Title: The Vanishing Act
Chapter Rating: T. For language right now. Going to go M to be safe though.
A/N: I got inspiration for this one from a night watching the Illusionist, which, by the way, is an excellent film. I know I swore not to begin a WIP before finishing Hermione Granger is a Whore, but this just came to me and I had to write it down. I can't decide whether this will be a short or long series; I haven't mapped out the exact story-line. To tell you the truth, I'm not really looking forward to an epic, but we'll see. No betas for this chapter (trust me, for later ones–if there are later ones–there will be), so any mistakes should not be taken with a grain of salt, but rather, pointed out to me. I appreciate feedback, too, if you read it. With that, I bid you adieu.
xxx
He sat cloaked on the tiny stage, seemingly weary, his white-blond strands falling lackadaisically into his eyes. The theatre was buzzing with liveliness and a general excitement that could have filled an auditorium ten times its size. The crowd was huge, and, accordingly, each person was packed so tightly with the others that it was nearly impossible for one to not know his or her neighbour.
A young woman sat between two considerably large men, her eyes intent on the performer. "The one with such a peculiar name," they called him. They said he could do amazing tricks, perform remarkable illusions. They said sometimes that they often wondered whether his was an illusion at all. Children who knew no better likened it to "magic."
He grunted but few noticed; those who did failed to quiet the crowd. The roar persisted as he prepared for his act.
"Quiet, please," he offered demurely, and a slight shush became the audience, but those in the back still shouted raucously.
He held up what appeared to be a small rod, trembling in his pale hand like it was intimidated by its captor. It looked as though it pained him to blink his eyes, but he did so slowly. "Silencio!" he roared, and the crowed fell unwittingly silent. Some opened their mouths to speak, others to gasp, but predictably, each produced no sound at all.
He looked up thoughtfully. "Where I come from, speaking out of turn was considered rude." A slight, perverse smirk formed at the creases of his lips. "If you were not silent when told to be so, you were silenced."
The crowd looked on with eager eyes. "Finite incantatem." Gasps were heard finally as he lifted the spell, ending the illusion. People whispered incredulously, fervently debating what they'd just experienced.
"Most people think," he began, his voice gentle but stern, unforgiving–like his grey eyes–"that there must be an explanation for everything. What I just did does not apply to your laws of physics. Am I right?" He looked expectantly at the crowd.
"Hmm." He nodded his head, seemingly disappointed. "Legilimens. Legilimens. Legilimens. Legilimens. Aha! You, sir." He pointed to a scrawny man in the middle row wearing large spectacles and a cynical expression on his face. "George Wilson. You're a physicist, right? Yes, when you were younger you engineered weapons for the state, but have since retired. In 2001, that is. So tell me, do my so-called 'tricks' conform to the laws of physics?"
The man shook his head vigorously, looking frightened.
"He's a fake! He planted that man!" A slight murmur rose in the crowd.
"Is that so?" the magician inquired, eyes gleaming. "Lebilicorpus!"
The protestor's body rose feet from the ground, his jaw remaining on the floor. "Legilimens!" The performer bellowed. "Is that so, Edward James Rouse? Am I a fake? Would your three-year-old daughter think I'm a fake? Eliza?" His tone was nearly menacing, but soon he released his subject and his face brightened.
"Avis!" A flock of canaries shot from his wand and flew to the petrified audience member. One landed on his forearm and transformed into a toy. "Give her that from me. You can tell her it's magic."
The man clutched his hands behind his back and began to pace across the stage. Soon, he disappeared from one spot to appear in another, a few feet away. Then, he spun tersely and was nowhere to be found. The audience gasped.
"But what is magic, anyway?" He soon floated from the balcony to the stage once more, traveling on some sort of rod he quickly transformed into a microphone. He looked at it curiously and it disappeared in a burst of flames. "Sonorus!"
This wasn't nearly the most impressive trick the man had performed, but for some reason, the woman between the two stocky men gasped. Her eyes suddenly became as wild as her hair, and for a moment, she locked them with his. She knew he recognized their exchange because when she said the word "magic" next, his voice faltered slightly.
"Surely sane adults do not believe in magic." With the way his cold eyes twinkled, she could not discern whether he was relieved or frightened. Or a mixture of both. "Magic is in the imaginative plans of childish endeavors," he elaborated, shaking her gaze from his. He summoned what appeared to be a unicorn from midair. It leapt gracefully on stage.
Someone in the audience whispered a bit too loudly, "How'd he get that horse to let him but a cone on his head?"
"Magic is for children who want to fly with unicorns," he offered, and pointed his want to the creature's horn. It began to lift off the ground, hanging by its appendage, dispelling all beliefs of fabrication. It let out a disgruntled "neigh" to let everyone know it was displeased.
"Petrificus totalus!" The animal froze and collapsed on the ground with a "clunk."
"Mobilicorpus," he whispered, and the unicorn drifted away.
The audience gasped too late for its members to have been genuinely amazed by the floating animal. There was something else.
"What is it?" The performer asked, apparently amused. "Is there something wrong?"
"What is that thing?" a startled woman shouted in the front row, disgusted.
"What thing?" another man asked.
The girl with the blazing eyes and bushy hair saw its faint outline. It was second to no other animal in its grace and majesty, yet its qualities were innately disturbing. It was much unlike the creature before–it was horse-like, yes, but its body lacked skin, and all major organs, for that matter. However, gigantic skeletal wings stretched across its spine in death-defying austerity. She knew suddenly who he was.
"Those of you who can see this illustrious creature are very brave. Those who cannot are lucky." He threw his hood off and nodded to the creature.
"What in the bloody hell is he going on about?"
It leapt into the air and through the theatre's skylight, crushing class into tiny shards on its way to the heavens. The magician quickly transformed them into gems, and the crowd went wild.
"Thank you for coming!" He shouted. Then he bowed, turned, and left.
"Excuse me!" the woman shouted at him, her voice urgent. "Sir!" Her cry was muted by the pandemonium that ensued as busy Londoners made their way home from the rousing soiree. She was nearly trampled as she rushed backstage, and then was stopped immediately.
"Ma'am, you can't go in there," a husky security guard informed her firmly.
"I need to see the performer."
"Next show's Thursday evenin'. You can see 'im then."
"No, you don't understand. I'm an old friend of his. He'll tell you."
The blond man returned from his dressing room, now clad in a striking black suit. He eyed the woman, and then his guards. "What seems to be the matter?"
"Nothin', sir. But, erm, this woman wanted to see you. Said she knew you. I wasn't about to let 'er in, though, not without your consent."
He laid his eyes upon her and they hardened. "That was a good decision, Madison. I don't know her," he lied.
She looked to him with pleading eyes. "Malfoy?"
"Guards!"
"Malfoy, it's me, it's Hermione Granger! We thought you were dead! Surely you remember!"
The corners of his mouth curved in disgust and he glared at her. "She's mad," he informed his guards. "Get her out of here."
She knew better than to use magic as they handled her with their cautious "ma'ams" and "misses." Nevertheless, he'd underestimated her. There were other ways to see Draco Malfoy, a man she had thought to be dead for six years.
She'd come this far on ministry orders. There was a documented disruption in a few back alleys of London that seemed suspicious–more so than the usual. Something about magical creatures, too. Ministry alarms went off right and left, but none as persistently as this one. This was strong, frivolous magic, and its frequency was too high and too focused to be a series of accidents or defensive measures. It was undocumented, nonetheless, so they sent her to investigate. She had hoped it would be a simple case of a muggle-born discovering his or her talents, but now she knew the circumstances were far vaster. She had been naive even to consider it.
She waited for him on the back steps, the chilly autumn breeze kissing her cheeks venomously. She knew bringing Draco Malfoy back to ministry headquarters wouldn't be an easy task, but she had to do it. To think, after all these years! Given time to dwell upon all that had occurred, she finally recognized the severity of reality. Here was her childhood enemy, her arch-nemesis, dealing in petty magic tricks. That unsufferable, pure-blooded prat, dealing with muggles and other plebeians on a regular basis. And here was the man she was certain had died six years ago. Snape told the Order that Voldemort disposed of him on account of his failure to kill a dying man. Severus said he died with the rest of his family, at the brutal hands of evil under the misnomer of justice. He said the boy redeemed himself at the end, and they all adopted a somber attitude toward him for weeks. The shock finally set in. Draco Malfoy was still alive.
Draco Malfoy was still alive.
How could they not have known? How didn't they figure it out? Surely Dumbledore could have left a hint. His portrait could have disclosed certain information. And why did Snape lie? After all he went through to regain the Order's trust, to prove he was still working for them, why would he lie? How could he deceive them so easily? All these years... her mind was spinning at a hundred miles a second. This was absurd. She couldn't possibly have been so blind. Draco Malfoy died before the end of the war, she was sure of it. He was not just in that theatre performing magic for muggles.
When he walked briskly out the door, she knew this wasn't the case.
"Malfoy!" She called. She was in the process of immobilizing him when she, herself, froze. She was afraid he would keep walking, but he stopped dead in his tracks.
"I told you to leave," he grunted, eyes boring into her. "You're not wanted here."
"I have to report back to the ministry," she elucidated, standing carefully.
With sudden force, he backed her into a wall. "You do, Granger, and I'll make sure I'll be the last thing you ever report." He released her, letting her gasp for air. "Now get out of here; I never want to see you again." He didn't wait for her to leave before he turned and disapparated.
She stared at the now-empty place he stood in awe. "Hmm," she whispered, toying with a scrap poster that had blown from the theatre door. It took her a few minutes to recognize the words she was caressing with her fingernails–The Great Draconus, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays at seven, Sundays at three and–the rest was indecipherable. She didn't have to work on the weekends but often did so anyway. A few hours of her Saturday evening would make little difference. Unless she found out where Draco was living, that is. Then it would make a huge difference.
xxx
"How are the boys?"
"Well," Harry began, taking a seat at the face table with his latte in hand, "Ron's just started reading, so Gin's really excited about that. And I'll be damned, we never should have agreed on naming the twins after my father and Sirius. They're turning out to be quite the little devils."
She flashed him a subdued smile that hid her envy.
"What?"
"You're happy."
"Yeah. Right." He looked to the side and scratched his tousled locks nervously.
"It's been a while."
"I know."
"You look good."
"Thanks," he mumbled. A painfully awkward silence between the two ensued.
"Well, I didn't ask you here to worsen things between us," she said brusquely. "I have news."
"Oh?"
"I was working late last night–"
"That's a surprise," he snorted, playfully.
"Oh shut it, will you?" A grin stretched across her cheeks. "This is important. I was working on a case late last night and I stumbled across something positively disturbing."
"Oh, just spit it out," he groaned.
"Harry," she said softly, as to assuage his guilt. "Draco Malfoy... he's alive."
"What?!" he roared, jerking upright in defiance. "You're pulling my leg."
"Unfortunately, no," she sighed staring at him with distant eyes. "I'm not."
"What the bloody–have you told Moody about–FUCK!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Exactly my reaction."
"This is unbelievable. He died six years ago. With his family. Snape said–"
"I know, it doesn't seem right. But I saw him, Harry."
"I don't believe it. This is impossible."
"Well," she began carefully, "did you see him die?"
"I–of course not, but–"
"Who saw him die, Harry?"
He paused, clearly strained. "Severus said–"
"I know what Severus said. But I looked over a few of his accounts this morning. All suggest Malfoy's death, yes, but none directly confirm it. You know how clever Snape is."
There was a long pause then between the two friends.
"I–I'm stunned. Utterly baffled." He shook his head vigorously. "I don't know what to say."
"Don't say anything. I just thought you should know."
His puzzled expression morphed into a nod. He reached for her hair and tucked a strand behind her ear thoughtfully, leaving his palm to linger at her cheek for a few moments. "Thank you."
"Mmhmm," she managed, her breathing shallow.
"Hey, um," he said, his hands now tucked securely and sheepishly in his pockets. "Could you–um, not tell Ginny about this?"
"Yeah, all right," Hermione agreed, and something within her died all over again.
xxx
"Fine, Malfoy," Hermione muttered under her breath, walking briskly toward his back alley theatre in the cold. "Two can play at this game."
She ran a hand over her thigh to make sure her wand was in place.
Check.
She felt like some sort of femme-fatale secret agent from those muggle movies she'd grown to love as a child. It was foolish, perhaps, but daring or audacious like those women, she was not; however, pretending would suffice.
She snorted at the thought. Agent Granger, defender of protocol and anal-retentiveness. Specialty? Confusing the enemy with her unkempt mane.
Well, that was a laugh.
She took a seat in the back of the theatre, which was just as crowded as it was the last time she'd been, if not more. This time, with good reason, she found a spot on the far end of an aisle. To her right sat a distraught red-haired woman trying desperately to control her three children. She would have had sympathy for the young mother if one of the little brats hadn't suddenly toppled over into her lap. The woman apologized curtly–as busy mothers often seemed to think they had the right to do–and did not await Hermione's knowing smile in return.
Hermione rolled her eyes toward no one in particular. She didn't exactly do kids. It wasn't part of the protocol.
Maybe it was something about Harry's boys that spawned the aversion. Like the fact that they were Ginny's, too.
And that's when the Great Draconus apparated onstage. The more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. Once she'd gotten over the initial shock (granted, it had taken a while), she realised the absurdity of it all. Draco Malfoy, resigning himself to putting on magic shows for the Triplets from Hell and their mother (she didn't notice a father lurking anywhere, and only assumed that he got lost somewhere between Inferno and Purgatorio. Men, they never did know when to stop and ask for directions.)
Now, she was never part of the "toujours pur" crowd by any means, but she probably wouldn't be caught dead showcasing her "eccentricities" (her mum's favourite pet name for magic at family gatherings) for muggles. Not only was it illegal; it was just embarrassing.
And this was Draco Malfoy. Agent Malfoy, defender of pride and slime. Specialty? Being a royal prick.
If that could even be a specialty. (She favoured her own bushy-haired talent.)
It was almost ironic what had become of her graduating class. It was no secret that the Slytherins–the pompous arses that they were–essentially "ruled" the school. A passing comment a la the Great Draco Malfoy (now seen, ladies and gentlemen, as the Great Draconus!) could make or break a lower year's reputation. Malfoy complemented your dress shoes? Well, you'll garner a few drooling followers for the next gallant affair. But should he even look at you with disdain, well. That was pretty obvious. Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, never showed up to class because, he told them, such primordial practices were below wizards of his high stature, and he could ascertain more information by cavorting with baboons. Which were, evidently, more sophisticated than the Gryffindors. But hey, when you've got so much money that you can wipe your arse with it–and then some–pretty much anything goes. Money, they later found, was not the only thing in close propinquity to Blaise Zabini's arse.
Not that she had any reservations about that sort of thing.
Now, it seemed, every Slytherin from their year but Zabini–and now Malfoy–was dead. Maybe all except that bat-shit-crazy bint, Parkinson. Hermione had always suspected she was a bit off, but never enough to warrant the psych ward of St. Mungo's. Evidently, she'd taken the news of Malfoy's death pretty hard. Which was ironic in and of itself, considering she was staring at him right now. You'd think he would have the common decency at least to drop a hint to his fiancee.
In comparison, the Gryffindors took many fewer losses. And were also now mounting the corporate ladder of the wizarding world. Seamus Finnegan now held some prestigious PR post, and these days you could find Dean Thomas kissing the arse of Mafalda Hopkirk–her own boss, comptroller of all that was not quite just in the world. (Funny thing was, if you had the cash or the prestige, even the Improper Use of Magic Office couldn't touch you. If there was one thing Hermione learned in her work for Hopkirk, it was that nothing made the ministry look worse than actually jailing the real criminals.) Everyone expected Harry to make his way up to Minister of Magic, but he would have none of it, and was now working in defence. Which didn't really exist. There were so many technicalities in the ministry that one word could never define your job. (She, of course, was the Head Research Auror of the Magical Law Enforcement Sect of the Improper Use of Magic Office.) In truth, he didn't really have a job, but he made the ministry look good, so they paid him generously for petty work. He was only partially aware of this.
But hey, if she could make enough money to join Zabini's club of shite-faced snake-worshippers if she so desired, just because her name was Harry Potter, she might turn a blind eye, too.
Instead, she was subjected to the torture of watching her childhood nemesis perform magic tricks.
In some senses it was better for her. After all, if it weren't for work, then what was there? It wasn't like her social life was particularly buoyant, and even if it were, Friday nights only comprised less than a seventh of the week. She wouldn't know what do with herself for the other six sevenths.
What did housewives do, anyway? she wondered as one devil child whacked another in the face, eliciting a death-defying shriek from the latter, and a rosy flush in their mother's cheeks. Luckily, most of the audience ignored Devil Child Number Two's outburst as Draco's act commenced. It tickled her to know that she was about to make him miserable, and not the other way around.
Finally.
He started out with his characteristic silencing spell. Of course he wasn't expecting war; and it wasn't a strategy, so he didn't alter his routine.
She, however, had a strategy. Silent spells were her forte; hours of practising back in sixth year (and to think, Harry and Ron had mocked her!) obviously paid off. She was so good at them, in fact, that she was on the cusp of non-aura wandless magic. She would probably ever be able to achieve aura-induced wandless magic; the last he'd heard of it had been at the hands of Voldemort, and while he had been a powerful wizard, there were obvious extenuating circumstances that gave him the sort of "magnetic field" of magic needed to accomplish something like that. The man was a complete nut job, if you asked her; no matter how greatly she desired to be able to perform magic to that calibre, she would never even consider considering to create a horcrux. It was vile, it was unnatural, it was utterly emotionally draining–not to mention illegal–and all were understatements. She'd sooner die than even think of thinking of thinking of... point taken. It didn't mean she couldn't manipulate arithmancy and silent spells to perform wandless magic without the "totally insane" part. Hermione Granger was many things, but incapable was not one of them.
To her advantage, a simple silent charm sufficed, and his spell ended. It wasn't enough so that the audience noticed–Malfoy might've kept them quiet for a few moments longer–but she'd be damned if the Great Draconus didn't look flustered as hell. She wondered if he was confused. Scared, even. With thoughts of, "Shite, did I do that? I don't remember doing that" running through his mind. Utterly panicked. For a brief moment, colour rose in his cheeks and outlined his jaw.
Time, the merciless bastard he was (a He because only a man could do such horrendous things to a woman's appearance), had evidently been kind to Draco Malfoy. Not many people could say that they lived through a war and in exile and instead of losing sexual prowess, became sexier. His jaw had lowered somewhat, so that his chin didn't look so excruciatingly pointy, his features had hardened, and his shoulders broadened. Staring at him, even as the arse that he was, she couldn't help but feel a certain embarrassment for her own appearance. If she used to be Hermione Plain-Jane Granger, she had probably now earned the title Hermione Could-Stand-To-Lose-A-Few-Pounds-Around-The-Middle-Jane Granger. And she wasn't particularly preoccupied with her vanity, either, so it wasn't like she tried to make herself up or even wear flattering clothes. She was getting too old for such frivolities, and anyway, there was never any time.
Some people had to work legitimate jobs to get by. Some people weren't fortunate enough to be presumed dead and otherwise a freak of muggle nature.
Malfoy and his perfect platinum locks could go fuck themselves.
Devil Child Number Three started sobbing. It obviously didn't enjoy being silenced, which was now what Malfoy was going on about. Oh, poor Draco Malfoy, living his childhood in extravagance and luxury. Poor Draco Malfoy, being silenced after speaking out of turn. For the millisecond before his mum handed him a new toy broomstick, made entirely of gold and encrusted in diamonds. As a toddler.
And now he was occupying audience members' minds. Hermione shook her head; this was so illegal he could hang for it. And now, John Doe was just so sceptical of Draco's ploy, that he would have to try it himself. Hermione wondered if he actually did plant that man.
Now was her chance, so she'd have to work quickly. She murmured a few incantations to herself and did some tricky wand-work under her skirt. And surely enough, his "Lebilicorpus" rendered no flying middle-aged man. She smiled smugly from behind a curtain of audience members.
"Lebilicorpus!" he roared a second time.
"Lebilicorpus!" She noticed his right eye twitch as he tried again.
"Lebilicorpus!"
The show must go on.
"Avis!" A flock of birds sprouted from his wand, and, what do you know, he transfigured one into a stuffed toy for his subject's child.
And now he was getting into his "what is magic" shpiel. Which, although intriguing, was beginning to get on her nerves. Thus, her proactive measures were justified. She muttered a few incantations under her breath and he stopped speaking. He opened his mouth to continue his diatribe, but to no avail. She knew how to silence him, all right. And more permanently than he had silenced her.
Suddenly her temples throbbed. He was sending out a universal legilimens like a shockwave. It was only a matter of time before it reached her mind.
"Occlumens," she whispered, and tried her hardest to perform the extremely complex magic. In truth, she was shit for occlumency, but she figured she'd give it a shot. His legilimens was far too broad, anyway. If she blocked her thoughts from it, there was a minimal chance he'd even notice she was in the theatre.
She decided to send one back. "Legilimens." Malfoy, you should have agreed to chat with me. You know, for old time's sake.
I knew it! Fuck you, Granger, fuck you to hell. I'm trying to put on a show here.
The audience's murmur rose. Soon, it would become plain chaos.
So come back to the ministry with me. I bet you'd put on a fantastic show there.
You think you're so bloody funny. The answer's no, Granger. Fuck off.
Then I guess you're not interested in commanding the attention of your adoring fans.
Okay, you got me. You've achieved whatever sick fantasy you've been thinking of in that pretty little head of yours. You've done it; I'm mortified. Well, this isn't funny anymore. Unhand me.
No.
Do it now!
Nah-ah-ah. Not so fast.
I'm not going back to jump through hoops for you at the ministry. I'm dead, it shouldn't matter.
But I'm staring at a living, breathing Draco Malfoy right now. And I must say, he's getting rather flustered.
Granger, I'm warning you...
Listen, just meet me outside the theatre. It's all I ask. Hell, we can get coffee for all I care.
Are you asking me on a date?
You're wasting your time, Malfoy.
You know what, fine. Fine, god damnit, fine. You can have your fifteen minutes. Just let me do my bloody show.
As you wish.
And with that, he was speaking again, explaining that his silence was necessary for what he was to do next. Which was, of course, the levitation of a unicorn and the presentation of a thestral.
Which was so, so, so illegal.
TBC
If you read, please review.