighter and he dropped her a proper bow while still clutching his plushie. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Scorpius Hunter Adonis Laufeia-Malfoy.”

Draco had definitely never been this cute.

Not. Ever.

“Charmed. I am Hermione Omar Neeko Reebeesnap Granger the Third, and it is an ostentatious pleasure to make your illustrious acquaintance.”

The boy gave her a very impressed nod, apparently certain that he was meeting someone quite distinguished, and Hermione fought not to crack up.

“Introductions aside, now that you’ve seen the party, maybe its time you got back to bed.”

The Malfoy pout came into full play and Hermione had a premonition of what was coming even before she was treated to the Malfoy whine. “I do not wish to go to bed. The other children are still awake.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly like she could insist. And the temporal distance from Malfoy whine to Malfoy tantrum was inversely proportional to the subject’s age; therefore, insisting at this point was a very bad idea.

Hermione really didn’t want to have to speak with Synnove and she wasn’t going to wander the manor looking for the boy’s bedroom. If the Malfoys were hosting other people’s children, she’d drop the boy off at the make-shift daycare and let them deal with him.

“Show me where the other kids are and I’ll drop you off there, if there’s a grownup to watch over you.” She reached down without thought and took the boy’s hand in hers.

The boy looked completely shocked by the action and stared at their entwined hands uncomprehendingly. Hermione nearly pulled her hand away, thinking that she’d broken some sacred law of the universe by daring to lay hands on a Malfoy, but the next moment the boy’s little fingers grasped her hand tightly and even if she had let go, he’d still be holding on.

Wishing she could have just ignored the kid, Hermione tried to steer him around the outskirts of the room.

“You have to tell me where to go,” she reminded him. “I’ve never been anywhere but the Floo-room and the ballroom.”

The child nodded his understanding, looking as though he wasn’t really listening, but took the initiative, pulling her by the hand through a large doorway and down the hall.

“I believe it is this way,” the boy told her . . . several times . . . with a look of great concentration on his face and eyes shinning with uncertainty, until Hermione began to think the child had no idea how to get around his own home.

It was a big place, Hermione conceded, and he couldn’t be more than five or six. She just wished he’d hurry it up because she didn’t like the looks the portraits were giving her or the way the marble busts turned to watch her pass.

They were well and truly lost; Scorpius was beginning to show signs of becoming tired and cranky, and Hermione was resigning herself to having to carry him when a voice shouted, “Over this way!”

Hermione turned and waited, relieved that they had found people again. Two men came flying around the corner and Hermione barely had time to open her mouth in greeting when spell-fire hit her in the chest like a wrecking ball. She slammed backwards into the wall, sending glass and priceless antiques smashing to the ground. Her body was happily numb as she slumped down the wall, ropes lashing around her.

She was stunned for only a moment and then she was inescapably aware of the agony in her back, the breathlessness in her crushed ribs and Scorpius’ high, panicked screams.

“Grab the kid!”

Scuffling sounds. Scorpius’ cries becoming shrieks of terror.

Missing pureblood children! Hermione thought in horror. The kidnappers were here! She tried weakly to struggle but the ropes held her tight and grew tighter, the pain immobilizing.

“Damnit! Shut him up!”

She tried to speak. Tried to yell at them to stop and only coughed. A Silencio later and she could no longer hear Scorpius. She was grabbed roughly to her feet, her wand snatched up from the ground. She strained to get a good look at the men but her hair had fallen loose and hung in her eyes. Their captors dragged her through several twisting hallways and up a flight of stairs and just as she began to wonder why in the world they were taking her deeper into the manor, she was yanked through a pair of large double doors into a brightly lit room.

Conversation in the room halted immediately. Hermione felt herself slowly flushing red, aware of her bedraggled state as she faced the stunned occupants of the room. Meredith and Broderick were standing to one side along with two men Hermione recognized as Chief Auror Nelson and Auror Russ Chamberlain. Directly in front of them Draco Malfoy stood next to Ron Weasley, who was crouched at the side of a hard-backed chair, seated in which was Harry Potter. Just when her mind caught up to the bizarre tableau she was seeing, the man at her back shoved her forward and said triumphantly.

“We’ve caught the kidnapper!”

WHAT?

Hermione had a hard time following the chaos that followed.

Harry surged to his feet, chalice of some hot liquid tumbling to the floor as he shouted, “Hermione!” echoed by Draco’s baffled, “Granger?”

Nelson was striding towards her and Hermione’s ‘kidnapper’ was saying “Herminny Granger you are under arrest for attempted kidnapping.”

The rest of his speech was cut off when Draco slammed him aside, nearly knocking over Hermione as well, to get at the man who still held a silenced but red-faced and wildly flailing Scorpius.

“What the hell do you think you are you doing to my son!” Draco snatched the small boy away, and blasted the frightened and retreating man into the wall with a flick of his wand.

Harry was babbling at her and trying to untie her and Ron started shouting at the Aurors who were trying to stop them. Shouting at his boss, Hermione realized with trepidation as Harry helped her to her feet, dusting her off worriedly.

“Yes, I think she could have done it,” Meredith was saying to Chamberlain. “It’s exactly the kind of thing she’d do. She hates purebloods.”

Hermione grabbed Harry’s wand and the giant flash and bang that followed shook the room and, more importantly, shut everyone up.

“Alright!” she said loudly and clearly. “Will someone please explain to me what is going on?”

“You tried to kidnap my son is what’s going on,” Draco snarled back, frowning at the now sullen Scorpius in his arms and pulling the boy’s thumb out of his mouth. He set the boy on his feet and straightened his robes fussily.

Ron took an aggressive step forward, red auror robes flaring, “Don’t be stupid, ferret. . .”

“Ron!” Hermione cut him off. “Allow me.” She glared back at Draco. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Witnesses saw you leave the ballroom with the boy,” one of the Aurors said accusingly. “The house-elf that was minding the child was found dead.”

“Dead?” Hermione gasped as Ron snorted.

Scorpius gave a small cry of, “Mitzy!” and Draco swore, then quickly covered the boy’s ears and swore again.

“Pfft, now we know it wasn’t Hermione.” The redhead crossed his arms over his broad chest. “She wouldn’t kill a house-elf; she’s crazy about the little buggers.” He glanced sideways at Hermione. “They don’t like her much, though.”

“Shut up, Ron. I found Scorpius wandering around in the ballroom. I was taking him back to the other children.”

“Not to his mother, who was in the room? Not back to his room where he came from?” The Head Auror pounced.

“I wasn’t about to go wandering around looking for his bedroom. I thought Scorpius knew the way, but he didn’t and we got lost. Ask him, he’ll tell you.”

Draco frowned and looked at his son, uncovering his ears, once again yanking the boy’s thumb from his mouth and this time giving the hand a small spank. “Scorpius. Did you sneak out of your room?”

The boy pouted. “Wanted to play with the big kids,” he mumbled, the stress of the situation apparently too much for him to maintain his perfect speech.

“Properly, young man,” Draco ordered coldly.

“Oh lay off, Malfoy!” Hermione snapped.

“That’s Lord Malfoy to you, bi . . . Granger, and don’t tell me how to raise my son!”

“So you were using Scorpius to lead you to the other children, Miss Granger?” Chamberlain interrupted.

“Scorpius,” Draco interrupted. “Go sit in my desk chair and recite today’s etiquette lessons. This is not a discussion for children.”

“Recite his lessons?” Ron muttered. “He expects a six year old to just sit quietly?”

But Scorpius was already obeying, tottering over to the chair and clambering into it. Draco cast a charm over that side of the room so the boy would not be able to hear their discussion and probably so they could not hear the boy as well. Hermione could see Scorpius’ lips moving as he obediently recited to himself.

Chamberlain cleared his throat and flipped open an odd side-ways notebook. “Miss Granger, where were you Tuesday night?” Ron and Harry made impatient sounds of protest.

“At my parents’ house.”

“Right. And where do they live?”

“Wollongong, Australia.”

“You have a permanent Portkey there, is this true?”

“Yes it is.”

The man examined his notebook for a long moment then gave her a hard look. “Well, my associates have just gotten back to me with word that there is no Stan and Helen Granger in Wollongong and that the couple living at the Wollongong address do not know a Hermoney Granger and are adamant that no one of your description has so much as visited them.” His notebook snapped shut.

“What do you mean they just got back to you?” Harry cut in. “When did you have time to send anyone? What the hell’s going on?”

Hermione hesitated. “My parents don’t remember me. They were Obliviated fourteen years ago.”

The Aurors all shared a significant look.

“Just like the missing children’s relatives were Obliviated?” Draco asked sweetly.

“What?”

“Miss Granger, I’m afraid things aren’t looking very good for you,” Nelson said, approaching her with wand drawn. “We’re going to have to place you under arrest.”

Ron and Harry stepped in front of her quickly.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Harry yelled. “Nothing you’ve brought up is in any way significant. The kid admitted that he snuck out of his room by himself. And she’s got an alibi for every other kidnapping that’s happened.”

“I’m going straight to Minister Shacklebolt with this,” Ron shouted. “In fact, why isn’t he here tonight? I bet you wouldn’t pull this with him around!”

“If she’s innocent then there shouldn’t be a problem now should there?” another Auror snarled back in his face.

“You can make this much easier on yourself, Miss Granger, if you tell us where the other children are.”

“Are you stupid? I’ve been out of the country! I don’t know anything about any children!”

“MY BEST FRIEND DID NOT KIDNAP MY WIFE AND CHILDREN!”

Hermione froze.

“What?” She stared at Harry. “What did you just say? Harry?”

Harry only looked lost.

“Harry why are you here?” Hermione asked urgently.

Harry was dressed in loose casual robes, not dress robes; he hated Ministry functions and it would take either a minor miracle or major emergency to get him within the walls of Malfoy manor.

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” The Auror yelling at Ron sneered at her.

“Harry?” she whispered urgently.

Harry seemed to struggle with himself. Ron’s expression was oddly closed. It was Draco who answered.

“Ginny Potter, Jimmy Potter and Albus Severus Potter are missing, and Potter and Weasley have been Obliviated. They don’t remember them.”

Hermione staggered back, aghast. “They—they don’t . . . Lily! Where’s Lily?”

“Don’t tell her!” one Auror yelped.

Draco shot the man a disdainful look. “I sent her to Potter’s Muggle cousin. Considering that all of the kidnappings until recently have been purebloods, I supposed she would be safer there.”

“I only read in the paper about a handful of pureblood children.”

“The kidnappings escalated,” Draco explained. “First pureblood children, then entire pureblood families and now several half-blood children.” He moved to a side table and began pouring drinks.

“Then why aren’t people more alarmed? What’s going on?”

“The Obliviations.” Chamberlain said reluctantly, eyes granite-hard and glaring at her accusingly. “Anyone with blood relation to those kidnapped is Oblivated—no matter where they are.” He accepted a glass from Draco with a gracious nod.

Hermione glanced around at everyone in the room. “Is that even possible?”

“It is now,” Draco said curtly.

“And most of the pureblood families are interrelated,” Hermione breathed.

“Hard to know someone’s missing if you can’t even remember they existed.” Draco mocked, holding out a glass of some clear liquid to her. “Here. You’re going to need it.”

She hesitated a long moment, Ron tense and wary beside her, but finally took the proffered cup. “What about photographs? The children’s rooms, their toys?” She took a sip from the glass, though only after Nelson and Draco had taken a drink from their own, and found it delightfully smooth, burning warmly down her throat.

“Vanished. No trace of them remains,” Nelson told her very quietly, completely focused on her face, watching for some cue to give her away. “To be perfectly honest, we can’t be certain of the total number of those missing. We have no way of knowing.”

“And Ginny?” Hermione breathed.

“I came home from work,” Harry started, voice weak and stilted, “and Lily was crying. She was alone, filthy and hungry. I couldn’t believe I had left her alone, I didn’t understand why I’d gone off to work and left her with no one to watch her. It never occurred to me that anything was wrong until I went to work the next morning with Lily in my arms and someone asked me about my wife. . . .” He swallowed. “I’d forgotten I ever had a wife. I still don’t remember having a wife. I don’t . . . I don’t remember having sons.”

Hermione let out a sob, cut to the quick by the helpless confusion on his face, and embraced him tightly.

“It doesn’t even hurt,” he whispered. “I lost my family and it doesn’t even hurt because I don’t remember them.”

“And no one told me? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Herimone choked.

“Because we didn’t know. I don’t remember my sister or my nephews,” Ron admitted tiredly. “Neither does the rest of the family.”

“We’ve been trying to keep it out of the news,” Draco informed her blandly. “The public would go mad if they heard the Potter kids were missing.” He smirked. “And you were already a suspect.”

Hermione let go of Harry abruptly. “I was WHAT?” It came out a shriek. “How do you figure that? Since when?”

“We figured it was someone with a grudge against purebloods. Someone good at Memory Charms and intelligent enough to pull it off,” Nelson said coolly. “You had motive, plenty of intelligence, even more resources with your connections.”

“I don’t have a grudge against purebloods,” Hermione spat, teeth grinding. “And connections? Are you mad?”

“You were always disappearing with that Portkey of yours,” Broderick said, finally speaking up. “People started thinking maybe you were taking pureblood children, Oblivating them and leaving them in the Muggle world to be raised as Muggleborns.”

“ARE YOU INSANE?” Hermione shrieked. “I want Veritaserum NOW! You!” She turned on Nelson. “Get your ass back to your stupid little Auror academy and get me some truth serum.” One of the Aurors made to grab her arm and she slapped him away. “Get off me! I’m not going anywhere with you crazy assholes! You come back here and I’ll answer all your questions and then you can get back to actually doing your JOB!”

Ron was grinning dangerously. “You heard her. If you aren’t going to let this go, get the lady some truth serum. And be quick, I’m coming with to fetch Minister Shacklebolt.”

The same door Hermione had been dragged through suddenly burst open and an Auror, dragging a pudgy stranger, burst in. “I’ve caught the kidnapper!”

Ron groaned and covered his face. “Jeremy.”

“That’s not the kidnapper, you idiot!” Draco screamed, causing the excited Auror to visibly deflate. “That’s a nosy, meddling, trespassing Squib.”

The Squib, Jeremy, looked sheepish. He was scruffy looking, outfitted in cargo pants and a heavy jacket. He had dark brown hair pulled back in a small tail, thick glasses and an unkempt goatee. Hermione wondered what somebody in Muggle attire was doing on Malfoy property.

“I caught him doing something to the children!” the Auror argued, holding up an odd little plastic tube.

Auror Nelson looked furious. “I told you to keep your useless Muggle,” he struggled for a word, “things . . . to yourself!”

“If they’re useless then it won’t matter if I try them out, now will it?” Jeremy shot back, struggling slightly in the Auror’s grip.

Draco swore and stalked over to scoop Scorpius up before jabbing a pale finger at Jeremy. “Keep that piece of trash here. And go get Granger her truth serum.”

Broderick and Meredith moved to follow Malfoy out the door, but Broderick paused in front of Hermione. “Look, Hermione, this is going to be all over the papers tomorrow no matter how things turn out tonight. I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go. There is simply no way our department could weather such a storm while retaining you in your position.”

Hermione wrenched her quivering lips into a tight smile. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve been itching for months to get rid of me and at this point you’d use any reason to do so. But it takes a special kind of asshole to stab you in the back when you most require assistance. Thanks for the benefit of the doubt, boss.”

CHAPTER 2

Hermione slouched on Malfoy’s disgustingly comfortable couch with Harry perched despondently beside her. There was classical music playing softly in the background and it was starting to drive her mad.

Draco had gone to perform the midnight Samhain ceremony, taking his spawn with him. The remaining Aurors loitered around the room, glaring suspiciously at Hermione. Harry seemed oblivious to it.

Hermione rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, probably smearing her makeup horribly, but that didn’t matter because her hair was already a mess, she was slightly tipsy from whatever Draco had given her, she’d broken a heel and she was probably about to be arrested. “Okay, I don’t understand what’s going on. Harry can you please just . . . I don’t know, start from the beginning.”

He gave a faint humorless smile. “It was two days ago. I don’t think anyone noticed at first. How could they? We don’t even know how long the disappearances have been going on or even if it’s going on elsewhere in the world.”

That was as far as he got before Jeremy the Squib was awkwardly shoving in to sit on Hermione’s other side, blatantly invading her personal space and interrupting. “Did you hear about the magical creatures?” he asked breathlessly. “It started with the magical creatures. No, wait, it started with Stonehenge. Sorry. Oh, hi, I’m Jeremy Lestrange. It’s an honor Mr. Potter and Miss. . . .”

“Hermione Granger.” She eyeballed the weirdo but shook his clammy hand.

He grinned. “Yeah, I know. You’re frequently in the tabloids.”

“Gee, thanks,” she muttered with distaste.

“No no no!” He laughed. “You do good work. It’s great that there’s someone out there who isn’t afraid to say straight out that something is ridiculous and unacceptable while the rest of us sheep smile politely and pretend it doesn’t happen.”

“You’re a Lestrange?” she said, and then wondered if it was rude to ask.

He grinned. “Fourth generation Squib from a cousin line that’s long dead now.” He chortled, apparently finding the extinction of the magical branch of his family funny.

“You’re not a friend of Malfoy’s, are you?”

“Oh hell no, hell no! I’m here cuz us Squibs and Muggleborns are the only ones thus far unaffected by the . . uh . . .phenomena.”

“Phenomena?” She glanced at Harry, who was staring dully at his hands.

He lowered his voice and leaned close. “It started with Stonehenge. The Quibbler says Stonehenge and other ancient stone structures began emitting a magical pulse about two months ago.” He glanced around as if afraid others were listening and scooted a bit closer. “But really, it was more like two years ago. That’s when the magical creatures began disappearing or being slaughtered. The thing is, in places where it was noticed and strongly publicized, the killings stopped. While in places like Britain, where the magical community gives magical creatures all the consideration that Muggles give common household rodents, it escalated. Then just recently the children began disappearing. Always pureblood, one or two here and there, and again, in places where their disappearances were quickly noticed, the kidnappings stopped.”

“And they weren’t quickly noticed in Britain?” Hermione deducted.

Jeremy shook his head. “Not quickly, but they did notice. The places where the disappearances were noticed were communities with large percentages of Muggleborns and Squibs within the population. In places like Britain, Switzerland and Bulgaria segregation is common both in where Muggleborns and purebloods live and where they work. There is also a much greater percentage of shared bloodlines among the purebloods.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Jeremy took a short breath. “You’re Muggleborn. You live in Britain. You probably live in a Muggle neighborhood or on the outskirts of a wizarding community. It’s very unlikely that you live in a magical community with pureblood neighbors whom you speak to every morning, and therefore would notice immediately should their child go missing. It’s much more likely that the pureblood has other pureblood neighbors who are probably related to them and therefore are affected by the Obliviation to at least some degree. Now if you were a Muggleborn in Toronto, Canada you would have all kinds of different neighbors and everyone would notice if your pureblood neighbor’s child went missing. And at the other extreme you have isolated pureblood covens that don’t allow Muggleborns into the community at all. Many of them are just gone. Wiped out. We can’t find a trace of them.”

Hermione sat back. “There are degrees to the Obliviation?”

“Oh yes. It’s a frightening spell, absolutely insidious. Do you have any idea how much power must be in this spell to not only Obliviate everyone of blood but erase all evidence of the child? This is unheard of! Merlin couldn’t do it. But it does have a weakness. The less blood shared, the less affected you are. There is also a magical component. Because purebloods aren’t really about blood, you know. They’re about magic. That’s why you remember the Potter children. You may have known them, you may have loved them but first, and best, you’re Muggleborn; second, there’s no blood relation; third, there’s no magical relation.” He ticked off on his fingers, sounding satisfied.

“But Harry doesn’t remember Ginny.” She paused. “That’s the magical relation you were speaking of?”

“Yes, first through marriage and bonding, second through sex.”

“Hey!” Harry muttered, shooting Jeremy a scathing look.

“So if you sleep with a random stranger and they get kidnapped you forget them?” Hermione asked.

“No. Be quiet.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Third through their children. We have had cases of a few people whose blood relation was diluted enough that they could remember the child’s name but not the child, or they could faintly remember a child being connected to the family but not whose child it was or anything of great detail about them. Others remember a few details about a child but not the child’s name or face.”

“How do you know all this?” Hermione asked. “Missing pureblood children doesn’t affect you.”

“Oh it sure does,” Jeremy protested giving a bitter laugh and continuing loudly while glaring at the Aurors. “Who do you think they’re blaming? Pureblood children go missing. Muggleborns, Squibs and most half-bloods not affected. Oh you can be damn sure they think this is somehow our fault. You just wait, we’re going to have Muggleborn round-ups again. It’s all a matter of time.”

Hermione’s heart lurched.

“Hey.” Harry broke the glaring contest. “What were you doing to the kids when the Auror found you?”

“Oh.” He reached into one of his many zippered pockets and pulled out a small device that resembled a handgun without a barrel and a plastic tube. “I used jet injection, that’s injection using high-pressure instead of a needle, to plug a couple things into our little Pureblood sprogs. A small temporary ID and tracking device. It’s the best I can do with the fucking Ministry refusing to let us near their precious babies to do something more helpful. We had all kinds of plans for trying to inject Portkeys or anchors to magically keep the kids from being taken out of a certain range. Those were just on the drawing board, though. Considering the type of magic we’re up against, it’s not unlikely any magical means of protecting the children will simply be overridden.”

“That’s why you’re looking at Muggle methods,” Harry murmured.

Jeremy nodded. “Pathetic, useless Muggle methods that they’ll fight their damnedest to keep us from using. Oh well.” And again loudly directed at the Aurors. “It’s just their children. Not like they’ll even remember when they’re gone. Oh, sorry man.” He winced and quickly shut up, seeing the look on Harry’s face.

Hermione sighed and leaned back on the cushion. “Shouldn’t they be back by now?” she wondered aloud.

The group was still waiting restlessly when Draco Malfoy returned with Synnove gracefully at his side and Scorpius following with proud little steps behind. Synnove spotted the three on the couch and looked ill. Jeremy waved his fingers at her, grinning wickedly, and made a kissy-face. The haughty little expression on Scorpius’ face broke and he waved back excitedly and blew a kiss. Toddling over to Hermione, his proud expression returned, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by Synnove’s sound of disgust.

“Scorpius, get back here this instant. You’ll catch some awful disease. . . .”

Scorpius halted in his tracks, looking alarmed.

“Wife.” Draco’s voice was colder than Hermione had ever heard it. “Do be a dear and do not fill my heir’s head with lies. I will not have him growing up fearing that which he ought not to fear.”

Synnove’s pale face went pink with anger or embarrassment. “He should not be anywhere near that filth. . . .”

“And women should not speak back to their Lords and Husbands. Scorpius, please sit with your new friend Hermione.”

“Her-my-oh-knee Omar Neeko Reebeesnap Granger the Third, father.”

Synnove looked startled. Draco froze and stared at Scorpius. “What was that, child?”

“That is her name,” Scorpius said imperiously. Synnove sniffed and Harry gave Hermione a long amused look.

“Omar Neeko Reebeesnap.” Jeremy repeated, stroking his goatee, obviously impressed.

“Is it?” Draco’s eyes snapped to Hermione, who was trying desperately not to snigger. “I see. It seems you have something in common with the Mudblood, my dear,” he said lightly off to the side to Synnove.

Hermione felt guilty, but half the fun of having small children around was lying to them. “You did a very good job remembering all of that,” Hermione told Scorpius. “Why, I don’t remember it all half the time.”

Scorpius puffed-up with pride and scrambled up onto the couch between her and Harry. To Hermione’s surprise, Jeremy leaned away, looking at the boy in distaste, the expression nearly a sneer.

Hermione instinctively put a protective arm around the boy and Scorpius gave a happy squeak and wriggled closer. Synnove took an outraged step forward, apparently ready to tear the boy away, but was stopped by Draco’s hand on her shoulder. Lord Malfoy only watched them coolly.

“Where are the Aurors? Where is Nelson?” Draco asked.

“Not back yet,” one of the Aurors grunted nervously.

Draco stepped towards the man, frowning. “Go find out what’s taking them so very long and report back here.”

The Auror nodded curtly and headed to the Floo. “Auror Headquarters,” he called clearly and dropped the powder.

The whiplash of power blew Hermione’s bedraggled hair straight back. The flames that exploded up around the man blazed red and so bright that Hermione’s hands slapped over her eyes. The Auror had an instant to look shocked and then he was screaming and screaming, blood-curdling cries of agony, and Synnove was shrieking, which sent Scorpius wailing, and Hermione’s hands fell away to see the Auror writhing as the red flames ate him like acid.

There was a moment where everyone seemed frozen, unable to do anything but watch as the man’s skin blackened and bubbled, and then another Auror lunged forward to grab his comrade only to fall back, screaming, his hands blackened and smoking. Hermione scrambled off the couch grabbing him out of the way as he started to fall, still howling in pain.

“Accio!” Harry was shouting frantically, “Accio Auror!”

“Exstinguo!” Draco was right behind him. “Gelidus! Damnit! Flamma Expello!”

Scorpius’ screams grew louder and two vases and a picture frame shattered, the table and couch rattling frantically. None of the spells were helping; in fact, Hermione wondered if it was her imagination that the flames leapt higher with each blast. The screaming had already stopped; the Auror’s body was crumbling into ash before their eyes.

Draco and Harry fell silent, staring in undisguised revulsion at the empty fireplace. Synnove was still screaming, high pitched shrieks over and over again, and Scorpius’ cries grew louder to match hers. The table flew off the floor to smash into the ceiling and the ottoman burst open.

“For Merlin’s sake, shut them up!” the injured Auror screamed through clenched teeth, arms shaking as Hermione bandaged his hands as best she could with gauze she’d conjured. She knew little about medical magic but she knew enough that she didn’t want to try any healing spells on burns when she had no idea what had caused them. She could cool and numb the hands but that was it.

Draco waved his wand at Synnove, silencing her without a backwards glance and a moment later she fled the room hysterically. Draco hurried to the couch where Scorpius had balled himself up and was tearing frantically at his own hair, still howling.

“Scorpius!” To Hermione’s fury the man sounded not concerned but enraged.

Scorpius didn’t react at all, only banged his head against his knees in a way that reminded Hermione of their long departed friend Dobby. The grandfather clock tipped forward and crashed into the floor where it began spinning.

Draco glanced at it with a considering scowl, wrenched one of the small child’s hands down and slapped the child harshly across the face. Hermione was on her feet, ready to curse the bastard into oblivion if he dared raise that hand again. “Scorpius Hunter Adonis Laufeia-Malfoy, how dare you ignore your father! You know there is no screaming in this household! You are deliberately disobeying me. Recite the rules of the Manor right now!”

Amazingly the boy responded, stuttering and breathing in wet little hitches. “A, a gent-tlem-man does n-not run in the ha-hallways. He d-does n-n-not touch anything th-that does n-not belong to him. A g-gentleman does not u-use loud voices. He g-greets guests properly and uses his manners.”

The boy continued in his vein until Draco quietly interrupted, “That’s enough. That’s quite enough.”

Scorpius whimpered, distraught. “I-I d-did not recite them all. I m-must finish.”

“Then you may finish telling me.”

Scorpius nodded, eyes wide and glazed, and continued his list of rules, seeming to settle more with each word.

“What the hell just happened?” Harry hissed to Hermione, his eyes darting between the fireplace and the shaking Auror’s bandaged hands as they helped the man to his feet.

“It’s blocked.” It was Jeremy who answered from where he was rummaging frantically through his backpack. He gave a harsh, panicked laugh. “They’re here.”

“Who’s here?” Hermione asked, jaw dropping as Jeremy pulled a semi-automatic pistol from the bag and checked the magazine.

Jeremy gave another bark of a laugh. “The kidnappers.” He sneered at Draco. “I told you! I TOLD YOU!”

“Bullshit!” the uninjured Auror spat shakily. “Why would they come here? There are way too many people. There have been no witnesses to any of the kidnappings.”

Jeremy just laughed some more. “You wizards are so stupid.”

“So what the hell was that? What happened to the Floo? What the fuck killed Edward?”

“Look, we don’t really have time to argue!” Jeremy gasped, almost like he was still on the verge of laughing. “The Floo is blocked. So blocked it fucking kills you if you try to leave, apparently. I don’t want to imagine what will happen if you try to Apparate. There are guests downstairs and children above. We have to get them out of here and we need backup and we need it fast.”

“You’re just a Squib. . . .”

“That’s right!” Jeremy cut him off loudly, “just a stupid Squib, not any better than a Muggle.” He turned to Hermione. “Ever used one of these?” he asked, brandishing the pistol. “No?” He reached into the bag and pulled out a revolver. “Easier to use. Just point and shoot. Here, Harry.”

He tossed one over and Harry scrabbled to grab it, pale-faced. Jeremy pulled another gun out and offered the stock to Hermione.

Hermione stared at him. “I . . . thank you, but I have my wand.” She demurred primly as if turning down more tea, as if things hadn’t just taken a turn for the bizarre.

Jeremy shook his head. “Won’t do you a spit of good. Look, the kidnappers don’t care about me or you or Harry. We did our job and warned the purebloods and offered help. The wizards don’t want us here. So just come with me, we’ll get out of here.”

“How many of them can there be?” the injured Auror asked, looking between them with a mixture of defiance and nervousness, but Jeremy ignored him.

“What do you mean they’re not after us?” Hermione asked, trying to gracefully decline the weapon only to have Jeremy practically force it into her hands.

“They only care about purebloods and some half-bloods. They don’t care about Potter, obviously, or else he’d be missing along with his wife. You’re a Muggleborn and I’m a Squib. I warned the purebloods, I did what I could. This isn’t our fight anymore.”

“Leave if you like!” the uninjured Auror spat, “but Granger stays here! She could be behind this!”

“He’s right. Granger stays,” Draco cut in harshly, standing with Scorpius curled in one arm, his wand aimed at them. Jeremy automatically pointed his pistol at Draco, his sure stance telling Hermione that he knew how to use it.

“You can’t possibly believe she had anything to do with this!” Harry shot back, the gun in his hand held like something dirty that he wished he could just drop. Hermione imagined he was a little afraid of it. Like her, he’d never handled one.

Draco smiled cruelly. “You never know.”

He seemed unconcerned with the pistol pointed at his head and Hermione wondered if he even knew what it was. A twisted part of her thought it would be interesting for him to find out, though definitely not while he held a child in his arms. She wondered if the child was any kind of deterrent to Jeremy. She didn’t think it was.

“Besides, you’re out of a job now, aren’t you Granger? If you recall, I did offer you a nice, posh position here in the manor.” He leered. “The offer still stands.”

Hermione saw red; it was all she could do to remember little Scorpius and not point the revolver in her hands at Draco’s stupid sneering face.

The tableau held. The uninjured Auror and Draco pointing their wands, Draco practically using his son as a shield. The injured Auror only able to glare menacingly. Harry and Hermione pointed their wands back, Jeremy aiming his gun idly at Draco’s face.

And then the screaming started down below.

“Shit, it’s started. We have to get out of here,” Jeremy breathed then screamed, “NO! No, Potter stop!”

Harry was already pelting out the door, rushing headlong into his next fight, intent on meeting the kidnappers of his wife and children. The gun he threw haphazardly on a nearby table. Hermione nearly screamed in frustration. Some things just hadn’t changed.

She took off after him, dropping her own gun beside Harry’s and ignoring both Jeremy and Malfoy’s shouts for her to stop.

“Harry!” she screamed, and he slowed long enough for her to catch up. Surprisingly, the uninjured Auror was right behind them.

“I know the way!” he told them urgently and pointed down a side hallway, shoving them in that direction.

They followed the sound of the screaming, stumbling when a giant BOOM shook the house. They could hear glass shattering and curses being shouted.

“Wait!” yelled the Auror when Harry started toward the main stairs. “This way and we’ll come out on the mezzanine above the ballroom. We’ll be in a better position to fight up there.”

The group slowed at the doors, breathing hard. The Auror took point, wand held at ready. He kicked open the door, not concerned with stealth in the face of what sounded like utter pandemonium below. The upper balconies of the ballroom had not been opened to the party-goers and were thankfully empty, otherwise they might have been trampled. The three moved quickly to the railing overlooking the dance floor and quickly reeled back.

“Holy shit!” the Auror screamed, barely audible above the noise. “What the fuck? What the fuck are those?”

The scene below was one out of a horror movie. The beautiful marble dance floor was strewn with glass and debris and spattered with blood and gore and lifeless bodies. Witches and wizards fled in all directions, mindless as chickens, running from one end of the room to the other. A group of men stood together in front, casting curse after curse, while others clumped together uselessly, looking back and forth from the screaming running wizards to those who stood and fought.

Hermione could only stand there, stand there and do nothing, her lips too numb to form words. Even after everything she’d experienced in the wizarding world, she’d only ever trusted books and her own eyes and she had never believed in things that had not been captured, dissected, categorized and studied. Maybe she had inherited a bit of that wizarding arrogance after all.

“Giants?” Harry murmured in confusion, much less thrown then either Hermione or the Auror. Unlike the Auror or Hermione, the wonder of the wizarding world had never left Harry Potter. He believed in fact and evidence, but that did not mean he disbelieved in anything else.

There were eight of them circled about the room and they glowed, pulsed, with a disturbing white light. They were tall, the tallest probably sixteen feet at the shoulder. They walked upright, staring down with beautiful, alabaster faces that would have been almost human if they didn’t look carved from white marble. Their eyes were pure obsidian black with no whites, their noses and red lips finely carved.

White—that was the only way to describe the color, though it did not seem like white, it called to mind nothing clean or pure so much as frost and death—garments flowed like water, like silken sheets in hurricane winds, around the creatures, one moment looking soft as down, the next sharp as a knife’s edge, then feathery and almost imperceptible. The garments flowed up over their heads like silky strands of hair, now like a spiked helmet, and then covered the face and Hermione suddenly realized that each creature had more than one face.

“Angels. . . .” Harry whispered bloodlessly and the description struck her as terrifyingly accurate.

“. . . each one had six wings; with twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly,” Hermione recited, gasping when one of the creatures vanished and appeared behind the knot of defending wizards. “No! Look out!”

Several of the wizards whirled, firing curses rapidly, but the creature seemed completely unfazed. From somewhere, an arm-like appendage appeared and snatched up one of the wizards, drawing him up and Hermione knew a moment later why that pale face sported red lips as the mouth opened impossibly wide, showing razor teeth and the wizards right arm, shoulder and part of his chest were torn away. The dying man shrieked helplessly as the creature seemed to squeeze and nurse at the mortal wound. The wizard went pale and limp and the monster tossed him away carelessly, the blood staining its front vanishing into its garments.

Hermione saw another group of wizards simply standing there, staring up with blank adoration at one of the creatures as it carefully selected its pick of them, one after the other, picking up a fine-looking lady and, ripping her head off, it chewed on her spasming body, until her flesh too went that strange spongy gray, almost shriveling.

The Beings had completely surrounded the party-goers, looking just as aloof and regal as if they’d been invited guests. They stood stoically at every exit, picking off their victims like the wizards had their hors d'oeuvres an hour ago. Hermione could see people beating frantically at the doors and windows as if invisible walls blocked them.

“No. . . .” Harry whispered. “Avada Kedavra!”

“No! Harry, the spells aren’t doing any damage!” Hermione screamed, grabbing his arm.

The green spell struck one of the Beings in the shoulder, and its marble lips turned down just slightly in something that was almost a frown and then it opened its mouth and sang.

Instantly, people were toppling over, convulsing, shrieking. Hermione screamed as the ‘sound’ went though her like the whirling knives of a grinder, tearing her apart inside. The walls cracked and the floor underneath them buckled, raining stone down on the people below.

Something like a marble cannon ball knocked Hermione across the landing and slammed her into the balcony railing, knocking the breath from her body. When she was able to turn her bruised body over she saw one of the Beings had Apparated up and taken hold of the young Auror. Hermione screamed, grabbing a half broken chunk of ceiling that lay beside her and staggered up, heaving the stone at the thing’s face.

To her amazement, the chunk smashed into the Being’s face and it reared back, an oozing black chink in its white armor. Its grip loosened and the Auror fell from its grasp. Harry lunged, screaming an ‘accio’ and caught at the Auror’s hands before he could disappear past the landing. The two men struggled to hold on, but the Auror was much bigger than Harry. Hermione scrabbled for her wand without success; she had lost it when she was thrown. She screamed as Harry and the Auror lost their grip and slipped over the ledge towards the floor two-stories below.

The Being turned on her, a decidedly testy expression on its fine face and Hermione shuddered as she felt its awful magic welling up, poising to strike. She grabbed an expensive looking vase and threw it, only for it to smash on the thing’s body. It casually waved a hand at her and it seemed as though every bone in her body crunched like walnut shells in a nut cracker. Her back bowed in agony and for a moment she thought her skull would implode from the pressure.

She shrieked along with the dying wizards, shrieked and writhed.

A resounding crack followed, louder than the screams and Hermione went completely numb. She wondered for a moment if her neck had snapped and she was paralyzed. But then the crack came again, and three more times: a pistol’s retort shattering through the waves of magic with hot metal, and the Being began to scream. She had never imagined such an agonized sound could be so utterly satisfying.

Hermione shoved her body over and stared as the thing flailed like a landed fish, and vanished. Gasping, Hermione only lay there until a pair of hands grabbed her, covered her mouth harshly when she started to scream and dragged her back into the dark hallway just as another Being came flying up to attack.

“Run!” Jeremy shouted, pointing back to fire at the thing.

Draco held her upright and shoved something warm and clinging at her. Hermione stared at him, her arms automatically wrapping around the shivering Scorpius, unable to grasp that Draco Malfoy had just helped save her life. He seemed to catch the meaning of her dumb stare.

“I had no choice,” he snarled as the three of them fled through the corridors. The Being had at first surged straight through the walls after them but seemed loathe to leave its feast for a few scrambling morsels.

“Where are we going?” Hermione’s voice wobbled, sounding high and uncertain. “We can’t just leave them!”

The men ignored her.

“Those things eat magic!” Jeremy ranted hysterically at Draco. “Nothing magical will work against them. Nothing with even the tiniest drop of magic in it will hurt them! I told you that! It doesn’t matter that a sword is made of steel, the fucking thing is enchanted and that means it will only make the things stronger!”

“Where are we going?” Hermione cried, yanking against Draco’s bruising grip.

“What did the dead house-elf look like?” Draco asked Jeremy.

“Gray and shriveled. Just like the people.”

“Then those fucking things have been here for hours! If not all day! How could I not sense them? I am Lord of this place!”

“I told you your fucking wards wouldn’t do jack shit, okay Lord Clusterfuck? I TOLD you! The kids are probably already dead!” Jeremy added uncaringly.

“The children!” Hermione gasped, suddenly understanding Draco’s urgency.

“I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you!” Jeremy screamed at the blond Lord. “I was kind enough to warn you when I didn’t have to and then I was going to leave. I don’t give a fuck if every one of you pureblooded snobs bites it. In fact, I kind of hope you bastards are wiped out.”

“SHUT UP!” Hermione screamed, causing Jeremy to rear back.

The Squib blinked and laughed at her snidely. “You think Lord Muff-eater here was going to save you or any of those people? He’s only still here because all of his exits are blocked. Not so sure of yourself now, are you, Lord Dickweed?”

The daycare was on the fourth floor of the manor and Hermione felt her eyes overflow with horrified tears before they ever reached the door. She could hear the children crying out. She clutched Scorpius tightly, trying not to hyperventilate.

Jeremy edged forward and nudged the door open. When Hermione saw one of the Beings leaning over a small child she lunged automatically, only to have Draco grapple her back, hand clamped viciously over her screaming mouth. She bit at him, thrashing wildly until Draco backed into a wall and Jeremy was suddenly there in front of her, leaning up against her, grabbing her face, wiping tears away with his thumb.

“They’re okay. They’re not being eaten. They’re fine. Relax.” The Squib was suddenly very cool and professional, murmuring assurances over and over until she sagged in Draco’s arms, sobbing.

“What’s happening?” Draco rasped. Hermione could feel the tension zinging through his body, the awful expectation, the not knowing.

“They’ve been taking the children and eating the adults,” Jeremy told them quietly. “We’ve seen no sign that the children have come to any harm . . . yet. There’s still time. Just believe that, okay, Hermione?” He brushed her hair from her face gently. “Heaven knows why you care about the little bastards.”

She nodded slightly and Draco released her mouth. She could see red liquid dripping down his palm and tasted copper in her mouth. Draco ignored it.

When she was calm, the three crept back to the door, Hermione hiding Scorpius’ face tightly against her neck and watched as two beings weeded through the children, selecting one crying, wiggling child and then the child would vanish in blue light.

“Mundane weapons are the only thing that can hurt them,” Jeremy repeated quietly. “I have some knives, pistols and a couple hand grenades. The knives probably won’t do us much good. The pistols hurt them bad but it takes a lot of ammo. We couldn’t take them all at once. If we hurt one it will summon others. The hand grenades are useless in here. We’d kill more of our own people then them.”

“What do we do?” Hermione whispered.

“I’ve been trying to signal my bosses, but I’m not sure its getting through with this much magic fucking things up.”

“Can we wait them out?” Draco rasped.

Jeremy snorted. “Hermione and I could, but I don’t think these fuckers are leaving till they have every last drop of pure blood in this place.”

“Then we fight.”

The three of them whirled to find Lucius Malfoy striding towards them, sword in hand, Narcissa behind him with a crossbow.

“Enchanted weapons won’t work,” Jeremy told them snidely.

“These aren’t enchanted,” Lucius interjected coolly.

“Father?” Draco asked.

“Call it a handicap.” Lucius shrugged. “In my youth I enjoyed proving that I could defeat an opponent with just the strength of my body. And your mother needs no magic to hit a target.” He examined his sword, a faraway look on his face. “We of the Bad Faith were not always so indolent.”

“This is ridiculous, this is suicide.” Jeremy backed away from them.

“Then go,” Hermione whispered, “But take Scorpius! Please!”

Revulsion crossed Jeremy’s face and he glared hatefully at the bundle in her arms. “I’m not touching that filth,” he spat, shoving his backpack at her. He took only his pistol and a couple clips and walked away.

“Jeremy!” she whispered loudly, but he ignored her.

“What do we do, Father?” Draco asked, hesitantly taking a revolver from the backpack, staring at it blankly.

“Why, my son, we prove that no creature is more vicious than a Malfoy.” He gave a shark-like smile. “There are two entrances to the room. Take Miss Granger over to the other. Keep her and Scorpius back! Your mother and I will take them fast and hard, you will enter the moment they believe there are only two attackers. Point your little Muggle weapon at their faces, at their eyes if you can. Now go.”

Draco and Hermione quickly took the side hallways down to the other side of the daycare. Hermione had never handled a revolver before but she’d seen enough TV to know they should be able to fumble through reloading it, hopefully before they were horribly brutally killed.

“It holds five bullets,” she told him. “There should be a latch on the side that opens the chamber, you dump the empty shells and put in new bullets, snap it shut, cock it . . . .”

Draco gave her a strange look.

“Oh shut up. . . .”

They reached the side door just as one of the Beings began to wail in pain, its cries sending the remaining children into a panic and making the air in the room warp in strange ways. Hermione blinked quickly but couldn’t clear her vision. Draco slipped the door slightly open, grinning terribly when he saw one of the creatures flailing about with a bolt through its head. As he watched another bolt slammed into its chest. It vanished.

The second creature surged forward only to scream as Lucius appeared before it, blade coming up in a vicious arc that nearly split the Being in two. What spilled out made Hermione think of unicorn blood, silvery and white, only it seemed to evaporate in the air. Magic. The thing was bleeding magic.

Hermione kept a sharp look out, never watching any one spot for long. Jeremy had said the pain of the Beings would summon others. Draco moved fluidly into the room, pointing the weapon as he’d seen Jeremy do and firing awkwardly.

The first shot flew wide. The second struck the Being in its chest. It whirled on him, howling mouth opened wider and its next scream drove everyone to their knees; everything, every window, every piece of furniture, shattered around them.

Hermione barely had time to scream a warning as another Being floated up from the floor and made a grab at Draco. Another roar from the wounded Being and Hermione was writhing on the ground, child clutched tightly to her breast, desperate to shield him. Blood poured from her nose and eyes; she choked it up. She could hear Draco screaming and then something smashed down on her legs, shattering them both and through the haze of white-hot agony she realized Scorpius was being dragged away from her.

Her screams reached new heights.

Struggling frantically, shouting incoherent pleas for mercy, Hermione blindly fumbled onto her stomach. Scorpius was crying for her, crying for her and Draco and for grandpa and grandma. The other children were sobbing but all Hermione could think about was getting to the blond child; nothing else mattered. She dragged herself across the floor, not even noticing her mangled legs. She shoved a small girl out of her way, clawing at the floor, tearing two fingernails clean off.

Scorpius Scorpius Scorpius. . . . .

An explosion rocked the building, lighting the sky like afternoon. Another explosion and the children screamed as one. A wild staccato reached Hermione’s fevered brain and she realized as the three Beings vanished what it was. Gunfire. Lots and lots of gunfire. Big guns by the sound of it, and shouting men.

“What’s happening?” she called out hoarsely, not even sure if Draco and the others were still alive.

It was a child who answered, silhouetted in the large broken window as a chopper shown a spot-light down. “Its lots of men! Lots of Muggle men!”

A small body scrambled over to Hermione and she somehow recognized Scorpius even with her eyes closed and matted with blood. She grabbed onto him like a limpet and pulled him against her breast. Safe. Safe safe safe. Scorpius was safe.

The air was soon filled with the sound of the Beings pain and fury. There were more explosions. The floor crumbled beneath her, the walls shaking, fire roaring up around her hot and blistering. The Beings fought back, magic pulsed through the air, ripping apart whatever it came into contact with.

Hermione held onto Scorpius and didn’t let go.

Many, many things had changed with the fall of Voldemort. But mostly things had stayed the same.

The Wizengamot was still run by a bunch of the oldest, most backwards group of Wizards that could be found. A group of Wizards who still believed Muggles used carts and horses to get around. Slytherin was still considered a Dark House and was unfairly shunned by the other three Houses. Azkaban was full of Dementors, and werewolves still had nothing close to equal rights.

Muggleborns were still called Mudbloods and statistics showed they were paid less than purebloods were for doing the same job.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had done a lot of good. He could have done even more good had the people, still stirred up and frightened by the near take-over of their government, allowed him to make his ‘scary’ and ‘unusual’ changes to their laws. Kingsley wouldn’t be able to keep his office forever and the political sleaze was back to business as usual, just waiting to move in when Kingsley finally moved out.

Harry Potter was still a hot topic, still revered and slandered by turns. He had never made it as an Auror. He had gone through the training, done the job for nearly a year before he up and quit. It was like everyone around him was disappointed that he didn’t regularly produce miracles. And when he failed at something, well then he was a trouble-making upstart who was purposely trying to sabotage those around him to make himself look better.

After the Auror stint, Harry had a hard time holding any job for long. Those that wanted to hire him only wanted him for the publicity and those who didn’t want to hire him were afraid of him attracting trouble. And he did inevitably attract trouble.

Hermione found it impossible to understand how so much could happen, how everything in the magical world could be turned on its head, and yet all go back the way it was almost the next day. And how everyone could pretend that it was alright.

She felt cheated of so many things.

She could hear crickets when she opened her eyes, and a strange hiss that she didn’t recognize as the sound of propane lanterns until she saw one burning brightly on the table several feet from her bed, coating the world in a yellowish haze. She stirred on the soft cot, humming slightly when she found her body whole and pain-free. There was shuffling and a joyful squeak and a small warm body crawled up over her, snuffling happily.

Scorpius curled up beside her and popped his thumb in his mouth, gazing at her with adoring eyes. They weren’t really like Malfoy’s eyes, Hermione decided, brushing his bangs back from his face—too wide, too blue.

She barely recognized the man who stepped out of the shadows to sit beside the cot as Draco Malfoy. His hair was loose, falling haphazardly into his eyes, a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. He was wearing what looked like a sweat-suit. A plain shirt and pants of some thin gray material, loose fitting, probably because he was used to robes. Her eyes moved over the pale line of his collar bone, the wide neckline of the shirt giving her a glimpse of hard, smooth muscle.

She threaded fingers through Scorpius’ hair, remembering painfully what it was like knowing she couldn’t live without the boy, would fight to the death for him. “You poisoned me.”

The Lord Malfoy gave the barest of satisfied nods.

“I should never have accepted a drink from you,” she mumbled rubbing at her eyes.

“It wasn’t in the drink,” he informed her callously.

She waited, but he gave her nothing else. She frowned. “Doesn’t matter now. I assume someone gave me the antidote.”

Draco shrugged, looking entirely too satisfied. “Perhaps, but the damage is done. Scorpius is convinced that you are his new mother.”

“His . . . his what?” she stuttered. “Synnove? Where’s Synnove?”

“Sadly, my lovely wife didn’t make it. They found pieces of her all over the main hall. She would leave a mess, the bitch.”

Hermione clamped her hands over Scorpius’ ears. “That’s disgusting. You sick son of a bitch. She was the mother of your child!”

“She never wanted to be!” Draco hissed. “She never wanted him. She never loved him . . . .” He seemed to catch himself and gave her a sly smile and asked softly, “But you won’t deny my child, will you? He’s never had a mother to hold him and kiss him and cherish him. He’s absolutely in love with you after only a night and a day. You won’t dare break his heart, will you? You won’t abandon him now.”

Scorpius looked up as Hermione looked down at him. He smiled at her around his thumb, one hand playing with her hair. She clutched him to her breast and turned back to his horrible father.

“Get. Out.”

“Hermione. . . .”

“GET OUT!”

Well pleased, the Lord Malfoy swept to his feet and sauntered out.

Hermione kissed the top of Scorpius’ tow head and cried into his hair.

When Hermione woke again, the sun was lighting the inside of what she found was a large tent. Not as large as a wizarding tent, but good sized none the less. She was less muzzy, less in shock, she supposed, than she’d been the night before. The whole conversation with Malfoy seemed like a dream.

She pushed back the rough but serviceable blankets and found that she’d been dressed in the same type of plain, sweat-suit outfit that Draco had been wearing, except hers had a nice little hood. Hermione eased her legs over the edge of the cot and sat quietly, but no red-headed idiot or bespectacled hero scrambled to her side. She waited patiently and felt her composure threaten to crumple when the silence drew itself out.

A whimper caught her attention and she glanced about for the source. Scorpius was sitting on the table beside the now unlit lantern, making happy sing-song-y noises in his throat and staring blindly up at the ceiling of the tent. Several items in the room, including a hairbrush and someone’s sock, were floating in wobbly paths around the tent but Scorpius didn’t seem to notice.

“Scorpius?” The boy stopped making noises but continued staring. She sighed, snatching the floating hairbrush and pulled it through her snarled curls, wincing. She found a pair of scuffed old sneakers by the foot of her cot. They were too big and smelled a bit but they would do for footwear. “Let’s go find your father.” She lifted the child off the table, a little concerned when he only lay against her limply.

“Scorpius?”

The boy blinked and continued gazing off to her right, one small hand finding and curling in her hair but otherwise not responding. Troubled, she hefted him up and headed outside, curious as to what she would find.

The noise hit her the moment they stepped outside. They were out in the middle of a snowy field, far away from civilization. There were jeeps and rows of tents and groups of clean-cut young men in fatigues, some standing at attention, some wandering about. A helicopter buzzed over head and probably a hundred feet from her tent was an honest to goodness tank. Aside from the soldiers there were other people dressed like her and huddled together, looking skittish and confused. Witches and wizards. They stood out even in ‘normal’ clothes.

“Good morning, ma’am,” one of the young soldiers greeted her, talking gently as if she would be easily spooked. “You’ll find breakfast over in that area there. Get yourself and the little one something to eat.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Um,” she stopped him as he started on his way, “I’m looking for Draco Malfoy.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we won’t have an accurate list of those accompanying us until we rendezvous with the other squads.” He meant they didn’t have a list of survivors. Unnerved, she simply nodded stupidly and headed the direction he had pointed her.

Scorpius purred and snatched at the empty air with one hand, stared at his fingers in fascination.

“Scorpius?” She patted his bottom.

He harrumphed and laid his head against her shoulder.

Hermione found the mess hall easily enough and couldn’t help but notice that the soldiers on staff looked harried. They stiffened and eyed her approach warily, apparently ready for battle. Confused and ill at ease, she greeted them softly and picked up a plate for her and Scorpius and began to dish up. Relief swept visibly through the soldiers.

The other witches and wizards stood at the edges of the canopied breakfast area and watched her with apprehension and contempt. Lords and Ladies of good breeding, dressed now in rags too poor for their house-elves. Not a single one of them had ever suffered the indignity of such simple fare.

She felt a surge of nasty amusement when several of them picked up plates and followed exactly what she had done, including choosing the food she had. She was getting and inkling of why the staff looked so put-out. The pompous idiots that called themselves purebloods had probably been revolted by the idea of Muggle food—despite the fact that there was eggs and sausage just like at Hogwarts—and serving themselves. They’d probably been making ridiculous demands all morning.

Though it was no wonder they were unsettled. The great proof of their superiority had failed them and those who they held in utter contempt were in charge. She wondered if there were any among them who would have rather died then be saved by Muggles.

Scorpius rocked back and forth in his seat, his young smiling face empty, as if he didn’t really see her. She imagined he was probably horribly traumatized by the events of the night before.

“Scorpius?” He hadn’t spoken a word to her all morning. “Scorpius, eat your food.”

When the boy persisted in sitting silently until her meal was half finished, she sighed once more and picked up a spoon, dishing some porridge from the child’s bowl. “Open your mouth.” Scorpius blinked and obeyed. She fed him, ire slightly assuaged by the humming sounds of enjoyment he made, little feet kicking.

“You’re not a baby. You can feed yourself . . . though I suppose the house-elves might still be hand feeding you, you spoiled thing.”

“Herm-own-ninny!”

Hermione turned in her seat and was nearly knocked over by a young woman. It took her a several seconds to recognize Gennady Alekseev, looking so much younger in the over-sized sweat-suit and with her long dark hair free of its jeweled confines. The younger woman clung to her, crying and babbling in Russian.

Hermione wrapped her arms around the girl and squeezed tightly, utterly certain that Fydor must be dead, until she realized the young man with a mop of black curls heading towards her bench was actually the Russian Minister.

“Minister Alekseev,” she greeted quietly.

“Please, Hermione, I am hardly a Minister here.” His English was near perfect, only the heavy accent telling her that he wasn’t using the translation charm. “It is good to see you alive.”

“They weren’t after me.” She patted Gennady’s back as the girl tried to compose herself and sat beside her primly.

“But you fought. Everyvone knovs you protected the children. You ver badly injured.”

She grimaced, thinking of what she had seen. “Not so badly.” She jumped up to snag Scorpius when he started to wander away and sat him back at the table.

Fydor seemed to catch her thoughts. “No, I suppose not.”

“I don’t really know what’s going on. . . .”

“Vee are hiding, I think. The Muggles drove the monsters back vith their loud veapons but more came. Vee ver told to abandon anything vee owned that vas enchanted—that is vhy vee are so plainly clothed. vee must not use magic other than vhat is absolutely necessary. They think the monsters can sense it. That is vhy they split us up.”

“They split us up?” Scorpius was making silly nonsense noises again and it was starting to piss her off the way the other witches and wizards were stopping to stare at him as if he were some bizarre animal. She picked him up, hushing him and set him in her lap.

Fydor eyed the child but didn’t ask. “Too much magic in vun area. Also they ver afraid if vee ver all together in vun place it would be easier for the creatures to come and kill us all.”

Hermione nodded.

Fydor examined the other people in the room. “Many people left. They refused to think the Muggles could protect them. Others believed the Muggles had sent the monsters to conquer us. There ver many fights. Even after vhat the Muggles did, many refuse to treat them as human beings. They vill not even speak to them. As if the Muggles ver servants who ver only doing their duty.”

Hermione grimaced.

“Um, Her-mee-own Granger? Is there a Hermeeown Granger in here?” The soldier from earlier was standing in the doorway frowning around them room.

“Go on.” Fydor nodded towards the man. “You are Muggleborn. Perhaps they vill tell you vhat is going on.”

Hermione nodded, giving a confused Gennady a hug and scooping up Scorpius, who had gone silent, his breathing shallow and sort of fast, his eyes open wide and starring. Hermione felt a frightened pang; he was starting to scare her. She’d need to find a doctor. He looked as if he were in shock or something. She felt his hands and forehead but he felt neither too warm nor too cold.

“I’m Hermione.” She presented herself to the soldier.

The soldier grinned. “Say it again.”

“Hermione.”

“Her-my-knee.”

“Close enough.”

“They want to see you up front,” he told her as if she had any idea what he meant.

She gestured out the door. “Lead on.”

Hermione nearly bumped right into a woman as she exited the cafeteria. Meredith stared at her with startled, fragile eyes and opened her mouth, but Hermione swung her eyes away and didn’t spare even a backwards glance.

“Are you a Muggle?” she asked the soldier as they walked and then winced at her own rudeness.

The young man’s lips thinned just slightly. “Squib,” he said lightly.

“You saved us . . . didn’t you? There must have been anti-Muggle wards all over the manor grounds. There could even have been terrible traps. It should have been impossible but . . . you came. . . .” She shook her head slightly. “Why?”

The soldier adjusted his cap, looking towards the sky as if for inspiration. “I can’t speak for the Muggles. I think they just like to blow shit up, oh, sorry.” He glanced guiltily at Scorpius. “Are you one of those pureblood princesses?”

She smiled a little. “No, I’m Muggleborn but my. . . .” She stopped herself, choking back the word ‘son’ that had almost tumbled out of her mouth. Damn it, she’d thought the curse was broken.

The soldier nodded his understanding. “Well, if some big monster was attacking the Muggle world and you could help, would you?”

“Yes of course!”

The man shrugged. “Same for me I guess.”

“H-how can it be the same after. . . .” After they threw you out? After they abandoned you?

“Well, it isn’t the same for everybody,” he admitted, sounding almost ashamed. “Not everybody came. Some refused. But this is my home. These are my people . . . even if they don’t want me here. Right now they’re scared and confused and weak. It’s . . . good to be the strong one for once.”

Hermione thought she might understand.

Draco Malfoy was waiting outside a tent construct with a wooden door, obviously impatient. Hermione noted the intense look on his face with some trepidation.

The soldier looked pleased with himself. “That’s him, right? Who you were asking for?”

“Uh, yeah,” she muttered uncomfortably.

Draco stepped forward and slid an arm around her waist, drawing her to him tightly. “Thank you for finding her.”

“Anytime.” The soldier tipped his head to her with a grin and left.

“Stupid Muggle.” Draco hissed under his breath, and Hermione yelped as she was wrenched around the other side of the tent. He shoved her around to face him, gripping her arm tightly. “You vindictive little bitch, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She stared at him, caught completely off guard by the attack. “What are you talking about?”

“How long has he been like this?” He ripped Scorpius from her arms and Hermione let out a wounded cry, automatically lunging for the boy. Malfoy shoved her away, sending her stumbling back. “Thought you’d punish me by fucking up my kid’s head?”

He grabbed Scorpius’ chin, examining the boy with an enraged expression. “Scorpius!” He cursed fiercely, raising an arm and slapping the boy hard. Scorpius only lolled in his arms.

Hermione saw red. She tore at her clothes looking for her wand, only to remember she hadn’t found it upon waking up. “What are you doing! Stop it!” she screamed at him, throwing herself at him when he raised his hand again. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!” This time he shoved her hard enough to send her to the ground.

Draco slapped Scorpius even harder and this time the boy suddenly gasped in a huge breath of air and started crying noisily. Suddenly it wasn’t a doll in Draco’s arms anymore but a squirming little boy.

Hermione froze as Draco slumped in relief, grabbing the boy tightly to his chest.

“Scorpius!” he said loudly and sternly after a moment. “Scorpius Hunter Adonis Laufeia-Malfoy, why aren’t you practicing your lessons? You studied the Wizengamot this week, didn’t you? Tell me about each seat.”

Scorpius looked about himself, seeming very confused. He saw Hermione and reached for her with a small wail.

“What’s going on here?”

Two soldiers had come jogging around the tent, obviously having heard the commotion. They looked between Draco and Hermione, faces becoming suspicious and angry upon seeing a distressed woman on the ground and a man holding a red-faced crying child who was reaching desperately for her.

“My son is ill,” Draco reluctantly explained in a clipped voice, almost sounding humiliated. “He had a fit. They are upsetting to witness.”

The soldiers looked between them, still suspicious. “The little ‘un wants his mum,” one of them said dangerously, shifting his stance to lazy aggression.

Hermione got carefully to her feet, brushing herself off. Gritting his teeth, Draco handed the boy over. Scorpius ‘umphed’ excitedly, bouncing up and down until he could get a grip on Hermione and then he clung like a limpet, thumb popping into his mouth.

Draco’s hands hovered over the boy as if he were fighting to keep from snatching the child back. “Don’t let him do that! Get him to talk or he’ll fall back into the trance.”

“Scorpius,” Hermione said gently. “Scorpius, sweetheart, can you tell me about the Wizengamot?”

The boy was silent, his eyes already glazing over. Draco suddenly swatted the boy on the butt and Scorpius jerked, thumb falling from his mouth, his mouth an ‘o’ of surprise. He looked over his shoulder at his father and scowled.

“Ow.”

Draco crossed his arms and returned the scowl. “The Wizengamot, if you please.”

“The Wizen-ga-mot is the Su-perioror Court of our gover-n-ment,” Scorpius slowly recited. “The highest seat in the Wizen-ga-mot is Chief Warlock. The main duties of the Chief Warlock. . . .”

“Are you okay, ma’am?” one of the soldiers asked Hermione quietly.

“Yes, thank you for your concern.”

“Does the kid need a doctor?”

“No.” She hesitated but shook her head. “I think everything has just been a little much for him.”

The soldiers nodded. “Well, if you need anything, just let us know.” They shot another suspicious look at Draco, who was listening to his son with rapt attention and didn’t seem to notice their departure. He did not look up until his son had recited every seat and their main duties.

“That was excellent,” he said finally and Scorpius beamed. Draco touched his son’s bruised cheek gently, flinching as though he were the one struck.

When he finally met Hermione’s eyes, it was in utter shame. Hermione suddenly realized he’d been telling the truth about Scorpius. Because he wasn’t ashamed of himself, not even for hitting a child. He was ashamed of having an imperfect son.

“What just happened?” she begged. “Why did he go limp like that? Why did you hit him?”

“Because it’s the only way to wake him up!” It was a quiet scream from between clenched teeth. Draco let out his breath and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “You were right. The stress of the last few days is taking its toll. Scorpius hasn’t had a fit like this for more than a year.”

He searched her face.

“I’m sorry.” He gritted the words out as if they physically hurt. “I don’t know why I thought. . . .” He closed his eyes. “I just stupidly believed you’d automatically recognize the symptoms. I mean, Hermione Granger knows everything, right? Merlin. I should have told you what to expect.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him!” Draco corrected her sharply, making her think Draco had heard a lot about what was ‘wrong’ with Scorpius. “He has a small condition, but he’s very strong and I’m very proud of him.”

Scorpius puffed up.

Draco shot his son a narrow look. “Except that he’s over five years old and can’t seem to keep his thumb out of his mouth.”

Scorpius pouted.

Hermione was getting angry now. “So you thought I was using Scorpius’ illness to get back at you?”

“No! No, I was just angry and scared. I didn’t mean it.”

“You called me a child abuser but you didn’t mean it?”

“Hermione. . . .”

She kept her voice very tight and even. “I’m not going to fight with you in front of a child. The last thing any child needs, especially one as traumatized as this one, is to see adults screaming at each other. But I want you to know that if Scorpius were not here, I’d punch you in the face right now and curse you into a puddle of goo. Don’t you ever speak to me like that or call me a bitch again or else I will make you hurt, I swear it.”

Draco grimaced and changed the subject. “Come. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

CHAPTER 3

The tent they entered had a wooden door and sandbags piled on the sides. The inside was huge, obviously magically expanded, brilliantly lit and silenced from the inside. It looked like a cross between an office building and warehouse with stacks of boxes, rows of guns and cubicles with computers and telephones. Hermione was a little annoyed that the refugees were told not to use magic but the big-wigs were apparently tossing it around anywhere they wanted, though they’d have to keep it to a minimum around the electronics.

Hermione heard Jeremy before she saw him. “Monsters? Monsters!? HA! You’re just pissed that you’re not the most superior beings in the universe anymore! Can’t call yourselves the pinnacle of evolution now, can you, when there’s someone with more power, more magic?” he crowed. “You’re not even Muggles to these things. You’re creatures, you’re food, not even worthy to be considered beings. But hey, at least they like you, right? I mean, I bet you guys taste great.”

Hermione shut her eyes, counting to five and covering Scorpius’ ears. “Please get Scorpius a baby-sitter or something. He doesn’t need to hear this.”

Draco frowned. “This is politics, Hermione. This is what a Malfoy is born and bred for.”

She resisted the urge to poke him in the eye. “This isn’t law or foreign affairs or cutting a deal or even blackmail and bribery. He doesn’t need to hear people-eating politics when he’s five.”

Scorpius patted the hands over his ears and grinned.

Draco looked annoyed but sighed. “Right, fine.”

They set Scorpius at a desk behind someone’s open laptop.

“Oooh!”

“No!” Draco grabbed the boy’s little hands away from the keyboard and gave them a warning squeeze. He glanced at the computer but Hermione couldn’t tell if he knew what it was.

“Hey!” Herimone yelped indignantly as Draco produced a shrunken book from his pockets, expanded it and handed it to Scorpius. “That’s my Beedle the Bard book!” She would recognize it anywhere and frankly, the thought of the practically ancient book being pawed by sticky little fingers chilled her to the core.

“Yes, I forgot to mention that my men confiscated a few things when they searched your parent’s house,” Draco told her blandly.

“That wasn’t in my parent’s house!” she yelled.

“Oh. Well, we might have searched your apartment too. Here, Scorpius. I want you to read ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune’ and be ready to explain to me what you’ve learned when I return.”

Scorpius nodded, already grabbing at the book curiously.

“What was that?” Draco rapped out sharply.

“Yes, sir, thank you sir.”

“Good boy.”

Most of the gathered military men and wizards were on their feet despite the abundance of chairs. They faced each other across a ten foot gap, neither group apparently willing to get any closer to the other.

Hermione barged right in.

“Jeremy!” She wasn’t sure why she was so happy to see him. She supposed it was shared trauma or something, but he returned her hug warmly and they both ignored Draco’s piercing eyes, the condescending lip curl of the man beside Jeremy, and the watchful, disapproving gazes of the gathered military personnel and wizards.

Hermione wrenched out of the hug and punched Jeremy in the stomach hard enough to make him yelp, and several soldiers guffaw. “You left us!”

“Hey! I did my job!” he shot back unrepentantly, rubbing his tender stomach. “A guy can only stand being humiliated, belittled and cursed by the people whose lives he’s trying to save for so long before he says ‘screw it’. And for the record, your life wasn’t in danger until you chose to risk it. It’s not my responsibility to save you if you go and do something stupid.”

She couldn’t help it, she grinned. “You would have never made Gryffindor.”

The guy beside Jeremy made an outraged sound of fury, highly offended, but Jeremy gave her a perfectly serious face and said. “Red looks fucking fantastic on me.”

“You don’t have to let her speak to you like that.” The man beside Jeremy cut in tightly. He was of decent bulk and stood rigidly straight, clean shaven and looking as much the soldier as Jeremy did the science geek. He might have been good looking except for the pinched expression and beady eyes. There was a wand holster strapped to his arm so Hermione pegged him as Muggleborn, though not one she knew.

“Relax, Troy, geez,” Jeremy muttered.

“She doesn’t have to rub your disability in your face! It’s not your fault that you’re thaumaturgically challenged! They’ve already barred you from your home, Merlin-on-high, what else do they want from you?”

“Thaumaturgically challenged?” Hermione mouthed disbelieving to an amused Jeremy. Was this guy for real?

Troy gave her a disgusted look. “’Squib’ is a nasty word.”

“I think it’s nasty that you think its some kind of handicap!” Hermione shot back.

“Enough!” Draco broke in, then spoke quietly to Hermione, “Holy shit, this guy’s even more of a freak then you are. . . We’re all here now. . . ”

“I don’t see why we had to wait for her,” Troy interrupted. Hermione was beginning to seriously dislike him. “She’s a tool.”

“She’s smarter than everyone in this room put together,” Draco sneered.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Jeremy raised a hand. “Did I mention that I am an astrophysicist with three doctorates?”

Hermione patted his arm. “You’re very smart. Much, much smarter than me.”

“Thank you, I feel better now.”

“Can we please get this over with!” one of the wizards shouted, his voice hoarse with stress and grief and Hermione suddenly felt awful for having any levity in this situation at all.

People were dying. People were dead.

“Then I guess we can begin at the beginning.” An older Muggle man—Hermione recognized his insignia as that of a Lieutenant General—stepped to the very front of the room. “I suppose I should explain that Muggles watch the stars for very different reasons then wizards. We do not use the stars as omens or relate their movements to events in our own lives. We search the stars to find out what they’re made of, how far away they are, what lies beyond them. We have even traveled into the stars, though not very far. There is a very large controversy among Muggles over whether or not our planet is the only one that sustains life. We’ve spent years trying to answer this question. Well, ladies and gentlemen, it seems that today we have an answer.”

Hermione had gone colder and colder the more he spoke. Jeremy should have been her first clue. An astrophysicist.

“You’re not serious,” she whispered. “You can’t be serious. These aren’t magical creatures then?”

“Oh they’re magical creatures,” Jeremy assured her, “Extraterrestrial magical creatures. It’s not as crazy as it sounds. Really.”

Aliens.

Holy shit. They were dealing with fucking ALIENS!

The wizards were looking at each other silently, expressions ranging from disbelief to horror to amused condescension.

“This is ridiculous,” A short, stout wizard drawled. “Monsters from the stars? This is a child’s bedtime story! Nicodemus, why are we standing here, wasting time listening to ignorant Muggles?”

One of the elderly Wizards held up a hand to silence him but said slowly and staunchly, “Wizards are the most supreme of natural beings. These monsters must be demons that some wizard summoned or perhaps some awful chimera a Dark Wizard created.”

“Obviously this is some insane revenge wrought by Mudbloods!” a frazzled-looking woman argued in a high, wobbly voice. “Without purebloods, they’ll rule the magical world!”

“I can see we’re all going to be very understanding and cooperative,” The Lieutenant General said dryly, rubbing his eyes. He cleared his throat. “To continue. About two and a half years ago we began picking up movement; a stable mass that circled our planet sliding in and out of range of our equipment. After some time it came much closer and finally several months ago, it landed. Unfortunately, no matter how we tried we could not find it. We were dealing with magic unlike anything we have on this planet—though that did make it easy to keep it under wraps from the normal populace. When all of our technology failed we brought in the leading Squib and Muggleborn experts.”

Someone on the wizarding side of the room snorted derisively.

“We began getting reports that several stone structures of historical importance were resonating. A warning perhaps? An alien signal? We’re not certain. Around the time the first pureblood kidnappings were being reported, we managed to actually see one of the creatures. There was immediately panic. What if the kidnappings were happening in the Muggle world but, because we lacked magic, the spell wiped all of our memories of the missing persons? Tens of thousands of people could be gone and we’d never know. We’re fairly certain at this point that the creatures have only been taking magical humans, more specifically any pureblood they can get their, er, hands on, and about half of the half-bloods they’ve come across.”

“So Muggleborns have some sort of innate protection?” Hermione asked.

More scoffing from the wizards and subsequent bristling from Troy. Definitely Muggleborn. She was surprised he’d kept his mouth shut this long, but she supposed as a soldier, he had to be disciplined.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘protection’. I’d say Muggleborn magic simply isn’t compatible ‘food’ for these creatures. And the incompatibility is genetic. Those that have inherited it are ignored.”

“They started with the magical creatures,” Hermione prompted, asking for explanation without really asking.

The Lieutenant General nodded. “So far they’ve devoured anything that can give them proper magical nourishment. That includes centaurs, giants, Mer-people, sphinx. . . .”

“Anything humanoid,” Hermione grasped.

“Yes. We have evidence that they ‘sampled’ dragons, unicorns, even Dementors and must have found them unsuitable because the populations have not been bothered since.”

“Have they given up on the centaurs and other humanoid creatures?”

“I believe they made a conscious effort to leave a sizeable enough population, possibly to continue reproduction, or possibly to collect at a later date. Whether they intend to leave any pureblood wizards is an entirely different question.”

“A conscious effort?” Draco spoke up.

“Obviously these things are intelligent. Perhaps far more intelligent than we are.”

“What about the children?” Hermione asked. “They ate the adults but I watched them stealing the children.”

The man gave Hermione a long look. “In the beginning of human history we actively hunted our prey. And then we domesticated them and raised them for our food.”

Hermione felt sickened and then a sudden horrible overwhelming relief. “They’re alive then? The children are alive?”

The wizards broke into a hush of excited whispers.

“Poppycock!” one them assured the others. “You saw those ravening creatures. I doubt they have the brains to take live captives.”

The Lieutenant General gave Hermione a gritty smile. “We certainly aren’t going to stop until we find out.”

“Oh no,” Hermione straightened. “Hogwarts! Dear Godric, have you heard anything about Hogwarts? All those children. . . .”

The man held up a hand to cut her off. “Communications have not been at their best. The aliens do not want us communicating with each other. In areas where our cellphones and computers do not work, we’ve been sending in Muggleborns. Unfortunately, while the aliens don’t eat Muggleborns, they aren’t above attacking and killing them. They’ve taken to attacking anyone who Apparates if they can get to them. We do know two things: several other locations were attacked the night Malfoy manor was attacked but Hogwarts, for reasons we have yet to discover, was not one of them. The castle is currently under surveillance. ”

Hermione went limp in relief. “Thank goodness. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? That they haven’t attacked.”

Draco nodded but otherwise did not look impressed with this bout of good fortune. Hermione felt like smacking him.

The Lieutenant General cleared his throat again. “Now as you’ve seen, magic has absolutely no effect on these Beings—whom we’ve dubbed Ettin, after the three-headed giant. We even think it might make them stronger.”

One of the elderly witches stood. “These beasts have great magic, the only way to vanquish them is with greater magic.”

“Wrong,” the General said pleasantly. “The way to vanquish them is with hot lead and cold steel.”

The woman gasped. “How dare you interrupt your better, you filthy Muggle. Someone should show you your place!”

“Your place is going to be out that door, on your ass, if you don’t shut up, Elsebeth!” Draco took a threatening step towards her and the elderly wizards huddled together against his wrath. “You are not the Countess of Bruneshire here. Here you are a miserable old cunt and food for the wolves at our doorstep. That goes for the rest of you! If you’re too good for the clothes, too good for the food and too good for the company then there’s the door! Get out! And don’t come crawling back when the beasts are ripping your limbs off and sucking your magic out.”

The wizards shifted restlessly, some of them red with fury and others looking absolutely terrified.

“Go on please, Lieutenant General Sheldon,” Draco said cordially.

The man raised an eyebrow but continued. “Physical attacks are the only thing that have thus far dissuaded the Ettin from their attacks. Bullets, blades, grenades. Unfortunately, there are a number of disadvantages to this. First being that we must attack from a distance, otherwise we are easily overcome with magic. Secondly, the Beings have always withdrawn before we could kill one. Thirdly, physical attacks are less controlled and more destructive than magic. We don’t want to level a city trying to smear one of these bastards but its beginning to seem like the only option left. Our best plan was to be to take out the ship with them inside it but we don’t know how many there are and we really don’t want to destroy the ship and find out ten years from now that we missed one or a dozen.”

“What happens now?” Draco asked.

“We’ve split up into five contingents. We didn’t want all of the ‘food’ in one place; we were afraid they’d try and overwhelm us. They’ve been trailing us in ones and twos as is. They would be remarkably susceptible to our technology if not for the fact that electricity stops working around magic. We’ve begun using that against them as much as we can. We know they’re around when all our equipment shuts down. We want to focus on destroying these things or driving them back to their ship, but we can’t do that and protect the ‘food’ too. We don’t have enough people.” He looked at Hermione. “Our forces are volunteer, mostly Squib, Muggleborns and family of Muggleborns. Those of us in the military are calling in a lot of favors and lying our asses off to the higher ups. We’ve convinced the British Prime Minister that these things will start preying on regular people when the magical community is gone.”

“So we need a home base,” Hermione murmured. “Somewhere easy to defend.”

The General nodded. “Yes, but how do you defend against something that can float through walls and magical wards? At the moment we’re merely trying to round up the magical community.”

Hermione winced. “And they won’t like that. It’ll remind them too much of Voldemort.” To her utter disgust the elderly witches and wizards all flinched and gasped.

“What you’re basically saying is that you don’t have a plan,” Draco accused.

The General gave him a long stare. “Right now, keeping you lot alive is the plan.”

“I’m glad you’re alright.” Hermione hugged Jeremy again much to Troy’s disgust.

Draco was over listening to Scorpius recite what he had learned from the fairy story and gravely nodding every so often. Scorpius looked much better, pink-cheeked and energetic, kicking his feet and making expansive arm gestures and then remembering himself and attempting to continue with dignity and aplomb.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay,” Jeremy told her softly, not meeting her eyes. “But I just couldn’t . . . I couldn’t bring myself to give up more for them than I already had.” The bitterness in his voice hurt her heart. “I could die for them, protecting them and their children and they wouldn’t be grateful. They’d expect me to. They’d think it was their due for a ‘lower being’ to die in their place. The idea made me physically sick.” He looked up to shake his head in exasperation. “I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to lower your head and go running at the Ettin like a damn . . . like a damn Gryffindor.”

“We’re stupid like that.”

“Noble, you mean, or something.” He scratched his goatee, looking embarrassed. “Maybe it makes me a bad person but I couldn’t be like that . . . not even to save children.”

She scrutinized his face closely. “No one saved you, did they?”

“Hey, I saved myself,” He retorted dramatically, embarrassed and a little aggravated by the sentiment on her face. “All of the magic I was born with went and expanded my brain like really, really huge so that I like learned shit all over the place. I mean I learned the hell out of that shit but then I had no magic left and I got all hairy and flabby and shit.” He patted his slightly pudgy belly.

Seeing the look on her face, his grin faded.

“What is it?”

“I . . . uh…” She faltered to a halt, her breath suddenly choked and wet. “You wouldn’t happen to know if Harry Potter and Ron Weasley . . . um. . . . I mean would I even remember? They’re not related to me and I remember the kids but I . . . I just don’t know. I keep thinking what if—and I wouldn’t even know either way. . . .”

Jeremy paled. “Oh damn. No one told you.” When her face went ghostly white he hurriedly continued. “I mean, fuck, they’re fine. They’re alive. They’re fine. Harry was a bit beat up but . . . whoa!” He grabbed her when her legs went weak; even asshole Troy rushed over, looking concerned.

“They’re okay? They’re okay?” she repeated faintly.

“They’re fine,” Jeremy assured her gently. He and Troy helped her stand.

She nodded frantically, dashing tears from her eyes. “I was so afraid. I was so afraid to even ask. . . .” She took a shuddering breath and asked randomly. “Has anyone seen my wand, by the way?”

“Prick over there has it,” Jeremy grumbled and glanced quickly at Draco, who was watching them carefully now. Jeremy hesitated, torn. “Look, that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” he whispered. “I don’t really know you or how good of friends you are with Captain Circle-Jerk over there but I wanted to tell you a few things . . . just in case.”

Hermione nodded slowly, a bit confused.

Jeremy glanced again at Draco and leaned closer to her to whisper. “After the battle at the Manor, you were down for the count. Pretty-boy over there was less injured. The Ettin try to keep their food from bleeding out or dying before they can eat, you know. He healed a lot quicker than you and the first thing he did was find you and make sure to separate you from Harry Potter and Ron Weasley when the groups split up. Harry is with the second contingent. By the time he healed you were gone, he was asking about you over the radio. Sounded real worried when we told him who you were with. Ron Weasley is in the normal world recruiting help.”

Weird that she knew what he meant. That after all this time the Muggle world was still ‘the normal world’ in her brain.

Draco was still watching them, smirking a little.

Troy moved so Draco couldn’t see his face. When he spoke it was an impassioned plea. “I don’t know what your relationship with the Pureblood Dominion is, but I do know that whatever you’re getting in return for helping them is not going to be worth it. They’re using you.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked the other Muggleborn, baffled and starting to get angry. “I’m not helping any pureblood anything!”

Troy opened his mouth but Jeremy elbowed him hard and the soldier sighed and changed whatever he was about to say. “I think you should be more careful of that Malfoy guy, is all I’m saying. Everyone knows he’s a blood supremacist, but when we came to the Ministry with our information he was one of the only purebloods who would listen to us. He’s been nothing but accommodating. He’s even fighting the other purebloods to get them to listen, cowing them, threatening them. And that’s all fine and well except this is the guy who has been involved in three indirect take-over attempts of the Ministry of Magic in the last five years.”

“He’s up to something,” Jeremy muttered. “And he knows more than he should. We put an entire detail unit on his ass after we caught him Obliviating a couple soldiers. They were Muggles, so we’ll never know what exactly he was hiding.”

Hermione felt as if she were missing something. Yeah, Malfoy was a creep but he wasn’t dangerous or anything.

Jeremy continued, “Since we’ve been on the move he’s disappeared twice. We can’t prove anything but we think a couple people have gone missing under his watch. I mean who would notice, couple more purebloods go missing, the Ettin must have gotten them. Especially those first couple of days after the Manor battle, we had no idea who was who or who was with us. There’s no telling what he did in those first couple of days.”

Draco was still watching them, smirking slightly.

Hermione wet her lips. “I knew from the beginning he was up to something. I had no idea that much was going on; only that he’s been trying to keep me close to Scorpius. I still haven’t figured out why . . . and I think he’s using a listening charm right now.”

Draco’s smile widened.

Troy and Jeremy’s head snapped around to stare at Draco in alarm.

Hermione sighed. “Can I see the information you’ve collected on the Ettin? Or is that classified?”

Troy cleared his throat and gave her a very Percy Weasley expression but Jeremy nodded. “At this point any ideas are good ideas.”

Hermione spent the rest of the day paging through stacks of notes and scrolling through computer files, periodically making notes of her own. Having been caught out, Draco returned her wand before he left on whatever business he had to attend to. Hermione hoped it didn’t involve killing people.

Lieutenant General Sheldon, Jeremy and Troy were in and out of the tent most of the day, conducting their own business. Jeremy sat down to discuss ideas with her when he had time. Troy grudgingly accepted her presence and grew more and more impressed the more she and Jeremy spoke, apparently unable to keep up with their more technical discussions.

Hermione and Jeremy talked a bit about what had happened at the Manor. Hermione filling him in on what he’d missed and about the hex Draco had placed on her.

It was dark and she’d turned on one of the propane lanterns when Draco came to ‘collect her for dinner’.

“Scorpius misses you,” he told her blandly. “He’s been asking for you for the past four hours.”

She yawned, covering it with her sleeve, and set down a stack of papers she’d organized. Really, these guys needed someone with some filing skills. “Malfoy’s must learn patience.”

“I told him that.” And he actually sounded quite vexed.

She chuckled, then looked up at him sharply. “Is the spell on Scorpius?”

Draco shook his head smugly.

“You know you don’t need to curse me,” she said slowly. “Scorpius is an adorable little boy. I’ll protect him without being magically coerced.”

“I don’t think I’ll chance it,” was the curt reply.

They were silent most of the walk back.

“Malfoy, I don’t know how to ask this . . . Are your parents okay?”

His mouth tightened visibly and she quickly found the horizon to be quite interesting.

“They must be. I remember them.” He was silent a moment. “The last I saw my father, he was still fighting while the Manor burned around us. He was always a little crazy like that. Especially after he quit the Lordship.” He cut himself off. “The monsters were completely unwilling to retreat. They seemed rather desperate actually. My mother . . . She would not leave his side. She will not live without him.”

“Another Malfoy family curse?” she asked coldly.

“No.” He actually smiled a little. “It’s true that they were a marriage of convenience, but their affection for each other is legendary in the wizarding world. I’m surprised you’ve never heard the story. My father was originally slated to marry the eldest sister, but my mother was an ambitious woman who wanted a very rich husband. She blackmailed my father and they made a deal behind everyone’s back. Supposedly my mother beat Bellatrix in a duel and my father carried her off in the night before the day he was to wed Bellatrix. My grandfather didn’t mind though because he preferred my father marry a blonde.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Hermione said dryly. “The blonde thing goes back generations doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but it was originally golden blond with blue eyes. Over the generations the gold has paled from our hair and the blue became gray, supposedly because of our black hearts and wintery dispositions.” He gave a dramatic toss of his head and narrowed his eyes. “The family keeps trying to breed the color back in. Scorpius is the first truly blue-eyed Malfoy in ten generations, and he was cross-eyed for the first month after birth.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Dead serious.” He was silent a moment. “Hey, what does Potter do?”

“What do you mean?”

“His employment. I know he works everyday. I’ve tried to find out where and no one in any of my channels had any idea. I’ve looked everywhere. Twice.”

Hermione smirked. “Can’t you guess?”

“Er, is he an Unspeakable?”

“Noooo.”

“A professional Quidditch player in disguise? A professional Potions ingredient hunter? A dragon manure shoveler? Come on, tell me.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “He’s a pediatrician.”

“A what?”

“He’s a baby doctor. In the Muggle world.”

Draco stared at her incredulously and she just smiled.

Scorpius was in a neighboring tent, freshly washed and playing with three other small children while several witches took turns carting children out to the bathing area: a magicked tent with full facilities.

The little Malfoy squealed in delight upon seeing Hermione and raced over, babbling, very properly, about his new friends and what he’d done all day. Hermione obligingly scooped him up, while Draco bid the witches a good night.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to be using magic,” Hermione said during a lull in Scorpius’ chatter.

“The bathing rooms?”

“Yes, and the main tent.”

“Part of it’s a concession to convenience, the other is that a small enchanted bathing area is not going to be much of a target compared to even an average magical home where everything is enchanted. The main goal of the no magic rule is to keep the witches and wizards from making themselves into walking targets. Perhaps the Ettin can sense us simply because we’re magical and this is all useless, but the alternative is that by piling enchantments on ourselves we could be making ourselves beacons in the night.”

“So you don’t think someone could cast an invisibility or disillusionment charm and not be spotted by the Ettin. You think the magic being cast would attract them instead.”

“It’s not what I think, merely what our lovely Muggle friends have concluded from watching these things. In this instance I bow to their experience.”

“Yeah right.”

The three of them ate supper in the tent Hermione had first awoken in. She supposed it was Draco’s tent, as he and Scorpius were also sleeping there. Draco seemed somewhat at a loss as to how to put a five-year-old to bed and Hermione scornfully changed Scorpius into clean clothes to sleep in and settled him onto a cot.

“Will you please read this story to me?” Scorpius asked Hermione in his careful lisp, showing her the Beedle Bard book Draco had stolen from her. “I am not fa-mil-yer with this story.”

Hermione put a hand to the page to see which story he was talking about and felt a pang. With a sigh, she scooted onto the cot and allowed Scorpius to climb into her lap.

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. She was the most noble and beautiful witch in the land and very kind and dutiful and ever so clever with magic. The Princess dreamed of marrying a handsome prince and having many wonderful adventures.” Hermione glanced at Scorpius to see if he was put-off by the girly-ness but he seemed in one of his hyper-focused moods.

“One day she met a prince and saw that his kingdom was more beautiful then any kingdom she had ever visited, his subjects more kind and his wise-men more wise than any she had ever known. The Prince proposed and the Princess immediately agreed to marry him. The day of their wedding, the Prince presented the Princess with beautiful wedding robes spun from starlight and phoenix song but when she donned them they scratched at her skin like the coarsest sack-cloth. The Prince presented her with a feast fit for seven kings but when the Princess sampled the delicacies they were like ash in her mouth. The Prince then presented the Princess with a sweet kiss but the Princess felt her heart break in her breast because as tender as his lips were, she knew then that he could never love her.

“So the beautiful Princess left the Princes' kingdom to journey home. One day on her travels she and her servants were set upon by thieves and the leader of the thieves stole the rings from the Princess’ fingers. The jewels were very dear to the Princess and she begged for them back but the thieves were poor men and beggars themselves and would not return them. At last, moved by her tears, the leader of the thieves agreed to return her jewels if she promised to marry him. With a heavy heart, the Princess agreed. The day of their wedding, the thief presented the Princess with wedding robes of thread-bare cotton but when she donned them they floated about her like clouds and silk. The thief presented her with a meager meal of hard bread and thin soup but when the Princess sampled the poor fare she was certain nothing so delicious had ever passed her lips. The thief then presented the Princess with a kiss and the Princess’ heart soared because as rough as his lips were, she knew the beggar-thief would always love her. The end.”

Scorpius looked between Hermione and the book with almost comical skepticism. Then he looked at his father helplessly.

Draco was obviously trying very hard not to laugh at Scorpius. “Excuse my son, I think he’s a bit shocked at the idea that a princess of pure blood would marry a common thief over a prince. It goes against every sense of propriety that he has.”

Hermione was silent as she tucked Scorpius into his cot. She kissed his little forehead and Scorpius gasped, putting a small hand to where she’d kissed him and beamed at her so happily that she wondered if anyone had ever kissed him goodnight in his life. Hermione picked up the book as Draco cast a silencing wall around Scorpius’ bed and moved to sit on her own cot.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked.

“I never did get that story,” she muttered, running tired fingers through her hair.

“Frankly, I’ve never heard it before, and I’ve heard all the Beedle the Bard tales. But then it’s definitely not the kind of tale a pureblood would tell his children.”

“No, it’s not.” She grimaced. “I don’t even think it’s a fairy tale. I don’t know who wrote it or where it’s from, but I do know that Dumbledore added it to my book himself.” Hermione touched the signature at the bottom of the page that was followed by a squiggled lemon drop that bobbed up and down. “Albus Dumbledore left me the book in his will. It updates by itself every so often, usually if I’m in a new country.”

Draco gave a low whistle. “An original Beedle Bard then. Those are rare.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, a bard would travel around collecting and telling the stories that he heard. The original books do about the same.”

Hermione frowned. “The beggar-thief story appeared after I broke up with Ron, but I couldn’t figure out why. What was he trying to tell me? To give Ron another chance? We weren’t working and we haven’t since.” She was silent a moment. “It’s just . . . a little disheartening to think that the poor beggar was the only one who could make the princess happy.”

“When your own beggar was so bad at it, Princess?” Draco taunted.

“Oh shut up,” she muttered, then almost to herself: “Dumbledore was a great man, but he wasn’t omnipotent. He wasn’t even all that good sometimes. He was wrong in this case too.”

Draco watched her face curiously, entirely unsympathetic. “Why did you and the Weasel break it off? I remember reading your wedding announcement in the papers and then nothing after that.” He gave her a sly look followed by a fake pout. “I even had a nice present picked out.”

Hermione glared at him but conceded with a roll of her eyes when he only grinned. “There were a lot of little things that I was sure we could work out.” She snorted. “Now I think it was stupid of me, expecting him to change. I’d spent the past seven years trying to get him to stop being a lunk-head. Why would marriage change anything? Then . . . then we found out that I couldn’t bear children.”

Draco’s wandering attention snapped back to her but he didn’t say anything, even when she was quiet long enough to give him a chance.

“I suppose you understand better,” she said, rueful and a bit bitter. “A pureblood of your stature wouldn’t be allowed to have a wife that was barren. And Ron, well it was natural to be upset; we all were. He wasn’t upset in the pureblood way, either. I think it was just that he grew up with a large family and even though we had never actually discussed it, we both sort of expected that we would have lots of children one day.”

“That’s why you broke up?”

“No, it’s not.” She gave a sour little laugh. “He got over it. Only I couldn’t forgive him for being so upset when he first found out. He says things sometimes, you know. Things he doesn’t mean and things he wouldn’t say if his mouth was in any way connected to his brain. I was disappointed in him and I was disappointed in me. I became paranoid that everything he said and did was some sort of slight or belittlement and then I was certain that he was going to get tired of having a barren wife and look for someone who could have children, and then everything just sort of fell apart. After awhile we couldn’t stand to be in the same room with each other.”

“You seemed fine together at the Manor.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It was years and years ago. We’re best friends again. We’re just not and never will be a couple.”

“I suppose I’ve been quite cruel,” Draco murmured pensively, “forcing Scorpius onto you when you can never be a mother yourself.” He nodded and then seemed to draw himself up. “Since you told me such a personal thing, I think I’ll return the favor and keep my promise to tell you about Scorpius.”

Herimone leaned forward. “You said he was ill.”

Draco was silent a long time. “I can’t think of a simple way to explain,” he said slowly. “I suppose I should tell you what you already know. After returning to Hogwarts and completing my final year, I went on holiday and lived the leisurely life of a spoiled, rich playboy. Perhaps I would still be living that life except my family was in trouble. My father had been pardoned, as you know, but the Malfoy name was blackened, our allies had fled and our money was being used to pay reparation. I did not care as long as I had enough money to live the easy life I was used to. My father became annoyed with me and demanded I marry. I met Synnove in Gothenburg and immediately fell in love. She was a pureblood from a supposedly rich and powerful family, but my father found out after the wedding that her family was in financial straits so our match wasn’t worth near anything. At least on our side.

“I didn’t care. We were in love and all we did was travel and have grand parties and waste weeks away strung out on Centaur Crop.” Hermione had heard of the drug; it was something centaurs grew and used in their ceremonies. It was a highly addictive hallucinogenic to wizards. “Then Synnove became pregnant and I immediately brought her home to the Manor. What I didn’t realize was that Synnove never quit with the Fire-whisky or the Crop.” He ignored Hermione’s outraged gasp. “She was also taking a special kind of medication. Synnove’s family had another dirty little secret, and that was that they produced Squibs quite often. Synnove was taking special family potions and performing rituals to make sure the fetus was developing magically.”

Hermione had a hand to her throat and had gone very pale. “But that’s . . . .”

“Shhh. When Scorpius was born we didn’t realize anything was wrong. By the time Scorpius was two I still hadn’t noticed anything was wrong.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t realize that although I was quite taken with my son, Synnove was not. I’d always known she didn’t want children. I had planned around it and it wasn’t as if I had really wanted a child at the time either, but I was so in love with my son that I believed she must be as well. I didn’t realize that she had birthed him and gone right back to her parties. She barely saw him once a month, if that. He was a duty to her, not a child.

“My mother was Scorpius’ main caretaker, and that was lucky because without my mother, the house-elves would have been mostly responsible for him. By the time Scorpius was two he still couldn’t talk. He couldn’t interact with people. I didn’t realize anything was wrong. What did I know about babies, after all? He could walk, he could play, so what if he stared off into nothingness and did not give hugs or kisses or seem to hear anything I said? My mother sent for Healer after Healer and finally sent for one from Synnove’s home town.

“The doctor immediately knew what was wrong. Synnove’s medicine had insured that Scorpius was magical. So magical that his body could barely handle it. It’s a defect. A disease. Children born with it see things we cannot see, they hear and experience things that they cannot comprehend. They are ruled by their magic. They live in another world and barely exist in ours. They cannot talk, they can barely interact with us, their spells never work the way they should and most of the time they go completely insane during adolescence. I was devastated. I believed in that moment that I had lost my son.

“But the Healer had come barely in time. It seems there is a small window of time, during the child’s earliest development, that the child can be pulled out of the waking dream he lives in. Once pulled out of the Trance, the child must keep focus on this world at all times. The Healer helped us pull Scorpius from the Trance and for an entire year, the hardest year of my life, someone was constantly at Scorpius’ side, spending every waking moment teaching him to talk, teaching him to read, making him recite rules and history and anything we could to get him to stay with us. I met my son for the first time and I couldn’t believe that there existed a Malfoy, one of the Bad Faith, so loving and sweet. He knew me, even after living the first two years of his life trapped in his body, trapped between worlds, he knew who I was.” Draco’s face was set in stone but she could see the awe in his eyes. “As he grew older he began to Trance less and less, but every time he did, the only way to pull him out was a physical shock.”

Hermione digested this thoughtfully, putting together what she had seen and experienced. “I’ve never heard of the disease.”

“Its called Vigilio-Somnium, the waking dream, and it is extremely rare. The wizard’s body forms normally but they develop an excess of magic. A wizard can be extremely powerful but their bodies develop along with their magic to handle it. A sufferer of Vigilio-Somnium does not properly form whatever physical connection or rapport with their magic that they’re supposed to, because they weren’t naturally meant to be that powerful. When this happens it is always caused unnaturally, through some spell or ritual or manipulation of our magic.” He smirked. “You do know someone else besides Scorpius who has this disease.”

“Who?” Hermione asked, completely baffled.

“Luna Lovegood.”

Hermione sucked in a breath.

“The Healers pulled her out of it when she was a baby, but the death of her mother threw her back into Trance and she falls halfway back in every now and then. With enough focus and when they become old enough to recognize when they’re falling into Trance, they can pull themselves out.”

“She’s never mentioned. . . .”

“Why would she? Hey, I’m a super powerful witch but I can’t use all of my magic, so I live halfway between this world and an unreality that you can’t see. No one believed even the most sane things she said.”

Hermione was a bit amused. Draco sounded almost defensive of Luna now that he believed his son would one day share the ridicule the witch had endured. How many times had a young Draco made fun of Looney Lovegood, Hermione wondered. How much was he regretting it now?

Hermione suddenly paused in flipping through her book. “Oh cool, there’s a new story!”

“Hmm?”

“My Beedle Bard book just got a new story.” She settled herself eagerly down to read. “But this is strange, usually it only updates when I read or hear a new story in another country or something.” The story was written in a bold, regal script she hadn’t seen before. She flipped to the end of the story but there was no Albus Dumbledore signature.

She cleared her throat. “Many years after the founding of Hogwarts, but many years before the Goblin Wars, Salazar Slytherin, a wizard of great age and much renown, journeyed to visit his students and attend the funeral of the great Godric Gryffindor. As he traveled across the land he was met by many snakes both large and small and they all proclaimed with one voice that the Magic Eaters had come upon the land. . . .” Hermione trailed off to look up, wide-eyed at Draco. But Malfoy only nodded for her to continue, face frozen in a neutral expression. “Salazar Slytherin was most concerned, and he asked who these Magic Eaters were, and what they did look like. ‘Like a woman in a death shroud,’ the snakes replied ‘Like eagles made of smoke. And like the runespoor they have a face for every Fate.’” Hermione paused. “Every Fate?”

“The three Fates.” Draco replied curtly.

“Just checking.” Hermione nodded absently and continued to read. “‘Where did they come from?’ Salazar did ask and the snakes replied with much hissing, ‘They came like the eagle and the owl and shook the ground where we hid.’ ‘What shall I do?’ asked Salazar. ‘Hide thy eggs lest they are smashed. Attack not with thy talent lest they feast upon it. Bare thy fangs and strike.’ Salazar was quick to take this advice and hurried to the town of Hogsmeade, where his students, dressed for mourning but bright with talent, came rushing to meet him.

“‘My children,’ said Salazar, for some of them were his descendants, ‘you must hurry back to the castle’ but the children replied, ‘Great Master, we must go with Godric’s children to bear his body across to Hogwarts.’ For Godric’s students did stand a little ways off and many of them were born of Muggles. Salazar did try again and again to persuade them but though mighty in talent, he had grown old in body and when he spoke of the Magic Eaters they thought his mind feeble and so they left. Salazar could only remain at Hogsmeade, for he was barred from the great castle, and await the return of his students.

“But he did wait in vain for when night fell it was only those born of Muggles who did return, weeping for what they had seen. ‘Master, Master!’ they cried, ‘a great Being like a woman in a death shroud came upon us on the plain and she was like an eagle made of smoke and like the runespoor she had a face for every Fate; she came down and we were defenseless. She devoured our brethren, every one and left only us to carry the tale home.’ ‘Wretches!’ cried Salazar, for he believed they had fled and left their brethren to die, ‘Dishonorable fiends! You deserted your fellows and bring to me not even their bodies to bury.’ And in his wrath, he did strike down those born of Muggles. Every one.

“And then to his horror, Salazar realized that among those he had slain was a child of pure blood, one of his own kin, and the child was clutched in the arms of a woman born of Muggles. Mad in his grief, Salazar took the bodies of those born of Muggle and he bound their magic to the castle of Hogwarts, coercing their talent to drive away the Magic Eaters. And in his Chamber of Secrets he built a beast of metal and breathed his last breath into it, commanding it as he perished to destroy the Magic Eaters and drive them back into the sky.

“The beast rose and it was mighty and terrible and the Magic Eaters came because it called to them, but when they tried to feast the metal beast sank its teeth and claws into them and utterly destroyed them. The beast grew in strength and bloodlust and when it had driven the last Magic Eater back into the sky, it turned on those of the talent, for it had no Master. Seeing the great tragedy that was about to befall those she loved, Rowena Ravenclaw called upon Salazar’s spirit and pled with him to destroy his beast, but the Slytherin merely put it to sleep and returned it to his Chamber.

“Rowena, fearing what should happen if the beast ever woke, traveled across the land and enchanted the earth to shiver in fear if the beast ever woke again. The End.”

Hermione sat very still, her heart beating a mile a minute, her mind jumping from one topic to the next.

Stonehenge. Hogwarts. Scorpius. The Chamber of Secrets. Three indirect take-over attempts. Shiver in fear. Synnove. Eagles made of smoke. A woman born of Muggles. A face for every Fate.

“Do you think it’s a true story?” Hermione asked very carefully, her tongue feeling like lead. “The description was too perfect. It matched.”

Draco tapped his lower lip thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving her pale face. “They’ve been taking children this whole time. Have you stopped to wonder yet why they never attacked Hogwarts? You know they’ve been around long enough.”

“Stonehenge. The Avebury Complex, and the Calanais and Machrie Moor Stone Circles. They’re shivering in fear,” she whispered. “Synnove. You told me Synnove caused Scorpius’ illness but you shouldn’t remember Synnove.”

He flashed teeth at her. “I took steps to remove any magical bonding she had to me some time ago. Scorpius truly does not remember her, though.”

“A woman born of Muggles clutching a child of pureblood. The Muggleborns said the Magic Eaters had them at their mercy, why would they let a pureblooded child go free?” She looked him full in the face. “This is your story. It appeared because you touched my book. You’ve been practically stalking me for two years. You kept asking me to be Scorpius’ caretaker, bribing, threatening. You knew about this. You knew the Ettin were coming before the creatures even began to attack.”

He did not bother denying it. “The Malfoy family has many stories and legends and among them is a section of magical warnings. Things we are always on the lookout for even if we don’t even remember what they are warning us of.”

“Why didn’t you TELL anyone? Why . . . . No wait,” she breathed, mind frantically clicking things into place. “It gets worse, doesn’t it.”

“I had no proof,” Draco retorted. “I would have been like Salazar, telling a story no one would believe.”

“No, don’t give me that. Some would have listened, and when the kidnappings started, they’d have been wallowing at your feet begging for help. There’s something else. . . .” She suddenly lunged to her feet, wand drawn only to have it knocked from her hands before she could raise it. He had moved almost before she did.

She lunged for her wand, but Malfoy intercepted her, almost body-checking her and threw her on her cot, bearing her down with his weight. She shoved at him with a yowl.

“Shh, you’ll wake Scorpius,” he whispered nastily, grabbing her arms and pinning them above her head. She wasn’t that stupid, she knew he had put silencing charms up the minute she put things together.

“You monster! What did you do?”

“You tell me.” He sneered down at her, breath hot on her face. “You’re the clever girl.”

Growling at the challenge she snarled. “You said it yourself! Your family was in trouble. You didn’t have the influence or power you used to. You moved the Samhain ball to Malfoy Manor where you had indirect control of everyone who was in there. You didn’t invite your allies, you probably warned them to stay away. Merlin, you set up a buffet for those things, didn’t you? Jeremy was right! You were getting rid of the opposition and people won’t even remember them!” She tried to buck him off but he was simply too heavy. Like Lucius before him, Draco was nothing but muscle. Panting with effort, she continued, “But something went wrong, didn’t it.”

“You went wrong.” Draco hissed, fingers clenching painfully on her wrists. “The children were never supposed to be in danger. You went running off after Potter when you should have stayed with my son! I would have taken you to the children and they would have been safe. It’s your fault!”

“Are you insane!” she screamed at him. “How was I supposed to protect them? Any of them? Do you really think that Scorpius being with me protects him? I was injured and dying for him in the Manor and they simply dragged him from my arms! Why didn’t you take them to Hogwarts? You knew! You knew, you bastard, and you didn’t take them!”

“I couldn’t. . . . they were bait.”

“Bait! BAIT!! You fucking bastard!”

He squeezed her arms until she cried out. “Do you know what it means to be Lord Malfoy?” he screamed out between clenched teeth. “It’s a punishment. The Lord Malfoy is a sacrifice. The Lordship amplifies magical power and ability, it sharpens senses and, curiously enough, powerfully augments intuition, all in the name of protecting the family. The price is that the Lord Malfoy is magically bound to act only in the best interest of the Malfoy clan.”

“So what?” she panted, trying to wrench her arms free.

“So I will spend the rest of my life, until such time as I choose a successor, as a servant to my name.”

“Poor baby,” she hissed, practically spitting in his face, still not entirely sure what he was getting at. He let go of one of her hands and grabbed her by the throat. She went right for his eyes and he grabbed her hand again.

“It means that nothing and no one, no matter how I feel, will be more important than family honor. It means I will do anything, ANYTHING, no matter if it goes against my beliefs and the very nature of my being, if it’s in the best interest of the family. For power. For influence. For conquest. I’ve bribed, I’ve threatened, I’ve murdered. I’ve whored myself when it was the only option. It means I will bind a woman against her will to protect my son. It means that I’ll set up the indirect murder of the woman who was my wife. It also means I will be magically bound to murder my beloved son should he not outgrow his ‘imperfection’.”

Hermione had listened with steadily growing horror. “You wouldn’t . . . Scorpius. . . .”

Draco’s face was cold. “I’ve instructed my father to take Scorpius and flee should the need ever arrive.”

“And Synnove?”

“I feel nothing. The Lordship killed all of my feelings for her. She was unworthy.” He stood, dragging her up roughly with him. He picked up her book and shoved it at her chest. “Good job, Hermione. You’ve provided me with the evidence I need to get the rest of the old fools to follow the Muggles. The old ones will not doubt an original Beedle Bard or a tale of Slytherin. We’ll head to Hogwarts now, and if one or two wizards disappear along the way, well, I doubt anyone will notice.”

“You think we’re going to let you get away with shit like this?”

He smiled at her, slow and dark. “You give me problems and I’ll take Scorpius from you.”

Hermione went still in abject horror, her chest clenching up and she snapped her teeth shut with a clack before she could start pleading with him like her brain was babbling at her to. She stood there, breathing hard. Malfoy’s smile widened and he wrapped one of her curls around his finger, giving it a little tug and bounce. “That’s my girl.”

With a furious hiss at the triumph on his face, she wrenched away from him. Haphazardly grabbing up her notes, she fled the tent.

CHAPTER 4

“Jeremy! Jeremy!”

“Hunngh.”

The Squib was passed out and drooling all over his charts and calculations in the main tent where they’d had their meeting earlier in the day. Hermione examined him with a long-suffering scowl and slammed her book down on the table as hard as she could, making the man jerk upright with an embarrassingly high-pitched squeal.

“Holy SHIT, Hermione!” he wheezed, cleaning his foggy glasses on his shirt. A protractor had made an indentation in his forehead.

She was too excited to be coherent. “Look! Look at this! Here. Read!”

He scowled at her suspiciously but took the book with a reverence for its worn pages that made her warm. He skimmed quickly through the story.

“Well?” she asked.

“Troy,” Jeremy said softly. “Get Troy. He’s over in the communications tent.”

Hermione made a face.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Hey, I’m just a lowly Squib. Magic isn’t my forte. Troy’s not a genius like us, but he’s pretty fucking handy with magical theory.”

She put her chin in her knuckles and smiled. “You’re so modest.”

Jeremy buffed his nails on his shirt. “One of my more attractive features.”

It took some coaxing to get Troy to follow her. The man looked angry and suspicious the whole time, especially with the other soldiers cat-calling and offering to go in his stead.

“What is it?” he asked clinically when Jeremy waved him over, not looking up from the book.

“Cut the attitude, Troy. She’s Muggleborn, just like you.”

Troy sneered but settled down.

Hermione answered his question. “It’s an old story passed down through pureblood families. When Draco Malfoy held the book, the story was recorded. It’s what he knew that we didn’t. It explains everything: why Stonehenge is pulsing, why he’s been hexing me to watch over Scorpius, how Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy knew to bring Muggle weapons to fight the Ettin back at the Manor.”

“I’m a fucking dumbass.” Jeremy cursed, slapping himself in the forehead. “I didn’t even stop to wonder about that. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

“Hexing you?” Troy perked up.

“You’ve seen her toting around Malfoy’s brat, right? Malfoy cursed her so that she’ll protect the kid no matter what.”

“What the hell!” Troy snarled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jeremy shrugged helplessly. “She acted like she had it under control She wasn’t real worried about it. I thought she had someone helping her or was trying to figure it out herself. I’m just the Squib.”

Hermione frowned into the silence while they stared each other down.

“Take a look at the story.” Jeremy urged his friend finally, unable to contain himself. “There’s a pureblood who survives, well for a little bit, because he was protected by a Muggleborn girl.”

Troy took the book gingerly. Jeremy and Hermione sending silent messages back and forth the whole time.

“Just what is this?” Troy asked, finally, flipping through the book, turning it over to stare at the cover.

“A book for Bards. It automatically records the stories and songs that the Bard, or the owner, hears.”

“And Malfoy knew the story would appear and he let you find it.” Jeremy deduced.

Troy shook his head. “Doesn’t add up. Salazar remembers the students,” he tapped the page. “It clearly states that he’s related to some of them.”

“But look at the rest.” Hermione argued. “I doubt after seeing what just one of our people was capable of that the Ettin want to get us mad. They were trying to be sneaky this time.”

“Fucking hell.” Jeremy rubbed a hand over his sleep-swollen eyes while Troy finished reading. “You sure Malfoy’s not setting us up?”

Hermione shook her head. “That’s the problem, I’m pretty sure he has us right where he wants us. I think the story is true. I think the proof will be if whether or not Hogwarts ever gets attacked or not. There’s no way they would willingly pass it up.”

“I agree that we should find out more about Hogwarts, but how is that setting us up?” Troy wondered.

“Malfoy admitted to me that he’s after power, that he’ll do anything to reclaim his family’s prestige. The story said Slytherin’s metal beast had no Master. I think Draco Malfoy intends to be that Master. But if we want to fight these things, what choice do we have but to resurrect it?”

“Wait, wait, wait, if he’s after the metal beast then why hasn’t he gone to get it yet?” Jeremy asked.

“He probably tried. But only one person can get into the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Harry Potter,” Troy said automatically.

Not exactly true. Not anymore. But no one else knew about the Horcurxes or their destruction. Harry could no longer speak Parseltongue, but having piece of a madman’s soul in your head during your formative years leaves its mark. He could still understand it.

Hermione nodded. “That’s also the part I don’t get. Harry’s the only one who can get into the Chamber. It stands to reason, doesn’t it, that Harry’s also likely the only one who could control the Metal Beast—if it can be controlled at all.”

Jeremy gnawed on a fingernail thoughtfully. “But Malfoy’s a pureblood. He might simply assume that because Potter’s a halfie, he won’t be able to control the thing.”

“I figure if we’re lucky, we won’t have to use the thing at all. If we can figure out how it works, we can duplicate it,” Hermione enthused.

“You honestly think we have that kinda time?” Jeremy scoffed. “I mean, I’m brilliant, but not that brilliant.”

She shrugged.

“Look, I wasn’t supposed to say anything,” Troy admitted slowly, “but Squad Two is on their way to rendezvous with us. I’m going to take this book to the Lieutenant General. I’ll recommend Squads One, Three and Four regroup.”

“Squad Two?” Hermione asked. “That’s. . . .”

“Yeah, Harry Potter is with them.” Troy glanced around nervously and whispered, “Word is that they’ve discovered a wizard whose magic hurts the Ettin.”

“Not Harry?” Hermione gasped.

“No, not Harry Potter,” Troy assured her. He eyed her speculatively. “I’m also interested in this spell Draco Malfoy has on you. You said you don’t remember him hexing you. It wasn’t in anything you ingested. It cleared out when the Mediwizards fixed you up but returned soon afterwards.” He peered into her eyes. “You also seem incredibly ambivalent towards the spell itself. You haven’t done much to try and counter it, not even subconsciously.”

Hermione blinked in surprise and realized he was right. She hadn’t really tried to fight the curse at all. Instead of asking for help, she’d practically told Jeremy that she was fine and had it under control.

“Don’t feel bad. Your body seems to think your feelings are normal. You’re in no state to fight it. Let me think about it for awhile. Maybe I can figure out what he did.” Troy picked up the book and left them there without even saying goodbye.

Jeremy examined the mess of his work critically and sighed. “I’m not going to get any of this shit done tonight.”

Hermione clasped her hands nervously. “Um, you don’t know if there’s somewhere I can crash tonight, do you? I kind of ran out of Malfoy’s tent without my wand and I don’t want to go back and get it now that I’ve ‘delivered his message’. I don’t think he’d let me leave.”

Surprise flitted across the man’s face, but he nodded. “Sure, I’ve some things to do, so you can take my cot if you’re not afraid of Squib cooties.”

She smiled a bit wanly, not sure how to take the joke. “What were you working on before?” she asked, helping him gather the charts and graphs.

“Well,” he paused to gather his thoughts and even before he started speaking she could see the passion for his job on his face, “with our current technology we can’t get very far into space, but we’re always thinking ahead. One of the things we think about is, say, what if we’re flying along and suddenly we’re in a meteorite storm or something. How do we clear debris from the path of the spaceship? We’ve been working on laser technology to solve the problem with varying degrees of success.” He gave her a sideways look as if considering how much to tell her. “What’s cool is that the laser is something that might also double as protection for the Earth itself. Say there was a big meteorite heading towards the Earth like in the movies. Can we build a laser to vaporize it before it becomes a danger?” He turned to give her a grin.

“In this instance, you’re wondering if you can use a laser to shoot a relatively small flying target,” Hermione guessed.

Jeremy nodded. “We’re gonna shoot the bastards out of the sky if we can. Can’t very well shoot them on Earth.”

“And can you?”

“Shoot them? If we get a bead on the ship, we’ll certainly try. Our lasers can’t exactly take a meteorite yet, but they might be able to take the ship.”

Jeremy’s tent, though larger than a regular tent, was not magical at all that she could tell.

“Hell no,” he confirmed when she commented. “I’m not letting any of that magic shit near my equipment.”

The tent was shockingly ‘lived in’ for something that had been erected two days ago. There was equipment and paperwork everywhere. Over to one side was a large cot beside a set of luggage, to the other side a flimsy-looking fold-out desk and chair. The air inside smelled like the new vinyl of the tent and faintly of cigarette smoke.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Hermione asked meekly.

“Yeah! Yeah!” Jeremy hastily cleared the cot off. “Make yourself at home.”

He gave her a clean jumpsuit and gestured a bit nervously towards the bed before backing out of the tent. She had just grabbed the bottom of her top to pull it off when he poked his head back inside and she “eep”d loudly. Jeremy’s face went red.

“A-and no stealing military secrets!” he stuttered and made a break for it.

Soft voices had Hermione rising gently out of sleep. She opened one bleary eye to squint at the two men standing over her. It was very dark but she could hear Troy murmuring what sounded like diagnostic spells and faintly see him sweeping his wand back and forth.

“That’s really rude,” she garbled thickly, burrowing further under the covers, “casting spells on sleeping persons.”

“Shh,” Troy whispered. “I think we’ve figured out how Malfoy’s anchoring the spell. Go back to sleep.”

The next time she woke, Jeremy was trying, and failing, to quietly root through his belongings. He was shoving things to the side and she frowned when she saw him rolling out a sleeping bag on the ground.

“Whassa?”

He cringed and whispered, “Sorry, Hermione. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Whas happen?”

“Just going to bed.”

“Nah onda floor,” she hummed into the pillow. “Mm up here. ‘S your bed. Plenty of room.”

“Ah. . . .”

“Come on.” She lifted the edge of the blankets.

He hesitated a long time, long enough that she nearly fell back asleep, but then he cautiously inched over and slid under the covers as if he thought she was a lion that might attack him if he moved too quickly. There was plenty of room but she hummed happily and snuggled up to him, waking a bit more when he remained very tense.

“Is this okay?” she asked softly. “Want me to back off?”

“Er, I just can’t tell if you’re really awake or not. You might kill me in the morning.”

She laughed quietly and it became a yawn. She shook her head, sliding up against his side and he finally began to relax. He was nice and warm and smelled freshly showered.

“Guess what,” he whispered. “Hogwarts and Hogsmeade haven’t been attacked. The Ettin won’t get close to either.”

“That’s wonderful,” she whispered. “You work really hard, you know that. I admire that.”

He relaxed fully at last and slid an arm around her. She hummed happily and raised her head. For a moment they stared at each other, the air suddenly heavy with possibility. His fingers slid appreciatively along the skin just under her sweat shirt.

Then he suddenly snorted at the ridiculousness of the situation and they were both giggling stupidly. He kissed her with a loud smack on the forehead and turned his back to her.

“Go to sleep.”

Smiling, she did.

“Squad two’s here!” one of the soldiers was yelling.

Hermione jumped up from her breakfast and pelted though the rows of soldiers who were taking down tents and packing everything into their jeeps. She ran to the west side of camp where she could see a caravan of jeeps and trucks driving towards them. She ‘whooped’ along with the soldiers and waved excitedly, and not in vain, because soon one of the jeeps pulled away from the others and drove towards her.

Her jaw dropped when she recognized the red-head behind the wheel.

The jeep came to a roaring halt, the soldiers in it grinning at her dumbfounded expression and then Ron Weasley jumped out wearing fatigues, sunglasses and a beret, an AK-47 hanging over his shoulder.

“RON!” she squealed as he swept her up into a hug.

“I have found my purpose!” he told her rowdily. “I’ve found my people! Henceforth, I’m dropping out of the Aurors and joining the military. These guys are badass! Look, they gave me a gun.”

“Ronald Weasely! Of all the irresponsible. . . .” She turned on the soldiers. “That’s like giving a gun to a three-year-old.”

The soldiers thought this was hysterical.

She hugged him tightly again. “Oh I’m so glad you’re okay! After you left, one of the Aurors tried to use the Floo and it killed him and I could just imagine you trying to come back for us and. . . .”

“I’m fine. Honestly, I haven’t even been near the things yet. Shot at them from a distance but that’s about it.” Ron squeezed her. “Are you doing okay? I heard that bastard Malfoy practically kidnapped you.”

“I’m fine. Where’s Harry?” She craned her neck to look over his shoulder and around for their missing third.

“He’s in one of the trucks.” Ron grimaced. “The sheep have been following him around, clinging to him, refusing to leave his side. It’s been a mess. They expect him to save them again.”

Hermione groaned. “Merlin, that’s exactly what I was afraid of.”

He patted her back. “Go finish packing your camp up or whatever and then you can ride with me up to Hogwarts. I guess once the other Squads meet up we’re going to head for the castle in a straight shot. The wizards are going to keep the trucks going magically and we’re not going to stop for anything if we can help it.”

She kissed him on the cheek and left him to his business. Feeling bold now that the boys were there, and very desperately wanting to see Scorpius, she went to fetch her wand from Malfoy.

It took some time to find the blond duo. Malfoy was standing on the outskirts of the camp, staring off into the distance for apparently no reason. Scorpius, Hermione noticed with concern, was wearing a shirt and no pants and running around having a grand time.

“Malfoy?” she called.

Scoripus saw her and shrieked in delight, yelling something that sounded disturbingly like “Mama,” and started running to her.

“Scorpius!” Draco spat sharply, not turning around to look at either of them, and the boy came up short, shocked. “Stay.”

“Malfoy,” she tired again, taking a few steps towards the child, and this time a spell lashed the ground at her feet, sending her stumbling back with a yell as dust rained down on her head.

Scorpius cried out in terror and Hermione righted herself, breathless.

“Malfoy, what the hell!”

“Stay away from my son,” Draco bit out coldly, wand pointed at her.

Scorpius looked back and forth between them, little chest heaving as tears threatened.

“Malfoy, you’re scaring Scorpius,” she said very evenly, wondering what the hell was going on. “If you’re going to fight me, do it somewhere he can’t see.” Her tone started out reasonable and ended in a tight hiss.

“Don’t. Tempt me,” Malfoy growled back. “Here, take your wand. You did your job, now leave. Your presence is no longer required.”

Her wand flew through the air and she caught it easily. “What’s going on? Why isn’t Scorpius dressed? Has he even been fed this morning?”

Uncertainty flashed across Draco’s face and then it hardened and he jabbed his wand in her direction. “I ordered you to leave. Go back to your Squib lover.”

Hermione felt as though her jaw might smack the top of her feet. “Malfoy,” she said very reasonably, “I slept in Jeremy’s bed. . . .”

“I KNOW!” he shouted furiously. “Scorpius, get back here!”

The boy took a few reluctant steps back towards his father.

Hermione continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I slept in the bed. I did not sleep with Jeremy. Not that who I sleep with is any of your business. I’m just your babysitter. And the only reason I slept in Jeremy’s tent in the first place is because I was too afraid to sleep in the tent that housed a certain blonde two-faced jackal, with psychotic plans for world domination, who might at any time take it into his head to do anything from hex me, enslave me, or kill me in my sleep and harvest my organs.”

The blonde gave her a look of pure disgust. “Merlin, you’re so fucking self-righteous. So certain of everyone. So certain of me!” He sounded so angry.

“Will you stop it? Just stop it! You don’t even know what you’re going on about anymore!”

“I’m not seventeen anymore!” he screamed at her, at random, as far as a baffled Hermione could tell. “I changed! I grew up! People are allowed to change! But you don’t see it! You think everything has stayed the same, but you’re the one who has changed the most! You lost your patience because the world wasn’t changing fast enough for you, wasn’t conforming to your own personal ideals, and now you’re so fucking cold and cynical and bitter that you won’t give anyone else a chance. You hate the wizarding world and you hate purebloods and you think we’re all the same.”

She gaped at him. “Did you go bipolar when I wasn’t looking? Or did you have too much to drink last night and decide it would be fun to yell random shit at me because you’re cranky?”

“You didn’t respond to any of my letters. You rejected all of my overtures and attempts to make peace. You came to my house and assaulted myself and my wife when I offered you a job. And when you did respond I couldn’t even believe I was talking to the same girl. You gave up on your dreams and you gave up on the wizarding world and you gave up on yourself and it’s made you a really rotten person.”

She held her hands up, backing away. “I don’t have to listen to this. Especially from you.”

“Mama!” Scorpius wailed plaintively.

Hermione’s heart clenched and she stopped. Scorpius started to totter forward.

“Stay away from her, Scorpius!” Draco shouted. “She’s a Mudblood! A disease-carrying Mudblood. She tricked us!”

Terror froze Scorpius’ small face and he seemed to shrink in on himself, backing away from her skittishly. Hermione felt her heart shatter in her chest. She looked up at Draco in utter horror, unable to believe he’d said that about her to his son. She looked at him and all expression drained from her face as a gigantic white arm reach out and backhanded him.

She screamed as Draco flew bonelessly through the air and hit the ground to lay still.

In a shimmering buzz of magic that set all her hair on end, three of the Ettin appeared as if from nowhere and closed in fast. Hermione’s screams had alerted the soldiers and rifle retorts were already filling the air.

“Scorpius! Scorpius!” she screamed, reaching for the child who stood frozen, staring at his father’s limp form.

The boy’s frightened, tear-stained face turned her way for an instant and then he ran away from her towards his fallen father.

“NO! Scorpius!” She raced after him.

More gunfire and the Ettin were Apparating in and out swiftly, waves of magic lashing out, and all the remaining tents burst into flames. Several vehicles exploded in balls of fire, sending black smoke billowing into the air.

A chopper took to the air and the guns inside might have shredded the Ettin had they had a chance to fire. A burst of magic, almost in a visible wave and the chopper’s blades bent and it spiraled to the ground.

There were more screams and gunfire and people running and Hermione thought there must be more Ettin surrounding the camp.

She caught up to Scorpius as he reached Draco. Malfoy was bruised but conscious and Hermione scooped up Scorpius roughly then grabbed Draco’s arm and tried to haul him to his feet. Magic lashed her like an electric whip and she twisted frantically, barely managing to hit the ground hard on her side to keep from landing on Scorpius. The sharp rat-tat-tat of gunfire sounded all around her and she mentally begged the soldiers to drive the things away.

Rolling, she scrambled up as one of the Ettin surged towards her, clawed white hand slashing at the ground where she had lain. She was seeing them up close now, really up close and some small distant part of her mind noted that she could see small differences in their features, small variations in their size and movement and almost a glow of color at the edge of their white ‘cloaks’. The one bearing down at her was thinner and swifter than the others with a bluish glow around it.

“Get away!” she yelled at it stupidly. She had no weapons, nothing to defend herself with.

She staggered back and ran back towards the camp only to have the largest one, a red-hued monster, appear in her path. She zigzagged but could not dodge the magic that hit her like a hammer and had her crashing head-long into a tree.

Scorpius screamed and then she screamed as she felt him begin tugged out of her arms.

“NO! NO! SCORPIUS!” She tried to lunge for him, tried to grab and was knocked violently backwards into the tree again.

She sat there propped up against the trunk and waited for the pain to stop and the world to quit spinning. When her vision cleared the bluish Ettin was rearing back to strike her down, an angry snarl on its beautiful face. Red overwhelmed her field of vision and it took her a moment to process that the reddish Ettin had blocked the blue one. The two Ettin floated, staring at each other silently until finally the blue one floated away.

The red one turned to look at her. She stared at it, as its faces changed before her eyes, each one pausing to look at her, and she wondered what was going on. She was Muggleborn, why had they attacked her?

“REDUCTO!” a female voice incanted.

Magic doesn’t work, Hermione thought light-headedly and then sat up hard as the center of a yellowish Ettin’s chest exploded and it shrieked and flailed.

The other Ettin wailed along with their injured brother and flew towards the voice. Hermione was abruptly alone. She sat there in a quiet daze and wondered vaguely if she had a concussion.

“Malfoy, get back here!” Someone was bellowing and Hermione nearly shrieked when an arm went around her chest. She was being dragged backwards and into the midst of a group of soldiers who surrounded them protectively, and then whoever was pulling her fell on their butt and yanked her against their chest.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” Someone was whispering over and over.

Hermione blinked, letting out a shuddering breath and grabbed the arm around her neck. Dry lips kissed her neck, her shoulder, shaking arms hugging her tightly.

“What happened?” she asked in a floaty, far-away voice, turning her head to see Malfoy, battered and grim. Blood dripped down his temple. “They attacked me to get to you but then they kept chasing me.”

He looked just as confused as she did. “Did you hurt them at all?”

“No, I didn’t have any weapons. . . . is that Luna Lovegood?”

The petite woman with stringy blonde hair was clomping fearlessly through the battlefield, wand out and incanting anything that came to mind, waving her, not as if casting spells but as if conducting an orchestra. Every spell struck home, every spell, from Lumos to Reducto, caused mortal injury.

“Amazing.” Something flashed through her mind, so quick she couldn’t catch it. She had the distant impression that something was wrong but the thought was gone a moment later.

Several soldiers and wizards were at Luna’s back, the wizards attempting to shield her with the strength of their combined power, the soldiers trying to pick off anything she missed.

One of the wizards covering Luna was Harry Potter. Hermione almost roused herself to be excited to see him but that feeling of wrongness was nagging at her.

The soldiers surrounding them were helping them to their feet.

“Come on,” one of the soldiers ordered hurriedly. “We’re leaving.”

“What’s happening?” Hermione asked blankly.

Draco pushed the soldiers away and kept his arms around her, planting his feet. “We can’t leave yet! There’s something wrong. We’re missing something.” He sounded frightened and confused.

The soldiers grabbed the two of them and physically made them march. “We’re getting all the wizards into the trucks. The Ettin won’t kill their food so if we want any vehicles left to get out of here, you guys have to get into the trucks. Or else we’ll be stuck here.”

“They’re attacking in mass,” one of the other soldiers said in clipped, breathless tones. “They’ve either been planning this assault or they’re really pissed off because they’re coming at us hard.”

Something exploded to their right and the group ducked as a whole and hurried forward. One soldier kept pushing Hermione and Draco forward as the others kept rounding up the other Wizards and witches. Hermione couldn’t fight them; her head was whirring between Ron and Harry and Luna and Jeremy and something she couldn’t quite grasp.

A sharp whistle caught their attention and two men waved at the soldiers. Hermione barely had time to recognize Jeremy and Troy before the soldiers were practically shoving them into the back of a truck with the top and sides covered by heavy green canvas.

Gunners took up positions at the back and on the sides and the driver turned the engine, making the truck rumble underneath them.

“It’s going to be crowded,” one of the soldiers commented. “We need to get everyone out of here. I don’t want to chance them killing us norms in revenge when their food is gone.”

“Hermione!” Jeremy climbed in beside her, ignoring Draco’s snarl. “Can’t believe it! The bastards know we’re heading for Hogwarts. I bet you anything!” He looked around. “Where’s the kid?”

Hermione stared at him blankly. “What?”

“The kid.” Jeremy repeated, making a vague hand gesture.

“What kid?” Hermione asked.

Jeremy looked back and forth between her and Malfoy as if they the joke was getting old. When Hermione continued looking politely baffled, he paled. “Oh,” he said quietly, exchanging looks with Troy and eyeing the confused and glaring Draco. “I’m sorry.” He started to back away, but Hermione grabbed his arm, her heart beating fast and hard.

“No, wait. What? What’s wrong?” The niggling feeling in her stomach was trying to bloom into fear and horror but she still didn’t know why.

Jeremy hesitated, but Hermione was already piecing things together.

“We’ve forgotten something. When the Ettin take someone people forget,” she reasoned slowly, feeling cold all over. “We’ve forgotten someone.”

“Malfoy’s son. Scorpius Malfoy,” Jeremy admitted reluctantly.

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath as the name sent her mind reeling like a ten-thousand watt jolt. It was physical and it hurt and then she remembered, and the pain seemed to magnify by a thousand. It felt like something larger than an ice-pick stabbing into her brain over and over.

There was a child. A child with an angelic baby face that fit perfectly into all the empty spots in her mind. There was a child who called her ‘mama’. A little boy with a tear-stained faced who had been dragged from her arms.

She wasn’t aware of screaming, or of Jeremy and Draco holding her up as her body convulsed and something in her head snapped and blood poured out from her nose and ears. She could vaguely hear Troy shouting something.

And then there was cool darkness.

She woke to a pounding headache and hot, sweaty car-sickness. The engine rumbled beneath her back, feeling good to her achy muscles. Her body felt like one big bruise and her tongue was dry and thick in her mouth. It was late afternoon if the light was anything to go by and they were still driving.

Harry Potter was holding her hand.

“Where is he?” she rasped through a scratchy throat.

“Hermione, don’t move,” Harry said quietly, hand brushing her forehead, and tried to keep her from sitting up. “Ron’s in another truck.”

“Where’s Malfoy?” she hissed, struggling weakly against Harry’s gentle grip.

There was movement in the back of the truck where Malfoy had apparently been banished to and he crept forward to her side hesitantly.

“You,” she breathed, “you FUCKING. . . .” She lunged at him and Harry grabbed her and pinned her to his chest.

“Stop it! You’ll hurt yourself!”

“YOU BASTARD!” she shrieked at Malfoy. “It’s your fault! Give me a gun, Harry! I’m gonna fucking blow his head off! You called me a Mudblood! You told Scorpius I was a Mudblood and a liar and he RAN from me! HE RAN FROM ME RIGHT TO THOSE MONSTERS!” She screamed it so violently that her vision hazed over and she collapsed against Harry, sobbing hysterically. “You bastard. Your fault. He ran.” She turned her face against Harry’s shoulder, shaking uncontrollably and cried as though she had lost her own child.

Malfoy was practically seething in frustration and anxiety. “I don’t remember. I know we fought because you slept with that Squib.”

“I did NOT sleep with Jeremy!” she shouted, not caring that they had an audience. “And it’s not any business of yours who I choose to sleep with!”

“IT IS WHEN MY CHILD’S MOTHER IS SLEEPING WITH OTHER MEN RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM!”

The watching wizards and witches all gasped in horror like a bunch of Muggles watching a soap opera.

Hermione goggled, shocked speechless, and Harry went rigid behind her. The beginnings of a growl rumbling in Harry’s chest had her floundering to sit up. She faced Malfoy, stringy, sweaty hair falling in her face.

Draco faced her furiously, hands clenched, chest heaving.

“Draco,” Hermione began carefully, “you think I’m Scorpius’ mother?”

He frowned. “Of course you are.”

“No, Draco. I’m definitely not Scorpius’ mother.” She felt Harry relax minutely behind her. Draco would never know how close he’d come to being murdered. “Draco, I can’t have children. I’m barren.”

His mouth worked and she could see him trying to puzzle it out. “But that doesn’t make sense. You loved him, you protected him. You don’t remember him, so obviously you must be related to him. And you’ve been with us. As for not being able to have children, I’m sure it wouldn’t matter to the spell, the surrogate ritual would have worked something out.” He cut off in exasperation because she was shaking her head. “Who else could be his mother?” he challenged.

Hermione waved a hand in front of his face. “Uh, hello. Synnove? Your wife? Ring any bells?”

Draco thought about this a moment and then shook his head again saying with conviction, “It can’t be. Synnove never wanted children. We made plans early on to have a surrogate to carry our baby.”

“And you think that was me? You think I agreed to that? A Mudblood? That’s kind of against your own rules, isn’t it?”

“Well, he still would have been part of Synnove and pureblooded, but he would have been part of you too because you would have carried him,” he told her logically.

She shut her eyes. “No, Draco.”

“But you wouldn’t remember,” he reminded her reasonably.

“I do remember. You hexed me. You cursed me and forced me to protect him as his own personal human shield. That’s what a Mudblood is to you.”

He blinked, looking completely lost. “Then why do I recall writing to you and keeping track of what country you were in and asking you to come home to us for the past several years.”

Hermione lost it. “BECAUSE YOU WANTED TO USE MY FILTHY MUDBLOOD MAGIC TO PROTECT YOUR PRECIOUS SON, YOU ASSHOLE! THAT’S ALL! END OF STORY!” She crumpled and began to cry again in great heaving sobs. “Just go away.”

He opened his mouth, a stubborn glint in his eyes, but then glanced at a stone-faced Harry and at the watching wizards and visibly deflated. He retreated to the back of the truck.

The journey to Hogwarts took two days, and in that time they were attacked seven times and lost a further ten wizards. Malfoy had once described the Ettin as desperate. Hermione was beginning to think he was exactly right.

Harry stayed with Hermione the whole way. He was restless and distant and it hurt her heart to see him so obviously searching for something he could not remember. It made her think of her parents. Did her father wander the house at night, some unconscious memory of his daughter eating away at him inside? Draco remained in disgrace. He was in and out of their vehicle and Hermione wondered if he was back to offing people he didn’t like when no one was looking.

When he finally came to her and asked her to tell him about his son, she didn’t have the heart to turn him away.

Jeremy and Troy came to see her often when Draco wasn’t around. They were not subtle about avoiding him.

“We’ve got the spell off you,” Jeremy told her, quietly enough that the other wizards in the truck wouldn’t hear.

“Huh?” She scooted closer, crouching with them in a small huddle. Harry came to sit beside them.

“Malfoy’s spell. The spell he put on you to protect Scorpius,” Troy reminded. “It’s gone. The reason it wouldn’t go away was because it wasn’t even on you. Malfoy anchored it to Harry. He wanted something very hard to trace, something you couldn’t get rid of yourself unless you knew it was on Harry. He anchored it to Harry and basically switched up your love for Harry with his own love for Scorpius. Because the anchor was Harry, your body thought it was normal and didn’t fight it.”

She examined her hands listlessly. “Are you sure it’s gone?”

Troy nodded confidently. “He won’t be able to renew it.”

“But I still love Scorpius,” she confessed quietly. Her heart was still broken. The little boy she would die for was still gone.

Troy and Jeremy exchanged glances.

“I’ll scan you again,” Troy said finally, but he didn’t find any trace of foreign magic.

Hermione was much relieved to see Hogsmeade, deserted as it was because all of the wizards had fled to Hogwarts. The Ettin that had been trailing them stopped just outside the village and vanished. Although it was a relief, they didn’t slow down until they drove as close to the castle as possible. They weren’t taking any chances.

Headmistress McGonagall was waiting for them on the front steps of the school, looking pale and worried but otherwise not any different at all from when Hermione had graduated. She surprised them by giving Ron, Harry and Hermione each a firm hug.

The soldiers and Squibs looked up at the castle and surrounding land in wonder and it seemed completely unfair to Hermione that the Squibs had never seen Hogwarts before. Jeremy turned in a slow circle, amazement on his face. He swallowed hard and looked over at Hermione, jealousy and bitterness so plain that she had to look away.

Several groups, including the combined three other Squads that had been at Malfoy Manor the night of the attack, had not yet arrived, which was amazing because it seemed that all of Magical Britain was hidden away inside the castle. Hermione had no idea Hogwarts could hold so many people. The Great Hall was suddenly inexplicably enormous, the Hogwarts students gathered and chattering loudly as they waited for supper to begin. Hermione smiled wanly as a handful of parents from their caravan were reunited with their children.

There were many, many familiar faces now. Harry was swamped the moment he walked in the door. Hermione thought she saw Susan Bones and the Zabini family. It wasn’t just the purebloods that had gathered here. Anyone of mixed blood was at risk.

Hermione stood in the midst of the chaos and felt oddly alone.

Someone took her hand and squeezed. She squeezed back before she realized it was Draco, and started to yank away, but he tugged her hand close to his chest.

“You think I don’t understand?” he whispered angrily. “Maybe I don’t remember, but I know my son is gone. I know a part of me, something irreplaceable, is missing. And I know you love him just as much as I must have. In a way, you’re the only piece of him I have left.”

She tried again to wrench out of his grasp. “I’m not his mother,” she whispered back almost tearfully.

He shook his head, looking as if he still didn’t believe her. “But you’ll mourn him with me. You’ll mourn him in a way Synnove never would.”

“He’s not dead!” she denied fiercely, wanting to hit him, to hurt him for dragging her into this. She couldn’t even help other people or care about them because of him.

“No,” he agreed and kissed their intertwined fingers, expression just as fierce. “And we’re going to find him and make those fuckers pay. I promise.”

“You haven’t exactly impressed me so far with your great plans,” she mocked hatefully. “You’ve done nothing but make this situation infinitely worse. Some of these kids here today are orphans because of you! Because helping to murder their parents was convenient.”

“So self-righteous. Like you care about a couple of purebloods!” He squeezed her hand again, painfully this time, but she refused to flinch. “You don’t care about them as long as you get your way.” He gave her a nasty leer. “So I made your way my way.”

She stabbed her wand into his throat so hard that he gagged, and when he tried to pull away she grabbed his sleeve. She glared at him, breathing hard, too angry to even think of anything to say. When she just stood there, the surprise on his face melted to a taunting smirk, as if daring her.

“Hermione,” Jeremy drawled, breaking the tableau. “Not in front of witnesses, my dear.”

With a sniff, she shoved Malfoy away and slid her arm in Jeremy’s and let him lead her to dinner.

When the feast had ended, a detail unit of soldiers was sent to guard the Hogwarts perimeter as a precaution, though Hermione figured if the Ettin were able to attack they would have already. The children and civilians were sent off to bed. Those that stayed behind were the military, what remained of the Ministry, another group Hermione didn’t quite recognize, and the elderly group of wizards the Lieutenant General had met with back at camp. Their number, Hermione realized in vague horror, had diminished.

To Hermione’s everlasting rage, Harry and Luna Lovegood had slipped away at some point. She recalled them sitting close to her during the meal but could not think when they had left. She had no doubt that the two were already deep in the Chamber of Secrets and was more than a little miffed that they hadn’t asked her along. The odd thing was that Malfoy had remained nearby. She’d been certain he would have taken the opportunity to try and find the Metal Beast.

“In the wake of this tragedy, I am glad to see so many of you here today.” McGonagall stood at what Hermione would always think of as Dumbledore’s podium and addressed the crowd. She cleared her throat and began going over recent events and updating them on what had happened in the last few days.

Hermione was horrified to learn that St. Mungo’s and the Ministry of Magic had been attacked at the same time as Malfoy’s party. Minister Shacklebolt was alive but he had refused shelter at Hogwarts. He was traveling with a contingent of soldiers and helping to round up the wizards and witches. His presence would be very reassuring to the refugees, Hermione knew. Several people had attempted to Apparate to Hogwarts in the past few days but they had all been picked off by the Ettin before they could reach the safety of Hogsmeade.

Also of interest was that they could find no evidence of more than a single Ettin ship. It seemed Britain’s was the mother ship.

Now that they had started coming together, the first order of business was to decide whether or not to attempt to use the Metal Beast from the legend. Hermione thought that was an odd place to begin since they really didn’t even know if it existed yet. But then they had yet to kill one of the Ettin, it was looking as though if they didn’t want to be picked off one by one, or stay holed up in Hogwarts forever, they would need to find a way to stop the Ettin. Completely.

Either they needed to kill all of the Ettin or they needed to drive them away as Slytherin had. But if they somehow managed to drive them away, what was stopping the aliens from returning someday in the future, perhaps with subtler plans to infiltrate the magical world undetected?

The military was still unable to pinpoint the ship’s exact location. The closer they got the more everything was affected by a strange version of Confundus. They were hoping either the Metal Beast or Luna Lovegood would be able to find the ship.

Luna was a complete mystery. The girl shared Scorpius’ disease, but whether or not that was a factor in her unique abilities remained to be seen. What had been concluded was that no one, not even her father, was certain how she had contracted the disease. Hermione remembered Draco saying that the disease was always caused by an outside influence, and neither of Luna’s parents had done pills or potions or rituals, though her dad seemed spacey enough for it.

For a while Luna’s house had been a safe point for displaced purebloods. The Ettin were not only hurt by Luna’s magic, but repelled by it. Team Three had discovered Luna single-handedly fighting off three Ettin. She had called them Baboolooboobs, the soldiers reported—Hermione was impressed that they managed to say that with a straight face—and claimed that they were her natural enemies.

A general sense of annoyance and disappointment was expressed when everyone realized Luna was not around to be studied. Still, attempting to duplicate her abilities was high on everybody’s list. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but wait for Harry Potter to return from the Chamber of Secrets.

The displaced groups stayed in old classrooms the staff had converted into guestrooms. They were serviceable and cozy but things quickly became chaotic when the purebloods began demanding their intrinsic rights to the best rooms, refusing to share rooms with other families and wanting their rooms to be far away from the ‘lower class’ and the Squibs, Muggles and Muggleborns of the military. Normally, this was exactly the type of fight that Hermione would have jumped right into with gusto and fought to her dying breath, but tonight she just felt cold and despairing. She wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere and make it all go away.

Draco snorted at the scene they were making and Hermione shot him a glare, just noticing him. “Come on,” he tempted.

Hermione hesitated, but he coaxed her to follow him down to the dungeons where he produced a gorgeous set of bedrooms that obviously hadn’t been used in some time. There were plenty of Slytherins in the castle so Hermione wondered why no one else had claimed the rooms.

“Family secret,” Draco declared loftily.

She grimaced. “No thanks.” And turned to leave.

“Don’t be like that, you can have your very own room and I won’t even bother you.”

She kept going. “I can bunk with Jeremy just as easily.”

“Hermione—“

“SHUT UP!” She honestly hadn’t known she was going to scream it until the words were flying out of her mouth. She must have shocked them both because neither of them spoke for several moments. Hermione hugged herself, facing away from him. “I don’t want this, okay? I don’t want to love some spoiled little boy who has everything he could ever want.”

“So Scorpius isn’t worthy of your love?” Draco asked slowly, his voice dangerously even. “Because he’s pureblooded or because he was born into a wealthy family?”

She pursed her lips. “There are children out there who don’t have anything.”

“And none of them are here right now and none of them need you more than my son does right now because his fucking father got him kidnapped. You didn’t pick us, okay, but I chose you and Scorpius chose you and neither of us had any idea that you were such a shallow, cold-hearted bitch.”

“I’m outta here.”

“No, fuck you, I’m leaving. Take the rooms.” He was storming out the door before she had gathered enough wits to say something clever.

Feeling guilty and chastised as well as depressed, Hermione chose one of the bedrooms and got ready for bed. Her guilt didn’t stop her from triple-warding her door and hexing the hell out of the walls just in case there was a secret entrance. She wasn’t about to let him slip in and curse her again. By the time she slipped under the covers she had worked herself into an indignant rage again. She had no reason to feel guilty! He’d manipulated her into this, the bastard.

Whatever Draco’s plan had been it had either succeeded beyond his wildest dreams or failed spectacularly because there was no trace of him when she woke up the next morning. There was a beautiful antique clock on her bedside table that claimed it was just before breakfast time. Feeling haggard, she washed and dressed in her clean—no doubt courtesy of the house-elves—outfit and a plain black cloak she found draped over a chair, and headed up to the Great Hall.

She was nearly there when she was intercepted by Meredith, and this time the other woman was intent on not letting her just walk away. Meredith looked thinner than ever and shaky like a nervous little dog. She looked at Hermione with over-wide eyes, her beautiful dark hair tied back severely. She looked nothing like the perfect princess she usually tried to be.

“Meredith,” Hermione said evenly when it became obvious that she wasn’t getting away unless she resorted to violence. She had absolutely no desire to speak to the other Muggleborn.

“Oh, Hermione.” The woman sniffled and Hermione was unnerved to find herself with an arm full of hysterical co-worker. “Broderick’s dead,” Meredith wailed. “Those monsters killed him!”

Hermione patted Meredith’s bony shoulders awkwardly and wondered if she cared.

She didn’t. She really didn’t. The thought made her grimace.

“I’m sorry, er, I . . .um,” Hermione tried eloquently.

“He was so awful to me sometimes, but I loved him,” Meredith interrupted, sobbing.

“He was awful to you?” Hermione asked, confused. “You loved him?” The man was married with four children.

Meredith pulled away slowly, wiping her eyes. “I thought you would understand because of, you know, you and . . . Lord Malfoy.” She said the last in a whisper.

“Riii---ight,” Hermione said dryly, her temper setting on slow burn. Her and Malfoy. Yeah.

“I was having an affair with Broderick,” Meredith confessed. “I knew it was wrong but I didn’t care because I loved him so much.” She gave Hermione soulful eyes. “And you have to understand that he was not happy with his wife. He was so miserable trapped in that marriage.”

That’s what they all say. Hermione bit her tongue.

“I was in love with him,” the woman continued. “And I told him my secret. I told him, I’m . . . you know, like you. And. . . .” She broke off on a wet sob. “He was angry with me. So so angry with me. He hit me. . .”

“He HIT you?” Hermione gasped, outraged.

“Not very hard, he was just angry,” Meredith justified, “He b-b-blackmailed me into giving him money a-and doing things for his friends. B-b-but I still loved him. Even after all that, I still loved him.”

Hermione hadn’t had any clue that her uptight boss was capable of such things and now she wished she’d never heard it. But then she also hadn’t known that Meredith was a delusional moron.

“I knew that one day he’d leave his wife for me. He told me so. And I’d rub it in that bitch’s face.”

“Merlin, you’re not pregnant are you?”

Meredith looked startled. “No.”

Thank heaven for that.

Hermione was disgusted. So disgusted in fact that she was a little shocked at herself. She could imagine that a younger Hermione might have been filled with sympathy, would have earnestly listened to Meredith at the very least and tried to give her advice. Instead, she found herself utterly without pity and it bothered her in a way. It made her wonder if Draco was right.

Had she changed? Was she the cold-hearted bitch he accused her of being?

“And I couldn’t understand why you weren’t happy for me,” Meredith was saying. “You could have supported me.” Her eyes were red and puffy and wet. “Were you really so jealous that you’d have turned on me and told people what I was?”

“Support you?” Hermione asked, feeling strangely cool and distant. “You mean let you walk all over me and push me around so you could impress the purebloods? You’re out of your fucking mind, Meredith. And it doesn’t even matter anymore, because that’s no longer my job and the bastard’s dead anyway.”

She turned away from her ex-coworker, oddly upset and queasy.

“I should have known you wouldn’t understand.” Meredith gave a sob. “You don’t know what its like to love someone more than yourself.”

Hermione abruptly spun back around. “I know what its like to have a little self-respect! You know I might not have liked you, but I did kind of respect you.” She shook her head, eyeing the bedraggled state of her ex-coworker, a woman who she’d thought had been on top of the game. “Not anymore. They brought you so low. You think you were above us but you were just their little Mudblood toy. And that’s sad.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t wait to see if Meredith’s face went red or white or if the woman would yell after her. She didn’t have time for it.

But she worried as she walked away; she worried that her and Meredith were more alike then she was willing to admit. Were they in the same boat and she just refused to see it? Malfoy’s spell had been cancelled but to what end? He hadn’t really lost his power over her.

What was he planning to do with her once the Ettin were gone?

Would he banish her from the child’s life so she couldn’t sully his name with her dirty blood? Or would she be desperate enough to do anything Malfoy told her so long as she got to see Scorpius?

CHAPTER 5

Hermione had barely finished breakfast when Troy and Jeremy came to fetch her. Troy looked oddly embarrassed and contrite. Jeremy looked miffed.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Troy bowed his head. “Look, there’s something we want to show you, but first I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“For the way I treated you when we first met. You have to understand, I heard all kinds of things about you and I just . . . reacted.”

“You heard things?” She looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Jeremy muttered. “Come on.”

In a large classroom past where Flitwick taught Charms, the group that Hermione had been unable to identify the night before had convened. Most of them were fairly young and wore mixes of jeans and robes and Muggle shoes and wizard accessories. She recognized one or two of them from Hogwarts but most seemed older than her. They all stared at Hermione as she walked in and Troy shut and sealed off the room.

Spending time with Draco must have made her paranoid because the action caused her to grab her wand reflexively.

A girl with shoulder length straight brown hair stood up from the long conference table, hoop earrings swinging. “What do you think you’re doing? We don’t want her here.”

“You’re really going to turn away an extra brain because your ego can’t handle the competition?” Troy shot back angrily. “This isn’t a contest! People’s lives are at stake. I thought that’s why we were here.”

Silence.

“She can’t be trusted.” A dark-skinned man sneered.

“Hey!” Hermione said loudly. “Could someone please explain what’s going on here and who the hell you people are?”

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Troy said again and took a breath. “This is the inner circle of the MR.”

“The MR?”

“The Muggleborn Revolution,” A man probably in his late fifties said. “We were founded in 1925 when laws that were already unfair began to really crack down on Muggleborns. We’re a sort of exclusive club for the cream of the Muggleborn crop. We work on the boundaries of the Muggle and wizarding worlds, attempting to improve conditions for Squibs and Muggleborns. We do things such as take in Squibs and Muggleborns who are abused or thrown out of their families and we set up scholarship funds through Muggle programs.”

Hermione stared at them, white-faced and incredulous. No fucking way. She couldn’t believe it. These were the people she’d been searching for since she learned she was a witch—Muggleborns like her who wanted to make a difference.

She thought of her less than pleasant reception and asked, “And why have I never heard of you?”

The man pursed his lips. “It was decided that you were . . . not quite what our organization looks for in its members.”

She felt the words like a physical blow, like a sickness in her stomach. She’d had some nasty things said to her by purebloods and their ilk, but none of it had hurt like those bland, matter-of-fact words from her own kind. “Excuse me?” Hermione took a step forward. “I was what?” she asked dangerously.

“You must understand.” The man looked vaguely sympathetic in a disinterested sort of way. “We’re very underground. We don’t want the purebloods to know what kind of organization we are. You on the other hand are . . . mainstream. You are friends with all the wrong people. You were a security risk from the start. We didn’t want our organization leaked to the media in some self-aggrandizing scandal.”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. “Why you self-righteous bastards. Do you know how many years I’ve spent looking for other Muggleborns who dared to rally behind their own cause? Do you know how hard I fought alone, by myself, to try and get people to notice that things were unfair and in need of change?” A high, almost hysterical laugh bubbled from her lips. “And here I find out that the people who might actually give a shit were too snooty to have me in their group because I was friends with what—purebloods? Harry Potter? What? Which one offended your delicate sensibilities?”

“You don’t know a thing about us or what we’ve sacrificed for our cause,” a blond boy shouted back. “You were too busy being famous to care.”

“You don’t really care about Muggleborns,” a girl with curly hair accused. “All you do is chase after the purebloods, trying to be one of them.”

“You sound bitter!” Jeremy suddenly broke in, laughing coldly. “You know I heard what you guys said, but I don’t remember any of you trying to fucking make my life any better. You sound really virtuous and politically correct over here but I think you’re just jealous that Hermione Granger is a household name and the rest of you are a bunch of nameless Mudbloods no one gives a fuck about. She’s famous because she’s a fucking war hero. While the rest of you were running and hiding, Hermione Granger was fighting Death Eaters and being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. She’s famous because she’s fucking brilliant. And unlike you douche bags, she cares about Muggleborns and Muggles and Squibs and purebloods. Compared to her, you’re all a bunch of wannabes and you should be fucking grateful to get her help.”

“I second that,” Troy spoke out.

Several of the Muggleborns looked outraged, but the older man who had spoken earlier shut them all up with a yell. When they were silent he turned an unimpressed gaze on Hermione. “I guess we’ll see.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips, taking a breath. “And just what is it that I’m helping with?”

“We’ve been discussing the girl in the Beedle Bard story. We’re going to find out how to protect the purebloods,” Troy told her. “If we are able to discover how a Muggleborn can protect a pureblood and we can duplicate the effect, then we’ve already won.”

They spent the next several days debating the nature of the differences between Muggleborn and pureblood. Was the incompatible difference physical or magical? They tore apart the Magic-Eater story looking for clues and then tore apart Hermione’s experience under Malfoy’s spell which, as far as Hermione was concerned, only muddied the waters.

How much had the spell affected her experience? Or was the spell the entire reason she lost her memory of Scorpius? Did she remember Scorpius because the Malfoy’s spell on her was weak? Or did she remember Scorpius because she was Muggleborn? They had gone through a hundred different scenarios and tossed out many more ideas.

While they worked, a steady stream of refugees was pouring in, the Weasleys among them. Lucius and Narcissa had yet to make an appearance. The soldiers ferried the refugee wizards in and left to round up more. Others were busy in the dungeons, to Hermione’s disquiet, stocking up on weapons and explosives. There was also a group of wizards in the Transfiguration classroom, planning the siege against the mother ship.

“So Muggleborns pass on their immunity genetically to their offspring,” Troy was saying, starting from the top for the hundredth time. “But is it physically genetic or is it in the magical genetics?”

“There are still so many gaps in our knowledge of magical genetics.” A bespectacled young man sighed. “We don’t even know what ratio of personal magic a father and mother contributes to fetal magic or how it becomes a child’s distinct magical signature.”

“We’re not breeding here, people. We have to focus on children that aren’t genetically related.”

“We don’t have the kind of time for something of that magnitude. You’re talking freaking bone-marrow transplants or something.”

“I think we’re over-analyzing this,” Hermione spoke up finally, somewhat hesitantly because they had all made it clear they didn’t want to hear from her. “Or we’re not looking at it from the right angle.”

One of the girls rolled her eyes. “Then what do you suggest?” she asked distastefully.

“I think we need to reverse the situation and look at it from a pureblood’s point of view.”

“Oh Merlin,” someone muttered, throwing down their pen.

“You know, if you think purebloods are so great. . . .”

“Shut up,” Troy practically bellowed. “Hermione, what is it?”

Hermione was silent a long time. Something had just occurred to her and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it earlier. Perhaps she hadn’t thought of it because it was something that just wasn’t done. Before today she would have said it had never been done, not in all of wizard history. But she was betting now that it had happened. At least once.

“If I was a pureblood and I wanted to extend my protection to a child, what would I do?”

They looked at her as if she’d grown another head.

She let out her breath. “If I was an evil, super elite pureblood family that wanted to steal an heir from another magical family, how would I make that child mine?”

“Some sort of blood adoption ritual,” one of the older Muggleborns stuttered out.

Common magical adoption was basically a signed contract, so not far off from Muggle adoption. The only magic involved was maybe an oath to protect the child. Hermione did not think she was crazy to wonder if purebloods did things, or had once done things, a bit differently. What if. . . .

“Does a blood adoption ritual pass on any family traits from the adopting family?” Hermione wondered.

There was horrified silence, but Hermione quickly realized that no one in the room knew anything about it. Blood adoption was most likely one of those jealously guarded pureblood secrets. That and. . . .

“It’s Dark Magic!” someone cried out in alarm.

Hermione flew to her feet, chair shoving back with a hard screech. “I don’t fucking care! If I have to use Dark Magic to protect a few hundred helpless people, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

Muggleborns hated Dark Magic as a general rule, she knew. Dark Magic represented the worst of the pureblood society. No wonder they hadn’t been getting anywhere; the idiots in here had refused to even think about an entire branch of magic.

A middle-aged woman shook her head. “Blood adoption changes the victim on a fundamental level. They would never agree to it!”

Jeremy was laughing hysterically. “Think of it, a Mudblood adopting a pureblood.”

“Why is the blood adoption considered Dark Magic?” Hermione asked.

“You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you? You can’t even be certain it would work.”

Someone else answered. “It was outlawed because of the use of blood, because the children involved were usually below the age of consent and coerced into it, and because Dark families used it to snatch up the powerful children of other families. It’s irreversible and attempting to perform it on a child more than once is usually deadly.”

“This is a little extreme, isn’t it?”

“How does it work?” Troy asked. “How many types of blood adoption rituals are there? Does anyone know?”

Everyone looked at Hermione.

She grinned wickedly, excited now that a possibility had presented itself. “Time to bring in the purebloods.”

Hermione tracked Malfoy to the archives of the library. He was wearing expensive-looking wizarding robes again, and had found time to primp. His hair was neatly slicked back again. For an instant she stood there and felt awkward, as though she had lost something in this return to his roots. He stood in front of a pile of old Daily Prophets, completely unaware of her as he studied an article in his hand. He was rocking back and forth ever so slightly on his heels.

“Malfoy?”

He turned swiftly and she saw his eyes were wide and suspiciously moist. “Look,” he said hoarsely, pointing at the photo in the paper. His hands were trembling. “My son!”

Hermione snatched the paper from him, gaping at the picture of the young Malfoy family standing imperiously in front of the Ministry. “Impossible! I thought all evidence of the children was erased!”

“Hogwarts,” he cut off with a shuddering breath. “Hogwarts protected them. I remember. . . .”

She looked at him sharply.

He smiled shakily. “I looked at the photograph and I saw my son and I remembered. I remember my son.”

She took a step towards him, something in her stomach quivering dangerously and on the verge of shattering. “What does Scorpius say about scrambled eggs?”

Draco clenched his eyes shut tightly for a moment and said wetly, smiling, “No matter how we disguise it, he still refuses to eat baby birdies.”

The breath left her lungs and Hermione found herself grabbing onto him tightly, unable to halt the flood of tears. Here was someone who shared her grief, who understood that something so beautiful and irreplaceable was gone from their lives. He caught her in a hard hug and, half hysterical, kissed her hair and her cheeks, and she tilted her face up when he bent his head let him kiss her hard on the mouth.

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” she gasped when he pulled back slightly, just barely brushing his lips over hers, his eyes closed. “So much smarter and handsomer than you.”

Draco ran a hand through her hair and pulled her head close against his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Hermione. I never meant to put either of you in danger.” He clutched at her so hard it was nearly painful. “I tried so hard to protect him, and then it was my fault that he was taken.”

“But we’re going to get him back,” she cried, almost begging, and then forcefully got a hold of herself and pulled away. “That’s why I’m down here. We think we’ve figured out a way to protect the purebloods but I need your input. Come on.”

She led him up to the old classroom where the Muggleborns were arguing fiercely among themselves. They fell suspiciously quiet as soon as she opened the door.

“Well hello darlings!”

Hermione was shocked at how fast Draco had gotten his game-face back on. He grinned at the assembled witches and wizards, a warm, fond, slightly sadistic smile, and propped himself up on a cane that he had conjured while she wasn’t looking.

“I know who you are,” he purred in an oily, insinuating voice.

Angry faces turned to Hermione.

“I knew she couldn’t be trusted,” someone hissed.

“Oh no no, don’t misunderstand,” Draco chided, still smiling pleasantly. “I’ve known for years. Most purebloods do. The MR--though I prefer RM, for Revolting Mudbloods.” He made a dismissive hand gesture. “Take that whichever way you like.”

Hisses rose up and several people stood angrily.

“There.” He pointed at one of the men who stood. “See, this one has proper manners; standing when his better enters the room. I like that. Good show.”

The man looked as if he might actually lunge at Malfoy, but the almost negligent way Malfoy was fingering his wand had not gone unnoticed.

Hermione had her face in her hands. “You know, I had completely forgotten how aggravating you can be.”

In a weird way she’d missed this.

“Well I have been attempting to court your favor,” Draco returned easily. “Tough nut to crack, that you are. So, Hermione, my associates never could prove it one way or another so I’ll simply ask outright: are you a member of this little . . . group?”

Hermione sobered. “No, actually. Before we arrived here, I had no idea they even existed.” She attempted valiantly to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Apparently I’m not good enough to join them.”

Draco’s mockingly polite smile to the MR only grew wider. Hermione felt correspondingly warmer inside. “Is that so? How unforgivably rude. Did they happen to tell you why?”

“I’m told that I’m a sell-out with too many pureblood and high-profile friends.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, is that what they really told you?” His eyes remained locked on the oldest member of the group. “How droll.” He stretched out a hand and captured hers to bring it briefly but reverently to his lips. “I’m afraid I’m not the only one who has been guilty of telling you little white lies, my love.”

“Really?” She jerked her hand away and crossed her arms, unnerved. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Did they tell you what they do?”

“They help Squibs and Muggleborns without homes or who are in need of financial assistance,” she replied slowly, watching the play of disbelief and amusement on his face.

“Hmm. My poor Hermione. I’m afraid the real reason the MR did not invite you to join is because you have that pesky little conscience. They knew you would never stand for their idea of what is just and right. Back at the Manor I was not sure if you were a member of the MR or not, and I accused you of taking pureblood children and hiding them in the Muggle world. Did you think that was my idea? No, my dear, I was alluding to some of the MR’s more extremist plans.” He finally turned to look at her. “They are little more than terrorists, Hermione, and they know it and did not want you to find out because you would not have stood for it. You are too good.” He curled his lips as if it were an insult. “Too concerned with right and wrong.”

Hermione stood frozen. “That can’t be true. They’re here to help!”

“No.”Hhe drew the word out as if speaking to a three-year-old. “They’re here to take over should the pureblooded elite all die. Which I’m sure they’re hoping for.” Draco smiled at her confusion as if she’d done something terribly cute. “You find it hard to believe that your own people could be as bad as the purebloods? In their defense, they truly believe what they do is right. Any wizarding law to them is a pureblood law, and therefore does not apply to them.”

“That’s ridiculous! There are good laws and there are good people in the Ministry.”

“And it’s that kind of thinking that kept you from being recruited,” Draco told her. “Do you honestly think purebloods care for Muggle law? Any Muggle law? None of them believe such things apply to them.”

Hermione staggered back.

“You’ve made your point,” the eldest of the Muggleborns cut in gruffly. “And I won’t bother denying it. It is a good thing that we as a group are quite pleased with Hermione’s plan. If it’s feasible.”

“You are?” Hermione muttered,Sshe blinked and turned back to Malfoy. “Tell us about blood adoption rituals.”

“Why? What. . ..?” Draco stopped, his mouth fell open as the information hit home and then he threw his head back and began to laugh. “Extinction of the purebloods indeed.”

“Blasphemy! Heresy!” The old man’s scratchy voice echoed through the Great Hall.

“Oh now you’re just being difficult,” Draco complained to the elderly wizard who had taken Dumbledore’s place as Supreme Mugwump.

“You’re asking us to destroy our heritage and throw away thousands of years of pure breeding.”

“I’m asking nothing of the sort,” Draco reprimanded a bit sharply, straightening his cuffs as though he were only half paying attention to the conversation. He frowned around at the watching witches and wizards. “You forget that I chose the spell. I, who am the epitome of pureblood lineage. I know what the spell does. The Cognatus Fulcio adoption ritual imparts physical and magical strength. It does not erase the target’s heritage or change their bloodline. It only adds to what is already there. We do not know if the Muggleborn protection is physical or magical so we must cover both.”

“None here will agree to taint themselves. . . .”

“Then you will die!” Draco cut him off violently. “Those creatures are already desperate. Imagine if your kin are the only ones left they can feed on. You will never be safe.”

The old wizard looked taken aback but quickly rallied. “The Great Lord Slytherin’s Beast will destroy the creatures! I shan’t let our magic suffer from their taint! The Mudblood infestation will destroy us!”

Draco laughed. “It is not as though I’m going to force you, Lord Ivenborg. It’s your life, do with it what you will. I, for one, know there is no convincing the old and decrepit among us who have been set in their ways for the last two-hundred years, and still believe that the world is flat and the sun revolves around the Earth. The world changes and I shall change with it. Myself and my child, when I find him, will partake in this ritual with a powerful Muggleborn family and be all the stronger for the talent that will be added to our own.”

Voices rose up around the room, some outraged, some desperate.

“Ah, what is this?” Draco interrupted, affecting curiosity and hushing the group once more. “Now I hear some of you plotting to take my seats in the Wizengamot and my birthright holdings after I ‘infect’ myself. Just remember, my dear ones, that if the magic of my ancestors still considers me purebloodeded, no law you can pass will keep me from my birthright.”

Listening to this, Hermione almost smirked. There was no way the self-serving Malfoy line would ever cut off its heir, even if he managed to ‘taint’ himself. They were the bandits and pirates and villains of the wizarding world, though they hid it behind expensive cloth and imperious manners. Those of the Bad Faith cared only for power. Their pureblooded heritage was only dear to them in as far as it awarded them that power.

“For those of you with mixed blood who do not own a family grimoire, I will say that the ritual is simple enough. It requires only a circle of magic and blood of the adopting family and those they are adopting. There is no age limit attached to those they can adopt, but the ritual itself is quite draining and I would suggest that a Muggleborn family limit their adoption to two families at most, though it should not be a problem to add the individual children later on. There’s a lot more power in executing such a ritual on adults with children who have bonds intact and already established then on a few separate children. The ritual is quite gentle for all it does impart changes that are both profound in their intensity and superficial in relation to the types of changes a blood adoption historically produced.”

Hermione wondered suddenly if the purebloods greatest reluctance came simply from the fact that they were not used to asking for help. They did not ask, they took. They rewrote laws and history until they got their way. They condemned all of those who did not uphold their beliefs while covering up their own scandals.

“Will we be beholden to the Muggleborns?” someone asked.

Draco paused to word his answer carefully. “You will be family as any adopted child would be family to those who adopted him. How far your obligation goes, well, I suppose that is a personal thing. I know that to many of you family is simply another connection to exploit. To others there are strong duties that must be upheld.”

“And what do we get out of this?” The head of the MR, Michael McCloud, stood.

“You need a reason to save lives?” Draco asked pleasantly, not looking at all surprised by McCloud’s interruption.

“We have compiled a list of demands.”

“I’m sure.” Draco cut McCloud off. “We really don’t have time for this bullshit, but I’ll make you a deal. If Hermione Granger agrees to something on that list, then we will make it so.”

There was immediate pandemonium among the purebloods and Muggleborns, both sides crying foul.

Hermione hardly heard it; her heart was pounding, her mouth practically watering at the possibility. He could not be serious. There was no way he was giving her a crack at pureblood law. She hardly dared look at him, incredulous. He merely smiled indulgently and nodded.

“Don’t try to scam me, Malfoy! She’s in your pocket!” McCloud snarled.

She blinked. That’s right. This was temptation. A promise of power as long as she held his favor. And she had never been more tempted in her life. Merlin, he knew right where to hit her, didn’t he.

“No, you’re just angry that she’s not in yours. She knows the laws as well as any pureblood. Take it or leave it, otherwise you get nothing and I’m afraid us poor purebloods will have to rely on the goodness of Muggleborn hearts.” He shot a warning look at the angry purebloods.

There were other people yelling now, the more common of the Muggleborns and purebloods, the middle class who knew her as Harry Potter’s side-kick. Most of them trusted her. It was only the extremists who were angry, wanting someone biased in their favor.

“What gives you the right, Malfoy!” the Supreme Mugwump was absolutely scandalized.

“We need to work together.” Draco was laying on the bullshit. “Consider me a neutral party. And Hermione does this for a living. I’m sure she can work out a practical compromise.”

A compromise? Godric, Hermione had had years and years and years to plan this. Years of pondering what she’d change if she could. How many times as a young girl had she pretended to pen out new laws at a table in the Hogwarts library after reading some infuriating law book? Now, faced with this opportunity, she felt inadequate and oddly humbled. She knew many of the grand ideas from her youth wouldn’t work. There were no quick fixes. There were no fixes here at all unless she wanted to be here all day and all night and reach a stalemate with neither side willing to give ground.

The best she could do was create an opportunity, a crack in the wall of bureaucracy to be exploited some day in the future.

Hermione tried not to run to McCloud’s side and slowly reached for the list. The man hesitated, glaring at her hatefully, but reluctantly handed it over. Hermione skimmed the first paragraph and gaped.

“You cannot be serious! You want to just instate your own Muggleborn Minister? Is this a dictatorship?” she cried, sending the crowds into an uproar again as she whipped out a quill and scribbled out the whole first paragraph and began rewriting.

“Um, Hermione. . . .” Draco started with just the slightest edge of nervousness, as if just realizing what he had unleashed.

“You think I’m going to pass up this chance, Malfoy, then you’re insane!” The Weasley boys let out a raucous cheer. “Do you know how long it’s been since the Ministry awarded any scholarship or financial aid money to a Muggleborn? Did you know that by our laws a Squib is not a citizen and has no rights?”

“I had no idea, Hermione, tell us!” George Weasley shouted.

“Hermione, you won’t be able to rewrite all our laws in an hour.”

Hermione was amused that he sounded a bit unsure of that. “No, but I can demand that such things not be buried under piles of bureaucratic shit. I can demand reviews on a regular basis! I can give us a voice! And,” she gave Draco a cool glance, “I want a seat on the Wizengamot.”

“YOU?” McCloud lurched to his feet in outrage as the purebloods broke into angry murmurs.

“No, not me!” Hermione shot back angrily. “I want an elected official. Elected by Muggleborns. We can work out the details later but as long as the Wizengamot continues to be run by stodgy old purebloods, then I think electing one person who will be concerned with Muggleborns and Squibs is not asking too much.”

Hermione skimmed through the rest of the MR’s demands. Most of them were completely outrageous, but there were a few ideas that could be worked with. Merlin, her hands were shaking. She tried to block out the world around her and carefully penned out a final draft, ignoring the murmuring rising up around her the longer she took. She swept the draft for loopholes before handing it to McCloud. It was weak but it would have to do.

The man went red and then white. Two more of the MR members took their turn scanning the paper.

“This is ridiculous,” one of them grumbled. “There’s hardly anything left.”

“Then convince me we need the rest of it,” Hermione challenged. The man did not reply.

McCloud looked as though he was seconds from strangling her, but finally grabbed the quill and signed the bottom of the parchment. Draco walked over to take it from them, but Hermione stopped him.

“No, I want you and the Supreme Mugwump to read the original first. I think you’ll be more accepting of my compromise afterwards.”

Draco leaned in to take the original parchment from her, letting his hand linger against her. “You’re hot when you’re mediating treaties,” he whispered.

The elderly witches and wizards gathered round Draco; there was much outraged muttering and angry exclamations over what they read. Finally, Hermione handed over the modified list. Draco read it first but all he did was raise an eyebrow before passing it to the members of the Wizengamot.

“This one’s nearly as bad,” one of the witches shrilled.

“But not as bad,” Hermione said serenely.

“What’s this?” An elderly man pointed at one of the paragraphs.

“A sponsorship program.” Hermione said. “It will allow witches and wizards to be mentors to young Muggleborns and introduce them into the magical world when they’re younger, to make the transition easier. It will give them someone they can trust to ask questions to and will also help with the scholarship problem. It isn’t going to occur to an eleven year old Muggleborn to apply for aid, and if they somehow do think of it, they find that they were supposed to have applied when they were ten.”

Draco was already signing the parchment, which Hermione thought was ballsy of him, because technically he hadn’t that kind of power.

The Supreme Mugwump hesitated, stroking his ragged white beard. “I still refuse to go through with the ritual.”

“But the other purebloods are waiting,” Draco reminded. “And so are the Ettin.”

The elderly man scowled and, with swiping strokes, signed the parchment.

The waiting pureblood families stirred restlessly. “How do we choose who adopts our family?” one of them asked.

Draco smiled nastily. “Oh no, my dear fellow, it’s up to the Muggleborn family to choose you.”

The Circle of Power they drew on the Great Hall floor was large and inked with sure strokes in vibrant red. Hermione, Draco and several others went over every inch of it after it had dried to be sure it was drawn right. Draco had produced a family grimoire from somewhere, but kept it in his hands at all times, even while Hermione was reading through the ritual invocation.

Draco had several ceremonial knives in his belongings, which was somewhat disturbing to Hermione, and a young journeyman potion’s apprentice raided the school supplies and the personal stores of the Hogwarts Potions professor for the few ingredients they would need for a simple sense-enhancement potion. A few sips and the Muggleborns and purebloods would have a better idea of who they could most easily share a magical rapport with.

The Weasleys made their way over to Hermione. She and Ron eyed each other. There were currently twelve of them, including Percy’s wife and two kids, Fleur and young Victoire who had thus far been safe at Hogwarts. Teddy Lupin came with them and Hermione gave him a big hug, much to the boy’s embarrassment.

“Ron,” Hermione said lowly. “If I adopt you does that mean we had incest?”

Percy sputtered but his wife looked rather amused.

Ron scratched his jaw. “I’d be more worried about what it means if you adopt Malfoy.”

“Do grow up.” Draco stalked over. “Think of it more as an alliance between two families.”

“Malfoy, will I be able to adopt all of the Weasleys?”

Annoyance twisted Draco’s face and it took Hermione a moment to realize that if she performed the ritual with the Weasleys and Malfoy, then that would sort of make them one family. She giggled and Draco shot her a nasty glare.

“Yes, it will be much more draining, but in the end it will probably make you stronger. As I said, think of it as an alliance. You are extending your magical protection to all of them and in return you receive a bit of strength from their family.”

“What about Teddy? Do I have to do a separate ritual for him?”

“Can’t I be adopted by Harry?” Teddy asked.

“We’re only performing the ritual with Muggleborns as the adopters,” Draco explained. “With mixed bloods there is a chance that the protection will not be passed on. And it isn’t a good idea for several families to attempt to adopt the same person.” He turned back to Hermione. “He’s an orphan, isn’t he? You should be able to sneak him through with the Weasleys.”

“What about Lucius and Narcissa and Scorpius.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I still remember my parents. When they are together we can perform the ritual again. It will be much easier with myself at your side.”

“Oh, I’m adopting you, am I?”

He sniffed haughtily. “I’m afraid I called dibs.”

Blaise Zabini and Neville Longbottom and their families approached.

“Hi Hermione.” Neville took a step towards her, only to be politely intercepted by Draco.

“I suppose Granger is spoken for?” Blaise asked coolly, eyeing Draco.

Malfoy sneered. “I’m afraid so. Go find your own Muggleborn.”

“Um. . . .” Someone moved out of the crowd and Hermione was shocked to see Meredith come forward nervously. “I’d like to help. I could do the ritual for them.” The other woman still looked fragile and pale, but there was determination in the hard set of her mouth.

“Meredith Mayfield,” Blaise Zabini said softly. “You’re a pureblood.”

Meredith’s shoulders sagged momentarily before she straightened. “No. I’m Muggleborn.”

Blaise looked astonished.

“Uh--” What could Hermione say? “That’s very above and beyond, Meredith. You didn’t need to do this.”

The woman brushed her hair back with thin, shaky fingers. “Yeah, I kinda did.” She had abandoned her proper pureblood speech entirely. “I was so proud of myself for beating the system. I think—I think the system beat me in the end, you know.” For a moment Hermione thought Meredith would cry but she composed herself swiftly. “Anyway, I’d be happy to help.”

Neville gave a small bow. “I’d be honored if you would extend your protection to me and mine.”

Blaise hesitated, obviously disgruntled at not getting his first choice. “As would I.”

Meredith nodded sharply.

It was decided that Hermione would perform the ritual with the Weasleys first. Everyone gathered to watch. Draco commented that the strength of so many witnesses was a good thing.

The Weasleys easily fit on one side of the diagram and Hermione stood alone on the other. Had she any family, they would have stood with her, though only one of them would have performed the ritual. To avoid mishaps, the words Hermione would need to say were magically written on the wall she was facing. They would light up as she needed to say them. Her supplicant’s part of the ritual was written on the wall behind her where they could plainly see it. Under normal circumstances the runes chosen for each of them would have varied family by family, but with things as they were, a standard set for both giver and receiver had been chosen.

Hermione, as the one extending protection, wore a black robe over her clothes, two ceremonial blades in her sash and several powerful items of jewelry that some witches had offered up to be part of the ceremony. Her supplicants wore white robes over their clothes and had no weapons, not even their wands. If her supplicants had been small children they would have remained standing; as the Weasleys were mostly adults they sat on their knees in deference to their role as recipient of her protection.

There was silence as Hermione began the ritual, Latin rolling easily off her tongue. She approached Arthur Weasley and used the first blade to cut the soft underside of her own arm open above the wrist. Dragging her fingers through the blood, she spoke his name but hesitated when it came to writing the standard rune they had chosen and instead swiped the rune for ‘father’ across his forehead. The blood seeped right into his skin and Hermione breathed in as her magic spiked and she became aware of Arthur on a magical level. It was warm and it was familiar. They smiled at each other.

‘Mother’ she wrote for Molly. ‘Brother’ and ‘sister’ and ‘daughter’ for Victoire and ‘son’ for Teddy. The children looked at her in wonder as the magic rose sharply around them and tears came to Hermione’s eyes as she realized that, in a way, she now had children. She thought fiercely of protecting them as she finished the final lines of the ritual, demanding that her own flesh and blood extend its defense against their enemies.

With the last stroke of blood, she swayed back with a hiss, finally feeling the pain in her arm. Arthur approached her on his knees and Hermione handed him the second knife. He slit his palm and began his part of the ritual, writing the rune for ‘protector’—because the elite purebloods had balked at the traditional word ‘master’—across the cut on her arm. Every member of the family repeated this and Hermione kissed their palms and the wounds healed away.

The magic reached its peak and for a moment they could feel the strong bond between them. They were one people and one family and they were strong and happy. Hermione ended the ritual and the spell collapsed. So, abruptly, did Hermione.

The rituals continued throughout the night, some of them very stiff and formal or awkward and only a few had any variation to them, and fewer still ended with the groups smiling at each other. Mostly everyone looked very uncomfortable. Hermione rested off to the side, feeling weak and invigorated at the same time.

She had sent the Weasleys off to the library hours ago, telling them what Malfoy had discovered about the photos. George had run back after some time and gathered others. Hermione imagined they were tearing through yearbooks and newspapers about now.

One other Muggleborn had as large a group as Hermione to adopt, but the woman had a husband and three children, whom she’d already performed the ritual with, to stand with her, and the group was barely tired when it was finished.

As dawn approached, the last ceremony was carried out and Hermione felt ready to take on Draco. Only a few people remained to watch as Draco slipped on white robes and gracefully knelt before her in a way few of the other purebloods had been happy to emulate.

Hermione began the ritual easily enough and it wasn’t until she cut her arm open that she realized that the witnesses were all purebloods. Pansy no-longer-Parkinson and her husband, Blaise Zabini and his kin, a Montague, a few Carmichaels, a handful of elderly witches and wizards and the six pureblooded families who had refused the ritual. They watched her with cold expressions and watchful eyes.

Hermione hesitated uneasily but turned back to Draco. He watched her peacefully and she was suddenly not sure which rune to use.

‘Lover,’ Draco mouthed, but she shook her head, restraining herself from kicking him and swiped ‘Companion’ as concession. It was more familiar then ‘ally’ but still kept them as equals. Draco pouted as the blood seeped into his skin and then closed his eyes as the magic pulsed through them in a warm wave. She completed her part, thinking of him and his family and how much she wanted to protect them, and stepped back.

But as she sheathed one blade and reached for the other, Draco suddenly stood, a knife in his hand. She only had time to look at him in shock before he shed the white robe and grabbed her uninjured arm, twisting it painfully behind her back. With a quick slash, he cut the sash with her blades right off her body. Hermione tried to speak but her throat seemed to close up; the most she could do was grab at him with her free hand. Her part of the ritual had ended and she was unable to act against him. He unlatched her borrowed necklace and tossed it out of the circle to the waiting owner, then her bracelet and the golden comb in her hair.

He was stripping her of her position of authority.

The watching purebloods stood stoic and silent. Draco slashed a line down his own chest, just under his collar bone and sheathed his knife. He was speaking now and she’d seen enough of the rituals tonight to know he wasn’t saying what he was supposed to be saying. She tried to catch the words but for some reason she couldn’t seem to process them. Dipping the fingers of his free hand into the blood running down his chest he drew the rune for ‘protector’ across her bleeding arm, which surprised her, but then he followed with a rune that meant roughly ‘vassal’ or ‘subordinate’. The wound on her arm closed and she tried to grab his hand.

Without a word, he threw her over his hip and pinned her to the floor. Grinning blackly, he re-inked his fingers to smear across her forehead another rune, though she had no idea what it was. She could feel her body absorbing it.

Bloody fingers swiped across her lips and she saw him mouth ‘lover’ before he kissed her hard, shoving his tongue between her lips, the throaty sound of need he made completely enraging her. He withdrew swiftly when she tried to bite. Grabbing her hand, he squeezed until she thought her fingers would break. He brought her hand to his chest and forced her to write a rune over the cut. ‘Master.’

She hissed out in horrified fury, trying to buck him off as the cut closed and the ritual ended. She could move again.

“Bastard!” she screamed, lunging up at him. He caught both her hands and pinned them down, a nasty smile of satisfaction on his face. “What did you do? What did you DO?”

“Nothing bad. I promise,” Draco panted sweetly. “I accepted your magical protection but made you subject to the Malfoy family. I made myself your Lord. Your life is now my business. Your family, your career, where you live.” He leaned down and whispered nastily, “Who you fuck.”

“YOU FUCKING. . . .”

“Hey, I’m doing you a favor. A vassal beholden to the Malfoy Lordship is entitled to just about any career, Ministry position, etcetera, etcetera, she wants. All those doors closed due to your bloodline are now open.”

“I wanted to earn those things!” she shouted, shoving against him uselessly.

“You can’t!” he shouted back, in the same hard tone. “Not in this lifetime. No Mudbloods, Hermione. That’s the way this world works! You think any law you draft is going to stop us?”

“Why did you do this? I could have trusted you!”

He smiled ironically and murmured, for her ears only, “A beggar am I. And a thief.”

Blasie Zabini loomed over them, wand pointed at her face. “Obliviate.”

“Hmm. Do you think it worked?” Hermione asked fuzzily, leaning a bit precariously against Draco’s shoulder as he helped her to their rooms.

“We’re going to test it soon, but you can bet the Ettin are going to be pissed if it does.”

She tittered a bit drunkenly, finding the situation oddly humorous. He stopped walking and gave her a long look.

“Thank you for your protection.” he said softly and kissed her forehead lightly.

“Pfft. You shouldn’t do that.” She swatted him away. “I might start thinking you like me.”

Amusement crinkled his forehead and he hefted her sagging form upright and continued down the hall.

“You know what I was thinking?”

“Hmm?”

“Maybe Scorpius can attend a Muggle primary school.”

She snorted.

“I’m serious. Nothing common of course. A nice private school. Something elite.”

“A snooty school.” She scoffed.

“You should have gone to one.”

She pondered this. “I could have, but I think my parents wanted me to work on my social skills.”

“Didn’t work,” Draco interrupted rudely.

“Damn right it didn’t. On the other hand, private school didn’t do much for your social skills either.”

“Touché.” He frowned. “But then I don’t need things like social skills or manners. I have money!”

“Merlin, you’re a bastard.” She chuckled and her mind suddenly jumped back to the beginning of the conversation. “Hey! What’s this sudden interest in sending Scorpius to a Muggle school?”

His face went carefully blank. “To further relations with Muggles, obviously,” he replied neutrally.

“Oh come off it. Don’t expect me to fall for that.” She turned and faced him, looked him sternly in the eye and wagged a finger under his nose. “Tell me truthfully.”

He gave her a decidedly wicked smirk. “Some of those Muggle weapons are—pretty impressive.”

“Merlin, we’ve created a monster.” She plopped her face into her hands with a groan. “I should have known. First Ron with a giant gun and now you.”

He put an arm around her and began leading her to their rooms. “I’d also like to drive one of those ‘tanks’.”

She burst into giggles. “Are you compensating for something?”

“What?” he asked cluelessly.

She just giggled harder.

“I gotta take a bath,” she murmured when they’d finally reached their cozy dwelling.

“Nuh-uh.” Malfoy steered her away from the bathroom towards her room. “You’ll drown. Not unless you want me to help you bathe.” He leered and for his trouble got punched in the eye by a wildly veering swing. “Ow ow ow!” He doubled over, clutching his face.

“Oh! I’m sorry! No wait, I meant that!” She clapped her hands to her mouth, then reached for him hesitantly, then stopped and wrung her hands. “Oh, but I didn’t mean to hit you in the eye!”

“I’m okay. I’m okay. Ow! Shit.”

“Are you okay? Is your eye okay?”

“Yeah,” he said roughly, sniffing because his eyes had teared up reflexively. “S’alright. Here.” He flicked his wand and transfigured her robes into flannel pajamas.

Hermione shrieked in shock, arms flying to cover herself even though she was completely covered. “You jerk! That’s really personal!”

“S’what you get. Punch me in the eye and I transfigure your clothes. Take it like a man, I could have vanished them.”

She was still sputtering as he pushed her towards her bedroom, swished his wand to turn down the covers and helped her climb in.

“Go to sleep. You’re tired.”

“Hmm.” The drowsiness was back. Overwhelmingly so. The pillow under her head and the soft covers over her body had never felt so achingly wonderful.

She was nearly asleep when the bed dipped and the covers shifted and a warm body curled up against hers.

“Whattrya doin’,” she muttered, shifting restlessly and wondering vaguely if she had the strength to shove him out of bed.

“Just sleepin’,” he whispered back, warm and close to her ear. An arm slid around her stomach. “Don’t worry about it. You can murder me in the morning.”

CHAPTER 6

He was gone when she woke up, just as she knew he would be. There was no way in hell he’d stick around and bear the brunt of her temper.

In a decidedly foul mood, Hermione stomped into the bathroom and took her time cleaning herself up. She stormed into the small common area and froze at the sight of a beautiful blonde woman sitting primly on the sofa having tea.

“Nar—Mrs—Lady Malfoy!” Hermione exclaimed, her mind jumping from shock to relief to more shock—because why should she care that Narcissa survived? “It’s not what it looks like!” she blurted stupidly.

I didn’t sleep with your son! I swear!

Narcissa’s eyebrow raised coolly in that way that all purebloods had simply, Hermione was certain, to prove that they were all interrelated.

Hermione straightened her spine, aware that her hair was super fluffy and she had no makeup on. She wasn’t at work. She’d been fired, after all. She didn’t have to be nice or polite, and why was she relieved to see the woman? She hated Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Um. How can I help you?”

“So subservient.” The woman sniffed. “It really doesn’t suit you.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “Then how about, ‘what the fuck are you doing in my living room, bitch?’”

Oh crap, I hope Draco didn’t hear that.

“Crass,” the woman drawled infuriatingly and took another sip of tea. “Your roots are showing.”

Hermione’s face went pale and then red. “Oh. Well. I’m glad you’re alive. I guess.” Hermione eyed the perfect sleek hair and immaculate robes. “Although I don’t see how you managed to keep yourself up with all that living in tents and being on the run going on.”

“I came to speak with you.” Narcissa ignored the not-question. “I wanted to be sure you knew what you were getting into.”

Hermione wandered a few steps forward, crossing her arms. “I don’t follow.”

“Obviously.” A sneer and the woman set down her tea cup and elegantly gestured to the seat across from her.

“Er, so how’s Lucius?” Hermione asked, taking the seat.

“He’s doing just lovely. He does so enjoy chaos and murder.”

Hermione was sorry she’d asked.

“My dear, a few years before Scorpius was born my son wrote to you and asked you to be his surrogate. What exactly did that mean to you?”

Hermione felt her cheeks pinken again, a little thrown by the odd subject. “I don’t know. I felt like he was demanding a lower being to carry his baby and be the nanny.”

“Nanny?”

“Like a House-Elf exclusively for your child.”

“Ah. You felt he was asking something demeaning of you?”

Hermione nodded slowly, sorting out her emotions over the issue carefully. At the time she hadn’t stopped to think about it; she’d just written a rude letter back telling him he could sit and spin for all she cared. “I was a career woman and he was asking me to give that up to be bare-foot and pregnant.”

“My dear.” Narcissa was scandalized and said, with not a little disapproval, “My son would have provided you with footwear.”

“No. Sorry.” Hermione shook her head, giggling a little. “It’s a Muggle term about how over-bearing or domineering husbands keep their women in line by keeping them in the house bare-foot and pregnant.”

“Bare-foot so they can’t run away,” Narcissa decided thoughtfully and clucked over the horridness of Muggles.

“And see, that’s another thing. I didn’t want him to ‘provide’ anything. I can take care of myself.”

“Such a proud girl.” And for a moment the woman looked almost fond. “I had felt that something had been lost in translation, but my son refused to let me interfere. At the time he said it was your choice and he wasn’t going to force you.” She hesitated. “I fear that time may have passed.”

“What time?” Hermione asked quietly with a sinking feeling.

“The time when he would not force you.” Narcissa daintily poured Hermione some tea.

“I don’t understand.” Hermione spread her hands, not even really noticing the tea cup as she picked it up. “I’ve provided magical protection. I’m willing to extend it to Scorpius when we bring him back. What else can he possibly want from me?”

Narcissa gave her a long look. “He’s a young Lord and his wife is dead. He needs a new one.”

Herimone went cold, her hand halting with the tea cup nearly at her lips. She set it down abruptly. She knew better than to drink something a Malfoy had offered her. “I couldn’t—I don’t—I’m barren,” She stuttered out.

The beautiful woman gave a tiny sigh. “First allow me to explain the surrogate arrangement. To purebloods it is a dear honor, something that is only done with utmost trust and respect. He would not, after all, place his heir in the hands of someone he did not trust. To date, the surrogate has always been a pureblooded woman.” She gave Hermione a significant look. “It used to be high fashion to have a surrogate. Pureblooded woman enjoyed having children without worrying about losing their figures. That time ended when jealous wives began murdering the surrogates after the child was born.”

“Why would the wives be jealous?”

“Because a surrogate is not just one who bears the child. That woman is, to all intents and purposes, the child’s mother. She raises the child at her own discretion, her word is final law. The surrogate is also considered a member of the family held in high esteem. She is friend and companion. In essence, she is a second wife.”

Hermione was shaking her head, a little shocked. “I don’t care. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was but it isn’t something I would have chosen for myself.” Second wife. Hermione grimaced. She had to be kidding.

“I am merely explaining that Draco’s offer was meant as an honor. At the time, he was very much ashamed of himself because Lucius was ashamed of him. He took the fall in his father’s esteem very hard. He wanted to prove that he had grown into a man who could make wise decisions and provide for the needs of the family. He wanted to prove that he was not a useless, indolent boy. He wanted to prove it to Lucius and for some odd reason, he took it into his head to prove it to you.”

“Only that’s changed,” Hermione prompted.

Narcissa pursed her lips. “He’s desperate. He fears for the future of his family. He fears for the future of purebloods and he feels he must single-handedly protect us all. Ever since we discerned Slytherin’s warnings, he’s been frantic with plans. When we were protected by Squibs and Muggleborns, he despaired. He knows the MR will take over if they can and I fear there may be enough of us gone that they will. He’s determined to get the upper hand before they can.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“For one, after seeing the Muggles in action he is more determined then ever that you shall raise Scorpius. And for two, despite the MR’s rejection of you, you are the voice of the Muggleborns. People know your name. They know it in conjunction with Harry Potter. They trust you. You are the good and pure Hermione Granger. The champion of justice.” Narcissa looked as though the words sickened her. “That performance you gave in the Great Hall was beautiful. You boldly drafted fair laws before the eyes of all. You smiled and embraced a pureblood family as your own. Even now the MR is reconsidering their position on where you stand with them. My son sees change on the horizon and he wishes, once again, to be on the winning side.”

“Merlin, he gave Scorpius to me, didn’t he.” She took a shaky breath, feeling ill, her stomach tied up in knots. “He knew I was barren. . . . Why are you telling me all this?”

Narcissa was silent a long time, drinking her tea. “There are instances, few and far between, when we women stick together. You would not know how to deal with the schemes of a pureblooded man. I was raised knowing my marriage would be arranged, that I would be the silent and demure pureblooded wife that I was told I should aspire to be.” Her lovely mouth turned down in something that was nearly a snarl. “I know the stories they tell, but I did not love Lucius when I ran away with him. We were both discontent with the choices our parents had made for us; we bartered and bargained for our freedom. We formed an alliance and then we took what we wanted. That we fell in love was . . . a triumph, but also something I had not expected.”

She stirred her tea, pensive. “I was so happy when Draco fell in love with Synnove and I regret so much what happened between them. He was forced to grow up while she remained a child. They grew resentful of each other. What she did to Scorpius nearly destroyed him.”

“He told me it was the Lordship,” Hermione interrupted quietly. “He told me the Lordship killed his love for her.”

“Didn’t it?” Narcissa tilted her head slightly. “In any case, I came to warn you. I believe both you and my son will be much happier if you are not lead blindly into my son’s ambitions. Know that Draco will give you anything your heart desires. Think of what you stand to gain. Power. Influence. Jewels. Children to call your own. Think of it as a partnership if you want, but I do believe my son already begins to show you affection. In a way, what you both want is not so dissimilar.”

“But he’ll kill for it,” Hermione murmured.

“Yes. Yes, he will.” Narcissa set down her tea and stood abruptly. “I also wish you to know that the reason I did not pass on my Ladyship was because I was saving it for you. A Muggleborn.” She sniffed delicately. “But what good is blood without power?”

Hermione had completely forgotten about her grumbling stomach and did what she had always done when she was at Hogwarts and needed to think, and wandered down to the library, her feet skipping over the trick steps and taking her past the more temperamental doors as if not a day had passed since her childhood.

It was still very early and the library was empty. She browsed the books methodically but as with the blood ritual, there was scant information on surrogates. More information the purebloods jealously hoarded.

Draco Malfoy wanted to marry her?

She wasn’t sure she believed Narcissa. It seemed like a completely ridiculous notion . . . unless Draco wanted to be in good standing with whatever new regime he feared was taking over, which made entirely too much sense. In a way, they were a conquered nation. The powerful elite wizards were cowering at Hogwarts, their magic useless to them, unable to protect themselves or go anywhere without a Muggle escort.

She doubted that the Muggles and Squibs were just going to let things go back to normal now that they had a foothold into the magical world. The intrusion bothered her and that made her feel disloyal to her Muggle roots. Yes, she wanted the magical world to treat all people equally and to have good relations with Muggles but she didn’t necessarily want anything else to change.

She didn’t necessarily want Muggles moving in, taking over, capitalizing on what they found.

Merlin, was that selfish of her? Isolationistic? Elitist?

She slowly flipped through a book on watered-down pureblood traditions without really seeing it.

Would giving Draco what he wanted really be so bad? Narcissa said to think of it as a partnership, and it was possibly the only way to keep him in check ultimately. She shuddered to imagine what he got up to when no one was looking.

He’d certainly been buttering her up. She was almost a bit fond of him and she loved Scorpius to pieces. Draco had shown her so many sides of himself. But were any of them real? Were they all real? He’d kissed her a couple of times but was he flinching in disgust on the inside?

Narcissa had been correct that Herimone stood to gain an enormous amount. The Malfoy name would certainly carry more power and influence then she had alone and the two of them together would cover both purebloods and Muggleborns. She could do wonderful things with power like that.

Only Draco had not been honest with her. Not once.

Like he’d accused the MR, he too had carefully hidden his intentions and motives, probably for the same reason they had: he meant to compromise her morals at some point in the future.

Did the ends justify the means? Forget that! Could she marry someone she barely knew? She huffed in frustration.

She was deep in the restricted section when movement caught her eye.

“Harry?” Hermione cried in surprise.

Harry Potter was sitting on top one of the student desks between the tall rows of books, hunched over.

She rushed over and threw her arms around him. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”

He clutched at her, body thinner and harder then she remembered and shaking.

“Harry?” she murmured worriedly. Then she saw what was clutched in his hands. “Oh Harry!” She gripped him tightly, letting him cry silently into her shoulder. “It’ll be okay! We’ll find her. . . .”

“NO!” Harry shouted furiously, muffled in her robes. “Don’t. Don’t let me hope. Please.”

“Harry.”

“She’s . . . she’s d-dead,” he sobbed out, Ginny’s yearbook picture crumpling in his clenching fists.

“No!” She was crying now too, wounded by his tears, by the thought that her red-head friend was gone, something she hadn’t allowed herself to consider.

Because the thought was horrifying. Revolting. Especially after the scene in the Manor. She couldn’t allow herself to think about it. She just couldn’t.

“Godric. Merlin. Fucking Morgana, she’s dead!” His voice was a hoarse wail, something she’d never heard from him before, and it made her want to scream in grief and rage at the injustice of it all. He rocked back and forth sobbing, “Not my wife. Not Ginny. Please not Ginny.”

“We can’t. . . .” Hermione started thickly but Harry reared back and took her tear-stained face between his hands, his own face red and streaked with tears.

“Don’t let me hope, Hermione,” he said brokenly. “They take the children but they kill the adults. They kill them, Hermione. My wife is . . . she’s . . . she’s dead.”

Something deep inside her that had remained firm until now seemed to shatter and she let out a wounded, hopeless cry, and Harry dragged her against his body and cried against her neck while she sobbed and screamed out her grief for the horrors she had seen and for Scorpius and Jimmy and Albus and for Harry.

For poor Harry who had once again lost his family while everyone placed their hopes in him, expecting him to just get on with it and rescue them.

“Been down in the Chamber,” Harry whispered thickly against her shoulder after a long time. “Talking with Luna about how to resurrect a monster.”

“The Beast is real?”

“Yessss.” It was drawn out almost on an almost painful hiss. “Salazar Slytherin’s great legacy. He hated everything, you know. He hated anything strange or different or new, which is really weird considering what he was. He made it his life’s purpose to destroy anything he didn’t approve of, to pass on his hatred to his students and children.” He let out a shaky breath. “Dumbledore always talked about how love was a powerful magic. Well Slytherin’s great power was hatred. That’s what his Beast is; pure, unadulterated hatred.”

Hermione held him tighter, shaken and emotionally exhausted and unsure how to comfort him. She was helpless, useless.

“The Beast wants to kill the Ettin, but don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t care what it kills as long as it’s destroying something.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t use it. We’re protected now.”

“We have no choice, Hermione. When the Ettin discover that their food source is now protected, they’re going to be furious and desperate. They’ll start grabbing the purebloods to try and break through the protection and then they’ll start killing us in revenge.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Are you sure you can control it? You’re not a Parselmouth. . . .”

“It’s not a snake.”

Her mouth snapped shut and she blinked at him. “W-what?”

His eyes were dead. “It’s not a snake. Not even close.”

Hermione shuddered.

“You’ve been crying.”

Hermione startled at the sound of the low voice and quickly turned away, wiping her cheeks discreetly with a little sniffle. “Oh. Stress. You know.”

Malfoy stood at the door to their little Common Room and didn’t say anything.

Hermione roughly stacked the books she had borrowed from the library with jarring, harsh movements, stuffing the yearbooks down at the bottom and growing more agitated with each silent second.

“Are you upset about Scorpius?”

“You know, not everything has to be about Scorpius!” she snapped hatefully, for no other reason then because it felt good. She gathered her things and stormed into her room only to emerge a moment later with fists clenched and looking ready for battle. “What? What is it you want? Don’t you have important pureblood things to do?”

He started to answer angrily then hesitated. He watched her narrowly, an openly calculating expression on his face and when he answered it was bland, accommodating. “Would you like me to bring you something from the infirmary? A headache potion? Dreamless Sleep?”

If he had intended to rile her, he succeeded. She practically screamed at him, “NO! I don’t want anything from you!”

He tilted his head and moved away from the door, watching her back away from him but all he did was make a show of settling himself gracefully on the couch. “Is that what this is about?”

It took a moment for her brain to catch up. “What? No! Yes. . . No! This is about Ginny Weasley!”

“Oh, about Ginny Weasley!” he murmured as if everything finally made sense.

“Yes! Do you know how jealous I was of her?” she sniffled, bringing the tissue back up to her nose. “She was pretty and pureblooded and Harry liked her more than he liked me and he didn’t find her annoying and I wasn’t very nice to her. Even after she married Harry, I wasn’t very nice to her.”

“I wasn’t very nice to her either,” Malfoy admitted, sorrowfully contrite, and ruined it with a nasty little grin.

Hermione nearly threw something at him, nearly slapped his stupid grinning face. “Shut up! You complete bastard!” she seethed. “You fucking unfeeling bastard! She’s dead! They kill the adults and take the children! She died a horrible horrible death and we’ll never even have a body to bury! How can it be real if we don’t have a body?” She was crying again for real now and turned away so he wouldn’t see.

“What do you want me to do about it?” He was making fun of her.

“Shut up! I don’t know! Just shut up and stop it! Stop being you for one second!” She hugged herself. “Look, I know I’m being crazy and irrational but its all just messed up in my head right now, okay? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to comfort him? Am I supposed to hold my oldest friend in my arms and say ‘gee Harry, I’m so sorry that your wife died, I guess. I mean, I’m miserable that you’re miserable, but it’s not like me and her were close or that I even liked her very much.’ What about Ron? He lost his baby sister. I haven’t even talked to him about it. What kind of horrible person doesn’t even. . . .”

She sat down on the couch across from him, grabbing a pillow to hold in her lap. Slowly her agitated movements calmed; her red, tear-streaked face becoming pensive.

“When people die,” she whispered, “they take so much with them. All their memories and potential and everything you didn’t know about them, everything you wish you had asked them.” Her fingers clenched, “And maybe you didn’t treat them so well the last time you saw them. Maybe you didn’t smile or hug them or agree to have lunch with them soon.” She sniffed wetly. “But none of that means anything, you know. Regrets are worthless.”

“Then why bother feeling them?”

“Because then you know you’re sorry!” she snapped back unreasonably.

“This is a type of penance for you?” He raised his eyebrows at her in confusion and some amusement and stood, moving carefully over to sit by her, mindful of the tension in her shoulders. “Regrets won’t bring us Scorpius back. So I don’t bother with it. I know how sorry I am. I don’t have to prove it to anybody, least of all myself.”

She started to turn away from him, but he put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the back of her neck.

“Stop it!” She elbowed him in the chest. “Stop trying to seduce the filthy Mudblood. I know what you’re up to. Your mother told me.”

“Really.” He set his chin on her shoulder and lazily tugged at a curly strand of hair. “What’d mother tell you?”

“Fuck off.” She tried to pull away from him but he slid his arms around her waist with all the nonchalance of a cat stretching, and she huffed and settled.

He pressed his lips to her temple and said lowly, “Do you honestly think I’d waste my time seducing someone I didn’t want to fuck six ways to Sunday?” His hand flexed warmly on her stomach.

She went rigid, shocked by his language, and tried to yank away for real. “Yeah, I think you would.”

“Hermione,” he chided, not releasing her. “Don’t be ridiculous. You were perfectly happy just being Scorpius’ mother. I could have kept you like that with no difficulty.”

Kept her? She didn’t like the way he was talking. It made her uncomfortable and a little worried.

He kissed down her neck. “I’m seducing you because I want this.”

“I don’t.” It didn’t matter if she did or not. She grabbed one of the fingers around her middle and bent it back until he yelped and released her. She lurched away from him, heart hammering, not sure if she should flee the room or tear him up one side and down the other. This was just too much, too fast, and things were getting way out of control.

She wasn’t going to give him this hold over her. She. Was. Not.

“Aduro. . . .”

The lazily murmured word had Hermione’s head snapping around, eyes wide, to see Draco sitting back casually, wand pointed at her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered. Adurosis was a low level sex spell. It triggered arousal and was basically considered foreplay.

“Flaunting a bit of talent,” he replied idly.

She reached out shakily to grab the wall, gasping as she began to feel the spell—a warm, liquid heat that was tiny but blossoming, flowing slowly but relentlessly through her body.

“I think I deserve the chance to prove that I’m better than Weasley or that pathetic Squib.” He watched her try not to squirm with hooded, unreadable eyes. “I bet Weasley doesn’t know any spells of this class that aren’t self-serving. I’d bet he only knows two: an engorgement for his dick and a solo fellatio.”

She flushed because he was partly right. “Take the damn spell off,”she ordered tightly, still trying to maintain control of the situation, still a little bit scared. Her body was warming, her legs feeling suddenly wobbly.

“Summisse,” he replied instead, flicking his wand. “Madesco.”

A warm wind made every inch of her skin tighten and tingle, raising goose-flesh over her entire body. She staggered, grabbing onto the armchair and half-falling into it. Her stomach muscles tensed and fluttered and tiny little sparks of pure pleasure began going off in small steady bursts in her middle.

“T-take . . . it . . . off.” Shaking and mortified, she stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to keep from making any embarrassing noises, trying not to buck her hips.

“Take it off yourself,” Malfoy flung back lowly. “You have a wand. You’re a witch.”

She grabbed at her wand, fumbled stupidly until she found it and then a particularly violent spark had her throwing her head back, gasping high and shocked, her wand dropping from nerveless fingers. She forced herself to look at Malfoy, sweat slipping down her face and opened her mouth to tell him to make it stop but moaned instead.

“There’s the door,” Malfoy offered very softly. “You can leave. I’m not keeping you here.”

“Bas—tard,” she rasped, her hand clenching reflexively at her thigh, wanting to touch herself. “Ma . . . ke . . . it. . . .” She bit her lip, unable or unwilling to complete the sentence.

Malfoy stood, casually flipping his cuffs up, and strode to her side, ignoring the wary glare she was throwing at him. He hauled her up on her feet, ignoring the way her breath hitched and how she tried to push away from him, only to sway helplessly closer.

“Shit,” she managed to gasp.

“Tactus,” Malfoy incanted coolly and just barely brushed his fingers down her cheek. Hermione’s knees nearly gave way completely as every inch of her skin heightened in sensitivity and the touch of his fingers became a sensual feast. She was still panting, unable to even move when his lips softly touched hers. With a soft, frantic sound, Hermione smashed her lips to his and moaned loudly as the sensation of his warm mouth went straight through her like a mortal wound.

Malfoy made an approving noise in his throat and kissed her roughly, coaxing her mouth open to accept him. His tongue flicked against hers and she eagerly let herself be drawn into the kiss. His mouth was warm and fresh. The fucker had probably been planning this before he ever walked in the door. He held her up with one arm, his other hand running gently along the skin of her arm, making the over-sensitized flesh jerk and tremble.

Malfoy pulled away slightly, cupping her cheek to keep her from following his retreating lips. “Do you want to stop? Just tell me to stop.”

The question completely threw her. Could she stop it? Would he stop if she said to?

Her body seemed to be screaming at her and gave another desperate throb and she jerked him down towards her, sucking and biting at his lips. She hardly noticed him pulling them to his room, to his bed, but she must have because she started to shake her head, to step back only to have him wrench her forward, all restraint abandoned.

She had a moment of slight panic when he started pushing her robes down off her shoulders. The only man who’d ever seen her naked was Ron. Her hands fluttered up to cover herself but then his mouth was at her throat, teasing the tender flesh with searing sucks and wet licks and kissing down to her collarbone and she grabbed roughly at his belt buckle.

He pushed her down on the bed with most of their clothes still hanging off their ankles. It was only dimly lit in the room and the only impression she had of him was pale, pale skin and rough palms gliding over her body. She tried to press up against him but he held her down, intent on reverently touching every piece of skin he could reach.

Sex with Ron had always been good and sweet and it had gotten better the more they’d practiced. She wouldn’t exactly have called Ron a selfish lover, but everything they’d done had always been geared towards his pleasure. That was her own fault. She couldn’t expect Ron to know what felt good to her if she didn’t tell him. But the very last thing she had wanted was to lecture her boyfriend like she was critiquing his essay while he was on top of her.

“You’ll be feeling those spells rather badly about now,” Malfoy observed in satisfaction.

He leaned down and just blew across the wet skin of her chest. Her body strained upwards, heaving. Her nipples were painfully hard peaks in the cold air, her skin burning with the heat of anticipation. Malfoy lowered his head and barely flicked his tongue over her aching nipple, just barely teasing, and her whole body jerked agonizingly. With a soft sound, he slid a knee between her legs and suckled her pebbled peak into his mouth and she screamed helplessly, clutching at the hands grasping hers and almost sobbing as she ground against him erratically in orgasm.

He kept sucking gently, his own hips moving against hers automatically when she pushed against him, but he backed off almost instantly. She could see him now, her eyes adjusting to the low lighting, and he was thick and pale and erect and she was torn between the desire to kick him there as hard as she could and the need to run her lips over that long rod of flesh, to see if he was as smooth and hairless as he looked.

She had barely recovered before Malfoy was moving to her other breast to repeat the torturous treatment and she shuddered, barely able to stand it. He released one of her hands to cup her breast, stroke it roughly before trailing fingers teasingly down her flat belly to the mound of curls. Two fingers parted her, slid into her and she writhed, already soaking wet from the spells and so sensitive that she was immediately bucking helplessly against his palm. He licked and sucked at her breasts, the combined pleasures of his fingers and his mouth too much to bear. Three fingers and several knowing twists and she thrashed, crying out again as her body found release.

Panting, Malfoy slid his arms under her thighs, pushing her legs up and over his shoulders. He scooted up against her on his knees. She thought he meant to take her but then a wet finger found her wrinkled pucker and she moaned in shock, struggling slightly.

“Wh—what?”

“Shh,” he soothed, not looking up from what he was doing.

Stupidly, she clapped a hand over her mouth as his finger carefully worked into her anal passage. She had no idea what this felt like normally, having never ever let anyone near that region, but the spells he’d placed on her hyper-sensitive flesh were telling her this felt spectacular.

Her legs twitched involuntarily at the unfamiliar stimulation and she nearly wriggled away, nearly kicked him in the face on accident, as he began carefully thrusting his finger. The second finger was nearly too much, the pain of the stretch horrifyingly sweet to her over-stimulated nerves. She started to shove him away only to have him shift down. He spread her with two fingers and tongued between her folds, rasping hot licks over wet center and sucking gently at her little nub. She thrashed, head thrown back, mouth open and choking on a soundless scream. Her body was ablaze, overloading with sensation.

Lapping at her hungrily, three fingers slid rhythmically into her back passage, his other arm busy keeping her writhing body pinned. Finally he pulled his fingers free and she tried to turn over, tried to tell him not to put himself there in the back but it quickly became apparent that he had no intention of doing so. Pushing her knees up to her chest, he positioned himself at her slick female opening and plunged himself into her body with a snarl and a moan.

The pain of the rough entrance was only more stimulation to her frayed nerves and her babbling brain practically burst, her muscles clenched up, body screaming in ecstasy. He lanced through her, filled her. She squirmed underneath him, trying to get him to move but he was firmly seated, quivering thighs pressed tightly to her buttocks, and still. Groaning, Malfoy grabbed at his wand with shaking hands, eyes dilated, face a mask of lust.

“Utrimque,” he rasped. “You should like this.” He kissed her roughly. “My specialty.”

And then he pushed her thrashing body down on the bed and began to thrust. Hermione felt her back bow in shock, eyes flying open in disbelief. She could see him grinning at her in smug male pride, see him sliding thick and wet into her womanhood, but she could feel him as if he were piercing her both front and back. Magical double-penetration.

Merlin, his specialty was fucking people over.

Sobbing, Hermione bucked up to meet his every thrust, heels drumming on his back. Malfoy bit at her neck, shifting his stance wider so he could increase his already brutal pace. Neither of them was going to last long. He rolled them suddenly, leaning back against the bed and pulling her on top of him. Hermione yowled at the change in angle and needed no prompting to bounce herself on him, sweaty hair clinging to her forehead and back, fingers clawing at his chest, pulling gasping sounds of ecstasy and pain from his throat. Bastard seemed to like pain.

His hands moved over her thighs roughly, cupping her bottom to urge her on, slid up and down her belly. He suddenly slid an arm around her back and sat up, burying his face in her breasts, hips jacking up hard. Hermione rocked on him and grabbed at him with a cry as his free hand slid between their bodies to pinch and work her slick little nub until she stiffened and ground against him, entire body shuddering hard. With a triumphant snarl, he snapped his hips up twice more and froze, hissing through his teeth as he pulsed into her. She could feel it, wet and hot, in both places.

Trembling, they slumped onto the bed, all loose muscle and sweaty limbs. Malfoy fumbled for his wand and slurred out a quick cleaning and freshening charm and then another charm that had the heavy comforter they were laying on suddenly covering them.

Exhausted, Hermione curled up against him, unable to keep her eyes open. She felt oddly as though she’d expended a large amount of magic.

Malfoy woke her a bit later and she couldn’t remember what he said, only his warm, murmuring tones as she crawled over his body, pushing the covers down to expose his semi-erect member. She gave him a few soft strokes and took him into her mouth like she’d wanted to before. He was velvety and warm and she tried to concentrate on sucking him while his tongue did wicked, impossible things to her abused body.

Much later, she woke again beside him and fumbled naked out of bed, stumbling into the Common Room. It took her a moment to find her wand where it had rolled under the sofa. She collapsed to her knees, pointing her wand at herself with trembling hands.

”Finite.” she whispered, broken with panic. “Finite incantatem.”

If anything happened, she couldn’t feel it.

With a soft sob, she lowered her wand.

She’d been willing. She’d participated. She knew that, didn’t she?

Hermione curled up on the floor, wiping her mouth with her hand. She could still taste him.

She could have stopped it. He’d given her plenty of opportunities. And the spells hadn’t forced her to do anything. She just wasn’t as immune to her hormones as she’d believed.

Right?

She shivered, frightened. Because she didn’t know. She just didn’t know anymore. How could she be sure? With him, she could never be sure. He’d already proven that he could make her want something. Hell, she could know he’d made her want it and she wouldn’t even care.

This was it. She couldn’t live like this; second guessing herself, trying to comprehend his motives and keep one step ahead of him. She would lose. Every time they’d played this game, she had lost.

Even if she had participated willingly today, didn’t that just prove that he’d get what he wanted one way or the other?

No. She couldn’t think like that. She’d drive herself mad.

Scorpius. She reminded herself firmly. They had to rescue Scorpius.

She ran numb fingers through her hair.

She would rescue Scorpius and then Obliviate him. That way she wouldn’t break the boy’s heart when she left him.

A hand stroking her hair woke her. Hermione jerked upright in her bed, grabbing the hand and jabbing her wand at the intruder.

Harry stood there with her wand against his throat, looking ashen and exhausted.

“Harry?” she whispered, breathing hard.

He pulled away from her, suddenly cold and distant even as he tenderly brushed a lock of hair from her face. “It’s happening tonight.”

“What?” Her head was muzzy with sleep and twitchy with alarm.

“Get everybody ready. Whatever’s going to happen is happening tonight.”

CHAPTER 7

The rest of the day passed in frantic activity. The planning and meetings and preparations that had been taking place rather sedately were suddenly thrown into overdrive. Worse, no one knew quite what to expect. Harry had not said and now he could not be found.

Hermione spent the rest of the morning with the Weasley family and then met Draco, Jeremy, Troy, Lucius and the various military and wizard leaders that had gathered. Lucius gave her a small, mocking bow accompanied with a flourish of his hand. Draco gave her a warm smile and, flustered, she scowled back. That only seemed to amuse him.

The mood around the castle grew more somber and tense as the day wore on. Dinner was a silent and anxious affair. Hermione pushed her food around her plate aimlessly. Ron, beside her, ate mechanically but still stuffed his face.

Jeremy sat beside Troy with a stubborn and bitter look on his face and Hermione wondered if he was thinking about running for it. At this point, she wouldn’t even blame him. Many of the wizards around the room were carrying swords or daggers or bows. A scattered few carried axes, scimitars or morning stars.

Hermione had just decided that the few bites she’d been able to stomach had been a bad idea when the entire castle shuddered. The hall went still and quiet and a giant distant groan sounded deep, deep below them.

The castle gave another shiver and all of the candles flickered and snuffed out, plunging the Great Hall into complete blackness.

The children, of course, began screaming.

“SILENCE!” Lucius Malfoy bellowed and set the hall back into eerie silence once more.

“Shit!” Hermione whispered, alert and on her feet and called out louder than the whispering voices. “Why didn’t any of us think about Muggle lighting?”

“My flashlight is working!” one of the soldiers said in surprise and several other people began flipping of their lights. The wizards began casting Lumos, only those swiftly sucked out of existence; Hermione had a sinking feeling, thinking of the things she had learned while they were on the run.

“We shouldn’t be casting spells!” she called out again.

A sharp crack ricocheted through the air followed by a hissing fizzing sound like a fuse being lit and the night sky on the ceiling above them flared brightly. Where there had been night sky there was now only blackness, a sucking void, and two giant burning orange orbs, like suns that flickered but gave off no light, surged to life and circled slowly overhead.

“What is that?” Hermione yelled. “Who’s doing that?”

The room was full of confusion and jostling bodies, uneasy and bleating like sheep in a pen.

Two silver shapes came bursting through the door, Patroni, a dove and a shark.

“Something’s wrong!” the dove cried. “All of the light seemed to surge back into the castle. Like an implosion.”

“They’re coming closer then they ever have!” the shark informed them roughly. “The barrier’s down. They’re trying to get into the castle!”

Confusion became panic.

The soldiers had apparently been ready for this because a moment later they were shoving the frightened wizards into groups and hustling them out the doors.

Hermione started forward but Ron grabbed her. “Wait!”

“They can’t fight in the halls!” Hermione cried. “And they can’t shoot those guns in here!” Distantly she could hear the gunfire starting outside.

Ron shook her to stop her babbling. “Luna’s at the Head Table!”

“Huh?”

They pushed through the crowd to get to the group gathered there, and indeed Luna was there in overlarge robes, looking calm and matter-of-fact. Her stringy blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun and she gazed at Hermione with dreamy, unblinking eyes that reminded Hermione of Scorpius on the brink of Trance.

“Our protection has fallen,” Luna said in her high, floaty voice. “The Baboolooboobs believe now is their chance and have come here to fight. But now is our chance, not theirs. We will go to their nest and take the children back.”

“How will we find the ship?” Troy asked.

“Slytherin’s Beast told me where it is.”

“It told you?” Hermione sputtered in disbelief.

Luna gave her a look. “Baboolooboobs are my natural enemy. I can see how they put their spells together and take them apart. I should be able to take us straight there.”

“We know the general whereabouts of the ship,” the General explained to Hermione. “We just can’t pinpoint it. We’re hoping Miss Lovegood can dispel enough of their magic for our weapons to get through.”

A goat Patronus burst through the door. “Some of the protection rituals have failed! People are being eaten!”

The General hissed in an enraged breath, “Let’s go.”

The group made for the front exit at a careful, hustling jog. They could hear the fighting going on all around the castle. Some groups had headed outside the castle. Others had chosen to go further within the stone walls. Nowhere was safe.

“Someone give me a weapon!” Hermione cried, panting as she ran.

“Focus on shielding the people with weapons!” the General ordered her.

“But the spells. . . .”

“Work fine as long as they’re not aimed at those monsters.”

This was news to her.

“They can overpower protection spells eventually but from a distance they are invaluable.”

Outside the fighting was worse. The Ettin had indeed come out in force. The soldiers had built bonfires out on the snowy grounds and were firing rapidly at the Ettin, who were disappearing and reappearing and weaving in and out of the groups. The aliens were killing indiscriminately, cutting people down with their magic, grabbing them and tearing them apart with their arms. The wizards were frantically casting defensive magic to protect everyone.

Several jeeps and trucks pulled up to Hermione’s group and those assigned to the mission quickly climbed in. The vehicles would take them past the Anti-Apparition zone around Hogwarts and Luna would Apparate the first group the rest of the way. The other groups had Portkeys designed to take them to the first group. Once there, the military surrounding the ship would use trackers on their soldiers to pinpoint the ship.

The jeeps tore across the castle grounds, quickly garnering the attention of the Ettin. A few of the aliens rushed them and one of the trucks was flipped violently through the air by a blast of magic. Hermione screamed and ducked down but the creatures were already backing off to go after easier targets while the soldiers fired on them. The ground rumbled once more and Hermione yelped, clutching at her seat. The great groaning sound came again, so huge and deep and drawn out that it rattled her bones and made her sick in the pit of her stomach.

And then something huge, bigger than the Ettin, was rising like a black cloud from the ground. The jeep screeched to a halt.

“What the fuck is that?” one of the soldiers yelled.

Hermione froze in horror as a wave of sickening, twisted magic washed over her and she clamped her hands over her mouth and fought not to scream.

Moonlight gleamed off of silver metal chains. The black shadow strained upwards and strained more and the silver chains snapped with a gigantic crunch. The Metal Beast of Slytherin threw its head back and screamed. Howled like the damned through a misshapen, almost human mouth.

Hermione cried out in alarm as the shockwaves of the cry blasted snow into the air and rammed into their vehicles hard enough to make them bounce and lurch. Draco covered her with his body. The Beast reared up and they could see it. It was shaped like a scorpion, or maybe a praying mantis, with the torso of a man and the sickle-blade arms of a mantis and a distorted humanoid face.

Those metal blades flashed through the darkness and the Ettin squealed high and horrified as silvery blood fountained into the sky, evaporating into white mist as it touched air. The creatures fell to the ground twitching and screaming piteously and then the billowing cloak turned brittle and black and all that was left was the head, all three faces frozen in horror.

The Beast lapped hungrily at the sublimating silvery liquid coating its sickle-blades. It was ugly, horrifying and it reeked of darkness. This was the embodiment of the hatred of a powerful Dark Wizard.

“Go! GO!” the front passenger screamed and the driver tore his eyes off the Beast and tires squealed and slid on snow as they made a break for it. The Metal Beast regarded their little caravan, mouth curling, and for a moment Hermione thought it would attack them. It wanted to. It was aware of what they were. Squibs and Muggleborns. It was aware of each of them, it was aware of her and the force of its hate and bloodlust was like a physical pressure in her mind.

Hermione held onto Draco and tried not to sob. Hermione glanced at Draco’s face and saw him staring at the thing in awe and greed as it leapt with all the agility of the mantis it resembled onto its foes.

“No!” Hermione yelled.

He looked down at her in confusion. She shook her head at him, wiping freezing, wet locks out of her face.

“Don’t please. Don’t even think it.”

He hugged her tighter and promised nothing.

“Here!” Luna called as the off-road vehicles took them past Hogsmeade.

The trucks came to a jarring halt and the groups quickly jumped out and gathered together. Luna gathered Hermione, Draco, Troy and five soldiers.

“Two runs,” Luna said breathlessly by way of explanation and grabbed Hermione and Draco. With a sharp POP she Apparated them out.

Hermione had not been ready for it but managed not to stagger as they landed. Hot air whipped her in the face, blowing her freezing hair all around.

“Hurry, look around,” Luna ordered impatiently and Hermione had just managed to look up at something huge and gleaming in the darkness. It glowed underneath with cold blue light and hovered above the earth where it had melted all the snow and then Luna was Apparating them back.

They appeared back among the others and Hermione reeled.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Luna said pleasantly and patted Hermione’s back. “Come on. We’re Apparating the others in.”

Hermione nodded her understanding as Troy and another soldier came to stand at her side.

“Ready?” she wheezed. They nodded and she took them in.

The Ettin were waiting for them. Six of them were gliding towards them as they appeared. The three groups barely got their feet before they were scattering to dodge a vicious lash of magic. The larger groups began Portkeying in and Hermione whirled and cast defensive spells on the soldiers as they began firing.

“No time!” Draco yelled, grabbing Hermione. “We have to get the kids before the Ettin at the school come back!”

More Ettin were coming, appearing around them. There were at least twelve now and as she fired off a Protego and stumbled as Ettin magic smashed against it, she thought these ones were fiercer, they moved more fluently and struck with more precision and more power. Spotlights came down, blindingly bright on them and Hermione could barely hear the whir of helicopters before the Gatling guns began firing.

She broke away and ran.

The ship was gigantic. Black and gleaming and almost . . . shimmering in a way that suggested it wasn’t even really there. Like a mirage. Hermione nearly despaired upon seeing the size of it. How were they ever going to find the children?

“We have to get inside!” Luna decided. “We can try a blind Apparition.”

“NO DON’T!” Hermione screamed, grabbing onto Luna, but it was too late and Luna vanished, taking Hermione with her.

They reappeared into a surreal nightmare. She caught one impression of endless space and two gigantic sparking orbs, bright as suns, hanging up above them, rotating, shining but giving no light and then it was like being hit by a tornado. A blindingly bright, excruciatingly hot, and completely soundless tornado. Hermione felt the sensation of her body flying, twisting and contorting unnaturally. She could feel herself screaming but could hear nothing. Her magic seemed to swell up inside her like yeast in dough, like a physical pressure, so tight and painful. She knew she was going to burst.

Her emergency Portkey flared to life and Hermione was launched into cool darkness. She slammed into a wooden floor painfully hard, and could finally hear herself screaming through her raw and bloody throat. For several minutes all she could do was lay there panting and spasming uncontrollably, her body aching painfully.

She rolled over onto her belly, gasping. Her clothes were singed and her hair smelled slightly burned. She needed to get back and warn the others before they tried to Apparate into the spaceship. It wasn’t somewhere human beings could survive.

Which mean they wouldn’t have to search the entire ship for the children. . . .

“Shit,” she rasped and Apparated back to the spaceship.

The small wooded clearing beneath the spaceship was now a burning, smoking war zone. Soldiers and wizards were running everywhere, shouting and fighting off the Ettin. There were hundreds of Ettin now; Hermione could only guess that they were all converging to protect the ship—or retreating from the Metal Beast.

Hermione grabbed one of the soldiers who was crouched behind a small decline and borrowed his headset to shout what she had learned to the others.

“Hey Reebeesnap, what’s your location?” a familiar voice called over the headset.

“Fuck if I know?” she screamed back.

“There’s a section of the ship that’s completely different from the rest. Maybe they added it on after they got here.” Jeremy explained over the headset.

“A containment area?”

“Wanna find out? Follow the Patronus!”

A giant silvery manticore swept over the battle zone, crisscrossing until it zeroed in on Hermione. It lashed its tail and took off in the other direction. Hermione quickly handed the headset back to the soldier and made a run for it. The manticore took her beneath the ship where it was hottest, the cold blue light burning down on her.

There were people on brooms above her but she couldn’t see what they were doing.

An Ettin flew at her with a sound of rage and Hermione Apparated several meters past it, only to have it immediately Apparate to her side. She ducked its lashing arms with a scream and used her wand to shoot herself several feet in the air when it came at her again. It surged upwards after her and she Apparated again, tearing rocks from the ground when she landed and blasting them at the creature, managing to smash it backwards.

It vanished again and Hermione took the opportunity to transfigure the rocks into several large dogs. The manticore flew overhead, unable to help. When the Ettin appeared again the dogs attacked—only to melt back into rocks and drop to the ground on contact with the Ettin’s body. Hermione cursed.

Stupid. Magical attacks wouldn’t work. Her mind immediately wanted to try to analyze the difference between enchanted rocks and magically propelled rocks and she gave an irritated screech at her own ludicrousness and blasted herself back a few feet, putting up a heavy shield against the Ettin’s next wave of magic. This was no time to dwell on magical theory, she was trying to survive here!

“Lady, get down!” someone yelled.

Hermione instantly hit the ground and gunfire ripped through the air above her. The Ettin shrieked. Scrambling on her belly through the wet brush, Hermione barely avoided the Ettin’s lashing claws as it tried to kill her despite its wounds. She crawled after the manticore Patronus, not gaining her feet until she was certain she was a good distance from the gun fighting. The bulge of the belly of the ship lifted sharply upward above her and Hermione could see the blue lights stopped and the black shimmering material of the ship harden into something solid and real.

The manticore swooped down to where Troy and Jeremy and a group of soldiers were waiting for her.

“We think this is it!” Jeremy shouted. “The rest of the ship is a dead-zone to our machines except this piece right here. We’re getting something. Its faint, but it’s there.”

Troy tossed her a broom and the two of them flew upwards. There were already three brooms up there with six riders. The Muggles riding the broom were awkwardly handling a heavy piece of equipment between the three of them, which was tearing a good-sized hole in the metal of the ship. The wizards had conjured some floating slats for them to place the heavier and more awkward equipment on.

“They’ve got some kind of crazy wards up,” One of the wizards told them. “We can’t blast it open with magic.

“We can’t use explosives either. We’re afraid of killing the kids,” one of the men explained, sweat pouring down his dirty face. “This is a spreader and cutter. It’s powered by gas and hydraulics so it’s not affected by magic.”

“The Jaws of Life?” Hermione asked.

“A little more powerful.” The man grinned.

“It’s pretty fucking thick!” another man panted.

“It’s a spaceship, dumbass!” one of others answered. “’Course its thick.”

This was going to take too long. Hermione begged Troy’s headset away.

“We need to find Luna Lovegood!” she called over the mouthpiece. “Draco Malfoy, where the hell are you? I’m in the air where the ship belly dips upward. Bring me Luna Lovegood.” Merlin, she couldn’t even be sure that Luna was alive.

“We gotta finish this before the fuckers see us,” Troy muttered nervously as she handed back his headset, watching an Ettin swoop past them on the ground.

They watched the men work for several tense minutes before a silvery hare and a waddling penguin came leaping up through the air towards them.

“Luna!” Hermione shouted. “Luna, thank heaven!”

Draco and Luna came darting through the air under the ship on Draco’s broom and corkscrewed upwards. Luna looked a little worse for wear and Draco had a bleeding cut over his eye.

“A penguin, Draco?” Hermione asked

He bared his teeth at her, but let her maneuver over to kiss his cheek.

“Can you get us in here, Luna?” Hermione asked. “They’ve got spells keeping us out.”

Luna stared at the ship for a long time before decided fearlessly, “We can try blind Apparition again.”

Hermione broke into a cold sweat at the very thought. “Are you crazy? It nearly killed us last time. I thought we were dead!”

“It’ll be faster and safer in the long run.” She nodded towards the working soldiers. “They have no idea what they’re cutting into. What if they hit something explosive?”

“Shit.” No guts, no glory, Gryffindor girl. She grabbed at her emergency Portkey where it rested under shirt just to be sure it was there. “Alright.”

She steeled herself and grabbed Luna’s hand. They disappeared.

They reappeared in heat and darkness. Hermione convulsively drew a deep desperate breath and found with some surprise that she could breathe. She clenched her hand in Luna’s and got a squeeze back. They were standing on a huge metal platform with walls that went up and up and up to a ceiling she couldn’t see. Far far above them she could see the two boiling suns rotating slowly around each other, the heat whipping visibly through the air but stopping short of their platform.

“Merlin, we’re in,” she whispered. “Get the others in here; they can start bringing more people in with side-along.”

Luna vanished and popped back in a moment later with Troy and Draco. Troy and Luna popped out again and Draco grabbed her shoulder.

“Come on. The kids.”

The platform, like the walls, seemed to go on and on, but the first arching doorway was happily near. Draco grabbed her hand when she tried to run towards it and gave her a meaningful glare and put a finger to his lips. They slipped forward and Hermione gave a shriek of joy, ruining their stealthy approach, when she saw the sprawling room that looked as if it were a miles long and miles wide. And it was packed full. There were people and creatures everywhere. In cages, frozen in beams of light, swimming in huge aquariums.

The next group of Apparators appeared with a crack and Hermione beckoned to them wildly screaming. “We found them! We found them! Get more Portkeys! As many Portkeys as you can!”

Hermione ran to the first giant cage where a herd of centaurs stamped and slammed at the bars with their hooves.

“No!” Draco grabbed her away. “The children first!”

She opened her mouth.

“DON’T ARGUE! As your Lord, I command it!”

Hermione nodded in shock and began searching quickly through the cages to find the children. Every sentient creature in the containment area was going crazy, so it took her a few minutes of running before she heard the children shouting.

“OVER HERE!” Hermione waved at Draco. “OVER HERE!” Hermione ran over and grabbed at the small reaching hands, crying and kissing little fingers, searching their faces and so happy even though she didn’t recognize any of them. “We’re here. We’re gonna get you home!”

Unlike the outside of the ship, the cages were not fortified against their magic and the groups quickly began blasting the cages open. Exclaiming and shouting and hugging, they pulled the kids out, slapping Portkeys into the children’s hands and sending group after group of them to several different and heavily fortified safe havens hidden in the Muggle world.

Some of the children hung frozen in glittering beams of blue light, unbreathing, unblinking. The rescuers tried to dispel the light several times unsuccessfully and finally stuffed a Portkey into the child’s clothes and activated it.

“Sonorus!” someone encanted. “THEY’RE COMING! THE ETTIN ARE COMING!”

Everyone went crazy. There was no way they could fire guns in here. Against Draco’s wishes, Hermione began slashing open other cages, freeing centaurs and giants and throwing a Portkey into the tanks with mermaids.

Hermione raced through the containment area. This area wasn’t as big as she had thought it was; she could see where it sectioned off into a new environment. One that probably wasn’t hospitable to humans by the look of it. Still, they were never going to make it. They were never going to free everything. She slowed as she realized that she was no longer among creatures she recognized. The cages had changed as well. Some of them were surrounded by blue force fields, others were made up entirely of what looked like electricity. Some had doors, others didn’t. She turned in a slow circle staring at Beings she had never seen before as they stared back at her.

These were other aliens.

They came in all shapes and sizes, all colors. Many of them wearing some form of clothing and obviously sentient.

Her first impulse was to start freeing them but she hesitated and began peering into the cages, considering each creature, completely overwhelmed. What if one of these species was more dangerous to her than the Ettin? What would the aliens do when they found themselves stranded on Earth?

She turned and caught her breath. Stunned.

Her feet carried her forward.

There was only one alien in this cage. He—she knew it was a ‘he’—stood taller than Draco and mostly humanoid in form. His skin was a faint pearly blue, his wild hair deepest aqua and grew from his head down between his shoulder blades almost like a mane. Wide, almost protuberant, cat-like eyes were spiked molten yellow, lion-like and stared at her unblinking with an intensity that was strangely familiar. He had ridges around his ears and down the back of his neck that humans didn’t have and the hands that came to rest on the bars had only three heavily clawed fingers.

She knew he was magical, could almost feel their magic sparking off each other. She knew he found her as fascinating as she found him. She was smiling at him slightly, almost without knowing it and reached forward, unable to contain her curiosity. . . .

“Hermione!” Draco bodily wrapped himself around her and wrenched her back. “Get away from those things! Come on! We have to find Scorpius!” He started to tug her away.

“We found some more kids!” Jeremy ran up to them.

“Wait!” she broke his grip and waved her wand at the alien’s cage. The door didn’t budge.

“What are you doing?” Draco screamed. “You don’t know what that thing will do! Leave it!”

She tired another spell and another. Draco tried to grab her again and, frustrated, she shoved him away and kicked the cage door as hard as she could. The alien remained impassive, watching her.

“Damnit!” She grabbed Jeremy’s gun.

“Hermione!” the Squib shrieked, but Hermione just beckoned the alien to move out of the way and unloaded the clip into the handle, tearing it to shreds.

“Fuck! Waste of ammo!” Jeremy shouted, but Hermione had achieved her goal. She kicked open the door, grabbed Draco and Jeremy and ran for it, her heart pounding wildly at her own daring. Behind her she could hear the alien moving and when she dared to look back, she saw him opening other cages.

“That was stupid!” Draco shouted at her. “That thing could have decided to eat us for all you know!”

“But he didn’t! I knew he wouldn’t!” she crowed, delighted. Jeremy grudgingly handed over a new clip for the semi-automatic and drew another weapon for himself.

The entire ship suddenly lurched and they fell over, panicked screaming rising up around them.

“What the hell is going on?” Draco screamed.

“Who cares?” Hermione yelled back.

There was chaos around them. Wizards Apparating in and out and magical beasts running everywhere, some of them not concerned with escaping, only in attacking the Beings that had caged them. The Ettin were pissed but they were once again handicapped by the need to keep from killing their escaping food Someone had brought in crossbows to substitute for guns and arrows were firing dangerously through the crowds. The ship rocked again, violently, and everyone hit the floor.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Troy ran up and grabbed Draco’s arm. “The Metal Beast is here. It’s trying to eat the fucking ship! We’ve put bombs all over the outside of the ship! If the Beast sets them off, we’re dead!”

The Ettin swooped down on them, howling, but suddenly a dozen dark shadows came leaping out from the cages and started attacking the screaming Ettin. Hermione glimpsed the blue alien she had freed walking around, casually blasting Ettin out of the way as if they were leaves. She came to a strange, slightly chilly realization, as she saw Luna Lovegood on the other side doing much the same thing.

“What are those?” Troy gaped at the small dark creatures attacking the Ettin.

“Who cares! Get out of here!” Draco shoved the guy and they started running.

Most of the cages up front were empty now. The magical beasts were escaping out the hole the Muggles had ripped open. The ship rocked again, violently this time, followed by the distant sound of an explosion.

“Shit. We’re running out of time.”

They met up with the largest group of soldiers who were busy gathering the children and keeping the Ettin at bay.

“This is the last group!” One of the young men grinned at them triumphantly, wiping his brow.

“Daddy!” squealed a small blonde boy, and Hermione’s heart stopped. She just stood there stupidly, unable to move as that sweet little face turned towards her, beaming. “Mama!”

She’d never be able to leave him. She knew suddenly. She would never leave this child.

Draco had won.

They were hit by a freight train. People went flying everywhere as wave after wave of malice crashed down on them. Hermione slammed head-first into one of the cages. Her wand snapped.

An Ettin had come up right under them and was now holding the children down. They were shrieking in agony. Hermione tried to lurch to her feet and stumbled, her vision ruined. But she knew already that this Ettin was her old friend Blue. She could see the cobalt glow shimmering around it.

The Ettin grabbed a child and brought her to its mouth.

“NO!” Hermione screamed.

“REDUCTO!”

The Ettin’s arm exploded as Luna Lovegood fired off two more spells. The alien Disapparated and the little girl fell to the ground, crying.

“GET THE KIDS!” Draco screamed. “GET THEM OUT OF HERE!”

There was a mad scramble that was nearly halted by Luna’s pained shriek. Hermione looked on in horror as Blue reappeared, Luna impaled through the stomach on its gigantic claw-like fingers. The blonde went limp and vanished, her emergency Portkey activating and the group of soldiers began grabbing the children and shoving Portkeys in their hands.

Jeremy hesitated one second, looking at Hermione, a child in his arms. Hermione kissed him quickly on the mouth and shoved a Portkey against his chest. He vanished.

Blue was on them again in an almost psychotic rage, tearing viciously at them, not caring who it killed. More Ettin were surging forward.

“Everyone get out of here!” Draco commanded. “Grab a child and use your Portkeys! We’re done here! We can’t fight anymore!”

The ship gave another lurch and then a shivering hum that grew in intensity. The Ettin stopped and, as one, disappeared. Hermione froze as she felt the very air come to life around her. She knew what it was, instinctively, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“Fuck. EVERYONE LEAVE! THE SHIP IS TAKING OFF!” she screamed.

Soldiers and children began vanishing and Draco was grabbing his son and then he was screaming as something pierced his shoulder. Blue had stayed.

“DRACO!”

Blue raised him up and threw him hard. Draco went flying across the room. Blue reached for a wailing Scorpius, opened jaws almost salivating, and Hermione Apparated forward and shot it in the face, point blank.

The alien reared back, screaming horrifically and backhanded her. She slammed into the floor, bruised and dizzy and wondering if her face was broken. She rolled to avoid Blue’s lashing arm. A blast of magic ripped through her and made her scream, but it wasn’t the devastating force that it had been in their last fight and she imagined Blue must be low on magic.

Wiping blood from her face, she immediately Apparated when she didn’t see Blue in front of her, and spun around as she landed to find him coming right at her with jaws open. She lunged forward, reared back and jabbed her broken wand right into his eye. Claws raked down her front, tearing her face, her chest.

Blue screeched like a mad thing, scrabbling for his face and Hermione raised her weapon and unloaded the clip into Blue’s head. Blue’s mask-like face burst open, spilling white liquid and with a scream he vanished. Scorpius huddled on the ground, wailing.

The suns above them gave a violent pulse and spider web bursts of electric yellow flared to life and the ship rumbled. They were moving.

Panicked, Hermione grabbed up Scorpius only to fall to the floor a second later, the child shrieking as G-force rammed them onto the ground, crushing them. Hermione clutched Scorpius desperately and screamed blindly against the overwhelming pressure.

Just when she thought it was getting worse and they were both going to die, the crushing weight vanished. Gasping, Hermione rolled over, crawled a few feet from the boy and wretched. Shaking, she crawled back to Scorpius and found him unconscious, blood dripping from his nose. She wiped it away with her robes, tilting him up so it wouldn’t run down his throat and sighed with relief when she found he was breathing steadily and his little heartbeat was normal.

She scooped him up, weakly taking him into her arms, and for a moment she just held him, a strange wailing cry bubbling up in her throat as she squeezed him and rocked him and kissed his beautiful face. Swaying, she got to her feet and tottered on wobbly legs. She was bleeding heavily, and if the numbness in her mind and body was anything to go by, she was going into shock.

It was quiet now. Looking about her, she saw that everyone was either dead or gone. She limped to the next room where the Muggles had torn a very, very large hole in the ship. Alien magic glittered there now, a temporary patch. Hermione stared out into the blackness for a very long time, wiping tears and snot off her face, then turned and went to find Malfoy.

Draco lay brokenly against one of the cages, his arm at a strange angle and a pool of blood under his head. Scorpius curled against her and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Licking dry lips, Hermione checked Draco’s pulse and found it steady, touched his scalp wound and found it shallow. She hoped he didn’t have a concussion. Draco’s wand lay nearby and she used it to quickly cast a series of spells.

She closed her eyes as they confirmed her worst fears. She struggled but her composure crumpled and she buried her face in Scorpius’ hair and cried quietly. But there was no time for that and she forced herself to act.

Numbly, she cast Ennervate.

Draco groaned and opened one eye. “Hermione,” he whispered. “Oh, Scorpius!”

Hermione leaned down and kissed him tenderly on the mouth. He tried to reach for her and hissed in shock. He was immobile. One arm broken, the other pierced by a gaping wound in the shoulder.

“Don’t try to move,” she whispered, touching his swollen mouth gently. “Draco, listen carefully. The Ettin are going to come back soon.”

“So let’s go,” he interrupted quietly.

Her lips quivered. “Draco, we’re not on Earth anymore. The ship launched.”

The blond stared at her as if he didn’t understand what she meant. “Hermione. . . .”

She ran her fingers through his blood-soaked, matted hair soothingly and noticed with some shock that it was no longer frost blonde. There was a tinge of wheat to it now. A tinge of herself from the ritual.

She smiled waveringly and continued softly and calmly, “We’re hovering just about 100,000 kilometers from Earth.” She wet her lips. “We cannot Apparate back. It’s too far.”

He sat up just enough to wince. “But we have Portkeys!” he said desperately.

She nodded. “A Portkey generally gives out at around half the circumference of the Earth. About 20,000 kilometers, though a single person can go further.”

“Are you saying we’re stuck here?” he asked softly.

She touched his lips again, kissed his forehead because, just this once, it was okay to be as tender with him as she wanted to be. “There was a study done where someone traveled the entire circumference of the earth without stopping by wearing two Portkeys. I think if we use my Portkeys, when one gives out, the next will activate and you might be able to make it back.”

“What do you mean ‘you’?” he asked breathlessly, face pale and bruised and shadowed with horror.

“I mean I have four Portkeys left to the same destination,” she told him gently. “They will definitely take Scorpius back. They might take you and Scorpius back. They will not take all three of us back.”

She watched the knowledge sink into his eyes. He shook his head, disbelief making him look young and vulnerable.

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I refuse.”

“Draco. . . .”

“You will take my son, and you will go,” he ordered fiercely.

Hermione took a shuddering breath. “I can’t.”

“The fuck you can’t!” he snarled. “I chose you to take care of Scorpius. Now let me be a man for once in my life and protect my family.”

Her lips turned up wanly. “Draco, this is what’s best for Scorpius. . . .”

“You only care because I forced you to!” he interrupted harshly.

“No, the spell was broken some time ago. You anchored it to Harry. Troy found it.” She sobered. “Draco, Scorpius needs you. I can’t take your place. I don’t know how to take care of him right. If—if something were to happen to you, I don’t think he would recover.”

“Hermione. . . .” he hissed in rage, practically frothing.

She smiled, tears streaming down her face. “I won’t let you control me anymore.”

He made a choking sound that was almost a sob. “Don’t do this.”

“I would never be free of you.”

“No.”

“I know what path you’ve chosen despite everything, and I think it would destroy me to have to watch you walk it.”

“Please. . . please. . . .”

She leaned down and kissed him hard with all the sorrow and longing that was threatening to eat her alive. She tasted him and savored because she knew it would be the last time.

He struggled painfully as she pulled away, trying despite his wounds to reach for her.

Humming softly to him, Hermione lovingly placed all of her Portkeys around Scorpius’ neck, covering the sleeping baby’s face with kisses and trying to imprint him in her mind as he was. Sweet and perfect and never to be hers.

Draco glared at her with watery eyes, his jaw clenched, his face red with rage and frustration as he tried desperately to move. “I command you!” he breathed harshly. “I command you as your Lord.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think those kinds of things work on Muggleborns.”

“Hermione, please. I love you,” he whispered on a stuttering breath.

She threw her head back and laughed hysterically.

With shaking hands, she placed the small boy against Draco’s chest and gently moved one of Draco’s arms around him. The tears were still slipping down her face and she gave Draco a dark look, swallowing hard on the bitter laughter.

“No, you don’t. If you did, you’d never have admitted it to my face. And why should I care anyway?” she spat coldly. “I lose you either way.” She wiped at her face with the back of her sleeve, grimacing at the amount of blood and stood up, backing away from him.

“No! Hermione!”

“I’m doing this for me,” she informed him grimly. “And not because it’s your fucking right as a pureblood for a Mudblood to take your place.” Her voice broke.

“I wouldn’t think that! Hermione, please! Hermione, think of Harry. You can’t do this to him! Damnit, Hermione, you can’t do this to me!”

“You know what’s sad?” she asked, voice breaking as she backed away further, quickly because her courage was failing. “I think I love you too. Sanctuary.”

“NOO!” the scream cut off as father and son vanished.

“That’s the third time I’ve saved your life, you fucking bastard,” she said to the empty room, quoting Ron.

Hermione stood trembling, breath coming in frantic hitches, alone at last and trying not to break down as she prayed for their safe return. Blood soaked her front and her chest felt as though a lead weight were pushing down on it, and she wondered vaguely if she would have lasted much longer anyway.

She turned away from the spot her two boys had lain, clutching uselessly at her wounds, and froze. Blue, his mask in pieces, only half his snarling face still there, reared up in front of her, ruined face twisted with hate, mouth open in a snarling howl and claws drawn back to shred her to pieces. There was a flash of white and suddenly Blue was fluttering to the ground in twitching pieces. The Ettin gave a last warbling moan and died.

Hermione turned very slowly to find Red hovering before her, silvery blood dripping from his claws. She staggered back away from it, gasping. Her eyes flew back to Blue’s remains then to Red. She waited for Red to attack, but he just floated there.

“Why?” she rasped hoarsely, shuddering uncontrollably.

The Ettin did not answer.

“WHY!” she shrieked at him and then wailed, clutching at her wounds, beginning to feel the strain of every breath. She sobbed quietly, shaking and cold, and Red simply remained there.

Sniffling, she stumbled through the bodies until she found an abandoned wand. It took a few tries but she managed to conjure some bandages and numb the pain a bit, not exactly sure why she bothered except that there was work to be done. Wrapping her chest was painful despite the charm, the extent of the damage frightening to look at.

Red warbled mournfully.

“Don’t!” she yelled at it, breathlessly clutching her side. “Just don’t. You think I have any sympathy for you? This is ALL YOUR FAULT.”

Red remained impassive.

She glared at the creature . . . and fell into a dream.

There was hunger and desperation as lush fields grew barren and dead and all of her loved ones withered and died. There was searching, endless searching and then hope. Hope that was quickly tempered with guilt and unease and sadness as many refused to take part in the plan and allowed themselves to fade into death. Horror followed as she watched desperation turn her people into hateful, squabbling, murderous creatures that took pleasure in killing.

They could have taken the world, she knew. They could have slipped in and taken and never been detected, but hunger had turned into greed and greed into suspicion. They had turned on each other, they made terrible decisions. They were dying now, the last of their kind and nearing extinction.

Hermione blinked and staggered, reality painfully reasserting itself with cold and pain in her throbbing body.

“You can talk to us?” she breathed, and suddenly she was screaming. “You can communicate with us and instead of coming and talking to us you attack us and steal our children? HOW DARE YOU? You’ve stolen everything from me! You’ve taken my family! You’ve taken MY LIFE! I’m GLAD you’re dying!”

Dragging herself with sheer force of will, Hermione stalked away to the hole that was ripped in the hull. Mouth trembling, she eased herself to the floor, hung her legs out of the spaceship. This was a sight no human had ever seen, not like this, not staring out into space with nothing between them and the black void other than an imperceptible alien shield.

It didn’t look a thing like the night sky of the Great Hall. No beautiful swirling galaxies or nebulas. It was all too big and too far away. Just darkness and glimmering with stars.

The air shifted around her and she did not bother looking back at Red, who floated by her side like a ghost. The turn of phrase made her chuckle stupidly. They were both resigned to die.

At least her parents wouldn’t be hurt by her death. They would never know.

And Harry—she could regret that. He had just lost Ginny and now he was going to lose her. She prayed that Ron would stay strong and help their friend recover. She prayed that they would live long happy lives with no more of the crazy shit that seemed to plague their lives.

She laughed suddenly, tearfully.

“A beggar am I, and a thief,” she whispered ironically, wondering where she’d heard those words. “That’s what I am.” Everything died, after all; every moment they had was stolen. Did she really want to live long enough to be the last one standing?

She thought she understood the story finally, at long last. She had taken it so literally, believing Ron was the beggar and herself the Princess. Then she’d believed that Ron had been the Prince, because his kingdom had seemed so perfect for her but hadn’t been what she needed, and Draco was the beggar, a rich beggar who thieved without even a twinge of conscience.

But that wasn’t it.

The story hadn’t been about Princesses and Princes and thieves. It had been about a woman so set in her views of what she was ‘right’ that she’d been unwilling to see the good in anyone or anything else. And when she found her ‘perfect’ kingdom, she also found crushing disappointment. Her perfection had been just as fallible and vulnerable to corruption as the people and places she shunned. Only when she was forced to see the wider world had the woman realized her own ideal perfection wasn’t the only goodness in the world.

The Princess had gotten to marry and live happily ever after.

It was too late for Hermione.

She wished she hadn’t judged so harshly. She wished she’d spent less time being angry and miserable that the world wasn’t perfect and fair. She wished she’d been less uptight about things like rules and work and had been more able to forgive people their faults.

She wished she’d been able to forgive herself her faults. Her own worst critic had always been herself. Nothing she did had ever been good enough to satisfy her. It was no wonder she’d driven the boys crazy at Hogwarts.

She was growing light headed from blood loss now.

She was sad. So sad and so sorry. She hoped Scorpius would forget her. It would be less painful that way. Or maybe Draco would tell the boy again that she was Mudblood. Then he wouldn’t be sad anymore.

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“Not done.” She mumbled and blinked dizzily when she realized she’d spoken aloud. She cast another numbing charm and a mild something to staunch the blood that was leaking through her bandages.

Slowly, carefully, she got to her feet. She wasn’t done yet. She had to protect Scorpius. She hadn’t been able to pass her Muggleborn protection on to him. He was still vulnerable. Malfoy had been useless as usual. This was up to her.

“I don’t care what Jeremy says, they’ll never be able to touch you way up here.” She determinedly turned back to the holding area. “I’m releasing them.” She told Red. “I’m releasing them all and we’re tearing this place apart.”

She waited for the Ettin to stop her. It didn’t.

EPILOGUE

Hermione, Draco knew, would not have been at all surprised to learn that he’d lied to her. She undoubtedly would have acted surprised, would have given a performance to put any pureblooded woman to shame, berated him and cursed him and hit him, but there would not have been any actual surprise.

Just anger and resentment and disappointment, as if she expected complete honesty from him. Which was just irrational and weird as far as he was concerned.

He had lied to her about many things and he wasn’t sorry for any of them. Except one. It weighed heavily on his mind, but only because he was sorry it wasn’t true.

He’d shouted it, sworn to her face that he had changed. That he was a new man and a far cry from that stupid, weepy seventeen-year-old who had been useless to his family and friends. Gutless and frightened.

He’d lied.

He was still a coward and still frightened. Fear ruled his life. Fear made his every decision.

He’d been terrified of the Ettin. Run-far-away-and-hide terrified. It was Hermione that had made him brave.

He had wanted to bring her to the Manor from the moment he’d heard about Stonehenge’s warning. But he’d been too much of a coward there as well. He’d been embarrassed and ashamed of what the tabloids would say about the Malfoy family cozying up with a Mudblood. What would the neighbors think?

How pathetic was that? To be more afraid of rumor-mongering and name-calling and a bit of hurt pride then of impending death and disaster?

It was just that he’d felt so helpless since taking the Lordship. He had no idea how to be a Lord. Lucius had shaken his head, looking aggrieved and called it his own failure as a father that his son still had no idea how to be a man. The words had cut him right to the core.

His father had refused to give him advice on how to lead the family after that and Severus had written it into his will that they were not to make a portrait of him under any circumstances and when Draco had gone to the pureblood fathers of his friends for advice, he’d been given useless platitudes and mindless repetitions of old pureblood sayings and standards. It had left frustrated and confused.

Didn’t these people have minds of their own? Thoughts? Opinions?

Oh, but he was one of them wasn’t he. The worst one. The weakest in character, the weakest in will.

The Lordship ruled him. He was much too weak-willed to fight it and more and more of his decisions were taken from him each day until he felt like a mindless puppet. Just another perfect pureblood.

Then Hermione had come.

She had been like a breath of fresh air or maybe more like a wild fire. Warmth and wind and strength and soul. He’d longed for her. He’d cackled to himself and gloated about all the circles he was plotting around her. She would never beat him in this game and he would prove his own cunning and superiority. Back then he’d cringed at the thought of her dirty Mudblood mouth. He’d imagined her laying kisses on Scorpius’ chubby cheeks and shuddered in horror.

They had been beautiful together, the woman and his child. So warm.

He could be so strong around her. His fear had felt a long way off. First because he had thought just her presence would protect him and then because she was a part of him and so he must be brave too. And he was.

But how does one Court a Muggleborn? Especially amidst battle? He knew by heart every rule on how to treat a pureblood lady he meant to court. He knew how to profess his intentions through ancient rite. He knew what gifts were appropriates and how many chaperones were needed and how many times a week he was allowed to accost her.

He had absolutely no idea what a Muggleborn woman would expect from him. Everything he did seemed to insult Hermione. How was he to keep her from fighting him when it was over? He’d given her a child. He’d given her power in the Ministry. He’d given her his body. She seemed dissatisfied with it all. So hard to please. What had he overlooked?

He didn’t know. He’d never know because he’d failed. She’d left him. Purposely. Of her own free will.

And in doing so, she had freed him.

The magic of the Lordship had wanted to let her die in his place. But that wasn’t what he wanted and, for the first time, his will was stronger than the magic of his family. He couldn’t let her die. Especially not after what he’d done to Synnove, the loss of whom was fresh and finally hitting home as the magic lost its grip on him. It was the Lord Malfoy’s job to protect his family, as far as Draco was concerned, just like his father had protected him. He’d failed miserably up to that point.

He failed again.

He’d woken in a hospital bed with a happily chatting Scorpius in his arms. His mother had gently explained to him that Hermione had never come home and that the alien ship had gone wildly out of control nearly an hour and a half after Draco’s return. The ship had finally plummeted down toward Earth where it was immediately set upon by Muggle missiles and artillery. The explosion was said to have been magnificent.

“Do not worry, father!” Scorpius had crowed happily. “Mama Her-mee-nee went up into the sky to fight the monsters. She will not allow them to return here because she loves me.” Draco could only pull the boy to his chest and bury his face in his son’s sweet-smelling hair.

Lost. Lost is how he felt.

Oftentimes his son would go running out into the Manor grounds first thing in the morning and wave wildly at the sky, hoping his mother would see him. Sometimes Draco wanted to try it too.

He considered Obliviating both himself and his son but Potter was coping with the loss of his wife, Potter who lost bits and pieces of himself all over the place, and so Draco felt like a coward and couldn’t go through with it.

Lucius like to pretend he couldn’t understand his son’s lassitude.

Draco’s grand plans had all come to fruition, hadn’t they? He had won. Most of his family’s enemies were dead and he had firmly established himself as a leader and a figure of power and authority to both Muggleborns and purebloods.

He could find no interest in any of it. It was worthless.

He had used the Muggleborn girl to get what he wanted and now he had no further use for her, the Lordship magic told him.

He ached so fiercely for her.

He should review the recording the house-elf had made for him of Potter’s entrance into the Chamber of Secrets and the resurrection of the Metal Beast, the Lordship tempted, and see if he couldn’t get down there and call the Beast back from space to its place of birth. If he could master the Beast, the magical world was his for the taking.

Draco ignored it.

He needed to produce a new heir, the Lordship demanded, a perfect heir to replace his defective one.

Draco shut the magic out from his mind completely and locked himself in the Manor, away from the world.

Outside, the MR and the Purebloods had come to blows in their power struggle over the Ministry of Magic. The violence escalated to the brink of war, to near devastation, and that was when the common people finally stood up. The sheep that had allowed themselves to be slaughtered by Voldemort, penned and bullied by the Ministry and told what to think by whoever owned the newspaper at the time, finally got on their feet and told both factions to back the fuck off before things got ugly. To Draco’s amazement, several pureblood families even stood by their adoptive Muggleborn families.

The people were tired of war, tired of fear and bloodshed and, so help them, if the fools dragged them and their families into this there would be a purging a la the French Revolution.

Both sides had quickly backed down.

“Ahh,” Lucius had given a nostalgic, almost tender sigh from where he watched the induction of a tentative peace. “I shall miss the screams.”

“You’re looking . . . well.”

Draco calmly sipped his Cognac and ignored Harry Potter’s sneering gaze.

It was warm on the terrace. Even under the delicate canopy he could feel the burn of the summer sun beating down on the lush gardens of Malfoy manor. Draco surreptitiously cast a cooling charm and gathered the documents he’d been reviewing, stacking them and setting them to the side.

“And your manor is looking so nice,” Potter mocked. “I heard you paid for the restorations with funds pilfered from the MR.”

Draco neither confirmed nor denied. With an irritated sigh, Potter plopped rudely down in the chair across from him and Draco frowned, shooting a glance behind him.

“Scorpius! Albus! Stop chasing the poor peacocks,” he rebuked the children.

Potter snorted.

“What is it you want, Potter?” Draco asked finally when ignoring Potter didn’t make him go away.

Potter eyed him, coldly reticent. “I wanted to thank you for supporting Hermione’s laws.”

Draco nodded curtly, still avoiding Potter’s gaze.

“And I’m . . . sorry, that I nearly killed you and Crucio’d you in front of your son.” He grit out the words as if physically pained him.

Draco wondered suspiciously where this was going. It sounded like Potter needed a favor. He cleared his throat and joked lightly, “Hey, my arms were broken or else I would have kicked my own ass.” The attempt at humor fell flat and the two men sat silently, nursing old wounds. “I should have known she would do something stupid. . . . It was my fault.” He absently fingered the scarred-over bullet wound in his chest from Jeremy Lestrange’s attempted assassination.

A year later and he still lay awake at night wondering why—why had she chosen to die?

He didn’t like to think that she had done it to escape him, but he knew that was one of her reasons. He didn’t like to think that she did it deliberately to hurt him. But he couldn’t help thinking she had succeeded.

She had done it so she wouldn’t have to grieve for him, he knew. She’d done it to avoid the chance that Scorpius would not survive the trip back and she would have to hold the child she loved dead in her arms.

Draco glanced over to where the two little boys were spinning in circles with their arms out until they toppled over. He grimaced. They had just eaten lunch.

She’d done it to prove that, after everything he’d forced on her, she would have done it all of her own free will. If only he’d asked.

She’d done it to prove that he was a fool.

“What is it, Potter. Spit it out,” Draco snapped, tired of watching his childhood nemesis squirm and struggle with himself.

Potter wet his lips, face oddly closed and distant. “Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?”

Draco’s mouth tightened and he answered dryly, “From Hermione’s book. Yes. Amusing story.”

Potter held out his hand, palm up, and unclenched curled fingers.

Draco stared at the ring. “What is it?”

“It’s a Hallow.”

The blond was confused for an instant and then he paled and lurched to his feet furiously. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.” Potter returned flatly. He sounded odd, Draco realized. “I’ve had conversations with Ginny, with my parents, with Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. I even spoke with Professor Snape.”

Draco stared at the ring, hardly daring to believe. “You can’t be serious.” He chanced a look at Potter’s empty expression and snarled, turning quickly away. He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing restlessly. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t know what to say. It’d be unfair. I. . . .”

Potter just sat there with ring proffered.

Clenching his eyes and gathering his nerves, Draco snatched the ring and put it on. “How does it work?”

“You just call for her,” Potter said quietly, never taking his eyes off Draco.

“Well nothing’s happening. This is a stupid prank, Potter.”

“It’s not a prank.”

“Nothing’s happening!” Draco’s voice rose. “Ha ha ha. Very funny. I can’t believe you’d mock her memory like that. I didn’t think you’d go so low.”

“IT’S NOT A FUCKING JOKE!” Potter screamed at him.

“THEN WHERE IS SHE?” Draco screamed back.

Potter’s eyes bored into his, gaze intense.

Draco’s eyes widened.

I would fly up to the moon and back if you'll be...

If you'll be my baby

I've got a ticket for a world where we belong

So would you be my baby?

END

“Bus Stop”, Marmalade Fever

Rating: T

Published: December 1, 2006

Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3268063/1/Bus-Stop

Summary: Every morning, Draco and Hermione meet at the bus stop. A romance revolving around an umbrella.

You can read the fic on FFN.

“My Life As a House Elf”, clannoire/just call me Cappy

Rating: T

Published: November 19, 2002

Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1073974/1/My_Life_As_a_House_Elf

Summary: When Hermione is turned into a House elf by an irritated wizard in Knockturn Alley, she finds herself being bought and hired to ... who else, but the Malfoys?

You can read the fic on FFN.

“The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man”, ianthewaiting

Rating: T

Published: February 18, 2008

Link 1: https://ianthe-waiting.livejournal.com/53085.html

Link 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12927927/chapters/29542455

Summary: Ten years after the fall of the Dark Lord, Hermione Granger leads of life of self-imposed obscurity, that is, until the day Headmistress Minerva McGonagall is murdered and a certain 'hero' is responsible.

You can read the fic on LJ or AO3.

“Parade of the Sun”, everythursday

Rating: NC-17

Published: December 22, 2009 for dmhgficexchange’s Ring in the New Year event

Link 1: https://dmhgficexchange.livejournal.com/343119.html

Link 2: https://www.patreon.com/posts/41697057

Summary: Floralis Fati is a plant with the power to control time, hidden in the wild, and protected by a magic that strips people of their own while seeking to kill them. Hermione wants it to save the world. Draco wants it to save himself. Sometimes what we want can destroy us -- and sometimes it can build us new again.

Download the epub/mobi version for free on my Patreon.

“Across Enemy Lines”, Gypsy Silverleaf

Rating: K+

Published: October 1999 *THE FIRST DRAMIONE FANFIC*

Link 1: http://www.harrypotterrealm.com/webmistress/acrossa.html

Link 2: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9608/7/Enemy-Series-Story-1-Across-Enemy-Lines

Summary: The first Draco and Hermione romance to ever hit Fanfiction.net back in late 1999! Dealing with the romance of Draco and Hermione, and the prejudices they face at Hogwarts.

You can read the fic on HPR or FFN.

Table of Contents

“I Think I May Need You”, everythursday

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

“Judas Iscariot”, zarahjoyce

“Three Steps Forward, One Step Back”, ldymusyc

“A Place Called Home”, everythursday

“Swing Time”, Bambu

“Room Serviced”, pir8fancier

“The Lions of December”, Gravidy

“Vista dal Cielo”, streetscribbles

“Stone Dragons”, Gravidy

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Epilogue:

“The Beggar-Thief”, Gravidy

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

“Bus Stop”, Marmalade Fever

“My Life As a House Elf”, clannoire/just call me Cappy

“The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man”, ianthewaiting

“Parade of the Sun”, everythursday

“Across Enemy Lines”, Gypsy Silverleaf