AN: Part one of a pilot chapter


An owl had arrived that morning with word from Granger.

Draco nearly vomited the carefully brewed mint tea when the sender's name caught his eye. The drowsy haze dispersed with sudden dawn as he quickly went to pace through the possible violations of the magical law he may have committed in the past month. Once he did not return an exuberant greeting of a Muggle pedestrian he had never seen in his life. Or it could've been that unfortunate time he left a tip at Three Broomsticks short for two knuts. But it most certainly was that soggy Monday morning he accidentally used Accio to save a child with a pup in front from running to its certain death. (Blond haired woman screaming. The desperation of wailing brakes. Friction-caused sparks gushing like curses.)

The angle should've been perfect.

He was short for a step, and the gathered Muggles had been too preoccupied with staring at the speeding vehicle to notice a shift of his coat. He saved a life that day. A Muggle life. (Angered mother too, but it mattered less. You could get drunk on feelings - brimming pride in your chest like encrusted gold over a heart. He remembered he had gone to sleep that night pondering if Potter had felt like that.

He looked at the letter with gravely tiredness, sullen and pitying.

He was not Harry Potter. He was not destined to save lives and Ministry seemed keen on reminding him.)

Malfoy steeled himself for the condescending flow of dictated words knitted into sentences the size of an average paragraph. The somber introduction (Neither of them was particularly delighted with the letter, though she might've relished the satisfaction of having it addressed at his name.), the citation of laws he had broken (He registered one, yet Merlin knows how many more supposedly minor ones hid behind its robes.), the date and place of hearing - he prayed for a Friday - ending with a summary of consequences he was to face if he were to disregard the body of law itself, and a topping of title and surname followed by a poor-quality signature to emphasize how large a portion of precious time was spent to note the deviant of his crimes. Conversely, instead of perfectly layered formalities, he found a neatly written string of eleven words in broad handwriting, slightly tipped to the right:

Harry needs your help. Three Broomsticks at noon.

Please,

Hermione Granger.

His legs grew warm, urging him to leap away from the table. Only with a glance did he realise he had been diligently pouring the lukewarm liquor down his lap. With an exasperated sigh, Draco reached for the hawthorn wand and muttered an incantation, pointed at the soaking material: "Tergeo!"

He watched as cloth instantly dried then proceeded to settle the wand next to the recent issue of the Daily Prophet, tacitly wondering what must've been so important that Harry Potter had to resort to pleading for his aid through Granger's intervention. Last time he heard of him was in the Exclusive Edition of Daily Prophet marking the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. A signature Skeeter article about the new number of scars on Potter's auror abs and his "disappointingly uneventful love life" with a witty conclusion how, although one wand possessed the ability to defeat the Dark Lord, the other was clearly lacking. Regardless, Potter probably occupied the same position, or was at least still a member of the Auror Department - assuming the world did not require saving. (Yet somehow a world with Harry Potter was ever in need of some kind of saving.)

Sipping the last of his tea, Draco intently glared at the letter as if the degree of narrowness of his brows would force the smooth piece of paper to blurt news on Potter's whereabouts. He was even tempted to use Aparecium; however, Granger was not a silly Weasley to out confidential information in a letter that could've been intercepted by anyone. The spell she used, if any, must've been more complex than a simple incantation. Or - he glimpsed at the Daily Prophet, an alien surety rising - she believed it was in fact, well-known.

Draco Malfoy slowly examined the unfolded daily news.

He stood there, awkwardly smiling on the front page, side-by-side with the Weasley and Kingsley Shackelbolt in front of a golden fountain portraying his triumph against the Dark Lord in the Ministry's Atrium. It must've been taken when the two became members of the Auror Office. (Draco was sure he had seen it already; perhaps in one of Rita Skeeter's many articles. But the shading was different; darker, duller.) TRAGEDY, it read. HARRY POTTER SEVERELY INJURED ON A MISSION.

He ripped open the paper, absentmindedly skipping through the news - a Weasley-Thomas-Finnigan love triangle, a testimony of another ex-Death Eater, an ardent article on the rights of house-elves spanning across four pages - until he was staring at the nervously smiling face again. (He breathed, overwhelmed with trepidation.)

His scar still hadn't began to fade at the time; newest images showed it pallid, disappearing with ages like nightmares of war. (They said they would cease. He didn't quite believe them then, at eighteen. At twenty-two, he is still cautious with his trust.)

His eyes fall on blurry frames of St. Mungo's, sliding down Hogwarts walls and shots of Potter's youth, eventually settling on the tinted letters.

The Boy Who Lived suffers a devastating accident on an unassigned one-man Auror mission.

The subject of Potter's investigations remains unknown with the Head of the Department refusing to release an official statement regarding the events in question.

Anonymous sources state that Mr. Potter was admitted to St. Mungo's on Tuesday October 21st, accompanied by his long time accomplices Mr. Weasley, a fellow auror, and Ms. Granger, an employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Reportedly under care of Hippocrates Smethwyck, a Healer-in-Charge for Creature-induced injuries, auror Potter arrived covered in "severe-looking injuries" resembling claw and bite marks. The Healer dismissed, rather adamantly, my attempts at uncovering further information about the The Chosen One's condition, invoking patient confidentiality. Nevertheless, Mr. Potter was rumoredly found in Little Hangleton where the Riddle family manor stands to this day. Accordingly, a plausible conclusion for the alleged "accident" of the Ministry's Favorite would be that the Boy Who Lived once more resorted to meddling with the dark artefacts, therby irresponsibly endangering the fate of the entire Magical World as he had done many years ago.

Rita Skeeter (He spat at her name.)

Pieces of brilliant emerald exploded like curses lighting the sitting room. Draco barely moved; elegant fingers tracing feather touches across the poppy gash on his chin. He peered at the shattered green mug, frozen for a moment.

It happened again.

They warned him it might become a habit in a state of heightened emotions or 'instability of spirit'. Though it was more frequent during the night when nightmares crawled to dream with him. Some nights he would wake up in a room torn to shreds, bare and blood smeared. Others he was shaken awake by the cries of his mother. In the first year or so he insisted on repairing the resultant damage, but after the passing of his father Draco resorted to using the unscratched guestrooms. (Although the unyielding house-elves blatantly refused to house ruins. Remorseful, he sometimes sat hours at dinner eating away all they had cooked.)

They couldn't help him at St. Mungo's. Narcissa had insisted on seeking second opinion, but he dismissed the slightest of her efforts to initiate a conversation on the matter. They claimed it was normal, a consequence of war, a case like many others of his generation. (He saw Pucey once, waiting in the hall. They exchanged a greeting before the Healer summoned him. "The rumors must've been true then," Pansy had told him on one of their check-up dates. "He really did fight in Potter's war.") Yet, rare swore on their honour it would subside.

Hearing the soft tapping of paws against the marble tiles, Draco rose from the chair by the fireplace muttering an incoherent apology under breath. The clock beside the entrance suggested the time to be a quarter to noon, thus he grabbed his wand and headed for the door with an Accio whispered for the cloak. A faded black cloth flew to his arm. (It still smelled of Lucius even after all the years.)

Wrapping it around himself, Draco Malfoy stepped into the cold November air.

~x ~.

It was the ninth time she had checked the ivory scars on her forearm since arriving at the Three Broomsticks. ("Fifteen minutes early,"she would yell at Ron later, nostrils aflare. "And he still had the decency to be late. Just because I had asked for his help!")

With a fleeting look, appalled at her own act, Hermione Granger slowly tugged the woolen sleeve of her Weasley vest down, taking a gulp of her drink. Seated across the group of curious Slytherin students in the farthest corner of the large inn, she suddenly began to contemplate her choice of a meeting place. Yes, she was aware of Hogsmead's liveliness during winter months and her own "fame" as one of Harry Potter's companions including the Chocolate Frog card bearing her face and name - thus, she thought, awkwardly avoiding the stares, what in Merlin's name had driven her to ask a Malfoy to see her there.

Haste, she mused guiltily. The wish to protect Harry was clouding her mind ever since Ron's distressed hail on the dreaded Monday night. As soon as she apparated to the given location she knew what was wrong; Smethwyck merely confirmed her suspicion. But despite the obvious physical damage Harry had withstood, neither Healers nor her were able to foresee the effects the mysterious encounter had on Harry's mental state. Having woken up Thursday, October 23rd, Harry Potter claimed to have no recollections of his wizarding status or friends. (Which deeply troubled Hagrid who kept crying into his tablecloth-sized handkerchief. Hermione sobbed too, nestled into Ron's chest in the room beneath the attic, incapable of wringing meaning from the reports - no magical source, no predictable longitude. Hushed promises of bring backs and woulds against the blankets.) Mrs. Weasley tried telling him stories of his first trip to Hogwarts, his stays at the Burrow and quidditch proficiency. Hermione herself tried the old pointing-at-pictures method. The closest to responding she had gotten was with a picture of Sirius - with Harry stating he had seen the man somewhere, only to pull out a dated sample of the Daily Prophet with an alert of Sirius's Azkaban escape. (She felt a shock burgeoning in her chest, a strange weariness welling. Flinching as a heinous word slipped Harry's lips, she muttered an implausible excuse and scurried to weep in the corridor.) Apparently the presentation on his Hogwarts colleagues was a remote success, although not the way Ron and Ginny had hoped.

Convulsing her fingers around the mug, Hermione winced at the swinging of the door. A tall, dark haired wizard trotted in, waving at the gathered bunch at the nearest table. Instinctively, she checked the hanging grandfather clock - five minutes till it struck twelve.

She caught herself tracing the scars again over the fabric of the vest. Recoiling as if burned, Hermione puffed a frustrated sigh at her butterbeer. It had been years since she saw him. And she would have preferred had it stayed so but considering the lack of acquaintances with an understanding of the dark arts she had no choice but to seek his aid. ("Will you be alright?" Ron had asked on their usual elevator rides. Only this one was one member short. She feigned ignorance. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Ron shrugged his broad shoulders, rubbing against the elevator wall. "Dunno. He was...there, you know."

"There where?"she pressed. He observed her for a very long moment.

The doors clanged apart. "Doesn't matter. Good luck.")

He was in the manor as his aunt kept screeching curses at you.

She still could not suppress the shudders. (She had gone with Neville to see his parents. Alice Longbottom still suffered the tingles, barely noticeable spasms that took flight until the poor woman was twisting on the bed in agony. She had a theory - Cruciatus curse dealt irreparable damage to the nervous system resulting in all of its victims occasionally 'reliving' the previous experience, similar to the epilepsy attacks in Muggles. Although, based on her own, she was not sure what exactly triggered the attacks.) Aware of Malfoy's helplessness in the situation and the fact it wasn't him directly who had engraved her blood status on her forearm, Hermione remained uncertain whether she was ready to face the nephew of Bellatrix Lestrange. Unsure if she feared his presence would unleash the dormant traces of the curse in her system or just a physical reminder of his aunt, she found unexpected comfort in the masses. (Safety, she remembered. The Three Broomsticks was one of the few places she felt safe.)

Suddenly, the chirpy chatter faded as Draco Malfoy made his entrance.

Dressed in a slightly oversized black cloak with serpentine green buttons and a silver hat, he stoically nodded at the swamped faces. The tall dark man that had walked in before him was now glaring curses at the back of his head. She noticed the uneasy wiggling of women near the window along with flabbergasted gestures of the sea of students. Rare were successful in concealing their disquietness - excluding Hermione's bulging eyes. Malfoy had extended his long neck, searching the pub for a glimpse of her wild hair. Unthinkingly, she raised a hand as if volunteering - he spotted her soon and crossed the room in long strides, escorted by prying eyes. Hermione did not linger to see their astonishment as Draco Malfoy pulled up his chair to sit opposite the Brightest Witch of Her Age.

"Granger,"he uttered under breath. She took notice of how little of his father stuck to him in the end. Hair and eyes, posture perhaps. The rest was adequately masculine depiction of Narcissa.

"Malfoy."she retorted. "As strange as it may sound, I'm glad you're here."

His cheeks reddened, presumably due to the unyielding bites of November frost. (She noticed a faint, negligible crimson scratch above his jawbone, then swiftly perished the thought.) He leaned back in the chair, politely ordered a glass of firewhisky, then turned to Hermione with a fretful expression.

"I'm late."he stated. "Sorry."

She nodded in understanding, sipping her drink. An air of strained courtesy engulfed them, nearly to suffocate. He kept gripping at the sleeves of his robe, nervously aware of stabbing stares. (His haughty exterior mellowed, though eyes threatened with hexes.) Hermione willed to contain her fidgeting, increasingly conscious of the poking wand pressed between the arm and ribs. Whilst agreeing this was not a reunion of long lost friends, Hermione had certainly hoped they could avoid the unfulfilled silences pleading for words. (She was wrong. Unsaid feelings gnawed at swollen throats, choking harder than the absence of words.)

Madam Rosmerta slammed the order before Malfoy rather adamantly. He gave a disheartened chuckle, peering at Hermione.

"Suitable serving." She forced a smile.

He took an eager sip, then motioned for her to speak.

"Harry needs your help." she began, formally, almost as if addressing an underage offender. "I assume you have heard about-"

"Yes. Skeeter's article."he explained. "And I assume you need my assistence with the dark artefact?"

It was her turn to be embarrassed. "Well - not entirely."

He drank again, grimacing when the blazing liquor tickled his throat. "Granger, I know I've done some - unadmirable - things," She almost spat the drink. "And I do not run from them, nor from my former affiliations, but you need to know I am not a walking manual on the dark artefacts."

She appeared unperturbed, although Draco could note the unusual tightness of her lips. "Ron found him just outside Little Hangleton, as I am sure you have read. But I made sure some findings remained hidden from even Skeeter. As is, Ron snuck into his office today and stumbled upon a file on Necromancy in one of the drawers."

"Necromancy?" he repeated with a hint of wonder.

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. "We also think Harry had found whatever he was looking for. However, someone did too, whether by his own efforts or through Harry, I don't know. What I know is that he and Harry clashed - and it ended very badly."

"How is he?" The small quiver of his lower lip did not escape her; even his shoulders seemed to scupper.

"Awake." she said. "But the wounds were inflicted by a werewolf."

"A werewolf?" he questioned loudly, earning additional attention from the snoopy onlookers. Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Yes! A werewolf,"she said indignantly, leaning towards him across the table in a warning arch. "Now, please, yell how Harry has no memories of us or the attack and I swear to Merlin I will hex you, Malfoy!"

He seemed to overlook the threat by placing his hands near the middle of the table, as if vouching for his own intentions. "Potter doesn't remember? How is that possible?"

"If I knew that, I would not be here asking for your cooperation."

Draco was equally annoyed. "Why now? You could have owled me after Weasley had gathered more clues about the artefact. Necromancy is, as you and I both know, quite a wide field, Granger. I am not a seer, as you might've guessed."

She looked reluctant, at moments furious, as she inspected him. Even now, five years after the incident with Fiendfyre and Harry saving his arse, Hermione did not know what to make of the boy. Although he appeared genuinely interested in his well-being - including the obvious lack of motif for wrongdoing - somehow she wasn't convinced. She was not fearful either - cautious yes, but not afraid. She felt as if a piece had been missing inside the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy and it caused her to be hesitant to trust him. (She had insisted on his involvement, advocated it as an obvious necessity - "For Harry," she said to Ginny as her brothers huddled by his bedside. "Harry would have done the same.")

"Granger?"he called her, lowering the firewhisky. She cleared her throat and looked away as if to hide the thought.

"I have requested books on Necromancy from professor McGonagall." she continued perfunctory. "She lent us a few from the Restricted section. Harry didn't use them in his research."

"What did he find?" he inquired tersely, looking at her. Hermione adjusted her seat, pointing the tip of her wand at the squirming group: "Muffliato!" she muttered. Draco visibly relaxed.

"Should've done it earlier."

"Harry never relied much on books." she informed him flatly whilst stowing her wand inside the coat. "And the file Ron found mostly contained previous observances from varied sources. He used Doubling Charm on some pages with Harry's scribbles. He seemed to be particularly interested in some sort of chalice."

"Were there any mentions of a potion?"

She shook her head incospicuosly. "I thought so too - that it should be used for maturing of potions - however, the rest of the page did not add up. It seemed to list ingredients. Including the chalice."

Draco considered for a moment. "Have you heard of them? The ingredients. Are they known? Easily accessible?"

"Jobberknol feathers and crushed moonstone."she recited. (He reminisced the dungeons, Snape's resounding voice carried across the large classroom. Potter's evident lack of talent to brew even the simplest of potions.) "Same as-"

"-Veritaserum."he added. Hermione agreed. "Necromancy and veritaserum. What has Potter gotten himself into?" he snickered.

"Not exactly veritaserum,"she corrected. "but a potion requiring similar ingredients. And a chalice as one. It would be easier if we could ask him."she said truthfully. A pang of quiet panic enveloped her; time was coursing. "Which," she coughed to gain his attention. He was looking at the dark haired man Hermione saw come in moments before him. Hearing her, he swiveled gingerly. "leads me to my main point. About Harry."

"Wasn't all this about Potter?" He gestured towards the pub.

"Well, yes" she admitted. "But the chalice was not the only reason I had asked you to see me. I said Harry needs your help." Malfoy was wearing the most dumbfounded expression she had seen, urging her to continue in a hurry. "He does. Not related to the chalice or what we have discussed - it is more...personal. Malfoy, y-you are the only person he remembers. He needs you. Please."

The colour drained from his face in an instant. He gaped as if having seen a dementor. "How could he possibly - Granger, we were never-"

"I know." she said in a high voice, with a trace of authority. "He doesn't remember any of the things you did - or that he did. He just...remembers you, Draco Malfoy."

"But-"he stammered with his words, in apparent disbelief, unable to fathom that the boy he had wronged was now in need of him. Harry Potter who had refused his offer of friendship at eleven, Harry Potter who nearly killed him then risked his life to save him. The Harry Potter who saved the wizarding world was now in need of saving. By someone, Malfoy was certain, whom he would have never trusted to rescue him. He gulped the last of his firewhisky as if downing a Felix Felicis - it scorched his insides, mingled with the clogging whirlpool of emotions in his stomach. He thought of vomiting, but his standing on the social scale was so low that such an act would have him as member of the underground. (Though an ally within the ranks might benefit Granger's investigation.) His chest prickled whilst his mind emptied. Draco Malfoy felt helpless as he did once in his life, standing on the top of the Astronomy tower, with his wand raised at his Headmaster's chest.

Dumbledore understood.

No matter how hard he wished to despise him, the wretched old man indeed understood the blind corner he was thrust into. He would have understood this now - the incapacitating doubt sprouting like bones from Skele-grow. He should help. 'Tis what noble Potter would have done for him. Yet the gnawing truth of not being the right person for the task - of insecurity in the very good in him - was paralyzing. He needed to escape.

Suddenly, he stood.

He heard Granger bellowing after him, perhaps casting curses at his retreating form. (Mugs burst and mangled. Beverages flooding like crystals.) He saw faces rising up to meet him - judging faces, expectant faces. Draco suddenly felt as if underwater, suffocating just below the surface, somehow always out of reach.

He ran outside - knocked a witch or a wizard, but kept running.

He ran until there.