Title: A Killing Grace
Author: Savage Midnight
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Any characters or concepts familiar to the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling.
Summary: In the midst of war, two enemies fight on common ground to bring the blood bath to an end. Hate and prejudice are flung aside, boundaries are broken, and the inevitable sacrifices are made.
Author Notes: Written for the .mp3 fic challenge over at LJ. It's only about… say… four months late? Thanks to my beta's Di, to whom this is dedicated, and Erin, whose invaluable advice was immensely helpful.

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Part II

The plan was simple. It was this:

At midnight they were both to meet at the art gallery. Hermione was to do nothing until that time, which meant staying home from work and avoiding Ron, Harry and the Order at all costs. No one was to know what had transpired that morning. As far as anyone else was concerned she had been missing since late last night.

This was easier said than done. Not only was it difficult finding somewhere to hide herself away for the day so she wouldn't be found, it was also difficult knowing what she was putting her friends through. They thought she was missing, that she had disappeared like so many of the Order had over the months, and she knew Harry and Ron and the others would be out there looking for her.

Unfortunately it was a necessary part of the plan. Draco was to return to his client to inform him that the job was done and Hermione Granger was officially dead. It was therefore important that Hermione wasn't seen roaming the streets or the Ministry after her unfortunate and untimely death. Any moron with half a brain cell would know something was up.

So at midnight they were to meet at the gallery, after which they would move on to the Ministry. According to Draco, the contents of the Vaults that Hermione had spent so many nights searching for hadn't been moved, though the security wards had been strengthened three-fold. The big-wigs, as Draco liked to call them, had not seen the point in re-locating the hidden stash, considering that the only girl who had even come close to discovering it would soon be dead and any sudden upheaval within the Vaults would likely cause suspicion.

The plan, therefore, was to retrieve the contents that Hermione and the Order so desperately needed to bring Voldemort down.

"It won't destroy him," Draco had said. "But the Ministry is his strongest weapon. He's been working them from the inside for years, manipulating those at the top, using their resources. Take that away and his power is limited. You'll have a better chance at him, then."

The only problem was making sure that the information they found fell into the right hands. Draco was certain he knew most of the key players who were under Voldemort's order, but if he was wrong it could all turn out to be for nothing. If they were to take their findings to the press, only to find that they, too, were somehow involved in this mass conspiracy Hermione had only learned about today, what then? They were both dead. Hermione, for knowing too much, and Draco for not killing her in the first place.

But the Order would know, surely? No doubt they had the means to leak the information to the right people. If not, she was sure they would find away to use it to their advantage.

The key to this whole plan, however, was getting out alive. Not only did they have to find a way to get into the Ministry without being seen, they also had to bypass the new security measures and deactivate the curses sealing the Vaults shut. Easier said than done. Any magic used to protect such incriminating and valuable evidence was no doubt darker than Hermione was used to. If she had chosen to be a curse-breaker instead of an Auror back in her seventh year, things would have been different. Then again, she wouldn't have access to the Ministry Vaults like she did now.

Their current dilemma was what led her to Diagon Alley at nightfall. Hidden in the shadows outside Gringotts Bank, she waited patiently. Forty minutes later, Bill Weasley stepped out of the front doors and disappeared down the street. She followed close behind, sticking to the shadows until she was sure they were both alone. Now was the time to make her move.

But just as Hermione made to step out into the street, a strong hand clamped over her mouth and an arm coiled around her waist, dragging her back into the darkness and down a nearby alley. Instinctively she moved to retrieve her wand from her coat pocket, but a familiar voice froze her movements.

"What part of lie low did you not understand?" hissed Malfoy, his breath hot against her ear. He released her and spun her so she was facing him, so she could see his features, softened by the darkness but no less angry. Hermione subconsciously took a tiny step back, her body buzzing with adrenaline.

"Bill can help us, Malfoy," she explained. "He's the only one--"

"You think I want help from a Weasley?" he scoffed, and Hermione was reminded of the petulant little boy she had hated at Hogwarts. Maybe some things didn't change.

"He's a curse-breaker," she stated calmly. "And a good one. He can get us into the Vaults."

"There's more than one curse-breaker in this God forsaken city, Granger. I told you I'd handle the details. And I told you to stay out of sight. So far you've done a piss-poor job of that."

She glared at him. "I'm not stupid, Malfoy. I was careful. I--"

Malfoy's grey eyes suddenly blazed with barely-leashed fury and the words died in her throat. He took a predatory step towards her and she found herself involuntarily moving backwards, her back colliding with the harsh brick wall of the alley. Draco loomed over her, arms braced each side of her head.

"You were seen," he said, in a low, tight voice.

She gaped at him, horrified, and searched his face for any trace of lie. But there was nothing but honesty there, stark and real.

She swallowed heavily and turned her face away, blinking back tears. Oh God, she thought. I've killed us both.

"Malfoy, I--" The lump in her throat was painful and her voice was nothing more than a husky rasp. "--I'm sorry. I thought I was being careful. I didn't know--"

"Spare me," he snapped, and leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, his eyes two silver daggers in the darkness. "You're just lucky it was one of my own that saw you. I would have gutted you long before now if it had been anyone else."

He pushed himself away from the wall and turned away from her, biting out orders as he made his way to the entrance of alleyway to check for signs of life. But Hermione barely heard him over the roaring in her ears. Relief had left her shaking; her limbs refused to do anything she told them to and breathing was becoming too difficult a task. She would have thought herself dead had it not been for the wild thumping of her heart.

"Granger."

Draco appeared in front of her again, clearly irritated. "If you don't start breathing in a minute, I'll wheel you down to the morgue myself."

At his words, her breath gushed out of her in one long sigh, and she drew it in just as quickly. Her chest ached and she felt dizzy, but a furious anger started to seep through her dazed state.

"You're a bastard, Malfoy," she seethed, as she followed him out of the alleyway, limbs finally working on command.

Draco glanced back at her, a smirk on his face.

"Naturally."

---

Under the cover of darkness and a well-placed glamour spell, the unlikely duo returned to Draco's apartment on the outskirts of London. The Slytherin Prince no longer trusted Hermione to keep herself hidden and had persuaded her to accompany him to his home until she was needed.

Of course, Draco's methods of persuasion had been a little more unorthodox than she was used to, but she had been in no position to argue. She had already messed up once tonight; she would be damned if she would again.

During their short walk from the empty ruins of an old garage they had Apparated into--it was not possible to Apparate straight to Draco's apartment for security reasons--Malfoy would occasionally cast her a warning glance, as if daring her to step out of line. She didn't. She walked beside him in silence, fingers absently playing with her short hair, the straight, black locks reminding her, unnervingly, of Pansy Parkinson.

Her nose crinkled in distaste at the necessity of her disguise. However, she had to wonder why she hadn't thought of it before, when she had foolishly decided to enlist Bill Weasley's help. Surely she would have been able to convince him, despite the disguise?

Either way, the damage was done. Draco no longer trusted her, if he ever had, and Hermione was loathe to trust him in return. Did it make any difference that she believed everything he had told her? He was the master of lies, after all. No one at Hogwarts had known that he had taken the Dark Mark on his sixteenth birthday, that while he slept, ate and laughed beside them, he was really against them, allied to a darker force they could not even begin to comprehend.

So why was she helping him? Why was tonight any different from the hundreds of other times he had weaved his web of deceit and manipulated those he cared little for?

It was no different. No doubt he had spun a few lies already, twisted a few half-truths to paint a sweeter picture. He had manipulated her with promises of the future, of what might be, of what could happen to her friends and family if she didn't help him. Yes, she was his puppet, but not altogether powerless. Without her, he would find it nigh-on impossible to get into the Ministry. For all his talk of curse-breakers, it was doubtful he knew someone with the right clearance. If he did, it was probably someone of a questionable nature, someone they probably shouldn't trust.

That's why he came to me, she thought. I'm the only one he can trust.

And if he wanted her dead? Well, she would have been so already if he had. She doubted he was leading her into trap, ready to give her up to Voldemort. It seemed a lot of effort to go to when just this morning he could have done with her what he wished. And not only that, but Herrmione sensed there was little love lost between the Death Eater and the Dark Lord.

In the end, though, all she had to go on was her instinct. If she turned out to be wrong, she was dead. If not, she would be helping to save thousands, maybe millions. It was a sacrifice she had already chosen to make.

It did little, however, to calm her nerves as she stepped into Draco's spacious apartment. It was dark and scarcely furnished, as she expected, but she was surprised to see several familiar muggle contraptions scattered about the place. There was an impressive entertainment system dominating the far wall, with shelves filled with a colourful array of DVDs. A black cordless phone sat atop a small coffee table, beside a tiny touch lamp that cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating what she could now see was a set of car keys.

Draco drove a car?

"You drive?" she asked, following him across the room that served as both a lounge and a dining room and into the kitchen. The flick of a light switch revealed a surprisingly small room, large black tiles under her feet, granite worktops and chrome appliances. There was a breakfast island in the middle, with small overhead lights adding warmth to the otherwise sterile room. Hermione was further surprised to see half-empty Chinese cartons spread across its surface.

"I drive when it's necessary," he finally answered, clearing the surfaces and offering her a seat at the breakfast bar. "Sometimes it makes my job easier."

You mean it makes it easier for you to kill people, she thought, watching him warily as she sat. Few would suspect a wizard who drives.

It was widely known in their world that wizards could be tracked through their magic. But no wizard would think to track their suspect through a number plate, or by fingerprints left behind.

So that's why you use a dagger, she realised. Just wipe the blood from your blade and leave the mess for their families to find. Because you know that no wizard would drag the Muggle police in to investigate, and if they did, what would they find? A bare apartment and a man that can disappear in a flash, a man who can change the way he looks with a potion or a whispered incantation.

She stared absently at the surface beneath her fingers as the nature of her predicament began to finally sink in. She was here, alone, with a boy she didn't know anymore; a boy who killed for money.

So what did that make her? The girl who was offering her help? The girl who, for one split second, had pitied the boy who spoke of unfathomable despair?

Who was she to feel any compassion for the monster who had held a dagger to her throat?

She looked up at him and wondered how anyone so beautiful could be so deadly. The hands that were now pouring coffee into two, large black mugs were the hands of a killer.

How many people have you killed, she wondered. How many lives have you destroyed?

And then another thought, unwelcome and insignificant in her eyes:

How many of them deserved it?

But she voiced none of these questions. Instead she kept quiet and sipped at the black coffee Draco had placed in front of her, occasionally casting curious glances over the rim of her mug.

"I suggest you remain disguised while we do this," Malfoy suddenly said, a strange look on his face as he spoke. "In case you're seen."

Hermione scowled but reluctantly agreed. The changes weren't even that drastic; her hair was shorter, black and straight, her eyes a subdued blue and her skin a shade or two darker. What she didn't like was the fact that her disguise was an improvement. After catching sight of herself in a shop window on their way over to the apartment, she had been surprised by how much healthier she looked. She had never bothered to care about her appearance before, but she hadn't realised until now how the war had started to wear on her. Somewhere along the way she had gotten used to the dark circles under her eyes, the dullness of her gaze and the deathly pallor of her skin.

Now she possessed an almost exotic look and was it not for the way Malfoy kept glancing at her, she wouldn't have given it a second thought.

And then it suddenly dawned on her why he was looking at her so strangely.

"Wipe that damn look off your face," she snapped, eyes narrowed into angry slits. "I didn't come here so you could gawk at me."

"Don't flatter yourself," he sneered, rising from his stool and turning to place his mug in the sink. When he turned back his face was a mask of cold indifference.

"Go get some rest," he said. "It's been a long day and I need you alert tonight. The guestroom is upstairs on your left."

Hermione made to protest, but before she could, he was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Even as she thought about following him and issuing a few orders of her own, she felt the tiredness creep over her. How long had it been since she had slept? She had gone to the art gallery this morning because she had been unable to sleep that night, and after that there had been no safe time for her to rest. Now, though, she knew she was safe. Sleeping under the roof of a killer might have been a bad idea otherwise, but Malfoy needed her. She was important. Which meant he would protect her if need be.

What was a few hours, anyway? It was barely eight o'clock and they weren't due at the gallery until midnight. According to Draco, they were to meet his associate there, the curse-breaker who would be helping them to crack the security of the Vaults. Until that time, there was really nothing for her to do.

A few hours. That's all I need.

With a sigh of annoyance -- she loathed being told what to do -- she rose from her stool and went in search of the guestroom.