His hands hit the lichen-covered forest floor with a thud that jarred his bones.
No time to waste- Run... Run! RUN!
And he did. He scrambled over the moss, returning to his feet clumsily as he scrabbled forward through the trees. The dusky morning fog cooled the harsh scratches that covered his hands and forearms. Loping through the rocks and the dirt was difficult for him now. The past few months had been rough at best. But he had to keep running.
Have to keep running - have to!
It was so close now. The tree was unassuming as could be in the expansive wood. But he had memorized the intricate curl of the lower branches... How could he not have? The night this chase had begun those branches were his one point of concentration, from then on his anchor to sanity.
He slid to his knees a few feet short of his goal and scrambled desperately the rest of the way. Underneath those branches, he drove his trembling hands into the soil. His knuckles scraped against the sides of the surrounding roots, but he continued digging.
YES!
He had found it. Half of him had expected them to track it back here easily. Every day he tried reassuring himself, tried telling himself that they hadn't had a reason to notice the specific place.
In a strange way, he thought himself lucky that he was the first person they had caught.
A drop of rain hit her forehead.
"Great," she mumbled. It was a fairly thoughtless comment, just a grumble in her daily routine. A daily routine that she actually quite liked. Her work at the Ministry gave her a sense of purpose, a feeling that she had work worth doing. Due to her famously adventurous past, this was a feeling she had grown very used to and depended on daily.
She woke that morning hoping to walk to work. It was unnecessary, yes, but something she did quite frequently. It reminded her of the early morning walks she used to take with her mother on weekends. The nostalgia distracted her from the loneliness that crept in, and the feeling of the air against her skin kept her feeling there. She had experienced panic attacks before work a few times, and while coworkers had been immensely respectful of her condition (even reverent at times), it hurt her pride to admit to the attacks.
Coffee in one hand, she set her briefcase down on the pavement for a quick moment to retrieve her wand from a pocket in her robes. With a quick flick of the wrist and an unintelligible mumble, she conjured an umbrella which floated directly above her head. She smiled a little to herself, collected her things, and stepped out onto the path. The walk would take her about thirty minutes.
She was greeted at the Ministry by a brand new stack of files on her desk. She sat primly in her chair and began the paperwork for her last case, a whopper of an issue that she had worked on solving for months. A few loopholes had been found in Wizarding laws still allowing House Elves to be traded across families - a popular practice for this involved crating them and sending them on dangerous ships which moved between Britain and Spain. House Elves were not clearly defined as either "Beings" or "Beasts" by the Ministry. This was largely to blame for the travesty, as well as some inconsistencies in magical commerce laws. After many sleepless nights and a lot of pacing around the fourth floor she had finally, finally resolved the issue. Now all that was left were a few signatures and a final report. Easy. And she grinned to herself as she worked. Many lives would be improved by what she had just finished.
A loud, hearty voice interrupted her easy pattern.
"Miss Granger!" A large, dark haired, jolly man stood in her doorway. He rapped the door frame twice with his meaty knuckles before stepping inside.
"Mr. Beak! So nice to see you!" She exclaimed, gently closing her folder and standing. She held out a tiny hand, and it was engulfed by his own. "To what do I owe this visit of yours?"
"Well, it has escaped no one that your recent work on this house elf case is one for the history books! My dear, we heard rumours across every floor of the work you were up to, but we certainly never expected this! Why, through your prowess and almost yours alone, many wizarding laws are being revised, reconsidered - changed! You've created some amazing ripples out in the community!"
She blushed a bit, smiling softly, though her forehead crinkled with concern. She had expected the attention and she understood the extent of her actions. Of course, she knew with every fiber of her soul that she had done the right thing, but she also knew that many would harbor just a little more anger towards her with every move she made to change the wizarding world. It stung her. It should not have, she knew, but it did. These days, though she worked day in and day out to return to her old self, she was fragile.
Mind you, she wasn't fragile in the normal sense. Hermione Granger would never ever be one of those people that fumbled under pressure or trembled under the gaze of another. What she suffered at the moment was a simple problem of the mind - a place where her beliefs and current environments did not match her body's reactions. St. Mungo's called it "Battle's Breath". Her muggle psychiatrist called it PTSD.
"I was wondering, Hermione," Gregory Beak continued, "if you had further considered our offer to you about that higher position. Of course it is still open, just waiting for the day you come to snatch it up!" He grinned hugely and smacked his hand down on her shoulder. She flinched hard.
Her muscles did not relax much as she replied, though her voice seemed (mostly) nonchalant, all business. "Mr. Beak, you know how honored I am to receive this offer. It pains me, but I still believe that it is best for all if I stay on the fourth floor. For now, at least."
Beak had not failed to notice her reaction to his sudden, somewhat gruff, movements. Apologetically, he slowly removed his hand and regarded her. She hated the gentleness that coworkers often felt forced to show her. It made her angry with herself, deep deep down, in a place where her psychiatrist had suggested she avoid looking for a while. Yet, at the same time, the old Hermione felt grateful at the kindness. She smiled, though it was only her lips that did so.
"Of course, of course, Miss Granger! I do assure you that this offer will not be going anywhere!" Once again the man was one large, jovial chuckle. " 'Brightest Witch of Her Age'," he bragged on, "more like brightest witch of our century! With work like yours, it is the Ministry itself that is honored!"
She did blush at that, an almost-forced giggle bubbling out. "Oh, Greg, you sure do like to lay it on thick! I'll let you know, of course, when... When I'm ready for the job."
"No doubt, Miss Granger! No doubt!" And he chuckled happily to himself once more as he left the small room. She sighed deeply, shoulders falling a bit uncomfortably as she willed her body to relax a little.
Just signatures, Hermione, she reminded herself. Even if your mind does start wandering... it's all just signatures for today. Don't stress about trying to destress. Don't. Please, please, don't...
As the sun dipped lower, the overcast grey shifted to an overcast purple and then an overcast dark-grey. Draco Malfoy sipped at his flask, drops of the clear liquid pooling at the edges of his lips and dripping down to his chin. It was the shaking, of course. His hands had tremored mercilessly since that night. A bitter huff of air left his nose. The tree on his back felt almost comfortable at this point. He thought back to satin sheets and soft mattresses at his home. For once, his breathing slowed.
His flask lowered to his side, and he carefully placed it back in the scratchy piece of fabric that carried his few possessions. He brought his hand back up, still covered in tiny bits of soft black soil and dotted with indentations from the rocks of the forest floor, to grab his hair - force a bit out of his eyes. Run his hand through it once more out of habit. His thoughts were slow, and he let his chin loll forward into his chest. Sleep welcomed him for a few hours.
He awoke desperately. Eyes shooting open, bulging. His heart hammered in his chest. His mind blasted furiously around, subconsciously seeking a reason for this animal terror. He knew enough, even sleep-deprived and drowsy, to grab his sack of things and check his pockets before scrambling onto his feet and running hard.
Trees whipped past him. Incredibly weak, sure, but Draco had not lost his resolve. He was quick still, as fear often makes one. Sodden branches scraped his ankles, one of them opening a long trickle of blood straight up his shin as he lifted his leg. Didn't even feel it. Felt nothing.
Just the fear.
He ran until it became a huffy jog, and then jogged until it became a slow and painful stumbling. By the time a streetlight passed above him, the uncoordinated dance of his numbed legs looked positively drunken. The muggle street was empty, save this scraped, thin, wildly ungroomed shell of a man.
Just the fear.
Tired to the point of seeing double, Draco only just barely noticed his slow pace. A deluge of images attacked his mind, and for a moment he recognized the danger of his drowsiness. He realized painfully that his body absolutely could not move any quicker. Fear. Agony. A flashback of brutalizing pain. He began to wail.
He didn't hear the quick bark of the siren.
The headline the next morning caught Hermione by surprise.
It was a Saturday, and she was not to report to work. This was not a "Ministry closes its doors on Saturday's" issue at all, however. This was a "Greg Beak is more perceptive than it seems and had a boss insist on giving her a few days off" issue. It irked her. She needed something to delve into. No reflecting on herself or her friends, no quietness - no flashbacks, no loneliness.
Friends suggested she get lots of rest. When she did manage to see them, that is. After the war had ended, life was fine for a while. It took a few months for the rubble in her brain to settle into its current landscape. And then she withdrew.
Ron noticed it first, of course. He would shake her shoulder, speak loudly in her ear, wave things in front of her face to break her from her stupors. He made her flinch.
Harry and Ginny were the ones to really approach her about her problem. They were more gentle, they regarded her with a quiet pity that at first she had completely ignored. Now the reminder of it plummeted thorns into her soul.
Partially, she pulled deeper away from her friends because of these things. Partially, she just did it - no reason or thought behind the gesture other than a nagging tiredness and a dull throb where her emotions should have been.
She ended things with Ron, and as soon as he had left her home she felt anguish. Speaking with him, breaking the news to him, that all had been numb. This now made her wail and clutch the carpet, body spasming. No tears, however. Just a lot of guilt - for hurting Ron, and, more secretly within herself, for ruining her own chance at happiness.
Two years later and the connections they had had as friends at school were loosening still. She felt better. She experienced happiness. She took her medicine. But the loneliness had become so comfortable and familiar, and their faces triggered flashbacks sometimes. They loved each other. Her friends would not just forget her. But they gave her space as much as she indicated she needed, and she was a faded shade of grateful for this.
It helped to work, just as it helped to see her psychiatrist. It was therapeutic to drown in her puzzles as she always had. Work reminded her of a time when she felt in control. Obviously, she attempted to explain this to her boss, but he had quickly reminded her of her lack of breaks the past year.
"Surely," he bellowed, "that even if working helps, it is unhealthy how you work day in and day out. Go home, Miss Granger! I do so hope you will thank us for this!" He said it with conviction and the best of intentions. He was wrong, though.
She woke early that morning from a shallow slumber. Sleeping was difficult for her still, especially on days where she had panicked. Giving up on her useless urges to doze, she rose, joints cracking like those of an old woman and toes recoiling at the cold touch of the wood floor, to make herself some tea. Her mind was thankfully quite empty as she stared into her mug - an incredibly rare happening indeed. She jumped a bit when the post came in, but it wasn't a jump that jarred her or derailed her sense of self. Maybe the paper would have something worth distracting herself with.
Oh boy, did it.
Malfoy Heir Finally in Custody: Former Death Eater Driven Mad
Really then? They had found him?
Hermione, like most others in the wizarding community, had been following the Malfoy case curiously. Lucius and Narcissa tried initially to keep their noses low to the ground following the war. Their son had made this quite difficult.
Draco had been reportedly spotted a handful of times. At one point, he had supposedly hexed another wizard who had spotted him on the street and had the inspired idea to shout unintelligibly, point in the Malfoy's direction, and stare with mouth agape. Hermione had laughed a bit at that. She supposed that Draco Malfoy would have hexed anyone to treat him so unceremoniously, regardless of his exact mental state.
For the most part, however, whispers of the young man hovered about all of the local pubs. Having not seen him in so long, the public had begun to conjecture. Many resided under the belief that his tutelage under the Dark Lord had driven him absolutely bonkers, and they claimed he was running rampant in the forests. Some believed he was waiting in the shadows, hoping to somehow make a Quirrell-esque reappearance, bringing the evil back to the wizarding community. A great many just assumed him dead. Young witches (mostly those just a bit too young to have really known him back at Hogwarts) and a few young wizards believed he was out doing some sort of heroic, masculine... thing. They never really had an exact answer to what he could logically be doing out there for the good of humanity. They just liked the old pictures of him, Hermione thought.
Now, finally, it seemed like the public would receive what it so eagerly awaited from the unfortunate young aristocrat: answers.
Hermione turned the pages, eager as any other to know what had become of her old schoolmate.
"For most, last night was a calm and peaceful night. For Draco Malfoy and the police in the muggle town of Kempsey, Worcestershire, however, this was not the case.
The only heir to the Malfoy fortune and infamy has caused quite a scandal with his disappearance from society shortly following the Battle of Hogwarts. The young man lived in Malfoy Manor for a time after the war, until, one fateful night, a troubled Narcissa Malfoy filed a missing person's search. Shortly thereafter, reported sightings of Mr. Draco Malfoy flooded into officials' arms. These reports, however, failed to shed any light on the hiding place of the young Malfoy, and often led to a great amount of confusion among the public and authorities alike.
Last night, a supposed end to this great confusion finally began. At approximately 3:35 a.m., Kempsey police officers brought a man into custody. The official report tells us that the original cause for approaching said man was a suspected case of public drunkenness. However, under further investigation, the man was proven to be not drunk, but rather, mentally incapable. Kempsey police, before they were Memory Charmed, asserted that the young man had been 'completely unintelligible in his speech. He walked as though he were drunk, and, when questioned, was unable to observably understand his situation.'
Wizarding authorities were alerted to Mr. Malfoy's location after a few officers suffered at the hands of a Jelly-Legs Jinx, which police now tell us is considered to have been 'completely accidental'.
The young Mr. Malfoy is currently in care at St. Mungo's, where only his parents have been permitted to see him. What will become of the only child of this once proud family? Will the public ever again see the face of Draco Malfoy? Only time will tell."
Hermione harrumphed. Now this was her kind of puzzle. A young wizard, with all of the funds in the world and a path seemingly leading to some sort of redemption suddenly disappears without a trace into the night? And he manages to avoid all forms of tracking until he accidentally stumbles into a muggle police station, suddenly raving-mad?
It was Draco Malfoy. Draco. Fucking. Malfoy. She should not be interested in her childhood tormentor. She should definitely not be interested in anything to do with a former Death Eater, especially in her current state. And yet, at this moment, she was not shaking with the lulling pull of an upcoming flashback or the heavy fluttering in her veins that signaled a panic attack. Rather, the gears in her head were grinding heavily, more heavily than they had in a long time. So much of this just seemed so damn strange. It seemed so un-Malfoy... Welcomingly, it also seemed quite un-Death Eater. She took a sip of tea, which was now cold, and wrinkled her nose. But her eyes never left the paper she held. How could they?
How could she pass up this puzzle?