False Dice by phlox

Written for the Dramione-Remix LJ Fest, 2011. Prompt couple: Beatrice & Benedick, "Much Ado About Nothing."

What I've always found most compelling about the play is the implication that B & B had been involved before. Just how hurt would each of them have to be to strike out at each other so fiercely? Draco and Hermione fit so perfectly into this premise that a direct adaptation was irresistible.

This fic owes a debt to the conventions of AU wizarding war set down by everythursday in her most excellent epic, "The Fallout." As usual, *I'm* indebted to eucalyptus for her tireless efforts as beta.

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Don Pedro Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.

Beatrice Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one:
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.

Don Pedro You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.

Beatrice So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools.

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~ * ACT ONE * ~

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Harry sighed.

It wasn't a great sigh, but it was the kind of sigh most people would be surprised to hear. Because if there was one thing the general public believed Harry Potter excelled at, it was suffering, and that they assumed he did in silence. Those who were close to him, however, knew that he could suffer as loudly and self-indulgently as anyone, but he was (usually) forgiven for that straight away. After all, he was the Savior of the Wizarding World, and could be allowed a bad mood or two.

It had been less than an hour. Less than an hour since they'd taken back the Ministry from Death Eater control. A mere forty-five minutes had passed since the announcement that with the good news had also come the bad: two of the largest safe houses had been compromised, and they would have to hunker-down at Grimmauld Place until the situation stabilized. It had been a half-hour from the time they'd heard of the bravery that had distinguished Draco, Pansy and Daphne in the action. Those who had been left behind, unable to take part, had stewed in envy and reluctant admiration awaiting their arrival.

Barely ten minutes had passed since the victorious warriors had stumbled from the Floo into the front parlor. It was the only bright room in the house, with large east-facing windows lined up on one side. Just after sunrise, the room was bathed in bright, unforgiving light, mercilessly showing the dust in the air, the faded glory of the aged furniture, and the exhaustion of everyone therein. The wounded and shell-shocked had been moved to the back parlor, which was larger, darker, and quieter, leaving the room filled with the buzzing of new and cautious celebration.

Five minutes ago, Ron and Pansy had finally declared their feelings for each other to everyone in attendance. Well, they'd expressed them aloud; everyone was already well aware of each and every public and dramatic delight they'd been taking in one another for the past six months running. Harry was happy for Ron and Pansy. He would have been happy for anyone forging a relationship in the middle of war, and he truly wanted the best for them, but he wished the demonstrations of their feelings were not quite so inappropriately timed.

Now, though Harry was thrilled at the remarkably few casualties and the warm, nearly-forgotten feeling of hope blossoming in his chest, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sent up a futile prayer for fortitude. Because he could deal with Ron, Pansy and the blush of young lovers. It was his patience for the battle that currently waged between Malfoy and Hermione that had just run out.

It was maddening that now, at a time of rejoicing, a mere hour since the greatest victory they'd had in the war, they were incapable of putting their differences to rest. Harry had been surprised at the fury with which Hermione had fought Malfoy's defection, not buying for a second that he was sincere when showing up with Snape, Pansy Parkinson, and Daphne Greengrass on the very day they all should have been boarding the Hogwarts Express for their seventh year.

But Harry had seen something in Malfoy then, especially in the way he'd defended Snape in the short firefight that had ensued, with all four Slytherins casting only defensive spells until emotions had cooled enough to talk and listen. The opinion of Malfoy he'd formed that night on the Astronomy Tower solidified; Harry understood the lengths a son would go to keep his parents safe. The determination in Malfoy's eyes showed Harry a mirror of his own.

He knew, deep down in the gut he'd learned over the course of years to trust, that he and Malfoy would be going after Voldemort together. This opinion had been shared throughout the Order, so that over the course of the last year or so, Malfoy had been accepted. Not embraced mind you, though sometimes Harry thought that was due more to the bloke's prickly nature than lingering suspicion.

Hermione, on the other hand, had fought Malfoy's presence with a vehemence that overshadowed even Ron's, and Harry hadn't been able to figure out exactly why. After all, she had always been the most level-headed and forgiving of the three of them. By this point, she was certainly resigned to his presence and seemed even friendly with Pansy and Daphne, but with Malfoy, well... the two of them seemed to delight in tormenting each other on each and every occasion. Thus, all assignments and strategies had to take into account the need to keep them as far apart as possible.

Harry didn't get the kind of entertainment out of their skirmishes that others did. Although the word for what they inspired could better be described as 'stimulation;' there were those who didn't find it the least amusing and who could be counted on to huff and puff and fill the room with as much hot air as the two in question.

Seamus was apparently one. "I can't take this," he spat. "It's disgusting how they go on about each other." His eyes were narrowed, his cheeks were flushed, his face twisted.

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see if something more than the idiocy that was Malfoy and Hermione could have inspired such anger, but Seamus made a deep growling noise that had him turning back. Harry watched as he pushed through those assembled, making for the door and, presumably, solitude. Good luck finding it here, Harry thought.

Looking ahead to a week (at the very least) of being shut up in close quarters with more than three dozen members of the Order of the Phoenix, a throbbing pain formed behind his temples. Harry decided breakfast, propriety, and the bloody yardarm could go hang.

He needed a drink.

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Hermione blinked against the harsh whiteness of the morning sun, the taste in her mouth sour from too much coffee and too little sleep. Her mood was just as tart, but that was another story. She wanted to be happy about the fresh victory at the Ministry, to rejoice in the turn of the tide in the Second Great Wizarding War, but she couldn't keep herself from being bothered long enough to feel it.

Ron and Pansy had been dancing the same dizzying and public dance for months now, and she couldn't possibly be the only one itching for them to be done with it already. Surely the rest of those assembled in the front parlor were feeling the same sense of anticipation. (Of course, they could all have chosen to go on about their lives, but the intricacy of people's personal business was far more enjoyable to focus on than the war.)

"Blimey, Pans, what if something had happened to you?" Ron said, kneeling by where she sat on the sofa, his eyes wide and mournful on a cut that ran along her forearm. It was shallow and had probably stopped bleeding long before the wound had reached his notice, but he held and stroked that arm as though he could heal it with the power of wishful thinking.

He could have healed it with his wand, Hermione thought, but they seemed to be getting too much mileage out of it to bother with charms.

"Something could happen to any one of us any time, Weasley," said Pansy with her chin high. "Where's that Gryffindor courage? This is war."

Hermione had to admit she was quite good at theatrics. Slytherin cunning, and all that.

"Don't talk like that. You know if I could keep you out of it, I..." He shook his head, but his look was fierce and sincere.

Pansy's expression and voice softened to match. "Yes. I know. But you know I have to fight. If it means just one more day closer to my father being back with me—" She cut off, choked-up, and there was no performance this time.

Bennett Parkinson had been pressed into Voldemort's service years ago, and his desire to leave it had prompted his wife's exile in France, and his daughter's flight to the Order of the Phoenix. Pansy regarded it as a race against the clock to get this war finished to save him, and she'd made enough entreaties to the Ministry on his behalf that she'd been assured it wouldn't just be a one-way ticket to Azkaban for him when it was all over.

If they could get in touch with him, that is. They needed to bring him into the fold to be sure that his intentions were as honorable as his daughter's assertion.

Ron was suddenly flushed bright red, and he cleared his throat three times in preparation to speak. Hermione shifted forward from where she leaned against the grand piano in anticipation; there was something big about to be said, if she knew Ronald Weasley at all, and she did indeed know him well.

"Erm... listen, Pans. I'm not sure about this and all, but I was talking to my dad about your dad, and we've tried to make contact with him, you see." He cleared his throat for a fourth time. "We haven't succeeded yet, but..." He raised his head for the next bit, and his expression was resolute. "I'm gonna make sure he's okay, Pans. 'Cause there's something really important I'm going to need to ask him, something I'm going to need his permission for when this is all over."

Hermione's eyebrows must have disappeared into her hairline. Ron was a good and honest man, and he would do what he could for his friends whenever he could, but this very clear promise, in front of everyone there, proved to her that he was as earnest as could be in his affection for this witch.

Pansy raised her head, a tear still clinging to the corner of her right eye, and looked down at him with much the same level of shock. Blooming around the edges, however, was wonder and affection. For the first time, Hermione could see what Ron saw in Pansy; beyond the pinched features, pale face, and blunt cut of her black hair, she was a lovely girl. Moreover, she was a girl in love.

Ron didn't see this change, as he'd dropped his head and was focusing all of his sheepish attention on the scratch on her arm. "Look, I didn't tell you 'cause I didn't want to get your hopes up—" His speech was cut off by Pansy's two hands grabbing his face to tip it upward and by her two lips as they came crashing down upon his own.

It must be said, the collective sigh of relief was quite plain. Hermione's was possibly the most obvious, but she did note Ginny, Luna, and Dean smiling and shaking their heads, while the twins hooted and hollered vaguely dirty suggestions and play-by-play commentary.

Hermione was sorry to see Ron's technique hadn't seemed to have improved much since the Lavender interlude of sixth year, but Pansy seemed quite taken with his enthusiasm as she shimmied her way off of the sofa and into his lap on the floor. Their spirited (and not soon to wane, by the look of things) snogging session had pride of place in the very center of the parlor.

"Well, I must say I was beginning to doubt all this talk of lions and courage and all that," Daphne said, pulling her long, blonde hair out of its ponytail and brushing her fingers through it with an exhausted sigh as she sat at the far end of that same sofa. "But well played, Weasley."

"I wouldn't go that far," Draco said, pulling his cloak from around his neck, "but even I can't come up with anything nasty to say. Good show, Weasel." He was still standing near the Floo, and though he was sweaty and dirt-streaked from battle, he spoke with a near-sincerity that almost gave Hermione pause.

Almost.

"Is that you back there, Malfoy?" she said, craning her neck dramatically around the people and furniture that separated them. "I hadn't seen you, and had hoped against hope..." She sighed. "Still alive then, I see."

Draco turned to face her, and his exhaustion disintegrated in an instant. "Looking for me, were you? You seem to always have your eye out for me, Granger."

Hermione was suddenly feeling every buzzing ounce of the coffee she'd drunk. It was Fred and George's call to action, and they turned about taking bets in hushed voices; Hermione was pleased to note that this time they were giving her odds.

"'Eye out' you say? Aptly put. I want to pokemy eye out each time one or the other comes in contact with that pasty, pointy face of yours." She raised her hand to her brow, shielding her eyes like a visor. "In this light, you're nearly blinding. Have some pity and put a bag over it. Most of us haven't slept." Her hand fell to land on her hip, and her posture stretched to her full height.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Is that so? Sorry to hear you had trouble sleeping, bundled up all safe and warm while others did the dirty work."

There was a chorus of reaction from the room – 'oohs' and 'ahhs' mixed with some offended hisses – but Hermione wasn't going to take the bait. Her tone remained light as she said, "I'm always happy to be safe in bed, far away from that pathetic slash and stab you call dueling. It's a miracle there were no casualties from your friendly fire."

Draco's eyes fairly sparkled and his grin was slow as he said, "You seem to spend an awful lot of time in bed fixated on my wand work, Granger." His voice lowered an octave and his smirk was lascivious.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but was startled by a sudden giggle from Pansy, and she glanced over to see Ron nuzzle into her neck, embracing her tightly as he murmured against her skin. Immediately following, Seamus knocked into a spindly tea table, mumbling darkly on a furious zig-zag out of the room. When she focused back on Malfoy, his stance was victorious.

"Nothing to be frightened of, Granger. Just a little kissing," Draco said, his voice low, intimate. "It doesn't even have to mean anything, now does it?" His look was pointed.

Hermione's head spun. How dare he, she thought. He had no right to speak of any of it.

"Wrong, Malfoy," she forced out, softly, shaking her head. "It's words that are meaningless. Actions are everything."

She wasn't sure if the room had actually gone quiet or if the blood rushing in her ears was blotting out all sound, but she was suddenly blind to everything and everybody in the room save for the tunnel that lead to him. Draco's eye twitched, and there was a hint of something there before the smirk took over his face and obliterated any actual, human emotion.

"Well, it's when you've never actually seen any action that everything looms so large." He walked toward her, his gaze harshly pitying. "I'm sure if you wanted some experience, someone would offer to break you in." He stopped in front of her, the slight flare of his nostrils the only sign that he was anything but amused. After just a moment's pause where she struggled to hold his heavy gaze, he made a dismissive sound and strode confidently out of the room.

At his exit, it was like her ears popped, and the noise and the presence of the others in the room assaulted her with full force. She internally shook herself, her heart racing, but outwardly rolled her eyes and affected her best bored expression. It was good she had her poker face on. If she didn't know it from the twisting of her stomach, she would by the money changing hands around her that he'd won that round.

She was a champion though, and she shook it off. But seeing Harry pouring a few fingers-worth of firewhisky into a tumbler, she thought he might have the right idea.

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His eye was twitching again. It happened when he was incredibly agitated, but even then, almost exclusively when he was tired. And Draco was so, so tired, he wasn't sure he'd even known the meaning of the word before this morning.

It was especially important to note that he was flat-out knackered, as this time the twitch definitely wasn't because she'd gotten to him. Were she to think she'd actually succeeded in getting under his skin, he'd have to flay himself alive to dig her out, and that he would do right in front of her, just so she could see just how little he was affected by—

Draco sighed. He was just so exhausted.

He needed this rest; they all did. Being forced to lay low at Grimmauld for the next week or so, as unpleasant as some aspects of it would be, was going to be a great gift. Draco hadn't been here in over six weeks, which meant he hadn't seen her in all that time. He, Pansy, and Daphne were kept busy and out of the way at locations in Scotland and Ireland most of the time, and that suited him fine.

They'd grown into very skilled fighters over the past year, and this victory last night was theirs. Since it had been deemed too dangerous to involve the precious Trio, they'd been given a special chance to distinguish themselves, delivering the greatest prize of the war to the Light. Now, with the Ministry back in their hands and significant numbers of Death Eaters captured or killed in the process, they were where they needed to be to prepare for the final blow.

From what Draco could gather from all the vague implications made by Potter, which only Granger and Weasley ever seemed to understand, enough had been done in preparation that they were ready to go after the snake. He wasn't going to count that win before it happened, though. Not until he saw the red-eyed monster dead with his own eyes.

Having dragged his weary arse up two dark flights of stairs, he pushed open the door to the room he shared with his two best friends. Draco had expected stale air and the general disarray of a room abandoned for weeks, but then, he always underestimated Mrs Weasley's need to keep house. It usually gained intensity depending how much she was worried and in need of distraction, and even though she wasn't terribly friendly with the three of them, she did enjoy a good cleaning challenge where she could get it.

The beds were crisply made with new linens, the clothes they'd left scattered about in haste were now cleaned and put away, and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the writing desk. Mrs Weasley had apparently been very concerned indeed about the raid on the Ministry. Draco couldn't care less about the woman's opinion or trust, but he was grateful for the service. She was dead useful in this house, and she did seem to be warming to him, if portion size was any indication. (Side glances at Potter's servings seemed to signify that it was.)

The three 'defectors' (as they'd been termed) had been given Regulus' room at Harry's insistence. It had taken Draco a while to grasp the significance of it, as he'd known nothing of his late relative's history before he arrived. As it was, the details were a bit hazy, but the gist of the story was that he'd died defying the Dark Lord. It wasn't something that would have been talked about with pride by the Blacks or the Malfoys, so Draco was hardly shocked that he'd not heard of it. He'd had been cheered by the comparison to Regulus, however, and proud to count himself amongst those who had defied the Dark Lord.

No one stayed in Sirius' room, though. Not even when the house was full to bursting as it was now would the sanctity of that room be disturbed. Draco had also gotten the full story of the last son of the Noble House of Black in bits and pieces, but he'd been stunned at the vast chasm that separated public perception from the true man.

He had to admit the reverence in which the man was held was warranted. The singleness of purpose that had sustained Sirius over the course of twelve years in Azkaban, not to mention his unprecedented escape from the fortress, was admirable by any measure. That he'd dog-paddled across the North Sea and traveled the breadth of Scotland with no other thought than to reach his godson was a sign of unshakeable character.

By any standard and to anyone who mattered, Sirius Black was a hero.

But Draco had crossed a gulf just as wide, cold, and treacherous when he'd made the passage from the life of his childhood, his family, his home, to come to the Order. Draco was a hero in his own mind; he knew how difficult the journey had been, and he was a changed man, stripped of all pride and pretense, on the other side of it.

She didn't see it that way, though. She couldn't forgive what he'd done, expecting more as though the world was full of infallible creatures, and as if she could expect perfection from a teenage boy. She'd spent her adolescence with the likes of Harry Potter though, so her standards gave no slack for human frailty or circumstance. What made Draco the most angry, however, was that he should have known it was coming; this unyielding judgment, these impossible expectations.

"Loyalty," she'd said, her voice low but clear. She didn't need to whisper; the library was empty, and Madame Pince was far on the other side.

"'Loyalty?' That's what you think is the most admirable trait?" he'd scoffed, leaning in, elbows on the table. "A dog is loyal." He'd affected a wide-eyed look of apology then, snidely backpedaling. "Oh, I see, you're talking about Weasley. My apologies."

She'd ignored the gibe. "Dogs are obedient, Malfoy. They follow their masters." She'd said this pointedly.

Draco had known what she'd been inelegantly hinting at. "A man can be loyal to a lot of things, Granger. To all kinds of people and ideals. The trait in itself isn't admirable."

She'd sat up straight then, and it was clear a speech was coming. Truth be told, he'd grown to sort of enjoy her speechifying and preaching over the last couple of months. What had started as a mutual need for a rare Arithmancy text in the Hogwarts Library had become the one thing in his life that brought him comfort sixth year.

When he'd been with Granger, he hadn't had room left in his brain to think about anything else. She'd taken up all the thought processes, the emotion, the oxygen he used to function, and for the time he'd spent with her, the world had been blessedly silent beyond the edges of the space she inhabited. He'd begun to seek her out, to yearn for her company in what time he could spare from fixing the Vanishing Cabinet.

"There's always one moment of truth, when one has to take a stand, choose a side. That moment says everything about a person, and it will all come down to loyalty," she'd said, her eyes ablaze with sheer conviction, and he was mesmerized by her capacity for it. "What is it that means the most to that person? What are their values? Just how far will they stick their neck out to defend them? And most importantly, are they worthwhile or are they self-serving?" She'd leaned in, speaking conspiratorially. "A person can be loyal only to himself, but that's obviously not noble. It's in the object of their loyalty that a person's character is found. That's why it's the most important, and why I always have my eye out for it."

Slightly overwhelmed, he'd not been able to respond to that with anything but snark. "Well, with standards that high, you'll never be having it off, Granger, I'm sorry to say. No one could measure up to that."

She'd blushed so prettily then it had taken his breath away, stopped time, or whatever ridiculous cliché fit to explain how this moment, this image of her, would stay always in his mind's eye. Looking down, straightening her papers, she'd said, "No one said anything about..." She'd gestured daintily but ineffectually. Clearing her throat, she'd continued, "Arithmancy is due tomorrow, so... What did you get for seventeen?" She'd kept her eyes averted, and he'd been able to study her for a long moment.

He'd been so tired. His eyes had seemed like they were in a perpetual state of dry burning, and he'd not been able to recognize his face in the mirror underneath the circles shadowing them for months. But still, though he wasn't yet at the point where he could admit it to himself, he'd wanted to be a man she could admire. This wide-eyed Gryffindor had thought that the world was that simple, and Draco had yearned to live in such a place, where right and wrong were so clear-cut.

But now, he wasn't about to apologize; he hadn't since and he wouldn't. He'd done what he had to do to keep his parents safe, just as much as what he was doing now was accomplishing the same. All of this talk of 'ends' and 'objects' of actions was too much to put on a person.

What he was doing now was ensuring that his mum and dad were able to stay in the safe house in which they were ensconced. Though at first he'd felt like he was trading for their protection by risking his life for the Order, he'd finally made a shift in his thinking. Draco would defeat the Dark Lord, he would contribute to the end of Voldemort, because that would be what made the world safe for his family.

What he'd done and tried to do in sixth year had been to accomplish the same though, and he was done splitting hairs with that swotty prude.

A shower was in order, Draco decided. He pulled clean, neatly-folded clothes from the wardrobe, grabbed thick, fluffy towels, and headed for the sweet-smelling loo. Every muscle in his body needed a nice, long soak in civilization.