Diclaimer: It all belongs to the wonderful J.K. Rowling
A/N: This is my very first fanfiction, and I'm really hoping it will get better as it goes. Anyway, I hope you have the patience to join me on this little adventure, and I hope you enjoy the story.
I.
Shakily, Hermione shut the clasp of her beaded bag, and placed it in her pocket. She couldn't afford to put it off any longer; she had to admit the truth to herself. It was, undeniably, time for her to go.
Desiring to put goodbye off a little longer, Hermione looked out of her bedroom window, into the grey abyss that lay outside, instantly regretting it. The Dementors had taken to filling the streets with their ominous presence, casting a somber fog over the landscape. The view from her window only reminded her of the very reason she needed to leave: Voldemort's forces were rallying together, casting shadows before breaking the quasi-peace currently in place. War was no longer an if—it was an inevitability.
Time was running out; perhaps it was already gone. Hermione could imagine the final grains of sand falling from an hourglass; she could envision the final ray of light disappearing in the final second of peace. When war broke out, she would not only be at the center of it, but also on the outside. She would be an undesirable, forced on the run because of her blood status. Though, she supposes, she would have been on the run anyway—she had to help Harry. Harry, who had seen too much of the evil harbored in the world, and whose path was filled with loss and destruction. Harry, who had lost the final barrier between him and the world's darkest foe.
Hermione could still remember that terrible night; the night Draco Malfoy had aided in destroying whatever peace and sanctuary still in existence for people like her. She could still see Dumbledore's lifeless body lying in a heap at the bottom of the astronomy tower, and if she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine him falling, robes billowing in front of him, green light still reflected in his blue eyes—eyes that used to twinkle when Harry had done something incredible, or she had said something exceptionally clever. Hermione experienced a pang of sorrow whenever she thought about the loss that night. It was the loss of one of the biggest proponents of the light, the loss of their greatest protector.
However, even amid the sadness she felt, Hermione was still able to distinguish the acute anger she felt toward pointy-faced Draco Malfoy. Though she had to hand it to him—he had surprised her. Malfoy had done what was formerly deemed impossible; He had managed to infiltrate Hogwarts, the most heavily defended fortress in wizarding history. She would know—she had read a plethora of books on the subject.
Wishing to stop thinking about Malfoy before she gave him anything similar to a compliment, Hermione turned to face the inside of her room. It was plain now, missing all the knickknacks and books that had made it look like her own. She had packed those away previously to keep them safe. Safe from her parents' discovery and safe for her to find solace in during a particularly bad day.
There would be bad days—many of them. Hermione wasn't sure if there would be many good days from now on. She was going to be alone—no mother and father waiting for her at home, no classmates, not even Harry and Ron. In the hunt for Horcruxes, she was staying behind, researching in solitude and delivering her findings via looking glass. It was the only way.
Hermione allowed her reverie to digress to the previous night. The boys had told her that they had decided to hunt the Horcruxes themselves—for your own protection—they had insisted, like the worried, if not chauvinistic, friends they were. She had been angry, losing her calm and yelling at them, telling them she'd never forgive them if they didn't let her come along. She told them, voiced strong and eyes livid, that it was her decision, too.
In the morning, they were gone. They had flitted past her as she slept, like whispers in the night, and she supposed she had never had a choice, not really. The boys were insufferably stubborn when they felt like they were doing the right thing. But she was not one to give up quickly; she had tried to change their minds anyway. In the morning, she had apparated to Grimmauld place—the one place she was sure they would be.
The boys were smart, though. So much smarter than she had given them credit for during their school days. After spending so much time looking at them over corrected papers and telling them tidbits of seemingly useless information, the boys were bound to pick up on something.
There were wards set in place when she arrived; wards that would not allow her in. She had stood at the door, banging her fists through the rain, crying out to them. She knew they were on the other side of the door, together, trying their best to stay away from her so she would go home, like they knew she would. That way, they could travel under the delusion that at least she was safe.
After an hour in the pouring rain, Hermione had returned home—likely amidst sighs of relief—to pack up the rest of her stuff. Because of the rain, her hair was more frizz than curl, a monstrous mess surrounding her face. She could feel the beginnings of a sore throat and stuffy nose, another souvenir from her foray into insanity. Mentally, Hermione chastised herself—the boys had enough to worry about without the thought of her emotional health.
Besides, she wasn't alone, not really. She would talk to the boys often; the looking glass connected them already. Said means of communication was a surprise gift from Hagrid. The surprise was in the fact that it was useful, and not rock hard cookies. Previously, Harry owned something similar—a gift from his late godfather Sirius; however, it was out of commission. The new looking glass allowed for the holders to communicate with ease, and its magic was virtually untraceable. Hermione would be following leads and reporting them to the boys, who would then find the Horcruxes and destroy them. Hopefully quickly. Hopefully painlessly.
Hope. For something so futile, Hermione clung to it ardently. Though it was lighter than cigarette smoke, she latched to hope as if it were her rock, giving her stability in the sea of chaos and despair that was the current state of her life.
Snorting at the melodramatic turn her thoughts had taken, Hermione left the sanctuary of her room to venture downstairs. It was time for her to leave, but before she could do that, she had to make her parents safe.
She had done careful planning and research with regards to memory charms. According to her books, if she obliviated her parents, their memories would never return. The spell had a more permanent affect on muggles—that way there would be no chance of them regaining any type of wizard-related knowledge. That being said, Hermione's research also pointed her towards memory modifications. This would allow her to control what her parents could remember, and implant new memories. She could tweak it to make sure it wore off only with her words, and protect them from others' magic at the same time. This was the better option; however, if she were to die, the spell would immediately wear off. Her parents would be faced with an onslaught of memories they wouldn't be able to understand, and would be left without any form of protection. Not to mention the massive amounts of information regarding their past life that would mix with their altered life. It had the potential to overload their minds, rendering their brains unable to cope, and therefore unable to function.
In the end, though, Hermione had decided on memory modification. She was selfish, she supposed.
Walking downstairs, Hermione silently erased the evidence of her existence in each of the photographs on the wall, changing the photos that held only her. Slowly, she entered the living room, hoping to cast one more look at her parents before casting the memory-altering spell. However, when she reached the inside of the room, Hermione was surprised to see the back of a very blonde head. She sighed as the head slowly turned around.
"You have got to be kidding me." She breathed, not believing the figure in front of her was real. She breathed out again slowly, hoping the air would cause the mirage to disappear like puffs of smoke.
"Ah, Granger. A pleasure to see you as always." The blond man drawled.
Hermione could only gape, as the man's face molded into a familiar smirk.
"What, did you forget how to talk over holiday?" His smirk grew even larger. "I mean, honestly. Brightest witch of our age? They do give out titles too easily these days, don't they?"
Close your mouth. A voice in Hermione's head said. She quickly followed its instructions, then opened her mouth to speak. "What, in God's green earth, are you doing here, Malfoy?" Hermione finally managed. Collecting herself, she continued. "And no, I didn't forget how to speak—the foul aura that surrounds you muddled me for a moment. No matter, I'll adapt to the sludge that is your personality." That's top-notch stuff, there, Hermione. The voice sarcastically sneered.
Hermione rolled her eyes at the same time as Malfoy. "And there's the Granger I know and love." His face was curled into a look of distaste, as if her voice had reminded him of something very unpleasant.
This can't be real, Hermione kept telling herself. The blonde in front of her was merely a figment of her imagination—a product of her overtaxed mind, and her overwrought emotions. This was a dream, and soon she'd wake up with Ron and Harry, or with her mum and dad, or in bed at school. No war in the horizon, no war ever in the horizon.
But she knew that war was always coming; she knew this wasn't a dream. "You didn't answer my question Malfoy." Hermione said, hand running through her hair, wincing as it got stuck in the tangles. "What are you doing here?"
"Is that any way to treat a guest, Granger?" Malfoy smirked. "I was enjoying our little exchange."
"Guest?" Hermione scoffed, remembering every loathsome thing the boy in front of her had ever done. "You're scum, and I will treat you as I would treat the dirt on the bottom of my shoes. With revulsion."
Malfoy's eyes darkened. "Careful, Granger." He warned.
"No—you need to be careful. You did perhaps the most stupid thing ever—you ruined the safety of Hogwarts—the only place we could have been protected! You ruined everything, and you have the nerve to tell me to be careful?"Apparently, Hermione had forgotten to speak intelligently when the boys had left. She heard her words and flinched at the way they sounded. This whole situation was ridiculous. Hermione growled, aiming her wand square at his chest. "I don't have to listen to you."
Abruptly, she stopped and looked into his grey eyes. "Are you an idiot, Malfoy? I could have the entire Order here in a moment to haul your sorry, scrawny self to Azkaban."
"Where I'd escape after a couple seconds." Malfoy interrupted. "But yes, you do bring up a fair point, Granger. One that I did think of, thank you very much. You didn't think I'd show up at the home of the brains of the disgustingly perfect Golden Trio without a plan, did you?" his face screwed into a sneer. "Don't be daft. I made at least six plans, Granger. I'm carrying out plan two. This is phase B."
"You mean plan B, phase two." Hermione answered, surprising herself.
"What?" Malfoy's sneer was replaced with an expression of incredulity as well.
"You're terminology is dubious at best—an indication that you are not as prepared as you would like me to think." Hermione replied.
For a moment longer, Malfoy looked surprised, then he answered. "No, my terminology is fine. I'm just subverting the linguistic standard… because I'm clever."
"Three points for the beginning of that sentence, a subtraction of two for the tail-end. You ran out of steam." Hermione retorted.
"But I've still gained a point, Granger." Malfoy returned. "My dodgy terminology notwithstanding, I came up with multiple plans, each having multiple solutions to whatever problems you could throw in my way-"
"Which didn't include me hexing you to next Tuesday, I'm sure." Hermione interrupted, in the middle of waving her wand.
"Now, now." Malfoy slowly backed up, holding his hands in what looked like surrender. "We don't want to make any foolish decisions." He said while moving his hand to touch the doorknob of the broom closet. "After all, what will happen to mummy and daddy?"
Hermione gasped, staring at the contents of the closet: the supine forms of her unconscious parents. "What have you done to them?" She nearly shrieked. She held her wand to him again. She needed the upper hand against this utter lunacy. Because that's what it was: pure, unadulterated insanity. "What's stopping me from cursing you right now? You couldn't possibly have thought this would coax me into submission—it only serves to make me angry."
"Point, Granger." Malfoy said.
"I'm missing it?"
"Yes," Malfoy began. "But I wish to inquire after the point you awarded me. What can they be used for?"
"Nothing." Hermione's brows creased with confusion. When had Malfoy gained enough intelligence to speak in riddles? "They're theoretical. They've no value-"
"But what you give them." Malfoy finished for her. Silence settled for a few moments, until he broke it with one word: "Information."
"Sorry?"
"A point for a question that must be answered." He said. "I will relinquish my point for an answer from you."
"If you think for one moment I'm going to give you information on Harry and Ron, you're absolutely barmy!" Hermione exclaimed. "The points don't mean anything—I was attempting to highlight the absolute lack of finesse you possess when you speak."
Ignoring Hermione's outburst, Malfoy asked, "What is phase B?"
"How am I supposed to know that?" Hermione asked, becoming angrier. "You're the mastermind—you tell me. What is phase B?"
"I'm glad you asked." Malfoy was almost smiling. "See, I knew you wouldn't be averse to attacking me if I came alone and did this to your parents. I thought ahead and decided the best way to have your cooperation would be by threatening your family and coming with an escort of a dozen more Death Eaters. You're free to submit to my will, now." Malfoy held his hands up at his sides, as if he were about to bow.
Hermione held the bridge of her nose. "You established a point system, and gave up your only point, all for dramatic flair?" Malfoy looked at her as if saying what else would I have done? Realizing they were getting nowhere fast in this verbal repartee, Hermione spoke. "What will you have me do?" She finally conceded.
"Now we're talking." Malfoy answered. "I have a plan. It's mad."
"So are you." Hermione retorted. So is this day, so am I.
"Clever." He gave her a pointed look, silently asking her if she was going to continue speaking. She waved her arm, telling him to proceed. "Anyway, the plan is mad. The only way it could possibly work would be if I had the brightest witch of our age on my side. Enter you."
"And what's in it for me?" She asked, attempting to find a way out of the turn in his favor.
"The safety of your parents and the pride of a job well done."
"And if I refuse?" She asked, knowing there was nothing to be done.
"Then the Death Eaters come and kill your parents while you watch. And if that's not enough, they'll take you away and use you as bait to lure the boy who won't die to his imminent demise." He looked her squarely in the eye. "The cons far outweighing the pros, I'm hoping you conform to your stereotype and make the intelligent decision."
Admittedly, he had her. Not wanting to lose anymore of her dignity, Hermione raised her chin and sent Malfoy a piercing glare. "Fine." She bit out. "I'll help you."
Malfoy clapped his hands in mock glee. "How lovely!" He was grinning—funny, Hermione couldn't remember a time when he had looked happy. All she could remember was the boy who looked too thin in his fine black suits, who tried and failed to cover the purple bruises under his eyes, whose hands shook when he thought no one was looking. "Now we need to leave, but we need to take care of your parents first."
"Right." Hermione turned to face Malfoy. "This was part of my plan, before you came, shredded said plan, and fed the pieces to angry piranhas." She calmly stated. She didn't know why she was being so calm—she was under threat of a dozen Death Eaters and couldn't say goodbye to her parents in the fashion she had wanted. Not to mention her plan was destroyed; months of careful research down the drain in mere minutes. Come to think of it, that calm was fading fast. Hermione noted that the room was beginning to spin; maybe this was how a nervous breakdown felt. She took a deep breath to try to steady her nerves, resulting in Malfoy giving her an expectant look.
"Well?" He prompted. His inquiry was met with an icy glare.
After careful muttering, Hermione had modified her parents' memories. She then levitated them onto the couch and turned on the television. They would wake up believing they fell asleep to the telly, completely unaware of their daughter's existence.
Quietly, she gave them both a kiss. Something to take along with them, even if they didn't know what they had.
After looking at them a little longer, willing her eyes not to well up with tears, Hermione turned to Malfoy. He was looking at her while biting his lip, as if he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure what. After a little more lip biting, he finally opened his mouth. "I know what you did." He began. "And I know it was hard." He pursed his lips, his eyes looking down.
For a moment, Hermione was taken aback. "Are you… showing… compassion?"
"Please." And like that, the regular, gitty Malfoy was back. "That word doesn't exist in the Malfoy vernacular. I was merely pointing out a fact. Your action may have been difficult, but it was necessary." He seemed to go over what he had said in his head, and satisfied, he punctuated with "Now let's go."
"Your sensitivity never ceases to amaze me." Hermione answered.
"How many Death Eaters do you think are sensitive to others' feelings?" Malfoy retorted. The words were like a bucket of ice water and caused Hermione to blanch, thus ending the banter they had been sharing. Malfoy's sudden reappearance had caused Hermione to forget about the recent past. For a little while, she was back at Hogwarts, verbally sparring with a Slytherin ferret, relishing the feel of fighting down nothing but a schoolyard bully. With Malfoy's words, Hermione suddenly remembered where she was, and what she was dealing with. She wasn't at Hogwarts anymore, and the boy in front of her was no longer just a bully.
As if sensing her unease, Malfoy looked down at his feet, as if he was trying to think of a way to dissipate the tension that had taken root in the room. After a moment, he stood straight again. Squaring his shoulders, he gestured to the door. "Vamoose." He said, turning on his heel and walking out.
Hermione sighed, following the tall blonde through her front door and into the foggy street. It was beginning to rain, and storm clouds were casting shadows upon the pavement. The current weather was poetically fitting to her current state, and Hermione noted that it also bordered on the theatrical. How delightful.
After contemplating the poetry of the weather and addressing questions such as the rhyme and meter of said poem, Hermione concluded it was a tragic, loathsome verse that she didn't really care to read anymore. She then looked ahead, expecting to see the Death Eaters Malfoy had threatened her with. Instead, she went cold. There was something off—where the shadows formed, no masked terrors emerged. There were no Death Eaters in sight—no Death Eaters present at all.
Though she should have been pleased about this new development, Hermione was instead very nervous. She had been played for the fool; brightest witch of her age, and she had been tricked by a stupid ferret. But her heart continued to pound, even with the insults she continued to form in her mind. If Malfoy wasn't flanked by Death Eaters, he had capricious plans for her. He was unpredictable, but it still raised the question: what did he want with her?
The ferret in question was standing next to her, without the common decency to look ashamed. Instead, he was smirking. So, Hermione did what she though would wipe the smirk from his face in the fastest way possible: she punched him.
Malfoy sputtered in surprise, holding his hand to his nose while staring at her in shock. "Shit, Granger! What the hell is your problem?"
"You lied to me!" she nearly shrieked.
"Well, I'm not the poster child for morality! You should have known better!" He answered.
And she should have. Because at the end of the day, Malfoy was a Death Eater—he had never tried to make her believe otherwise. His failure to give her more reason to hate him only served to incense Hermione further. In her anger, Hermione began to scream at Malfoy and was so engrossed by her verbal castigation, she didn't notice as he began to speak. As she turned, her face screwed into a glare that could cause a lesser man to combust from its sheer ferocity, Malfoy uttered one word:
"Stupefy."
A flash of red light hit Hermione in the chest, while her face morphed into a look of surprise. She crumpled to the floor gracelessly, hair flying and limbs flailing.
"Phase D complete." Malfoy stated, as he gathered her prone form in his arms. Her head lolled to the side and Malfoy carefully pocketed her wand.
With a crack, he was gone.